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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary

-Wollstonecraft Godwin, by Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and

-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions

-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms

-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at

-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you

-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before

-using this eBook.

-

-Title: Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin

-

-Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin

-

-Release Date: April 15, 2022 [eBook #67847]

-

-Language: English

-

-Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading

-             Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from

-             images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

-

-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS

-OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN ***

-

-

-[Illustration: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN]

-

-

-

-

-                                MEMOIRS

-                                  AND

-                            POSTHUMOUS WORKS

-                                   OF

-                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,

-                                 AUTHOR

-                                  OF A

-                  VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

-                            IN TWO VOLUMES.

-

-                                VOL. I.

-

-

-                                DUBLIN:

-

-                     _Printed by Thomas Burnside_,

-                   FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.

-

-                                 1798.

-

-

-

-

-                                CONTENTS

-                               OF VOL. I.

-

-

-        _Memoirs._

-

-        _Letters._

-

-        _Letter on the present Character of the French Nation._

-

-        _Letter on the Management of Infants._

-

-        _Letters to Mr. Johnson._

-

-

-

-

-                                MEMOIRS.

-

-

-

-

-                                CHAP. I.

-                               1759–1775.

-

-

-It has always appeared to me, that to give to the public some account of

-the life of a person of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent on

-survivors. It seldom happens that such a person passes through life,

-without being the subject of thoughtless calumny, or malignant

-misrepresentation. It cannot happen that the public at large should be

-on a footing with their intimate acquaintance, and be the observer of

-those virtues which discover themselves principally in personal

-intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind is more or less influenced by a

-liberal passion for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to these

-benefactors, when they assert and establish on their part, the honour

-they loved. The justice which is thus done to the illustrious dead,

-converts into the fairest source of animation and encouragement to those

-who would follow them in the same career. The human species at large is

-interested in this justice, as it teaches them to place their respect

-and affection, upon those qualities which best deserve to be esteemed

-and loved. I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that the more

-fully we are presented with the picture and story of such persons as are

-the subject of the following narrative, the more generally shall we feel

-in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and a sympathy in their

-excellencies. There are not many individuals with whose character the

-public welfare and improvement are more intimately connected, than the

-author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

-

-The facts detailed in the following pages, are principally taken from

-the mouth of the person to whom they relate; and of the veracity and

-ingenuousness of her habits, perhaps no one that was ever acquainted

-with her, entertains a doubt. The writer of this narrative, when he has

-met with persons, that in any degree created to themselves an interest

-and attachment in his mind, has always felt a curiosity to be acquainted

-with the scenes through which they had passed, and the incidents that

-had contributed to form their understandings and character. Impelled by

-this sentiment, he repeatedly led the conversation of Mary to topics of

-this sort; and, once or twice, he made notes in her presence, of a few

-dates calculated to arrange the circumstances in his mind. To the

-materials thus collected, he has added an industrious enquiry among the

-persons most intimately acquainted with her at the different periods of

-her life.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of April 1759. Her father’s

-name was Edward John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of the

-family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom of Ireland: her paternal

-grandfather was a respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is

-supposed to have left to his son a property of 10,000l. Three of her

-brothers and two sisters are still living; their names, Edward, James,

-Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward only was older than

-herself; he resides in London. James is in Paris, and Charles in or near

-Philadelphia in America. Her sisters have for some years been engaged in

-the office of governesses in private families, and are both at present

-in Ireland.

-

-I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was bred to any profession;

-but, about the time of her birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an

-amusement than a business, to the occupation of farming. He was of a

-very active, and somewhat versatile disposition, and so frequently

-changed his abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place of her

-birth. She told me, that the doubt in her mind in that respect, lay

-between London, and a farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal

-scene of the five first years of her life.

-

-Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some portion of that exquisite

-sensibility, soundness of understanding, and decision of character,

-which were the leading features of her mind through the whole course of

-her life. She experienced in the first period of her existence, but few

-of those indulgences and marks of affection, which are principally

-calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows of our early years. She

-was not the favourite either of her father or mother. Her father was a

-man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject to alternate fits of

-kindness and cruelty. In his family he was a despot, and his wife

-appears to have been the first, and most submissive of his subjects. The

-mother’s partiality was fixed upon the eldest son, and her system of

-government relative to Mary, was characterized by considerable rigour.

-She, at length, became convinced of her mistake, and adopted a different

-plan with her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs of Woman, Mary

-speaks of “the petty cares which obscured the morning of her heroine’s

-life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters; unconditional

-submission to orders, which, as a mere child, she soon discovered to be

-unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory; and the being

-obliged often to sit, in the presence of her parents, for three or four

-hours together, without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe, to

-be considered as copying the outline of the first period of her own

-existence.

-

-But it was in vain that the blighting winds of unkindness or

-indifference, seemed destined to counteract the superiority of Mary’s

-mind. It surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees, from a person

-little considered in the family, she became in some sort its director

-and umpire. The despotism of her education cost her many a heart-ache.

-She was not formed to be the contented and unresisting subject of a

-despot; but I have heard her remark more than once, that, when she felt

-she had done wrong, the reproof or chastisement of her mother, instead

-of being a terror to her, she found to be the only thing capable of

-reconciling her to herself. The blows of her father on the contrary,

-which were the mere ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of

-humbling her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions she felt her

-superiority, and was apt to betray marks of contempt. The quickness of

-her father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten similar violence

-towards his wife. When that was the case, Mary would often throw herself

-between the despot and his victim, with the purpose to receive upon her

-own person the blows that might be directed against her mother. She has

-even laid whole nights upon the landing-place near their chamber-door,

-when, mistakenly, or with reason, she apprehended that her father might

-break out into paroxysms of violence. The conduct he held towards the

-members of his family, was of the same kind as that he observed towards

-animals. He was for the most part extravagantly fond of them; but, when

-he was displeased, and this frequently happened, and for very trivial

-reasons, his anger was alarming. Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have

-called, “a very good hater.” In some instance of passion exercised by

-her father to one of his dogs, she was accustomed to speak of her

-emotions of abhorrence, as having risen to agony. In a word, her conduct

-during her girlish years, was such, as to extort some portion of

-affection from her mother, and to hold her father in considerable awe.

-

-In one respect, the system of education of the mother appears to have

-had merit. All her children were vigorous and healthy. This seems very

-much to depend upon the management of our infant years. It is affirmed

-by some persons of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the

-sciences of health and disease, that there is no period of human life so

-little subject to mortality as the period of infancy. Yet, from the

-mismanagement to which children are exposed, many of the diseases of

-childhood are rendered fatal, and more persons die in that, than in any

-other period of human life. Mary had projected a work upon this subject,

-which she had carefully considered, and well understood. She has indeed

-left a specimen of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,

-three years and a half old, who is a singular example of vigorous

-constitution and florid health. Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of

-Soho-square, whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised to

-revise her production. This is but one out of numerous projects of

-activity and usefulness, which her untimely death has fatally

-terminated.

-

-The rustic situation in which Mary had spent her infancy, no doubt

-contributed to confirm the stamina of her constitution. She sported in

-the open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing scenes of

-nature, for which she always retained the most exquisite relish. Dolls

-and the other amusements usually appropriated to female children, she

-held in contempt; and felt a much greater propensity to join in the

-active and hardy sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to

-those of her own sex.

-

-About the time that Mary completed the fifth year of her age, her father

-removed to a small distance from his former habitation, and took a farm

-near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest, a little way out of the

-Chelmsford road. In Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his

-residence, and occupied a convenient house behind the town of Barking in

-Essex, eight miles from London. In this situation some of their nearest

-neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire, successively member of

-parliament for several boroughs, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.

-Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot; but his brother was

-almost a constant inhabitant, and his family in habits of the most

-frequent intercourse with the family of Mary. Here Mr. Wollstonecraft

-remained for three years. In September 1796, I accompanied my wife on a

-visit to this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility, the

-scenes of her childhood. We found the house uninhabited, and the garden

-in a wild and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance with the

-market-place, the streets, and the wharf, the latter of which we found

-crowded with barges, and full of activity.

-

-In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft again removed to a farm near

-Beverly in Yorkshire. Here the family remained for six years, and

-consequently, Mary did not quit this residence, till she had attained

-the age of fifteen years and five months. The principal part of her

-school education passed during this period: but it was not to any

-advantage of infant literature, that she was indebted for her subsequent

-eminence; her education in this respect was merely such, as was afforded

-by the day-schools of the place, in which she resided. To her

-recollections Beverly appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by

-genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly. She was surprized, when

-she visited it in 1795, upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality

-so very much below the picture in her imagination.

-

-Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer; but the restlessness of

-his disposition would not suffer him to content himself with the

-occupation in which for some years he had been engaged, and the

-temptation of a commercial speculation of some sort being held out to

-him, he removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton near London, for

-the purpose of its execution. Here he remained for a year and a half;

-but, being frustrated in his expectations of profit, he, after that

-term, gave up the project in which he was engaged, and returned to his

-former pursuits. During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of these

-memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting college in that

-place. It is perhaps a question of curious speculation to enquire, what

-would have been the amount of the difference in the pursuits and

-enjoyments of each party, if they had met, and considered each other

-with the same distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards

-impressed with in the year 1796. The writer had then completed the

-twentieth, and Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which would have

-been predominant; the disadvantages of obscurity, and the pressure of a

-family; or the gratifications and improvement that might have flowed

-from their intercourse?

-

-One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this time was a Mr. Clare, who

-inhabited the next house to that which was tenanted by her father, and

-to whom she was probably in some degree indebted for the early

-cultivation of her mind. Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have

-been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his person he was deformed

-and delicate; and his figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of

-the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry, and was not destitute

-of taste. His manners were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,

-the demonstrations of which appeared to have been somewhat too

-artificially cultivated. His habits were those of a perfect recluse. He

-seldom went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to a friend of Mary a

-pair of shoes, which had served him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary

-frequently spent days and weeks together, at the house of Mr. Clare.

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. II.

-                               1775–1783.

-

-

-But a connection more memorable originated about this time, between Mary

-and a person of her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship so

-fervent, as for years to have constituted the ruling passion of her

-mind. The name of this person was Frances Blood; she was two years older

-than Mary. Her residence was at that time at Newington Butts, a village

-near the southern extremity of the metropolis; and the original

-instrument for bringing these two friends acquainted, was Mrs. Clare,

-wife of the gentleman already mentioned, who was on a footing of

-considerable intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance of Fanny, like

-that of Mr. Clare, contributed to ripen the immature talents of Mary.

-

-The situation in which Mary was introduced to her, bore a resemblance to

-the first interview of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted to the

-door of a small house, but furnished with peculiar neatness and

-propriety. The first object that caught her sight, was a young woman of

-a slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of age, busily employed

-in feeding and managing some children, born of the same parents, but

-considerably inferior to her in age. The impression Mary received from

-this spectacle was indelible; and, before the interview was concluded,

-she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal friendship.

-

-Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments. She sung and

-played with taste. She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and by

-the employment of this talent, for some time maintained her father,

-mother, and family, but ultimately ruined her health by her

-extraordinary exertions. She read and wrote with considerable

-application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate propriety

-followed her in these, as in her other occupations.

-

-Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl of sixteen, contemplated

-Fanny, in the first instance, with sentiments of inferiority and

-reverence. Though they were much together, yet, the distance of their

-habitation being considerable, they supplied the want of more frequent

-interviews by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found Fanny’s letters

-better spelt and better indited than her own, and felt herself abashed.

-She had hitherto paid but a superficial attention to literature. She had

-read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable thirst of knowledge;

-but she had not thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to excel was

-now awakened, and she applied herself with passion and earnestness.

-Fanny undertook to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy

-and method, her lessons were given with considerable skill.

-

-It has already been mentioned that in the spring of the year 1776, Mr.

-Wollstonecroft quitted his situation at Hoxton, and returned to his

-former agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which he now fixed was

-in Wales, a circumstance that was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s

-darling spirit of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the

-Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family of a Mr. Allen, two

-of whose daughters are since married to the two elder sons of the

-celebrated English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.

-

-Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence for little more than a

-year. He returned to the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose spirit

-of independence was unalterable, had influence enough to determine his

-choice in favour of the village of Walworth, that she might be near her

-chosen friend. It was probably before this, that she has once or twice

-started the idea of quitting her parental roof, and providing for

-herself. But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea, and conditions

-were stipulated with her, relative to her having an apartment in the

-house that should be exclusively her own, and her commanding the other

-requisites of study. She did not however think herself fairly treated in

-these instances, and either the conditions abovementioned, or some

-others, were not observed in the sequel, with the fidelity she expected.

-In one case, she had procured an eligible situation, and every thing was

-settled respecting her removal to it, when the intreaties and tears of

-her mother led her to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon the

-engagement.

-

-These however were only temporary delays. Her propensities continued the

-same, and the motives by which she was instigated were unabated. In the

-year 1778, she being nineteen years of age, a proposal was made to her

-of living as a companion with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady, with

-one son already adult. Upon enquiry she found that Mrs. Dawson was a

-woman of great peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great variety

-of companions in succession, and that no one had found it practicable to

-continue with her. Mary was not discouraged by this information, and

-accepted the situation, with a resolution that she would effect in this

-respect, what none of her predecessors had been able to do. In the

-sequel she had reason to consider the account she had received as

-sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax in her endeavours. By

-method, constancy and firmness, she found the means of making her

-situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally confess, that

-Mary was the only person that had lived with her in that situation, in

-her treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.

-

-With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for two years, and only left

-her, summoned by the melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly

-declining health. True to the calls of humanity, Mary felt in this

-intelligence an irresistible motive, and eagerly returned to the

-paternal roof which she had before resolutely quitted. The residence of

-her father at this time, was at Enfield near London. He had, I believe,

-given up agriculture from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing

-that he now made it less a source of profit than loss, and being thought

-advisable that he should rather live upon the interest of his property

-already in possession.

-

-The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering, but hopeless. Mary was

-assiduous in her attendance upon her mother. At first, every attention

-was received with acknowledgements and gratitude; but, as the attentions

-grew habitual, and the health of the mother more and more wretched, they

-were rather exacted, than received. Nothing would be taken by the

-unfortunate patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was denied night

-or day, and by the time nature was exhausted in the parent, the daughter

-was qualified to assume her place, and become in turn herself a patient.

-The last words her mother ever uttered were, “A little patience, and all

-will be over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to by Mary in the

-course of her writings.

-

-Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary bid a final adieu to the

-roof of her father. According to my memorandum, I find her next the

-inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village of Fulham. Upon what

-plan they now lived together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not

-that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional burthen upon the

-industry of her friend. Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they

-approached more nearly to a footing of equality; and their attachment

-became more rooted and active.

-

-Mary was ever ready at the call of distress, and, in particular, during

-her whole life was eager and active to promote the welfare of every

-member of her family. In 1780 she attended the death-bed of her mother;

-in 1782 she was summoned by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend

-her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop, who, subsequently to a

-dangerous lying-in, remained for some months in a very afflicting

-situation. Mary continued with her sister without intermission, to her

-perfect recovery.

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. III.

-                               1783–1785.

-

-

-Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth year of her age. Her project,

-five years before, had been personal independence; it was now

-usefulness. In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s illness, and

-during the subsequent convalescence, she had leisure to ruminate upon

-purposes of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek something more

-arduous than the mere removal of personal vexations; and the sensibility

-of her heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.

-The derangement of her father’s affairs daily became more and more

-glaring; and a small independent provision made for herself and her

-sisters appears to have been sacrificed in the wreck. For ten years,

-from 1782 to 1792, she may be said to have been, in a great degree, the

-victim of a desire to promote the benefit of others. She did not foresee

-the severe disappointment with which an exclusive purpose of this sort

-is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay a stress upon the

-consequent gratitude of those she benefited; and she did not

-sufficiently consider that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the

-interests and society of others, we acquire a more exquisite sense of

-their defects, and are tormented with their untractableness and folly.

-

-The project upon which she now determined, was no other than that of a

-day-school, to be superintended by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two

-sisters.

-

-They accordingly opened one in the year 1783, at the village of

-Islington; but in the course of a few months removed it to Newington

-Green. Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced the future

-events of her life. The first of these in her own estimation was Dr.

-Richard Price, well known for his political and mathematical

-calculations, and universally esteemed by those who knew him, for the

-simplicity of his manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The regard

-conceived by these two persons for each other, was mutual, and partook

-of a spirit of the purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the

-principles of the church of England, but her esteem for this venerable

-preacher led her occasionally to attend upon his public instructions.

-Her religion was, in reality, little allied to any system of forms; and,

-as she has often told me, was founded rather in taste, than in the

-niceties of polemical discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached

-itself to the sublime and the amiable. She found an inexpressible

-delight in the beauties of nature, and in the splendid reveries of the

-imagination. But nature itself, she thought, would be no better than a

-vast blank, if the mind of the observer did not supply it with an

-animating soul. When she walked amidst the wonders of nature, she was

-accustomed to converse with her God. To her mind he was pictured as not

-less amiable, generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted. In fact,

-she had received few lessons of religion in her youth, and her religion

-was almost entirely of her own creation. But she was not on that account

-the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous in discharging what she

-considered as its duties. She could not recollect the time when she had

-believed the doctrine of future punishments. The tenets of her system

-were the growth of her own moral taste, and her religion therefore had

-always been a gratification, never a terror to her. She expected a

-future state; but she would not allow her ideas of that future state to

-be modified by the notions of judgment and retribution. From this

-sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure she took in an

-occasional attendance upon the sermons of Dr. Price, was not accompanied

-with a superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact is, that, so

-far down as the year 1787, she regularly frequented public worship, for

-the most part according to the forms of the church of England. After

-that period her attendance became less constant, and in no long time was

-wholly discontinued. I believe it may be admitted as a maxim, that no

-person of a well furnished mind, that has shaken off the implicit

-subjection of youth, and is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can

-bring himself to conform to the public and regular routine of sermons

-and prayers.

-

-Another of the friends she acquired at this period, was Mrs. Burgh,

-widow of the author of the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally

-well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her benevolence. Mary,

-whenever she had occasion to allude to her, to the last period of her

-life, paid the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining friend

-necessary to be enumerated in this place, is the Rev. John Hewlet, now

-master of a Boarding-school at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I shall

-have occasion to mention hereafter.

-

-I have already said that Fanny’s health had been materially injured by

-her incessant labours for the maintenance of her family. She had also

-suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon her mind. To these

-different sources of ill health she became gradually a victim: and at

-length discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption. By the

-medical men that attended her, she was advised to try the effects of a

-southern climate; and, about the beginning of the year 1785, sailed for

-Lisbon.

-

-The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated her friend, was a

-sentiment of inferiority and reverence; but that, from the operation of

-a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably changed. Fanny had

-originally been far before her in literary attainments; this disparity

-no longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might endeavour to free

-herself from the delusions of self-esteem, this period of observation

-upon her own mind and that of her friend, could not pass, without her

-perceiving that there were some essential characteristics of genius,

-which she possessed, and in which her friend was deficient. The

-principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable greatness of

-soul, by which, after a short internal struggle, she was accustomed to

-rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever Mary undertook, she

-perhaps in all instances accomplished; and, to her lofty spirit,

-scarcely any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform. Fanny, on the

-contrary, was a woman of a timid and irresolute nature, accustomed to

-yield to difficulties, and probably priding herself in this morbid

-softness of her temper. One instance that I have heard Mary relate of

-this sort, was, that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with her

-domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire to have a home of her

-own. Mary, who felt nothing more pressing than to relieve the

-inconveniencies of her friend, determined to accomplish this object for

-her. It cost her infinite exertions; but at length she was able to

-announce to Fanny that a house was prepared, and that she was on the

-spot to receive her. The answer which Fanny returned to the letter of

-her friend, consisted almost wholly of an enumeration of objections to

-the quitting her family, which she had not thought of before, but which

-now appeared to her of considerable weight.

-

-The judgment which experience had taught Mary to form of the mind of her

-friend, determined her in the advice she gave, at the period to which I

-have brought down the story. Fanny was recommended to seek a softer

-climate, but she had no funds to defray the expence of such an

-undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of Dublin, but then resident in

-the kingdom of Portugal, paid his addresses to her. The state of her

-health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford the shadow of a hope;

-it was not therefore a time at which it was most obvious to think of

-marriage. She conceived however that nothing should be omitted, which

-might alleviate, if it could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy

-acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly made the voyage to Lisbon;

-and the marriage took place on the twenty-fourth of February 1785.

-

-The change of climate and situation was productive of little benefit;

-and the life of Fanny was only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which

-soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time, was impressed with the

-idea that her friend would die in this distant country; and, shocked

-with the recollection of her separation from the circle of her friends,

-determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend her. This resolution was

-treated by her acquaintance as in the utmost degree visionary; but she

-was not to be diverted from her point. She had not money to defray her

-expences: she must quit for a long time the school, the very existence

-of which probably depended upon her exertions.

-

-No person was ever better formed for the business of education; if it be

-not a sort of absurdity to speak of a person as formed for an inferior

-object, who is in possession of talents, in the fullest degree adequate

-to something on a more important and comprehensive scale. Mary had a

-quickness of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies, but

-which led her to imagine that she saw the mind of the person with whom

-she had any transaction, and to refer the principle of her approbation

-or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice of their sentiments. She

-was occasionally severe and imperious in her resentments; and, when she

-strongly disapproved, was apt to express her censure in terms that gave

-a very humiliating sensation to the person against whom it was directed.

-Her displeasure however never assumed its severest form, but when it was

-barbed by disappointment. Where she expected little, she was not very

-rigid in her censure of error.

-

-But, to whatever the defects of her temper might amount, they were never

-exercised upon her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to make use

-of an ungenerous advantage, or to wound the defenceless. To her servants

-there never was a mistress more considerate or more kind. With children

-she was the mirror of patience. Perhaps, in all her extensive experience

-upon the subject of education, she never betrayed one symptom of

-irascibility. Her heart was the seat of every benevolent feeling; and

-accordingly, in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness and

-sympathy alone that prompted her conduct. Sympathy, when it mounts to a

-certain height, inevitably begets affection in the person to whom it is

-exercised; and I have heard her say, that she never was concerned in the

-education of one child, who was not personally attached to her, and

-earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure. Another eminent

-advantage she possessed in the business of education, was that she was

-little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty. She saw, as it were by

-intuition, the path which her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm

-confidence in her own power to effect what she desired. Yet, with all

-this, she had scarcely a tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched

-symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments; and governed

-herself accordingly. While I thus enumerate her more than maternal

-qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the recollection of

-her orphan children!

-

-Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her from the journey to Lisbon,

-she found among them a willingness to facilitate the execution of her

-project, when it was once fixed. Mrs. Burgh in particular, supplied her

-with money, which however she always conceived came from Dr. Price. This

-loan, I have reason to believe, was faithfully repaid.

-

-It was during her residence at Newington Green, that she was introduced

-to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as

-in some sort the father of English literature. The doctor treated her

-with particular kindness and attention, had a long conversation with

-her, and desired her to repeat her visit often. This she firmly purposed

-to do; but the news of his last illness, and then of his death,

-intervened to prevent her making a second visit.

-

-Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived but a short time

-before her friend was prematurely delivered, and the event was fatal to

-both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto the chosen object of

-Mary’s attachment, died on the 29th of November, 1785.

-

-It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters from Norway, written

-ten years after her decease. “When a warm heart has received strong

-impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments; and

-the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent, by fondly

-retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I

-have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every

-nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear

-friend, the friend of my youth; still she is present with me, and I hear

-her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath.”

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. IV.

-                               1785–1787.

-

-

-No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably to enlarge the

-understanding of Mary. She was admitted into the best company the

-English factory afforded. She made many profound observations on the

-character of the natives, and the baleful effects of superstition. The

-obsequies of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by stealth and in

-darkness, tended to invigorate these observations in her mind.

-

-She sailed upon her voyage home about the twentieth of December. On this

-occasion a circumstance occurred, that deserves to be recorded. While

-they were on their passage, they fell in with a French vessel, in great

-distress, and in daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same

-time that it was almost destitute of provisions. The Frenchman hailed

-them, and intreated the English captain, in consideration of his

-melancholy situation, to take him and his crew on board. The Englishman

-represented in reply, that his stock of provisions was by no means

-adequate to such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely refused

-compliance. Mary, shocked at his apparent insensibility, took up the

-cause of the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have him called to

-a severe account, when he arrived in England. She finally prevailed, and

-had the satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in question possibly

-owed their lives to her interposition.

-

-When she arrived in England, she found that her school had suffered

-considerably in her absence. It can be little reproach to any one, to

-say that they were found incapable of supplying her place. She not only

-excelled in the management of the children, but had also the talent of

-being attentive and obliging to the parents, without degrading herself.

-

-The period at which I am now arrived is important, as conducting to the

-first step of her literary career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned

-literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary produce, and had

-urged her to make trial of the truth of his judgment. At this time she

-was desirous of assisting the father and mother of Fanny in an object

-they had in view, the transporting themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,

-what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready to take on herself

-to effect. For this purpose she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one

-hundred and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education of

-Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St.

-Paul’s Church Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,

-which she immediately applied to the object for the sake of which the

-pamphlet was written.

-

-Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the affair of the school. She

-was dissatisfied with the different appearance it presented upon her

-return, from the state in which she left it. Experience impressed upon

-her a rooted aversion to that sort of cohabitation with her sisters,

-which the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation is a point of

-delicate experiment, and is, in a majority of instances, pregnant with

-ill humour and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit of adventure

-which characterized Mary, were not felt in an equal degree by her

-sisters, so that a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant

-upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the other hand, they could

-scarcely perhaps be perfectly easy, in observing the superior degree of

-deference and courtship, which her merit extorted from almost every one

-that knew her. Her kindness for them was not diminished, but she

-resolved that the mode of its exertion in future should be different,

-tending to their benefit, without intrenching upon her own liberty.

-

-Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her, such as, regarding only the

-situations through which she had lately passed, is usually termed

-advantageous. This was, to accept the office of governess to the

-daughters of Lord Viscount Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of

-Kingston of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held out to her, were such

-as she determined to accept, at the same time resolving to retain the

-situation only for a short time. Independence was the object after which

-she thirsted, and she was fixed to try whether it might not be found in

-literary occupation. She was desirous however first to accumulate a

-small sum of money, which should enable her to consider at leisure the

-different literary engagements that might offer, and provide in some

-degree for the eventual deficiency of her earliest attempts.

-

-The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough, was offered to her

-through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the under

-masters of Eton school. She spent some time at the house of this

-gentleman, immediately after her giving up the school at Newington

-Green. Here she had an opportunity of making an accurate observation

-upon the manners and conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas

-she retained of it were by no means favourable. By all that she saw, she

-was confirmed in a very favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of

-day-schools, where, as she expressed it, “children have the opportunity

-of conversing with children, without interfering with domestic

-affections, the foundation of virtue.”

-

-Though her residence in the family of Lord Kingsborough continued

-scarcely more than twelve months, she left behind her, with them and

-their connections, a very advantageous impression. The governesses the

-young ladies had hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,

-controlled in every thing by the mother; Mary insisted upon the

-unbounded exercise of her own discretion. When the young ladies heard of

-their governess coming from England, they heard in imagination of a new

-enemy, and declared their resolution to guard themselves accordingly.

-Mary however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence, and the

-friendship that soon grew up between her and Margaret King, now Countess

-Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon degree cordial and

-affectionate. Mary always spoke of this young lady in terms of the

-truest applause, both in relation to the eminence of her intellectual

-powers, and the ingenuous amiableness of her disposition. Lady

-Kingsborough, from the best motives, had imposed upon her daughters a

-variety of prohibitions, both as to the books they should read, and in

-many other respects. These prohibitions had their usual effects;

-inordinate desire for the things forbidden, and clandestine indulgence.

-Mary immediately restored the children to their liberty, and undertook

-to govern them by their affections only. The salutary effects of the new

-system of education were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough soon

-felt no other uneasiness than lest the children should love their

-governess better than their mother.

-

-Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the persons who visited Lord

-Kingsborough’s house, for she always appeared there with the air of an

-equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her mention the ludicrous

-distress of a woman of quality, whose name I have forgotten, that, in a

-large company, singled out Mary, and entered into a long conversation

-with her. After the conversation was over, she enquired whom she had

-been talking with, and found, to her utter mortification and dismay,

-that it was Miss King’s governess.

-

-One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance, whom Mary was

-accustomed to speak of with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,

-member of parliament for the county of Wexford. She held his talents in

-very high estimation; she was strongly prepossessed in favour of the

-goodness of his heart; and she always spoke of him as the most perfect

-gentleman she had ever known. She felt the regret of a disappointed

-friend, at the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.

-

-Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer of the year 1787 at Bristol

-Hot-Wells, and had formed the project of proceeding from thence to the

-Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to accompany them. The plan

-however was ultimately given up, and Mary in consequence closed her

-connection with them, earlier than she otherwise had purposed to do.

-

-At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little book which bears the title

-of Mary, a Fiction. A considerable part of this story consists, with

-certain modifications, of the incidents of her own friendship with

-Fanny. All the events that do not relate to that subject are fictitious.

-

-This little work, if Mary had never produced any thing else, would

-serve, with persons of true taste and sensibility, to establish the

-eminence of her genius. The story is nothing. He that looks into the

-book only for incident, will probably lay it down with disgust. But the

-feelings are of the truest and most exquisite class; every circumstance

-is adorned with that species of imagination, which enlists itself under

-the banners of delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment, as it is

-called, is too often another name for a work of affectation. He that

-should imagine that the sentiments of this book are affected, would

-indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.

-

-

-

-

-                                CHAP. V.

-                               1787–1790.

-

-

-Being now determined to enter upon her literary plan, Mary came

-immediately from Bristol to the metropolis. Her conduct under this

-circumstance was such as to do credit both to her own heart, and that of

-Mr. Johnson, her publisher, between whom and herself there now commenced

-an intimate friendship. She had seen him upon occasion of publishing her

-Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, and she addressed two or three

-letters to him during her residence in Ireland. Upon her arrival in

-London in August 1787, she went immediately to his house, and frankly

-explained to him her purpose, at the same time requesting his assistance

-and advice as to its execution. After a short conversation Mr. Johnson

-invited her to make his house her home, till she should have suited

-herself with a fixed residence. She accordingly resided at this time two

-or three weeks under his roof. At the same period she paid a visit or

-two of similar duration to some friends, at no great distance from the

-metropolis.

-

-At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house in George-street, on the

-Surry side of Black Friar’s Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for

-her during her excursion into the country. The three years immediately

-ensuing, may be said, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have

-been the most active period of her life. She brought with her to this

-habitation, the novel of Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,

-and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale, entitled, the Cave of

-Fancy, which she thought proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am

-told that at this period she appeared under great dejection of spirits,

-and filled with melancholy regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A

-period of two years had elapsed since the death of that friend; but it

-was possibly the composition of the fiction of Mary, that renewed her

-sorrows in their original force. Soon after entering upon her new

-habitation, she produced a little work, entitled, Original Stories from

-Real Life, intended for the use of children. At the commencement of her

-literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement aversion to

-the being regarded, by her ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an

-author, and to have employed some precautions to prevent its occurrence.

-

-The employment which the bookseller suggested to her, as the easiest and

-most certain source of pecuniary income, of course, was translation.

-With this view she improved herself in her French, with which she had

-previously but a slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and

-German languages. The greater part of her literary engagements at this

-time, were such as were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She

-new-modelled and abridged a work, translated from the Dutch, entitled,

-Young Grandison: she began a translation from the French, of a book,

-called, the New Robinson; but in this undertaking, she was, I believe,

-anticipated by another translator: and she compiled a series of extracts

-in verse and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s Speaker, which bears

-the title of the Female Reader; but which, from a cause not worth

-mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different name in the

-title-page.

-

-About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson instituted the Analytical

-Review, in which Mary took a considerable share. She also translated

-Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions; made an abridgement of

-Lavater’s Physiognomy, from the French, which has never been published;

-and compressed Salzmann’s Elements of Morality, a German production,

-into a publication in three volumes duodecimo. The translation of

-Salzmann produced a correspondence between Mary and the author; and he

-afterwards repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German translation

-of the Rights of Woman. Such were her principal literary occupations,

-from the autumn of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.

-

-It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort of miscellaneous

-literary employment, seems, for the time at least, rather to damp and

-contract, than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The writer is

-accustomed to see his performances answer the mere mercantile purpose of

-the day, and confounded with those of persons to whom he is secretly

-conscious of a superiority. No neighbour mind serves as a mirror to

-reflect the generous confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps the

-man never yet existed who could maintain his enthusiasm to its full

-vigour, in the midst of this kind of solitariness. He is touched with

-the torpedo of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which Mary produced

-during this period, is marked with those daring flights, which exhibit

-themselves in the little fiction she composed just before its

-commencement. Among effusions of a nobler cast, I find occasionally

-interspersed some of that homily-language, which, to speak from my own

-feelings, is calculated to damp the moral courage, it was intended to

-awaken. This is probably to be assigned to the causes above described.

-

-I have already said that one of the purposes which Mary had conceived, a

-few years before, as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise

-insipid, or embittered, draught of human life, was usefulness. On this

-side, the period of her existence of which I am now treating, is more

-brilliant, than in any literary view. She determined to apply as great a

-part as possible of the produce of her present employments, to the

-assistance of her friends and of the distressed; and, for this purpose,

-laid down to herself rules of the most rigid economy. She began with

-endeavouring to promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived that

-there was no situation in which she could place them, at once so

-respectable and agreeable, as that of governesses in private families.

-She determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour to qualify

-them for such an undertaking. Her younger sister she sent to Paris,

-where she remained near two years. The elder she placed in a school near

-London, first as a parlour-boarder, and afterwards as a teacher. Her

-brother James, who had already been at sea, she first took into her

-house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction, to qualify him for a

-respectable situation in the royal navy, where he was shortly after made

-a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite brother, had been articled

-to the eldest, an attorney in the Minories; but, not being satisfied

-with his situation, she removed him; and in some time after, having

-first placed him with a farmer for instruction, she fitted him out for

-America, where his speculations, founded upon the basis she had

-provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous. The reason so much

-of this parental sort of care fell upon her, was, that her father had by

-this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances. His affairs having

-grown too complex for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them to

-the management of a near relation; but Mary, not being satisfied with

-the conduct of the business, took them into her own hands. The exertions

-she made, and the struggles which she entered into however, in this

-instance, were ultimately fruitless. To the day of her death her father

-was almost wholly supported by funds which she supplied to him. In

-addition to her exertions for her own family, she took a young girl of

-about seven years of age under her protection and care, the niece of

-Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then

-lately dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.

-

-The period, from the end of the year 1787 to the end of the year 1790,

-though consumed in labours of little eclat, served still further to

-establish her in a friendly connection from which she derived many

-pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, contracted a great personal

-regard for her, which resembled in many respects that of a parent. As

-she frequented his house, she of course became acquainted with his

-guests. Among these may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,

-Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late Mr. George Anderson,

-accountant to the board of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,

-the celebrated painter. Between both of the two latter and herself,

-there existed sentiments of genuine affection and friendship.

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. VI.

-                               1790–1792.

-

-

-Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had for the most part, been

-silent; and had been productive of income to herself, without apparently

-leading to the wreath of fame. From this time she was destined to

-attract the notice of the public, and perhaps no female writer ever

-obtained so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.

-

-It cannot be doubted that, while, for three years of literary

-employment, she “held the noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was

-insensibly advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The uninterrupted

-habit of composition gave a freedom and firmness to the expression of

-her sentiments. The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,

-and enlarged her mind. The French revolution, while it gave a

-fundamental shock to the human intellect through every region of the

-globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect in the progress of

-Mary’s reflections. The prejudices of her early years suffered a

-vehement concussion. Her respect for establishments was undermined. At

-this period occurred a misunderstanding upon public grounds, with one of

-her early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds and exploded

-absurdities, had been increased, by the operation of those very

-circumstances, by which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the race

-of independence.

-

-The event, immediately introductory to the rank which from this time she

-held in the lists of literature, was the publication of Burke’s

-Reflections on the Revolution in France. This book, after having been

-long promised to the world, finally made its appearance on the first of

-November 1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty, and impressed

-with a warm interest in the struggle that was now going on, seized her

-pen in the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which she was

-strongly susceptible. She was in the habit of composing with rapidity,

-and her answer, which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,

-obtained extraordinary notice. Marked as it is with the vehemence and

-impetuousness of its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too

-contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the great man against whom its

-attack is directed. But this circumstance was not injurious to the

-success of the publication. Burke had been warmly loved by the most

-liberal and enlightened friends of freedom, and they were proportionably

-inflamed and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon what they deemed

-to be its sacred cause.

-

-Short as was the time in which Mary composed her Answer to Burke’s

-Reflections, there was one anecdote she told me concerning it, which

-seems worth recording in this place. It was sent to the press, as is the

-general practice when the early publication of a piece is deemed a

-matter of importance, before the composition was finished. When Mary had

-arrived at about the middle of her work, she was seized with a temporary

-fit of torpor and indolence, and began to repent of her undertaking. In

-this state of mind, she called, one evening, as she was in the practice

-of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of relieving herself by an

-hour or two’s conversation. Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her

-nature, led her to describe what had just past in her thoughts. Mr.

-Johnson immediately, in a kind and friendly way, intreated her not to

-put any constraint upon her inclination, and to give herself no

-uneasiness about the sheets already printed, which he would cheerfully

-throw a side, if it would contribute to her happiness. Mary had wanted

-stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged, in what she well knew

-to be an unreasonable access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily

-falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect that she would lay

-aside her undertaking, piqued her pride. She immediately went home; and

-proceeded to the end of her work, with no other interruptions but what

-were absolutely indispensible.

-

-It is probable that the applause which attended her Answer to Burke,

-elevated the tone of her mind. She had always felt much confidence in

-her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that the actual perception of

-a similar feeling respecting us in a multitude of others, must increase

-the confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any human being. Mary

-accordingly proceeded, in a short time after, to the composition of her

-most celebrated production, the Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

-

-Never did any author enter into a cause, with a more ardent desire to be

-found, not a flourishing and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.

-She considered herself as standing forth in defence of one half of the

-human species, labouring under a yoke which, through all the records of

-time, had degraded them from the station of rational beings, and almost

-sunk them to the level of the brutes. She saw indeed, that they were

-often attempted to be held in silken fetters, and bribed into the love

-of slavery; but the disguise and the treachery served only the more

-fully to confirm her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language of

-Calista, as

-

-              “In every state of life the slaves of men:”

-

-the rich as alternately under the despotism of a father, a brother, and

-a husband; and the middling and the poorer classes shut out from the

-acquisition of bread with independence, when they are not shut out from

-the very means of an industrious subsistence. Such were the views she

-entertained of the subject; and such the feelings with which she warmed

-her mind.

-

-The work is certainly a very bold and original production. The strength

-and firmness with which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau, Dr.

-Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting the condition of women,

-cannot but make a strong impression upon every ingenuous reader. The

-public at large formed very different opinions respecting the character

-of the performance. Many of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather

-masculine description. The spirited and decisive way in which the author

-explodes the system of gallantry, and the species of homage with which

-the sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty produced a

-sentiment in their mind, which they mistook for a sense of injustice.

-The pretty soft creatures that are so often to be found in the female

-sex, and that class of men who believe they could not exist without such

-pretty, soft creatures to resort to, were in arms against the author of

-so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There are also, it must be

-confessed, occasional passages of a stern and rugged feature,

-incompatible with the true stamina of the writer’s character. But, if

-they did not belong to her fixed and permanent character, they belonged

-to her character _pro tempore_; and what she thought, she scorned to

-qualify.

-

-Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian temper, which

-characterised some parts of the book, it is impossible not to remark a

-luxuriance of imagination, and a trembling delicacy of sentiment, which

-would have done honour to a poet, bursting with all the visions of an

-Armida and a Dido.

-

-The contradiction, to the public apprehension was equally great, as to

-the person of the author, as it was when they considered the temper of

-the book. In the champion of her sex, who was described as endeavouring

-to invest them with all the rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted

-to seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to find a sturdy,

-muscular, raw-boned virago; and they were not a little surprised, when,

-instead of all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person, and, in

-the best and most engaging sense, feminine in her manners.

-

-The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is undoubtedly a very unequal

-performance, and eminently deficient in method and arrangement. When

-tried by the hoary and long-established laws of literary composition, it

-can scarcely maintain its claim to be placed in the first class of human

-productions. But when we consider the importance of its doctrines, and

-the eminence of genius it displays, it seems not very improbable that it

-will be read as long as the English language endures. The publication of

-this book forms an epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and Mary

-Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be found to have performed more

-substantial service for the cause of her sex, than all the other

-writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves animated in the

-behalf of oppressed and injured beauty.

-

-The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects of this performance,

-will be changed into astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of this

-inestimable moment, was begun, carried on, and finished in the state in

-which it now appears, in a period of no more than six weeks.

-

-It is necessary here that I should resume the subject of the friendship

-that subsisted between Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of

-the most memorable events in her subsequent history. He is a native of

-the republic of Switzerland, and has spent the principal part of his

-life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence of his genius can

-scarcely be disputed; it has indeed received the testimony which is the

-least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable of his

-contemporary artists. He has one of the most striking characteristics of

-genius, a daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure. The work

-in which he is at present engaged, a series of pictures for the

-illustration of Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced solely

-upon the incitement of his own mind, is a proof of this, if indeed his

-whole life had not sufficiently proved it.

-

-Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends, and was at this time

-in the habit of visiting him two or three times a week. Mary, one of

-whose strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations of pleasure

-she felt from the associations of visible objects, had hitherto never

-been acquainted, with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced

-therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was a high gratification to her;

-while he found in Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the

-emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any other with whom he

-ever conversed. Painting, and subjects closely connected with painting,

-were their almost constant topics of conversation; and they found them

-inexhaustible. It cannot be doubted, but that this was a species of

-exercise very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s mind.

-

-Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary derived improvement from Mr.

-Fuseli, she may also be suspected of having caught the infection of some

-of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli was ardently attached to

-literature; but the demands of his profession have prevented him from

-keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance with it, that

-belles-lettres scholars frequently possess. Of consequence, the

-favourites of his boyish years remain his only favourites. Homer is with

-Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit of every human perfection. Milton,

-Shakespear, and Richardson, have also engaged much of his attention. The

-nearest rival of Homer, I believe, if Homer can have a rival, is Jean

-Jacques Rousseau. A young man embraces entire the opinions of a

-favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had leisure to bring the

-opinions of his youth to a revision. Smitten with Rousseau’s conception

-of the perfectness of the savage state, and the essential abortiveness

-of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at all our little attempts at

-improvement, with a spirit that borders perhaps too much upon contempt

-and indifference. One of his favourite positions is the divinity of

-genius. This is a power that comes complete at once from the hands of

-the Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man of real genius

-are such, in all their grand and most important features, as no

-subsequent assiduity can amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat

-of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a disposition to search,

-in every thing new or modern, for occasions of censure. I believe Mary

-came something more a cynic out of the school of Mr. Fuseli, than she

-went into it.

-

-But the principal circumstance that relates to the intercourse of Mary,

-and this celebrated artist, remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli

-frequently; he amused, delighted and instructed her. As a painter, it

-was impossible she should not wish to see his works, and consequently to

-frequent his house. She visited him; her visits were returned.

-Notwithstanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a temper

-to live upon terms of so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,

-without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in his society, she

-transferred by association to his person. What she experienced in this

-respect, was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy and restraint

-in which she had hitherto lived, and to which the rules of polished

-society condemn an unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and ardent

-affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married man, and his wife the

-acquaintance of Mary. She readily perceived the restrictions which this

-circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she made light of any

-difficulty that might arise out of them. Not that she was insensible to

-the value of domestic endearments between persons of an opposite sex,

-but that she scorned to suppose, that she could feel a struggle, in

-conforming to the laws she should lay down to her conduct.

-

-There cannot perhaps be a properer place than the present, to state her

-principles upon this subject, such at least as they were when I knew her

-best. She set a great value on a mutual affection between persons of an

-opposite sex. She regarded it as the principal solace of human life. It

-was her maxim, “that the imagination should awaken the senses, and not

-the senses the imagination.” In other words, that whatever related to

-the gratification of the senses, ought to arise, in a human being of a

-pure mind, only as the consequence of an individual affection. She

-regarded the manners and habits of the majority of our sex in that

-respect, with strong disapprobation. She conceived that true virtue

-would prescribe the most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and

-the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it existed.—There is no

-reason to doubt that, if Mr. Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of

-their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her choice. As it was,

-she conceived it both practicable and eligible, to cultivate a

-distinguishing affection for him, and to foster it by the endearments of

-personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness, without departing

-in the smallest degree from the rules she prescribed to herself.

-

-In September 1791, she removed from the house she occupied in

-George-street, to a large and commodious apartment in Store-street,

-Bedford-square. She began to think that she had been too rigid, in the

-laws of frugality and self-denial with which she set out in her literary

-career; and now added to the neatness and cleanliness which she had

-always scrupulously observed, a certain degree of elegance, and those

-temperate indulgences in furniture and accommodation, from which a sound

-and uncorrupted taste never fails to derive pleasure.

-

-It was in the month of November in the same year (1791), that the writer

-of this narrative was first in company with the person to whom it

-relates. He dined with her at a friend’s, together with Mr. Thomas Paine

-and one or two other persons. The invitation was of his own seeking, his

-object being to see the author of the Rights of Man, with whom he had

-never before conversed.

-

-The interview was not fortunate. Mary and myself parted, mutually

-displeased with each other. I had not read her Rights of Woman. I had

-barely looked into her Answer to Burke, and been displeased, as literary

-men are apt to be, with a few offences, against grammar and other minute

-points of composition. I had therefore little curiosity to see Mrs.

-Wollstonecraft, and a very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,

-in his general habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in

-occasionally some shrewd and striking remarks, the conversation lay

-principally between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard her, very

-frequently when I wished to hear Paine.

-

-We touched on a considerable variety of topics, and particularly on the

-characters and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been

-observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree, the practice of

-seeing every thing on the gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a

-plentiful hand, where circumstances were in any respect doubtful. I, on

-the contrary, had a strong propensity, to favourable construction, and

-particularly, where I found unequivocal marks of genius, strongly to

-incline to the supposition of generous and manly virtue. We ventilated

-in this way the characters of Voltaire and others, who have obtained

-from some individuals an ardent admiration, while the greater number

-have treated them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at last provoked

-to tell me, that praise, lavished in the way that I lavished it, could

-do no credit either to the commended or the commender. We discussed some

-questions on the subject of religion, in which her opinions approached

-much nearer to the received ones, than mine. As the conversation

-proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the tone of my own share in it. We

-touched upon all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly upon

-any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice, in giving an account of the

-conversation to a party in which I supped, though I was not sparing of

-my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of active and independent

-thinking. On her side, she did me no part of what perhaps I considered

-as justice.

-

-We met two or three times in the course of the following year, but made

-a very small degree of progress towards a cordial acquaintance.

-

-In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over to France, where she

-continued to reside for upwards of two years. One of her principal

-inducements to this step, related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli. She had, at

-first, considered it as reasonable and judicious, to cultivate what I

-may be permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him; but she did not,

-in the sequel, find all the satisfaction in this plan, which she had

-originally expected from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much

-pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent

-imagination was continually conjuring up pictures of the happiness she

-should have found, if fortune had favoured their more intimate union.

-She felt herself formed for domestic affection, and all those tender

-charities, which men of sensibility have constantly treated as the

-dearest band of human society. General conversation and society could

-not satisfy her. She felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass

-of her species; and she repined when she reflected, that the best years

-of her life were spent in this comfortless solitude. These ideas made

-the cordial intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first been one of

-her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual torment to her. She

-conceived it necessary to snap the chain of this association in her

-mind; and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new climate, and

-mingle in different scenes.

-

-It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street, which lasted

-more than twelve months, she produced nothing, except a few articles in

-the Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were chiefly employed

-upon the Sequel to the Rights of Woman; but she has scarcely left behind

-her a single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned to have

-had this destination.

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. VII.

-                               1792–1795.

-

-

-The original plan of Mary, respecting her residence in France, had no

-precise limits in the article of duration; the single purpose she had in

-view being that of an endeavour to heal her distempered mind. She did

-not proceed so far as even to discharge her lodging in London; and, to

-some friends who saw her immediately before her departure, she spoke

-merely of an absence of six weeks.

-

-It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion did not originally seem

-to produce the effects she had expected from it. She was in a land of

-strangers; she had no acquaintance; she had even to acquire the power of

-receiving and communicating ideas with facility in the language of the

-country. Her first residence was in a spacious mansion to which she had

-been invited, but the master of which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at

-the time of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself surrounded

-only with servants. The gloominess of her mind communicated its own

-colour to the objects she saw; and in this temper she began a series of

-Letters on the Present Character of the French Nation, one of which she

-forwarded to her publisher, and which appears in the collection of her

-posthumous works. This performance she soon after discontinued; and it

-is, as she justly remarks, tinged with the saturnine temper which at

-that time pervaded her mind.

-

-Mary carried with her introductions to several agreeable families in

-Paris. She renewed her acquaintance with Paine. There also subsisted a

-very sincere friendship between her and Helen Maria Williams, author of

-a collection of poems of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in

-Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke of in terms of ardent

-commendation, both for the excellence of his disposition, and the force

-of his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I believe, a Swede. It

-is almost unnecessary to mention, that she was personally acquainted

-with the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.

-

-But the house that, I believe, she principally frequented at this time,

-was that of Mr. Thomas Christie, a person whose pursuits were

-mercantile, and who had written a volume on the French revolution. With

-Mrs. Christie her acquaintance was more intimate than with her husband.

-

-It was about four months after her arrival at Paris in December 1792,

-that she entered into that species of connection, for which her heart

-secretly panted, and which had the effect of diffusing an immediate

-tranquillity and cheerfulness over her manners. The person with whom it

-was formed (for it would be an idle piece of delicacy, to attempt to

-suppress a name, which is known to every one whom the reputation of Mary

-has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay, native of the United States of

-North America.

-

-The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was at the house of Mr.

-Christie; and it perhaps deserves to be noticed, that the emotions he

-then excited in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike, and that,

-for some time, she shunned all occasions of meeting him. This sentiment

-however speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.

-

-Previously to the partiality she conceived for him, she had determined

-upon a journey to Switzerland, induced chiefly by motives of economy.

-But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport; and it was probably

-the intercourse that now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that

-changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging at Neuilly, a

-village three miles from Paris.—Her habitation here was a solitary house

-in the midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than herself and the

-gardener, an old man, who performed for her many of the offices of a

-domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of making her bed.

-The gardener had a great veneration for his guest, and would set before

-her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she

-could not without the greatest difficulty obtain, when she had any

-person with her as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for

-the most part executed, her Historical and Moral View of the French

-Revolution[1], into which, as she observes, are incorporated most of the

-observations she had collected for her Letters, and which was written

-with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been

-commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a

-walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured

-to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies and murders

-that had been committed there.

-

-Footnote 1:

-

-  No part of the proposed continuation of this work, has been found

-  among the papers of the author.

-

-The commencement of the attachment Mary now formed, had neither

-confidant nor adviser.—She always conceived it to be a gross breach of

-delicacy to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred nature, an

-affair of the heart. The origin of the connection was about the middle

-of April 1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for four

-months. At the expiration of that period a circumstance occurred that

-induced her to declare it. The French convention, exasperated at the

-conduct of the British government, particularly in the affair of Toulon,

-formed a decree against the citizens of this country, by one article of

-which the English, resident in France, were ordered into prison till the

-period of a general peace. Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr.

-Imlay who, at the time their connection was formed, had no property

-whatever; because she would not involve him in certain family

-embarrassments to which she conceived herself exposed, or make him

-answerable for the pecuniary demands that existed against her. She

-however considered their engagement as of the most sacred nature; and

-they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating to America, as soon as

-they should have realized a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they

-desired. The decree however that I have just mentioned, made it

-necessary, not that a marriage should actually take place, but that Mary

-should take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature of their

-connection, she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a

-certificate from the American ambassador, as the wife of a native of

-that country.

-

-Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought proper to reside under

-the same roof, and for that purpose removed to Paris.

-

-Mary was now arrived at the situation, which, for two or three preceding

-years, her reason had pointed out to her as affording the most

-substantial prospect of happiness. She had been tossed and agitated by

-the waves of misfortune. Her childhood, as she often said, had known few

-of the endearments, which constitute the principal happiness of

-childhood. The temper of her father had early given to her mind a severe

-cast of thought, and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for the

-confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of her entrance upon

-womanhood, had been darkened, by an attendance upon the death-bed of her

-mother, and the still more afflicting calamity of her eldest sister. Her

-exertions to create a joint independence for her sisters and herself,

-had been attended, neither with the success, nor the pleasure, she had

-hoped from them. Her first youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny,

-had encountered many disappointments, and, in fine, a melancholy and

-premature catastrophe. Soon after these accumulated mortifications, she

-was engaged in a contest with a near relation, whom she regarded as

-unprincipled, respecting the wreck of her father’s fortune. In this

-affair she suffered the double pain, which arises from moral

-indignation, and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions to assist

-almost every member of her family, were great and unremitted. Finally,

-when she indulged a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly

-imagined that she should find in it the solace of her cares, she

-perceived too late, that, by continually impressing on her mind

-fruitless images of unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only

-served to give new pungency to the sensibility that was destroying her.

-

-Some persons may be inclined to observe, that the evils here enumerated,

-are not among the heaviest in the catalogue of human calamities. But

-evils take their rank, more from the temper of the mind that suffers

-them, than from their abstract nature. Upon a man of a hard and

-insensible disposition, the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless

-and impotent. There are persons, by no means hard and insensible, who,

-from an elastic and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted to

-look on the fair side of things, and, having suffered one fall,

-immediately rise again, to pursue their course, with the same eagerness,

-the same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On the other hand, we not

-unfrequently meet with persons, endowed with the most exquisite and

-delicious sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too fine a texture to

-encounter the vicissitudes of human affairs, to whom pleasure is

-transport, and disappointment is agony indescribable. This character is

-finely pourtrayed by the author of the Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in

-this respect a female Werter.

-

-She brought then, in the present instance, a wounded and sick heart, to

-take refuge in the bosom of a chosen friend. Let it not however be

-imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and ruined in its taste

-for pleasure. No; her whole character seemed to change with a change of

-fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits, were forgotten, and

-she assumed all the simplicity and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She

-was like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough, and appears again

-with the brilliancy, the sleekness, and the elastic activity of its

-happiest age.—She was playful, full of confidence, kindness and

-sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new colour and

-smoothness. Her voice became chearful; her temper overflowing with

-universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to

-day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well

-recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affection of almost

-every one that beheld it.

-

-Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of whose honour and principles

-she had the most exalted idea. She nourished an individual affection,

-which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint; and a heart like

-her’s was not formed to nourish affection by halves. Her conception of

-Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted him closely round her

-heart;” and she “indulged the thought, that she had thrown out some

-tendrils, to cling to the elm by which she wished to be supported.” This

-was “talking a new language to her;” but, “conscious that she was not a

-parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage and foster the

-luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence was entire; her love was

-unbounded. Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose to all

-the sensibilities of her nature.

-

-Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her attachment to Mr. Imlay

-gained a new link, by finding reason to suppose herself with child.

-

-Their establishment at Paris, was however broken up almost as soon as

-formed, by the circumstance of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business, urged

-as he said, by the prospect of a family, and this being a favourable

-crisis in French affairs for commercial speculations. The pursuits in

-which he was engaged, led him in the month of September to Havre de

-Grace, then called Havre Marat, probably to superintend the shipping of

-goods, in which he was jointly engaged with some other person or

-persons. Mary remained in the capital.

-

-The solitude in which she was now left, proved an unexpected trial.

-Domestic affections constituted the object upon which her heart was

-fixed; and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr. Imlay “did not

-attach those tender emotions round the idea of home,” which, every time

-they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture. She had expected his

-return from week to week, and from month to month; but a succession of

-business still continued to detain him at Havre. At the same time the

-sanguinary character which the government of France began every day more

-decisively to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity from the first

-months of her pregnancy. Before she left Neuilly, she happened one day

-to enter Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis Quinze), when

-an execution, attended with some peculiar aggravations, had just taken

-place, and the blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the pavement.

-The emotions of her soul burst forth in indignant exclamations, while a

-prudent bystander warned her of her danger, and intreated her to hasten

-and hide her discontents. She described to me, more than once, the

-anguish she felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud, and the

-twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable sensations she had ever

-experienced.

-

-Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually postponed, she determined,

-in January 1794, to join him at Havre. One motive that influenced her,

-though, I believe, by no means the principal, was the growing cruelties

-of Robespierre, and the desire she felt to be in any other place, rather

-than the devoted city, in the midst of which they were perpetrated.

-

-From January to September, Mr. Imlay and Mary lived together, with great

-harmony, at Havre, where the child, with which she was pregnant, was

-born, on the fourteenth of May, and named Frances, in remembrance of the

-dear friend of her youth, whose image could never be erased from her

-memory.

-

-In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure from Havre for the port of

-London. As this step was said to be necessary in the way of business, he

-endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre, and once more take up

-her abode at Paris. Robespierre was now no more, and, of consequence,

-the only objection she had to residing in the capital, was removed. Mr.

-Imlay was already in London, before she undertook her journey, and it

-proved the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the carriage, in which

-she travelled, being overturned no less than four times between Havre

-and Paris.

-

-This absence, like that of the preceding year in which Mr. Imlay had

-removed to Havre, was represented as an absence that was to have a short

-duration. In two months he was once again to join her at Paris. It

-proved however the prelude to an eternal separation. The agonies of such

-a separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary would have found them

-upon every supposition, were vastly increased, by the lingering method

-in which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for a long time, hung

-upon it. This circumstance produced the effect, of holding her mind, by

-force, as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and not

-suffering her to derive the just advantage from the energy and

-elasticity of her character.

-

-The procrastination of which I am speaking was however productive of one

-advantage. It put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities

-that awaited her, till the close of the year. She gained an additional

-three months of comparative happiness. But she purchased it at a very

-dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered greater misery, than

-dyed the whole year 1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It was

-wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of which the mind is

-continually awakened, by a glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring

-hope.

-

-Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred, unhappy passion?

-Because it is of the very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate

-itself. He does not love, who can resign this cherished sentiment,

-without suffering some of the sharpest struggles that our nature is

-capable of enduring. Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart upon this

-chosen friend; and one of the last impressions a worthy mind can submit

-to receive, is that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom it has

-fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to entertain a favourable

-opinion of human nature; she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,

-in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest. Mr. Imlay undertook

-to prove, in his letters written immediately after their complete

-separation, that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to the

-strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was of a different opinion.

-Whatever the reader may decide in this respect, there is one sentiment

-that, I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of pity for the

-mistake of the man, who, being in possession of such a friendship and

-attachment as those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial price, and,

-“like the base Indian, throw a pearl away, richer than all his

-tribe.[2]”

-

-Footnote 2:

-

-  A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived particular

-  gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan, who had lately become a

-  fugitive from Ireland, in consequence of a political prosecution, and

-  in whom she found those qualities which were always eminently engaging

-  to her, great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.

-

-

-

-

-                              CHAP. VIII.

-                               1795–1796.

-

-

-In April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requested to do

-so by Mr. Imlay, who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her in

-the journey, before she could complete the necessary arrangements for

-her departure. But, notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she

-came to England with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the

-uncertainties and anguish she had endured, to trust to the suggestions

-of hope.

-

-The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified.

-Mr. Imlay had already formed another connection; as it is said, with a

-young actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions

-therefore to Mary were formal and constrained, and she probably had but

-little of his society. This alteration could not escape her penetrating

-glance. He ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary

-embarrassments which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little

-consequence to Mary what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though

-she strove not to see, that his affections were lost to her for ever.

-

-It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification

-than Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to

-the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for

-her. She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this

-time, expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted to horror,” in

-search of happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether

-escaped her; but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience

-which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she

-saw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of

-forming to herself, of the overflowing kindness of a meeting, after an

-interval of so much anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of this

-sort were present to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on such

-occasions, for reserve and reproach to endeavour to curb in the emotions

-of an affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished were speedily

-blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarrassed.

-Discussions (“explanations” they were called) followed; cruel

-explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart already

-overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions indeed to explicitness;

-but they sufficiently told, that the case admitted not of remedy.

-

-Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity in this pressing

-emergency. “Love, dear, delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend

-some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had forced her to resign; and now

-her rational prospects were blasted, just as she had learned to be

-contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated, life became an

-intolerable burthen. While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk

-of purposes of separation and independence. But, now that they were in

-the same house, she could not withhold herself from endeavours to revive

-their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours continually added

-fuel to the fire that destroyed her. She formed a desperate purpose to

-die.

-

-This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I

-only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a

-moment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and

-that his feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing

-to his activity and representations, that her life was, at this time,

-saved. She determined to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose,

-she took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and affectionateness

-of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable

-difficulty, respecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to

-require the presence of some very judicious agent, to conduct the

-business to its desired termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,

-and take the business into her own hands. Such a voyage seemed the most

-desireable thing to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,

-in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her feelings, to be

-employed in promoting the interest of a man, from whom she had

-experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired to

-be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have mentioned, occurred in

-the close of May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon this new

-expedition.

-

-The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of

-travels that so irresistibly seizes on the heart, never, in any other

-instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and

-ruggedness of character, that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of

-Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to

-make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book.

-She speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and

-dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius

-which commands all our admiration. Affliction had tempered her heart to

-a softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit

-seems precisely to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.

-

-Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and

-sensibility, with all, and more than all, “that youthful poets fancy,

-when they love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to

-the arms of her former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity,

-to her apprehension, of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised to meet her

-upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to

-pass some time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her

-during her tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to

-him very urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon

-which they were hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which

-reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as “extraordinary and

-unnecessary,” and desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself.

-Feeling herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly

-determined to sail for London by the very first opportunity, that she

-might thus bring to a termination the suspence that preyed upon her

-soul.

-

-It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of

-October, that she attained the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured

-her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced from him after she

-entered it, flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations.

-She made further enquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of

-the real state of the case. Under the immediate shock which the painful

-certainty gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the

-ready-furnished house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the

-particular nature of their conference I am unable to relate. It is

-sufficient to say that the wretchedness of the night which succeeded

-this fatal discovery, impressed her with the feeling, that she would

-sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal misery.

-

-The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a

-sort of desperate serenity. She resolved to plunge herself in the

-Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she

-took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to

-Battersea-bridge, but she found it too public. It was night when she

-arrived at Putney, and by that time had begun to rain with great

-violence. The rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and down the

-bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly drenched and heavy with the

-wet, which she did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She

-then leaped from the top of the bridge, but still seemed to find a

-difficulty in sinking, which, she endeavoured to counteract by pressing

-her clothes closely round her. After some time she became insensible;

-but she always spoke of the pain she underwent as such, that, though she

-could afterwards have determined upon almost any other species of

-voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to resolve upon

-encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether this is

-to be ascribed to the mere nature of suffocation, or was not owing to

-the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.

-

-After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered

-by the exertions of those by whom the body was found. She had fought,

-with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and

-yet she lived to have every prospect of a long possession of enjoyment

-and happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that

-we find reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose,

-that they would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably happy.

-It arises indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of

-self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the

-constitution of the human mind will not suffer to remain long

-undiminished. This is a serious reflection. Probably no man would

-destroy himself from an impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral

-certainty that there were years of enjoyment still in reserve for him.

-It is perhaps a futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that

-state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the

-awakening of certain feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,

-is too strong to leave us much chance of impressing him with other

-feelings, that should have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if

-the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure cannot be expected to

-have much weight with a man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is

-so much the more to be wished, that men would impress their minds, in

-their sober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered habitual,

-seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in a paroxysm of

-desperation.

-

-The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further

-intercourse between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and

-Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in

-Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present

-was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of course, fostered in her

-mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him.

-With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly

-calculated to increase the agitation of her mind. In one respect however

-it produced an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been

-looked for. It roused within her the characteristic energy of mind,

-which she seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of

-bringing the affair to a point, and not suffering months and years to

-roll on in uncertainty and suspence. This idea inspired her with an

-extraordinary resolution. The language she employed, was, in effect, as

-follows: “If we are ever to live together again, it must be now. We meet

-now, or we part for ever. You say, You cannot abruptly break off the

-connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character,

-to wait the uncertain issue of that connection. I am determined to come

-to a decision. I consent then, for the present, to live with you, and

-the woman to whom you have associated yourself. I think it important

-that you should learn habitually to feel for your child the affection of

-a father. But, if you reject this proposal, here we end. You are now

-free. We will correspond no more. We will have no intercourse of any

-kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead.”

-

-The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at

-first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house

-he was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was

-calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted his

-concession.

-

-In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at

-present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary

-had, previously to this, fixed herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place,

-where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for

-the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen this situation;

-“existing,” as she expressed it, “in a living tomb, and her life but an

-exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch.”

-

-Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a

-passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to

-extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she

-could not restrain herself, from making another effort, and desiring to

-see him once more. “During his absence, affection had led her to make

-numberless excuses for his conduct,” and she probably wished to believe

-that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely of a

-casual nature. To this application, she observes, that “he returned no

-other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he

-would not see her.”

-

-This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not

-the ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business

-with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the

-only one at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was,

-that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town,

-Mary called at Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was

-in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s

-voice in the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make

-her appearance. Mary however was not to be controlled. She thought, as

-she afterwards told me, that it was not consistent with conscious

-rectitude, that she should shrink, as if abashed, from the presence of

-one by whom she deemed herself injured. Her child was with her. She

-entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near

-two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary into

-another apartment, and promised to dine with her at her lodging, I

-believe, the next day.

-

-In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he

-expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated

-to sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from

-her, in a way which she censured as unfeeling; this species of sternness

-constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at

-this moment to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the gentleness

-of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam, awakening the hope of

-returning day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;

-and even after the period of delirium expired, she still dwelt, with an

-aching eye, upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a

-reconciliation.

-

-At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a

-short time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as

-she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the world that she

-did so—not in the least—but she was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot,

-or tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality.”

-

-The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country,

-where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I

-believe, while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary

-communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely to expel from her

-mind, all remaining doubt as to the issue of the affair.

-

-Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty

-to her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted

-predilection, was discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast

-off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a spring of

-inexhaustible bitterness. Her present residence among the scenes of

-nature, was favourable to this purpose. She was at the house of an old

-and intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton, whose partiality for

-her was strong and sincere. Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir

-William East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the kindness of her

-friend, and the hospitable and, distinguishing attentions of this

-respectable family, she derived considerable benefit. She had been

-amused and interested in her journey to Norway; but with this

-difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with

-trembling anxiety to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,

-whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw aside every

-thought that recurred to him, while she felt herself called upon to make

-one more effort for life and happiness.

-

-Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long

-after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he

-alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the

-rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any

-oppressive emotion.

-

-Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the

-real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and

-was displeased when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of

-him. She was characterised by a strong sense of indignation; but her

-emotions of this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided

-into a dignified sereneness and equanimity.

-

-The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not

-completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,

-that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind,

-suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness

-and debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the

-mental torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with

-an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of

-October, prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she

-wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration she prepared

-them for the press, and they were published in the close of that year.

-In January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy, which turns, in

-the serious scenes, upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered

-to both the winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the period

-of her decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and imperfect a

-state, that I judged it most respectful to her memory to commit it to

-the flames. To understand this extraordinary degree of activity, we must

-recollect however the entire solitude, in which most of her hours were

-at that time consumed.

-

-

-

-

-                               CHAP. IX.

-                               1796–1797.

-

-

-I am now led, by the progress of the story, to the last branch of her

-history, the connection between Mary and myself. And this I relate with

-the same simplicity that has pervaded every other part of my narrative.

-If there ever were any motives of prudence or delicacy, that could

-impose a qualification upon the story, they are now over. They could

-have no relation but to factitious rules of decorum. There are no

-circumstance of her life, that, in the judgment of honour and reason,

-could brand her with disgrace. Never did there exist a human being, that

-needed, with less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon the

-universe to judge them. An event of the most deplorable sort, his

-awfully imposed silence upon the gabble of frivolity.

-

-We renewed our acquaintance in January 1796, but with no particular

-effect, except so far as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to

-the respect I had always entertained for her talents. It was in the

-close of that month that I read her Letters from Norway; and the

-impression that book produced upon me has been already related.

-

-It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw her after her

-excursion into Berkshire. On that day she called upon me in Somers Town,

-she having, since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,

-Pentonville, at no great distance from the place of my habitation. From

-that time our intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible

-degrees.

-

-The partiality we conceived for each other, was in that mode, which I

-have always regarded as the purest and most refined style of love. It

-grew with equal advances in the mind of each. It would have been

-impossible for the most minute observer to have said who was before, and

-who was after. One sex did not take the priority which long established

-custom has awarded it, nor the other overstep that delicacy which is so

-severely imposed. I am not conscious that either party can assume to

-have been the agent or the patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in

-the affair. When, in the course of things, the disclosure came, there

-was nothing, in a manner, for either party to disclose to the other.

-

-In July 1796 I made an excursion into the county of Norfolk, which

-occupied nearly the whole of that month. During this period Mary

-removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to Judd place West, which may

-be considered as the extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,

-she had occupied a furnished lodging. She had meditated a tour to Italy

-or Switzerland, and knew not how soon she should set out with that view.

-Now however she felt herself reconciled to a longer abode in England,

-probably without exactly knowing why this change had taken place in her

-mind. She had a quantity of furniture locked up at a broker’s ever since

-her residence in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable to bring

-it into use. This circumstance occasioned her present removal.

-

-The temporary separation attendant on my little journey, had its effect

-on the mind of both parties. It gave a space for the maturing of

-inclination. I believe that, during this interval, each furnished to the

-other the principal topic of solitary and daily contemplation. Absence

-bestows a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection, which it with

-difficulty acquires in any other way. It seems to resemble the

-communication of spirits, without the medium, or the impediment of this

-earthly frame.

-

-When we met again, we met with new pleasure, and, I may add, with a more

-decisive preference for each other. It was however three weeks longer,

-before the sentiment which trembled upon the tongue, burst from the lips

-of either. There was, as I have already said, no period of throes and

-resolute explanation attendant on the tale. It was friendship melting

-into love. Previously to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,

-yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety to have assurance complete.

-

-Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her lover, hoping to find a

-heart with which she might safely treasure her world of affection;

-fearing to commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy experience,

-fraught with that generous confidence, which, in a great soul, is never

-extinguished. I had never loved till now; or, at least, had never

-nourished a passion to the same growth, or met with an object so

-consummately worthy.

-

-We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to

-indiscriminate adoption, contrary to the established rules and

-prejudices of mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous upon

-the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine march of sentiment, as to

-require the overflowing of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and that

-which, wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of all things most

-sacredly private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to record the moment

-when it has arrived at its climax.

-

-There were however other reasons why we did not immediately marry. Mary

-felt an entire conviction of the propriety of her conduct. It would be

-absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered by desertion, she was not

-right to give way to the emotions of kindness which our intimacy

-produced, and to seek for that support in friendship and affection,

-which could alone give pleasure to her heart, and peace to her

-meditations. It was only about six months since she had resolutely

-banished every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at least eighteen that

-he ought to have been banished, and would have been banished, had it not

-been for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to leave no measure

-untried to regain him. Add to this, that the laws of etiquette

-ordinarily laid down in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that

-the sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed by the rule and

-the square. But Mary had an extreme aversion to be made the topic of

-vulgar discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this, the dreadful

-trials through which she had recently passed, may well plead in its

-excuse. She felt that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken of,

-in the former instance; and she could not resolve to do any thing that

-should immediately revive that painful topic.

-

-For myself, it is certain that I had for many years regarded marriage

-with so well-grounded an apprehension, that, notwithstanding the

-partiality for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I should have

-felt it very difficult, at least in the present stage of our

-intercourse, to have resolved on such a measure. Thus, partly from

-similar, and partly from different motives, we felt alike in this, as we

-did perhaps in every other circumstance that related to our intercourse.

-

-I have nothing further that I find it necessary to record, till the

-commencement of April 1797. We then judged it proper to declare our

-marriage, which had taken place a little before. The principal motive

-for complying with this ceremony, was the circumstance of Mary’s being

-in a state of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps with reason, to

-incur that exclusion from the society of many valuable and excellent

-individuals, which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should have

-felt an extreme repugnance to the having caused her such an

-inconvenience. And, after the experiment of seven months of as intimate

-an intercourse as our respective modes of living would admit, there was

-certainly less hazard to either, in the subjecting ourselves to those

-consequences which the laws of England annex to the relations of husband

-and wife. On the sixth of April we entered into possession of a house,

-which had been taken by us in concert.

-

-In this place I have a very curious circumstance to notice, which I am

-happy to have occasion to mention, as it tends to expose certain

-regulations of polished society, of which the absurdity vies with the

-odiousness. Mary had long possessed the advantage of an acquaintance

-with many persons of genius, and with others whom the effects of an

-intercourse with elegant society, combined with a certain portion of

-information and good sense, sufficed to render amusing companions. She

-had lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in this respect; and

-her mind, trembling between the opposite impressions of past anguish and

-renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of recreation.

-Wherever Mary appeared, admiration attended upon her. She had always

-displayed talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding, her

-travels, her long residence in France, the discipline of affliction, and

-the smiling, new-born peace which awaked a corresponding smile in her

-animated countenance, inexpressibly increased them. The way in which the

-story of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles, was probably the

-result of the partiality she excited. These elegant personages were

-divided between their cautious adherence to forms, and the desire to

-seek their own gratification. Mary made no secret of the nature of her

-connection with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well know, she put

-herself to the trouble of explaining it to a person totally indifferent

-to her, because he never failed to publish every thing he knew, and, she

-was sure, would repeat her explanation to his numerous acquaintance. She

-was of too proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy. These

-persons however, in spite of all that could be said, persisted in

-shutting their eyes, and pretending they took her for a married woman.

-

-Observe the consequence of this! While she was, and constantly professed

-to be, an unmarried mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and

-the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself a wife, and that by a

-marriage perhaps unexceptionable, the case was altered. Mary and myself,

-ignorant as we were of these elevated refinements, supposed that our

-marriage would place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of

-polished society, than ever. But it forced these people to see the

-truth, and to confess their belief of what they had carefully been told;

-and this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that the date of our

-marriage had nothing to do with this, that question being never once

-mentioned during this period. Mary indeed had, till now, retained the

-name of Imlay, which had first been assumed from necessity in France;

-but its being retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness that

-attends the introduction of a change, and not from an apprehension of

-consequences of this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the nature

-of her situation, surely sufficed to make the name she bore perfectly

-immaterial.

-

-It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a story, but in the

-language of contempt and ridicule. A serious reflection however upon the

-whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different sort. Mary retained the

-most numerous portion of her acquaintance, and the majority of those

-whom she principally valued. It was only the supporters and the subjects

-of the unprincipled manners of a court, that she lost. This however is

-immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding strictly considered, and

-uniformly acted upon, would have been to proscribe her from all valuable

-society. And who was the person proscribed? The firmest champion, and,

-as I strongly suspect, the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!

-A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined, and as delicate, as ever

-inhabited a human heart! It is fit that such persons should stand by,

-that we may have room enough for the dull and insolent dictators, the

-gamblers and demireps of polished society!

-

-Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance Mary principally

-regretted upon this occasion, were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their

-acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe, is to be ranked among her

-recent acquisitions. Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,

-which she conceived to be imposed on her by the peculiarity of her

-situation, to conform to the rules I have described. She is endowed with

-that rich and generous sensibility, which should best enable its

-possessor completely to feel the merits of her deceased friend. She very

-truly observes, in a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway

-were read by no one, who was in possession of “more reciprocity of

-feeling, or more deeply impressed with admiration of the writer’s

-extraordinary powers.”

-

-Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction reached her of so

-unexpected a circumstance, that was rather exquisite. But she disdained

-to sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of the supercilious

-and the foolish, and presently shook off the impression of the first

-surprize. That once subsided, I well know that the event was thought of,

-with no emotions, but those of superiority to the injustice she

-sustained; and was not of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which

-seemed hourly to become more vigorous and firm.

-

-I think I may venture to say, that no two persons ever found in each

-other’s society, a satisfaction more pure and refined. What it was in

-itself, can now only be known, in its full extent, to the survivor. But,

-I believe, the serenity of her countenance, 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. She had always

-possessed, in an unparallelled 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.

-

-While we lived as near neighbours only, and before our last removal, her

-mind had attained considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom

-with those emotions of anguish, which had been but too familiar to her.

-But the improvement in this respect, which accrued upon our removal and

-establishment, was extremely obvious. She was a worshipper of domestic

-life. She loved to observe the growth of affection between me and her

-daughter, then three years of age, as well as my anxiety respecting the

-child not yet born. Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature

-seems to be in this respect, is the source of a thousand endearments. No

-one knew better than Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite

-delight, from trifles, which a suspicious and formal wisdom would

-scarcely deign to remark. A little ride into the country with myself and

-the child, has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the heart, a

-general expression of confidence and affectionate soul, a sort of

-infantine, yet dignified endearment, which those who have felt may

-understand, but which I should in vain attempt to pourtray.

-

-In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was fortunate enough to

-introduce her to some of my acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she

-attached herself with all the ardour of approbation and friendship.

-

-Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory

-pleasures. It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced

-by the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject of cohabitation, I

-engaged an apartment, about twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,

-Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary

-occupations. Trifles however will be interesting to some readers, when

-they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I

-will add therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was

-possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other’s society.

-Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the

-apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make

-my appearance in the Polygon, till the hour of dinner. We agreed in

-condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man

-and his wife cannot visit in mixed society, but in company with each

-other; and we rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of

-complying with, this rule. By these means, though, for the most part, we

-spent the latter half of each day in one another’s society, yet we were

-in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree,

-the novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the more delicious and

-heart-felt pleasures of domestic life.

-

-Whatever may be thought, in other respects, of the plan we laid down to

-ourselves, we probably derived a real advantage from it, as to the

-constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary pursuits. Mary had a

-variety of projects of this sort, for the exercise of her talents, and

-the benefit of society; and, if she had lived, I believe the world would

-have had very little reason to complain of any remission of her

-industry. One of her projects, which has been already mentioned, was a

-series of Letters on the Management of Infants. Though she had been for

-some time digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to the press,

-I have found comparatively nothing that she had committed to paper

-respecting it. Another project, of longer standing, was of a series of

-books for the instruction of children. A fragment she left in execution

-of this project, is inserted in her Posthumous Works.

-

-But the principal work, in which she was engaged for more than twelve

-months before her decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of Woman. I

-shall not stop here to explain the nature of the work, as so much of it

-as was already written, is now given to the public. I shall only observe

-that, impressed as she could not fail to be, with the consciousness of

-her talents, she was desirous, in this instance, that they should effect

-what they were capable of effecting. She was sensible how arduous a task

-it is to produce a truly excellent novel; and she roused her faculties

-to grapple with it. All her other works were produced with a rapidity,

-that did not give her powers time fully to expand. But this was written

-slowly and with mature consideration. She began it in several forms,

-which she successively rejected, after they were considerably advanced.

-She wrote many parts of the work again and again, and, when she had

-finished what she intended for the first part, she felt herself more

-urgently stimulated to revise and improve what she had written, than to

-proceed, with constancy of application, in the parts that were to

-follow.

-

-

-

-

-                                CHAP. X.

-

-

-I am now led, by the course of my narrative, to the last fatal scene of

-her life. She was taken in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.

-She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding Friday, the

-confluence, I believe, of a sudden alarm. But from that time she was in

-perfect health. She was so far from being under any apprehension as to

-the difficulties of child-birth, as frequently to ridicule the fashion

-of ladies in England, who keep their chamber for one full month after

-delivery. For herself, she proposed coming down to dinner on the day

-immediately following. She had already had some experience on the

-subject in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted in every point

-to her judgment and her wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas

-of decorum, which certainly ought to have no place, at least in cases of

-danger, she determined to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of

-midwife. She was sensible that the proper business of a midwife, in the

-instance of a natural labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations

-of nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand the interposition of

-art.

-

-At five o’clock in the morning of the day of delivery, she felt what she

-conceived to be some notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,

-matron and midwife to the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, who had seen

-Mary several times previous to her delivery, was soon after sent for,

-and arrived about nine. During the whole day Mary was perfectly

-chearful. Her pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she wrote

-several notes, three addressed to me, who had gone, as usual, to my

-apartments, for the purpose of study. About two o’clock in the

-afternoon, she went up to her chamber—never more to descend.

-

-The child was born at twenty minutes after eleven at night. Mary had

-requested that I would not come into the chamber till all was over, and

-signified her intention of then performing the interesting office of

-presenting the new-born child to its father. I was sitting in a parlour;

-and it was not till after two o’clock on Thursday morning, that I

-received the alarming intelligence, that the placenta was not yet

-removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed any further, and gave

-her opinion for calling in a male practitioner. I accordingly went for

-Dr. Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same hospital, who

-arrived between three and four hours after the birth of the child. He

-immediately proceeded to the extraction of the placenta, which he

-brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied that the whole was

-removed. In that point however it afterwards appeared that he was

-mistaken.

-

-The period from the birth of the child till about eight o’clock the next

-morning, was a period full of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was

-considerable, and produced an almost uninterrupted series of fainting

-fits. I went to the chamber soon after four in the morning, and found

-her in this state. She told me some time on Thursday, “that she should

-have died the preceding night, but that she was determined not to leave

-me.”—She added, with one of those smiles which so eminently illuminated

-her countenance, “that I should not be like Porson,” alluding to the

-circumstance of that great man having lost his wife, after being only a

-few months married. Speaking of what she had already passed through, she

-declared, “that she had never known what bodily pain was before.”

-

-On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated his visit. Mary had just

-before expressed some inclination to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man

-probably of more science than any other medical professor in England,

-and between whom and herself there had long subsisted a mutual

-friendship. I mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather

-discountenanced the idea, observing that he saw no necessity for it, and

-that he supposed Dr. Fordyce was not particularly conversant with

-obstetrical cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After Dr. Poignand

-was gone, I determined to send for Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the

-patient about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He, however,

-perceived no particular cause of alarm; and, on that or the next day,

-quoted, as I am told, Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a

-corroboration of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety of employing

-females in the capacity of midwives. Mary, “had had a woman, and was

-doing extremely well.”

-

-What had passed, however, in the night between Wednesday and Thursday,

-had so far alarmed me, that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the

-chamber, during the following day. But my alarms wore off, as time

-advanced. Appearances were more favourable, than the exhausted state of

-the patient would almost have permitted me to expect. Friday morning,

-therefore, I devoted to a business of some urgency, which called me to

-different parts of the town, and which, before dinner, I happily

-completed. On my return, and during the evening, I received the most

-pleasurable sensations from the promising state of the patient. I was

-now perfectly satisfied that every thing was safe, and that, if she did

-not take cold, or suffer from any external accident, her speedy recovery

-was certain.

-

-Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday, but not absolutely

-alarming.

-

-Sunday, the third of September, I now regard as the day, that finally

-decided on the fate of the object dearest to my heart that the universe

-contained. Encouraged by what I considered as the progress of her

-recovery, I accompanied a friend in the morning in several calls, one of

-them as far as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time. On my

-return I found a degree of anxiety in every face, and was told that she

-had had a sort of shivering fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the

-length of my absence. My sister and a friend of hers, had been engaged

-to dine below stairs, but a message was sent to put them off, and Mary

-ordered that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in the room

-immediately under her on the first floor, but in the ground-floor

-parlour. I felt a pang at having been so long and so unseasonably

-absent, and determined that I would not repeat the fault.

-

-In the evening she had a second shivering fit, the symptoms of which

-were in the highest degree alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,

-the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her. This continued

-probably for five minutes. She told me, after it was over, that it had

-been a struggle between life and death, and that she had been more than

-once, in the course of it, at the point of expiring. I now apprehend

-these to have been the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned

-by the part of the placenta that remained in the womb. At the time,

-however, I was far from considering it in that light. When I went for

-Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock on the morning of Thursday,

-despair was in my heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta was

-stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical science, I felt as

-if the death of Mary was in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited my

-bosom; and her chearings were so delightful, that I hugged her

-obstinately to my heart. I was only mortified at what appeared to me a

-new delay in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I immediately sent

-for Dr. Fordyce, who had been with her in the morning, as well as on the

-three preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this morning, but

-declined paying any further visits, as we had thought proper to call in

-Dr. Fordyce.

-

-The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted. On Tuesday I found it

-necessary again to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who brought

-with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street, under the idea that some

-operation might be necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously

-persisted in viewing the fair side of things; and therefore the interval

-between Sunday and Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture of

-chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce forbad the child’s having the

-breast, and we therefore procured puppies to draw off the milk. This

-occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and the other attendants.

-Nothing could exceed the equanimity, the patience and affectionateness

-of the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I dwelt with trembling

-fondness on every favourable circumstance; and, as far it was possible

-in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind speeches,

-rewarded my affection.

-

-Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy

-series. It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her

-through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with

-wine. This task was devolved upon me. I began about four o’clock in the

-afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of

-the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was

-dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task. I knew neither what

-was too much, nor what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,

-under every disadvantage, to go on. This lasted for three hours. Towards

-the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came

-out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that,

-in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.” There are moments,

-when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness. I

-seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no

-consequence—It added to the measure of my distraction. A little after

-seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him

-instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the

-patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had

-seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine

-diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the

-metropolis, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend

-returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence. No one who

-knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I

-name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly,

-gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to

-experience.

-

-Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her

-death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate

-attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration. His

-conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing

-every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance. If

-skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live. In

-addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and

-Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for friends,

-watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an

-excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious lady,

-and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.

-Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr.

-Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the

-house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis,

-at a moment’s warning.

-

-Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to bed for a few hours on

-Wednesday night. Towards morning he came into my room with an account

-that the patient was surprisingly better. I went instantly into the

-chamber. But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest

-anguish I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a

-new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced. If

-Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough. But it was

-too mighty a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and

-admitted in this abrupt way.

-

-I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my gloomy thoughts, when,

-about ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare

-ourselves, for we had reason to expect the fatal event every moment. To

-my thinking, she did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,

-which I supposed to precede death; but it is probable that death does

-not always take place by that gradual process I had pictured to myself;

-a sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did not die on Thursday

-night.

-

-Till now it does not appear that she had any serious thoughts of dying;

-but on Friday and Saturday, the two last days of her life, she

-occasionally spoke as if she expected it. This was, however, only at

-intervals; the thought did not seem to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle

-rejoiced in this. He observed, and there is great force in the

-suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object, than a sick man, that

-knows he is dying. The thought must be expected to destroy his courage,

-to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract every favourable

-effort of nature.

-

-On these two days her faculties were in too decayed a state, to be able

-to follow any train of ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.

-Her religion, as I have already shown, was not calculated to be the

-torment of a sick bed; and, in fact, during her whole illness, not one

-word of a religious cast fell from her lips.

-

-She was affectionate and compliant to the last. I observed on Friday and

-Saturday nights, that, whenever her attendants recommended to her to

-sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by breathing, perhaps

-for the space of a minute, in the manner of a person that sleeps, though

-the effort, from the state of her disorder, usually proved ineffectual.

-

-She was not tormented by useless contradiction. One night the servant,

-from an error in judgment, teazed her with idle expostulations; but she

-complained of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray, pray, do not

-let her reason with me,” was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so

-dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous importunity of nurses

-everlastingly repeated.

-

-Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very desirous of obtaining

-from her any directions, that she might wish to have followed after her

-decease. Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I talked to her for a good

-while of the two children. In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not

-impressing the idea of death, I was obliged to manage my expressions. I

-therefore affected to proceed wholly upon the ground of her having been

-very ill, and that it would be some time before she could expect to be

-well; wishing her to tell me any thing that she would choose to have

-done respecting the children, as they would now be principally under my

-care. After having repeated this idea to her in a great variety of

-forms, she at length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I know

-what you are thinking of,” but added, that she had nothing to

-communicate to me upon the subject.

-

-The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the two last days. Mr.

-Carlisle observed that her continuance was almost miraculous, and he was

-on the watch for favourable appearances, believing it highly improper to

-give up all hope, and remarking, that perhaps one in a million, of

-persons in her state might possibly recover. I conceive that not one in

-a million, unites so good a constitution of body and of mind.

-

-These were the amusements of persons in the very gulph of despair. At

-six o’clock on Sunday morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called

-me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in conformity to my

-request, that I might not be left to receive all at once the

-intelligence that she was no more. She expired at twenty minutes before

-eight.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of September, at ten

-o’clock in the morning, in the church-yard of the parish church of St.

-Pancras, Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed, attended the

-ceremony; and a plain monument is now erecting on the spot, by some of

-her friends, with the following inscription:

-

-                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,

-                               AUTHOR OF

-                             A VINDICATION

-                        OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

-                       BORN, XXVII APRIL MDCCLIX.

-                      DIED, X SEPTEMBER MDCCXCVII.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-The loss of the world in this admirable woman, I leave to other men to

-collect; my own I well know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do

-not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed in her conversation:

-these increased every day, in proportion as we knew each other better,

-and as our mutual confidence increased. They can be measured only by the

-treasures of her mind, and the virtues of her heart. But this is a

-subject for meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding to, was

-the improvement that I have for ever lost.

-

-We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture to use this sort of

-language) in different directions; I, chiefly an attempt at logical and

-metaphysical distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque. One of the

-leading passions of my mind has been an anxious desire not to be

-deceived. This has led me to view the topics of my reflection on all

-sides; and to examine and re-examine without end, the questions that

-interest me.

-

-But it was not merely (to judge at least from all the reports of my

-memory in this respect) the difference of propensities, that made the

-difference in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated as long as

-I can remember, by an ambition for intellectual distinction; but, as

-long as I can remember, I have been discouraged, when I have endeavoured

-to cast the sum of my intellectual value, by finding that I did not

-possess, in the degree of some other men, an intuitive perception of

-intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong and lively sense of the

-pleasures of the imagination; but I have seldom been right in assigning

-to them their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering

-examination, and the change and correction of my first opinions.

-

-What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed, in a degree superior to

-any other person I ever knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.

-She was often right, by this means only, in matters of mere speculation.

-Her religion, her philosophy, (in both of which the errors were

-comparatively few, and the strain dignified and generous) were, as I

-have already said, the pure result of feeling and taste. She adopted one

-opinion, and rejected another, spontaneously, by a sort of tact and the

-force of a cultivated imagination; and yet, though perhaps, in the

-strict sense of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising what a

-degree of soundness is to be found in her determinations. But, if this

-quality was of use to her in topics that seem the proper province of

-reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly appealing to the

-intellectual taste. In a robust and unwavering judgment of this sort,

-there is a kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it produces a

-responsive vibration in every ingenuous mind. In this sense, my

-oscillation and scepticism were fixed by her boldness. When a true

-opinion emanated in this way from another mind, the conviction produced

-in my own assumed a similar character, instantaneous and firm. This

-species of intellect probably differs from the other, chiefly in the

-relation of earlier and later. What the one perceives instantaneously

-(circumstances having produced in it, either a premature attention to

-objects of this sort, or a greater boldness of decision) the other

-receives only by degrees. What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a

-minute attention to first impressions, and a just appreciation of them;

-habits that are never so effectually generated, as by the daily

-recurrence of a striking example.

-

-This light was lent to me for a very short period, and is now

-extinguished for ever!

-

-While I have described the improvement I was in the act of receiving, I

-believe I have put down the leading traits of her intellectual

-character.

-

-

-The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest

-examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the

-world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated Romance of

-Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very

-different cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of

-affording pleasure, will receive no delight from the present

-publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best

-qualified to decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted

-to have the superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the

-offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the

-passion it essays to describe.

-

-To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two

-volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be

-found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of

-Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it

-seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the

-intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a

-few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just

-monument to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and

-interesting specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the

-Present Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of

-Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman,

-may, I believe, safely be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on

-Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the

-Monthly Magazine for April last, and is the only piece in this

-collection which has previously found its way to the press.

-

-

-

-

-                                LETTERS.

-

-

-                               LETTER I.

-

-                                                            Two o’Clock.

-

-My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I

-have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early

-hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day they intend to pass here. I shall,

-however, leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side

-when I return, about eight o’clock. Will you not wait for poor

-Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately

-of her.

-

-                                                     Yours, truly,

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.

-

-

-                               LETTER II.

-

-                                      Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,

-                                                          [August]

-

-I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my

-love, good night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can

-to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ——’s eye. You

-can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we

-are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how

-many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident that

-my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish me with that dignified

-tenderness, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will

-try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you

-pain—Yes, I will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy: and whilst

-you love me, I cannot again fall into the miserable state, which

-rendered life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne.

-

-But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet

-I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with

-gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection,

-because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try

-whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow[3]—Yours—

-

-Footnote 3:

-

-  The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,”

-  probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this

-  interview.

-

-                                                                 EDITOR.

-

-

-                              LETTER III.

-

-                                                      Wednesday Morning.

-

-You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you

-know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever since I came to

-Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I

-like to see your eyes praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during

-such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart,

-when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.

-

-Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me

-to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY—you _must_

-be glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the

-_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was

-talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me that it will ever have

-sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so

-highly respect principle.——

-

-Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—far—and, if I had

-not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the vanity

-of my heart, have imagined that I could have made something of his——it

-was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love flies away

-in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my

-pale cheeks.

-

-I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——’s to meet

-him. ——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and

-to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.

-

-I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no

-matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I

-immediately want, to take with me—On Friday then I shall expect you to

-dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long

-since I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER IV[4].

-

-Footnote 4:

-

-  This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written

-  during a separation of several months; the date Paris.

-

-                                             Friday Morning [September.]

-

-A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here

-yesterday for the payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed at not

-finding you at home. I sent him to Mr. —— I have since seen him, and he

-tells me that he has settled the business.

-

-So much for business!—may I venture to talk a little longer about less

-weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the

-road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love,

-my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by

-their presence—I was going to say caresses—and why should I not? I have

-found out that I have more than you, in one respect; because I can,

-without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same

-object, much longer than you can.—The way to my senses is through my

-heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to

-yours.

-

-With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly

-is necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable;

-and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment

-by fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish

-my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by

-their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity,

-of the few roses that afford them solace in the thorny road of life.

-

-I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought

-produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your

-affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you

-go.—This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to

-write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my

-eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart

-whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world.—Pardon

-then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as

-well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with me a _little_

-longer!—When we are settled in the country together, more duties will

-open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is

-agitated by every emotion that awaken the remembrance of old griefs,

-will learn to rest on yours, with that dignity your character, not to

-talk of my own, demands.

-

-Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear,

-if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of

-it, by becoming happier

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER V.

-

-                                                           Sunday Night.

-

-I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed

-tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that

-my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.

-

-Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle

-twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature

-who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced

-an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm

-my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we

-are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding

-that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I

-sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.

-

-Are you very busy?

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come

-home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe

-you will.—

-

-Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be

-patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the

-time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over

-again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely

-connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the

-fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine,

-which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you!

-Take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the

-kindest good night I can utter.

-

-

-                               LETTER VI.

-

-                                                         Friday Morning.

-

-I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as

-myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy first letter, the

-very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it

-before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There

-is a full, true, and particular account.—

-

-Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of

-stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to

-the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and

-compass.—There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality,

-and the passions always give grace to the actions.

-

-Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy

-money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the

-exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have

-expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before

-me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and

-thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than

-soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not

-left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has

-spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst

-a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a

-grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus

-alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it

-divides—I must pause a moment.

-

-Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know

-why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than

-present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my

-heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am

-true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER VII.

-

-                                           Sunday Morning (December 29.)

-

-You seem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray sir! when do you think

-of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business

-permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that

-you will make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this

-month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I

-would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.

-

-I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself

-airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for

-not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this

-score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop

-from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or,

-will only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or a kind look, to

-escape me, when I pass the flippers—which I could not remove from my

-_salle_ door, though they are not the handsomest of their kind.

-

-Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be

-purchased. God bless you.

-

-                                             Yours affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER VIII.

-

-                                             Monday Night (December 30.)

-

-My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my

-heart, depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me

-several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. —— was for me. Mr. ——’s

-letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of

-his own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed

-me.

-

-A melancholy letter from my sister —— has also harrassed my mind—that

-from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-There is a spirit of independence in this letter, that will please you;

-and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together—I

-think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender

-looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance

-of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of

-bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where shall I find a word to

-express the relationship which subsists between us? Shall I ask the

-little twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you

-how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I

-have been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to

-write, and my heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to

-you.

-

-I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it,

-so the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I

-wanted one.

-

-Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a

-little!—It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I

-love.

-

-There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that,

-if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how

-very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.

-

-                                             Yours affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER IX.

-

-                                         Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]

-

-Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take

-one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because

-trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my

-spirits:—and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of this

-same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to

-master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of

-affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to

-dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to

-days browned by care!

-

-The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not

-look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my

-stockings.

-

-                                                     Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER X.

-

-                                            Wednesday Night [January 1.]

-

-As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to

-complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,

-I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do

-not feel?

-

-I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s and heart be organized from

-mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of

-them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The “peace” and

-clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. “I

-am fallen,” as Milton said, “on evil days;” for I really believe that

-Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least.

-Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up

-a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is

-lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!

-

-Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My

-head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded

-garden,” where “things rank and vile” flourish best.

-

-If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of

-it—I will throw your slippers out at the window, and be off—nobody knows

-where.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——,

-simply that I was with child: and let them stare!—and ——, nay, all the

-world, may know it for aught I care—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s coarse

-jokes.

-

-Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before

-it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong

-to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all

-sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are

-these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the

-hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is

-sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A

-man is a tyrant!

-

-You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing

-away with some honest fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social

-sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an

-heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour

-with you, to be pleased with the world.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-                                                       Thursday Morning.

-

-I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful

-temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the

-matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it. I do not want to

-be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless

-you![5]

-

-Footnote 5:

-

-  Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a

-  similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the

-  person to whom they are addressed.

-

-

-                               LETTER XI.

-

-                                                           Monday Night.

-

-I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide

-my face, glowing with shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,

-if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my

-fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes

-overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I intreat you. Do

-not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very

-wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had

-no confidence in me—

-

-It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices

-of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much

-indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or

-perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and

-tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been

-dreadfully disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my

-stomach; still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have

-been fainter.

-

-Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to

-ask as many questions as Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not

-continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling

-through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are

-melting into playfulness.

-

-Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop

-not an angry word, I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a

-scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come

-back—and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you

-the next.

-

-—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to

-H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming

-that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me

-so.

-

-God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of

-tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my

-support. Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did

-writing it, and you will make happy, your

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XII.

-

-                                                      Wednesday Morning.

-

-I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to

-encourage “quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my

-love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not

-half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling,

-as seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a

-little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a

-few days past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will

-you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a

-child of me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.

-

-One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness

-which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear

-to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness

-would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me

-almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with

-coldness.

-

-I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickness of

-your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you,

-there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness

-wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I

-look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth

-affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look

-at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,

-yet most affectionate

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XIII.

-

-                                                         Thursday Night.

-

-I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I

-knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand, and this

-afternoon, when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite

-pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you

-were to receive another cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do not forget

-that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect,

-that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took

-me again to your heart.

-

-I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,

-because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading

-continually the fatal consequence of my folly. But, should you think it

-right to remain at H—, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a

-fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be

-strong again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took

-such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind.

-The girl is come to warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night! and

-write a line or two in the morning.

-

-                                                                Morning.

-

-I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence

-shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was

-so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.

-

-I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether

-this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,

-before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my

-bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system.

-

-                                                         Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XIV.

-

-                                                       Saturday Morning.

-

-The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,

-will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect

-your motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by

-what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I

-thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at H—, I

-might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I

-brooded over—Let us now be friends!

-

-I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and

-I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at

-least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not

-enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will

-hasten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the

-object of your journey.

-

-What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my

-fancy was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder,

-whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging to

-your knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if

-you have not set your heart on this round number.

-

-I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the

-first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much

-as I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past,

-has been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I

-am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not

-much.—The two Mrs. ——s have been very anxious and tender.

-

-                                                     Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

-

-

-                               LETTER XV.

-

-                                                         Sunday Morning.

-

-I wrote to you yesterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is still

-detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am

-not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,

-after having talked of illness and apprehensions.

-

-I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my

-Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions

-of childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go

-badly with me_.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you;

-for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a

-new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.

-

-I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the

-greater part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a

-return of the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of

-illness. I have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought

-to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me;

-and, since I could not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my

-heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your

-eye.

-

-I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by

-impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional

-uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do

-not think a little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will

-struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of

-poverty.

-

-Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters;

-for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals

-into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.

-

-                                                     Yours sincerely

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XVI.

-

-                                                        Tuesday Morning.

-

-I seize this opportunity to inform you that I am to set out on Thursday

-with Mr. ——, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall

-be to see you. I have just got my passport, so I do not foresee any

-impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my

-new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to

-smile me to sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we parted.

-

-You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully

-round my heart, than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the thought,

-that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I

-wished to be supported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But,

-knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the

-proofs of affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being

-once more in the same house with you.—God bless you!

-

-                                                         Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XVII.

-

-                                                      Wednesday Morning.

-

-I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you,

-that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after

-you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more

-properly speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not

-as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it. I will not allow that

-your temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain

-my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am

-afraid to say never.

-

-Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in

-person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has

-never left you.

-

-I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too

-fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to

-H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my

-body to do whatever I wished.

-

-                                                 Yours affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XVIII.

-

-                                         H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.

-

-We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was

-sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay

-such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not

-sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of

-the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish

-about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before

-breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am,

-wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I

-write, with one of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a

-suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.

-

-But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take

-care of yourself and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XIX.

-

-Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper

-I was to inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag end of a letter

-of business.—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got

-you by the fire-side, with _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your

-poor bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper

-up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me

-so blind?—I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not

-scold; for I am

-

-                                         Yours most affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER XX.

-

-                                                      Sunday, August 17.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now

-permitted to dine—and the little darling, to be sure[6]—whom I cannot

-help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall

-enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven than satiate my

-imagination.

-

-Footnote 6:

-

-  The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a

-  considerable time.

-

-I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a

-dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_. But

-_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either

-the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the

-foreground of the picture.

-

-The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce

-from top to toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only

-proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a

-room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_. A

-nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed

-Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air. Ah!

-kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the

-loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the

-_sombre_ day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see

-things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running

-stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to

-tantalize us.

-

-But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid

-me let the square-headed money-getters alone. Peace to them! though none

-of the social spirits (and there are not a few of different

-descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a

-twitch to restrain my pen.

-

-I have been writing, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I

-merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally

-associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.

-

-Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with

-a _gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to

-cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the

-sentiments in your heart which may be termed romantic, because, the

-offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother

-more than the father[7], when they produce the suffusion I admire. In

-spite of icy age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined

-only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid—

-

-                                                         Yours

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-Footnote 7:

-

-  She means, “the latter more than the former.”

-

-                                                                 EDITOR.

-

-

-                              LETTER XXI.

-

-                                                 H—, August 19, Tuesday.

-

-I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you

-yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to

-the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that

-you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came in, and some

-other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet,

-leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is

-sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my

-place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary

-your affection is to my happiness.—Still I do not think it false

-delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness

-should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish

-passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by

-seeking your own—For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your

-generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the

-very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which

-demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly

-mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of

-cherishing a tenderness for your person.

-

-I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long

-time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that

-all my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace,

-though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our

-little girl was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a

-sense of duty, than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and

-imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever

-dancing before me.

-

-You too have somehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my

-dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve

-for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do not however suppose that I am

-melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find

-fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.

-

-I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)

-with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are

-the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXII.

-

-                                                          H—, August 20.

-

-I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always

-rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had

-chastised —— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the

-business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly

-know how you would express your contempt.

-

-Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the

-dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made

-use of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you,

-as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities

-of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of

-heart, which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.

-

-Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in

-you, of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a

-cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in _managing_ my

-happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself

-till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look

-into a heart, which my halfbroken one wishes to creep into, to be

-revived and cherished.——You have frankness of heart, but not often

-exactly that overflowing (_épanchement de cœur_), which becoming almost

-childish, appears a weakness only to the weak.

-

-But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether,

-as a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a

-number of mistresses—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather

-flattered his vanity than his senses.

-

-Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to

-close it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost

-springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not

-love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.—

-

-                                             Yours affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                            LETTER XXIII[8].

-

-Footnote 8:

-

-  This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation

-  of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were

-  sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.

-

-                                                           September 22.

-

-I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances,

-and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore

-merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one

-who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short,

-to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told,

-over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.

-

-Besides looking at me there are three other things, which delight her—to

-ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud

-music—yesterday at the _féte_, she enjoyed the two latter; but to honor

-J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had

-round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.

-

-Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap?

-There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination

-then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you

-coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I

-recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,

-regarding the waving corn!

-

-Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the

-imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of

-sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the

-passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more

-exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,

-appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if

-you will, and the conclusions of reason draw men together; but the

-imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven to animate this cold

-creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to

-rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts instead of

-leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.

-

-If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which

-would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you

-are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then

-back your barrier face, or you shall have nothing to say to my

-barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances that

-will be ever dear to me; for I am yours truly

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXIV.

-

-                                                      Evening. Sept. 23.

-

-I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I

-cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my

-bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do

-not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the

-touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of

-man and wife being one—for you seemed to pervade my whole frame,

-quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears

-you excited.

-

-Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is

-all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain

-of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days

-past.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-                                                                Morning.

-

-Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me

-before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same

-opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more

-tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are

-commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl,

-about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,

-and requested him to see her.

-

-I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business.

-Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write

-now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will

-overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.

-

-I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness

-at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am

-alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into

-reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

-

-This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell

-you, I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me,

-and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then kiss the girl

-for you, and bid you adieu.

-

-I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your

-barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know

-that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate,

-intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I think, as you could wish

-for.

-

-I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here;

-but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing

-sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring ——

-with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your

-letters—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you

-say of the negroes.

-

-                                             Yours most affectionately,

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXV.

-

-                                                        Paris, Sept. 28.

-

-I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have

-prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward

-them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he

-will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on

-your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as

-Mr. —— is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.

-

-I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass

-you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar

-circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have

-almost lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at best a most helpless

-creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to

-me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She

-indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting

-aside a mother’s fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her

-little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing

-degree of sensibility and observation. The other day by B——’s child, a

-fine one, she looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,

-and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.

-

-I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in

-which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to

-fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to

-be alluded to.

-

-Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector

-of your child, and the comfort of her mother.

-

-I have received, for you, letters from ——. I want to hear how that

-affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for

-his folly or knavery.

-

-                                                         Your own

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXVI.

-

-                                                              October 1.

-

-It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they

-will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going,

-a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were

-written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not

-been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me.

-_Tant mieux!_ you will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be

-sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should

-damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford—judging of your

-feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,

-which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear

-affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you

-chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only

-tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.

-

-After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in

-business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money,

-taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be

-gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the

-mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away,

-than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the

-melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same

-side as my reason, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be

-almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of

-character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I

-will seek it no where else.

-

-My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a

-kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my

-heart.

-

-I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the

-press will produce a great effect here—the _cry of blood will not be

-vain_!—Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are

-conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last slap of the tail of the beast.

-

-I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I shall

-not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her

-pregnancy rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity,

-which is better for the child.

-

-I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.

-

-—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is

-anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and

-social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that

-destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting.—If his

-wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is,

-nothing will save him.

-

-                                     Yours most truly and affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XXVII.

-

-                                                             October 26.

-

-My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the

-sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was

-obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone

-together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most

-intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the

-morning too, which I do not find quite so convenient. I once told you,

-that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were

-pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel,

-when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me

-unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has now the

-advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to

-discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.

-

-I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and

-am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also

-made some new acquaintance. I have almost _charmed_ a judge of the

-tribunal, R——, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has

-humanity, if not _beaucoup d’esprit_. But let me tell you, if you do not

-make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the

-_Marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so,

-and plays sweetly on the violin.

-

-What do you say to this threat?—why, _entre nous_, I like to give way to

-a sprightly vein, when writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is

-proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when he is pleased.” Will you

-not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls?

-but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks

-happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to

-come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it

-will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make

-exertions which injure your constitution.

-

-                                         Yours most truly and tenderly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray

-call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.

-

-

-                             LETTER XXVIII.

-

-                                                           December, 26.

-

-I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not

-allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that

-many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now

-see your letter, and find that you are safe: I will not regret then that

-your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other

-matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you

-are safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For,

-feeling that I am happier than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes

-dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me my dearest

-friend, father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this

-moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it

-is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the

-world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the

-melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past,

-and haunted my dreams.

-

-My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are

-not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;”

-but certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress than she is to

-me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most

-despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her

-more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have

-embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and

-laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst

-I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these

-details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

-

-                                                         Yours

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXIX.

-

-                                                            December 28.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your

-disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with

-affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that

-you should thus exert your self in vain, and that you are kept from me.

-

-——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new

-projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,

-rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But

-we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him.

-When we meet we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and

-it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to

-pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you

-to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in

-preparing to live.

-

-Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner

-as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your

-departure? It is not possible to enter into business, as an employment

-necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the

-expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be

-considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive

-sentiment and affection out of the heart?

-

-I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to

-forward it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what

-he has doubtless recommended most warmly.

-

-Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.—I will give you no

-tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment

-the settling the _present_ objects permit. _I do not consent_ to your

-taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord

-knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection,

-and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth,

-which makes —— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your

-principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you

-that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt,

-rather than made angry by delays. Having suffered so much in life, do

-not be surprized if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and

-suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I

-say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the

-picture.

-

-My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use her legs.—She wants you

-to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with

-dancing her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her

-mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.

-

-                                                     Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXX.

-

-                                                            December 29.

-

-Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just

-informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I

-take advantage of it to inclose you

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which

-obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be

-content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into

-this wearisome labyrinth? I know very well that you have been

-imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or

-abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid

-poverty? I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to

-escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And let me tell

-you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little

-girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your

-cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.

-

-This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire

-which —— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk

-to you?—if he can persuade you let him!—for, if you are not happier with

-me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal

-projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason, as well as

-affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will

-occur to you—and you will act accordingly.

-

-Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have

-heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another,

-about the age of my ——, a fine little creature. They are still but

-contriving to live —— earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but

-just above poverty, I envy them. She is a tender affectionate

-mother—fatigued even by her attention. However she has an affectionate

-husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her

-pleasure.

-

-I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I

-grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here,

-to observe with me how her mind unfolds and her little heart becomes

-attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer

-them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy. It is your own

-maxim to “live in the present moment.”—_If you do_—stay, for God’s sake;

-but tell me truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let

-me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.

-

-Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort

-me.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XXXI.

-

-                                                            December 30.

-

-Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have

-written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to

-wife you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three

-of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not

-of ——’s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of

-your staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of

-continual inquietude—and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn

-some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to

-run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little

-girl and I will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I

-may be termed proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles

-of action.

-

-The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that if they

-debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a

-gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they

-maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan

-whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been

-polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.

-

-I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former

-is necessary, to give life to the other—and such a degree of respect do

-I think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in

-its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the

-heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end

-of all my hopes of happiness—I could not forgive it, if I would.

-

-I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion

-of men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and

-that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with

-sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I

-lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am

-sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.

-

-You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the

-strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. —— has

-taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it

-has inconceivably depressed my spirits.—You have always known my

-opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live

-together, ought not to be long separated. If certain things are more

-necessary to you than me—search for them—Say but one word, and you shall

-never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s sake, let us struggle with

-poverty—with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business,

-which I have been told were to last but a few months, though every day

-the end appears more distant! This is the first letter in this strain

-that I have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was

-unwilling to give you pain, and I should not now write, if I did not

-think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as

-I am told, your presence.

-

-                                                              * * * *[9]

-

-Footnote 9:

-

-  The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at

-  Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was

-  recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of

-  business now accumulated upon him.

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXII.

-

-                                                              January 9.

-

-I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely

-occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought,

-to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects

-and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not

-absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.

-

-Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to

-obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure,

-for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that

-flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy

-views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I

-knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and

-have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only

-spontaneous enjoyment can give. Why have you so soon dissolved the

-charm?

-

-I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s

-never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you

-are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of

-action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to

-my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness

-to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and

-still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these

-continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and

-roots out affection from the heart.

-

-I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will

-simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the

-arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the

-necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose

-only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most

-violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual

-coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to

-recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be

-borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart though it fatigues the

-spirits.

-

-Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have

-determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child. It is too

-soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said,

-“despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.

-

-This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new

-weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before

-you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object. If your feelings

-were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary

-prospects of future advantage.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXIII.

-

-                                                                Jan. 15.

-

-I was just going to begin my letter with the tag end of a song, which

-would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is

-pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters,

-dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can

-scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me.

-After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I

-have seen a superscription written by you. Promising myself pleasure,

-and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought

-it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a

-dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.

-

-Well now for business—

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing

-the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and

-now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit,

-&c. You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she

-will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object

-for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing

-can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not

-affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come soon to tell us

-that you do.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXIV.

-

-                                                                Jan. 30.

-

-From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will

-scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you

-have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it

-pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground

-again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new

-projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have

-done with it for ever; yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary

-interest suffers by your absence.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make

-money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I

-therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at

-home, lest I should have uttered unseasonable truths.

-

-My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I

-have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed

-to mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of

-life,” you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I

-have ever considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of

-wanting the resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life;

-I should answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them,

-because I would avoid them, cost what it would.——

-

-Adieu!

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-Footnote 10:

-

-  This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the

-  letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things

-  upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different

-  appellation.

-

-                                                                 EDITOR.

-

-

-                              LETTER XXXV.

-

-                                                             February 9.

-

-The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that

-we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,

-convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other

-letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got,

-were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the

-sight of the superscriptions excited.

-

-I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for

-utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I

-find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.

-

-You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the

-most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,

-I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude

-during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I

-never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm

-was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.

-God preserve this poor child and render her happier than her mother!

-

-But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I

-think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is

-come to this. I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty

-to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to

-reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a

-better fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but for this

-little darling I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped

-of every charm.

-

-You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to

-tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely

-dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely understand you. You request me to

-come, and then tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of

-returning to this place.

-

-When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. I

-would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of

-trouble on which you are entering. I have certain principles of action:

-I know what to look for to found my happiness on. It is not money. With

-you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is,

-less will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life

-for my child, and she does not want more at present. I have two or three

-plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,

-neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to

-you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service. I wanted the support

-of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I

-complained of ——’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he

-would have dragged you into his schemes.

-

-I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a letter written soon after your

-departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was

-written. You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more

-determined moment. Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together

-is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be

-running after a bubble at the expence of my peace of mind.

-

-Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXVI.

-

-                                                                Feb. 10.

-

-You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am

-dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the

-business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution

-destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the

-continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the

-fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write

-to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here

-with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of

-the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be

-brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this,

-I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can

-live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000

-livres from ——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s wages, &c.

-and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I

-shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.

-

-—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very

-unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I

-had provoked it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have

-dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your

-remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of

-the bitter cup to care about trifles.

-

-When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the

-gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm

-in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you

-did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more

-necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted

-heart—For a year or two you may procure yourself what you call pleasure;

-eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I

-shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but

-checked my pen.

-

-As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you,

-reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content

-with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of

-hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written

-relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and

-practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments

-of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my

-sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not

-write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to

-complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of

-the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the

-mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered

-enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the

-vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so,

-that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXVII.

-

-                                                                Feb. 19.

-

-When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an

-indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now

-calmer though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the

-quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow.

-Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with

-every one, I have only reason enough to discover that the fault is in

-myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take

-any pains to recover my health.

-

-As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a

-repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough.

-Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs,

-after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the

-necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my God! how has mine been

-harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the

-wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely,” I have not found

-a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from

-my bosom.

-

-What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I

-will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand

-you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning

-here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain

-myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my

-meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and

-am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms

-for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror,

-only to be left there a prey to it!

-

-Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl

-would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some

-plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.

-

-In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am

-left here dependant on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has

-rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or

-affectionate emotions. With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help

-displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite

-of the effect it is visible it has had on me.

-

-Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to

-avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me. Do

-not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen

-times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you

-must guess why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects

-to which you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but I will be

-silent for ever.——

-

-

-                            LETTER XXXVIII.

-

-                                                                April 7.

-

-Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell

-you that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I

-shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate

-my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of

-delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot

-indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,

-without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that it is mutual.

-

-I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes,

-when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed

-been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh

-hopes, as to regain tranquillity. Enough of this—lie still, foolish

-heart! But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease

-to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.

-

-Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I

-weaned her about ten days ago. I am however glad I conquered my

-repugnance. It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish

-to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off

-till we met. It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to

-throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain

-throw over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after

-sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you

-cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!

-

-I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity

-for you coming to me. Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend

-with me. My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some

-inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have

-not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say

-indifference, as you. God bless you!

-

-                                                         Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XXXIX.

-

-                                    Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.

-

-Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and if I

-can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive to ——’s

-hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope

-you will take care there to receive us.

-

-I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to

-take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my

-share. But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to

-meet soon?—What does your heart say!

-

-                                                     Your’s truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I have weaned my ——, and she is now eating way at the white bread.

-

-

-                               LETTER XL.

-

-                                                 London, Friday, May 22.

-

-I have just received your affectionate letter and am distressed to think

-that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,

-when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be

-necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I

-suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have

-mentioned, which made —— request to see me to-day, to _converse about a

-matter of great importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the

-state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last

-night as distressing as the two former had been.

-

-I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that

-tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so

-different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry

-with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments

-which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart—We have

-had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future

-prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to

-affection.—Let the subject never be revived!

-

-It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of

-being happy.——Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has

-been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and

-sought for dissapation, if not amusement merely to fatigue still more, I

-find, my irritable nerves.—

-

-My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the question;

-for, alass! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what will

-render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you desire

-to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell

-me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily

-interrupted your peace.

-

-I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a

-cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which

-only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately

-yours.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XLI.

-

-                                                              Wednesday.

-

-I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am

-tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am

-angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I

-shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to

-whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of

-fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.

-

-God bless you!

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XLII.

-

-                                              —, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.

-

-We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the

-child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night

-and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like

-house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished

-this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out

-early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.

-

-I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or

-the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full

-to allow me to write with composure.—***, —dear ****,—am I always to be

-tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in?

-How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in

-a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach

-those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my

-eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity,

-electrified by sympathy.

-

-I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be

-detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours

-sincerely and affectionately

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-—— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise

-of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!

-

-

-                             LETTER XLIII.

-

-                                                               Thursday.

-

-A lady has just sent to offer to take me to —— —. I have then only a

-moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give

-information

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when

-compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to

-touch this painful string—God bless you!

-

-                                                     Yours truly,

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XLIV.

-

-                                                         Friday June 12.

-

-I have just received yours, dated the 9th, which I suppose was a

-mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The

-general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear

-to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of

-the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before

-satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up

-every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your

-sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the

-impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,

-for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.

-

-The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites,

-must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never leads

-its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented by according

-reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite

-pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the

-whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that

-renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions

-over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even

-disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without

-self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the

-distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of

-that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of which the common

-herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begetters_, certainly have no

-idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me: I

-consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination

-acts as the stimulus to their senses.

-

-Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I

-cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength

-of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and

-purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.——I would fain rest

-there!

-

-Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my

-attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live

-has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that

-despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my

-child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might

-become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might

-there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated

-sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.

-

-Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting

-happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in

-order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked

-sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot

-indeed, without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually

-contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I

-recollect why my child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in

-which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry

-fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how

-much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the

-shafts of disappointment.

-

-Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something

-like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded;

-consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term

-“the zest of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own

-motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!

-

-The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me

-so wretched, that I must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But

-first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my

-happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself.

-You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just,

-that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.

-

-The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly.

-I cannot say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to

-depart.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-                                                       Saturday Morning.

-

-Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly

-wrong in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though,

-without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have

-animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have

-been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so

-unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to

-every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye

-was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them,

-because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent

-any odium being thrown on you[11].

-

-Footnote 11:

-

-  This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and

-  not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.

-

-I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my

-efforts to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I

-am engaged.

-

-My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most

-sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a

-true, unsophisticated heart.

-

-                                                     Yours most truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am

-afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to

-write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot

-expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a

-gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received

-great civilities, will send them after me.

-

-Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on;

-and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself

-from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot

-word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I

-shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will

-draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!

-

-

-                              LETTER XLV.

-

-                                                       Sunday, June, 14.

-

-I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to

-write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I

-have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of

-trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every

-thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.

-

-Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was

-fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the

-necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you

-know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather

-interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and

-poor —— was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.

-

-They took me in their carriage to —— and I ran over my favourite walks,

-with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not please

-me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I

-found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever

-since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have

-vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at

-pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am,

-is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and

-fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.

-

-The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to

-linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I

-do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your

-connections on the other side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I

-think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme

-restlessness.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you whether the

-pleasure of being free does not over-balance the pain you felt at

-parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me

-necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the moment after,

-despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of

-tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!

-

-                                     Yours sincerely and affectionately

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XLVI.

-

-                                                                June 15.

-

-I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be

-very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence,

-my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation

-indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most

-affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of

-disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet

-should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true

-friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the

-world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has

-opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a

-higher value on my heart.

-

-Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to add, if you will not take one

-from me, and believe me yours

-

-                                                     Sincerely,

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-The wind still continues in the same quarter.

-

-

-                             LETTER XLVII.

-

-                                                        Tuesday morning.

-

-The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the

-course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would

-have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from

-you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.

-

-My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why the quitting England seems

-to be a fresh parting. Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak

-forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me

-sensible to every thing. It is surprising, that in London, in a

-continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,

-bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by

-despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that

-withers up all my faculties.

-

-The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I

-know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. It

-is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been so perpetually the sport

-of disappointment, having a heart that has been as it were a mark for

-misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. Well, let it

-come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!

-God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER XLVIII.

-

-                                                      Wednesday Morning.

-

-I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having

-changed. But before evening it steered round to the old point; and here

-we are, in the midst of mists and waters, only taking advantage of the

-tide to advance a few miles.

-

-You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it

-was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt

-pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had

-treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably

-send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely

-to remain, I am afraid to think how long.

-

-The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted

-kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to

-myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to

-beguile weariness; but I seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments

-of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.

-

-What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time

-before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within

-me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and

-feelings? Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so

-much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and

-extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. Will you not

-endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I

-saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other gratifications are dearer

-to you. How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?

-What a world is this! They only seem happy, who never look beyond

-sensual or artificial enjoyments. Adieu.

-

-—— begins to play with the cabin boy, and is as gay as a lark. I will

-labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,

-

-                                             Your’s sincerely

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER XLIX.

-

-                                                               Thursday.

-

-Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the

-pilot who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as expected,

-by the wind. It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without

-going forward. I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to take care

-of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is

-unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the

-ship, as we ride at anchor.

-

-These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of

-mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth

-I never in my life suffered so much from depression of spirits—from

-despair. I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most

-terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of

-countenance.

-

-I will not, my dear ——, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and

-will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at

-present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these

-continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some

-comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you, when

-we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean

-not to have seas between us, it is more than I can support.

-

-The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.

-

-In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would

-disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free,

-the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.

-

-                                                 Your’s most truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER L.

-

-                                                               Saturday.

-

-This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with

-every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the

-remembrances that sadden my heart.

-

-How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the

-elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and the

-imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and

-sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in

-search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature

-seems to frown, or rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold as my

-expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these

-North-east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious

-Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial

-affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger

-there.

-

-I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough,

-to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after

-which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable

-smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till

-thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for

-I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the

-misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my

-power.

-

-Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will

-not allow her to remain on deck.

-

-I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to

-you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?

-

-                                                     Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER LI.

-

-                                                         Sunday Morning.

-

-The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to

-be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had

-a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind

-has changed.

-

-I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one

-hap-hazard it would have been kind and considerate—you might have known,

-had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are

-attentions more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But why do

-I foolishly continue to look for them?

-

-Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt.

-God bless you! I may perhaps be some time or other, independent in every

-sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I

-will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.

-

-                                                 Yours sincerely

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-The child is well; I did not leave her on board.

-

-

-                              LETTER LII.

-

-                                                      June 27, Saturday.

-

-I arrived in ——. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to

-inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty,

-for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.

-

-What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon, nor mention

-the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast. This morning

-however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this

-place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and

-how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupor for a

-quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my

-senses; the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is

-well.

-

-Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently

-deranged me, and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing

-warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must nevertheless go to bed.

-For God’s sake, let me hear from you immediately my friend! I am not

-well, and yet you see I cannot die.

-

-                                                 Yours sincerely

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LIII.

-

-                                                                June 29.

-

-I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I

-alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s

-illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my

-fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will

-have any serious consequences.

-

-—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns are

-here so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am

-overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the

-endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.

-

-My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies

-heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;

-and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the

-hopes that render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,”

-appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly

-enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my

-pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LIV.

-

-                                                                 July 1.

-

-I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow

-and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot

-last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and,

-when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to

-live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual

-struggles—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind;

-and if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than

-with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not

-dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will

-then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together,

-or I will be entirely independent.

-

-My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision——You know

-however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments

-of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the

-consolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest

-friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of

-satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?

-

-Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should

-imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your

-affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?

-

-                    God bless you!

-                                Yours truly

-                                            * * * *

-

-Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey with her teeth.

-

-

-                               LETTER LV.

-

-                                                                 July 3.

-

-There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression

-of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you

-throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has

-long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.

-

-Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you)

-there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than

-disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to

-hide my sorrows in my bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,

-affectionate friend.

-

-I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this

-affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can

-become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature. On

-ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my

-troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that

-the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!” and

-nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling

-and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.

-

-What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles,

-I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to

-sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and

-started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that

-stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar

-the fragrance of reviving nature.

-

-My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love in some minds, is

-an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or

-taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c.

-alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were,

-impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.

-

-Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care

-than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming

-at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my

-soul—almost rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped the

-enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a

-fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common

-enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me

-stupid—soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch

-of disappointment.

-

-I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my

-constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health

-unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.

-

-I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of

-regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect

-due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of

-the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can

-extinguish the heavenly spark.

-

-Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I

-blush when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound

-myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to

-delicacy, or pride.

-

-

-                              LETTER LVI.

-

-                                                                 July 4.

-

-I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot

-tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to

-the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of

-character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.

-

-Still however I am more alive than you have seen me for a long, long

-time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable

-to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my

-faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than

-to the vigour of my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have

-had my share,) the purity of this air, and the being continually out in

-it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my

-appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already

-streak my cheeks—and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I

-have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes

-of youth.

-

-With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!

-Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s

-pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, and makes

-friends for herself.

-

-Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us

-in Switzerland? Ah! why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why

-are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or

-rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my

-misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and

-lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call

-me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the

-sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.

-

-

-                              LETTER LVII.

-

-                                                                 July 7.

-

-I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving

-a letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have

-hazarded it; and would a year ago.

-

-I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to

-silence the usual expressions of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a

-thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy prays

-upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion,

-cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have

-endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation

-possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.

-

-Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from

-life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My

-God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive to painful

-sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.

-

-The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be

-wounded to the soul by a negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go

-into the air.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER LVIII.

-

-                                                                July 14.

-

-I am now on my journey to ——. I felt more at leaving my child, than I

-thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I

-heard the half-formed sounds of her voice—I asked myself how I could

-think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?

-

-Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the

-winds to the shorn lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be

-shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless

-storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to

-the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a

-discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!

-

-All is not right somewhere. When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.

-I could still confide, for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort

-you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first

-object. Strange want of judgment!

-

-I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am

-convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,

-that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.

-I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the

-simple basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend to argue—Your

-not writing is cruel, and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant

-wretchedness.

-

-Poor —— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my

-fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of

-countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually

-afraid of some accident—But it would have injured the child this warm

-season, as she is cutting her teeth.

-

-I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you

-please, there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can,

-or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you

-with letters to which you do not reply.

-

-

-                              LETTER LIX.

-

-                                                                July 18.

-

-I am here in ——, separated from my child, and here I must remain a month

-at least, or I might as well never have come.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I have begun —— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a

-pecuniary kind. I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having

-done it sooner.

-

-I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                               LETTER LX.

-

-                                                                July 30.

-

-I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of

-June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my

-detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God

-knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness

-of heart! My mind however is at present painfully active, and the

-sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of

-complaint, it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected pleasure is all I

-have to hope for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.

-

-I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live

-together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my

-poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or

-that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to

-preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I

-have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life. There are wounds

-that can never be healed, but they may be allowed to fester in silence

-without wincing.

-

-When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution

-than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined

-always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I

-cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last

-snap, and set me free.

-

-Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings

-anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made

-me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and

-truth. But to have done with these subjects.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ——; yet I

-never was so much in the air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,

-and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The

-child, —— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.

-

-Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you

-to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which

-you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you

-

-                                               Yours most affectionately

-                                                       * * * *  * * * *

-

-I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to

-yours.

-

-

-                              LETTER LXI.

-

-                                                                 Aug. 5.

-

-Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have

-entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of

-my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though

-trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same. I have,

-it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for

-a long—long time past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other

-appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer

-have afforded me.) Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so

-constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection.—I am

-afraid not without a passion, and I feel the want of it more in society,

-than in solitude——

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs, my eyes fill

-with tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my

-resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine

-my anguish in my own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me

-sometimes overlook delicacy, the same tenderness will in future restrain

-me.

-

-God bless you!

-

-

-                              LETTER LXII.

-

-                                                                 Aug. 7.

-

-Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my

-muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former

-activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched

-some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and

-resting on the rocks.

-

-This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on

-something—and soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am

-sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched, when we were

-together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,

-slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought not, if you form another

-attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little

-reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel

-disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to

-depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a

-chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I

-can provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part

-to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a

-comfort to me, if I am to have no other, and only know me as her

-support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with

-you, if we are only to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness

-elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to

-you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an

-eternal separation. You must determine, examine yourself—But, for God’s

-sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the trial;

-but I will not complain.

-

-Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you, it is all flown, and

-absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what

-new form of misery I have to dread.

-

-I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but

-you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the

-heart of

-

-                                                     Yours truly

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER LXIII.

-

-                                                                 Aug. 9.

-

-Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the

-14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did

-not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except

-to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints.

-I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my

-affection.——

-

-My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I

-mean, I and my girl. I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am

-informed how your affairs terminate.

-

-                                                     Yours sincerely

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LXIV.

-

-                                                                Aug. 26.

-

-I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once

-more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps

-cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play

-alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I

-have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in

-future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an

-independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.

-

-I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and

-even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As

-for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the

-calm contentment so termed.——

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect

-yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th

-of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.

-Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an

-ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend—or you

-would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of

-compassion, a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I

-will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to

-these struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I cannot please. I

-can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our

-fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to cherish tenderness for

-me._ Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest,

-since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be

-entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I

-need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living

-in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior

-considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to

-maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to

-Switzerland. I shall not remain at ——, living expensively. But be not

-alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.

-

-Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed, my lips tremble, as

-if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.

-

-God bless you.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LXV.

-

-                                                            September 6.

-

-I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter

-last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of

-soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently

-vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment

-of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and

-repose on the idea that I am happy.

-

-Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like

-resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I

-have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that

-happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and the lively sympathies

-which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They

-are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure and I have shaken hands.

-

-I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people

-immersed in trade and sensuality.

-

-I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting place to

-look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks,

-I have thought, “But for this child I would lay my head on one of them,

-and never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the

-affections of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone

-that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it

-was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound

-together by affection or principle—and, when I am conscious that I have

-fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself,

-I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus

-abandoned?”

-

-You say now

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more

-explicitly——and determine on some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this

-suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or

-eternally part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer

-to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent

-subjects.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is

-disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty

-frequently that I make out what you mean to say—You write I suppose, at

-Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for

-your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of

-affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the child.——Adieu!

-

-

-                              LETTER LXVI.

-

-                                                           September 25.

-

-I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ——. In

-that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three

-mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed

-it, I hear of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write

-calmly—this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain —— remained

-a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have

-I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the

-same—and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this

-of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed. Adieu!

-

-

-                             LETTER LXVII.

-

-                                                           September 27.

-

-When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the

-British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.

-

-By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions

-extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to

-decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,

-from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there

-was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were

-but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative

-was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of

-meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a

-yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am

-accustomed to; in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,

-much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your

-shoulders.

-

-I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you

-decide.

-

-The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in

-a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal

-mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I

-submit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of

-me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for

-you—for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only

-sought for a momentary gratification.

-

-I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your

-tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On

-this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I

-leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off

-a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly

-are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been

-stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It

-depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take

-no step, till I see or hear from you.

-

-Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be

-like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and

-not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few

-months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will

-not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on

-your beneficence.

-

-Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not

-the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view,

-the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money

-will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry

-_shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for

-my girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her

-education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to

-such society as she will like—and thus securing for her all the chance

-for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that

-the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always

-elude my grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly

-longed to arrive at his port.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place

-to go to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,

-that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see

-you, though it be the last time.

-

-

-                             LETTER LXVIII.

-

-                                                       Sunday, October 4

-

-I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the

-18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but,

-as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet

-received it.

-

-You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided, that it was most for

-the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I

-expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be

-glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose

-in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our

-interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at

-last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.

-

-From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that

-you have formed some new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly

-request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof

-I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide,

-since you boggle about a mere form.

-

-I am labouring to write with calmness, but the extreme anguish I feel,

-at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be

-conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a

-disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come

-under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an

-overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses

-me. On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as

-is my situation. Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told

-me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even

-in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me

-and my child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian

-knot.

-

-I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the

-return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office,

-and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me.

-I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.

-

-Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing from you, or any human

-being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my

-duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling

-heart.—That Being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up

-by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of

-my life—but life will have an end!

-

-Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you

-will find me at —— If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.

-

-                                                    Yours affectionately

-                                                                * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LXIX.

-

-I write you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid

-with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——,

-section de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.

-

-Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.

-

-Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I

-forced from her—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing

-but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet,

-whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might

-still have lived together.

-

-I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world.

-Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When

-you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

-

-I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.

-Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am

-serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body

-will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I

-shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being

-snatched from the death I seek.

-

-God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me

-endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to

-your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall

-appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                              LETTER LXX.

-

-                                                         Sunday Morning.

-

-I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I

-was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination

-is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a

-frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this

-respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed

-reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.

-

-You say, “that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the

-wretchedness into which we have been plunged.” You are extricated long

-since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it

-is a living death.

-

-It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on

-principle; but I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would

-have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you

-have any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only

-thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall

-never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that

-even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call

-magnanimity.—It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in

-the highest degree.

-

-Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to

-contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance),

-appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar

-comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart.—That gone,

-you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not

-shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any

-direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which

-I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own

-reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you

-value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for)

-though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me.

-When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the

-child.

-

-I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you

-again.—Adieu!

-

-God bless you!

-

-

-                              LETTER LXXI.

-

-                                                         Monday Morning.

-

-I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree

-with you, that

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy.

-I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may

-lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;

-but she shall not despise me for meanness. You are now perfectly free.—

-

-God bless you.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER LXXII.

-

-                                                         Saturday Night.

-

-I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be

-dictated by any tenderness to me. You ask “If I am well or

-tranquil?”—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my

-feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

-

-I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually

-offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new

-house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I

-will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the

-moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary

-supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and

-misfortunes seem to suit the habit of my mind.—

-

-Have but a little patience and I will remove myself where it will not be

-necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see,

-written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other

-medium—that the affair is finished. It is an insult to me to suppose,

-that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear

-nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

-

-

-Even your seeing me has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my

-distracted mind.

-

-

-                             LETTER LXXIII.

-

-                                                     Thursday Afternoon.

-

-Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were

-left at the house, I have to request you to let —— bring them to ——.

-

-I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained

-from coming here to transact your business,—And, whatever I may think,

-and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have

-any criterion to judge of wright and wrong, I have been most

-ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be

-silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect

-and provide for my child. I only mean by this to say, that you having

-nothing to fear from my desperation.

-

-                                                               Farewell.

-

-

-                             LETTER LXXIV.

-

-                                                    London, November 27.

-

-The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you

-returned, did not meet my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters

-aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.

-

-My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with

-anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for

-me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to

-expect much attention to my sufferings.

-

-In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has

-almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I

-am, or what I do. The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel

-recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to

-conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but an exercise of

-fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this

-tomb, where I am buried alive.

-

-But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, “that

-I shall judge more cooly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But

-is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does

-mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so

-“exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?

-In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but

-that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have

-fostered and the expectations you have excited?

-

-My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I know you are not what you

-now seem—nor will you always act or feel as you now do, though I may

-never be comforted by the change. Even at Paris, my image will haunt

-you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will

-drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.

-

-I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your

-_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am

-miserable!

-

-It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the

-strictest principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social

-feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my

-whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that

-existence is a burthen without it.

-

-I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship,

-you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling

-are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God bless you!

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You

-seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether

-you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In truth I have been rudely handled.

-_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those

-capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only

-the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You

-would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a

-father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly

-the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to

-please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!

-

-Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from

-you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I am

-convinced you will not always justify your own.

-

-Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your

-mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to

-gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle

-require such sacrifices?

-

-

-                              LETTER LXXV.

-

-                                                     London, December 8.

-

-Having just been informed that —— is to return immediately to Paris, I

-would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain

-that my last, by Dover, has reached you.

-

-Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wished

-to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light

-of an enemy.

-

-That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always

-with the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write

-calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.

-

-I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.

-Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little

-address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are

-sacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.

-

-The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your

-affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me,

-when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you

-will not always forget me. You will feel something like remorse, for

-having lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior

-gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had

-one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour

-of recollection will come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part

-of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,

-your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your

-present conduct. You do, you must, respect me—and you will be sorry to

-forfeit my esteem.

-

-You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an

-imaginary being. I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am

-obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be

-cleared up by time.

-

-You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own

-eyes. I shall still be able to support my child, though I am

-disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed

-would have afforded you equal pleasure.

-

-Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I

-thought your property in jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested you,

-_if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some

-other people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet

-not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not

-discharged, that now come on me. Was this friendship—or generosity? Will

-you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for

-you.—God bless you.

-

-                                                                 * * * *

-

-

-                             LETTER LXXVI.

-

-As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I

-will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and

-feeling ingenuity!

-

-I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is

-impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward

-inclination with the manly dictates of principle.

-

-You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why do I?——Because you cannot estrange

-your heart entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on my side. You

-urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your

-coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to

-remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took

-great pains to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the

-effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with

-these words, “Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to my port, and

-I will still fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”

-

-With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I

-wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old

-propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last

-prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which

-would enable you to conquer yourself.

-

-—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me

-feelings of this kind. You could restore me to life and hope, and the

-satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.

-

-In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time

-will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,

-even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every

-thing to your generosity—but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in

-suspense!—Let me see you once more!——

-

-

-                             LETTER LXXVII.

-

-You must do as you please with respect to the child. I could wish that

-it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It

-is now finished. Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship,

-I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that

-the “forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate. It is however

-of no consequence. I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.

-

-I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel. Yet I flinch

-not from the duties which tie me to life.

-

-That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it

-matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words.

-Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped, for what you

-term “delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no

-criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations

-which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of

-principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it

-would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.

-

-The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that

-will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my

-affections. The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term

-mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to

-some years to come. Whether you will always think so, I shall never

-know.

-

-It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction

-forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.

-

-I part with you in peace.

-

-

-

-

-                                 LETTER

-                                 ON THE

-                           PRESENT CHARACTER

-                                 OF THE

-                             FRENCH NATION.

-

-  INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE

-    FRENCH NATION.

-

-

-                                               Paris, February 15, 1793.

-

- MY DEAR FRIEND,

-

-It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind, to guard as

-carefully the remembrance of the first impression made by a nation, as

-by a countenance; because we imperceptibly lose sight of the national

-character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then

-useless or presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered Paris, the

-striking contrast of riches and poverty, elegance and slovenliness,

-urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and saddened my soul;

-and these impressions are still the foundation of my remarks on the

-manners, which flatter the senses, more than they interest the heart,

-and yet excite more interest than esteem.

-

-The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous,

-and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they

-are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving

-satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all sides

-they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of

-care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me,

-that they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they

-trifle their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how

-to wish them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me

-like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English

-head, searching for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of

-pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their chief enjoyment, it

-is true, rises from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders

-vexation of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burden of

-life, which reason too often weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder

-to the other.

-

-Investigating the modification of the passion, as I would analyze the

-elements that give a form to dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to

-their source the causes which have combined to render this nation the

-most polished, in a physical sense, and probably the most superficial in

-the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that

-disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature

-is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most

-sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or

-so effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of

-sensuality?

-

-The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me

-then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,

-when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey.

-Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would

-decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to

-consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and,

-giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances

-which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light

-on the history of man, and on the present important subjects of

-discussion.

-

-I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and

-follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair

-form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter

-all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that

-have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that

-lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled

-with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that

-the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the

-government rendered less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the

-misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the

-standing evils of the old system. I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I

-think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I

-also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through

-which the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear,

-and I hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of Providence,

-sweeping in such various directions the bosom of destruction over the

-sons of men.

-

-Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong

-virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress

-of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course

-of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being

-goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective of the golden age, fading

-before the attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and,

-losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my

-friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the first glance seems

-to be levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not become an Atheist,

-I assure you, by residing at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or,

-if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the

-passions are justly poized, we become harmless, and in the same

-proportion useless.

-

-The wants of reason are very few; and, were we to consider

-dispassionately the real value of most things, we should probably rest

-satisfied with the simple gratification of our physical necessities, and

-be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently, only that

-wanton, the imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward,

-and makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside every obstacle merely

-to catch a disappointment.

-

-The desire also of being useful to others, is continually damped by

-experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in some measure

-their own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle with care, to

-make some people ungrateful, and others idle?

-

-You will call these melancholy effusions, and guess that, fatigued by

-the vivacity, which has all the bustling folly of childhood, without the

-innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too severe in my

-strictures. It may be so; and I am aware that the good effects of the

-revolution will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of Epicurus

-has only been at work to root out the simple emotions of the heart,

-which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by

-the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government fostered, is

-it surprising that simplicity of manners, and singleness of heart,

-rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so passing

-sweet?

-

-Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have shot, I sometimes ask, with

-a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners

-which has hitherto been maintained unsullied only by the keen air of

-poverty, when, emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity are

-become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer

-day is dawning on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe, that

-little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which

-seems every where to be shoving aside _the point of honour_ of the

-_noblesse_. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect

-muddied water to become clear before it has had time to stand; yet, even

-for the moment, it is the most terrific of all sights, to see men

-vicious without warmth—to see the order that should be the

-superscription of virtue, cultivated to give security to crimes which

-only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is, in fact, the very

-essence of vice, though with the wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane

-emotions often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus humanity,

-generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes render a character grand,

-and even useful, when hurried away by lawless passions; but what can

-equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himself alone,

-and considering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleasure,

-never forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping ever within the

-pale of the law, he crushes his thousands with impunity; but it is with

-that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a significant

-vulgarism, a villain _in grain_. The very excess of his depravation

-preserves him, whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who prowls

-about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a

-snare.

-

-You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government,

-yet it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every

-thing whispers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I

-see that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to

-corrupt the new. For the same pride of office, the same desire of power

-are still visible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to

-obscurity after having but just acquired a relish for distinction, each

-hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with these new titles,

-endeavours to make hay while the sun shines; and every petty municipal

-officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, stalks like a

-cock on a dunghill.

-

-I shall now conclude this desultory letter; which however will enable

-you to foresee that I shall treat more of morals than manners.

-

-                                                                Yours ——

-

-

-

-

-                                 LETTER

-                                 ON THE

-                         MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

-

-

-I ought to appologize for not having written to you on the subject you

-mentioned; but, to tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead of

-an answer, I have begun a series of letters on the management of

-children in their infancy. Replying then to your question, I have the

-public in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew what modes appear to

-me necessary, to render the infancy of children more healthy and happy.

-I have long thought, that the cause which renders children as hard to

-rear as the most fragile plant, is our deviation from simplicity. I know

-that some able physicians have recommended the method I have pursued,

-and I mean to point out the good effects I have observed in practice. I

-am aware that many matrons will exclaim against me and dwell on the

-number of children they have brought up, as their mothers did before

-them without troubling themselves with new-fangled notions; yet, though,

-in my uncle Toby’s words, they should attempt to silence me, by “wishing

-I had seen their large” families, I must suppose, while a third part of

-the human species, according to the most accurate calculation, die

-during their infancy, just at the threshold of life, that there is some

-errors in the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which counteracts

-their own endeavours. I may be mistaken in some particulars; for general

-rules, founded on the soundest reason, demand individual modification;

-but, if I can persuade any of the rising generation to exercise their

-reason on this head, I am content. My advice will probably be found most

-useful to mothers in the middle class; and it is from that the lower

-imperceptibly gains improvement. Custom, produced by reason in one, may

-safely be the effect of imitation in the other.

-

- —                —                —                —                —

-

-

-

-

-                                LETTERS

-                                   TO

-                              MR. JOHNSON,

-                 BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.

-

-

-                               LETTER I.

-

-                                               Dublin, April 14, [1787.]

-

- DEAR SIR,

-

-I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that I ought never to expect

-to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour to be

-useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost

-entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their

-future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my

-endeavours to improve them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the swarm

-of little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having

-power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life,

-when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the

-pleasures I relish?—I allude to rational conversations, and domestic

-affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land,

-tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be

-contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for

-sorrow—and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to

-hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,

-

-                                                         WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                               LETTER II.

-

-                                              Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.

-

- MY DEAR SIR,

-

-Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking, _enjoyed_ solitude. My

-sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone

-by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and

-pleasure-grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I _caught_

-tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was _still_, though active.

-Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile.

-I found an old French bible here, and amused myself with comparing it

-with our English translation—then I would listen to the falling leaves,

-or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them. At other times,

-the singing of a robin, or the noise of a water-mill, engaged my

-attention—for I was, at the same time perhaps discussing some knotty

-point, or straying from this _tiny_ world to new systems. After these

-excursions, I returned to the family meals, to’d the children stories

-(they think me _vastly_ agreeable) and my sister was amused.—Well, will

-you allow me to call this way of passing my days pleasant?

-

-I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say

-all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation

-for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, lest my sister should

-try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I

-am determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but

-let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do any thing of consequence,

-that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my

-purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In

-the course of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some

-experience, and felt many _severe_ disappointments—and what is the

-amount? I long for a little peace and _independence_! Every obligation

-we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our

-native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not

-fond of grovelling!

-

-                                                   I am, sir, yours, &c.

-                                               MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                              LETTER III.

-

-                                            Market Harborough, Sept. 20.

-

- MY DEAR SIR,

-

-You left me with three opulent tradesmen; their conversation was not

-calculated to beguile the way, when the sable curtain concealed the

-beauties of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and shrunk away

-without wishing to grow rich; even the novelty of the subjects did not

-render them pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in all their

-different forms—I was not surprised by any glimpse of the sublime or

-beautiful—though one of them imagined I should be a useful partner in a

-good _firm_. I was very much fatigued, and have scarcely recovered

-myself. I do not expect to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley

-afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful

-emotions are complicated with the reflections they give rise to.

-

-I do not intend to enter on the _old_ topic, yet hope to hear from

-you—and am yours, &c.

-

-                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                               LETTER IV.

-

-                                                           Friday Night.

-

- MY DEAR SIR,

-

-Though your remarks are generally judicious—I cannot _now_ concur with

-you, I mean with respect to the preface[12], and have not altered it. I

-hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule

-_only_ extends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious who

-may peruse my book, will not feel themselves hurt—and the weak are too

-vain to mind what is said in a book intended for children.

-

-Footnote 12:

-

-  To Original Stories.

-

-I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily imagine that I am

-indolent. I would not spare any labour to do my duty—and after the most

-laborious day, that single thought would solace me more than any

-pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the MS.

-well. If it was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated; but

-the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a

-stumbling-block at the first setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing

-I cannot do well—and I should loose time in the vain attempt.

-

-I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter from

-my poor, dear Margaret[13]. With all the mother’s fondness I could

-transcribe a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me, and

-dependence on heaven increase, &c.—I miss her innocent caresses—and

-sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my

-childless age—if I am to live to be old. At any rate, I may hear of the

-virtues I may not contemplate—and my reason may permit me to love a

-female. I now allude to ——. I have received another letter from her, and

-her childish complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual, good-night.

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the

-stories; for, what are books, compared to conversations which affection

-inforces!—

-

-Footnote 13:

-

-  Countess Mount Cashel.

-

-

-                               LETTER V.

-

- MY DEAR SIR,

-

-Remember you are to settle _my account_, as I want to know how much I am

-in your debt—but do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that

-score. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me

-for a like civility, _but you were a man_ before you were a

-bookseller—so I am your sincere friend,

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-

-                               LETTER VI.

-

-                                                         Friday Morning.

-

-I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head against

-the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from

-self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with

-myself, and I will tell you the cause. You may recollect that I did not

-mention to you the circumstance of —— having a fortune left to him; nor

-did a hint of it dropt from me when I conversed with my sister; because

-I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when

-his character was aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of

-vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the

-same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, last

-Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s gave Mrs. —— an account

-of it. As Mr. —— knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush to

-think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning

-came (not to reproach me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury I

-have done him. Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse him,

-if I deny myself the necessaries of life—and even then my folly will

-sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at this moment

-endure—that I, whose power of doing good is so limited, should do harm,

-galls my very soul. **** may laugh at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——

-to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely it is hell to despise

-one’s self! I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have

-many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this

-month, nor stir out. My stomach has been so suddenly and violently

-affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.

-

-                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                              LETTER VII.

-

-As I am become a reviewer, I think it right in the way of business, to

-consider the subject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as

-the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly shews. The Critical

-appears to be a timid, mean production, and its success is a reflection

-on the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who ever gave

-it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice of truth,

-when some man of abilities has had time to get fast hold of the GREAT

-NOSE of the monster. Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and

-dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amusement,

-though every article almost wants energy and a _cant_ of virtue and

-liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to

-established fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of

-admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the sustenance of

-the body by enfeebling the mind!

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-

-                              LETTER VIII.

-

-You made me very low-spirited last night, by your manner of talking.—You

-are my only friend—the only person I am _intimate_ with.—I never had a

-father, or a brother—you have been both to me, ever since I knew you—yet

-I have sometimes been very petulant.—I have been thinking of those

-instances of ill humour and quickness, and they appeared like crimes.

-

-                                                       Yours sincerely

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-

-                               LETTER IX.

-

-                                                         Saturday Night.

-

-I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the

-suggestions of reason. Your note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and

-produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent

-tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was

-more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the

-morning I have grown delirious.—Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined

-—— was thrown into great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist

-him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of

-irritation—I suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary—and

-might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blushed when I

-recollect how often I had teazed you with childish complaints, and the

-reveries of a disordered imagination. I even _imagined_ that I intruded

-on you, because you never called on me—though you perceived that I was

-not well.—I have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gives me

-many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest—and often

-a frightful dream—yet catch myself every day searching for something

-serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment. I am a strange

-compound of weakness and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will

-endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my

-mind—my wayward heart creates its own misery—Why I am made thus I cannot

-tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence, I

-must be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be

-tired of it as soon as I get it.

-

-We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has

-lost its bells, and grown so heavy, I find it intolerably

-troublesome.——Goodnight! I have been pursuing a number of strange

-thoughts since I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed

-immoderately—Surely I am a fool—

-

-                                                                 MARY W.

-

-

-                               LETTER X.

-

-                                                         Monday Morning.

-

-I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that

-language——and I will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am

-persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an independence, and

-render myself useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind

-with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away. I see the necessity of

-labouring now—and of that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,

-I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to pursue

-knowledge, and draw my pleasures from the employments that are within my

-reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment

-particularly grateful to you—without your humane and _delicate_

-assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had to encounter—too

-often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom

-I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a

-being I respect.—Adieu!

-

-                                                                 MARY W.

-

-

-                               LETTER XI.

-

-I thought you _very_ unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares

-and vexations, I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as

-they arise from disinterestedness and _unbending_ principles; nor can

-that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables

-me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not

-the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with

-various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present

-comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose, you

-would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that

-wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have

-done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference cold in wisdom’s

-guise,”—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never

-disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a

-practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am

-ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking of

-getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—the

-struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a

-disagreeable way.

-

-Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for

-calling[14]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house

-before it occured to me in the strong light it does now, or I should

-have told him so.—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a

-superficial puppy—His intimacy with Miss —— gave him a privilege, which

-he should not have assumed with me—a proposal might be made to his

-cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me.

-Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wish to see him again——When

-I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull

-him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body—but it shall

-never bend to support that body—God of heaven, save thy child from this

-living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very

-sick—sick at heart.—

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-Footnote 14:

-

-  This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary

-  considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to

-  recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are

-  addressed to the gentleman himself.

-

-

-                              LETTER XII.

-

-                                                        Tuesday Evening.

-

- SIR,

-

-When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—your _officious_

-message, which at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like an

-insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the necessity of forcing a

-smile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of

-informing you of my sentiments.

-

-                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                              LETTER XIII.

-

-                                                   Wednesday, 3 o’clock.

-

- SIR,

-

-It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a

-subject, that has already raised a tumult of _indignant_ emotions in my

-bosom, which I was labouring to suppress when I received your letter. I

-shall now _condescend_ to answer your epistle; but let me first tell

-you, that, in my _unprotected_ situation, I make a point of never

-forgiving a _deliberate insult_—and in that light I consider your late

-officious conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters—I

-will then tell you in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered

-you in the light of a _civil_ acquaintance—on the word friend I lay a

-peculiar emphasis—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and

-_cruel_, to step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and

-misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr. Johnson, had made the

-proposal—I should have been severely hurt—have thought him unkind and

-unfeeling, but not _impertinent_. The privilege of intimacy you had no

-claim to, and should have referred the man to myself—if you had not

-sufficient discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and

-destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will never bend, or take indirect

-methods, to obtain the consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it

-was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the struggle would soon

-be over. I can bear any thing but my own contempt.

-

-In a few words, what I call an insult, is the bare supposition that I

-could for a moment think of _prostituting_ my person for a maintenance;

-for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who

-consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local

-opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and

-understanding.

-

-It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse me when I add, that I

-wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so

-grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary—if you were

-inclined to make one—nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I

-cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to

-respect poverty, even where it gives lustre to a character——and I tell

-you sir, I am poor, yet can live without your benevolent exertions.

-

-                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

-

-

-                              LETTER XIV.

-

-I send you _all_ the books I had to review except Dr. J——’s Sermons,

-which I have begun. If you wish me to look over any more trash this

-month, you must send it directly. I have been so low-spirited since I

-saw you—I was quite glad, last night, to feel myself affected by some

-passages in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I seemed

-(suddenly) to _find_ my _soul_ again. It has been for some time I cannot

-tell where. Send me the Speaker, and _Mary_, I want one, and I shall

-soon want for some paper—you may as well send it at the same time, for I

-am trying to brace my nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid

-reason is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning a long time with

-my untoward spirits, and yet my hand trembles. I could finish a period

-very _prettily_ now, by saying that it ought to be steady when I add

-that I am yours sincerely,

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—’s s—— on his

-wife, be it known unto you—I _will_ not do it any other way—I felt some

-pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the memory of a man—who,

-spite of all his faults, I have an affection for—I say _have_, for I

-believe he is somewhere—_where_ my soul has been gadding perhaps;—but

-_you_ do not live on conjectures.

-

-

-                               LETTER XV.

-

-My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am pleased with, now I see it

-in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope

-you will not have often to say—what does this mean?

-

-You forgot you were to make out my account, I am, of course, over head

-and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes some

-dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On the contrary, when I

-involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully

-recollect that I have received unexpected kindness from you and a few

-others. So reason allows, what nature impels me to—for I cannot live

-without loving my fellow creatures—nor can I love them, without

-discovering some virtue.

-

-                                                                   MARY.

-

-

-                              LETTER XVI.

-

-                                               Paris, December 26, 1792.

-

-I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have

-thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not

-wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with

-blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention

-to prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not

-dare to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was

-not mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning

-home with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine

-o’clock this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently

-along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered

-the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the

-national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve

-their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements

-were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an

-insulting gesture. For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to

-the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so

-perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why,

-but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes,

-when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his

-character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his

-race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me,

-entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most

-flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity

-overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever

-since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images

-that have filled my imagination all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity

-me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes

-glare through a glass-door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at

-me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are

-remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in

-an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another. I wish I had

-even kept the cat with me!—I want to see something alive; death in so

-many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed—and,

-for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.

-

-                                                                   M. W.

-

-

-                                 FINIS.

-

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

-

-

-

-

-                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

-

-

- 1. P. 133, the first character in “_are” failed to print. Added “c” to

-      make it “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these

-      springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days

-      browned by _c_are!”

- 2. P. 147, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.

- 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

-      spelling.

- 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

- 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

-

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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67847 ***
+
+[Illustration: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN]
+
+
+
+
+                                MEMOIRS
+                                  AND
+                            POSTHUMOUS WORKS
+                                   OF
+                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
+                                 AUTHOR
+                                  OF A
+                  VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
+                            IN TWO VOLUMES.
+
+                                VOL. I.
+
+
+                                DUBLIN:
+
+                     _Printed by Thomas Burnside_,
+                   FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.
+
+                                 1798.
+
+
+
+
+                                CONTENTS
+                               OF VOL. I.
+
+
+        _Memoirs._
+
+        _Letters._
+
+        _Letter on the present Character of the French Nation._
+
+        _Letter on the Management of Infants._
+
+        _Letters to Mr. Johnson._
+
+
+
+
+                                MEMOIRS.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. I.
+                               1759–1775.
+
+
+It has always appeared to me, that to give to the public some account of
+the life of a person of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent on
+survivors. It seldom happens that such a person passes through life,
+without being the subject of thoughtless calumny, or malignant
+misrepresentation. It cannot happen that the public at large should be
+on a footing with their intimate acquaintance, and be the observer of
+those virtues which discover themselves principally in personal
+intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind is more or less influenced by a
+liberal passion for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to these
+benefactors, when they assert and establish on their part, the honour
+they loved. The justice which is thus done to the illustrious dead,
+converts into the fairest source of animation and encouragement to those
+who would follow them in the same career. The human species at large is
+interested in this justice, as it teaches them to place their respect
+and affection, upon those qualities which best deserve to be esteemed
+and loved. I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that the more
+fully we are presented with the picture and story of such persons as are
+the subject of the following narrative, the more generally shall we feel
+in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and a sympathy in their
+excellencies. There are not many individuals with whose character the
+public welfare and improvement are more intimately connected, than the
+author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
+
+The facts detailed in the following pages, are principally taken from
+the mouth of the person to whom they relate; and of the veracity and
+ingenuousness of her habits, perhaps no one that was ever acquainted
+with her, entertains a doubt. The writer of this narrative, when he has
+met with persons, that in any degree created to themselves an interest
+and attachment in his mind, has always felt a curiosity to be acquainted
+with the scenes through which they had passed, and the incidents that
+had contributed to form their understandings and character. Impelled by
+this sentiment, he repeatedly led the conversation of Mary to topics of
+this sort; and, once or twice, he made notes in her presence, of a few
+dates calculated to arrange the circumstances in his mind. To the
+materials thus collected, he has added an industrious enquiry among the
+persons most intimately acquainted with her at the different periods of
+her life.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of April 1759. Her father’s
+name was Edward John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of the
+family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom of Ireland: her paternal
+grandfather was a respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is
+supposed to have left to his son a property of 10,000l. Three of her
+brothers and two sisters are still living; their names, Edward, James,
+Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward only was older than
+herself; he resides in London. James is in Paris, and Charles in or near
+Philadelphia in America. Her sisters have for some years been engaged in
+the office of governesses in private families, and are both at present
+in Ireland.
+
+I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was bred to any profession;
+but, about the time of her birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an
+amusement than a business, to the occupation of farming. He was of a
+very active, and somewhat versatile disposition, and so frequently
+changed his abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place of her
+birth. She told me, that the doubt in her mind in that respect, lay
+between London, and a farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal
+scene of the five first years of her life.
+
+Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some portion of that exquisite
+sensibility, soundness of understanding, and decision of character,
+which were the leading features of her mind through the whole course of
+her life. She experienced in the first period of her existence, but few
+of those indulgences and marks of affection, which are principally
+calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows of our early years. She
+was not the favourite either of her father or mother. Her father was a
+man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject to alternate fits of
+kindness and cruelty. In his family he was a despot, and his wife
+appears to have been the first, and most submissive of his subjects. The
+mother’s partiality was fixed upon the eldest son, and her system of
+government relative to Mary, was characterized by considerable rigour.
+She, at length, became convinced of her mistake, and adopted a different
+plan with her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs of Woman, Mary
+speaks of “the petty cares which obscured the morning of her heroine’s
+life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters; unconditional
+submission to orders, which, as a mere child, she soon discovered to be
+unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory; and the being
+obliged often to sit, in the presence of her parents, for three or four
+hours together, without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe, to
+be considered as copying the outline of the first period of her own
+existence.
+
+But it was in vain that the blighting winds of unkindness or
+indifference, seemed destined to counteract the superiority of Mary’s
+mind. It surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees, from a person
+little considered in the family, she became in some sort its director
+and umpire. The despotism of her education cost her many a heart-ache.
+She was not formed to be the contented and unresisting subject of a
+despot; but I have heard her remark more than once, that, when she felt
+she had done wrong, the reproof or chastisement of her mother, instead
+of being a terror to her, she found to be the only thing capable of
+reconciling her to herself. The blows of her father on the contrary,
+which were the mere ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of
+humbling her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions she felt her
+superiority, and was apt to betray marks of contempt. The quickness of
+her father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten similar violence
+towards his wife. When that was the case, Mary would often throw herself
+between the despot and his victim, with the purpose to receive upon her
+own person the blows that might be directed against her mother. She has
+even laid whole nights upon the landing-place near their chamber-door,
+when, mistakenly, or with reason, she apprehended that her father might
+break out into paroxysms of violence. The conduct he held towards the
+members of his family, was of the same kind as that he observed towards
+animals. He was for the most part extravagantly fond of them; but, when
+he was displeased, and this frequently happened, and for very trivial
+reasons, his anger was alarming. Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have
+called, “a very good hater.” In some instance of passion exercised by
+her father to one of his dogs, she was accustomed to speak of her
+emotions of abhorrence, as having risen to agony. In a word, her conduct
+during her girlish years, was such, as to extort some portion of
+affection from her mother, and to hold her father in considerable awe.
+
+In one respect, the system of education of the mother appears to have
+had merit. All her children were vigorous and healthy. This seems very
+much to depend upon the management of our infant years. It is affirmed
+by some persons of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the
+sciences of health and disease, that there is no period of human life so
+little subject to mortality as the period of infancy. Yet, from the
+mismanagement to which children are exposed, many of the diseases of
+childhood are rendered fatal, and more persons die in that, than in any
+other period of human life. Mary had projected a work upon this subject,
+which she had carefully considered, and well understood. She has indeed
+left a specimen of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,
+three years and a half old, who is a singular example of vigorous
+constitution and florid health. Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of
+Soho-square, whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised to
+revise her production. This is but one out of numerous projects of
+activity and usefulness, which her untimely death has fatally
+terminated.
+
+The rustic situation in which Mary had spent her infancy, no doubt
+contributed to confirm the stamina of her constitution. She sported in
+the open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing scenes of
+nature, for which she always retained the most exquisite relish. Dolls
+and the other amusements usually appropriated to female children, she
+held in contempt; and felt a much greater propensity to join in the
+active and hardy sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to
+those of her own sex.
+
+About the time that Mary completed the fifth year of her age, her father
+removed to a small distance from his former habitation, and took a farm
+near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest, a little way out of the
+Chelmsford road. In Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his
+residence, and occupied a convenient house behind the town of Barking in
+Essex, eight miles from London. In this situation some of their nearest
+neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire, successively member of
+parliament for several boroughs, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.
+Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot; but his brother was
+almost a constant inhabitant, and his family in habits of the most
+frequent intercourse with the family of Mary. Here Mr. Wollstonecraft
+remained for three years. In September 1796, I accompanied my wife on a
+visit to this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility, the
+scenes of her childhood. We found the house uninhabited, and the garden
+in a wild and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance with the
+market-place, the streets, and the wharf, the latter of which we found
+crowded with barges, and full of activity.
+
+In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft again removed to a farm near
+Beverly in Yorkshire. Here the family remained for six years, and
+consequently, Mary did not quit this residence, till she had attained
+the age of fifteen years and five months. The principal part of her
+school education passed during this period: but it was not to any
+advantage of infant literature, that she was indebted for her subsequent
+eminence; her education in this respect was merely such, as was afforded
+by the day-schools of the place, in which she resided. To her
+recollections Beverly appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by
+genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly. She was surprized, when
+she visited it in 1795, upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality
+so very much below the picture in her imagination.
+
+Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer; but the restlessness of
+his disposition would not suffer him to content himself with the
+occupation in which for some years he had been engaged, and the
+temptation of a commercial speculation of some sort being held out to
+him, he removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton near London, for
+the purpose of its execution. Here he remained for a year and a half;
+but, being frustrated in his expectations of profit, he, after that
+term, gave up the project in which he was engaged, and returned to his
+former pursuits. During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of these
+memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting college in that
+place. It is perhaps a question of curious speculation to enquire, what
+would have been the amount of the difference in the pursuits and
+enjoyments of each party, if they had met, and considered each other
+with the same distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards
+impressed with in the year 1796. The writer had then completed the
+twentieth, and Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which would have
+been predominant; the disadvantages of obscurity, and the pressure of a
+family; or the gratifications and improvement that might have flowed
+from their intercourse?
+
+One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this time was a Mr. Clare, who
+inhabited the next house to that which was tenanted by her father, and
+to whom she was probably in some degree indebted for the early
+cultivation of her mind. Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have
+been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his person he was deformed
+and delicate; and his figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of
+the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry, and was not destitute
+of taste. His manners were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,
+the demonstrations of which appeared to have been somewhat too
+artificially cultivated. His habits were those of a perfect recluse. He
+seldom went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to a friend of Mary a
+pair of shoes, which had served him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary
+frequently spent days and weeks together, at the house of Mr. Clare.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. II.
+                               1775–1783.
+
+
+But a connection more memorable originated about this time, between Mary
+and a person of her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship so
+fervent, as for years to have constituted the ruling passion of her
+mind. The name of this person was Frances Blood; she was two years older
+than Mary. Her residence was at that time at Newington Butts, a village
+near the southern extremity of the metropolis; and the original
+instrument for bringing these two friends acquainted, was Mrs. Clare,
+wife of the gentleman already mentioned, who was on a footing of
+considerable intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance of Fanny, like
+that of Mr. Clare, contributed to ripen the immature talents of Mary.
+
+The situation in which Mary was introduced to her, bore a resemblance to
+the first interview of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted to the
+door of a small house, but furnished with peculiar neatness and
+propriety. The first object that caught her sight, was a young woman of
+a slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of age, busily employed
+in feeding and managing some children, born of the same parents, but
+considerably inferior to her in age. The impression Mary received from
+this spectacle was indelible; and, before the interview was concluded,
+she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal friendship.
+
+Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments. She sung and
+played with taste. She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and by
+the employment of this talent, for some time maintained her father,
+mother, and family, but ultimately ruined her health by her
+extraordinary exertions. She read and wrote with considerable
+application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate propriety
+followed her in these, as in her other occupations.
+
+Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl of sixteen, contemplated
+Fanny, in the first instance, with sentiments of inferiority and
+reverence. Though they were much together, yet, the distance of their
+habitation being considerable, they supplied the want of more frequent
+interviews by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found Fanny’s letters
+better spelt and better indited than her own, and felt herself abashed.
+She had hitherto paid but a superficial attention to literature. She had
+read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable thirst of knowledge;
+but she had not thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to excel was
+now awakened, and she applied herself with passion and earnestness.
+Fanny undertook to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy
+and method, her lessons were given with considerable skill.
+
+It has already been mentioned that in the spring of the year 1776, Mr.
+Wollstonecroft quitted his situation at Hoxton, and returned to his
+former agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which he now fixed was
+in Wales, a circumstance that was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s
+darling spirit of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the
+Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family of a Mr. Allen, two
+of whose daughters are since married to the two elder sons of the
+celebrated English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.
+
+Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence for little more than a
+year. He returned to the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose spirit
+of independence was unalterable, had influence enough to determine his
+choice in favour of the village of Walworth, that she might be near her
+chosen friend. It was probably before this, that she has once or twice
+started the idea of quitting her parental roof, and providing for
+herself. But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea, and conditions
+were stipulated with her, relative to her having an apartment in the
+house that should be exclusively her own, and her commanding the other
+requisites of study. She did not however think herself fairly treated in
+these instances, and either the conditions abovementioned, or some
+others, were not observed in the sequel, with the fidelity she expected.
+In one case, she had procured an eligible situation, and every thing was
+settled respecting her removal to it, when the intreaties and tears of
+her mother led her to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon the
+engagement.
+
+These however were only temporary delays. Her propensities continued the
+same, and the motives by which she was instigated were unabated. In the
+year 1778, she being nineteen years of age, a proposal was made to her
+of living as a companion with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady, with
+one son already adult. Upon enquiry she found that Mrs. Dawson was a
+woman of great peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great variety
+of companions in succession, and that no one had found it practicable to
+continue with her. Mary was not discouraged by this information, and
+accepted the situation, with a resolution that she would effect in this
+respect, what none of her predecessors had been able to do. In the
+sequel she had reason to consider the account she had received as
+sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax in her endeavours. By
+method, constancy and firmness, she found the means of making her
+situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally confess, that
+Mary was the only person that had lived with her in that situation, in
+her treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.
+
+With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for two years, and only left
+her, summoned by the melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly
+declining health. True to the calls of humanity, Mary felt in this
+intelligence an irresistible motive, and eagerly returned to the
+paternal roof which she had before resolutely quitted. The residence of
+her father at this time, was at Enfield near London. He had, I believe,
+given up agriculture from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing
+that he now made it less a source of profit than loss, and being thought
+advisable that he should rather live upon the interest of his property
+already in possession.
+
+The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering, but hopeless. Mary was
+assiduous in her attendance upon her mother. At first, every attention
+was received with acknowledgements and gratitude; but, as the attentions
+grew habitual, and the health of the mother more and more wretched, they
+were rather exacted, than received. Nothing would be taken by the
+unfortunate patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was denied night
+or day, and by the time nature was exhausted in the parent, the daughter
+was qualified to assume her place, and become in turn herself a patient.
+The last words her mother ever uttered were, “A little patience, and all
+will be over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to by Mary in the
+course of her writings.
+
+Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary bid a final adieu to the
+roof of her father. According to my memorandum, I find her next the
+inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village of Fulham. Upon what
+plan they now lived together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not
+that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional burthen upon the
+industry of her friend. Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they
+approached more nearly to a footing of equality; and their attachment
+became more rooted and active.
+
+Mary was ever ready at the call of distress, and, in particular, during
+her whole life was eager and active to promote the welfare of every
+member of her family. In 1780 she attended the death-bed of her mother;
+in 1782 she was summoned by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend
+her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop, who, subsequently to a
+dangerous lying-in, remained for some months in a very afflicting
+situation. Mary continued with her sister without intermission, to her
+perfect recovery.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. III.
+                               1783–1785.
+
+
+Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth year of her age. Her project,
+five years before, had been personal independence; it was now
+usefulness. In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s illness, and
+during the subsequent convalescence, she had leisure to ruminate upon
+purposes of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek something more
+arduous than the mere removal of personal vexations; and the sensibility
+of her heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.
+The derangement of her father’s affairs daily became more and more
+glaring; and a small independent provision made for herself and her
+sisters appears to have been sacrificed in the wreck. For ten years,
+from 1782 to 1792, she may be said to have been, in a great degree, the
+victim of a desire to promote the benefit of others. She did not foresee
+the severe disappointment with which an exclusive purpose of this sort
+is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay a stress upon the
+consequent gratitude of those she benefited; and she did not
+sufficiently consider that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the
+interests and society of others, we acquire a more exquisite sense of
+their defects, and are tormented with their untractableness and folly.
+
+The project upon which she now determined, was no other than that of a
+day-school, to be superintended by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two
+sisters.
+
+They accordingly opened one in the year 1783, at the village of
+Islington; but in the course of a few months removed it to Newington
+Green. Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced the future
+events of her life. The first of these in her own estimation was Dr.
+Richard Price, well known for his political and mathematical
+calculations, and universally esteemed by those who knew him, for the
+simplicity of his manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The regard
+conceived by these two persons for each other, was mutual, and partook
+of a spirit of the purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the
+principles of the church of England, but her esteem for this venerable
+preacher led her occasionally to attend upon his public instructions.
+Her religion was, in reality, little allied to any system of forms; and,
+as she has often told me, was founded rather in taste, than in the
+niceties of polemical discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached
+itself to the sublime and the amiable. She found an inexpressible
+delight in the beauties of nature, and in the splendid reveries of the
+imagination. But nature itself, she thought, would be no better than a
+vast blank, if the mind of the observer did not supply it with an
+animating soul. When she walked amidst the wonders of nature, she was
+accustomed to converse with her God. To her mind he was pictured as not
+less amiable, generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted. In fact,
+she had received few lessons of religion in her youth, and her religion
+was almost entirely of her own creation. But she was not on that account
+the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous in discharging what she
+considered as its duties. She could not recollect the time when she had
+believed the doctrine of future punishments. The tenets of her system
+were the growth of her own moral taste, and her religion therefore had
+always been a gratification, never a terror to her. She expected a
+future state; but she would not allow her ideas of that future state to
+be modified by the notions of judgment and retribution. From this
+sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure she took in an
+occasional attendance upon the sermons of Dr. Price, was not accompanied
+with a superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact is, that, so
+far down as the year 1787, she regularly frequented public worship, for
+the most part according to the forms of the church of England. After
+that period her attendance became less constant, and in no long time was
+wholly discontinued. I believe it may be admitted as a maxim, that no
+person of a well furnished mind, that has shaken off the implicit
+subjection of youth, and is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can
+bring himself to conform to the public and regular routine of sermons
+and prayers.
+
+Another of the friends she acquired at this period, was Mrs. Burgh,
+widow of the author of the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally
+well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her benevolence. Mary,
+whenever she had occasion to allude to her, to the last period of her
+life, paid the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining friend
+necessary to be enumerated in this place, is the Rev. John Hewlet, now
+master of a Boarding-school at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I shall
+have occasion to mention hereafter.
+
+I have already said that Fanny’s health had been materially injured by
+her incessant labours for the maintenance of her family. She had also
+suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon her mind. To these
+different sources of ill health she became gradually a victim: and at
+length discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption. By the
+medical men that attended her, she was advised to try the effects of a
+southern climate; and, about the beginning of the year 1785, sailed for
+Lisbon.
+
+The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated her friend, was a
+sentiment of inferiority and reverence; but that, from the operation of
+a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably changed. Fanny had
+originally been far before her in literary attainments; this disparity
+no longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might endeavour to free
+herself from the delusions of self-esteem, this period of observation
+upon her own mind and that of her friend, could not pass, without her
+perceiving that there were some essential characteristics of genius,
+which she possessed, and in which her friend was deficient. The
+principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable greatness of
+soul, by which, after a short internal struggle, she was accustomed to
+rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever Mary undertook, she
+perhaps in all instances accomplished; and, to her lofty spirit,
+scarcely any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform. Fanny, on the
+contrary, was a woman of a timid and irresolute nature, accustomed to
+yield to difficulties, and probably priding herself in this morbid
+softness of her temper. One instance that I have heard Mary relate of
+this sort, was, that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with her
+domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire to have a home of her
+own. Mary, who felt nothing more pressing than to relieve the
+inconveniencies of her friend, determined to accomplish this object for
+her. It cost her infinite exertions; but at length she was able to
+announce to Fanny that a house was prepared, and that she was on the
+spot to receive her. The answer which Fanny returned to the letter of
+her friend, consisted almost wholly of an enumeration of objections to
+the quitting her family, which she had not thought of before, but which
+now appeared to her of considerable weight.
+
+The judgment which experience had taught Mary to form of the mind of her
+friend, determined her in the advice she gave, at the period to which I
+have brought down the story. Fanny was recommended to seek a softer
+climate, but she had no funds to defray the expence of such an
+undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of Dublin, but then resident in
+the kingdom of Portugal, paid his addresses to her. The state of her
+health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford the shadow of a hope;
+it was not therefore a time at which it was most obvious to think of
+marriage. She conceived however that nothing should be omitted, which
+might alleviate, if it could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy
+acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly made the voyage to Lisbon;
+and the marriage took place on the twenty-fourth of February 1785.
+
+The change of climate and situation was productive of little benefit;
+and the life of Fanny was only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which
+soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time, was impressed with the
+idea that her friend would die in this distant country; and, shocked
+with the recollection of her separation from the circle of her friends,
+determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend her. This resolution was
+treated by her acquaintance as in the utmost degree visionary; but she
+was not to be diverted from her point. She had not money to defray her
+expences: she must quit for a long time the school, the very existence
+of which probably depended upon her exertions.
+
+No person was ever better formed for the business of education; if it be
+not a sort of absurdity to speak of a person as formed for an inferior
+object, who is in possession of talents, in the fullest degree adequate
+to something on a more important and comprehensive scale. Mary had a
+quickness of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies, but
+which led her to imagine that she saw the mind of the person with whom
+she had any transaction, and to refer the principle of her approbation
+or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice of their sentiments. She
+was occasionally severe and imperious in her resentments; and, when she
+strongly disapproved, was apt to express her censure in terms that gave
+a very humiliating sensation to the person against whom it was directed.
+Her displeasure however never assumed its severest form, but when it was
+barbed by disappointment. Where she expected little, she was not very
+rigid in her censure of error.
+
+But, to whatever the defects of her temper might amount, they were never
+exercised upon her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to make use
+of an ungenerous advantage, or to wound the defenceless. To her servants
+there never was a mistress more considerate or more kind. With children
+she was the mirror of patience. Perhaps, in all her extensive experience
+upon the subject of education, she never betrayed one symptom of
+irascibility. Her heart was the seat of every benevolent feeling; and
+accordingly, in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness and
+sympathy alone that prompted her conduct. Sympathy, when it mounts to a
+certain height, inevitably begets affection in the person to whom it is
+exercised; and I have heard her say, that she never was concerned in the
+education of one child, who was not personally attached to her, and
+earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure. Another eminent
+advantage she possessed in the business of education, was that she was
+little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty. She saw, as it were by
+intuition, the path which her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm
+confidence in her own power to effect what she desired. Yet, with all
+this, she had scarcely a tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched
+symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments; and governed
+herself accordingly. While I thus enumerate her more than maternal
+qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the recollection of
+her orphan children!
+
+Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her from the journey to Lisbon,
+she found among them a willingness to facilitate the execution of her
+project, when it was once fixed. Mrs. Burgh in particular, supplied her
+with money, which however she always conceived came from Dr. Price. This
+loan, I have reason to believe, was faithfully repaid.
+
+It was during her residence at Newington Green, that she was introduced
+to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as
+in some sort the father of English literature. The doctor treated her
+with particular kindness and attention, had a long conversation with
+her, and desired her to repeat her visit often. This she firmly purposed
+to do; but the news of his last illness, and then of his death,
+intervened to prevent her making a second visit.
+
+Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived but a short time
+before her friend was prematurely delivered, and the event was fatal to
+both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto the chosen object of
+Mary’s attachment, died on the 29th of November, 1785.
+
+It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters from Norway, written
+ten years after her decease. “When a warm heart has received strong
+impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments; and
+the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent, by fondly
+retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I
+have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every
+nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear
+friend, the friend of my youth; still she is present with me, and I hear
+her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath.”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. IV.
+                               1785–1787.
+
+
+No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably to enlarge the
+understanding of Mary. She was admitted into the best company the
+English factory afforded. She made many profound observations on the
+character of the natives, and the baleful effects of superstition. The
+obsequies of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by stealth and in
+darkness, tended to invigorate these observations in her mind.
+
+She sailed upon her voyage home about the twentieth of December. On this
+occasion a circumstance occurred, that deserves to be recorded. While
+they were on their passage, they fell in with a French vessel, in great
+distress, and in daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same
+time that it was almost destitute of provisions. The Frenchman hailed
+them, and intreated the English captain, in consideration of his
+melancholy situation, to take him and his crew on board. The Englishman
+represented in reply, that his stock of provisions was by no means
+adequate to such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely refused
+compliance. Mary, shocked at his apparent insensibility, took up the
+cause of the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have him called to
+a severe account, when he arrived in England. She finally prevailed, and
+had the satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in question possibly
+owed their lives to her interposition.
+
+When she arrived in England, she found that her school had suffered
+considerably in her absence. It can be little reproach to any one, to
+say that they were found incapable of supplying her place. She not only
+excelled in the management of the children, but had also the talent of
+being attentive and obliging to the parents, without degrading herself.
+
+The period at which I am now arrived is important, as conducting to the
+first step of her literary career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned
+literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary produce, and had
+urged her to make trial of the truth of his judgment. At this time she
+was desirous of assisting the father and mother of Fanny in an object
+they had in view, the transporting themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,
+what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready to take on herself
+to effect. For this purpose she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one
+hundred and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education of
+Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St.
+Paul’s Church Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,
+which she immediately applied to the object for the sake of which the
+pamphlet was written.
+
+Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the affair of the school. She
+was dissatisfied with the different appearance it presented upon her
+return, from the state in which she left it. Experience impressed upon
+her a rooted aversion to that sort of cohabitation with her sisters,
+which the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation is a point of
+delicate experiment, and is, in a majority of instances, pregnant with
+ill humour and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit of adventure
+which characterized Mary, were not felt in an equal degree by her
+sisters, so that a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant
+upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the other hand, they could
+scarcely perhaps be perfectly easy, in observing the superior degree of
+deference and courtship, which her merit extorted from almost every one
+that knew her. Her kindness for them was not diminished, but she
+resolved that the mode of its exertion in future should be different,
+tending to their benefit, without intrenching upon her own liberty.
+
+Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her, such as, regarding only the
+situations through which she had lately passed, is usually termed
+advantageous. This was, to accept the office of governess to the
+daughters of Lord Viscount Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of
+Kingston of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held out to her, were such
+as she determined to accept, at the same time resolving to retain the
+situation only for a short time. Independence was the object after which
+she thirsted, and she was fixed to try whether it might not be found in
+literary occupation. She was desirous however first to accumulate a
+small sum of money, which should enable her to consider at leisure the
+different literary engagements that might offer, and provide in some
+degree for the eventual deficiency of her earliest attempts.
+
+The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough, was offered to her
+through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the under
+masters of Eton school. She spent some time at the house of this
+gentleman, immediately after her giving up the school at Newington
+Green. Here she had an opportunity of making an accurate observation
+upon the manners and conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas
+she retained of it were by no means favourable. By all that she saw, she
+was confirmed in a very favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of
+day-schools, where, as she expressed it, “children have the opportunity
+of conversing with children, without interfering with domestic
+affections, the foundation of virtue.”
+
+Though her residence in the family of Lord Kingsborough continued
+scarcely more than twelve months, she left behind her, with them and
+their connections, a very advantageous impression. The governesses the
+young ladies had hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,
+controlled in every thing by the mother; Mary insisted upon the
+unbounded exercise of her own discretion. When the young ladies heard of
+their governess coming from England, they heard in imagination of a new
+enemy, and declared their resolution to guard themselves accordingly.
+Mary however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence, and the
+friendship that soon grew up between her and Margaret King, now Countess
+Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon degree cordial and
+affectionate. Mary always spoke of this young lady in terms of the
+truest applause, both in relation to the eminence of her intellectual
+powers, and the ingenuous amiableness of her disposition. Lady
+Kingsborough, from the best motives, had imposed upon her daughters a
+variety of prohibitions, both as to the books they should read, and in
+many other respects. These prohibitions had their usual effects;
+inordinate desire for the things forbidden, and clandestine indulgence.
+Mary immediately restored the children to their liberty, and undertook
+to govern them by their affections only. The salutary effects of the new
+system of education were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough soon
+felt no other uneasiness than lest the children should love their
+governess better than their mother.
+
+Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the persons who visited Lord
+Kingsborough’s house, for she always appeared there with the air of an
+equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her mention the ludicrous
+distress of a woman of quality, whose name I have forgotten, that, in a
+large company, singled out Mary, and entered into a long conversation
+with her. After the conversation was over, she enquired whom she had
+been talking with, and found, to her utter mortification and dismay,
+that it was Miss King’s governess.
+
+One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance, whom Mary was
+accustomed to speak of with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,
+member of parliament for the county of Wexford. She held his talents in
+very high estimation; she was strongly prepossessed in favour of the
+goodness of his heart; and she always spoke of him as the most perfect
+gentleman she had ever known. She felt the regret of a disappointed
+friend, at the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.
+
+Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer of the year 1787 at Bristol
+Hot-Wells, and had formed the project of proceeding from thence to the
+Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to accompany them. The plan
+however was ultimately given up, and Mary in consequence closed her
+connection with them, earlier than she otherwise had purposed to do.
+
+At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little book which bears the title
+of Mary, a Fiction. A considerable part of this story consists, with
+certain modifications, of the incidents of her own friendship with
+Fanny. All the events that do not relate to that subject are fictitious.
+
+This little work, if Mary had never produced any thing else, would
+serve, with persons of true taste and sensibility, to establish the
+eminence of her genius. The story is nothing. He that looks into the
+book only for incident, will probably lay it down with disgust. But the
+feelings are of the truest and most exquisite class; every circumstance
+is adorned with that species of imagination, which enlists itself under
+the banners of delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment, as it is
+called, is too often another name for a work of affectation. He that
+should imagine that the sentiments of this book are affected, would
+indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. V.
+                               1787–1790.
+
+
+Being now determined to enter upon her literary plan, Mary came
+immediately from Bristol to the metropolis. Her conduct under this
+circumstance was such as to do credit both to her own heart, and that of
+Mr. Johnson, her publisher, between whom and herself there now commenced
+an intimate friendship. She had seen him upon occasion of publishing her
+Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, and she addressed two or three
+letters to him during her residence in Ireland. Upon her arrival in
+London in August 1787, she went immediately to his house, and frankly
+explained to him her purpose, at the same time requesting his assistance
+and advice as to its execution. After a short conversation Mr. Johnson
+invited her to make his house her home, till she should have suited
+herself with a fixed residence. She accordingly resided at this time two
+or three weeks under his roof. At the same period she paid a visit or
+two of similar duration to some friends, at no great distance from the
+metropolis.
+
+At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house in George-street, on the
+Surry side of Black Friar’s Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for
+her during her excursion into the country. The three years immediately
+ensuing, may be said, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have
+been the most active period of her life. She brought with her to this
+habitation, the novel of Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,
+and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale, entitled, the Cave of
+Fancy, which she thought proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am
+told that at this period she appeared under great dejection of spirits,
+and filled with melancholy regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A
+period of two years had elapsed since the death of that friend; but it
+was possibly the composition of the fiction of Mary, that renewed her
+sorrows in their original force. Soon after entering upon her new
+habitation, she produced a little work, entitled, Original Stories from
+Real Life, intended for the use of children. At the commencement of her
+literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement aversion to
+the being regarded, by her ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an
+author, and to have employed some precautions to prevent its occurrence.
+
+The employment which the bookseller suggested to her, as the easiest and
+most certain source of pecuniary income, of course, was translation.
+With this view she improved herself in her French, with which she had
+previously but a slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and
+German languages. The greater part of her literary engagements at this
+time, were such as were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She
+new-modelled and abridged a work, translated from the Dutch, entitled,
+Young Grandison: she began a translation from the French, of a book,
+called, the New Robinson; but in this undertaking, she was, I believe,
+anticipated by another translator: and she compiled a series of extracts
+in verse and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s Speaker, which bears
+the title of the Female Reader; but which, from a cause not worth
+mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different name in the
+title-page.
+
+About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson instituted the Analytical
+Review, in which Mary took a considerable share. She also translated
+Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions; made an abridgement of
+Lavater’s Physiognomy, from the French, which has never been published;
+and compressed Salzmann’s Elements of Morality, a German production,
+into a publication in three volumes duodecimo. The translation of
+Salzmann produced a correspondence between Mary and the author; and he
+afterwards repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German translation
+of the Rights of Woman. Such were her principal literary occupations,
+from the autumn of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.
+
+It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort of miscellaneous
+literary employment, seems, for the time at least, rather to damp and
+contract, than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The writer is
+accustomed to see his performances answer the mere mercantile purpose of
+the day, and confounded with those of persons to whom he is secretly
+conscious of a superiority. No neighbour mind serves as a mirror to
+reflect the generous confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps the
+man never yet existed who could maintain his enthusiasm to its full
+vigour, in the midst of this kind of solitariness. He is touched with
+the torpedo of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which Mary produced
+during this period, is marked with those daring flights, which exhibit
+themselves in the little fiction she composed just before its
+commencement. Among effusions of a nobler cast, I find occasionally
+interspersed some of that homily-language, which, to speak from my own
+feelings, is calculated to damp the moral courage, it was intended to
+awaken. This is probably to be assigned to the causes above described.
+
+I have already said that one of the purposes which Mary had conceived, a
+few years before, as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise
+insipid, or embittered, draught of human life, was usefulness. On this
+side, the period of her existence of which I am now treating, is more
+brilliant, than in any literary view. She determined to apply as great a
+part as possible of the produce of her present employments, to the
+assistance of her friends and of the distressed; and, for this purpose,
+laid down to herself rules of the most rigid economy. She began with
+endeavouring to promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived that
+there was no situation in which she could place them, at once so
+respectable and agreeable, as that of governesses in private families.
+She determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour to qualify
+them for such an undertaking. Her younger sister she sent to Paris,
+where she remained near two years. The elder she placed in a school near
+London, first as a parlour-boarder, and afterwards as a teacher. Her
+brother James, who had already been at sea, she first took into her
+house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction, to qualify him for a
+respectable situation in the royal navy, where he was shortly after made
+a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite brother, had been articled
+to the eldest, an attorney in the Minories; but, not being satisfied
+with his situation, she removed him; and in some time after, having
+first placed him with a farmer for instruction, she fitted him out for
+America, where his speculations, founded upon the basis she had
+provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous. The reason so much
+of this parental sort of care fell upon her, was, that her father had by
+this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances. His affairs having
+grown too complex for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them to
+the management of a near relation; but Mary, not being satisfied with
+the conduct of the business, took them into her own hands. The exertions
+she made, and the struggles which she entered into however, in this
+instance, were ultimately fruitless. To the day of her death her father
+was almost wholly supported by funds which she supplied to him. In
+addition to her exertions for her own family, she took a young girl of
+about seven years of age under her protection and care, the niece of
+Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then
+lately dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.
+
+The period, from the end of the year 1787 to the end of the year 1790,
+though consumed in labours of little eclat, served still further to
+establish her in a friendly connection from which she derived many
+pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, contracted a great personal
+regard for her, which resembled in many respects that of a parent. As
+she frequented his house, she of course became acquainted with his
+guests. Among these may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,
+Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late Mr. George Anderson,
+accountant to the board of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,
+the celebrated painter. Between both of the two latter and herself,
+there existed sentiments of genuine affection and friendship.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. VI.
+                               1790–1792.
+
+
+Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had for the most part, been
+silent; and had been productive of income to herself, without apparently
+leading to the wreath of fame. From this time she was destined to
+attract the notice of the public, and perhaps no female writer ever
+obtained so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.
+
+It cannot be doubted that, while, for three years of literary
+employment, she “held the noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was
+insensibly advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The uninterrupted
+habit of composition gave a freedom and firmness to the expression of
+her sentiments. The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,
+and enlarged her mind. The French revolution, while it gave a
+fundamental shock to the human intellect through every region of the
+globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect in the progress of
+Mary’s reflections. The prejudices of her early years suffered a
+vehement concussion. Her respect for establishments was undermined. At
+this period occurred a misunderstanding upon public grounds, with one of
+her early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds and exploded
+absurdities, had been increased, by the operation of those very
+circumstances, by which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the race
+of independence.
+
+The event, immediately introductory to the rank which from this time she
+held in the lists of literature, was the publication of Burke’s
+Reflections on the Revolution in France. This book, after having been
+long promised to the world, finally made its appearance on the first of
+November 1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty, and impressed
+with a warm interest in the struggle that was now going on, seized her
+pen in the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which she was
+strongly susceptible. She was in the habit of composing with rapidity,
+and her answer, which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,
+obtained extraordinary notice. Marked as it is with the vehemence and
+impetuousness of its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too
+contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the great man against whom its
+attack is directed. But this circumstance was not injurious to the
+success of the publication. Burke had been warmly loved by the most
+liberal and enlightened friends of freedom, and they were proportionably
+inflamed and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon what they deemed
+to be its sacred cause.
+
+Short as was the time in which Mary composed her Answer to Burke’s
+Reflections, there was one anecdote she told me concerning it, which
+seems worth recording in this place. It was sent to the press, as is the
+general practice when the early publication of a piece is deemed a
+matter of importance, before the composition was finished. When Mary had
+arrived at about the middle of her work, she was seized with a temporary
+fit of torpor and indolence, and began to repent of her undertaking. In
+this state of mind, she called, one evening, as she was in the practice
+of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of relieving herself by an
+hour or two’s conversation. Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her
+nature, led her to describe what had just past in her thoughts. Mr.
+Johnson immediately, in a kind and friendly way, intreated her not to
+put any constraint upon her inclination, and to give herself no
+uneasiness about the sheets already printed, which he would cheerfully
+throw a side, if it would contribute to her happiness. Mary had wanted
+stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged, in what she well knew
+to be an unreasonable access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily
+falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect that she would lay
+aside her undertaking, piqued her pride. She immediately went home; and
+proceeded to the end of her work, with no other interruptions but what
+were absolutely indispensible.
+
+It is probable that the applause which attended her Answer to Burke,
+elevated the tone of her mind. She had always felt much confidence in
+her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that the actual perception of
+a similar feeling respecting us in a multitude of others, must increase
+the confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any human being. Mary
+accordingly proceeded, in a short time after, to the composition of her
+most celebrated production, the Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
+
+Never did any author enter into a cause, with a more ardent desire to be
+found, not a flourishing and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.
+She considered herself as standing forth in defence of one half of the
+human species, labouring under a yoke which, through all the records of
+time, had degraded them from the station of rational beings, and almost
+sunk them to the level of the brutes. She saw indeed, that they were
+often attempted to be held in silken fetters, and bribed into the love
+of slavery; but the disguise and the treachery served only the more
+fully to confirm her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language of
+Calista, as
+
+              “In every state of life the slaves of men:”
+
+the rich as alternately under the despotism of a father, a brother, and
+a husband; and the middling and the poorer classes shut out from the
+acquisition of bread with independence, when they are not shut out from
+the very means of an industrious subsistence. Such were the views she
+entertained of the subject; and such the feelings with which she warmed
+her mind.
+
+The work is certainly a very bold and original production. The strength
+and firmness with which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau, Dr.
+Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting the condition of women,
+cannot but make a strong impression upon every ingenuous reader. The
+public at large formed very different opinions respecting the character
+of the performance. Many of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather
+masculine description. The spirited and decisive way in which the author
+explodes the system of gallantry, and the species of homage with which
+the sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty produced a
+sentiment in their mind, which they mistook for a sense of injustice.
+The pretty soft creatures that are so often to be found in the female
+sex, and that class of men who believe they could not exist without such
+pretty, soft creatures to resort to, were in arms against the author of
+so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There are also, it must be
+confessed, occasional passages of a stern and rugged feature,
+incompatible with the true stamina of the writer’s character. But, if
+they did not belong to her fixed and permanent character, they belonged
+to her character _pro tempore_; and what she thought, she scorned to
+qualify.
+
+Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian temper, which
+characterised some parts of the book, it is impossible not to remark a
+luxuriance of imagination, and a trembling delicacy of sentiment, which
+would have done honour to a poet, bursting with all the visions of an
+Armida and a Dido.
+
+The contradiction, to the public apprehension was equally great, as to
+the person of the author, as it was when they considered the temper of
+the book. In the champion of her sex, who was described as endeavouring
+to invest them with all the rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted
+to seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to find a sturdy,
+muscular, raw-boned virago; and they were not a little surprised, when,
+instead of all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person, and, in
+the best and most engaging sense, feminine in her manners.
+
+The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is undoubtedly a very unequal
+performance, and eminently deficient in method and arrangement. When
+tried by the hoary and long-established laws of literary composition, it
+can scarcely maintain its claim to be placed in the first class of human
+productions. But when we consider the importance of its doctrines, and
+the eminence of genius it displays, it seems not very improbable that it
+will be read as long as the English language endures. The publication of
+this book forms an epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and Mary
+Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be found to have performed more
+substantial service for the cause of her sex, than all the other
+writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves animated in the
+behalf of oppressed and injured beauty.
+
+The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects of this performance,
+will be changed into astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of this
+inestimable moment, was begun, carried on, and finished in the state in
+which it now appears, in a period of no more than six weeks.
+
+It is necessary here that I should resume the subject of the friendship
+that subsisted between Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of
+the most memorable events in her subsequent history. He is a native of
+the republic of Switzerland, and has spent the principal part of his
+life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence of his genius can
+scarcely be disputed; it has indeed received the testimony which is the
+least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable of his
+contemporary artists. He has one of the most striking characteristics of
+genius, a daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure. The work
+in which he is at present engaged, a series of pictures for the
+illustration of Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced solely
+upon the incitement of his own mind, is a proof of this, if indeed his
+whole life had not sufficiently proved it.
+
+Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends, and was at this time
+in the habit of visiting him two or three times a week. Mary, one of
+whose strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations of pleasure
+she felt from the associations of visible objects, had hitherto never
+been acquainted, with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced
+therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was a high gratification to her;
+while he found in Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the
+emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any other with whom he
+ever conversed. Painting, and subjects closely connected with painting,
+were their almost constant topics of conversation; and they found them
+inexhaustible. It cannot be doubted, but that this was a species of
+exercise very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s mind.
+
+Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary derived improvement from Mr.
+Fuseli, she may also be suspected of having caught the infection of some
+of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli was ardently attached to
+literature; but the demands of his profession have prevented him from
+keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance with it, that
+belles-lettres scholars frequently possess. Of consequence, the
+favourites of his boyish years remain his only favourites. Homer is with
+Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit of every human perfection. Milton,
+Shakespear, and Richardson, have also engaged much of his attention. The
+nearest rival of Homer, I believe, if Homer can have a rival, is Jean
+Jacques Rousseau. A young man embraces entire the opinions of a
+favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had leisure to bring the
+opinions of his youth to a revision. Smitten with Rousseau’s conception
+of the perfectness of the savage state, and the essential abortiveness
+of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at all our little attempts at
+improvement, with a spirit that borders perhaps too much upon contempt
+and indifference. One of his favourite positions is the divinity of
+genius. This is a power that comes complete at once from the hands of
+the Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man of real genius
+are such, in all their grand and most important features, as no
+subsequent assiduity can amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat
+of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a disposition to search,
+in every thing new or modern, for occasions of censure. I believe Mary
+came something more a cynic out of the school of Mr. Fuseli, than she
+went into it.
+
+But the principal circumstance that relates to the intercourse of Mary,
+and this celebrated artist, remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli
+frequently; he amused, delighted and instructed her. As a painter, it
+was impossible she should not wish to see his works, and consequently to
+frequent his house. She visited him; her visits were returned.
+Notwithstanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a temper
+to live upon terms of so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,
+without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in his society, she
+transferred by association to his person. What she experienced in this
+respect, was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy and restraint
+in which she had hitherto lived, and to which the rules of polished
+society condemn an unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and ardent
+affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married man, and his wife the
+acquaintance of Mary. She readily perceived the restrictions which this
+circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she made light of any
+difficulty that might arise out of them. Not that she was insensible to
+the value of domestic endearments between persons of an opposite sex,
+but that she scorned to suppose, that she could feel a struggle, in
+conforming to the laws she should lay down to her conduct.
+
+There cannot perhaps be a properer place than the present, to state her
+principles upon this subject, such at least as they were when I knew her
+best. She set a great value on a mutual affection between persons of an
+opposite sex. She regarded it as the principal solace of human life. It
+was her maxim, “that the imagination should awaken the senses, and not
+the senses the imagination.” In other words, that whatever related to
+the gratification of the senses, ought to arise, in a human being of a
+pure mind, only as the consequence of an individual affection. She
+regarded the manners and habits of the majority of our sex in that
+respect, with strong disapprobation. She conceived that true virtue
+would prescribe the most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and
+the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it existed.—There is no
+reason to doubt that, if Mr. Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of
+their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her choice. As it was,
+she conceived it both practicable and eligible, to cultivate a
+distinguishing affection for him, and to foster it by the endearments of
+personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness, without departing
+in the smallest degree from the rules she prescribed to herself.
+
+In September 1791, she removed from the house she occupied in
+George-street, to a large and commodious apartment in Store-street,
+Bedford-square. She began to think that she had been too rigid, in the
+laws of frugality and self-denial with which she set out in her literary
+career; and now added to the neatness and cleanliness which she had
+always scrupulously observed, a certain degree of elegance, and those
+temperate indulgences in furniture and accommodation, from which a sound
+and uncorrupted taste never fails to derive pleasure.
+
+It was in the month of November in the same year (1791), that the writer
+of this narrative was first in company with the person to whom it
+relates. He dined with her at a friend’s, together with Mr. Thomas Paine
+and one or two other persons. The invitation was of his own seeking, his
+object being to see the author of the Rights of Man, with whom he had
+never before conversed.
+
+The interview was not fortunate. Mary and myself parted, mutually
+displeased with each other. I had not read her Rights of Woman. I had
+barely looked into her Answer to Burke, and been displeased, as literary
+men are apt to be, with a few offences, against grammar and other minute
+points of composition. I had therefore little curiosity to see Mrs.
+Wollstonecraft, and a very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,
+in his general habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in
+occasionally some shrewd and striking remarks, the conversation lay
+principally between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard her, very
+frequently when I wished to hear Paine.
+
+We touched on a considerable variety of topics, and particularly on the
+characters and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been
+observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree, the practice of
+seeing every thing on the gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a
+plentiful hand, where circumstances were in any respect doubtful. I, on
+the contrary, had a strong propensity, to favourable construction, and
+particularly, where I found unequivocal marks of genius, strongly to
+incline to the supposition of generous and manly virtue. We ventilated
+in this way the characters of Voltaire and others, who have obtained
+from some individuals an ardent admiration, while the greater number
+have treated them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at last provoked
+to tell me, that praise, lavished in the way that I lavished it, could
+do no credit either to the commended or the commender. We discussed some
+questions on the subject of religion, in which her opinions approached
+much nearer to the received ones, than mine. As the conversation
+proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the tone of my own share in it. We
+touched upon all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly upon
+any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice, in giving an account of the
+conversation to a party in which I supped, though I was not sparing of
+my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of active and independent
+thinking. On her side, she did me no part of what perhaps I considered
+as justice.
+
+We met two or three times in the course of the following year, but made
+a very small degree of progress towards a cordial acquaintance.
+
+In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over to France, where she
+continued to reside for upwards of two years. One of her principal
+inducements to this step, related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli. She had, at
+first, considered it as reasonable and judicious, to cultivate what I
+may be permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him; but she did not,
+in the sequel, find all the satisfaction in this plan, which she had
+originally expected from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much
+pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent
+imagination was continually conjuring up pictures of the happiness she
+should have found, if fortune had favoured their more intimate union.
+She felt herself formed for domestic affection, and all those tender
+charities, which men of sensibility have constantly treated as the
+dearest band of human society. General conversation and society could
+not satisfy her. She felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass
+of her species; and she repined when she reflected, that the best years
+of her life were spent in this comfortless solitude. These ideas made
+the cordial intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first been one of
+her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual torment to her. She
+conceived it necessary to snap the chain of this association in her
+mind; and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new climate, and
+mingle in different scenes.
+
+It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street, which lasted
+more than twelve months, she produced nothing, except a few articles in
+the Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were chiefly employed
+upon the Sequel to the Rights of Woman; but she has scarcely left behind
+her a single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned to have
+had this destination.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. VII.
+                               1792–1795.
+
+
+The original plan of Mary, respecting her residence in France, had no
+precise limits in the article of duration; the single purpose she had in
+view being that of an endeavour to heal her distempered mind. She did
+not proceed so far as even to discharge her lodging in London; and, to
+some friends who saw her immediately before her departure, she spoke
+merely of an absence of six weeks.
+
+It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion did not originally seem
+to produce the effects she had expected from it. She was in a land of
+strangers; she had no acquaintance; she had even to acquire the power of
+receiving and communicating ideas with facility in the language of the
+country. Her first residence was in a spacious mansion to which she had
+been invited, but the master of which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at
+the time of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself surrounded
+only with servants. The gloominess of her mind communicated its own
+colour to the objects she saw; and in this temper she began a series of
+Letters on the Present Character of the French Nation, one of which she
+forwarded to her publisher, and which appears in the collection of her
+posthumous works. This performance she soon after discontinued; and it
+is, as she justly remarks, tinged with the saturnine temper which at
+that time pervaded her mind.
+
+Mary carried with her introductions to several agreeable families in
+Paris. She renewed her acquaintance with Paine. There also subsisted a
+very sincere friendship between her and Helen Maria Williams, author of
+a collection of poems of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in
+Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke of in terms of ardent
+commendation, both for the excellence of his disposition, and the force
+of his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I believe, a Swede. It
+is almost unnecessary to mention, that she was personally acquainted
+with the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.
+
+But the house that, I believe, she principally frequented at this time,
+was that of Mr. Thomas Christie, a person whose pursuits were
+mercantile, and who had written a volume on the French revolution. With
+Mrs. Christie her acquaintance was more intimate than with her husband.
+
+It was about four months after her arrival at Paris in December 1792,
+that she entered into that species of connection, for which her heart
+secretly panted, and which had the effect of diffusing an immediate
+tranquillity and cheerfulness over her manners. The person with whom it
+was formed (for it would be an idle piece of delicacy, to attempt to
+suppress a name, which is known to every one whom the reputation of Mary
+has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay, native of the United States of
+North America.
+
+The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was at the house of Mr.
+Christie; and it perhaps deserves to be noticed, that the emotions he
+then excited in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike, and that,
+for some time, she shunned all occasions of meeting him. This sentiment
+however speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.
+
+Previously to the partiality she conceived for him, she had determined
+upon a journey to Switzerland, induced chiefly by motives of economy.
+But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport; and it was probably
+the intercourse that now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that
+changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging at Neuilly, a
+village three miles from Paris.—Her habitation here was a solitary house
+in the midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than herself and the
+gardener, an old man, who performed for her many of the offices of a
+domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of making her bed.
+The gardener had a great veneration for his guest, and would set before
+her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she
+could not without the greatest difficulty obtain, when she had any
+person with her as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for
+the most part executed, her Historical and Moral View of the French
+Revolution[1], into which, as she observes, are incorporated most of the
+observations she had collected for her Letters, and which was written
+with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been
+commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a
+walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured
+to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies and murders
+that had been committed there.
+
+Footnote 1:
+
+  No part of the proposed continuation of this work, has been found
+  among the papers of the author.
+
+The commencement of the attachment Mary now formed, had neither
+confidant nor adviser.—She always conceived it to be a gross breach of
+delicacy to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred nature, an
+affair of the heart. The origin of the connection was about the middle
+of April 1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for four
+months. At the expiration of that period a circumstance occurred that
+induced her to declare it. The French convention, exasperated at the
+conduct of the British government, particularly in the affair of Toulon,
+formed a decree against the citizens of this country, by one article of
+which the English, resident in France, were ordered into prison till the
+period of a general peace. Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr.
+Imlay who, at the time their connection was formed, had no property
+whatever; because she would not involve him in certain family
+embarrassments to which she conceived herself exposed, or make him
+answerable for the pecuniary demands that existed against her. She
+however considered their engagement as of the most sacred nature; and
+they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating to America, as soon as
+they should have realized a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they
+desired. The decree however that I have just mentioned, made it
+necessary, not that a marriage should actually take place, but that Mary
+should take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature of their
+connection, she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a
+certificate from the American ambassador, as the wife of a native of
+that country.
+
+Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought proper to reside under
+the same roof, and for that purpose removed to Paris.
+
+Mary was now arrived at the situation, which, for two or three preceding
+years, her reason had pointed out to her as affording the most
+substantial prospect of happiness. She had been tossed and agitated by
+the waves of misfortune. Her childhood, as she often said, had known few
+of the endearments, which constitute the principal happiness of
+childhood. The temper of her father had early given to her mind a severe
+cast of thought, and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for the
+confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of her entrance upon
+womanhood, had been darkened, by an attendance upon the death-bed of her
+mother, and the still more afflicting calamity of her eldest sister. Her
+exertions to create a joint independence for her sisters and herself,
+had been attended, neither with the success, nor the pleasure, she had
+hoped from them. Her first youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny,
+had encountered many disappointments, and, in fine, a melancholy and
+premature catastrophe. Soon after these accumulated mortifications, she
+was engaged in a contest with a near relation, whom she regarded as
+unprincipled, respecting the wreck of her father’s fortune. In this
+affair she suffered the double pain, which arises from moral
+indignation, and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions to assist
+almost every member of her family, were great and unremitted. Finally,
+when she indulged a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly
+imagined that she should find in it the solace of her cares, she
+perceived too late, that, by continually impressing on her mind
+fruitless images of unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only
+served to give new pungency to the sensibility that was destroying her.
+
+Some persons may be inclined to observe, that the evils here enumerated,
+are not among the heaviest in the catalogue of human calamities. But
+evils take their rank, more from the temper of the mind that suffers
+them, than from their abstract nature. Upon a man of a hard and
+insensible disposition, the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless
+and impotent. There are persons, by no means hard and insensible, who,
+from an elastic and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted to
+look on the fair side of things, and, having suffered one fall,
+immediately rise again, to pursue their course, with the same eagerness,
+the same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On the other hand, we not
+unfrequently meet with persons, endowed with the most exquisite and
+delicious sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too fine a texture to
+encounter the vicissitudes of human affairs, to whom pleasure is
+transport, and disappointment is agony indescribable. This character is
+finely pourtrayed by the author of the Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in
+this respect a female Werter.
+
+She brought then, in the present instance, a wounded and sick heart, to
+take refuge in the bosom of a chosen friend. Let it not however be
+imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and ruined in its taste
+for pleasure. No; her whole character seemed to change with a change of
+fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits, were forgotten, and
+she assumed all the simplicity and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She
+was like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough, and appears again
+with the brilliancy, the sleekness, and the elastic activity of its
+happiest age.—She was playful, full of confidence, kindness and
+sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new colour and
+smoothness. Her voice became chearful; her temper overflowing with
+universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to
+day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well
+recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affection of almost
+every one that beheld it.
+
+Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of whose honour and principles
+she had the most exalted idea. She nourished an individual affection,
+which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint; and a heart like
+her’s was not formed to nourish affection by halves. Her conception of
+Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted him closely round her
+heart;” and she “indulged the thought, that she had thrown out some
+tendrils, to cling to the elm by which she wished to be supported.” This
+was “talking a new language to her;” but, “conscious that she was not a
+parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage and foster the
+luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence was entire; her love was
+unbounded. Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose to all
+the sensibilities of her nature.
+
+Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her attachment to Mr. Imlay
+gained a new link, by finding reason to suppose herself with child.
+
+Their establishment at Paris, was however broken up almost as soon as
+formed, by the circumstance of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business, urged
+as he said, by the prospect of a family, and this being a favourable
+crisis in French affairs for commercial speculations. The pursuits in
+which he was engaged, led him in the month of September to Havre de
+Grace, then called Havre Marat, probably to superintend the shipping of
+goods, in which he was jointly engaged with some other person or
+persons. Mary remained in the capital.
+
+The solitude in which she was now left, proved an unexpected trial.
+Domestic affections constituted the object upon which her heart was
+fixed; and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr. Imlay “did not
+attach those tender emotions round the idea of home,” which, every time
+they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture. She had expected his
+return from week to week, and from month to month; but a succession of
+business still continued to detain him at Havre. At the same time the
+sanguinary character which the government of France began every day more
+decisively to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity from the first
+months of her pregnancy. Before she left Neuilly, she happened one day
+to enter Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis Quinze), when
+an execution, attended with some peculiar aggravations, had just taken
+place, and the blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the pavement.
+The emotions of her soul burst forth in indignant exclamations, while a
+prudent bystander warned her of her danger, and intreated her to hasten
+and hide her discontents. She described to me, more than once, the
+anguish she felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud, and the
+twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable sensations she had ever
+experienced.
+
+Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually postponed, she determined,
+in January 1794, to join him at Havre. One motive that influenced her,
+though, I believe, by no means the principal, was the growing cruelties
+of Robespierre, and the desire she felt to be in any other place, rather
+than the devoted city, in the midst of which they were perpetrated.
+
+From January to September, Mr. Imlay and Mary lived together, with great
+harmony, at Havre, where the child, with which she was pregnant, was
+born, on the fourteenth of May, and named Frances, in remembrance of the
+dear friend of her youth, whose image could never be erased from her
+memory.
+
+In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure from Havre for the port of
+London. As this step was said to be necessary in the way of business, he
+endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre, and once more take up
+her abode at Paris. Robespierre was now no more, and, of consequence,
+the only objection she had to residing in the capital, was removed. Mr.
+Imlay was already in London, before she undertook her journey, and it
+proved the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the carriage, in which
+she travelled, being overturned no less than four times between Havre
+and Paris.
+
+This absence, like that of the preceding year in which Mr. Imlay had
+removed to Havre, was represented as an absence that was to have a short
+duration. In two months he was once again to join her at Paris. It
+proved however the prelude to an eternal separation. The agonies of such
+a separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary would have found them
+upon every supposition, were vastly increased, by the lingering method
+in which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for a long time, hung
+upon it. This circumstance produced the effect, of holding her mind, by
+force, as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and not
+suffering her to derive the just advantage from the energy and
+elasticity of her character.
+
+The procrastination of which I am speaking was however productive of one
+advantage. It put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities
+that awaited her, till the close of the year. She gained an additional
+three months of comparative happiness. But she purchased it at a very
+dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered greater misery, than
+dyed the whole year 1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It was
+wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of which the mind is
+continually awakened, by a glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring
+hope.
+
+Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred, unhappy passion?
+Because it is of the very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate
+itself. He does not love, who can resign this cherished sentiment,
+without suffering some of the sharpest struggles that our nature is
+capable of enduring. Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart upon this
+chosen friend; and one of the last impressions a worthy mind can submit
+to receive, is that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom it has
+fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to entertain a favourable
+opinion of human nature; she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,
+in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest. Mr. Imlay undertook
+to prove, in his letters written immediately after their complete
+separation, that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to the
+strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was of a different opinion.
+Whatever the reader may decide in this respect, there is one sentiment
+that, I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of pity for the
+mistake of the man, who, being in possession of such a friendship and
+attachment as those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial price, and,
+“like the base Indian, throw a pearl away, richer than all his
+tribe.[2]”
+
+Footnote 2:
+
+  A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived particular
+  gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan, who had lately become a
+  fugitive from Ireland, in consequence of a political prosecution, and
+  in whom she found those qualities which were always eminently engaging
+  to her, great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAP. VIII.
+                               1795–1796.
+
+
+In April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requested to do
+so by Mr. Imlay, who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her in
+the journey, before she could complete the necessary arrangements for
+her departure. But, notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she
+came to England with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the
+uncertainties and anguish she had endured, to trust to the suggestions
+of hope.
+
+The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified.
+Mr. Imlay had already formed another connection; as it is said, with a
+young actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions
+therefore to Mary were formal and constrained, and she probably had but
+little of his society. This alteration could not escape her penetrating
+glance. He ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary
+embarrassments which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little
+consequence to Mary what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though
+she strove not to see, that his affections were lost to her for ever.
+
+It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification
+than Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to
+the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for
+her. She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this
+time, expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted to horror,” in
+search of happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether
+escaped her; but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience
+which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she
+saw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of
+forming to herself, of the overflowing kindness of a meeting, after an
+interval of so much anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of this
+sort were present to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on such
+occasions, for reserve and reproach to endeavour to curb in the emotions
+of an affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished were speedily
+blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarrassed.
+Discussions (“explanations” they were called) followed; cruel
+explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart already
+overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions indeed to explicitness;
+but they sufficiently told, that the case admitted not of remedy.
+
+Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity in this pressing
+emergency. “Love, dear, delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend
+some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had forced her to resign; and now
+her rational prospects were blasted, just as she had learned to be
+contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated, life became an
+intolerable burthen. While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk
+of purposes of separation and independence. But, now that they were in
+the same house, she could not withhold herself from endeavours to revive
+their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours continually added
+fuel to the fire that destroyed her. She formed a desperate purpose to
+die.
+
+This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I
+only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a
+moment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and
+that his feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing
+to his activity and representations, that her life was, at this time,
+saved. She determined to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose,
+she took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and affectionateness
+of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable
+difficulty, respecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to
+require the presence of some very judicious agent, to conduct the
+business to its desired termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,
+and take the business into her own hands. Such a voyage seemed the most
+desireable thing to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,
+in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her feelings, to be
+employed in promoting the interest of a man, from whom she had
+experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired to
+be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have mentioned, occurred in
+the close of May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon this new
+expedition.
+
+The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of
+travels that so irresistibly seizes on the heart, never, in any other
+instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and
+ruggedness of character, that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
+Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to
+make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book.
+She speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and
+dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius
+which commands all our admiration. Affliction had tempered her heart to
+a softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit
+seems precisely to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.
+
+Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and
+sensibility, with all, and more than all, “that youthful poets fancy,
+when they love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to
+the arms of her former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity,
+to her apprehension, of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised to meet her
+upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to
+pass some time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her
+during her tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to
+him very urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon
+which they were hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which
+reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as “extraordinary and
+unnecessary,” and desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself.
+Feeling herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly
+determined to sail for London by the very first opportunity, that she
+might thus bring to a termination the suspence that preyed upon her
+soul.
+
+It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of
+October, that she attained the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured
+her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced from him after she
+entered it, flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations.
+She made further enquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of
+the real state of the case. Under the immediate shock which the painful
+certainty gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the
+ready-furnished house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the
+particular nature of their conference I am unable to relate. It is
+sufficient to say that the wretchedness of the night which succeeded
+this fatal discovery, impressed her with the feeling, that she would
+sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal misery.
+
+The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a
+sort of desperate serenity. She resolved to plunge herself in the
+Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she
+took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to
+Battersea-bridge, but she found it too public. It was night when she
+arrived at Putney, and by that time had begun to rain with great
+violence. The rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and down the
+bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly drenched and heavy with the
+wet, which she did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She
+then leaped from the top of the bridge, but still seemed to find a
+difficulty in sinking, which, she endeavoured to counteract by pressing
+her clothes closely round her. After some time she became insensible;
+but she always spoke of the pain she underwent as such, that, though she
+could afterwards have determined upon almost any other species of
+voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to resolve upon
+encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether this is
+to be ascribed to the mere nature of suffocation, or was not owing to
+the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.
+
+After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered
+by the exertions of those by whom the body was found. She had fought,
+with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and
+yet she lived to have every prospect of a long possession of enjoyment
+and happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that
+we find reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose,
+that they would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably happy.
+It arises indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of
+self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the
+constitution of the human mind will not suffer to remain long
+undiminished. This is a serious reflection. Probably no man would
+destroy himself from an impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral
+certainty that there were years of enjoyment still in reserve for him.
+It is perhaps a futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that
+state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the
+awakening of certain feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,
+is too strong to leave us much chance of impressing him with other
+feelings, that should have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if
+the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure cannot be expected to
+have much weight with a man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is
+so much the more to be wished, that men would impress their minds, in
+their sober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered habitual,
+seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in a paroxysm of
+desperation.
+
+The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further
+intercourse between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and
+Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in
+Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
+was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of course, fostered in her
+mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him.
+With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly
+calculated to increase the agitation of her mind. In one respect however
+it produced an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been
+looked for. It roused within her the characteristic energy of mind,
+which she seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of
+bringing the affair to a point, and not suffering months and years to
+roll on in uncertainty and suspence. This idea inspired her with an
+extraordinary resolution. The language she employed, was, in effect, as
+follows: “If we are ever to live together again, it must be now. We meet
+now, or we part for ever. You say, You cannot abruptly break off the
+connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character,
+to wait the uncertain issue of that connection. I am determined to come
+to a decision. I consent then, for the present, to live with you, and
+the woman to whom you have associated yourself. I think it important
+that you should learn habitually to feel for your child the affection of
+a father. But, if you reject this proposal, here we end. You are now
+free. We will correspond no more. We will have no intercourse of any
+kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead.”
+
+The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at
+first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house
+he was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was
+calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted his
+concession.
+
+In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at
+present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary
+had, previously to this, fixed herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place,
+where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for
+the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen this situation;
+“existing,” as she expressed it, “in a living tomb, and her life but an
+exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch.”
+
+Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a
+passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to
+extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she
+could not restrain herself, from making another effort, and desiring to
+see him once more. “During his absence, affection had led her to make
+numberless excuses for his conduct,” and she probably wished to believe
+that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely of a
+casual nature. To this application, she observes, that “he returned no
+other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he
+would not see her.”
+
+This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not
+the ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business
+with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the
+only one at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was,
+that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town,
+Mary called at Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was
+in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s
+voice in the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make
+her appearance. Mary however was not to be controlled. She thought, as
+she afterwards told me, that it was not consistent with conscious
+rectitude, that she should shrink, as if abashed, from the presence of
+one by whom she deemed herself injured. Her child was with her. She
+entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near
+two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary into
+another apartment, and promised to dine with her at her lodging, I
+believe, the next day.
+
+In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he
+expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated
+to sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from
+her, in a way which she censured as unfeeling; this species of sternness
+constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at
+this moment to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the gentleness
+of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam, awakening the hope of
+returning day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;
+and even after the period of delirium expired, she still dwelt, with an
+aching eye, upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a
+reconciliation.
+
+At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a
+short time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as
+she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the world that she
+did so—not in the least—but she was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot,
+or tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality.”
+
+The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country,
+where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I
+believe, while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary
+communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely to expel from her
+mind, all remaining doubt as to the issue of the affair.
+
+Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty
+to her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted
+predilection, was discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast
+off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a spring of
+inexhaustible bitterness. Her present residence among the scenes of
+nature, was favourable to this purpose. She was at the house of an old
+and intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton, whose partiality for
+her was strong and sincere. Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir
+William East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the kindness of her
+friend, and the hospitable and, distinguishing attentions of this
+respectable family, she derived considerable benefit. She had been
+amused and interested in her journey to Norway; but with this
+difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with
+trembling anxiety to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,
+whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw aside every
+thought that recurred to him, while she felt herself called upon to make
+one more effort for life and happiness.
+
+Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long
+after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he
+alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the
+rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any
+oppressive emotion.
+
+Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the
+real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and
+was displeased when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of
+him. She was characterised by a strong sense of indignation; but her
+emotions of this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided
+into a dignified sereneness and equanimity.
+
+The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not
+completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
+that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind,
+suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness
+and debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the
+mental torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with
+an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of
+October, prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she
+wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration she prepared
+them for the press, and they were published in the close of that year.
+In January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy, which turns, in
+the serious scenes, upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered
+to both the winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the period
+of her decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and imperfect a
+state, that I judged it most respectful to her memory to commit it to
+the flames. To understand this extraordinary degree of activity, we must
+recollect however the entire solitude, in which most of her hours were
+at that time consumed.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. IX.
+                               1796–1797.
+
+
+I am now led, by the progress of the story, to the last branch of her
+history, the connection between Mary and myself. And this I relate with
+the same simplicity that has pervaded every other part of my narrative.
+If there ever were any motives of prudence or delicacy, that could
+impose a qualification upon the story, they are now over. They could
+have no relation but to factitious rules of decorum. There are no
+circumstance of her life, that, in the judgment of honour and reason,
+could brand her with disgrace. Never did there exist a human being, that
+needed, with less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon the
+universe to judge them. An event of the most deplorable sort, his
+awfully imposed silence upon the gabble of frivolity.
+
+We renewed our acquaintance in January 1796, but with no particular
+effect, except so far as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to
+the respect I had always entertained for her talents. It was in the
+close of that month that I read her Letters from Norway; and the
+impression that book produced upon me has been already related.
+
+It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw her after her
+excursion into Berkshire. On that day she called upon me in Somers Town,
+she having, since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,
+Pentonville, at no great distance from the place of my habitation. From
+that time our intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible
+degrees.
+
+The partiality we conceived for each other, was in that mode, which I
+have always regarded as the purest and most refined style of love. It
+grew with equal advances in the mind of each. It would have been
+impossible for the most minute observer to have said who was before, and
+who was after. One sex did not take the priority which long established
+custom has awarded it, nor the other overstep that delicacy which is so
+severely imposed. I am not conscious that either party can assume to
+have been the agent or the patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in
+the affair. When, in the course of things, the disclosure came, there
+was nothing, in a manner, for either party to disclose to the other.
+
+In July 1796 I made an excursion into the county of Norfolk, which
+occupied nearly the whole of that month. During this period Mary
+removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to Judd place West, which may
+be considered as the extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,
+she had occupied a furnished lodging. She had meditated a tour to Italy
+or Switzerland, and knew not how soon she should set out with that view.
+Now however she felt herself reconciled to a longer abode in England,
+probably without exactly knowing why this change had taken place in her
+mind. She had a quantity of furniture locked up at a broker’s ever since
+her residence in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable to bring
+it into use. This circumstance occasioned her present removal.
+
+The temporary separation attendant on my little journey, had its effect
+on the mind of both parties. It gave a space for the maturing of
+inclination. I believe that, during this interval, each furnished to the
+other the principal topic of solitary and daily contemplation. Absence
+bestows a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection, which it with
+difficulty acquires in any other way. It seems to resemble the
+communication of spirits, without the medium, or the impediment of this
+earthly frame.
+
+When we met again, we met with new pleasure, and, I may add, with a more
+decisive preference for each other. It was however three weeks longer,
+before the sentiment which trembled upon the tongue, burst from the lips
+of either. There was, as I have already said, no period of throes and
+resolute explanation attendant on the tale. It was friendship melting
+into love. Previously to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,
+yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety to have assurance complete.
+
+Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her lover, hoping to find a
+heart with which she might safely treasure her world of affection;
+fearing to commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy experience,
+fraught with that generous confidence, which, in a great soul, is never
+extinguished. I had never loved till now; or, at least, had never
+nourished a passion to the same growth, or met with an object so
+consummately worthy.
+
+We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to
+indiscriminate adoption, contrary to the established rules and
+prejudices of mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous upon
+the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine march of sentiment, as to
+require the overflowing of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and that
+which, wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of all things most
+sacredly private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to record the moment
+when it has arrived at its climax.
+
+There were however other reasons why we did not immediately marry. Mary
+felt an entire conviction of the propriety of her conduct. It would be
+absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered by desertion, she was not
+right to give way to the emotions of kindness which our intimacy
+produced, and to seek for that support in friendship and affection,
+which could alone give pleasure to her heart, and peace to her
+meditations. It was only about six months since she had resolutely
+banished every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at least eighteen that
+he ought to have been banished, and would have been banished, had it not
+been for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to leave no measure
+untried to regain him. Add to this, that the laws of etiquette
+ordinarily laid down in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that
+the sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed by the rule and
+the square. But Mary had an extreme aversion to be made the topic of
+vulgar discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this, the dreadful
+trials through which she had recently passed, may well plead in its
+excuse. She felt that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken of,
+in the former instance; and she could not resolve to do any thing that
+should immediately revive that painful topic.
+
+For myself, it is certain that I had for many years regarded marriage
+with so well-grounded an apprehension, that, notwithstanding the
+partiality for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I should have
+felt it very difficult, at least in the present stage of our
+intercourse, to have resolved on such a measure. Thus, partly from
+similar, and partly from different motives, we felt alike in this, as we
+did perhaps in every other circumstance that related to our intercourse.
+
+I have nothing further that I find it necessary to record, till the
+commencement of April 1797. We then judged it proper to declare our
+marriage, which had taken place a little before. The principal motive
+for complying with this ceremony, was the circumstance of Mary’s being
+in a state of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps with reason, to
+incur that exclusion from the society of many valuable and excellent
+individuals, which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should have
+felt an extreme repugnance to the having caused her such an
+inconvenience. And, after the experiment of seven months of as intimate
+an intercourse as our respective modes of living would admit, there was
+certainly less hazard to either, in the subjecting ourselves to those
+consequences which the laws of England annex to the relations of husband
+and wife. On the sixth of April we entered into possession of a house,
+which had been taken by us in concert.
+
+In this place I have a very curious circumstance to notice, which I am
+happy to have occasion to mention, as it tends to expose certain
+regulations of polished society, of which the absurdity vies with the
+odiousness. Mary had long possessed the advantage of an acquaintance
+with many persons of genius, and with others whom the effects of an
+intercourse with elegant society, combined with a certain portion of
+information and good sense, sufficed to render amusing companions. She
+had lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in this respect; and
+her mind, trembling between the opposite impressions of past anguish and
+renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of recreation.
+Wherever Mary appeared, admiration attended upon her. She had always
+displayed talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding, her
+travels, her long residence in France, the discipline of affliction, and
+the smiling, new-born peace which awaked a corresponding smile in her
+animated countenance, inexpressibly increased them. The way in which the
+story of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles, was probably the
+result of the partiality she excited. These elegant personages were
+divided between their cautious adherence to forms, and the desire to
+seek their own gratification. Mary made no secret of the nature of her
+connection with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well know, she put
+herself to the trouble of explaining it to a person totally indifferent
+to her, because he never failed to publish every thing he knew, and, she
+was sure, would repeat her explanation to his numerous acquaintance. She
+was of too proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy. These
+persons however, in spite of all that could be said, persisted in
+shutting their eyes, and pretending they took her for a married woman.
+
+Observe the consequence of this! While she was, and constantly professed
+to be, an unmarried mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and
+the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself a wife, and that by a
+marriage perhaps unexceptionable, the case was altered. Mary and myself,
+ignorant as we were of these elevated refinements, supposed that our
+marriage would place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of
+polished society, than ever. But it forced these people to see the
+truth, and to confess their belief of what they had carefully been told;
+and this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that the date of our
+marriage had nothing to do with this, that question being never once
+mentioned during this period. Mary indeed had, till now, retained the
+name of Imlay, which had first been assumed from necessity in France;
+but its being retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness that
+attends the introduction of a change, and not from an apprehension of
+consequences of this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the nature
+of her situation, surely sufficed to make the name she bore perfectly
+immaterial.
+
+It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a story, but in the
+language of contempt and ridicule. A serious reflection however upon the
+whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different sort. Mary retained the
+most numerous portion of her acquaintance, and the majority of those
+whom she principally valued. It was only the supporters and the subjects
+of the unprincipled manners of a court, that she lost. This however is
+immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding strictly considered, and
+uniformly acted upon, would have been to proscribe her from all valuable
+society. And who was the person proscribed? The firmest champion, and,
+as I strongly suspect, the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!
+A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined, and as delicate, as ever
+inhabited a human heart! It is fit that such persons should stand by,
+that we may have room enough for the dull and insolent dictators, the
+gamblers and demireps of polished society!
+
+Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance Mary principally
+regretted upon this occasion, were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their
+acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe, is to be ranked among her
+recent acquisitions. Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,
+which she conceived to be imposed on her by the peculiarity of her
+situation, to conform to the rules I have described. She is endowed with
+that rich and generous sensibility, which should best enable its
+possessor completely to feel the merits of her deceased friend. She very
+truly observes, in a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway
+were read by no one, who was in possession of “more reciprocity of
+feeling, or more deeply impressed with admiration of the writer’s
+extraordinary powers.”
+
+Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction reached her of so
+unexpected a circumstance, that was rather exquisite. But she disdained
+to sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of the supercilious
+and the foolish, and presently shook off the impression of the first
+surprize. That once subsided, I well know that the event was thought of,
+with no emotions, but those of superiority to the injustice she
+sustained; and was not of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which
+seemed hourly to become more vigorous and firm.
+
+I think I may venture to say, that no two persons ever found in each
+other’s society, a satisfaction more pure and refined. What it was in
+itself, can now only be known, in its full extent, to the survivor. But,
+I believe, the serenity of her countenance, 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. She had always
+possessed, in an unparallelled 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.
+
+While we lived as near neighbours only, and before our last removal, her
+mind had attained considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom
+with those emotions of anguish, which had been but too familiar to her.
+But the improvement in this respect, which accrued upon our removal and
+establishment, was extremely obvious. She was a worshipper of domestic
+life. She loved to observe the growth of affection between me and her
+daughter, then three years of age, as well as my anxiety respecting the
+child not yet born. Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature
+seems to be in this respect, is the source of a thousand endearments. No
+one knew better than Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite
+delight, from trifles, which a suspicious and formal wisdom would
+scarcely deign to remark. A little ride into the country with myself and
+the child, has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the heart, a
+general expression of confidence and affectionate soul, a sort of
+infantine, yet dignified endearment, which those who have felt may
+understand, but which I should in vain attempt to pourtray.
+
+In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was fortunate enough to
+introduce her to some of my acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she
+attached herself with all the ardour of approbation and friendship.
+
+Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory
+pleasures. It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced
+by the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject of cohabitation, I
+engaged an apartment, about twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,
+Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary
+occupations. Trifles however will be interesting to some readers, when
+they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I
+will add therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was
+possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other’s society.
+Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the
+apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make
+my appearance in the Polygon, till the hour of dinner. We agreed in
+condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man
+and his wife cannot visit in mixed society, but in company with each
+other; and we rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of
+complying with, this rule. By these means, though, for the most part, we
+spent the latter half of each day in one another’s society, yet we were
+in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree,
+the novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the more delicious and
+heart-felt pleasures of domestic life.
+
+Whatever may be thought, in other respects, of the plan we laid down to
+ourselves, we probably derived a real advantage from it, as to the
+constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary pursuits. Mary had a
+variety of projects of this sort, for the exercise of her talents, and
+the benefit of society; and, if she had lived, I believe the world would
+have had very little reason to complain of any remission of her
+industry. One of her projects, which has been already mentioned, was a
+series of Letters on the Management of Infants. Though she had been for
+some time digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to the press,
+I have found comparatively nothing that she had committed to paper
+respecting it. Another project, of longer standing, was of a series of
+books for the instruction of children. A fragment she left in execution
+of this project, is inserted in her Posthumous Works.
+
+But the principal work, in which she was engaged for more than twelve
+months before her decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of Woman. I
+shall not stop here to explain the nature of the work, as so much of it
+as was already written, is now given to the public. I shall only observe
+that, impressed as she could not fail to be, with the consciousness of
+her talents, she was desirous, in this instance, that they should effect
+what they were capable of effecting. She was sensible how arduous a task
+it is to produce a truly excellent novel; and she roused her faculties
+to grapple with it. All her other works were produced with a rapidity,
+that did not give her powers time fully to expand. But this was written
+slowly and with mature consideration. She began it in several forms,
+which she successively rejected, after they were considerably advanced.
+She wrote many parts of the work again and again, and, when she had
+finished what she intended for the first part, she felt herself more
+urgently stimulated to revise and improve what she had written, than to
+proceed, with constancy of application, in the parts that were to
+follow.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. X.
+
+
+I am now led, by the course of my narrative, to the last fatal scene of
+her life. She was taken in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.
+She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding Friday, the
+confluence, I believe, of a sudden alarm. But from that time she was in
+perfect health. She was so far from being under any apprehension as to
+the difficulties of child-birth, as frequently to ridicule the fashion
+of ladies in England, who keep their chamber for one full month after
+delivery. For herself, she proposed coming down to dinner on the day
+immediately following. She had already had some experience on the
+subject in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted in every point
+to her judgment and her wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas
+of decorum, which certainly ought to have no place, at least in cases of
+danger, she determined to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of
+midwife. She was sensible that the proper business of a midwife, in the
+instance of a natural labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations
+of nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand the interposition of
+art.
+
+At five o’clock in the morning of the day of delivery, she felt what she
+conceived to be some notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,
+matron and midwife to the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, who had seen
+Mary several times previous to her delivery, was soon after sent for,
+and arrived about nine. During the whole day Mary was perfectly
+chearful. Her pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she wrote
+several notes, three addressed to me, who had gone, as usual, to my
+apartments, for the purpose of study. About two o’clock in the
+afternoon, she went up to her chamber—never more to descend.
+
+The child was born at twenty minutes after eleven at night. Mary had
+requested that I would not come into the chamber till all was over, and
+signified her intention of then performing the interesting office of
+presenting the new-born child to its father. I was sitting in a parlour;
+and it was not till after two o’clock on Thursday morning, that I
+received the alarming intelligence, that the placenta was not yet
+removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed any further, and gave
+her opinion for calling in a male practitioner. I accordingly went for
+Dr. Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same hospital, who
+arrived between three and four hours after the birth of the child. He
+immediately proceeded to the extraction of the placenta, which he
+brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied that the whole was
+removed. In that point however it afterwards appeared that he was
+mistaken.
+
+The period from the birth of the child till about eight o’clock the next
+morning, was a period full of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was
+considerable, and produced an almost uninterrupted series of fainting
+fits. I went to the chamber soon after four in the morning, and found
+her in this state. She told me some time on Thursday, “that she should
+have died the preceding night, but that she was determined not to leave
+me.”—She added, with one of those smiles which so eminently illuminated
+her countenance, “that I should not be like Porson,” alluding to the
+circumstance of that great man having lost his wife, after being only a
+few months married. Speaking of what she had already passed through, she
+declared, “that she had never known what bodily pain was before.”
+
+On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated his visit. Mary had just
+before expressed some inclination to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man
+probably of more science than any other medical professor in England,
+and between whom and herself there had long subsisted a mutual
+friendship. I mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather
+discountenanced the idea, observing that he saw no necessity for it, and
+that he supposed Dr. Fordyce was not particularly conversant with
+obstetrical cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After Dr. Poignand
+was gone, I determined to send for Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the
+patient about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He, however,
+perceived no particular cause of alarm; and, on that or the next day,
+quoted, as I am told, Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a
+corroboration of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety of employing
+females in the capacity of midwives. Mary, “had had a woman, and was
+doing extremely well.”
+
+What had passed, however, in the night between Wednesday and Thursday,
+had so far alarmed me, that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the
+chamber, during the following day. But my alarms wore off, as time
+advanced. Appearances were more favourable, than the exhausted state of
+the patient would almost have permitted me to expect. Friday morning,
+therefore, I devoted to a business of some urgency, which called me to
+different parts of the town, and which, before dinner, I happily
+completed. On my return, and during the evening, I received the most
+pleasurable sensations from the promising state of the patient. I was
+now perfectly satisfied that every thing was safe, and that, if she did
+not take cold, or suffer from any external accident, her speedy recovery
+was certain.
+
+Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday, but not absolutely
+alarming.
+
+Sunday, the third of September, I now regard as the day, that finally
+decided on the fate of the object dearest to my heart that the universe
+contained. Encouraged by what I considered as the progress of her
+recovery, I accompanied a friend in the morning in several calls, one of
+them as far as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time. On my
+return I found a degree of anxiety in every face, and was told that she
+had had a sort of shivering fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the
+length of my absence. My sister and a friend of hers, had been engaged
+to dine below stairs, but a message was sent to put them off, and Mary
+ordered that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in the room
+immediately under her on the first floor, but in the ground-floor
+parlour. I felt a pang at having been so long and so unseasonably
+absent, and determined that I would not repeat the fault.
+
+In the evening she had a second shivering fit, the symptoms of which
+were in the highest degree alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,
+the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her. This continued
+probably for five minutes. She told me, after it was over, that it had
+been a struggle between life and death, and that she had been more than
+once, in the course of it, at the point of expiring. I now apprehend
+these to have been the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned
+by the part of the placenta that remained in the womb. At the time,
+however, I was far from considering it in that light. When I went for
+Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock on the morning of Thursday,
+despair was in my heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta was
+stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical science, I felt as
+if the death of Mary was in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited my
+bosom; and her chearings were so delightful, that I hugged her
+obstinately to my heart. I was only mortified at what appeared to me a
+new delay in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I immediately sent
+for Dr. Fordyce, who had been with her in the morning, as well as on the
+three preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this morning, but
+declined paying any further visits, as we had thought proper to call in
+Dr. Fordyce.
+
+The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted. On Tuesday I found it
+necessary again to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who brought
+with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street, under the idea that some
+operation might be necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously
+persisted in viewing the fair side of things; and therefore the interval
+between Sunday and Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture of
+chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce forbad the child’s having the
+breast, and we therefore procured puppies to draw off the milk. This
+occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and the other attendants.
+Nothing could exceed the equanimity, the patience and affectionateness
+of the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I dwelt with trembling
+fondness on every favourable circumstance; and, as far it was possible
+in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind speeches,
+rewarded my affection.
+
+Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy
+series. It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her
+through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with
+wine. This task was devolved upon me. I began about four o’clock in the
+afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of
+the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was
+dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task. I knew neither what
+was too much, nor what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,
+under every disadvantage, to go on. This lasted for three hours. Towards
+the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came
+out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that,
+in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.” There are moments,
+when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness. I
+seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no
+consequence—It added to the measure of my distraction. A little after
+seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him
+instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the
+patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had
+seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine
+diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the
+metropolis, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend
+returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence. No one who
+knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I
+name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly,
+gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to
+experience.
+
+Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her
+death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate
+attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration. His
+conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing
+every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance. If
+skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live. In
+addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and
+Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for friends,
+watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an
+excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious lady,
+and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.
+Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr.
+Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the
+house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis,
+at a moment’s warning.
+
+Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to bed for a few hours on
+Wednesday night. Towards morning he came into my room with an account
+that the patient was surprisingly better. I went instantly into the
+chamber. But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest
+anguish I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a
+new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced. If
+Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough. But it was
+too mighty a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and
+admitted in this abrupt way.
+
+I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my gloomy thoughts, when,
+about ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare
+ourselves, for we had reason to expect the fatal event every moment. To
+my thinking, she did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,
+which I supposed to precede death; but it is probable that death does
+not always take place by that gradual process I had pictured to myself;
+a sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did not die on Thursday
+night.
+
+Till now it does not appear that she had any serious thoughts of dying;
+but on Friday and Saturday, the two last days of her life, she
+occasionally spoke as if she expected it. This was, however, only at
+intervals; the thought did not seem to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle
+rejoiced in this. He observed, and there is great force in the
+suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object, than a sick man, that
+knows he is dying. The thought must be expected to destroy his courage,
+to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract every favourable
+effort of nature.
+
+On these two days her faculties were in too decayed a state, to be able
+to follow any train of ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.
+Her religion, as I have already shown, was not calculated to be the
+torment of a sick bed; and, in fact, during her whole illness, not one
+word of a religious cast fell from her lips.
+
+She was affectionate and compliant to the last. I observed on Friday and
+Saturday nights, that, whenever her attendants recommended to her to
+sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by breathing, perhaps
+for the space of a minute, in the manner of a person that sleeps, though
+the effort, from the state of her disorder, usually proved ineffectual.
+
+She was not tormented by useless contradiction. One night the servant,
+from an error in judgment, teazed her with idle expostulations; but she
+complained of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray, pray, do not
+let her reason with me,” was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so
+dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous importunity of nurses
+everlastingly repeated.
+
+Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very desirous of obtaining
+from her any directions, that she might wish to have followed after her
+decease. Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I talked to her for a good
+while of the two children. In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not
+impressing the idea of death, I was obliged to manage my expressions. I
+therefore affected to proceed wholly upon the ground of her having been
+very ill, and that it would be some time before she could expect to be
+well; wishing her to tell me any thing that she would choose to have
+done respecting the children, as they would now be principally under my
+care. After having repeated this idea to her in a great variety of
+forms, she at length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I know
+what you are thinking of,” but added, that she had nothing to
+communicate to me upon the subject.
+
+The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the two last days. Mr.
+Carlisle observed that her continuance was almost miraculous, and he was
+on the watch for favourable appearances, believing it highly improper to
+give up all hope, and remarking, that perhaps one in a million, of
+persons in her state might possibly recover. I conceive that not one in
+a million, unites so good a constitution of body and of mind.
+
+These were the amusements of persons in the very gulph of despair. At
+six o’clock on Sunday morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called
+me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in conformity to my
+request, that I might not be left to receive all at once the
+intelligence that she was no more. She expired at twenty minutes before
+eight.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of September, at ten
+o’clock in the morning, in the church-yard of the parish church of St.
+Pancras, Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed, attended the
+ceremony; and a plain monument is now erecting on the spot, by some of
+her friends, with the following inscription:
+
+                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
+                               AUTHOR OF
+                             A VINDICATION
+                        OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
+                       BORN, XXVII APRIL MDCCLIX.
+                      DIED, X SEPTEMBER MDCCXCVII.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+The loss of the world in this admirable woman, I leave to other men to
+collect; my own I well know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do
+not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed in her conversation:
+these increased every day, in proportion as we knew each other better,
+and as our mutual confidence increased. They can be measured only by the
+treasures of her mind, and the virtues of her heart. But this is a
+subject for meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding to, was
+the improvement that I have for ever lost.
+
+We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture to use this sort of
+language) in different directions; I, chiefly an attempt at logical and
+metaphysical distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque. One of the
+leading passions of my mind has been an anxious desire not to be
+deceived. This has led me to view the topics of my reflection on all
+sides; and to examine and re-examine without end, the questions that
+interest me.
+
+But it was not merely (to judge at least from all the reports of my
+memory in this respect) the difference of propensities, that made the
+difference in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated as long as
+I can remember, by an ambition for intellectual distinction; but, as
+long as I can remember, I have been discouraged, when I have endeavoured
+to cast the sum of my intellectual value, by finding that I did not
+possess, in the degree of some other men, an intuitive perception of
+intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong and lively sense of the
+pleasures of the imagination; but I have seldom been right in assigning
+to them their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering
+examination, and the change and correction of my first opinions.
+
+What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed, in a degree superior to
+any other person I ever knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.
+She was often right, by this means only, in matters of mere speculation.
+Her religion, her philosophy, (in both of which the errors were
+comparatively few, and the strain dignified and generous) were, as I
+have already said, the pure result of feeling and taste. She adopted one
+opinion, and rejected another, spontaneously, by a sort of tact and the
+force of a cultivated imagination; and yet, though perhaps, in the
+strict sense of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising what a
+degree of soundness is to be found in her determinations. But, if this
+quality was of use to her in topics that seem the proper province of
+reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly appealing to the
+intellectual taste. In a robust and unwavering judgment of this sort,
+there is a kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it produces a
+responsive vibration in every ingenuous mind. In this sense, my
+oscillation and scepticism were fixed by her boldness. When a true
+opinion emanated in this way from another mind, the conviction produced
+in my own assumed a similar character, instantaneous and firm. This
+species of intellect probably differs from the other, chiefly in the
+relation of earlier and later. What the one perceives instantaneously
+(circumstances having produced in it, either a premature attention to
+objects of this sort, or a greater boldness of decision) the other
+receives only by degrees. What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a
+minute attention to first impressions, and a just appreciation of them;
+habits that are never so effectually generated, as by the daily
+recurrence of a striking example.
+
+This light was lent to me for a very short period, and is now
+extinguished for ever!
+
+While I have described the improvement I was in the act of receiving, I
+believe I have put down the leading traits of her intellectual
+character.
+
+
+The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest
+examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the
+world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated Romance of
+Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very
+different cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of
+affording pleasure, will receive no delight from the present
+publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best
+qualified to decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted
+to have the superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the
+offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the
+passion it essays to describe.
+
+To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two
+volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be
+found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of
+Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it
+seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the
+intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a
+few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just
+monument to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and
+interesting specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the
+Present Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of
+Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman,
+may, I believe, safely be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on
+Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the
+Monthly Magazine for April last, and is the only piece in this
+collection which has previously found its way to the press.
+
+
+
+
+                                LETTERS.
+
+
+                               LETTER I.
+
+                                                            Two o’Clock.
+
+My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I
+have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early
+hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day they intend to pass here. I shall,
+however, leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side
+when I return, about eight o’clock. Will you not wait for poor
+Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately
+of her.
+
+                                                     Yours, truly,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.
+
+
+                               LETTER II.
+
+                                      Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,
+                                                          [August]
+
+I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my
+love, good night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can
+to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ——’s eye. You
+can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we
+are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how
+many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident that
+my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish me with that dignified
+tenderness, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will
+try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you
+pain—Yes, I will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy: and whilst
+you love me, I cannot again fall into the miserable state, which
+rendered life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne.
+
+But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet
+I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with
+gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection,
+because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try
+whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow[3]—Yours—
+
+Footnote 3:
+
+  The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,”
+  probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this
+  interview.
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER III.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you
+know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever since I came to
+Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I
+like to see your eyes praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during
+such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart,
+when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.
+
+Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me
+to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY—you _must_
+be glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the
+_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was
+talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me that it will ever have
+sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so
+highly respect principle.——
+
+Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—far—and, if I had
+not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the vanity
+of my heart, have imagined that I could have made something of his——it
+was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love flies away
+in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my
+pale cheeks.
+
+I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——’s to meet
+him. ——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and
+to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.
+
+I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no
+matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I
+immediately want, to take with me—On Friday then I shall expect you to
+dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long
+since I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER IV[4].
+
+Footnote 4:
+
+  This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
+  during a separation of several months; the date Paris.
+
+                                             Friday Morning [September.]
+
+A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here
+yesterday for the payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed at not
+finding you at home. I sent him to Mr. —— I have since seen him, and he
+tells me that he has settled the business.
+
+So much for business!—may I venture to talk a little longer about less
+weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the
+road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love,
+my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by
+their presence—I was going to say caresses—and why should I not? I have
+found out that I have more than you, in one respect; because I can,
+without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same
+object, much longer than you can.—The way to my senses is through my
+heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to
+yours.
+
+With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly
+is necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable;
+and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment
+by fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish
+my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by
+their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity,
+of the few roses that afford them solace in the thorny road of life.
+
+I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought
+produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your
+affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you
+go.—This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to
+write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my
+eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart
+whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world.—Pardon
+then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as
+well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with me a _little_
+longer!—When we are settled in the country together, more duties will
+open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is
+agitated by every emotion that awaken the remembrance of old griefs,
+will learn to rest on yours, with that dignity your character, not to
+talk of my own, demands.
+
+Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear,
+if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of
+it, by becoming happier
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER V.
+
+                                                           Sunday Night.
+
+I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed
+tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that
+my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.
+
+Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle
+twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
+who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced
+an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm
+my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we
+are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding
+that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I
+sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.
+
+Are you very busy?
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come
+home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
+you will.—
+
+Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be
+patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the
+time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over
+again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely
+connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the
+fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine,
+which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you!
+Take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the
+kindest good night I can utter.
+
+
+                               LETTER VI.
+
+                                                         Friday Morning.
+
+I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as
+myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy first letter, the
+very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it
+before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There
+is a full, true, and particular account.—
+
+Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of
+stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to
+the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and
+compass.—There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality,
+and the passions always give grace to the actions.
+
+Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy
+money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
+exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have
+expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before
+me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and
+thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than
+soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not
+left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has
+spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst
+a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
+grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus
+alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it
+divides—I must pause a moment.
+
+Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know
+why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than
+present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my
+heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am
+true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER VII.
+
+                                           Sunday Morning (December 29.)
+
+You seem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray sir! when do you think
+of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business
+permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that
+you will make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this
+month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I
+would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.
+
+I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself
+airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for
+not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this
+score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop
+from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or,
+will only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or a kind look, to
+escape me, when I pass the flippers—which I could not remove from my
+_salle_ door, though they are not the handsomest of their kind.
+
+Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be
+purchased. God bless you.
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER VIII.
+
+                                             Monday Night (December 30.)
+
+My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my
+heart, depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me
+several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. —— was for me. Mr. ——’s
+letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of
+his own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed
+me.
+
+A melancholy letter from my sister —— has also harrassed my mind—that
+from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+There is a spirit of independence in this letter, that will please you;
+and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together—I
+think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender
+looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance
+of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of
+bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where shall I find a word to
+express the relationship which subsists between us? Shall I ask the
+little twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you
+how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I
+have been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to
+write, and my heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to
+you.
+
+I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it,
+so the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I
+wanted one.
+
+Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a
+little!—It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I
+love.
+
+There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that,
+if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how
+very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER IX.
+
+                                         Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]
+
+Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take
+one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because
+trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my
+spirits:—and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of this
+same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to
+master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of
+affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to
+dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to
+days browned by care!
+
+The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not
+look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my
+stockings.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER X.
+
+                                            Wednesday Night [January 1.]
+
+As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to
+complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,
+I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do
+not feel?
+
+I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s and heart be organized from
+mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of
+them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The “peace” and
+clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. “I
+am fallen,” as Milton said, “on evil days;” for I really believe that
+Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least.
+Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up
+a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is
+lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!
+
+Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My
+head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded
+garden,” where “things rank and vile” flourish best.
+
+If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of
+it—I will throw your slippers out at the window, and be off—nobody knows
+where.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——,
+simply that I was with child: and let them stare!—and ——, nay, all the
+world, may know it for aught I care—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s coarse
+jokes.
+
+Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before
+it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong
+to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all
+sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are
+these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the
+hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is
+sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A
+man is a tyrant!
+
+You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing
+away with some honest fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social
+sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an
+heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour
+with you, to be pleased with the world.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                       Thursday Morning.
+
+I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful
+temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the
+matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it. I do not want to
+be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
+you![5]
+
+Footnote 5:
+
+  Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a
+  similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the
+  person to whom they are addressed.
+
+
+                               LETTER XI.
+
+                                                           Monday Night.
+
+I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide
+my face, glowing with shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,
+if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my
+fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes
+overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I intreat you. Do
+not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very
+wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had
+no confidence in me—
+
+It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices
+of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much
+indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or
+perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
+tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been
+dreadfully disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my
+stomach; still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have
+been fainter.
+
+Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to
+ask as many questions as Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not
+continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling
+through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are
+melting into playfulness.
+
+Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop
+not an angry word, I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a
+scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come
+back—and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you
+the next.
+
+—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to
+H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming
+that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me
+so.
+
+God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of
+tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my
+support. Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did
+writing it, and you will make happy, your
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
+encourage “quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my
+love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
+half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling,
+as seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a
+little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a
+few days past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will
+you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a
+child of me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.
+
+One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
+which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear
+to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness
+would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me
+almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with
+coldness.
+
+I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickness of
+your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you,
+there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness
+wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
+look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
+affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
+at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
+yet most affectionate
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIII.
+
+                                                         Thursday Night.
+
+I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I
+knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand, and this
+afternoon, when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite
+pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you
+were to receive another cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do not forget
+that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect,
+that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took
+me again to your heart.
+
+I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,
+because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
+continually the fatal consequence of my folly. But, should you think it
+right to remain at H—, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
+fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be
+strong again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
+such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind.
+The girl is come to warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night! and
+write a line or two in the morning.
+
+                                                                Morning.
+
+I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence
+shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was
+so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.
+
+I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether
+this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
+before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my
+bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system.
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIV.
+
+                                                       Saturday Morning.
+
+The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,
+will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect
+your motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by
+what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I
+thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at H—, I
+might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I
+brooded over—Let us now be friends!
+
+I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and
+I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at
+least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not
+enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will
+hasten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the
+object of your journey.
+
+What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my
+fancy was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder,
+whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging to
+your knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if
+you have not set your heart on this round number.
+
+I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the
+first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much
+as I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past,
+has been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I
+am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not
+much.—The two Mrs. ——s have been very anxious and tender.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.
+
+
+                               LETTER XV.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+I wrote to you yesterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is still
+detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am
+not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
+after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
+
+I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my
+Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions
+of childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go
+badly with me_.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you;
+for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a
+new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
+
+I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the
+greater part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a
+return of the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of
+illness. I have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought
+to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me;
+and, since I could not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my
+heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your
+eye.
+
+I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
+impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
+uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do
+not think a little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
+struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
+poverty.
+
+Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters;
+for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals
+into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
+
+                                                     Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XVI.
+
+                                                        Tuesday Morning.
+
+I seize this opportunity to inform you that I am to set out on Thursday
+with Mr. ——, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall
+be to see you. I have just got my passport, so I do not foresee any
+impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my
+new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to
+smile me to sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we parted.
+
+You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully
+round my heart, than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the thought,
+that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I
+wished to be supported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But,
+knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the
+proofs of affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being
+once more in the same house with you.—God bless you!
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XVII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you,
+that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after
+you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more
+properly speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not
+as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it. I will not allow that
+your temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain
+my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am
+afraid to say never.
+
+Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in
+person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has
+never left you.
+
+I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too
+fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to
+H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my
+body to do whatever I wished.
+
+                                                 Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XVIII.
+
+                                         H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.
+
+We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
+sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay
+such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not
+sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of
+the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish
+about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before
+breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am,
+wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I
+write, with one of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a
+suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.
+
+But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take
+care of yourself and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIX.
+
+Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper
+I was to inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag end of a letter
+of business.—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got
+you by the fire-side, with _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your
+poor bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper
+up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me
+so blind?—I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not
+scold; for I am
+
+                                         Yours most affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER XX.
+
+                                                      Sunday, August 17.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now
+permitted to dine—and the little darling, to be sure[6]—whom I cannot
+help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall
+enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven than satiate my
+imagination.
+
+Footnote 6:
+
+  The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
+  considerable time.
+
+I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a
+dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_. But
+_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either
+the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
+foreground of the picture.
+
+The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce
+from top to toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only
+proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
+room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_. A
+nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
+Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air. Ah!
+kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the
+loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
+_sombre_ day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see
+things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running
+stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to
+tantalize us.
+
+But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid
+me let the square-headed money-getters alone. Peace to them! though none
+of the social spirits (and there are not a few of different
+descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a
+twitch to restrain my pen.
+
+I have been writing, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I
+merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
+associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
+
+Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with
+a _gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
+cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the
+sentiments in your heart which may be termed romantic, because, the
+offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother
+more than the father[7], when they produce the suffusion I admire. In
+spite of icy age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined
+only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid—
+
+                                                         Yours
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Footnote 7:
+
+  She means, “the latter more than the former.”
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER XXI.
+
+                                                 H—, August 19, Tuesday.
+
+I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you
+yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to
+the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that
+you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came in, and some
+other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet,
+leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is
+sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my
+place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary
+your affection is to my happiness.—Still I do not think it false
+delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness
+should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish
+passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by
+seeking your own—For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your
+generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the
+very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which
+demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly
+mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of
+cherishing a tenderness for your person.
+
+I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long
+time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that
+all my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace,
+though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our
+little girl was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a
+sense of duty, than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and
+imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever
+dancing before me.
+
+You too have somehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my
+dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve
+for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do not however suppose that I am
+melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find
+fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.
+
+I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)
+with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are
+the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXII.
+
+                                                          H—, August 20.
+
+I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always
+rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had
+chastised —— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the
+business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
+know how you would express your contempt.
+
+Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the
+dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made
+use of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you,
+as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities
+of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of
+heart, which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.
+
+Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in
+you, of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a
+cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in _managing_ my
+happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself
+till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look
+into a heart, which my halfbroken one wishes to creep into, to be
+revived and cherished.——You have frankness of heart, but not often
+exactly that overflowing (_épanchement de cœur_), which becoming almost
+childish, appears a weakness only to the weak.
+
+But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether,
+as a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a
+number of mistresses—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather
+flattered his vanity than his senses.
+
+Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to
+close it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost
+springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not
+love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.—
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                            LETTER XXIII[8].
+
+Footnote 8:
+
+  This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation
+  of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were
+  sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.
+
+                                                           September 22.
+
+I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances,
+and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore
+merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one
+who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short,
+to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told,
+over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
+
+Besides looking at me there are three other things, which delight her—to
+ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud
+music—yesterday at the _féte_, she enjoyed the two latter; but to honor
+J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had
+round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.
+
+Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap?
+There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination
+then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you
+coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I
+recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,
+regarding the waving corn!
+
+Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the
+imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of
+sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the
+passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more
+exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,
+appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if
+you will, and the conclusions of reason draw men together; but the
+imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven to animate this cold
+creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to
+rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts instead of
+leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
+
+If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which
+would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you
+are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then
+back your barrier face, or you shall have nothing to say to my
+barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances that
+will be ever dear to me; for I am yours truly
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXIV.
+
+                                                      Evening. Sept. 23.
+
+I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I
+cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my
+bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do
+not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the
+touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of
+man and wife being one—for you seemed to pervade my whole frame,
+quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears
+you excited.
+
+Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is
+all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
+of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days
+past.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                                Morning.
+
+Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me
+before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same
+opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more
+tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are
+commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl,
+about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,
+and requested him to see her.
+
+I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business.
+Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write
+now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will
+overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.
+
+I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness
+at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
+alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into
+reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.
+
+This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell
+you, I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me,
+and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then kiss the girl
+for you, and bid you adieu.
+
+I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your
+barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know
+that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate,
+intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I think, as you could wish
+for.
+
+I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here;
+but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing
+sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring ——
+with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your
+letters—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you
+say of the negroes.
+
+                                             Yours most affectionately,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXV.
+
+                                                        Paris, Sept. 28.
+
+I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have
+prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward
+them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he
+will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on
+your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as
+Mr. —— is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.
+
+I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass
+you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar
+circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have
+almost lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at best a most helpless
+creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to
+me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She
+indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting
+aside a mother’s fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her
+little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing
+degree of sensibility and observation. The other day by B——’s child, a
+fine one, she looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,
+and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.
+
+I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in
+which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to
+fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to
+be alluded to.
+
+Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector
+of your child, and the comfort of her mother.
+
+I have received, for you, letters from ——. I want to hear how that
+affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for
+his folly or knavery.
+
+                                                         Your own
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXVI.
+
+                                                              October 1.
+
+It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they
+will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going,
+a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were
+written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not
+been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me.
+_Tant mieux!_ you will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be
+sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should
+damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford—judging of your
+feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,
+which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear
+affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you
+chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only
+tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.
+
+After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in
+business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money,
+taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be
+gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the
+mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away,
+than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the
+melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same
+side as my reason, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be
+almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of
+character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I
+will seek it no where else.
+
+My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a
+kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my
+heart.
+
+I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the
+press will produce a great effect here—the _cry of blood will not be
+vain_!—Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are
+conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last slap of the tail of the beast.
+
+I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I shall
+not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her
+pregnancy rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity,
+which is better for the child.
+
+I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.
+
+—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is
+anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and
+social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that
+destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting.—If his
+wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is,
+nothing will save him.
+
+                                     Yours most truly and affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXVII.
+
+                                                             October 26.
+
+My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the
+sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was
+obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone
+together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most
+intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the
+morning too, which I do not find quite so convenient. I once told you,
+that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were
+pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel,
+when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me
+unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has now the
+advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to
+discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.
+
+I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and
+am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also
+made some new acquaintance. I have almost _charmed_ a judge of the
+tribunal, R——, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has
+humanity, if not _beaucoup d’esprit_. But let me tell you, if you do not
+make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the
+_Marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so,
+and plays sweetly on the violin.
+
+What do you say to this threat?—why, _entre nous_, I like to give way to
+a sprightly vein, when writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is
+proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when he is pleased.” Will you
+not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls?
+but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks
+happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to
+come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it
+will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make
+exertions which injure your constitution.
+
+                                         Yours most truly and tenderly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray
+call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.
+
+
+                             LETTER XXVIII.
+
+                                                           December, 26.
+
+I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not
+allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that
+many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now
+see your letter, and find that you are safe: I will not regret then that
+your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other
+matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you
+are safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For,
+feeling that I am happier than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes
+dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me my dearest
+friend, father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this
+moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it
+is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the
+world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the
+melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past,
+and haunted my dreams.
+
+My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are
+not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;”
+but certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress than she is to
+me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most
+despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her
+more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have
+embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and
+laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst
+I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these
+details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately
+
+                                                         Yours
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXIX.
+
+                                                            December 28.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your
+disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with
+affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that
+you should thus exert your self in vain, and that you are kept from me.
+
+——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new
+projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,
+rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But
+we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him.
+When we meet we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and
+it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to
+pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you
+to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in
+preparing to live.
+
+Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner
+as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your
+departure? It is not possible to enter into business, as an employment
+necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the
+expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be
+considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive
+sentiment and affection out of the heart?
+
+I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to
+forward it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what
+he has doubtless recommended most warmly.
+
+Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.—I will give you no
+tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
+the settling the _present_ objects permit. _I do not consent_ to your
+taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord
+knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection,
+and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth,
+which makes —— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your
+principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you
+that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt,
+rather than made angry by delays. Having suffered so much in life, do
+not be surprized if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and
+suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I
+say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the
+picture.
+
+My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use her legs.—She wants you
+to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with
+dancing her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her
+mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXX.
+
+                                                            December 29.
+
+Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just
+informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I
+take advantage of it to inclose you
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which
+obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be
+content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into
+this wearisome labyrinth? I know very well that you have been
+imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or
+abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid
+poverty? I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to
+escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And let me tell
+you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little
+girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your
+cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.
+
+This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire
+which —— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk
+to you?—if he can persuade you let him!—for, if you are not happier with
+me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal
+projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason, as well as
+affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will
+occur to you—and you will act accordingly.
+
+Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have
+heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another,
+about the age of my ——, a fine little creature. They are still but
+contriving to live —— earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but
+just above poverty, I envy them. She is a tender affectionate
+mother—fatigued even by her attention. However she has an affectionate
+husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her
+pleasure.
+
+I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I
+grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here,
+to observe with me how her mind unfolds and her little heart becomes
+attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer
+them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy. It is your own
+maxim to “live in the present moment.”—_If you do_—stay, for God’s sake;
+but tell me truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let
+me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.
+
+Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort
+me.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXXI.
+
+                                                            December 30.
+
+Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have
+written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to
+wife you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three
+of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not
+of ——’s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of
+your staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of
+continual inquietude—and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn
+some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to
+run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little
+girl and I will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I
+may be termed proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles
+of action.
+
+The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that if they
+debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a
+gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they
+maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan
+whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been
+polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.
+
+I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former
+is necessary, to give life to the other—and such a degree of respect do
+I think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in
+its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the
+heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end
+of all my hopes of happiness—I could not forgive it, if I would.
+
+I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion
+of men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and
+that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with
+sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I
+lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am
+sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.
+
+You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the
+strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. —— has
+taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it
+has inconceivably depressed my spirits.—You have always known my
+opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live
+together, ought not to be long separated. If certain things are more
+necessary to you than me—search for them—Say but one word, and you shall
+never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s sake, let us struggle with
+poverty—with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business,
+which I have been told were to last but a few months, though every day
+the end appears more distant! This is the first letter in this strain
+that I have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was
+unwilling to give you pain, and I should not now write, if I did not
+think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as
+I am told, your presence.
+
+                                                              * * * *[9]
+
+Footnote 9:
+
+  The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at
+  Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was
+  recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of
+  business now accumulated upon him.
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXII.
+
+                                                              January 9.
+
+I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely
+occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought,
+to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects
+and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not
+absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.
+
+Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to
+obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure,
+for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that
+flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy
+views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I
+knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and
+have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only
+spontaneous enjoyment can give. Why have you so soon dissolved the
+charm?
+
+I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s
+never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you
+are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of
+action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to
+my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness
+to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and
+still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these
+continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and
+roots out affection from the heart.
+
+I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will
+simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the
+arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the
+necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose
+only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most
+violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual
+coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to
+recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be
+borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart though it fatigues the
+spirits.
+
+Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have
+determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child. It is too
+soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said,
+“despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.
+
+This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new
+weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before
+you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object. If your feelings
+were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
+prospects of future advantage.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIII.
+
+                                                                Jan. 15.
+
+I was just going to begin my letter with the tag end of a song, which
+would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is
+pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters,
+dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can
+scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me.
+After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I
+have seen a superscription written by you. Promising myself pleasure,
+and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought
+it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a
+dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.
+
+Well now for business—
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing
+the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and
+now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit,
+&c. You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she
+will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object
+for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing
+can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not
+affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come soon to tell us
+that you do.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIV.
+
+                                                                Jan. 30.
+
+From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will
+scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you
+have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it
+pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground
+again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new
+projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have
+done with it for ever; yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary
+interest suffers by your absence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make
+money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I
+therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at
+home, lest I should have uttered unseasonable truths.
+
+My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I
+have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed
+to mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of
+life,” you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I
+have ever considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of
+wanting the resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life;
+I should answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them,
+because I would avoid them, cost what it would.——
+
+Adieu!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Footnote 10:
+
+  This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the
+  letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things
+  upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different
+  appellation.
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER XXXV.
+
+                                                             February 9.
+
+The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that
+we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,
+convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other
+letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got,
+were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the
+sight of the superscriptions excited.
+
+I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for
+utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I
+find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.
+
+You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the
+most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,
+I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude
+during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I
+never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm
+was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.
+God preserve this poor child and render her happier than her mother!
+
+But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I
+think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is
+come to this. I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty
+to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to
+reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a
+better fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but for this
+little darling I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped
+of every charm.
+
+You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to
+tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely
+dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely understand you. You request me to
+come, and then tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of
+returning to this place.
+
+When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. I
+would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of
+trouble on which you are entering. I have certain principles of action:
+I know what to look for to found my happiness on. It is not money. With
+you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is,
+less will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life
+for my child, and she does not want more at present. I have two or three
+plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
+neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to
+you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service. I wanted the support
+of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I
+complained of ——’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he
+would have dragged you into his schemes.
+
+I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a letter written soon after your
+departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was
+written. You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more
+determined moment. Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together
+is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be
+running after a bubble at the expence of my peace of mind.
+
+Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXVI.
+
+                                                                Feb. 10.
+
+You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am
+dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the
+business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution
+destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the
+continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the
+fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write
+to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here
+with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of
+the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be
+brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this,
+I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can
+live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000
+livres from ——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s wages, &c.
+and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I
+shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.
+
+—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very
+unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I
+had provoked it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have
+dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your
+remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of
+the bitter cup to care about trifles.
+
+When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the
+gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm
+in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you
+did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more
+necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted
+heart—For a year or two you may procure yourself what you call pleasure;
+eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I
+shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but
+checked my pen.
+
+As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you,
+reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content
+with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of
+hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written
+relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and
+practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments
+of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my
+sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not
+write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to
+complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of
+the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the
+mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered
+enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the
+vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so,
+that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXVII.
+
+                                                                Feb. 19.
+
+When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an
+indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now
+calmer though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the
+quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow.
+Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with
+every one, I have only reason enough to discover that the fault is in
+myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take
+any pains to recover my health.
+
+As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a
+repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough.
+Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs,
+after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the
+necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my God! how has mine been
+harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the
+wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely,” I have not found
+a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from
+my bosom.
+
+What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I
+will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand
+you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning
+here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain
+myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my
+meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and
+am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms
+for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror,
+only to be left there a prey to it!
+
+Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl
+would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some
+plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.
+
+In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am
+left here dependant on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has
+rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or
+affectionate emotions. With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help
+displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite
+of the effect it is visible it has had on me.
+
+Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to
+avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me. Do
+not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen
+times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you
+must guess why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects
+to which you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but I will be
+silent for ever.——
+
+
+                            LETTER XXXVIII.
+
+                                                                April 7.
+
+Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell
+you that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I
+shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate
+my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of
+delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot
+indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,
+without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that it is mutual.
+
+I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes,
+when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed
+been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh
+hopes, as to regain tranquillity. Enough of this—lie still, foolish
+heart! But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease
+to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.
+
+Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I
+weaned her about ten days ago. I am however glad I conquered my
+repugnance. It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish
+to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off
+till we met. It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to
+throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain
+throw over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after
+sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you
+cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!
+
+I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity
+for you coming to me. Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend
+with me. My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some
+inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have
+not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say
+indifference, as you. God bless you!
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIX.
+
+                                    Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
+
+Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and if I
+can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive to ——’s
+hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope
+you will take care there to receive us.
+
+I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to
+take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my
+share. But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to
+meet soon?—What does your heart say!
+
+                                                     Your’s truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I have weaned my ——, and she is now eating way at the white bread.
+
+
+                               LETTER XL.
+
+                                                 London, Friday, May 22.
+
+I have just received your affectionate letter and am distressed to think
+that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,
+when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be
+necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I
+suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have
+mentioned, which made —— request to see me to-day, to _converse about a
+matter of great importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the
+state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last
+night as distressing as the two former had been.
+
+I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that
+tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so
+different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry
+with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments
+which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart—We have
+had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future
+prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to
+affection.—Let the subject never be revived!
+
+It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of
+being happy.——Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has
+been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and
+sought for dissapation, if not amusement merely to fatigue still more, I
+find, my irritable nerves.—
+
+My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the question;
+for, alass! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what will
+render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you desire
+to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell
+me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily
+interrupted your peace.
+
+I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a
+cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which
+only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately
+yours.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLI.
+
+                                                              Wednesday.
+
+I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am
+tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am
+angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I
+shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to
+whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of
+fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
+
+God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLII.
+
+                                              —, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
+
+We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the
+child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night
+and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like
+house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished
+this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out
+early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
+
+I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or
+the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full
+to allow me to write with composure.—***, —dear ****,—am I always to be
+tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in?
+How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in
+a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach
+those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my
+eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity,
+electrified by sympathy.
+
+I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be
+detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours
+sincerely and affectionately
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+—— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise
+of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!
+
+
+                             LETTER XLIII.
+
+                                                               Thursday.
+
+A lady has just sent to offer to take me to —— —. I have then only a
+moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give
+information
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when
+compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to
+touch this painful string—God bless you!
+
+                                                     Yours truly,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLIV.
+
+                                                         Friday June 12.
+
+I have just received yours, dated the 9th, which I suppose was a
+mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The
+general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear
+to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of
+the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before
+satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up
+every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your
+sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the
+impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,
+for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.
+
+The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites,
+must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never leads
+its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented by according
+reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite
+pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the
+whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that
+renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions
+over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even
+disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without
+self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the
+distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of
+that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of which the common
+herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begetters_, certainly have no
+idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me: I
+consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination
+acts as the stimulus to their senses.
+
+Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I
+cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength
+of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and
+purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.——I would fain rest
+there!
+
+Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my
+attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live
+has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that
+despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my
+child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might
+become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might
+there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
+sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.
+
+Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting
+happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in
+order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked
+sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot
+indeed, without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually
+contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I
+recollect why my child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in
+which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry
+fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
+much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the
+shafts of disappointment.
+
+Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something
+like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded;
+consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term
+“the zest of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own
+motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!
+
+The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me
+so wretched, that I must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But
+first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my
+happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself.
+You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just,
+that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.
+
+The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly.
+I cannot say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
+depart.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                       Saturday Morning.
+
+Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly
+wrong in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though,
+without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have
+animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have
+been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so
+unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
+every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye
+was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them,
+because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent
+any odium being thrown on you[11].
+
+Footnote 11:
+
+  This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and
+  not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
+
+I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my
+efforts to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I
+am engaged.
+
+My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most
+sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a
+true, unsophisticated heart.
+
+                                                     Yours most truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am
+afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to
+write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot
+expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a
+gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received
+great civilities, will send them after me.
+
+Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on;
+and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself
+from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot
+word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I
+shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will
+draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!
+
+
+                              LETTER XLV.
+
+                                                       Sunday, June, 14.
+
+I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to
+write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I
+have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of
+trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every
+thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.
+
+Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was
+fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the
+necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you
+know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather
+interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and
+poor —— was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.
+
+They took me in their carriage to —— and I ran over my favourite walks,
+with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not please
+me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I
+found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever
+since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have
+vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at
+pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am,
+is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and
+fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.
+
+The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to
+linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I
+do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your
+connections on the other side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I
+think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme
+restlessness.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you whether the
+pleasure of being free does not over-balance the pain you felt at
+parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me
+necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the moment after,
+despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of
+tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!
+
+                                     Yours sincerely and affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLVI.
+
+                                                                June 15.
+
+I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be
+very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence,
+my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation
+indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most
+affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of
+disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet
+should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true
+friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the
+world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has
+opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a
+higher value on my heart.
+
+Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to add, if you will not take one
+from me, and believe me yours
+
+                                                     Sincerely,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+The wind still continues in the same quarter.
+
+
+                             LETTER XLVII.
+
+                                                        Tuesday morning.
+
+The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the
+course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
+have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from
+you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.
+
+My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why the quitting England seems
+to be a fresh parting. Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak
+forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
+sensible to every thing. It is surprising, that in London, in a
+continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,
+bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by
+despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that
+withers up all my faculties.
+
+The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I
+know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. It
+is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been so perpetually the sport
+of disappointment, having a heart that has been as it were a mark for
+misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. Well, let it
+come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!
+God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XLVIII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having
+changed. But before evening it steered round to the old point; and here
+we are, in the midst of mists and waters, only taking advantage of the
+tide to advance a few miles.
+
+You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it
+was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt
+pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had
+treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably
+send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely
+to remain, I am afraid to think how long.
+
+The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted
+kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to
+myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to
+beguile weariness; but I seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments
+of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.
+
+What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time
+before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within
+me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and
+feelings? Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so
+much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and
+extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. Will you not
+endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I
+saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other gratifications are dearer
+to you. How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
+What a world is this! They only seem happy, who never look beyond
+sensual or artificial enjoyments. Adieu.
+
+—— begins to play with the cabin boy, and is as gay as a lark. I will
+labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
+
+                                             Your’s sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLIX.
+
+                                                               Thursday.
+
+Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the
+pilot who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as expected,
+by the wind. It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without
+going forward. I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to take care
+of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is
+unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the
+ship, as we ride at anchor.
+
+These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of
+mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth
+I never in my life suffered so much from depression of spirits—from
+despair. I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most
+terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of
+countenance.
+
+I will not, my dear ——, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and
+will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at
+present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these
+continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some
+comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you, when
+we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean
+not to have seas between us, it is more than I can support.
+
+The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.
+
+In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would
+disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free,
+the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
+
+                                                 Your’s most truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER L.
+
+                                                               Saturday.
+
+This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with
+every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the
+remembrances that sadden my heart.
+
+How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the
+elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and the
+imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and
+sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in
+search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature
+seems to frown, or rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold as my
+expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these
+North-east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious
+Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial
+affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger
+there.
+
+I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough,
+to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after
+which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable
+smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till
+thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for
+I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the
+misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my
+power.
+
+Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will
+not allow her to remain on deck.
+
+I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to
+you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER LI.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to
+be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had
+a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind
+has changed.
+
+I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one
+hap-hazard it would have been kind and considerate—you might have known,
+had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are
+attentions more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But why do
+I foolishly continue to look for them?
+
+Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt.
+God bless you! I may perhaps be some time or other, independent in every
+sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I
+will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.
+
+                                                 Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+The child is well; I did not leave her on board.
+
+
+                              LETTER LII.
+
+                                                      June 27, Saturday.
+
+I arrived in ——. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to
+inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty,
+for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.
+
+What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon, nor mention
+the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast. This morning
+however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this
+place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and
+how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupor for a
+quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my
+senses; the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is
+well.
+
+Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently
+deranged me, and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing
+warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must nevertheless go to bed.
+For God’s sake, let me hear from you immediately my friend! I am not
+well, and yet you see I cannot die.
+
+                                                 Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LIII.
+
+                                                                June 29.
+
+I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I
+alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s
+illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my
+fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will
+have any serious consequences.
+
+—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns are
+here so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am
+overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the
+endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
+
+My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies
+heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;
+and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the
+hopes that render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,”
+appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly
+enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my
+pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LIV.
+
+                                                                 July 1.
+
+I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow
+and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot
+last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and,
+when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to
+live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual
+struggles—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind;
+and if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than
+with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not
+dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will
+then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together,
+or I will be entirely independent.
+
+My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision——You know
+however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments
+of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the
+consolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest
+friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of
+satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?
+
+Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should
+imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your
+affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
+
+                    God bless you!
+                                Yours truly
+                                            * * * *
+
+Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey with her teeth.
+
+
+                               LETTER LV.
+
+                                                                 July 3.
+
+There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression
+of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you
+throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has
+long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.
+
+Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you)
+there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than
+disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to
+hide my sorrows in my bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
+affectionate friend.
+
+I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this
+affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can
+become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature. On
+ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my
+troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that
+the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!” and
+nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling
+and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.
+
+What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles,
+I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to
+sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and
+started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that
+stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar
+the fragrance of reviving nature.
+
+My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love in some minds, is
+an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or
+taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c.
+alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were,
+impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.
+
+Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care
+than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming
+at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my
+soul—almost rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped the
+enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a
+fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common
+enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me
+stupid—soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch
+of disappointment.
+
+I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my
+constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health
+unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.
+
+I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of
+regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect
+due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of
+the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can
+extinguish the heavenly spark.
+
+Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I
+blush when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound
+myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to
+delicacy, or pride.
+
+
+                              LETTER LVI.
+
+                                                                 July 4.
+
+I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot
+tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to
+the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of
+character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.
+
+Still however I am more alive than you have seen me for a long, long
+time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
+to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my
+faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than
+to the vigour of my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have
+had my share,) the purity of this air, and the being continually out in
+it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my
+appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already
+streak my cheeks—and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I
+have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes
+of youth.
+
+With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!
+Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
+pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, and makes
+friends for herself.
+
+Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us
+in Switzerland? Ah! why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why
+are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or
+rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my
+misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and
+lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call
+me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the
+sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.
+
+
+                              LETTER LVII.
+
+                                                                 July 7.
+
+I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving
+a letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have
+hazarded it; and would a year ago.
+
+I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to
+silence the usual expressions of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a
+thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy prays
+upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion,
+cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have
+endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation
+possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.
+
+Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from
+life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
+God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive to painful
+sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.
+
+The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be
+wounded to the soul by a negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go
+into the air.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LVIII.
+
+                                                                July 14.
+
+I am now on my journey to ——. I felt more at leaving my child, than I
+thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I
+heard the half-formed sounds of her voice—I asked myself how I could
+think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?
+
+Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the
+winds to the shorn lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be
+shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless
+storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to
+the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a
+discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!
+
+All is not right somewhere. When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.
+I could still confide, for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort
+you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first
+object. Strange want of judgment!
+
+I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am
+convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,
+that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.
+I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the
+simple basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend to argue—Your
+not writing is cruel, and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant
+wretchedness.
+
+Poor —— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my
+fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of
+countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually
+afraid of some accident—But it would have injured the child this warm
+season, as she is cutting her teeth.
+
+I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you
+please, there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can,
+or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you
+with letters to which you do not reply.
+
+
+                              LETTER LIX.
+
+                                                                July 18.
+
+I am here in ——, separated from my child, and here I must remain a month
+at least, or I might as well never have come.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have begun —— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a
+pecuniary kind. I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having
+done it sooner.
+
+I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER LX.
+
+                                                                July 30.
+
+I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of
+June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my
+detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God
+knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness
+of heart! My mind however is at present painfully active, and the
+sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of
+complaint, it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected pleasure is all I
+have to hope for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.
+
+I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live
+together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my
+poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or
+that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to
+preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I
+have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life. There are wounds
+that can never be healed, but they may be allowed to fester in silence
+without wincing.
+
+When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution
+than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
+always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I
+cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last
+snap, and set me free.
+
+Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings
+anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made
+me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and
+truth. But to have done with these subjects.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ——; yet I
+never was so much in the air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,
+and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The
+child, —— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.
+
+Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you
+to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which
+you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you
+
+                                               Yours most affectionately
+                                                       * * * *  * * * *
+
+I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to
+yours.
+
+
+                              LETTER LXI.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 5.
+
+Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have
+entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of
+my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though
+trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same. I have,
+it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for
+a long—long time past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other
+appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer
+have afforded me.) Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so
+constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection.—I am
+afraid not without a passion, and I feel the want of it more in society,
+than in solitude——
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs, my eyes fill
+with tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my
+resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine
+my anguish in my own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me
+sometimes overlook delicacy, the same tenderness will in future restrain
+me.
+
+God bless you!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXII.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 7.
+
+Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my
+muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former
+activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched
+some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and
+resting on the rocks.
+
+This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on
+something—and soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am
+sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched, when we were
+together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
+slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought not, if you form another
+attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
+reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel
+disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to
+depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a
+chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I
+can provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part
+to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a
+comfort to me, if I am to have no other, and only know me as her
+support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with
+you, if we are only to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness
+elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to
+you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an
+eternal separation. You must determine, examine yourself—But, for God’s
+sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the trial;
+but I will not complain.
+
+Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you, it is all flown, and
+absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what
+new form of misery I have to dread.
+
+I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but
+you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the
+heart of
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXIII.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 9.
+
+Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the
+14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did
+not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except
+to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints.
+I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my
+affection.——
+
+My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I
+mean, I and my girl. I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am
+informed how your affairs terminate.
+
+                                                     Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXIV.
+
+                                                                Aug. 26.
+
+I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once
+more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps
+cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play
+alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I
+have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in
+future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an
+independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.
+
+I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and
+even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As
+for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the
+calm contentment so termed.——
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect
+yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th
+of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.
+Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an
+ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend—or you
+would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of
+compassion, a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I
+will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to
+these struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I cannot please. I
+can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our
+fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to cherish tenderness for
+me._ Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest,
+since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be
+entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I
+need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living
+in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior
+considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to
+maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to
+Switzerland. I shall not remain at ——, living expensively. But be not
+alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.
+
+Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed, my lips tremble, as
+if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.
+
+God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXV.
+
+                                                            September 6.
+
+I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter
+last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of
+soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently
+vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment
+of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and
+repose on the idea that I am happy.
+
+Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like
+resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I
+have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that
+happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and the lively sympathies
+which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They
+are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure and I have shaken hands.
+
+I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people
+immersed in trade and sensuality.
+
+I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting place to
+look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks,
+I have thought, “But for this child I would lay my head on one of them,
+and never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the
+affections of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone
+that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it
+was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound
+together by affection or principle—and, when I am conscious that I have
+fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself,
+I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus
+abandoned?”
+
+You say now
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more
+explicitly——and determine on some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this
+suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or
+eternally part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer
+to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent
+subjects.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is
+disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty
+frequently that I make out what you mean to say—You write I suppose, at
+Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for
+your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of
+affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the child.——Adieu!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXVI.
+
+                                                           September 25.
+
+I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ——. In
+that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three
+mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed
+it, I hear of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write
+calmly—this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain —— remained
+a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have
+I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the
+same—and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this
+of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed. Adieu!
+
+
+                             LETTER LXVII.
+
+                                                           September 27.
+
+When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
+British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.
+
+By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
+extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to
+decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
+from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there
+was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were
+but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative
+was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of
+meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a
+yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am
+accustomed to; in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
+much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your
+shoulders.
+
+I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you
+decide.
+
+The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in
+a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal
+mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I
+submit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of
+me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for
+you—for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only
+sought for a momentary gratification.
+
+I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your
+tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
+this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I
+leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off
+a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly
+are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been
+stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It
+depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take
+no step, till I see or hear from you.
+
+Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be
+like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and
+not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few
+months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will
+not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on
+your beneficence.
+
+Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not
+the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view,
+the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money
+will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry
+_shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for
+my girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her
+education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to
+such society as she will like—and thus securing for her all the chance
+for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that
+the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always
+elude my grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly
+longed to arrive at his port.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place
+to go to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
+that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see
+you, though it be the last time.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXVIII.
+
+                                                       Sunday, October 4
+
+I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the
+18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but,
+as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet
+received it.
+
+You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided, that it was most for
+the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I
+expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be
+glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose
+in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our
+interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at
+last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.
+
+From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that
+you have formed some new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly
+request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof
+I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide,
+since you boggle about a mere form.
+
+I am labouring to write with calmness, but the extreme anguish I feel,
+at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be
+conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a
+disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come
+under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an
+overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses
+me. On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as
+is my situation. Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told
+me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even
+in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me
+and my child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian
+knot.
+
+I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the
+return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office,
+and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me.
+I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
+
+Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing from you, or any human
+being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my
+duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling
+heart.—That Being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up
+by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of
+my life—but life will have an end!
+
+Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
+will find me at —— If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
+
+                                                    Yours affectionately
+                                                                * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXIX.
+
+I write you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid
+with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——,
+section de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.
+
+Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.
+
+Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I
+forced from her—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
+but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet,
+whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might
+still have lived together.
+
+I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world.
+Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When
+you receive this, my burning head will be cold.
+
+I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.
+Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am
+serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body
+will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I
+shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being
+snatched from the death I seek.
+
+God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me
+endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
+your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall
+appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXX.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I
+was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination
+is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a
+frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this
+respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed
+reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.
+
+You say, “that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the
+wretchedness into which we have been plunged.” You are extricated long
+since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it
+is a living death.
+
+It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on
+principle; but I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would
+have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you
+have any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only
+thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall
+never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that
+even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call
+magnanimity.—It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in
+the highest degree.
+
+Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to
+contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance),
+appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar
+comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart.—That gone,
+you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not
+shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any
+direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which
+I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own
+reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you
+value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for)
+though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me.
+When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the
+child.
+
+I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you
+again.—Adieu!
+
+God bless you!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXXI.
+
+                                                         Monday Morning.
+
+I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree
+with you, that
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy.
+I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may
+lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
+but she shall not despise me for meanness. You are now perfectly free.—
+
+God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXII.
+
+                                                         Saturday Night.
+
+I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be
+dictated by any tenderness to me. You ask “If I am well or
+tranquil?”—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my
+feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
+
+I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually
+offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new
+house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I
+will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the
+moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary
+supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and
+misfortunes seem to suit the habit of my mind.—
+
+Have but a little patience and I will remove myself where it will not be
+necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
+written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other
+medium—that the affair is finished. It is an insult to me to suppose,
+that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear
+nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.
+
+
+Even your seeing me has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
+distracted mind.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXIII.
+
+                                                     Thursday Afternoon.
+
+Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were
+left at the house, I have to request you to let —— bring them to ——.
+
+I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained
+from coming here to transact your business,—And, whatever I may think,
+and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have
+any criterion to judge of wright and wrong, I have been most
+ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be
+silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect
+and provide for my child. I only mean by this to say, that you having
+nothing to fear from my desperation.
+
+                                                               Farewell.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXIV.
+
+                                                    London, November 27.
+
+The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
+returned, did not meet my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters
+aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
+
+My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with
+anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for
+me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
+expect much attention to my sufferings.
+
+In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has
+almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I
+am, or what I do. The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel
+recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
+conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but an exercise of
+fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this
+tomb, where I am buried alive.
+
+But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, “that
+I shall judge more cooly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But
+is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does
+mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so
+“exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?
+In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but
+that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have
+fostered and the expectations you have excited?
+
+My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I know you are not what you
+now seem—nor will you always act or feel as you now do, though I may
+never be comforted by the change. Even at Paris, my image will haunt
+you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will
+drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
+
+I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your
+_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am
+miserable!
+
+It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the
+strictest principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social
+feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my
+whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that
+existence is a burthen without it.
+
+I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship,
+you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling
+are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You
+seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether
+you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In truth I have been rudely handled.
+_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those
+capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only
+the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You
+would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a
+father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly
+the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to
+please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!
+
+Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from
+you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I am
+convinced you will not always justify your own.
+
+Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your
+mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
+gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle
+require such sacrifices?
+
+
+                              LETTER LXXV.
+
+                                                     London, December 8.
+
+Having just been informed that —— is to return immediately to Paris, I
+would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain
+that my last, by Dover, has reached you.
+
+Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wished
+to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light
+of an enemy.
+
+That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always
+with the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write
+calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.
+
+I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.
+Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little
+address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are
+sacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.
+
+The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your
+affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me,
+when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you
+will not always forget me. You will feel something like remorse, for
+having lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior
+gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had
+one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour
+of recollection will come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part
+of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,
+your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your
+present conduct. You do, you must, respect me—and you will be sorry to
+forfeit my esteem.
+
+You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an
+imaginary being. I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am
+obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be
+cleared up by time.
+
+You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own
+eyes. I shall still be able to support my child, though I am
+disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed
+would have afforded you equal pleasure.
+
+Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I
+thought your property in jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested you,
+_if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some
+other people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet
+not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not
+discharged, that now come on me. Was this friendship—or generosity? Will
+you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for
+you.—God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXVI.
+
+As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I
+will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and
+feeling ingenuity!
+
+I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is
+impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward
+inclination with the manly dictates of principle.
+
+You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why do I?——Because you cannot estrange
+your heart entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on my side. You
+urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your
+coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to
+remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took
+great pains to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the
+effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with
+these words, “Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to my port, and
+I will still fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”
+
+With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I
+wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old
+propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last
+prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which
+would enable you to conquer yourself.
+
+—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me
+feelings of this kind. You could restore me to life and hope, and the
+satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.
+
+In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time
+will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,
+even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every
+thing to your generosity—but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in
+suspense!—Let me see you once more!——
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXVII.
+
+You must do as you please with respect to the child. I could wish that
+it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It
+is now finished. Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship,
+I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that
+the “forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate. It is however
+of no consequence. I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.
+
+I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel. Yet I flinch
+not from the duties which tie me to life.
+
+That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it
+matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words.
+Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped, for what you
+term “delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no
+criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations
+which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of
+principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it
+would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.
+
+The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that
+will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my
+affections. The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term
+mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to
+some years to come. Whether you will always think so, I shall never
+know.
+
+It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction
+forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
+
+I part with you in peace.
+
+
+
+
+                                 LETTER
+                                 ON THE
+                           PRESENT CHARACTER
+                                 OF THE
+                             FRENCH NATION.
+
+  INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE
+    FRENCH NATION.
+
+
+                                               Paris, February 15, 1793.
+
+ MY DEAR FRIEND,
+
+It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind, to guard as
+carefully the remembrance of the first impression made by a nation, as
+by a countenance; because we imperceptibly lose sight of the national
+character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then
+useless or presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered Paris, the
+striking contrast of riches and poverty, elegance and slovenliness,
+urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and saddened my soul;
+and these impressions are still the foundation of my remarks on the
+manners, which flatter the senses, more than they interest the heart,
+and yet excite more interest than esteem.
+
+The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous,
+and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they
+are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving
+satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all sides
+they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of
+care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me,
+that they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they
+trifle their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how
+to wish them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me
+like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English
+head, searching for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of
+pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their chief enjoyment, it
+is true, rises from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders
+vexation of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burden of
+life, which reason too often weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder
+to the other.
+
+Investigating the modification of the passion, as I would analyze the
+elements that give a form to dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to
+their source the causes which have combined to render this nation the
+most polished, in a physical sense, and probably the most superficial in
+the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that
+disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature
+is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most
+sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or
+so effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of
+sensuality?
+
+The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me
+then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
+when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey.
+Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would
+decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to
+consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and,
+giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances
+which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light
+on the history of man, and on the present important subjects of
+discussion.
+
+I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and
+follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair
+form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter
+all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that
+have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that
+lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled
+with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
+the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the
+government rendered less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the
+misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the
+standing evils of the old system. I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I
+think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I
+also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through
+which the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear,
+and I hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of Providence,
+sweeping in such various directions the bosom of destruction over the
+sons of men.
+
+Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong
+virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress
+of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course
+of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being
+goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective of the golden age, fading
+before the attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and,
+losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my
+friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the first glance seems
+to be levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not become an Atheist,
+I assure you, by residing at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or,
+if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the
+passions are justly poized, we become harmless, and in the same
+proportion useless.
+
+The wants of reason are very few; and, were we to consider
+dispassionately the real value of most things, we should probably rest
+satisfied with the simple gratification of our physical necessities, and
+be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently, only that
+wanton, the imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward,
+and makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside every obstacle merely
+to catch a disappointment.
+
+The desire also of being useful to others, is continually damped by
+experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in some measure
+their own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle with care, to
+make some people ungrateful, and others idle?
+
+You will call these melancholy effusions, and guess that, fatigued by
+the vivacity, which has all the bustling folly of childhood, without the
+innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too severe in my
+strictures. It may be so; and I am aware that the good effects of the
+revolution will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of Epicurus
+has only been at work to root out the simple emotions of the heart,
+which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by
+the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government fostered, is
+it surprising that simplicity of manners, and singleness of heart,
+rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so passing
+sweet?
+
+Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have shot, I sometimes ask, with
+a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners
+which has hitherto been maintained unsullied only by the keen air of
+poverty, when, emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity are
+become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer
+day is dawning on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe, that
+little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which
+seems every where to be shoving aside _the point of honour_ of the
+_noblesse_. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect
+muddied water to become clear before it has had time to stand; yet, even
+for the moment, it is the most terrific of all sights, to see men
+vicious without warmth—to see the order that should be the
+superscription of virtue, cultivated to give security to crimes which
+only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is, in fact, the very
+essence of vice, though with the wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane
+emotions often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus humanity,
+generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes render a character grand,
+and even useful, when hurried away by lawless passions; but what can
+equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himself alone,
+and considering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleasure,
+never forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping ever within the
+pale of the law, he crushes his thousands with impunity; but it is with
+that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a significant
+vulgarism, a villain _in grain_. The very excess of his depravation
+preserves him, whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who prowls
+about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a
+snare.
+
+You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government,
+yet it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every
+thing whispers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I
+see that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to
+corrupt the new. For the same pride of office, the same desire of power
+are still visible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to
+obscurity after having but just acquired a relish for distinction, each
+hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with these new titles,
+endeavours to make hay while the sun shines; and every petty municipal
+officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, stalks like a
+cock on a dunghill.
+
+I shall now conclude this desultory letter; which however will enable
+you to foresee that I shall treat more of morals than manners.
+
+                                                                Yours ——
+
+
+
+
+                                 LETTER
+                                 ON THE
+                         MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.
+
+
+I ought to appologize for not having written to you on the subject you
+mentioned; but, to tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead of
+an answer, I have begun a series of letters on the management of
+children in their infancy. Replying then to your question, I have the
+public in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew what modes appear to
+me necessary, to render the infancy of children more healthy and happy.
+I have long thought, that the cause which renders children as hard to
+rear as the most fragile plant, is our deviation from simplicity. I know
+that some able physicians have recommended the method I have pursued,
+and I mean to point out the good effects I have observed in practice. I
+am aware that many matrons will exclaim against me and dwell on the
+number of children they have brought up, as their mothers did before
+them without troubling themselves with new-fangled notions; yet, though,
+in my uncle Toby’s words, they should attempt to silence me, by “wishing
+I had seen their large” families, I must suppose, while a third part of
+the human species, according to the most accurate calculation, die
+during their infancy, just at the threshold of life, that there is some
+errors in the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which counteracts
+their own endeavours. I may be mistaken in some particulars; for general
+rules, founded on the soundest reason, demand individual modification;
+but, if I can persuade any of the rising generation to exercise their
+reason on this head, I am content. My advice will probably be found most
+useful to mothers in the middle class; and it is from that the lower
+imperceptibly gains improvement. Custom, produced by reason in one, may
+safely be the effect of imitation in the other.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+
+
+
+                                LETTERS
+                                   TO
+                              MR. JOHNSON,
+                 BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.
+
+
+                               LETTER I.
+
+                                               Dublin, April 14, [1787.]
+
+ DEAR SIR,
+
+I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that I ought never to expect
+to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour to be
+useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost
+entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their
+future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my
+endeavours to improve them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the swarm
+of little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having
+power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life,
+when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the
+pleasures I relish?—I allude to rational conversations, and domestic
+affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land,
+tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be
+contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for
+sorrow—and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to
+hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,
+
+                                                         WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                               LETTER II.
+
+                                              Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking, _enjoyed_ solitude. My
+sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone
+by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and
+pleasure-grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I _caught_
+tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was _still_, though active.
+Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile.
+I found an old French bible here, and amused myself with comparing it
+with our English translation—then I would listen to the falling leaves,
+or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them. At other times,
+the singing of a robin, or the noise of a water-mill, engaged my
+attention—for I was, at the same time perhaps discussing some knotty
+point, or straying from this _tiny_ world to new systems. After these
+excursions, I returned to the family meals, to’d the children stories
+(they think me _vastly_ agreeable) and my sister was amused.—Well, will
+you allow me to call this way of passing my days pleasant?
+
+I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say
+all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation
+for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, lest my sister should
+try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I
+am determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but
+let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do any thing of consequence,
+that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my
+purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In
+the course of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some
+experience, and felt many _severe_ disappointments—and what is the
+amount? I long for a little peace and _independence_! Every obligation
+we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our
+native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not
+fond of grovelling!
+
+                                                   I am, sir, yours, &c.
+                                               MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER III.
+
+                                            Market Harborough, Sept. 20.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+You left me with three opulent tradesmen; their conversation was not
+calculated to beguile the way, when the sable curtain concealed the
+beauties of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and shrunk away
+without wishing to grow rich; even the novelty of the subjects did not
+render them pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in all their
+different forms—I was not surprised by any glimpse of the sublime or
+beautiful—though one of them imagined I should be a useful partner in a
+good _firm_. I was very much fatigued, and have scarcely recovered
+myself. I do not expect to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley
+afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful
+emotions are complicated with the reflections they give rise to.
+
+I do not intend to enter on the _old_ topic, yet hope to hear from
+you—and am yours, &c.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                               LETTER IV.
+
+                                                           Friday Night.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Though your remarks are generally judicious—I cannot _now_ concur with
+you, I mean with respect to the preface[12], and have not altered it. I
+hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule
+_only_ extends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious who
+may peruse my book, will not feel themselves hurt—and the weak are too
+vain to mind what is said in a book intended for children.
+
+Footnote 12:
+
+  To Original Stories.
+
+I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily imagine that I am
+indolent. I would not spare any labour to do my duty—and after the most
+laborious day, that single thought would solace me more than any
+pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the MS.
+well. If it was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated; but
+the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a
+stumbling-block at the first setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing
+I cannot do well—and I should loose time in the vain attempt.
+
+I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter from
+my poor, dear Margaret[13]. With all the mother’s fondness I could
+transcribe a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me, and
+dependence on heaven increase, &c.—I miss her innocent caresses—and
+sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my
+childless age—if I am to live to be old. At any rate, I may hear of the
+virtues I may not contemplate—and my reason may permit me to love a
+female. I now allude to ——. I have received another letter from her, and
+her childish complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual, good-night.
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the
+stories; for, what are books, compared to conversations which affection
+inforces!—
+
+Footnote 13:
+
+  Countess Mount Cashel.
+
+
+                               LETTER V.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Remember you are to settle _my account_, as I want to know how much I am
+in your debt—but do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that
+score. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me
+for a like civility, _but you were a man_ before you were a
+bookseller—so I am your sincere friend,
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                               LETTER VI.
+
+                                                         Friday Morning.
+
+I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head against
+the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from
+self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with
+myself, and I will tell you the cause. You may recollect that I did not
+mention to you the circumstance of —— having a fortune left to him; nor
+did a hint of it dropt from me when I conversed with my sister; because
+I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when
+his character was aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of
+vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the
+same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, last
+Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s gave Mrs. —— an account
+of it. As Mr. —— knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush to
+think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning
+came (not to reproach me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury I
+have done him. Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse him,
+if I deny myself the necessaries of life—and even then my folly will
+sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at this moment
+endure—that I, whose power of doing good is so limited, should do harm,
+galls my very soul. **** may laugh at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——
+to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely it is hell to despise
+one’s self! I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have
+many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this
+month, nor stir out. My stomach has been so suddenly and violently
+affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER VII.
+
+As I am become a reviewer, I think it right in the way of business, to
+consider the subject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as
+the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly shews. The Critical
+appears to be a timid, mean production, and its success is a reflection
+on the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who ever gave
+it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice of truth,
+when some man of abilities has had time to get fast hold of the GREAT
+NOSE of the monster. Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and
+dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amusement,
+though every article almost wants energy and a _cant_ of virtue and
+liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to
+established fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of
+admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the sustenance of
+the body by enfeebling the mind!
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                              LETTER VIII.
+
+You made me very low-spirited last night, by your manner of talking.—You
+are my only friend—the only person I am _intimate_ with.—I never had a
+father, or a brother—you have been both to me, ever since I knew you—yet
+I have sometimes been very petulant.—I have been thinking of those
+instances of ill humour and quickness, and they appeared like crimes.
+
+                                                       Yours sincerely
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                               LETTER IX.
+
+                                                         Saturday Night.
+
+I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
+suggestions of reason. Your note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and
+produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent
+tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was
+more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the
+morning I have grown delirious.—Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined
+—— was thrown into great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist
+him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of
+irritation—I suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary—and
+might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blushed when I
+recollect how often I had teazed you with childish complaints, and the
+reveries of a disordered imagination. I even _imagined_ that I intruded
+on you, because you never called on me—though you perceived that I was
+not well.—I have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gives me
+many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest—and often
+a frightful dream—yet catch myself every day searching for something
+serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment. I am a strange
+compound of weakness and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will
+endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my
+mind—my wayward heart creates its own misery—Why I am made thus I cannot
+tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence, I
+must be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be
+tired of it as soon as I get it.
+
+We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has
+lost its bells, and grown so heavy, I find it intolerably
+troublesome.——Goodnight! I have been pursuing a number of strange
+thoughts since I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed
+immoderately—Surely I am a fool—
+
+                                                                 MARY W.
+
+
+                               LETTER X.
+
+                                                         Monday Morning.
+
+I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that
+language——and I will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am
+persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an independence, and
+render myself useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind
+with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away. I see the necessity of
+labouring now—and of that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,
+I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to pursue
+knowledge, and draw my pleasures from the employments that are within my
+reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment
+particularly grateful to you—without your humane and _delicate_
+assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had to encounter—too
+often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom
+I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a
+being I respect.—Adieu!
+
+                                                                 MARY W.
+
+
+                               LETTER XI.
+
+I thought you _very_ unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares
+and vexations, I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as
+they arise from disinterestedness and _unbending_ principles; nor can
+that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables
+me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not
+the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with
+various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present
+comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose, you
+would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that
+wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have
+done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference cold in wisdom’s
+guise,”—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never
+disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a
+practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am
+ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking of
+getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—the
+struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a
+disagreeable way.
+
+Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for
+calling[14]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house
+before it occured to me in the strong light it does now, or I should
+have told him so.—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a
+superficial puppy—His intimacy with Miss —— gave him a privilege, which
+he should not have assumed with me—a proposal might be made to his
+cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me.
+Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wish to see him again——When
+I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull
+him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body—but it shall
+never bend to support that body—God of heaven, save thy child from this
+living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very
+sick—sick at heart.—
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+Footnote 14:
+
+  This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary
+  considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to
+  recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are
+  addressed to the gentleman himself.
+
+
+                              LETTER XII.
+
+                                                        Tuesday Evening.
+
+ SIR,
+
+When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—your _officious_
+message, which at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like an
+insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the necessity of forcing a
+smile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of
+informing you of my sentiments.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER XIII.
+
+                                                   Wednesday, 3 o’clock.
+
+ SIR,
+
+It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a
+subject, that has already raised a tumult of _indignant_ emotions in my
+bosom, which I was labouring to suppress when I received your letter. I
+shall now _condescend_ to answer your epistle; but let me first tell
+you, that, in my _unprotected_ situation, I make a point of never
+forgiving a _deliberate insult_—and in that light I consider your late
+officious conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters—I
+will then tell you in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered
+you in the light of a _civil_ acquaintance—on the word friend I lay a
+peculiar emphasis—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and
+_cruel_, to step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and
+misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr. Johnson, had made the
+proposal—I should have been severely hurt—have thought him unkind and
+unfeeling, but not _impertinent_. The privilege of intimacy you had no
+claim to, and should have referred the man to myself—if you had not
+sufficient discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and
+destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will never bend, or take indirect
+methods, to obtain the consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it
+was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the struggle would soon
+be over. I can bear any thing but my own contempt.
+
+In a few words, what I call an insult, is the bare supposition that I
+could for a moment think of _prostituting_ my person for a maintenance;
+for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who
+consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local
+opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and
+understanding.
+
+It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse me when I add, that I
+wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so
+grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary—if you were
+inclined to make one—nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I
+cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to
+respect poverty, even where it gives lustre to a character——and I tell
+you sir, I am poor, yet can live without your benevolent exertions.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER XIV.
+
+I send you _all_ the books I had to review except Dr. J——’s Sermons,
+which I have begun. If you wish me to look over any more trash this
+month, you must send it directly. I have been so low-spirited since I
+saw you—I was quite glad, last night, to feel myself affected by some
+passages in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I seemed
+(suddenly) to _find_ my _soul_ again. It has been for some time I cannot
+tell where. Send me the Speaker, and _Mary_, I want one, and I shall
+soon want for some paper—you may as well send it at the same time, for I
+am trying to brace my nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid
+reason is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning a long time with
+my untoward spirits, and yet my hand trembles. I could finish a period
+very _prettily_ now, by saying that it ought to be steady when I add
+that I am yours sincerely,
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—’s s—— on his
+wife, be it known unto you—I _will_ not do it any other way—I felt some
+pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the memory of a man—who,
+spite of all his faults, I have an affection for—I say _have_, for I
+believe he is somewhere—_where_ my soul has been gadding perhaps;—but
+_you_ do not live on conjectures.
+
+
+                               LETTER XV.
+
+My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am pleased with, now I see it
+in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope
+you will not have often to say—what does this mean?
+
+You forgot you were to make out my account, I am, of course, over head
+and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes some
+dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On the contrary, when I
+involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully
+recollect that I have received unexpected kindness from you and a few
+others. So reason allows, what nature impels me to—for I cannot live
+without loving my fellow creatures—nor can I love them, without
+discovering some virtue.
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                              LETTER XVI.
+
+                                               Paris, December 26, 1792.
+
+I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have
+thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
+wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with
+blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention
+to prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not
+dare to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was
+not mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning
+home with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine
+o’clock this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently
+along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered
+the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the
+national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve
+their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements
+were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an
+insulting gesture. For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to
+the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so
+perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why,
+but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes,
+when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his
+character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his
+race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me,
+entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most
+flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity
+overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
+since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images
+that have filled my imagination all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity
+me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes
+glare through a glass-door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at
+me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are
+remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in
+an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another. I wish I had
+even kept the cat with me!—I want to see something alive; death in so
+many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed—and,
+for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.
+
+                                                                   M. W.
+
+
+                                 FINIS.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ 1. P. 133, the first character in “_are” failed to print. Added “c” to
+      make it “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these
+      springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days
+      browned by _c_are!”
+ 2. P. 147, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.
+ 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
+      spelling.
+ 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+ 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67847 ***
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-<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, by Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>

-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and

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-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online

-at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you

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-country where you are located before using this eBook.

-</div>

-

-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>

-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>

-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 15, 2022 [eBook #67847]</p>

-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>

-  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p>

-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN ***</div>

-

-<div class='tnotes covernote'>

-

-<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>

-

-<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>

-

-</div>

-

-<div  class='figcenter id001'>

-<img src='images/i_frontispiece.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />

-<div class='ic001'>

-<p><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</span></p>

-</div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='titlepage'>

-

-<div>

-  <h1 class='c001'>MEMOIRS<br /> <span class='small'>AND</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>POSTHUMOUS WORKS</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF</span><br /> <span class='large'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>AUTHOR</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF A</span><br /> <span class='large'>VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.</span><br /> <span class='small'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</span><br /> <br /> <span class='xlarge'>VOL. I.</span></h1>

-</div>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-<div class='nf-center c002'>

-    <div>DUBLIN:</div>

-    <div class='c003'><em>Printed by Thomas Burnside</em>,</div>

-    <div><span class='small'>FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.</span></div>

-    <div class='c003'>1798.</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-</div>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS<br /> <span class='large'>OF VOL. I.</span></h2>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-b c002'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Memoirs'>Memoirs.</a></em></div>

-    </div>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Letters'>Letters.</a></em></div>

-    </div>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><em><a href='#French'>Letter on the present Character of the French Nation.</a></em></div>

-    </div>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Infants'>Letter on the Management of Infants.</a></em></div>

-    </div>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Johnson'>Letters to Mr. Johnson.</a></em></div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>

-  <h2 id='Memoirs' class='c004'>MEMOIRS.</h2>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c005'>CHAP. I.<br /> <span class='large'>1759–1775.</span></h3>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>It has always appeared to me, that to give to

-the public some account of the life of a person

-of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent

-on survivors. It seldom happens that such a person

-passes through life, without being the subject

-of thoughtless calumny, or malignant misrepresentation.

-It cannot happen that the public at

-large should be on a footing with their intimate

-acquaintance, and be the observer of those virtues

-which discover themselves principally in personal

-intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind

-is more or less influenced by a liberal passion

-for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to

-these benefactors, when they assert and establish

-on their part, the honour they loved. The justice

-which is thus done to the illustrious dead,

-converts into the fairest source of animation and

-encouragement to those who would follow them

-in the same career. The human species at large

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>is interested in this justice, as it teaches them to

-place their respect and affection, upon those qualities

-which best deserve to be esteemed and loved.

-I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that

-the more fully we are presented with the picture

-and story of such persons as are the subject of the

-following narrative, the more generally shall we

-feel in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and

-a sympathy in their excellencies. There are not

-many individuals with whose character the public

-welfare and improvement are more intimately

-connected, than the author of A Vindication of

-the Rights of Woman.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The facts detailed in the following pages, are

-principally taken from the mouth of the person

-to whom they relate; and of the veracity and ingenuousness

-of her habits, perhaps no one that

-was ever acquainted with her, entertains a doubt.

-The writer of this narrative, when he has met

-with persons, that in any degree created to themselves

-an interest and attachment in his mind, has

-always felt a curiosity to be acquainted with the

-scenes through which they had passed, and the

-incidents that had contributed to form their understandings

-and character. Impelled by this sentiment,

-he repeatedly led the conversation of

-Mary to topics of this sort; and, once or twice,

-he made notes in her presence, of a few dates

-calculated to arrange the circumstances in his

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>mind. To the materials thus collected, he has

-added an industrious enquiry among the persons

-most intimately acquainted with her at the different

-periods of her life.</p>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of

-April 1759. Her father’s name was Edward

-John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of

-the family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom

-of Ireland: her paternal grandfather was a

-respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is

-supposed to have left to his son a property of

-10,000l. Three of her brothers and two sisters

-are still living; their names, Edward, James,

-Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward

-only was older than herself; he resides in London.

-James is in Paris, and Charles in or near Philadelphia

-in America. Her sisters have for some

-years been engaged in the office of governesses in

-private families, and are both at present in Ireland.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was

-bred to any profession; but, about the time of her

-birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an amusement

-than a business, to the occupation of farming.

-He was of a very active, and somewhat versatile

-disposition, and so frequently changed his

-abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>of her birth. She told me, that the doubt in her

-mind in that respect, lay between London, and a

-farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal

-scene of the five first years of her life.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some

-portion of that exquisite sensibility, soundness of

-understanding, and decision of character, which

-were the leading features of her mind through the

-whole course of her life. She experienced in the

-first period of her existence, but few of those indulgences

-and marks of affection, which are principally

-calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows

-of our early years. She was not the favourite

-either of her father or mother. Her father

-was a man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject

-to alternate fits of kindness and cruelty. In

-his family he was a despot, and his wife appears

-to have been the first, and most submissive of his

-subjects. The mother’s partiality was fixed upon

-the eldest son, and her system of government relative

-to Mary, was characterized by considerable

-rigour. She, at length, became convinced of

-her mistake, and adopted a different plan with

-her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs

-of Woman, Mary speaks of “the petty cares

-which obscured the morning of her heroine’s life;

-continual restraint in the most trivial matters;

-unconditional submission to orders, which, as a

-mere child, she soon discovered to be unreasonable,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>because inconsistent and contradictory; and

-the being obliged often to sit, in the presence of

-her parents, for three or four hours together,

-without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe,

-to be considered as copying the outline of the first

-period of her own existence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But it was in vain that the blighting winds of

-unkindness or indifference, seemed destined to

-counteract the superiority of Mary’s mind. It

-surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees,

-from a person little considered in the family, she

-became in some sort its director and umpire.

-The despotism of her education cost her many a

-heart-ache. She was not formed to be the contented

-and unresisting subject of a despot; but I

-have heard her remark more than once, that,

-when she felt she had done wrong, the reproof or

-chastisement of her mother, instead of being a terror

-to her, she found to be the only thing capable

-of reconciling her to herself. The blows of

-her father on the contrary, which were the mere

-ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of humbling

-her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions

-she felt her superiority, and was apt to betray

-marks of contempt. The quickness of her

-father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten

-similar violence towards his wife. When that

-was the case, Mary would often throw herself

-between the despot and his victim, with the purpose

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>to receive upon her own person the blows

-that might be directed against her mother. She

-has even laid whole nights upon the landing-place

-near their chamber-door, when, mistakenly, or

-with reason, she apprehended that her father

-might break out into paroxysms of violence. The

-conduct he held towards the members of his family,

-was of the same kind as that he observed towards

-animals. He was for the most part extravagantly

-fond of them; but, when he was displeased,

-and this frequently happened, and for

-very trivial reasons, his anger was alarming.

-Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have called,

-“a very good hater.” In some instance of passion

-exercised by her father to one of his dogs, she

-was accustomed to speak of her emotions of abhorrence,

-as having risen to agony. In a word,

-her conduct during her girlish years, was such,

-as to extort some portion of affection from her

-mother, and to hold her father in considerable

-awe.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In one respect, the system of education of the

-mother appears to have had merit. All her children

-were vigorous and healthy. This seems

-very much to depend upon the management of

-our infant years. It is affirmed by some persons

-of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the

-sciences of health and disease, that there is no period

-of human life so little subject to mortality as

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>the period of infancy. Yet, from the mismanagement

-to which children are exposed, many

-of the diseases of childhood are rendered fatal, and

-more persons die in that, than in any other period

-of human life. Mary had projected a work upon

-this subject, which she had carefully considered,

-and well understood. She has indeed left a specimen

-of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,

-three years and a half old, who is a singular

-example of vigorous constitution and florid health.

-Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of Soho-square,

-whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised

-to revise her production. This is but one

-out of numerous projects of activity and usefulness,

-which her untimely death has fatally terminated.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The rustic situation in which Mary had spent

-her infancy, no doubt contributed to confirm the

-stamina of her constitution. She sported in the

-open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing

-scenes of nature, for which she always retained

-the most exquisite relish. Dolls and the other

-amusements usually appropriated to female children,

-she held in contempt; and felt a much

-greater propensity to join in the active and hardy

-sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to

-those of her own sex.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>About the time that Mary completed the fifth

-year of her age, her father removed to a small

-distance from his former habitation, and took a

-farm near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest,

-a little way out of the Chelmsford road. In

-Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his

-residence, and occupied a convenient house behind

-the town of Barking in Essex, eight miles from

-London. In this situation some of their nearest

-neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire,

-successively member of parliament for several boroughs,

-and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.

-Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot;

-but his brother was almost a constant inhabitant,

-and his family in habits of the most frequent intercourse

-with the family of Mary. Here Mr.

-Wollstonecraft remained for three years. In September

-1796, I accompanied my wife on a visit to

-this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility,

-the scenes of her childhood. We found

-the house uninhabited, and the garden in a wild

-and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance

-with the market-place, the streets, and the wharf,

-the latter of which we found crowded with barges,

-and full of activity.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft

-again removed to a farm near Beverly in Yorkshire.

-Here the family remained for six years,

-and consequently, Mary did not quit this residence,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>till she had attained the age of fifteen years and

-five months. The principal part of her school

-education passed during this period: but it was

-not to any advantage of infant literature, that she

-was indebted for her subsequent eminence; her

-education in this respect was merely such, as

-was afforded by the day-schools of the place, in

-which she resided. To her recollections Beverly

-appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by

-genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly.

-She was surprized, when she visited it in 1795,

-upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality

-so very much below the picture in her imagination.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer;

-but the restlessness of his disposition would

-not suffer him to content himself with the occupation

-in which for some years he had been engaged,

-and the temptation of a commercial speculation

-of some sort being held out to him, he

-removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton

-near London, for the purpose of its execution.

-Here he remained for a year and a half; but, being

-frustrated in his expectations of profit, he,

-after that term, gave up the project in which he

-was engaged, and returned to his former pursuits.

-During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of

-these memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting

-college in that place. It is perhaps a question

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>of curious speculation to enquire, what would

-have been the amount of the difference in the

-pursuits and enjoyments of each party, if they

-had met, and considered each other with the same

-distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards

-impressed with in the year 1796. The

-writer had then completed the twentieth, and

-Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which

-would have been predominant; the disadvantages

-of obscurity, and the pressure of a family; or the

-gratifications and improvement that might have

-flowed from their intercourse?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this

-time was a Mr. Clare, who inhabited the next

-house to that which was tenanted by her father,

-and to whom she was probably in some degree

-indebted for the early cultivation of her mind.

-Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have

-been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his

-person he was deformed and delicate; and his

-figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of

-the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry,

-and was not destitute of taste. His manners

-were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,

-the demonstrations of which appeared to have

-been somewhat too artificially cultivated. His

-habits were those of a perfect recluse. He seldom

-went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to

-a friend of Mary a pair of shoes, which had served

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary frequently

-spent days and weeks together, at the house of

-Mr. Clare.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. II.<br /> <span class='large'>1775–1783.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>But a connection more memorable originated

-about this time, between Mary and a person of

-her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship

-so fervent, as for years to have constituted

-the ruling passion of her mind. The name of

-this person was Frances Blood; she was two years

-older than Mary. Her residence was at that time

-at Newington Butts, a village near the southern

-extremity of the metropolis; and the original instrument

-for bringing these two friends acquainted,

-was Mrs. Clare, wife of the gentleman already

-mentioned, who was on a footing of considerable

-intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance

-of Fanny, like that of Mr. Clare, contributed

-to ripen the immature talents of Mary.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The situation in which Mary was introduced

-to her, bore a resemblance to the first interview

-of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted

-to the door of a small house, but furnished with

-peculiar neatness and propriety. The first object

-that caught her sight, was a young woman of a

-slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>age, busily employed in feeding and managing

-some children, born of the same parents, but

-considerably inferior to her in age. The impression

-Mary received from this spectacle was indelible;

-and, before the interview was concluded,

-she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal

-friendship.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments.

-She sung and played with taste.

-She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and

-by the employment of this talent, for some time

-maintained her father, mother, and family, but

-ultimately ruined her health by her extraordinary

-exertions. She read and wrote with considerable

-application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate

-propriety followed her in these, as in her

-other occupations.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl

-of sixteen, contemplated Fanny, in the first instance,

-with sentiments of inferiority and reverence.

-Though they were much together, yet,

-the distance of their habitation being considerable,

-they supplied the want of more frequent interviews

-by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found

-Fanny’s letters better spelt and better indited than

-her own, and felt herself abashed. She had hitherto

-paid but a superficial attention to literature.

-She had read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>thirst of knowledge; but she had not

-thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to

-excel was now awakened, and she applied herself

-with passion and earnestness. Fanny undertook

-to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy

-and method, her lessons were given with

-considerable skill.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It has already been mentioned that in the spring

-of the year 1776, Mr. Wollstonecroft quitted his

-situation at Hoxton, and returned to his former

-agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which

-he now fixed was in Wales, a circumstance that

-was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s darling spirit

-of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the

-Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family

-of a Mr. Allen, two of whose daughters are since

-married to the two elder sons of the celebrated

-English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence

-for little more than a year. He returned to

-the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose

-spirit of independence was unalterable, had influence

-enough to determine his choice in favour of

-the village of Walworth, that she might be near

-her chosen friend. It was probably before this,

-that she has once or twice started the idea of quitting

-her parental roof, and providing for herself.

-But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>and conditions were stipulated with her, relative

-to her having an apartment in the house that

-should be exclusively her own, and her commanding

-the other requisites of study. She did not

-however think herself fairly treated in these instances,

-and either the conditions abovementioned,

-or some others, were not observed in the sequel,

-with the fidelity she expected. In one case,

-she had procured an eligible situation, and every

-thing was settled respecting her removal to it,

-when the intreaties and tears of her mother led her

-to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon

-the engagement.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>These however were only temporary delays.

-Her propensities continued the same, and the motives

-by which she was instigated were unabated.

-In the year 1778, she being nineteen years of age,

-a proposal was made to her of living as a companion

-with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady,

-with one son already adult. Upon enquiry she

-found that Mrs. Dawson was a woman of great

-peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great

-variety of companions in succession, and that no

-one had found it practicable to continue with her.

-Mary was not discouraged by this information,

-and accepted the situation, with a resolution that

-she would effect in this respect, what none of her

-predecessors had been able to do. In the sequel

-she had reason to consider the account she had received

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>as sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax

-in her endeavours. By method, constancy

-and firmness, she found the means of making her

-situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally

-confess, that Mary was the only person

-that had lived with her in that situation, in her

-treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for

-two years, and only left her, summoned by the

-melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly

-declining health. True to the calls of humanity,

-Mary felt in this intelligence an irresistible motive,

-and eagerly returned to the paternal roof which

-she had before resolutely quitted. The residence

-of her father at this time, was at Enfield near

-London. He had, I believe, given up agriculture

-from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing

-that he now made it less a source of profit

-than loss, and being thought advisable that he

-should rather live upon the interest of his property

-already in possession.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering,

-but hopeless. Mary was assiduous in her attendance

-upon her mother. At first, every attention

-was received with acknowledgements and

-gratitude; but, as the attentions grew habitual,

-and the health of the mother more and more

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>wretched, they were rather exacted, than received.

-Nothing would be taken by the unfortunate

-patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was

-denied night or day, and by the time nature was

-exhausted in the parent, the daughter was qualified

-to assume her place, and become in turn herself

-a patient. The last words her mother ever

-uttered were, “A little patience, and all will be

-over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to

-by Mary in the course of her writings.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary

-bid a final adieu to the roof of her father. According

-to my memorandum, I find her next the

-inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village

-of Fulham. Upon what plan they now lived

-together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not

-that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional

-burthen upon the industry of her friend.

-Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they approached

-more nearly to a footing of equality;

-and their attachment became more rooted and active.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary was ever ready at the call of distress,

-and, in particular, during her whole life was eager

-and active to promote the welfare of every

-member of her family. In 1780 she attended the

-death-bed of her mother; in 1782 she was summoned

-by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop,

-who, subsequently to a dangerous lying-in, remained

-for some months in a very afflicting situation.

-Mary continued with her sister without intermission,

-to her perfect recovery.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. III.<br /> <span class='large'>1783–1785.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth

-year of her age. Her project, five years before,

-had been personal independence; it was now usefulness.

-In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s

-illness, and during the subsequent convalescence,

-she had leisure to ruminate upon purposes

-of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek

-something more arduous than the mere removal of

-personal vexations; and the sensibility of her

-heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.

-The derangement of her father’s affairs

-daily became more and more glaring; and

-a small independent provision made for herself

-and her sisters appears to have been sacrificed in

-the wreck. For ten years, from 1782 to 1792,

-she may be said to have been, in a great degree,

-the victim of a desire to promote the benefit of

-others. She did not foresee the severe disappointment

-with which an exclusive purpose of this sort

-is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay

-a stress upon the consequent gratitude of those she

-benefited; and she did not sufficiently consider

-that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>interests and society of others, we acquire a more

-exquisite sense of their defects, and are tormented

-with their untractableness and folly.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The project upon which she now determined,

-was no other than that of a day-school, to be superintended

-by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two

-sisters.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>They accordingly opened one in the year 1783,

-at the village of Islington; but in the course of a

-few months removed it to Newington Green.

-Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced

-the future events of her life. The first of

-these in her own estimation was Dr. Richard

-Price, well known for his political and mathematical

-calculations, and universally esteemed by

-those who knew him, for the simplicity of his

-manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The

-regard conceived by these two persons for each

-other, was mutual, and partook of a spirit of the

-purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the

-principles of the church of England, but her esteem

-for this venerable preacher led her occasionally

-to attend upon his public instructions. Her

-religion was, in reality, little allied to any system

-of forms; and, as she has often told me, was

-founded rather in taste, than in the niceties of polemical

-discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached

-itself to the sublime and the amiable. She

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>found an inexpressible delight in the beauties of

-nature, and in the splendid reveries of the imagination.

-But nature itself, she thought, would be

-no better than a vast blank, if the mind of the observer

-did not supply it with an animating soul.

-When she walked amidst the wonders of nature,

-she was accustomed to converse with her God.

-To her mind he was pictured as not less amiable,

-generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted.

-In fact, she had received few lessons of religion in

-her youth, and her religion was almost entirely of

-her own creation. But she was not on that account

-the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous

-in discharging what she considered as its duties.

-She could not recollect the time when she had believed

-the doctrine of future punishments. The

-tenets of her system were the growth of her own

-moral taste, and her religion therefore had always

-been a gratification, never a terror to her. She

-expected a future state; but she would not allow

-her ideas of that future state to be modified by the

-notions of judgment and retribution. From this

-sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure

-she took in an occasional attendance upon the sermons

-of Dr. Price, was not accompanied with a

-superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact

-is, that, so far down as the year 1787, she regularly

-frequented public worship, for the most part

-according to the forms of the church of England.

-After that period her attendance became less constant,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>and in no long time was wholly discontinued.

-I believe it may be admitted as a maxim,

-that no person of a well furnished mind, that has

-shaken off the implicit subjection of youth, and

-is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can bring

-himself to conform to the public and regular routine

-of sermons and prayers.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Another of the friends she acquired at this period,

-was Mrs. Burgh, widow of the author of

-the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally

-well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her

-benevolence. Mary, whenever she had occasion

-to allude to her, to the last period of her life, paid

-the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining

-friend necessary to be enumerated in this place,

-is the Rev. John Hewlet, now master of a Boarding-school

-at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I

-shall have occasion to mention hereafter.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have already said that Fanny’s health had

-been materially injured by her incessant labours

-for the maintenance of her family. She had also

-suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon

-her mind. To these different sources of ill health

-she became gradually a victim: and at length

-discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption.

-By the medical men that attended

-her, she was advised to try the effects of a southern

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>climate; and, about the beginning of the

-year 1785, sailed for Lisbon.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated

-her friend, was a sentiment of inferiority

-and reverence; but that, from the operation

-of a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably

-changed. Fanny had originally been far before

-her in literary attainments; this disparity no

-longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might

-endeavour to free herself from the delusions of

-self-esteem, this period of observation upon her

-own mind and that of her friend, could not pass,

-without her perceiving that there were some essential

-characteristics of genius, which she possessed,

-and in which her friend was deficient. The

-principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable

-greatness of soul, by which, after a

-short internal struggle, she was accustomed to

-rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever

-Mary undertook, she perhaps in all instances accomplished;

-and, to her lofty spirit, scarcely

-any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform.

-Fanny, on the contrary, was a woman of a timid

-and irresolute nature, accustomed to yield to

-difficulties, and probably priding herself in this

-morbid softness of her temper. One instance

-that I have heard Mary relate of this sort, was,

-that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with

-her domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>to have a home of her own. Mary, who felt nothing

-more pressing than to relieve the inconveniencies

-of her friend, determined to accomplish

-this object for her. It cost her infinite exertions;

-but at length she was able to announce to Fanny

-that a house was prepared, and that she was on

-the spot to receive her. The answer which

-Fanny returned to the letter of her friend, consisted

-almost wholly of an enumeration of objections

-to the quitting her family, which she had

-not thought of before, but which now appeared

-to her of considerable weight.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The judgment which experience had taught

-Mary to form of the mind of her friend, determined

-her in the advice she gave, at the period to

-which I have brought down the story. Fanny

-was recommended to seek a softer climate, but

-she had no funds to defray the expence of such an

-undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of

-Dublin, but then resident in the kingdom of Portugal,

-paid his addresses to her. The state of her

-health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford

-the shadow of a hope; it was not therefore a

-time at which it was most obvious to think of

-marriage. She conceived however that nothing

-should be omitted, which might alleviate, if it

-could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy

-acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly

-made the voyage to Lisbon; and the marriage

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>took place on the twenty-fourth of February

-1785.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The change of climate and situation was productive

-of little benefit; and the life of Fanny was

-only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which

-soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time,

-was impressed with the idea that her friend would

-die in this distant country; and, shocked with the

-recollection of her separation from the circle of her

-friends, determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend

-her. This resolution was treated by her acquaintance

-as in the utmost degree visionary; but

-she was not to be diverted from her point. She

-had not money to defray her expences: she must

-quit for a long time the school, the very existence

-of which probably depended upon her exertions.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>No person was ever better formed for the business

-of education; if it be not a sort of absurdity

-to speak of a person as formed for an inferior object,

-who is in possession of talents, in the fullest

-degree adequate to something on a more important

-and comprehensive scale. Mary had a quickness

-of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies,

-but which led her to imagine that she

-saw the mind of the person with whom she had

-any transaction, and to refer the principle of her

-approbation or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>of their sentiments. She was occasionally

-severe and imperious in her resentments; and,

-when she strongly disapproved, was apt to express

-her censure in terms that gave a very humiliating

-sensation to the person against whom it was directed.

-Her displeasure however never assumed

-its severest form, but when it was barbed by disappointment.

-Where she expected little, she was

-not very rigid in her censure of error.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But, to whatever the defects of her temper

-might amount, they were never exercised upon

-her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to

-make use of an ungenerous advantage, or to

-wound the defenceless. To her servants there

-never was a mistress more considerate or more

-kind. With children she was the mirror of patience.

-Perhaps, in all her extensive experience

-upon the subject of education, she never betrayed

-one symptom of irascibility. Her heart was the

-seat of every benevolent feeling; and accordingly,

-in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness

-and sympathy alone that prompted her conduct.

-Sympathy, when it mounts to a certain

-height, inevitably begets affection in the person

-to whom it is exercised; and I have heard her

-say, that she never was concerned in the education

-of one child, who was not personally attached to

-her, and earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure.

-Another eminent advantage she possessed

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>in the business of education, was that she

-was little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty.

-She saw, as it were by intuition, the path which

-her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm

-confidence in her own power to effect what she

-desired. Yet, with all this, she had scarcely a

-tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched

-symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments;

-and governed herself accordingly.

-While I thus enumerate her more than maternal

-qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the

-recollection of her orphan children!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her

-from the journey to Lisbon, she found among

-them a willingness to facilitate the execution of

-her project, when it was once fixed. Mrs.

-Burgh in particular, supplied her with money,

-which however she always conceived came from

-Dr. Price. This loan, I have reason to believe,

-was faithfully repaid.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It was during her residence at Newington Green,

-that she was introduced to the acquaintance of

-Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as

-in some sort the father of English literature. The

-doctor treated her with particular kindness and

-attention, had a long conversation with her, and

-desired her to repeat her visit often. This she

-firmly purposed to do; but the news of his last

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>illness, and then of his death, intervened to prevent

-her making a second visit.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived

-but a short time before her friend was prematurely

-delivered, and the event was fatal to

-both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto

-the chosen object of Mary’s attachment, died on

-the 29th of November, 1785.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters

-from Norway, written ten years after her decease.

-“When a warm heart has received strong impressions,

-they are not to be effaced. Emotions

-become sentiments; and the imagination renders

-even transient sensations permanent, by fondly retracing

-them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight,

-recollect views I have seen, which are not

-to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every

-nerve, which I shall never more meet. The

-grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of

-my youth; still she is present with me, and I

-hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the

-heath.”</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IV.<br /> <span class='large'>1785–1787.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably

-to enlarge the understanding of Mary.

-She was admitted into the best company the English

-factory afforded. She made many profound

-observations on the character of the natives, and

-the baleful effects of superstition. The obsequies

-of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by

-stealth and in darkness, tended to invigorate these

-observations in her mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>She sailed upon her voyage home about the

-twentieth of December. On this occasion a circumstance

-occurred, that deserves to be recorded.

-While they were on their passage, they fell in

-with a French vessel, in great distress, and in

-daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same

-time that it was almost destitute of provisions.

-The Frenchman hailed them, and intreated the

-English captain, in consideration of his melancholy

-situation, to take him and his crew on board.

-The Englishman represented in reply, that his

-stock of provisions was by no means adequate to

-such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>refused compliance. Mary, shocked at

-his apparent insensibility, took up the cause of

-the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have

-him called to a severe account, when he arrived

-in England. She finally prevailed, and had the

-satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in

-question possibly owed their lives to her interposition.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>When she arrived in England, she found that

-her school had suffered considerably in her absence.

-It can be little reproach to any one, to

-say that they were found incapable of supplying

-her place. She not only excelled in the management

-of the children, but had also the talent of

-being attentive and obliging to the parents, without

-degrading herself.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The period at which I am now arrived is important,

-as conducting to the first step of her literary

-career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned

-literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary

-produce, and had urged her to make trial

-of the truth of his judgment. At this time she

-was desirous of assisting the father and mother of

-Fanny in an object they had in view, the transporting

-themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,

-what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready

-to take on herself to effect. For this purpose

-she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one hundred

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education

-of Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from

-the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St. Paul’s Church

-Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,

-which she immediately applied to the

-object for the sake of which the pamphlet was

-written.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the

-affair of the school. She was dissatisfied with

-the different appearance it presented upon her return,

-from the state in which she left it. Experience

-impressed upon her a rooted aversion to

-that sort of cohabitation with her sisters, which

-the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation

-is a point of delicate experiment, and is, in a

-majority of instances, pregnant with ill humour

-and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit

-of adventure which characterized Mary, were

-not felt in an equal degree by her sisters, so that

-a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant

-upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the

-other hand, they could scarcely perhaps be perfectly

-easy, in observing the superior degree of

-deference and courtship, which her merit extorted

-from almost every one that knew her. Her kindness

-for them was not diminished, but she resolved

-that the mode of its exertion in future should

-be different, tending to their benefit, without intrenching

-upon her own liberty.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her,

-such as, regarding only the situations through

-which she had lately passed, is usually termed advantageous.

-This was, to accept the office of

-governess to the daughters of Lord Viscount

-Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of Kingston

-of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held

-out to her, were such as she determined to accept,

-at the same time resolving to retain the situation

-only for a short time. Independence was

-the object after which she thirsted, and she was

-fixed to try whether it might not be found in literary

-occupation. She was desirous however first

-to accumulate a small sum of money, which

-should enable her to consider at leisure the different

-literary engagements that might offer, and

-provide in some degree for the eventual deficiency

-of her earliest attempts.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough,

-was offered to her through the medium

-of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the

-under masters of Eton school. She spent some

-time at the house of this gentleman, immediately

-after her giving up the school at Newington

-Green. Here she had an opportunity of making

-an accurate observation upon the manners and

-conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas

-she retained of it were by no means favourable.

-By all that she saw, she was confirmed in a very

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of day-schools,

-where, as she expressed it, “children

-have the opportunity of conversing with children,

-without interfering with domestic affections, the

-foundation of virtue.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Though her residence in the family of Lord

-Kingsborough continued scarcely more than

-twelve months, she left behind her, with them

-and their connections, a very advantageous impression.

-The governesses the young ladies had

-hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,

-controlled in every thing by the mother;

-Mary insisted upon the unbounded exercise of her

-own discretion. When the young ladies heard of

-their governess coming from England, they heard

-in imagination of a new enemy, and declared their

-resolution to guard themselves accordingly. Mary

-however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence,

-and the friendship that soon grew up between

-her and Margaret King, now Countess

-Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon

-degree cordial and affectionate. Mary

-always spoke of this young lady in terms of the

-truest applause, both in relation to the eminence

-of her intellectual powers, and the ingenuous

-amiableness of her disposition. Lady Kingsborough,

-from the best motives, had imposed upon

-her daughters a variety of prohibitions, both as to

-the books they should read, and in many other respects.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>These prohibitions had their usual effects;

-inordinate desire for the things forbidden,

-and clandestine indulgence. Mary immediately

-restored the children to their liberty, and undertook

-to govern them by their affections only. The

-salutary effects of the new system of education

-were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough

-soon felt no other uneasiness than lest the children

-should love their governess better than their mother.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the

-persons who visited Lord Kingsborough’s house,

-for she always appeared there with the air of an

-equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her

-mention the ludicrous distress of a woman of quality,

-whose name I have forgotten, that, in a large

-company, singled out Mary, and entered into a

-long conversation with her. After the conversation

-was over, she enquired whom she had been

-talking with, and found, to her utter mortification

-and dismay, that it was Miss King’s governess.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance,

-whom Mary was accustomed to speak of

-with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,

-member of parliament for the county of Wexford.

-She held his talents in very high estimation; she

-was strongly prepossessed in favour of the goodness

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>of his heart; and she always spoke of him as

-the most perfect gentleman she had ever known.

-She felt the regret of a disappointed friend, at

-the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer

-of the year 1787 at Bristol Hot-Wells, and had

-formed the project of proceeding from thence to

-the Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to

-accompany them. The plan however was ultimately

-given up, and Mary in consequence closed

-her connection with them, earlier than she otherwise

-had purposed to do.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little

-book which bears the title of Mary, a Fiction. A

-considerable part of this story consists, with certain

-modifications, of the incidents of her own

-friendship with Fanny. All the events that do

-not relate to that subject are fictitious.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This little work, if Mary had never produced

-any thing else, would serve, with persons of true

-taste and sensibility, to establish the eminence of

-her genius. The story is nothing. He that

-looks into the book only for incident, will probably

-lay it down with disgust. But the feelings

-are of the truest and most exquisite class; every

-circumstance is adorned with that species of imagination,

-which enlists itself under the banners of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment,

-as it is called, is too often another name for a

-work of affectation. He that should imagine

-that the sentiments of this book are affected,

-would indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. V.<br /> <span class='large'>1787–1790.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Being now determined to enter upon her literary

-plan, Mary came immediately from Bristol

-to the metropolis. Her conduct under this

-circumstance was such as to do credit both to her

-own heart, and that of Mr. Johnson, her publisher,

-between whom and herself there now

-commenced an intimate friendship. She had seen

-him upon occasion of publishing her Thoughts on

-the Education of Daughters, and she addressed

-two or three letters to him during her residence

-in Ireland. Upon her arrival in London in August

-1787, she went immediately to his house,

-and frankly explained to him her purpose, at the

-same time requesting his assistance and advice as to

-its execution. After a short conversation Mr.

-Johnson invited her to make his house her home,

-till she should have suited herself with a fixed residence.

-She accordingly resided at this time two

-or three weeks under his roof. At the same period

-she paid a visit or two of similar duration to

-some friends, at no great distance from the metropolis.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house

-in George-street, on the Surry side of Black Friar’s

-Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for

-her during her excursion into the country. The

-three years immediately ensuing, may be said, in

-the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have

-been the most active period of her life. She

-brought with her to this habitation, the novel of

-Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,

-and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale,

-entitled, the Cave of Fancy, which she thought

-proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am

-told that at this period she appeared under great

-dejection of spirits, and filled with melancholy

-regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A period

-of two years had elapsed since the death of that

-friend; but it was possibly the composition of the

-fiction of Mary, that renewed her sorrows in their

-original force. Soon after entering upon her new

-habitation, she produced a little work, entitled,

-Original Stories from Real Life, intended for the

-use of children. At the commencement of her

-literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement

-aversion to the being regarded, by her

-ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an author,

-and to have employed some precautions to

-prevent its occurrence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The employment which the bookseller suggested

-to her, as the easiest and most certain source of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>pecuniary income, of course, was translation.

-With this view she improved herself in her

-French, with which she had previously but a

-slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and

-German languages. The greater part of her literary

-engagements at this time, were such as

-were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She new-modelled

-and abridged a work, translated from

-the Dutch, entitled, Young Grandison: she began

-a translation from the French, of a book, called,

-the New Robinson; but in this undertaking,

-she was, I believe, anticipated by another translator:

-and she compiled a series of extracts in verse

-and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s

-Speaker, which bears the title of the Female

-Reader; but which, from a cause not worth

-mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different

-name in the title-page.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson

-instituted the Analytical Review, in which

-Mary took a considerable share. She also translated

-Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions;

-made an abridgement of Lavater’s Physiognomy,

-from the French, which has never been

-published; and compressed Salzmann’s Elements

-of Morality, a German production, into a publication

-in three volumes duodecimo. The translation

-of Salzmann produced a correspondence

-between Mary and the author; and he afterwards

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German

-translation of the Rights of Woman. Such were

-her principal literary occupations, from the autumn

-of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort

-of miscellaneous literary employment, seems, for

-the time at least, rather to damp and contract,

-than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The

-writer is accustomed to see his performances answer

-the mere mercantile purpose of the day, and

-confounded with those of persons to whom he is

-secretly conscious of a superiority. No neighbour

-mind serves as a mirror to reflect the generous

-confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps

-the man never yet existed who could maintain his

-enthusiasm to its full vigour, in the midst of this

-kind of solitariness. He is touched with the torpedo

-of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which

-Mary produced during this period, is marked with

-those daring flights, which exhibit themselves in

-the little fiction she composed just before its commencement.

-Among effusions of a nobler cast,

-I find occasionally interspersed some of that homily-language,

-which, to speak from my own feelings,

-is calculated to damp the moral courage, it

-was intended to awaken. This is probably to be

-assigned to the causes above described.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>I have already said that one of the purposes

-which Mary had conceived, a few years before,

-as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise insipid,

-or embittered, draught of human life, was

-usefulness. On this side, the period of her existence

-of which I am now treating, is more brilliant,

-than in any literary view. She determined

-to apply as great a part as possible of the produce

-of her present employments, to the assistance of

-her friends and of the distressed; and, for this

-purpose, laid down to herself rules of the most

-rigid economy. She began with endeavouring to

-promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived

-that there was no situation in which she could

-place them, at once so respectable and agreeable,

-as that of governesses in private families. She

-determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour

-to qualify them for such an undertaking.

-Her younger sister she sent to Paris, where she remained

-near two years. The elder she placed in

-a school near London, first as a parlour-boarder,

-and afterwards as a teacher. Her brother James,

-who had already been at sea, she first took into

-her house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction,

-to qualify him for a respectable situation in

-the royal navy, where he was shortly after made

-a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite

-brother, had been articled to the eldest, an attorney

-in the Minories; but, not being satisfied with

-his situation, she removed him; and in some time

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>after, having first placed him with a farmer for

-instruction, she fitted him out for America, where

-his speculations, founded upon the basis she had

-provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous.

-The reason so much of this parental sort

-of care fell upon her, was, that her father had

-by this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances.

-His affairs having grown too complex

-for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them

-to the management of a near relation; but Mary,

-not being satisfied with the conduct of the business,

-took them into her own hands. The exertions

-she made, and the struggles which she entered

-into however, in this instance, were ultimately

-fruitless. To the day of her death her father

-was almost wholly supported by funds which

-she supplied to him. In addition to her exertions

-for her own family, she took a young girl of about

-seven years of age under her protection and care,

-the niece of Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present

-Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then lately

-dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The period, from the end of the year 1787 to

-the end of the year 1790, though consumed in

-labours of little eclat, served still further to establish

-her in a friendly connection from which she

-derived many pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller,

-contracted a great personal regard for her,

-which resembled in many respects that of a parent.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>As she frequented his house, she of course became

-acquainted with his guests. Among these

-may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,

-Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late

-Mr. George Anderson, accountant to the board

-of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,

-the celebrated painter. Between both of the

-two latter and herself, there existed sentiments of

-genuine affection and friendship.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VI.<br /> <span class='large'>1790–1792.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had

-for the most part, been silent; and had been productive

-of income to herself, without apparently

-leading to the wreath of fame. From this time

-she was destined to attract the notice of the public,

-and perhaps no female writer ever obtained

-so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It cannot be doubted that, while, for three

-years of literary employment, she “held the

-noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was insensibly

-advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The

-uninterrupted habit of composition gave a freedom

-and firmness to the expression of her sentiments.

-The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,

-and enlarged her mind. The French

-revolution, while it gave a fundamental shock to

-the human intellect through every region of the

-globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect

-in the progress of Mary’s reflections. The prejudices

-of her early years suffered a vehement

-concussion. Her respect for establishments was

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>undermined. At this period occurred a misunderstanding

-upon public grounds, with one of her

-early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds

-and exploded absurdities, had been increased, by

-the operation of those very circumstances, by

-which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the

-race of independence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The event, immediately introductory to the

-rank which from this time she held in the lists of

-literature, was the publication of Burke’s Reflections

-on the Revolution in France. This book,

-after having been long promised to the world,

-finally made its appearance on the first of November

-1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty,

-and impressed with a warm interest in the

-struggle that was now going on, seized her pen in

-the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which

-she was strongly susceptible. She was in the habit

-of composing with rapidity, and her answer,

-which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,

-obtained extraordinary notice. Marked

-as it is with the vehemence and impetuousness of

-its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too

-contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the

-great man against whom its attack is directed.

-But this circumstance was not injurious to the success

-of the publication. Burke had been warmly

-loved by the most liberal and enlightened friends

-of freedom, and they were proportionably inflamed

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon

-what they deemed to be its sacred cause.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Short as was the time in which Mary composed

-her Answer to Burke’s Reflections, there was

-one anecdote she told me concerning it, which

-seems worth recording in this place. It was sent

-to the press, as is the general practice when the

-early publication of a piece is deemed a matter of

-importance, before the composition was finished.

-When Mary had arrived at about the middle of

-her work, she was seized with a temporary fit of

-torpor and indolence, and began to repent of

-her undertaking. In this state of mind, she

-called, one evening, as she was in the practice

-of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of

-relieving herself by an hour or two’s conversation.

-Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her

-nature, led her to describe what had just past in

-her thoughts. Mr. Johnson immediately, in a

-kind and friendly way, intreated her not to put

-any constraint upon her inclination, and to give

-herself no uneasiness about the sheets already printed,

-which he would cheerfully throw a side, if it

-would contribute to her happiness. Mary had

-wanted stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged,

-in what she well knew to be an unreasonable

-access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily

-falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect

-that she would lay aside her undertaking,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>piqued her pride. She immediately went home;

-and proceeded to the end of her work, with no

-other interruptions but what were absolutely indispensible.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is probable that the applause which attended

-her Answer to Burke, elevated the tone of her

-mind. She had always felt much confidence in

-her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that

-the actual perception of a similar feeling respecting

-us in a multitude of others, must increase the

-confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any

-human being. Mary accordingly proceeded, in

-a short time after, to the composition of her most

-celebrated production, the Vindication of the

-Rights of Woman.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Never did any author enter into a cause, with

-a more ardent desire to be found, not a flourishing

-and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.

-She considered herself as standing forth in defence

-of one half of the human species, labouring under

-a yoke which, through all the records of time,

-had degraded them from the station of rational

-beings, and almost sunk them to the level of the

-brutes. She saw indeed, that they were often attempted

-to be held in silken fetters, and bribed

-into the love of slavery; but the disguise and the

-treachery served only the more fully to confirm

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language

-of Calista, as</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-b c009'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>“In every state of life the slaves of men:”</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c010'>the rich as alternately under the despotism of a

-father, a brother, and a husband; and the middling

-and the poorer classes shut out from the acquisition

-of bread with independence, when they

-are not shut out from the very means of an industrious

-subsistence. Such were the views she

-entertained of the subject; and such the feelings

-with which she warmed her mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The work is certainly a very bold and original

-production. The strength and firmness with

-which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau,

-Dr. Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting

-the condition of women, cannot but make a strong

-impression upon every ingenuous reader. The

-public at large formed very different opinions respecting

-the character of the performance. Many

-of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather masculine

-description. The spirited and decisive way

-in which the author explodes the system of gallantry,

-and the species of homage with which the

-sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty

-produced a sentiment in their mind, which

-they mistook for a sense of injustice. The pretty

-soft creatures that are so often to be found in the

-female sex, and that class of men who believe

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>they could not exist without such pretty, soft creatures

-to resort to, were in arms against the author

-of so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There

-are also, it must be confessed, occasional passages

-of a stern and rugged feature, incompatible with

-the true stamina of the writer’s character. But,

-if they did not belong to her fixed and permanent

-character, they belonged to her character <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">pro

-tempore</span></i>; and what she thought, she scorned to

-qualify.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian

-temper, which characterised some parts

-of the book, it is impossible not to remark a luxuriance

-of imagination, and a trembling delicacy

-of sentiment, which would have done honour to

-a poet, bursting with all the visions of an Armida

-and a Dido.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The contradiction, to the public apprehension

-was equally great, as to the person of the author,

-as it was when they considered the temper of the

-book. In the champion of her sex, who was described

-as endeavouring to invest them with all the

-rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted to

-seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to

-find a sturdy, muscular, raw-boned virago; and

-they were not a little surprised, when, instead of

-all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>and, in the best and most engaging sense, feminine

-in her manners.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is

-undoubtedly a very unequal performance, and

-eminently deficient in method and arrangement.

-When tried by the hoary and long-established laws

-of literary composition, it can scarcely maintain

-its claim to be placed in the first class of human

-productions. But when we consider the importance

-of its doctrines, and the eminence of genius

-it displays, it seems not very improbable that it

-will be read as long as the English language endures.

-The publication of this book forms an

-epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and

-Mary Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be

-found to have performed more substantial service

-for the cause of her sex, than all the other

-writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves

-animated in the behalf of oppressed and injured

-beauty.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects

-of this performance, will be changed into

-astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of

-this inestimable moment, was begun, carried on,

-and finished in the state in which it now appears,

-in a period of no more than six weeks.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is necessary here that I should resume the

-subject of the friendship that subsisted between

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of

-the most memorable events in her subsequent

-history. He is a native of the republic of Switzerland,

-and has spent the principal part of his

-life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence

-of his genius can scarcely be disputed; it

-has indeed received the testimony which is the

-least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable

-of his contemporary artists. He has one

-of the most striking characteristics of genius, a

-daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure.

-The work in which he is at present engaged,

-a series of pictures for the illustration of

-Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced

-solely upon the incitement of his own mind, is a

-proof of this, if indeed his whole life had not sufficiently

-proved it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends,

-and was at this time in the habit of visiting him

-two or three times a week. Mary, one of whose

-strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations

-of pleasure she felt from the associations of

-visible objects, had hitherto never been acquainted,

-with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced

-therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was

-a high gratification to her; while he found in

-Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the

-emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any

-other with whom he ever conversed. Painting,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>and subjects closely connected with painting, were

-their almost constant topics of conversation; and

-they found them inexhaustible. It cannot be

-doubted, but that this was a species of exercise

-very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s

-mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary

-derived improvement from Mr. Fuseli, she may

-also be suspected of having caught the infection

-of some of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli

-was ardently attached to literature; but the demands

-of his profession have prevented him from

-keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance

-with it, that belles-lettres scholars frequently

-possess. Of consequence, the favourites

-of his boyish years remain his only favourites.

-Homer is with Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit

-of every human perfection. Milton, Shakespear,

-and Richardson, have also engaged much of his

-attention. The nearest rival of Homer, I believe,

-if Homer can have a rival, is Jean Jacques Rousseau.

-A young man embraces entire the opinions

-of a favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had

-leisure to bring the opinions of his youth to a revision.

-Smitten with Rousseau’s conception of the

-perfectness of the savage state, and the essential

-abortiveness of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at

-all our little attempts at improvement, with a spirit

-that borders perhaps too much upon contempt

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>and indifference. One of his favourite positions

-is the divinity of genius. This is a power that

-comes complete at once from the hands of the

-Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man

-of real genius are such, in all their grand and most

-important features, as no subsequent assiduity can

-amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat

-of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a

-disposition to search, in every thing new or modern,

-for occasions of censure. I believe Mary

-came something more a cynic out of the school of

-Mr. Fuseli, than she went into it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But the principal circumstance that relates to

-the intercourse of Mary, and this celebrated artist,

-remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli frequently;

-he amused, delighted and instructed her.

-As a painter, it was impossible she should not wish

-to see his works, and consequently to frequent his

-house. She visited him; her visits were returned.

-Notwithstanding the inequality of their years,

-Mary was not of a temper to live upon terms of

-so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,

-without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in

-his society, she transferred by association to his

-person. What she experienced in this respect,

-was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy

-and restraint in which she had hitherto lived, and

-to which the rules of polished society condemn an

-unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>ardent affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married

-man, and his wife the acquaintance of Mary.

-She readily perceived the restrictions which this

-circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she

-made light of any difficulty that might arise out

-of them. Not that she was insensible to the value

-of domestic endearments between persons of

-an opposite sex, but that she scorned to suppose,

-that she could feel a struggle, in conforming to

-the laws she should lay down to her conduct.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>There cannot perhaps be a properer place than

-the present, to state her principles upon this subject,

-such at least as they were when I knew her

-best. She set a great value on a mutual affection

-between persons of an opposite sex. She regarded

-it as the principal solace of human life. It

-was her maxim, “that the imagination should

-awaken the senses, and not the senses the imagination.”

-In other words, that whatever related

-to the gratification of the senses, ought to arise,

-in a human being of a pure mind, only as the consequence

-of an individual affection. She regarded

-the manners and habits of the majority of our sex

-in that respect, with strong disapprobation. She

-conceived that true virtue would prescribe the

-most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and

-the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it

-existed.—There is no reason to doubt that, if Mr.

-Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of their

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>acquaintance, he would have been the man of her

-choice. As it was, she conceived it both practicable

-and eligible, to cultivate a distinguishing affection

-for him, and to foster it by the endearments

-of personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness,

-without departing in the smallest degree from

-the rules she prescribed to herself.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In September 1791, she removed from the

-house she occupied in George-street, to a large

-and commodious apartment in Store-street, Bedford-square.

-She began to think that she had

-been too rigid, in the laws of frugality and self-denial

-with which she set out in her literary career;

-and now added to the neatness and cleanliness

-which she had always scrupulously observed,

-a certain degree of elegance, and those temperate

-indulgences in furniture and accommodation,

-from which a sound and uncorrupted taste never

-fails to derive pleasure.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It was in the month of November in the same

-year (1791), that the writer of this narrative was

-first in company with the person to whom it relates.

-He dined with her at a friend’s, together

-with Mr. Thomas Paine and one or two other

-persons. The invitation was of his own seeking,

-his object being to see the author of the Rights of

-Man, with whom he had never before conversed.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>The interview was not fortunate. Mary and

-myself parted, mutually displeased with each

-other. I had not read her Rights of Woman.

-I had barely looked into her Answer to Burke,

-and been displeased, as literary men are apt to be,

-with a few offences, against grammar and other

-minute points of composition. I had therefore

-little curiosity to see Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and a

-very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,

-in his general habits, is no great talker; and,

-though he threw in occasionally some shrewd and

-striking remarks, the conversation lay principally

-between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard

-her, very frequently when I wished to hear Paine.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>We touched on a considerable variety of topics,

-and particularly on the characters and habits of

-certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been

-observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree,

-the practice of seeing every thing on the

-gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a plentiful

-hand, where circumstances were in any respect

-doubtful. I, on the contrary, had a strong

-propensity, to favourable construction, and particularly,

-where I found unequivocal marks of

-genius, strongly to incline to the supposition of

-generous and manly virtue. We ventilated in this

-way the characters of Voltaire and others, who

-have obtained from some individuals an ardent admiration,

-while the greater number have treated

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at

-last provoked to tell me, that praise, lavished in

-the way that I lavished it, could do no credit either

-to the commended or the commender. We discussed

-some questions on the subject of religion,

-in which her opinions approached much nearer to

-the received ones, than mine. As the conversation

-proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the

-tone of my own share in it. We touched upon

-all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly

-upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice,

-in giving an account of the conversation to a party

-in which I supped, though I was not sparing of

-my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of

-active and independent thinking. On her side,

-she did me no part of what perhaps I considered

-as justice.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>We met two or three times in the course of the

-following year, but made a very small degree of

-progress towards a cordial acquaintance.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over

-to France, where she continued to reside for upwards

-of two years. One of her principal inducements

-to this step, related, I believe, to Mr.

-Fuseli. She had, at first, considered it as reasonable

-and judicious, to cultivate what I may be

-permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him;

-but she did not, in the sequel, find all the satisfaction

-in this plan, which she had originally expected

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much

-pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently.

-Her ardent imagination was continually

-conjuring up pictures of the happiness she should

-have found, if fortune had favoured their

-more intimate union. She felt herself formed for

-domestic affection, and all those tender charities,

-which men of sensibility have constantly treated

-as the dearest band of human society. General

-conversation and society could not satisfy her. She

-felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass of

-her species; and she repined when she reflected,

-that the best years of her life were spent in this

-comfortless solitude. These ideas made the cordial

-intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first

-been one of her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual

-torment to her. She conceived it necessary

-to snap the chain of this association in her mind;

-and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new

-climate, and mingle in different scenes.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street,

-which lasted more than twelve months,

-she produced nothing, except a few articles in the

-Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were

-chiefly employed upon the Sequel to the Rights of

-Woman; but she has scarcely left behind her a

-single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned

-to have had this destination.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VII.<br /> <span class='large'>1792–1795.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>The original plan of Mary, respecting

-her residence in France, had no precise limits

-in the article of duration; the single purpose

-she had in view being that of an endeavour to

-heal her distempered mind. She did not proceed

-so far as even to discharge her lodging in London;

-and, to some friends who saw her immediately

-before her departure, she spoke merely of an

-absence of six weeks.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion

-did not originally seem to produce the effects she

-had expected from it. She was in a land of strangers;

-she had no acquaintance; she had even to

-acquire the power of receiving and communicating

-ideas with facility in the language of the country.

-Her first residence was in a spacious mansion

-to which she had been invited, but the master of

-which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at the time

-of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself

-surrounded only with servants. The gloominess

-of her mind communicated its own colour to the

-objects she saw; and in this temper she began a

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>series of Letters on the Present Character of the

-French Nation, one of which she forwarded to

-her publisher, and which appears in the collection

-of her posthumous works. This performance she

-soon after discontinued; and it is, as she justly remarks,

-tinged with the saturnine temper which at

-that time pervaded her mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary carried with her introductions to several

-agreeable families in Paris. She renewed her acquaintance

-with Paine. There also subsisted a

-very sincere friendship between her and Helen

-Maria Williams, author of a collection of poems

-of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in

-Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke

-of in terms of ardent commendation, both for the

-excellence of his disposition, and the force of

-his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I

-believe, a Swede. It is almost unnecessary to

-mention, that she was personally acquainted with

-the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But the house that, I believe, she principally

-frequented at this time, was that of Mr. Thomas

-Christie, a person whose pursuits were mercantile,

-and who had written a volume on the French revolution.

-With Mrs. Christie her acquaintance

-was more intimate than with her husband.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It was about four months after her arrival at

-Paris in December 1792, that she entered into

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>that species of connection, for which her heart secretly

-panted, and which had the effect of diffusing

-an immediate tranquillity and cheerfulness

-over her manners. The person with whom it

-was formed (for it would be an idle piece

-of delicacy, to attempt to suppress a name, which

-is known to every one whom the reputation of

-Mary has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay,

-native of the United States of North America.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was

-at the house of Mr. Christie; and it perhaps deserves

-to be noticed, that the emotions he then excited

-in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike,

-and that, for some time, she shunned all occasions

-of meeting him. This sentiment however

-speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Previously to the partiality she conceived for

-him, she had determined upon a journey to Switzerland,

-induced chiefly by motives of economy.

-But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport;

-and it was probably the intercourse that

-now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that

-changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging

-at Neuilly, a village three miles from Paris.—Her

-habitation here was a solitary house in the

-midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than

-herself and the gardener, an old man, who performed

-for her many of the offices of a domestic,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>and would sometimes contend for the honour of

-making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration

-for his guest, and would set before her,

-when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine

-sort, which she could not without the greatest difficulty

-obtain, when she had any person with her

-as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and

-for the most part executed, her Historical and

-Moral View of the French Revolution<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c011'><sup>[1]</sup></a>, into

-which, as she observes, are incorporated most of

-the observations she had collected for her Letters,

-and which was written with more sobriety and

-cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been

-commenced. In the evening she was accustomed

-to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring

-wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured

-to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible

-robberies and murders that had been committed

-there.</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f1'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. No part of the proposed continuation of this work,

-has been found among the papers of the author.</p>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The commencement of the attachment Mary

-now formed, had neither confidant nor adviser.—She

-always conceived it to be a gross breach of delicacy

-to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred

-nature, an affair of the heart. The origin

-of the connection was about the middle of April

-1793, and it was carried on in a private manner

-for four months. At the expiration of that period

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>a circumstance occurred that induced her to

-declare it. The French convention, exasperated

-at the conduct of the British government, particularly

-in the affair of Toulon, formed a decree

-against the citizens of this country, by one article

-of which the English, resident in France, were ordered

-into prison till the period of a general peace.

-Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr. Imlay

-who, at the time their connection was formed, had

-no property whatever; because she would not involve

-him in certain family embarrassments to

-which she conceived herself exposed, or make

-him answerable for the pecuniary demands that

-existed against her. She however considered their

-engagement as of the most sacred nature; and

-they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating

-to America, as soon as they should have realized

-a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they desired.

-The decree however that I have just mentioned,

-made it necessary, not that a marriage

-should actually take place, but that Mary should

-take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature

-of their connection, she conceived herself entitled

-to do, and obtain a certificate from the American

-ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Their engagement being thus avowed, they

-thought proper to reside under the same roof, and

-for that purpose removed to Paris.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>Mary was now arrived at the situation, which,

-for two or three preceding years, her reason had

-pointed out to her as affording the most substantial

-prospect of happiness. She had been tossed

-and agitated by the waves of misfortune. Her

-childhood, as she often said, had known few of the

-endearments, which constitute the principal happiness

-of childhood. The temper of her father

-had early given to her mind a severe cast of thought,

-and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for

-the confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of

-her entrance upon womanhood, had been darkened,

-by an attendance upon the death-bed of

-her mother, and the still more afflicting calamity

-of her eldest sister. Her exertions to create a

-joint independence for her sisters and herself, had

-been attended, neither with the success, nor the

-pleasure, she had hoped from them. Her first

-youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny, had encountered

-many disappointments, and, in fine, a

-melancholy and premature catastrophe. Soon after

-these accumulated mortifications, she was engaged

-in a contest with a near relation, whom she

-regarded as unprincipled, respecting the wreck

-of her father’s fortune. In this affair she suffered

-the double pain, which arises from moral indignation,

-and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions

-to assist almost every member of her family, were

-great and unremitted. Finally, when she indulged

-a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>imagined that she should find in it the solace of

-her cares, she perceived too late, that, by continually

-impressing on her mind fruitless images of

-unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only

-served to give new pungency to the sensibility that

-was destroying her.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Some persons may be inclined to observe, that

-the evils here enumerated, are not among the heaviest

-in the catalogue of human calamities. But

-evils take their rank, more from the temper of the

-mind that suffers them, than from their abstract

-nature. Upon a man of a hard and insensible disposition,

-the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless

-and impotent. There are persons, by no

-means hard and insensible, who, from an elastic

-and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted

-to look on the fair side of things, and, having

-suffered one fall, immediately rise again, to pursue

-their course, with the same eagerness, the

-same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On

-the other hand, we not unfrequently meet with

-persons, endowed with the most exquisite and delicious

-sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too

-fine a texture to encounter the vicissitudes of human

-affairs, to whom pleasure is transport, and

-disappointment is agony indescribable. This character

-is finely pourtrayed by the author of the

-Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in this respect a

-female Werter.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>She brought then, in the present instance, a

-wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the bosom

-of a chosen friend. Let it not however be

-imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and

-ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole

-character seemed to change with a change of fortune.

-Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits,

-were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity

-and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She was

-like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough,

-and appears again with the brilliancy, the sleekness,

-and the elastic activity of its happiest age.—She

-was playful, full of confidence, kindness and

-sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her

-cheeks new colour and smoothness. Her voice became

-chearful; her temper overflowing with universal

-kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness

-from day to day illuminated her countenance,

-which all who knew her will so well recollect,

-and which won, both heart and soul, the affection

-of almost every one that beheld it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of

-whose honour and principles she had the most exalted

-idea. She nourished an individual affection,

-which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint;

-and a heart like her’s was not formed to

-nourish affection by halves. Her conception of

-Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted

-him closely round her heart;” and she “indulged

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>the thought, that she had thrown out some tendrils,

-to cling to the elm by which she wished to

-be supported.” This was “talking a new language

-to her;” but, “conscious that she was not

-a parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage

-and foster the luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence

-was entire; her love was unbounded.

-Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose

-to all the sensibilities of her nature.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her

-attachment to Mr. Imlay gained a new link, by

-finding reason to suppose herself with child.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Their establishment at Paris, was however broken

-up almost as soon as formed, by the circumstance

-of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business,

-urged as he said, by the prospect of a family, and

-this being a favourable crisis in French affairs for

-commercial speculations. The pursuits in which

-he was engaged, led him in the month of September

-to Havre de Grace, then called Havre Marat,

-probably to superintend the shipping of goods, in

-which he was jointly engaged with some other

-person or persons. Mary remained in the capital.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The solitude in which she was now left, proved

-an unexpected trial. Domestic affections constituted

-the object upon which her heart was fixed;

-and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>Imlay “did not attach those tender emotions

-round the idea of home,” which, every time

-they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture.

-She had expected his return from week to week,

-and from month to month; but a succession of business

-still continued to detain him at Havre. At

-the same time the sanguinary character which the

-government of France began every day more decisively

-to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity

-from the first months of her pregnancy. Before

-she left Neuilly, she happened one day to enter

-Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis

-Quinze), when an execution, attended with some

-peculiar aggravations, had just taken place, and the

-blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the

-pavement. The emotions of her soul burst forth

-in indignant exclamations, while a prudent bystander

-warned her of her danger, and intreated

-her to hasten and hide her discontents. She described

-to me, more than once, the anguish she

-felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud,

-and the twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable

-sensations she had ever experienced.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually

-postponed, she determined, in January 1794, to

-join him at Havre. One motive that influenced

-her, though, I believe, by no means the principal,

-was the growing cruelties of Robespierre, and the

-desire she felt to be in any other place, rather than

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>the devoted city, in the midst of which they

-were perpetrated.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>From January to September, Mr. Imlay and

-Mary lived together, with great harmony, at

-Havre, where the child, with which she was

-pregnant, was born, on the fourteenth of May,

-and named Frances, in remembrance of the dear

-friend of her youth, whose image could never be

-erased from her memory.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure

-from Havre for the port of London. As this step

-was said to be necessary in the way of business, he

-endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre,

-and once more take up her abode at Paris. Robespierre

-was now no more, and, of consequence, the

-only objection she had to residing in the capital,

-was removed. Mr. Imlay was already in London,

-before she undertook her journey, and it proved

-the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the

-carriage, in which she travelled, being overturned

-no less than four times between Havre and Paris.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This absence, like that of the preceding year

-in which Mr. Imlay had removed to Havre, was

-represented as an absence that was to have a short

-duration. In two months he was once again to

-join her at Paris. It proved however the prelude

-to an eternal separation. The agonies of such a

-separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>would have found them upon every supposition,

-were vastly increased, by the lingering method in

-which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for

-a long time, hung upon it. This circumstance

-produced the effect, of holding her mind, by force,

-as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and

-not suffering her to derive the just advantage from

-the energy and elasticity of her character.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The procrastination of which I am speaking

-was however productive of one advantage. It

-put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities

-that awaited her, till the close of the year.

-She gained an additional three months of comparative

-happiness. But she purchased it at a very

-dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered

-greater misery, than dyed the whole year

-1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It

-was wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of

-which the mind is continually awakened, by a

-glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring hope.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred,

-unhappy passion? Because it is of the

-very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate itself.

-He does not love, who can resign this cherished

-sentiment, without suffering some of the

-sharpest struggles that our nature is capable of enduring.

-Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart

-upon this chosen friend; and one of the last impressions

-a worthy mind can submit to receive, is

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom

-it has fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to

-entertain a favourable opinion of human nature;

-she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,

-in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest.

-Mr. Imlay undertook to prove, in his letters written

-immediately after their complete separation,

-that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to

-the strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was

-of a different opinion. Whatever the reader may

-decide in this respect, there is one sentiment that,

-I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of

-pity for the mistake of the man, who, being in

-possession of such a friendship and attachment as

-those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial

-price, and, “like the base Indian, throw a pearl

-away, richer than all his tribe.<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c011'><sup>[2]</sup></a>”</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f2'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived

-particular gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan,

-who had lately become a fugitive from Ireland, in consequence

-of a political prosecution, and in whom she found

-those qualities which were always eminently engaging to her,

-great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.</p>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VIII.<br /> <span class='large'>1795–1796.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>In April 1795, Mary returned once more to

-London, being requested to do so by Mr. Imlay,

-who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her

-in the journey, before she could complete the necessary

-arrangements for her departure. But,

-notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she

-came to England with a heavy heart, not daring,

-after all the uncertainties and anguish she had endured,

-to trust to the suggestions of hope.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were

-but too faithfully verified. Mr. Imlay had already

-formed another connection; as it is said,

-with a young actress from a strolling company of

-players. His attentions therefore to Mary were

-formal and constrained, and she probably had but

-little of his society. This alteration could not escape

-her penetrating glance. He ascribed it to

-pressure of business, and some pecuniary embarrassments

-which, at that time, occurred to him; it

-was of little consequence to Mary what was the

-cause. She saw, but too well, though she strove

-not to see, that his affections were lost to her for

-ever.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>It is impossible to imagine a period of greater

-pain and mortification than Mary passed, for

-about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to

-the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr.

-Imlay had provided for her. She had come over

-to England, a country for which she, at this time,

-expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted

-to horror,” in search of happiness. She feared

-that that happiness had altogether escaped her;

-but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience

-which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest

-for her arrival. When she saw him, all her

-fears were confirmed. What a picture was she

-capable of forming to herself, of the overflowing

-kindness of a meeting, after an interval of so much

-anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of

-this sort were present to her burning imagination.

-It is in vain, on such occasions, for reserve and reproach

-to endeavour to curb in the emotions of an

-affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished

-were speedily blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay,

-was cold and embarrassed. Discussions (“explanations”

-they were called) followed; cruel explanations,

-that only added to the anguish of a heart

-already overwhelmed in grief! They had small

-pretensions indeed to explicitness; but they sufficiently

-told, that the case admitted not of remedy.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity

-in this pressing emergency. “Love, dear,

-delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had

-forced her to resign; and now her rational prospects

-were blasted, just as she had learned to be

-contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated,

-life became an intolerable burthen. While

-she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk of

-purposes of separation and independence. But,

-now that they were in the same house, she could

-not withhold herself from endeavours to revive

-their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours

-continually added fuel to the fire that destroyed

-her. She formed a desperate purpose to

-die.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This part of the story of Mary is involved in

-considerable obscurity. I only know, that Mr.

-Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a

-moment when he was uncertain whether or no it

-were already executed, and that his feelings were

-roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing

-to his activity and representations, that her life

-was, at this time, saved. She determined to continue

-to exist. Actuated by this purpose, she

-took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and

-affectionateness of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved

-in a question of considerable difficulty, respecting

-a mercantile adventure in Norway. It

-seemed to require the presence of some very judicious

-agent, to conduct the business to its desired

-termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>and take the business into her own hands.

-Such a voyage seemed the most desireable thing

-to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,

-in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her

-feelings, to be employed in promoting the interest

-of a man, from whom she had experienced such

-severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired

-to be reconciled. The moment of desperation

-I have mentioned, occurred in the close of

-May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon

-this new expedition.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The narrative of this voyage is before the

-world, and perhaps a book of travels that so irresistibly

-seizes on the heart, never, in any other

-instance, found its way from the press. The occasional

-harshness and ruggedness of character,

-that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of

-Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there

-was a book calculated to make a man in love with

-its author, this appears to me to be the book. She

-speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with

-melancholy, and dissolves us in tenderness, at the

-same time that she displays a genius which commands

-all our admiration. Affliction had tempered

-her heart to a softness almost more than human;

-and the gentleness of her spirit seems precisely

-to accord with all the romance of unbounded

-attachment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with

-imagination and sensibility, with all, and more

-than all, “that youthful poets fancy, when they

-love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so

-pleased, to the arms of her former lover. Her

-return was hastened by the ambiguity, to her apprehension,

-of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised

-to meet her upon her return from Norway,

-probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to

-pass some time in Switzerland. The style however

-of his letters to her during her tour, was not

-such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to

-him very urgently, to explain himself, relative

-to the footing upon which they were hereafter to

-stand to each other. In his answer, which reached

-her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as

-“extraordinary and unnecessary,” and desired her

-to be at the pains to decide for herself. Feeling

-herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she

-instantly determined to sail for London by the very

-first opportunity, that she might thus bring to a

-termination the suspence that preyed upon her

-soul.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It was not long after her arrival in London in

-the commencement of October, that she attained

-the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured

-her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced

-from him after she entered it, flashed conviction

-upon her, in spite of his asseverations. She made

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>further enquiries, and at length was informed by

-a servant, of the real state of the case. Under the

-immediate shock which the painful certainty gave

-her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the

-ready-furnished house he had provided for his new

-mistress. What was the particular nature of

-their conference I am unable to relate. It is sufficient

-to say that the wretchedness of the night

-which succeeded this fatal discovery, impressed

-her with the feeling, that she would sooner suffer

-a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal

-misery.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The agony of her mind determined her; and

-that determination gave her a sort of desperate serenity.

-She resolved to plunge herself in the

-Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot

-nearer to London, she took a boat, and rowed to

-Putney. Her first thought had led her to Battersea-bridge,

-but she found it too public. It was

-night when she arrived at Putney, and by that

-time had begun to rain with great violence. The

-rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and

-down the bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly

-drenched and heavy with the wet, which she did

-for half an hour without meeting a human being.

-She then leaped from the top of the bridge, but

-still seemed to find a difficulty in sinking, which,

-she endeavoured to counteract by pressing her

-clothes closely round her. After some time she

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>became insensible; but she always spoke of the

-pain she underwent as such, that, though she

-could afterwards have determined upon almost any

-other species of voluntary death, it would have

-been impossible for her to resolve upon encountering

-the same sensations again. I am doubtful,

-whether this is to be ascribed to the mere nature

-of suffocation, or was not owing to the preternatural

-action of a desperate spirit.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>After having been for a considerable time insensible,

-she was recovered by the exertions of those

-by whom the body was found. She had fought,

-with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period

-to her existence, and yet she lived to have every

-prospect of a long possession of enjoyment and happiness.

-It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with

-suicides, that we find reason to suppose, if they

-had survived their gloomy purpose, that they

-would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably

-happy. It arises indeed, in some measure,

-out of the very nature of a spirit of self-destruction;

-which implies a degree of anguish, that the constitution

-of the human mind will not suffer to remain

-long undiminished. This is a serious reflection.

-Probably no man would destroy himself

-from an impatience of present pain, if he

-felt a moral certainty that there were years of enjoyment

-still in reserve for him. It is perhaps a

-futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>in that state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral

-reasoning is nothing but the awakening of certain

-feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,

-is too strong to leave us much chance of

-impressing him with other feelings, that should

-have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if

-the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure

-cannot be expected to have much weight with a

-man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is

-so much the more to be wished, that men would

-impress their minds, in their sober moments, with

-a conception, which, being rendered habitual,

-seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in

-a paroxysm of desperation.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The present situation of Mary, of necessity

-produced some further intercourse between her

-and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and

-Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to

-remove to her house in Finsbury-square. In the

-mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present

-was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of

-course, fostered in her mind the idea that it would

-be once more in her choice to live with him.

-With whatever intention the idea was suggested,

-it was certainly calculated to increase the agitation

-of her mind. In one respect however it produced

-an effect unlike that which might most obviously

-have been looked for. It roused within

-her the characteristic energy of mind, which she

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the

-necessity of bringing the affair to a point, and

-not suffering months and years to roll on in uncertainty

-and suspence. This idea inspired her with

-an extraordinary resolution. The language she

-employed, was, in effect, as follows: “If we

-are ever to live together again, it must be now.

-We meet now, or we part for ever. You say,

-You cannot abruptly break off the connection

-you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage

-and character, to wait the uncertain issue of that

-connection. I am determined to come to a decision.

-I consent then, for the present, to live with

-you, and the woman to whom you have associated

-yourself. I think it important that you should

-learn habitually to feel for your child the affection

-of a father. But, if you reject this proposal,

-here we end. You are now free. We will correspond

-no more. We will have no intercourse

-of any kind. I will be to you as a person that is

-dead.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious

-as it was, was at first accepted; and

-Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a

-house he was upon the point of hiring, that she

-might judge whether it was calculated to please

-her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted

-his concession.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the

-woman with whom he was at present connected,

-went to Paris, where they remained three months.

-Mary had, previously to this, fixed herself in a

-lodging in Finsbury-place, where, for some time,

-she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for

-the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen

-this situation; “existing,” as she expressed it,

-“in a living tomb, and her life but an exercise of

-fortitude, continually on the stretch.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for

-her thoughts to brood upon a passion, which all

-that she had suffered had not yet been able to extinguish.

-Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned

-to England, she could not restrain herself,

-from making another effort, and desiring to see

-him once more. “During his absence, affection

-had led her to make numberless excuses for his

-conduct,” and she probably wished to believe that

-his present connection was, as he represented it,

-purely of a casual nature. To this application,

-she observes, that “he returned no other answer,

-except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that

-he would not see her.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This answer, though, at the moment, highly

-irritating to Mary, was not the ultimate close of

-the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business

-with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>house of Mr. Christie was the only one at which

-Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this

-was, that, when Mr. Imlay had been already

-more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at

-Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr.

-Imlay was in the parlour. The room was full of

-company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s voice in

-the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her

-not to make her appearance. Mary however was

-not to be controlled. She thought, as she afterwards

-told me, that it was not consistent with

-conscious rectitude, that she should shrink, as if

-abashed, from the presence of one by whom she

-deemed herself injured. Her child was with her.

-She entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately

-led up the child, now near two years of age,

-to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary

-into another apartment, and promised to dine

-with her at her lodging, I believe, the next

-day.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In the interview which took place in consequence

-of this appointment, he expressed himself

-to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated

-to sooth her despair. Though he could

-conduct himself, when absent from her, in a way

-which she censured as unfeeling; this species of

-sternness constantly expired when he came into

-her presence. Mary was prepared at this moment

-to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the

-gentleness of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>awakening the hope of returning day. For

-an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;

-and even after the period of delirium expired, she

-still dwelt, with an aching eye, upon the air-built

-and unsubstantial prospect of a reconciliation.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>At his particular request, she retained the name

-of Imlay, which, a short time before, he had

-seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as

-she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the

-world that she did so—not in the least—but she

-was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot, or tear

-herself away in appearance, when she could not in

-reality.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The day after this interview, she set out upon a

-visit to the country, where she spent nearly the

-whole of the month of March. It was, I believe,

-while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary

-communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely

-to expel from her mind, all remaining

-doubt as to the issue of the affair.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary was now aware that every demand of

-forbearance towards him, of duty to her child,

-and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted

-predilection, was discharged. She determined

-to rouse herself, and cast off for ever an attachment,

-which to her had been a spring of inexhaustible

-bitterness. Her present residence among

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>the scenes of nature, was favourable to this purpose.

-She was at the house of an old and

-intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton,

-whose partiality for her was strong and sincere.

-Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir William

-East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the

-kindness of her friend, and the hospitable and,

-distinguishing attentions of this respectable family,

-she derived considerable benefit. She had been

-amused and interested in her journey to Norway;

-but with this difference, that, at that time, her

-mind perpetually returned with trembling anxiety

-to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,

-whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted

-spirit, she threw aside every thought that recurred

-to him, while she felt herself called upon to

-make one more effort for life and happiness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw

-Mr. Imlay; probably, not long after her return

-to town. They met by accident upon the New

-Road; he alighted from his horse, and walked

-with her some time; and the rencounter passed,

-as she assured me, without producing in her any

-oppressive emotion.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed

-best to have known the real state of the case,

-she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and

-was displeased when any person, in her hearing,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>expressed contempt of him. She was characterised

-by a strong sense of indignation; but her emotions

-of this sort were short-lived, and in no

-long time subsided into a dignified sereneness and

-equanimity.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay,

-as we have seen, was not completely dismissed,

-till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,

-that she did not, like ordinary persons

-under extreme anguish of mind, suffer her understanding,

-in the mean time, to sink into listlessness

-and debility. The most inapprehensive reader

-may conceive what was the mental torture she

-endured, when he considers, that she was twice,

-with an interval of four months, from the end of

-May to the beginning of October, prompted by

-it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she

-wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its

-expiration she prepared them for the press, and

-they were published in the close of that year. In

-January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy,

-which turns, in the serious scenes, upon the

-incidents of her own story. It was offered to both

-the winter-managers, and remained among her

-papers at the period of her decease; but it appeared

-to me to be in so crude and imperfect a state,

-that I judged it most respectful to her memory to

-commit it to the flames. To understand this extraordinary

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>degree of activity, we must recollect

-however the entire solitude, in which most of her

-hours were at that time consumed.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IX.<br /> <span class='large'>1796–1797.</span></h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I am now led, by the progress of the story, to

-the last branch of her history, the connection between

-Mary and myself. And this I relate with

-the same simplicity that has pervaded every other

-part of my narrative. If there ever were any

-motives of prudence or delicacy, that could impose

-a qualification upon the story, they are now

-over. They could have no relation but to factitious

-rules of decorum. There are no circumstance

-of her life, that, in the judgment of honour

-and reason, could brand her with disgrace. Never

-did there exist a human being, that needed, with

-less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon

-the universe to judge them. An event of the most

-deplorable sort, his awfully imposed silence upon

-the gabble of frivolity.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>We renewed our acquaintance in January

-1796, but with no particular effect, except so far

-as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to

-the respect I had always entertained for her talents.

-It was in the close of that month that I read her

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>Letters from Norway; and the impression that

-book produced upon me has been already related.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw

-her after her excursion into Berkshire. On that

-day she called upon me in Somers Town, she having,

-since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,

-Pentonville, at no great distance from

-the place of my habitation. From that time our

-intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible

-degrees.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The partiality we conceived for each other,

-was in that mode, which I have always regarded

-as the purest and most refined style of love. It

-grew with equal advances in the mind of each.

-It would have been impossible for the most minute

-observer to have said who was before, and

-who was after. One sex did not take the priority

-which long established custom has awarded it, nor

-the other overstep that delicacy which is so severely

-imposed. I am not conscious that either

-party can assume to have been the agent or the

-patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in the affair.

-When, in the course of things, the disclosure

-came, there was nothing, in a manner, for

-either party to disclose to the other.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In July 1796 I made an excursion into the

-county of Norfolk, which occupied nearly the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>whole of that month. During this period Mary

-removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to

-Judd place West, which may be considered as the

-extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,

-she had occupied a furnished lodging. She

-had meditated a tour to Italy or Switzerland, and

-knew not how soon she should set out with that

-view. Now however she felt herself reconciled

-to a longer abode in England, probably without

-exactly knowing why this change had taken

-place in her mind. She had a quantity of furniture

-locked up at a broker’s ever since her residence

-in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable

-to bring it into use. This circumstance

-occasioned her present removal.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The temporary separation attendant on my

-little journey, had its effect on the mind of both

-parties. It gave a space for the maturing of inclination.

-I believe that, during this interval,

-each furnished to the other the principal topic of

-solitary and daily contemplation. Absence bestows

-a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection,

-which it with difficulty acquires in any other way.

-It seems to resemble the communication of spirits,

-without the medium, or the impediment of this

-earthly frame.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>When we met again, we met with new pleasure,

-and, I may add, with a more decisive preference

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>for each other. It was however three

-weeks longer, before the sentiment which trembled

-upon the tongue, burst from the lips of either.

-There was, as I have already said, no period of

-throes and resolute explanation attendant on the

-tale. It was friendship melting into love. Previously

-to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,

-yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety

-to have assurance complete.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her

-lover, hoping to find a heart with which she might

-safely treasure her world of affection; fearing to

-commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy

-experience, fraught with that generous confidence,

-which, in a great soul, is never extinguished.

-I had never loved till now; or, at least, had

-never nourished a passion to the same growth, or

-met with an object so consummately worthy.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend

-any thing to indiscriminate adoption, contrary

-to the established rules and prejudices of

-mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous

-upon the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine

-march of sentiment, as to require the overflowing

-of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and

-that which, wherever delicacy and imagination

-exist, is of all things most sacredly private, to blow

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>a trumpet before it, and to record the moment

-when it has arrived at its climax.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>There were however other reasons why we did

-not immediately marry. Mary felt an entire conviction

-of the propriety of her conduct. It would

-be absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered

-by desertion, she was not right to give way to the

-emotions of kindness which our intimacy produced,

-and to seek for that support in friendship and

-affection, which could alone give pleasure to her

-heart, and peace to her meditations. It was only

-about six months since she had resolutely banished

-every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at

-least eighteen that he ought to have been banished,

-and would have been banished, had it not been

-for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to

-leave no measure untried to regain him. Add to

-this, that the laws of etiquette ordinarily laid down

-in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that the

-sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed

-by the rule and the square. But Mary had an

-extreme aversion to be made the topic of vulgar

-discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this,

-the dreadful trials through which she had recently

-passed, may well plead in its excuse. She felt

-that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken

-of, in the former instance; and she could not resolve

-to do any thing that should immediately revive

-that painful topic.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>For myself, it is certain that I had for many

-years regarded marriage with so well-grounded an

-apprehension, that, notwithstanding the partiality

-for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I

-should have felt it very difficult, at least in the

-present stage of our intercourse, to have resolved

-on such a measure. Thus, partly from similar,

-and partly from different motives, we felt alike in

-this, as we did perhaps in every other circumstance

-that related to our intercourse.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have nothing further that I find it necessary to

-record, till the commencement of April 1797.

-We then judged it proper to declare our marriage,

-which had taken place a little before. The principal

-motive for complying with this ceremony,

-was the circumstance of Mary’s being in a state

-of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps

-with reason, to incur that exclusion from the society

-of many valuable and excellent individuals,

-which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should

-have felt an extreme repugnance to the having

-caused her such an inconvenience. And, after the

-experiment of seven months of as intimate an intercourse

-as our respective modes of living would

-admit, there was certainly less hazard to either,

-in the subjecting ourselves to those consequences

-which the laws of England annex to the relations

-of husband and wife. On the sixth of April we

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>entered into possession of a house, which had been

-taken by us in concert.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In this place I have a very curious circumstance

-to notice, which I am happy to have occasion to

-mention, as it tends to expose certain regulations

-of polished society, of which the absurdity vies

-with the odiousness. Mary had long possessed the

-advantage of an acquaintance with many persons

-of genius, and with others whom the effects of an

-intercourse with elegant society, combined with a

-certain portion of information and good sense, sufficed

-to render amusing companions. She had

-lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in

-this respect; and her mind, trembling between

-the opposite impressions of past anguish and

-renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of

-recreation. Wherever Mary appeared, admiration

-attended upon her. She had always displayed

-talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding,

-her travels, her long residence in

-France, the discipline of affliction, and the smiling,

-new-born peace which awaked a corresponding

-smile in her animated countenance, inexpressibly

-increased them. The way in which the story

-of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles,

-was probably the result of the partiality she excited.

-These elegant personages were divided

-between their cautious adherence to forms, and

-the desire to seek their own gratification. Mary

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>made no secret of the nature of her connection

-with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well

-know, she put herself to the trouble of explaining

-it to a person totally indifferent to her, because

-he never failed to publish every thing he knew,

-and, she was sure, would repeat her explanation

-to his numerous acquaintance. She was of too

-proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy.

-These persons however, in spite of all that could

-be said, persisted in shutting their eyes, and pretending

-they took her for a married woman.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Observe the consequence of this! While she

-was, and constantly professed to be, an unmarried

-mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and

-the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself

-a wife, and that by a marriage perhaps unexceptionable,

-the case was altered. Mary and

-myself, ignorant as we were of these elevated

-refinements, supposed that our marriage would

-place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of

-polished society, than ever. But it forced these

-people to see the truth, and to confess their belief

-of what they had carefully been told; and

-this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that

-the date of our marriage had nothing to do with

-this, that question being never once mentioned

-during this period. Mary indeed had, till now,

-retained the name of Imlay, which had first been

-assumed from necessity in France; but its being

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness

-that attends the introduction of a change,

-and not from an apprehension of consequences of

-this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the

-nature of her situation, surely sufficed to make

-the name she bore perfectly immaterial.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a

-story, but in the language of contempt and ridicule.

-A serious reflection however upon the

-whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different

-sort. Mary retained the most numerous portion

-of her acquaintance, and the majority of those

-whom she principally valued. It was only the

-supporters and the subjects of the unprincipled

-manners of a court, that she lost. This however

-is immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding

-strictly considered, and uniformly acted upon,

-would have been to proscribe her from all valuable

-society. And who was the person proscribed?

-The firmest champion, and, as I strongly suspect,

-the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!

-A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined,

-and as delicate, as ever inhabited a human heart!

-It is fit that such persons should stand by, that we

-may have room enough for the dull and insolent

-dictators, the gamblers and demireps of polished

-society!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance

-Mary principally regretted upon this occasion,

-were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their

-acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe,

-is to be ranked among her recent acquisitions.

-Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,

-which she conceived to be imposed on her by the

-peculiarity of her situation, to conform to the

-rules I have described. She is endowed with that

-rich and generous sensibility, which should best

-enable its possessor completely to feel the merits of

-her deceased friend. She very truly observes, in

-a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway

-were read by no one, who was in possession

-of “more reciprocity of feeling, or more deeply

-impressed with admiration of the writer’s extraordinary

-powers.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction

-reached her of so unexpected a circumstance,

-that was rather exquisite. But she disdained to

-sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of

-the supercilious and the foolish, and presently shook

-off the impression of the first surprize. That

-once subsided, I well know that the event was

-thought of, with no emotions, but those of superiority

-to the injustice she sustained; and was not

-of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which

-seemed hourly to become more vigorous and

-firm.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>I think I may venture to say, that no two persons

-ever found in each other’s society, a satisfaction

-more pure and refined. What it was in itself,

-can now only be known, in its full extent, to the

-survivor. But, I believe, the serenity of her

-countenance, 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. She

-had always possessed, in an unparallelled 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.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>While we lived as near neighbours only, and

-before our last removal, her mind had attained

-considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom

-with those emotions of anguish, which had been

-but too familiar to her. But the improvement in

-this respect, which accrued upon our removal

-and establishment, was extremely obvious. She

-was a worshipper of domestic life. She loved to

-observe the growth of affection between me and

-her daughter, then three years of age, as well as

-my anxiety respecting the child not yet born.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature

-seems to be in this respect, is the source of a

-thousand endearments. No one knew better than

-Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite delight,

-from trifles, which a suspicious and formal

-wisdom would scarcely deign to remark. A little

-ride into the country with myself and the child,

-has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the

-heart, a general expression of confidence and affectionate

-soul, a sort of infantine, yet dignified endearment,

-which those who have felt may understand,

-but which I should in vain attempt to

-pourtray.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was

-fortunate enough to introduce her to some of my

-acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she attached

-herself with all the ardour of approbation and

-friendship.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of

-selfish and transitory pleasures. It is perhaps

-scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced by

-the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject

-of cohabitation, I engaged an apartment, about

-twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,

-Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose

-of my study and literary occupations. Trifles

-however will be interesting to some readers,

-when they relate to the last period of the life of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>such a person as Mary. I will add therefore,

-that we were both of us of opinion, that it was

-possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each

-other’s society. Influenced by that opinion, it

-was my practice to repair to the apartment I

-have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently

-not to make my appearance in the Polygon, till

-the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning

-the notion, prevalent in many situations in life,

-that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society,

-but in company with each other; and we

-rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of

-complying with, this rule. By these means,

-though, for the most part, we spent the latter

-half of each day in one another’s society,

-yet we were in no danger of satiety. We

-seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the

-novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the

-more delicious and heart-felt pleasures of domestic

-life.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Whatever may be thought, in other respects,

-of the plan we laid down to ourselves, we probably

-derived a real advantage from it, as to the

-constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary

-pursuits. Mary had a variety of projects of this

-sort, for the exercise of her talents, and the benefit

-of society; and, if she had lived, I believe

-the world would have had very little reason to

-complain of any remission of her industry. One

-of her projects, which has been already mentioned,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>was a series of Letters on the Management of

-Infants. Though she had been for some time

-digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to

-the press, I have found comparatively nothing

-that she had committed to paper respecting it.

-Another project, of longer standing, was of a series

-of books for the instruction of children. A

-fragment she left in execution of this project, is

-inserted in her Posthumous Works.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But the principal work, in which she was engaged

-for more than twelve months before her

-decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of

-Woman. I shall not stop here to explain the

-nature of the work, as so much of it as was already

-written, is now given to the public. I shall only

-observe that, impressed as she could not fail to be,

-with the consciousness of her talents, she was desirous,

-in this instance, that they should effect

-what they were capable of effecting. She was

-sensible how arduous a task it is to produce a truly

-excellent novel; and she roused her faculties

-to grapple with it. All her other works were

-produced with a rapidity, that did not give her

-powers time fully to expand. But this was written

-slowly and with mature consideration. She

-began it in several forms, which she successively

-rejected, after they were considerably advanced.

-She wrote many parts of the work again and again,

-and, when she had finished what she intended for

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>the first part, she felt herself more urgently stimulated

-to revise and improve what she had written,

-than to proceed, with constancy of application, in

-the parts that were to follow.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>

-  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. X.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c012'>I am now led, by the course of my narrative,

-to the last fatal scene of her life. She was taken

-in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.

-She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding

-Friday, the confluence, I believe, of a

-sudden alarm. But from that time she was in

-perfect health. She was so far from being under

-any apprehension as to the difficulties of child-birth,

-as frequently to ridicule the fashion of ladies in England,

-who keep their chamber for one full month

-after delivery. For herself, she proposed coming

-down to dinner on the day immediately following.

-She had already had some experience on the subject

-in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted

-in every point to her judgment and her

-wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas

-of decorum, which certainly ought to have no

-place, at least in cases of danger, she determined

-to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of

-midwife. She was sensible that the proper business

-of a midwife, in the instance of a natural

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations of

-nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand

-the interposition of art.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>At five o’clock in the morning of the day of

-delivery, she felt what she conceived to be some

-notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,

-matron and midwife to the Westminster

-Lying-in Hospital, who had seen Mary several

-times previous to her delivery, was soon after

-sent for, and arrived about nine. During the

-whole day Mary was perfectly chearful. Her

-pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she

-wrote several notes, three addressed to me, who

-had gone, as usual, to my apartments, for the

-purpose of study. About two o’clock in the afternoon,

-she went up to her chamber—never

-more to descend.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The child was born at twenty minutes after

-eleven at night. Mary had requested that I

-would not come into the chamber till all was

-over, and signified her intention of then performing

-the interesting office of presenting

-the new-born child to its father. I was sitting

-in a parlour; and it was not till after two o’clock

-on Thursday morning, that I received the alarming

-intelligence, that the placenta was not yet

-removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed

-any further, and gave her opinion for calling in a

-male practitioner. I accordingly went for Dr.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same

-hospital, who arrived between three and four

-hours after the birth of the child. He immediately

-proceeded to the extraction of the placenta,

-which he brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied

-that the whole was removed. In that point

-however it afterwards appeared that he was mistaken.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The period from the birth of the child till about

-eight o’clock the next morning, was a period full

-of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was considerable,

-and produced an almost uninterrupted

-series of fainting fits. I went to the chamber soon

-after four in the morning, and found her in this

-state. She told me some time on Thursday,

-“that she should have died the preceding night,

-but that she was determined not to leave me.”—She

-added, with one of those smiles which so

-eminently illuminated her countenance, “that I

-should not be like Porson,” alluding to the circumstance

-of that great man having lost his wife,

-after being only a few months married. Speaking

-of what she had already passed through, she declared,

-“that she had never known what bodily

-pain was before.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated

-his visit. Mary had just before expressed some inclination

-to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man probably

-of more science than any other medical professor

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>in England, and between whom and herself

-there had long subsisted a mutual friendship. I

-mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather discountenanced

-the idea, observing that he saw no

-necessity for it, and that he supposed Dr. Fordyce

-was not particularly conversant with obstetrical

-cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After

-Dr. Poignand was gone, I determined to send for

-Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the patient

-about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He,

-however, perceived no particular cause of alarm;

-and, on that or the next day, quoted, as I am told,

-Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a corroboration

-of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety

-of employing females in the capacity of midwives.

-Mary, “had had a woman, and was doing extremely

-well.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What had passed, however, in the night between

-Wednesday and Thursday, had so far alarmed me,

-that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the

-chamber, during the following day. But my

-alarms wore off, as time advanced. Appearances

-were more favourable, than the exhausted state of

-the patient would almost have permitted me to

-expect. Friday morning, therefore, I devoted to a

-business of some urgency, which called me to different

-parts of the town, and which, before dinner,

-I happily completed. On my return, and

-during the evening, I received the most pleasurable

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>sensations from the promising state of the patient.

-I was now perfectly satisfied that every

-thing was safe, and that, if she did not take cold,

-or suffer from any external accident, her speedy

-recovery was certain.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday,

-but not absolutely alarming.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Sunday, the third of September, I now regard

-as the day, that finally decided on the fate of the

-object dearest to my heart that the universe contained.

-Encouraged by what I considered as the

-progress of her recovery, I accompanied a friend

-in the morning in several calls, one of them as far

-as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time.

-On my return I found a degree of anxiety in every

-face, and was told that she had had a sort of shivering

-fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the

-length of my absence. My sister and a friend of

-hers, had been engaged to dine below stairs, but a

-message was sent to put them off, and Mary ordered

-that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in

-the room immediately under her on the first floor,

-but in the ground-floor parlour. I felt a pang at

-having been so long and so unseasonably absent,

-and determined that I would not repeat the fault.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In the evening she had a second shivering fit,

-the symptoms of which were in the highest degree

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,

-the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her.

-This continued probably for five minutes. She

-told me, after it was over, that it had been a struggle

-between life and death, and that she had been

-more than once, in the course of it, at the point of

-expiring. I now apprehend these to have been

-the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned

-by the part of the placenta that remained

-in the womb. At the time, however, I was far

-from considering it in that light. When I went

-for Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock

-on the morning of Thursday, despair was in my

-heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta

-was stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical

-science, I felt as if the death of Mary was

-in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited

-my bosom; and her chearings were so delightful,

-that I hugged her obstinately to my heart. I was

-only mortified at what appeared to me a new delay

-in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I

-immediately sent for Dr. Fordyce, who had been

-with her in the morning, as well as on the three

-preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this

-morning, but declined paying any further visits,

-as we had thought proper to call in Dr. Fordyce.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted.

-On Tuesday I found it necessary again

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who

-brought with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street,

-under the idea that some operation might be

-necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously

-persisted in viewing the fair side of things;

-and therefore the interval between Sunday and

-Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture

-of chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce

-forbad the child’s having the breast, and we therefore

-procured puppies to draw off the milk. This

-occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and

-the other attendants. Nothing could exceed the

-equanimity, the patience and affectionateness of

-the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I

-dwelt with trembling fondness on every favourable

-circumstance; and, as far it was possible in so

-dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind

-speeches, rewarded my affection.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture

-in the melancholy series. It was now decided

-that the only chance of supporting her

-through what she had to suffer, was by supplying

-her rather freely with wine. This task was devolved

-upon me. I began about four o’clock in

-the afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the

-nature of diseases and of the human frame, thus

-to play with a life that now seemed all that was

-dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a

-task. I knew neither what was too much, nor

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,

-under every disadvantage, to go on. This

-lasted for three hours. Towards the end of that

-time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who

-came out of the room, “What she thought of

-her mistress?” she replied, “that, in her judgment,

-she was going as fast as possible.” There

-are moments, when any creature that lives, has

-power to drive one into madness. I seemed to

-know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of

-no consequence—It added to the measure of my

-distraction. A little after seven I intreated a friend

-to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him instantly

-wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily

-called on the patient on the preceding Saturday,

-and two or three times since. He had seen

-her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending

-the wine diet. That day he dined four

-miles out of town, on the side of the metropolis,

-which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this,

-my friend returned with him after three-quarters

-of an hour’s absence. No one who knows my

-friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success,

-when I name Mr. Basil Montagu. The

-sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly, gave me a

-stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it

-possible to experience.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday

-evening, to the hour of her death. It was impossible

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>to exceed his kindness and affectionate attention.

-It excited in every spectator a sentiment

-like adoration. His conduct was uniformly tender

-and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing

-every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable

-appearance. If skill or attention could

-have saved her, Mary would still live. In addition

-to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr.

-Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day. She had for

-nurses, or rather for friends, watching every occasion

-to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an

-excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very

-kind and judicious lady, and a favourite female

-servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.

-Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu,

-Mr. Marshal, and Mr. Dyson, sat up nearly the

-whole of the last week of her existence in the

-house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any

-part of the metropolis, at a moment’s warning.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to

-bed for a few hours on Wednesday night. Towards

-morning he came into my room with an account

-that the patient was surprisingly better. I

-went instantly into the chamber. But I now sought

-to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest anguish

-I have any conception of, consists in that

-crushing of a new-born hope which I had already

-two or three times experienced. If Mary recovered,

-it was well, and I should see it time

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>enough. But it was too mighty a thought to

-bear being trifled with, and turned out and admitted

-in this abrupt way.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my

-gloomy thoughts, when, about ten o’clock on

-Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare

-ourselves, for we had reason to expect the

-fatal event every moment. To my thinking, she

-did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,

-which I supposed to precede death; but it is

-probable that death does not always take place by

-that gradual process I had pictured to myself; a

-sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did

-not die on Thursday night.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Till now it does not appear that she had any

-serious thoughts of dying; but on Friday and Saturday,

-the two last days of her life, she occasionally

-spoke as if she expected it. This was, however,

-only at intervals; the thought did not seem

-to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle rejoiced in

-this. He observed, and there is great force in the

-suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object,

-than a sick man, that knows he is dying. The

-thought must be expected to destroy his courage,

-to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract

-every favourable effort of nature.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>On these two days her faculties were in too decayed

-a state, to be able to follow any train of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.

-Her religion, as I have already shown, was not

-calculated to be the torment of a sick bed; and, in

-fact, during her whole illness, not one word of a

-religious cast fell from her lips.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>She was affectionate and compliant to the last.

-I observed on Friday and Saturday nights, that,

-whenever her attendants recommended to her to

-sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by

-breathing, perhaps for the space of a minute, in

-the manner of a person that sleeps, though the effort,

-from the state of her disorder, usually proved

-ineffectual.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>She was not tormented by useless contradiction.

-One night the servant, from an error in judgment,

-teazed her with idle expostulations; but she complained

-of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray,

-pray, do not let her reason with me,”

-was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so

-dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous

-importunity of nurses everlastingly repeated.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very

-desirous of obtaining from her any directions,

-that she might wish to have followed after her decease.

-Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I

-talked to her for a good while of the two children.

-In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not impressing

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>the idea of death, I was obliged to manage

-my expressions. I therefore affected to proceed

-wholly upon the ground of her having been

-very ill, and that it would be some time before she

-could expect to be well; wishing her to tell me

-any thing that she would choose to have done respecting

-the children, as they would now be principally

-under my care. After having repeated

-this idea to her in a great variety of forms, she at

-length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I

-know what you are thinking of,” but added, that

-she had nothing to communicate to me upon the

-subject.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the

-two last days. Mr. Carlisle observed that her

-continuance was almost miraculous, and he was on

-the watch for favourable appearances, believing it

-highly improper to give up all hope, and remarking,

-that perhaps one in a million, of persons in her

-state might possibly recover. I conceive that not

-one in a million, unites so good a constitution of

-body and of mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>These were the amusements of persons in the

-very gulph of despair. At six o’clock on Sunday

-morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called

-me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in

-conformity to my request, that I might not be left

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>to receive all at once the intelligence that she was

-no more. She expired at twenty minutes before

-eight.</p>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<p class='c007'>Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of

-September, at ten o’clock in the morning, in the

-church-yard of the parish church of St. Pancras,

-Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed,

-attended the ceremony; and a plain monument

-is now erecting on the spot, by some of

-her friends, with the following inscription:</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div><span class='sc'>mary wollstonecraft godwin,</span></div>

-    <div><span class='sc'>author of</span></div>

-    <div><span class='sc'>a vindication</span></div>

-    <div><span class='sc'>of the rights of woman.</span></div>

-    <div><span class='sc'>born, XXVII april MDCCLIX.</span></div>

-    <div><span class='sc'>died, X september MDCCXCVII.</span></div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<p class='c007'>The loss of the world in this admirable woman,

-I leave to other men to collect; my own I well

-know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do

-not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed

-in her conversation: these increased every day,

-in proportion as we knew each other better, and

-as our mutual confidence increased. They can be

-measured only by the treasures of her mind, and

-the virtues of her heart. But this is a subject for

-meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding

-to, was the improvement that I have for

-ever lost.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture

-to use this sort of language) in different directions;

-I, chiefly an attempt at logical and metaphysical

-distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque.

-One of the leading passions of my

-mind has been an anxious desire not to be deceived.

-This has led me to view the topics of my reflection

-on all sides; and to examine and re-examine

-without end, the questions that interest me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But it was not merely (to judge at least from all

-the reports of my memory in this respect) the

-difference of propensities, that made the difference

-in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated

-as long as I can remember, by an ambition for

-intellectual distinction; but, as long as I can remember,

-I have been discouraged, when I have

-endeavoured to cast the sum of my intellectual value,

-by finding that I did not possess, in the degree

-of some other men, an intuitive perception

-of intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong

-and lively sense of the pleasures of the imagination;

-but I have seldom been right in assigning to them

-their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering

-examination, and the change and correction

-of my first opinions.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed,

-in a degree superior to any other person I ever

-knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>She was often right, by this means only, in matters

-of mere speculation. Her religion, her philosophy,

-(in both of which the errors were comparatively

-few, and the strain dignified and generous)

-were, as I have already said, the pure result

-of feeling and taste. She adopted one opinion,

-and rejected another, spontaneously, by a

-sort of tact and the force of a cultivated imagination;

-and yet, though perhaps, in the strict sense

-of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising

-what a degree of soundness is to be found in her

-determinations. But, if this quality was of use

-to her in topics that seem the proper province of

-reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly

-appealing to the intellectual taste. In a robust

-and unwavering judgment of this sort, there is a

-kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it

-produces a responsive vibration in every ingenuous

-mind. In this sense, my oscillation and scepticism

-were fixed by her boldness. When a true

-opinion emanated in this way from another mind,

-the conviction produced in my own assumed a

-similar character, instantaneous and firm. This

-species of intellect probably differs from the other,

-chiefly in the relation of earlier and later. What

-the one perceives instantaneously (circumstances

-having produced in it, either a premature attention

-to objects of this sort, or a greater boldness

-of decision) the other receives only by degrees.

-What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>minute attention to first impressions, and a just

-appreciation of them; habits that are never so

-effectually generated, as by the daily recurrence

-of a striking example.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This light was lent to me for a very short

-period, and is now extinguished for ever!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>While I have described the improvement I was

-in the act of receiving, I believe I have put down

-the leading traits of her intellectual character.</p>

-

-<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>The following Letters may possibly be found

-to contain the finest examples of the language of

-sentiment and passion ever presented to the world.

-They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated

-Romance of Werter, though the incidents to

-which they relate are of a very different cast.

-Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable

-of affording pleasure, will receive no delight

-from the present publication. The editor apprehends

-that, in the judgment of those best qualified

-to decide upon the comparison, these Letters

-will be admitted to have the superiority over the

-fiction of Goethe. They are the offspring of a

-glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with

-the passion it essays to describe.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>To the series of letters constituting the principal

-article in these two volumes, are added various

-pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found

-discreditable to the talents of the author. The

-slight fragment of Letters on the Management of

-Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it seems to

-have some value, as presenting to us with vividness

-the intention of the writer on this important

-subject. The publication of a few select Letters

-to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just monument

-to the sincerity of his friendship, and a

-valuable and interesting specimen of the mind of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>the writer. The Letter on the Present Character

-of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of

-Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part

-of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, safely

-be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on

-Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature,

-appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April last,

-and is the only piece in this collection which has

-previously found its way to the press.</p>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>

-  <h2 id='Letters' class='c004'>LETTERS.</h2>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Two o’Clock.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>My dear love, after making my arrangements

-for our snug dinner to-day, I have been taken by

-storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an

-early hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day

-they intend to pass here. I shall, however, leave

-the key in the door, and hope to find you at my

-fire-side when I return, about eight o’clock. Will

-you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will

-find better, and till then think very affectionately

-of her.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours, truly,</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an

-answer.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>[August]</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I obey an emotion of my heart, which made

-me think of wishing thee, my love, good night!

-before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I

-can to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two

-under Colonel ——’s eye. You can scarcely

-imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day,

-when we are to begin almost to live together; and

-you would smile to hear how many plans of employment

-I have in my head, now that I am confident

-that my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish

-me with that dignified tenderness,

-which I have only found in you; and your own

-dear girl will try to keep under a quickness of

-feeling, that has sometimes given you pain—Yes,

-I will be <em>good</em>, that I may deserve to be happy:

-and whilst you love me, I cannot again fall into

-the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen

-almost too heavy to be borne.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says,

-that is equal to a kiss—yet I would rather give

-you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude

-to Heaven, and affection to you. I like

-the word affection, because it signifies something

-habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>we have mind enough to keep our hearts

-warm.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock

-to-morrow<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c011'><sup>[3]</sup></a>—Yours—</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f3'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier

-girl,” probably from a supposition that she owed her existence

-to this interview.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>You have often called me, dear girl, but you

-would now say good, did you know how very attentive

-I have been to the —— ever since I came

-to Paris. I am not however going to trouble you

-with the account, because I like to see your eyes

-praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during

-such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful

-to the heart, when the honey that drops

-from the lips is not merely words.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these

-people enter, to force me to huddle away my

-letter) be content with only a kiss of <span class='fss'>DUTY</span>—you

-<em>must</em> be glad to see me—because you are

-glad—or I will make love to the <em>shade</em> of Mirabeau,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I

-was talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me

-that it will ever have sufficient warmth to love,

-whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so

-highly respect principle.——</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of

-principles—far—and, if I had not begun

-to form a new theory respecting men, I should,

-in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I

-could have made something of his——it was composed

-of such materials—Hush! here they come—and

-love flies away in the twinkling of an eye,

-leaving a little brush of his wing on my pale

-cheeks.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am

-going to Mr. ——’s to meet him.&#160;——, and some

-others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and

-to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall probably not be able to return to ——

-to-morrow; but it is no matter, because I must

-take a carriage, I have so many books, that I immediately

-want, to take with me—On Friday

-then I shall expect you to dine with me—and, if

-you come a little before dinner, it is so long since I

-have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours

-affectionately</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c011'><sup>[4]</sup></a>.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f4'>

-<p class='c015'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. This and the thirteen following letters appear to have

-been written during a separation of several months; the date

-Paris.</p>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Friday Morning [September.]</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously

-announced, called here yesterday for the

-payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed

-at not finding you at home. I sent him to Mr.&#160;—— I have since seen him, and he tells me that

-he has settled the business.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>So much for business!—may I venture to talk a

-little longer about less weighty affairs?—How are

-you?—I have been following you all along the

-road this comfortless weather; for, when I am

-absent from those I love, my imagination is as

-lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by

-their presence—I was going to say caresses—and

-why should I not? I have found out that I have

-more than you, in one respect; because I can,

-without any violent effort of reason, find food for

-love in the same object, much longer than you

-can.—The way to my senses is through my heart;

-but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a

-shorter cut to yours.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very

-sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>woman <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>, a soft word for desirable; and,

-beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy,

-few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion

-in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I

-wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that

-the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly,

-rob those whose sensibility keeps down their

-vanity, of the few roses that afford them solace in

-the thorny road of life.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not know how I fell into these reflections,

-excepting one thought produced it—that these

-continual separations were necessary to warm your

-affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and

-away you go.—This

-joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though

-I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy

-tears have found their way into my eyes, that

-linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my

-heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures

-in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a

-mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as

-well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with

-me a <em>little</em> longer!—When we are settled in the

-country together, more duties will open before

-me, and my heart, which now, trembling into

-peace, is agitated by every emotion that awaken

-the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest

-on yours, with that dignity your character, not

-to talk of my own, demands.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>Take care of yourself—and write soon to your

-own girl (you may add dear, if you please) who

-sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you

-of it, by becoming happier</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just received your letter, and feel as

-if I could not go to bed tranquilly without saying

-a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my

-mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I

-have felt some gentle twitches, which make me

-begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature

-who will soon be sensible of my care.—This

-thought has not only produced an overflowing of

-tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to

-calm my mind and take exercise, lest I should

-destroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual

-interest, you know. Yesterday—do not

-smile!—finding that I had hurt myself by lifting

-precipitately a large log of wood, I sat down in

-an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Are you very busy?</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>So you may reckon on its being finished soon,

-though not before you come home, unless you are

-detained longer than I now allow myself to believe

-you will.—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, write to me, my best love,

-and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expressions

-of kindness will again beguile the time, as

-sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also

-over and over again, that your happiness (and

-you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected

-with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they

-rise, the fumes of former discontent, that have

-too often clouded the sunshine, which you have

-endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God

-bless you! Take care of yourself, and remember

-with tenderness your affectionate</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am going to rest very happy, and you have

-made me so.—This is the kindest good night I

-can utter.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable,

-as well as myself—for be it known to

-thee, that I answered thy first letter, the very night it

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not

-receive it before Wednesday, because it was not

-sent off till the next day.—There is a full, true,

-and particular account.—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for

-I think that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise

-of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the

-same thing, when the temper is governed by a

-square and compass.—There is nothing picturesque

-in this straight-lined equality, and the passions

-always give grace to the actions.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Recollection now makes my heart bound to

-thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face,

-though I cannot be seriously displeased with the

-exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is

-what I should have expected from thy character.—No;

-I have thy honest countenance before me—Pop—relaxed

-by tenderness; a little—little

-wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening

-with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than

-soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all

-the world.—I have not left the hue of love out

-of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has

-spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I

-feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles

-in my eye, that would be all your own, if a

-grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature,

-who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>give more warmth to the sentiment it divides—I

-must pause a moment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing

-thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence

-in your affection, when absent, than present;

-nay, I think that you must love me, for,

-in the sincerity of my heart let me say it, I believe

-I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and

-have a degree of sensibility that you can see and

-relish.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning (December 29.)</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>You seem to have taken up your abode at

-H——. Pray sir! when do you think of coming

-home? or, to write very considerately,

-when will business permit you? I shall expect

-(as the country people say in England) that you

-will make a <em>power</em> of money to indemnify me for

-your absence.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I

-to see you this week, or this month?—I do not

-know what you are about—for, as you did not

-tell me, I would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally

-pretty communicative.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear

-from you, so do not give yourself airs, but to get

-a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry

-with you for not informing me whether she

-had brought one with her or not.—On this score

-I will cork up some of the kind things that were

-ready to drop from my pen, which has never

-been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will

-only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or

-a kind look, to escape me, when I pass the flippers—which

-I could not remove from my <em>salle</em> door,

-though they are not the handsomest of their kind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing

-worth having is to be purchased. God bless you.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Monday Night (December 30.)</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>My best love, your letter to-night was particularly

-grateful to my heart, depressed by the

-letters I received by ——, for he brought me

-several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr.

-—— was for me. Mr. ——’s letter

-was long and very affectionate; but the account

-he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviously

-makes the best of them, has vexed me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>A melancholy letter from my sister —— has

-also harrassed my mind—that from my brother

-would have given me sincere pleasure; but for</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>There is a spirit of independence in this letter,

-that will please you; and you shall see it, when

-we are once more over the fire together—I think

-that you would hail him as a brother, with one of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>your tender looks, when your heart not only gives

-a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness,

-that he would meet with a glow half made up of

-bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where

-shall I find a word to express the relationship

-which subsists between us? Shall I ask the little

-twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence

-that was to tell you how much he would be inclined

-to love the man loved by his sister. I have

-been fancying myself sitting between you, ever

-since I began to write, and my heart has leaped

-at the thought! You see how I chat to you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I did not receive your letter till I came home;

-and I did not expect it, so the post came in much

-later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I

-wanted one.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. —— tells me that he has written again

-and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a

-kind of separation, if you did not love those I

-love.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>There was so much considerate tenderness in

-your epistle to-night, that, if it has not made you

-dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how

-very dear you are to me, by charming away half

-my cares.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as

-captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing

-to let him go without a kind greeting, because

-trifles of this sort, without having any effect on

-my mind, damp my spirits:—and you, with all

-your struggles to be manly, have some of this

-same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love

-to see it striving to master your features; besides,

-these kind of sympathies are the life of affection:

-and why, in cultivating our understandings, should

-we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which

-gush out to give a freshness to days browned by

-care!<a id='t133'></a></p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The books sent to me are such as we may read

-together; so I shall not look into them till you return;

-when you shall read, whilst I mend my

-stockings.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday Night [January 1.]</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>As I have been, you tell me, three days

-without writing, I ought not to complain of two:

-yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,

-I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing

-it, affect the heroism I do not feel?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s

-and heart be organized from mine! You will tell

-me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of

-them! The face of things, public and private,

-vexes me. The “peace” and clemency which

-seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear

-again. “I am fallen,” as Milton said, “on

-evil days;” for I really believe that Europe will

-be in a state of convulsion, during half a century

-at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always

-rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a

-person can find a resting-place, imagining it is

-lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is

-to be done over anew!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Should I attempt to write any more, I could

-not change the strain. My head aches, and my

-heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded

-garden,” where “things rank and vile”

-flourish best.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>If you do not return soon—or, which is no such

-mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your slippers

-out at the window, and be off—nobody knows

-where.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Finding that I was observed, I told the good

-women, the two Mrs. ——, simply that I was

-with child: and let them stare!—and ——,

-nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care—Yet

-I wish to avoid ——’s coarse jokes.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Considering the care and anxiety a woman must

-have about a child before it comes into the world,

-it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong to

-her. When men get immersed in the world, they

-seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary

-to continue or produce life!—Are these the

-privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race,

-whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate

-stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man

-to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A

-man is a tyrant!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You may now tell me, that, if it were not for

-me, you would be laughing away with some honest

-fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social

-sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I

-should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.—It

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>is necessary to be in good-humour

-with you, to be pleased with the world.</p>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Thursday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was very low-spirited last night, ready to

-quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes

-absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince

-the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning

-it. I do not want to be loved like a goddess;

-but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless

-you!<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c011'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f5'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. Some further letters, written during the remainder of

-the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to

-have been destroyed by the person to whom they are addressed.</p>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Monday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just received your kind and rational

-letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with

-shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,

-if you would again open it to me, and nestle

-closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by

-saying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing

-with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I

-intreat you. Do not turn from me, for indeed I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>love you fondly, and have been very wretched,

-since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking

-that you had no confidence in me—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a

-few more of these caprices of sensibility would

-destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indisposed

-for a few days past, and the notion that I

-was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little

-animal, about whom I am grown anxious and

-tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My

-bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and every

-thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach;

-still I feel intimations of its existence, though they

-have been fainter.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Do you think that the creature goes regularly

-to sleep? I am ready to ask as many questions as

-Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not

-continue to be angry with me! You perceive that

-I am already smiling through my tears—You

-have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits

-are melting into playfulness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Write the moment you receive this. I shall

-count the minutes. But drop not an angry word,

-I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve

-a scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant),

-wait till you come back—and then, if you are

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you the

-next.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because

-he talked of going to H——. Hearing that

-I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming

-that it was some words that he incautiously

-let fall, which rendered me so.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart

-against a return of tenderness; and, as I now in

-fancy cling to you, be more than ever my support.

-Feel but as affectionate when you read this

-letter, as I did writing it, and you will make

-happy, your</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will never, if I am not entirely cured of

-quarrelling, begin to encourage “quick-coming

-fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my

-love, I could not open your letter for some time;

-and, though it was not half as severe as I merited,

-it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously

-alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>care for a little pain on my own account;

-but all the fears which I have had for a few days

-past, returned with fresh force. This morning I

-am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You

-perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of

-me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>One thing you mistake in my character, and

-imagine that to be coldness which is just the contrary.

-For, when I am hurt by the person most

-dear to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions,

-in which tenderness would be uppermost, or

-stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost

-a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am

-treated with coldness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own&#160;——.

-I know the quickness of your feelings—and let

-me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there

-is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy.

-My own happiness wholly depends on you—and,

-knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I

-look forward to a rational prospect of as much

-felicity as the earth affords—with a little dash of

-rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me,

-when we meet again, as you have sometimes

-greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Thursday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been wishing the time away, my kind

-love, unable to rest till I knew that my penitential

-letter had reached your hand, and this afternoon,

-when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such

-exquisite pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart

-smote her to think that you were to receive another

-cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do

-not forget that even those letters were full of love;

-and I shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to

-be mollified by my penitence, before you took me

-again to your heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been unwell, and would not, now I am

-recovering, take a journey, because I have been

-seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading

-continually the fatal consequence of my folly.

-But, should you think it right to remain at H—,

-I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a

-fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and

-before then I shall be strong again.—Yet do not

-be uneasy! I am really better, and never took

-such care of myself, as I have done since you restored

-my peace of mind. The girl is come to

-warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night!

-and write a line or two in the morning.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I wish you were here to walk with me this

-fine morning! yet your absence shall not prevent

-me. I have stayed at home too much; though,

-when I was so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless

-of every thing.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will now sally forth (you will go with me in

-my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air

-will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,

-before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief

-that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my

-whole system.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The two or three letters, which I have written

-to you lately, my love, will serve as an answer to

-your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your

-motives and conduct. I always respected them;

-and was only hurt, by what seemed to me a want

-of confidence, and consequently affection.—I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three

-months at H—, I might as well have been with

-you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded

-over—Let us now be friends!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day,

-sealing my pardon—and I will be careful not

-to torment you with my querulous humours, at

-least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances

-direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit

-you to return, convinced that you will hasten

-to your&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*, when you have attained (or

-lost sight of) the object of your journey.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side!

-Yes, my love, my fancy was instantly at

-work, and I found my head on your shoulder,

-whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures

-that were clinging to your knees. I did not absolutely

-determine that there should be six—if

-you have not set your heart on this round number.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am going to dine with Mrs.&#160;——. I have

-not been to visit her since the first day she came

-to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as

-much as I can; for the exercise I have taken

-these two or three days past, has been of such service

-to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last

-night, and then not much.—The two Mrs.&#160;——s

-have been very anxious and tender.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I need not desire you to give the colonel a good

-bottle of wine.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I wrote to you yesterday, my&#160;——; but,

-finding that the colonel is still detained (for his

-passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I

-am not willing to let so many days elapse without

-your hearing from me, after having talked of

-illness and apprehensions.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I

-am (I must use my Yorkshire phrase; for, when

-my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of

-childhood into my head) so <em>lightsome</em>, that I

-think it will not <em>go badly with me</em>.—And nothing

-shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection

-for you, but by a new-born tenderness that plays

-cheerly round my dilating heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out

-in the air the greater part of yesterday; and, if

-I get over this evening without a return of the

-fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more

-of illness. I have promised the little creature,

-that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not

-again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and,

-since I could not hug either it or you to my breast,

-I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over

-this prattle—but it is only for your eye.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst

-you were harrassed by impediments in your undertakings,

-I was giving you additional uneasiness.—If

-you can make any of your plans answer—it

-is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient;

-but, should they fail, we will struggle

-cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching

-blasts of poverty.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor

-girl, and write long letters; for I not only like

-them for being longer, but because more heart

-steals into them; and I am happy to catch your

-heart whenever I can.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I seize this opportunity to inform you that I

-am to set out on Thursday with Mr.&#160;——,

-and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad

-I shall be to see you. I have just got my passport,

-so I do not foresee any impediment to my

-reaching H——, to bid you good-night next

-Friday in my new apartment—where I am to

-meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to

-sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we

-parted.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You have, by your tenderness and worth,

-twisted yourself more artfully round my heart,

-than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the

-thought, that I have thrown out some tendrils to

-cling to the elm by which I wished to be supported.—This

-is talking a new language for me!—But,

-knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am

-willing to receive the proofs of affection, that

-every pulse replies to, when I think of being

-once more in the same house with you.—God

-bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I only send this as an <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">avant-coureur</span></i>, without

-jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the

-wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after

-you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed,

-I am sure; or, more properly speaking,

-cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are

-not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of

-it. I will not allow that your temper is even,

-though I have promised myself, in order to obtain

-my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle

-it for a long, long time—I am afraid to say

-never.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that

-I am driving towards you in person! My mind,

-unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather

-has never left you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am well, and have no apprehension that I

-shall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow

-the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to

-H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has

-always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever

-I wished.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>We are such creatures of habit, my love, that,

-though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so,

-for your going, when I knew that you were to

-stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment;

-yet I could not sleep.—I turned to

-your side of the bed, and tried to make the most

-of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to

-tell me I was churlish about; but all would not

-do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast,

-though the weather was not very inviting—and

-here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing

-you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one

-of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten,

-and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But I do not mean to dally with you this

-morning—So God bless you! Take care of yourself

-and sometimes fold<a id='t147'></a> to your heart your affectionate.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIX.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c015'>Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table

-the little bit of paper I was to inclose.—This comes

-of being in love at the fag end of a letter of business.—You

-know, you say, they will not chime

-together.—I had got you by the fire-side, with

-<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> smoking on the board, to lard your poor

-bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without

-taking the paper up, that was directly under my

-eyes!—What had I got in them to render me so

-blind?—I give you leave to answer the question,

-if you will not scold; for I am</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XX.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday, August 17.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have promised —— to go with him to

-his country-house, where he is now permitted to

-dine—and the little darling, to be sure<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c011'><sup>[6]</sup></a>—whom

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>I cannot help kissing with more fondness, since

-you left us. I think I shall enjoy the fine prospect,

-and that it will rather enliven than satiate

-my imagination.</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f6'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now

-been born a considerable time.</p>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the

-manners of a gentlewoman, with a dash of the

-easy French coquetry, which renders her <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>.

-But <em>Monsieur</em> her husband, whom nature

-never dreamed of casting in either the mould

-of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward

-figure in the foreground of the picture.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and

-the house smelt of commerce from top to

-toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste,

-only proved it to be one of the things not to be

-bought with gold. I was in a room a moment

-alone, and my attention was attracted by the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pendule</span></i>.

-A nymph was offering up her vows before

-a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (saving

-your presence), who was kicking his heels in the

-air. Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of

-traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces,

-that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the

-<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sombre</span></i> day of life—whilst the imagination, not

-allowing us to see things as they are, enables us to

-catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight,

-the thirst for which seems to be given only

-to tantalize us.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will

-call me severe, and bid me let the square-headed

-money-getters alone. Peace to them! though

-none of the social spirits (and there are not a few

-of different descriptions, who sport about the various

-inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain

-my pen.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been writing, expecting poor ——

-to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of

-business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally

-associates with your image, I wonder I

-stumbled on any other.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely

-worth having, even with a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> every day, and a

-pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate

-my judgment, if you will permit me to

-keep alive the sentiments in your heart which

-may be termed romantic, because, the offspring

-of the senses and the imagination, they resemble

-the mother more than the father<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c011'><sup>[7]</sup></a>, when they produce

-the suffusion I admire. In spite of icy age,

-I hope still to see it, if you have not determined

-only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the

-stupid—</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f7'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. She means, “the latter more than the former.”</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>H—, August 19, Tuesday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I received both your letters to-day—I had

-reckoned on hearing from you yesterday, therefore

-was disappointed, though I imputed your silence

-to the right cause. I intended answering

-your kind letter immediately, that you might have

-felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came

-in, and some other things interrupted me; so

-that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving

-a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you,

-what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire

-I have shown to keep my place, or gain more

-ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary

-your affection is to my happiness.—Still I

-do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to

-wish that your attention to my happiness should

-arise <em>as much</em> from love, which is always rather a

-selfish passion, as reason—that is, I want you to

-promote my felicity, by seeking your own—For,

-whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your

-generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for

-your affection on the very quality I most admire.

-No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand

-my affection; but, unless the attachment

-appears to me clearly mutual, I shall labour only

-to esteem your character, instead of cherishing a

-tenderness for your person.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>I write in a hurry, because the little one, who

-has been sleeping a long time, begins to call for

-me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that

-all my affections grow on me, till they become

-too strong for my peace, though they all afford

-me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for

-our little girl was at first very reasonable—more

-the effect of reason, a sense of duty, than feeling—now,

-she has got into my heart and imagination,

-and when I walk out without her, her little

-figure is ever dancing before me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You too have somehow clung round my heart—I

-found I could not eat my dinner in the great

-room—and, when I took up the large knife to

-carve for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do

-not however suppose that I am melancholy—for,

-when you are from me, I not only wonder how

-I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt

-your affection.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it

-roused my indignation) with the effusion of tenderness,

-with which I assure you, that you are the

-friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>H—, August 20.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I want to know what steps you have taken

-respecting ——. Knavery always rouses my indignation—I

-should be gratified to hear that the

-law had chastised —— severely; but I do not

-wish you to see him, because the business does not

-now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly

-know how you would express your contempt.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am

-still pleased with the dignity of his conduct.—The

-other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use

-of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean

-to point out to you, as one of the few instances

-of address which do credit to the abilities of the

-man, without taking away from that confidence

-in his openness of heart, which is the true basis of

-both public and private friendship.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little

-reserve of temper in you, of which I have sometimes

-complained! You have been used to a cunning

-woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay,

-in <em>managing</em> my happiness, you now and

-then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself

-till honest sympathy, giving you to me without

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>disguise, lets me look into a heart, which my halfbroken

-one wishes to creep into, to be revived

-and cherished.——You have frankness of heart,

-but not often exactly that overflowing (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">épanchement

-de cœur</span></i>), which becoming almost childish,

-appears a weakness only to the weak.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you

-to enquire likewise whether, as a member declared

-in the convention, Robespierre really maintained

-a number of mistresses—Should it prove so,

-I suspect that they rather flattered his vanity than

-his senses.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do

-not suppose that I mean to close it without mentioning

-the little damsel—who has been almost

-springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very

-like you—but I do not love her the less for that,

-whether I am angry or pleased with you.—</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIII<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c011'><sup>[8]</sup></a>.</h3>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f8'>

-<p class='c015'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. This is the first of a series of letters written during a

-separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting

-ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the

-address of London.</p>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>September 22.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just written two letters, that are

-going by other conveyances, and which I reckon

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>on your receiving long before this. I therefore

-merely write, because I know I should be disappointed

-at seeing any one who had left you, if you

-did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell

-me why you did not write a longer—and you

-will want to be told, over and over again, that our

-little Hercules is quite recovered.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Besides looking at me there are three other

-things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to

-look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music—yesterday

-at the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">féte</span></i>, she enjoyed the two latter;

-but to honor J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give

-her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—and

-why not?—for I have always been half

-in love with him.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk

-about alum or soap? There is nothing picturesque

-in your present pursuits; my imagination then

-rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with

-you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my

-basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I recollect

-your looks and words, when I have been sitting

-on the window, regarding the waving

-corn!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient

-respect for the imagination—I could prove to you

-in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the

-great distinction of our nature, the only purifier

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>of the passions—animals have a portion of reason,

-and equal, if not more exquisite, senses;

-but no trace of imagination, or her offspring

-taste, appears in any of their actions. The impulse

-of the senses, passions, if you will, and the

-conclusions of reason draw men together; but

-the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven

-to animate this cold creature of clay, producing

-all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture,

-rendering men social by expanding their

-hearts instead of leaving them leisure to calculate

-how many comforts society affords.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>If you call these observations romantic, a

-phrase in this place which would be tantamount to

-nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are

-embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of

-life—Bring me then back your barrier face, or

-you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl;

-and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances

-that will be ever dear to me; for I am

-yours truly</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Evening. Sept. 23.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been playing and laughing with the

-little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>address you without emotion. Pressing her to

-my bosom, she looked so like you (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, your

-best looks, for I do not admire your commercial

-face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch,

-and I began to think that there was something in

-the assertion of man and wife being one—for you

-seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening

-the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic

-tears you excited.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not

-for the present—the rest is all flown away; and,

-indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain

-of some people here, who have ruffled my

-temper for two or three days past.</p>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yesterday B—— sent to me for my

-packet of letters. He called on me before; and I

-like him better than I did—that is, I have the

-same opinion of his understanding, but I think

-with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy

-of feeling with respect to women, than are

-commonly to be met with. His manner too of

-speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine,

-interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,

-and requested him to see her.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose

-will write about business. Public affairs I do not

-descant on, except to tell you that they write

-now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty

-of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I

-plainly perceive.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hope you take care of your health. I have

-got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I

-believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am

-alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open

-my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking,

-which agitate and fatigue me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This is my third letter; when am I to hear

-from you? I need not tell you, I suppose, that I

-am now writing with somebody in the room with

-me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s.

-I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you

-adieu.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I desired you, in one of my other letters, to

-bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you

-should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know

-that you will love her more and more, for she is a

-little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as

-much vivacity, I think, as you could wish for.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was going to tell you of two or three things

-which displease me here; but they are not of

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations.

-I have received a letter from Mr. ——.

-I want you to bring —— with you. Madame

-S—— is by me, reading a German translation of

-your letters—she desires me to give her love to

-you, on account of what you say of the negroes.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately,</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Paris, Sept. 28.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have written to you three or four letters;

-but different causes have prevented my sending

-them by the persons who promised to take or forward

-them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go

-by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive,

-before I hope, and believe, you will have set out

-on your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give

-it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to

-whom I also gave a letter.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I cannot help being anxious to hear from you;

-but I shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes,

-or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.—I

-have had so many little plagues

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>here, that I have almost lamented that I left

-H——.  ——, who is at best a most helpless

-creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy,

-more trouble than use to me, so that I still continue

-to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed

-rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature;

-for, setting aside a mother’s fondness (which, by

-the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent

-smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing

-degree of sensibility and observation. The

-other day by B——’s child, a fine one, she

-looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,

-and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I

-will swear.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if

-you have not forgot) in which you pressed me

-very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to

-fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are

-almost too sacred to be alluded to.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you

-wish to be the protector of your child, and the

-comfort of her mother.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have received, for you, letters from ——.

-I want to hear how that affair finishes, though I

-do not know whether I have most contempt for

-his folly or knavery.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Your own</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>October 1.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is a heartless task to write letters, without

-knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I

-have given two to ——, who has been a-going,

-a-going, every day, for a week past; and three

-others, which were written in a low-spirited

-strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been

-able to forward by the opportunities that were

-mentioned to me. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tant mieux!</span></i> you will say,

-and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that

-the contents of a letter, when you are so far away,

-should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would

-afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I

-just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,

-which you wrote during your last absence. You

-are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will

-not plague you. The letter which you chance to

-receive, when the absence is so long, ought to

-bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter

-alloy, into your eyes.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>After your return I hope indeed, that you will

-not be so immersed in business, as during the last

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>three or four months past—for even money, taking

-into the account all the future comforts it is

-to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if

-painful impressions are left on the mind.—These

-impressions were much more lively, soon after

-you went away, than at present—for a thousand

-tender recollections efface the melancholy traces

-they left on my mind—and every emotion is on

-the same side as my reason, which always was on

-yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious

-to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of

-character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot

-be happy with you, I will seek it no where

-else.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My little darling grows every day more dear

-to me—and she often has a kiss, when we are

-alone together, which I give her for you, with

-all my heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been interrupted—and must send off my

-letter. The liberty of the press will produce a

-great effect here—the <em>cry of blood will not be vain</em>!—Some

-more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins

-are conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last

-slap of the tail of the beast.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies

-here, which I shall not now trouble you with

-a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>rendered her useless. The girl I have got

-has more vivacity, which is better for the child.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of ——

-and —— with you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really

-loves his wife, and is anxious about his children;

-but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings

-have given him an inveterate habit of drinking,

-that destroys his health, as well as renders his person

-disgusting.—If his wife had more sense, or delicacy,

-she might restrain him: as it is, nothing

-will save him.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>October 26.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to

-hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned

-such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged

-to throw them aside till the little girl and I were

-alone together; and this said little girl, our darling,

-is become a most intelligent little creature,

-and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>which I do not find quite so convenient. I once

-told you, that the sensations before she was born,

-and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they

-do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I

-feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs

-outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street,

-or after a short absence. She has now the advantage

-of having two good nurses, and I am at

-present able to discharge my duty to her, without

-being the slave of it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have therefore employed and amused myself

-since I got rid of ——, and am making a progress

-in the language amongst other things. I have

-also made some new acquaintance. I have almost

-<em>charmed</em> a judge of the tribunal, R——,

-who, though I should not have thought it possible,

-has humanity, if not <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">beaucoup d’esprit</span></i>. But

-let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I

-shall be half in love with the author of the <em>Marseillaise</em>,

-who is a handsome man, a little too

-broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the

-violin.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What do you say to this threat?—why, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre

-nous</span></i>, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when

-writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is

-proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when

-he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy,

-and come back quickly to play with your girls?

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer

-best.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>My heart longs for your return, my love, and

-only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet

-do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come

-back, before you have arranged things in such a

-manner, that it will not be necessary for you to

-leave us soon again, or to make exertions which

-injure your constitution.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and tenderly</div>

-      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the

-inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an answer.—It

-is for a person uncomfortably situated.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>December, 26.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been, my love, for some days tormented

-by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form—I

-had been expecting you daily—and I heard that

-many vessels had been driven on shore during the

-late gale.—Well, I now see your letter, and find

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>that you are safe: I will not regret then that your

-exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, return to me when you have

-arranged the other matters, which —— has been

-crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are

-safe—and not separated from me by a sea that

-must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier

-than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes

-dreading that fate has not done persecuting me?

-Come to me my dearest friend, father of my

-child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at

-this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an

-independence is desirable; and it is always within

-our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you

-the world again appears empty to me. But I am

-recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that

-have flitted across my mind for some days past,

-and haunted my dreams.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and

-I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little

-mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;” but

-certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress

-than she is to me. Her eyes follow me every

-where, and by affection I have the most despotic

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes;

-I love her more than I thought I should.

-When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced

-her as my only comfort—when pleased with

-you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I

-cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst

-I am kissing her for resembling you. But there

-would be no end to these details. Fold us both to

-your heart; for I am truly and affectionately</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIX.</h3>

-

-<div class='c016'>December 28.</div>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize

-with you in all your disappointments.—Yet, knowing

-that you are well, and think of me with affection,

-I only lament other disappointments, because

-I am sorry that you should thus exert your

-self in vain, and that you are kept from me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>——, I know, urges you to stay, and is

-continually branching out into new projects, because

-he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,

-rather an immense one, merely to have

-the credit of having made it. But we who are

-governed by other motives, ought not to be led

-on by him. When we meet we will discuss this

-subject—You will listen to reason, and it has

-probably occurred to you, that it will be better,

-in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may

-demand more time, and still enable you to arrive

-at the same end. It appears to me absurd to

-waste life in preparing to live.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Would it not now be possible to arrange your

-business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes,

-of which I have had my share since

-your departure? It is not possible to enter into

-business, as an employment necessary to keep the

-faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions)

-the pot boiling, without suffering what

-must ever be considered as a secondary object, to

-engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection

-out of the heart?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person

-who has promised to forward it with ——’s.

-I wish then to counteract, in some measure,

-what he has doubtless recommended most

-warmly.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>Stay, my friend, whilst it is <em>absolutely</em> necessary.—I

-will give you no tenderer name, though it

-glows at my heart, unless you come the moment

-the settling the <em>present</em> objects permit. <em>I do not

-consent</em> to your taking any other journey—or the

-little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows

-where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to

-your affection, and, I may add, to your reason,

-(for this immoderate desire of wealth, which

-makes —— so eager to have you remain, is

-contrary to your principles of action), I will not

-importune you.—I will only tell you that I long

-to see you—and, being at peace with you, I

-shall be hurt, rather than made angry by delays.

-Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprized

-if I sometimes, when left to myself,

-grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a

-dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I

-say happiness, because remembrance retrenches

-all the dark shades of the picture.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use

-her legs.—She wants you to bear your part in the

-nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing

-her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you

-to thank her mother for taking such care of her,

-as you only can.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXX.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>December 29.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Though I suppose you have later intelligence,

-yet, as —— has just informed me

-that he has an opportunity of sending immediately

-to you, I take advantage of it to inclose you</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse

-with the world, which obliges one to see

-the worst side of human nature! Why cannot

-you be content with the object you had first in

-view, when you entered into this wearisome

-labyrinth? I know very well that you have been

-imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project,

-successful or abortive, only give place to

-two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?

-I am contented to do my part; and, even here,

-sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult

-to obtain. And let me tell you, I have my

-project also—and, if you do not soon return, the

-little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we

-will not accept any of your cold kindness—your

-distant civilities—no; not we.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented

-by the desire which&#160;—— manifests

-to have you remain where you are.—Yet why

-do I talk to you?—if he can persuade you let

-him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and

-your own wishes do not make you throw aside

-these eternal projects, I am above using any arguments,

-though reason, as well as affection

-seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual,

-they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Since my arrival here, I have found the German

-lady, of whom you have heard me speak. Her

-first child died in the month; but she has another,

-about the age of my ——, a fine little creature.

-They are still but contriving to live —— earning

-their daily bread—yet, though they are

-but just above poverty, I envy them. She is a

-tender affectionate mother—fatigued even by

-her attention. However she has an affectionate

-husband in her turn, to render her care light, and

-to share her pleasure.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness

-for my little girl, I grow sad very often

-when I am playing with her, that you are not

-here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds

-and her little heart becomes attached!—These

-appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>suffer them to escape you, in search of what we

-may never enjoy. It is your own maxim to

-“live in the present moment.”—<em>If you do</em>—stay,

-for God’s sake; but tell me  truth—if not, tell

-me when I may expect to see you, and let me

-not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow

-sick at heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my

-darling to my bosom to comfort me.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>December 30.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Should you receive three or four of the

-letters at once which I have written lately, do

-not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean

-to wife you. I only take advantage of every

-occasion, that one out of three of my epistles

-may reach your hands, and inform you that I am

-not of&#160;——’s opinion, who talks till he makes

-me angry, of the necessity of your staying two

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>or three months longer. I do not like this life of

-continual inquietude—and, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, I am determined

-to try to earn some money here myself,

-in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run

-about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for

-the little girl and I will live without your

-assistance, unless you are with us. I may be

-termed proud—Be it so—but I will never

-abandon certain principles of action.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The common run of men have such an ignoble

-way of thinking, that if they debauch their

-hearts, and prostitute their persons, following

-perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the

-wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no

-right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan

-whenever he deigns to return, with open arms,

-though his have been polluted by half an hundred

-promiscuous amours during his absence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct

-things; yet the former is necessary, to give life

-to the other—and such a degree of respect do I

-think due to myself, that, if only probity, which

-is a good thing in its place, brings you back,

-never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart,

-or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there

-is an end of all my hopes of happiness—I

-could not forgive it, if I would.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you

-perceive. You know my opinion of men in general;

-you know that I think them systematic

-tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world,

-to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of

-feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I

-lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on

-her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a tie to a world

-that for me is ever sown with thorns.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when,

-in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection I can

-give, to dread to lose you. —— has taken

-such pains to convince me that you must and

-ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed

-my spirits.—You have always known my opinion—I

-have ever declared, that two people, who mean

-to live together, ought not to be long separated. If

-certain things are more necessary to you than me—search

-for them—Say but one word, and you

-shall never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s

-sake, let us struggle with poverty—with any evil,

-but these continual inquietudes of business, which

-I have been told were to last but a few months,

-though every day the end appears more distant!

-This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined

-to forward to you; the rest lie by, because

-I was unwilling to give you pain, and I

-should not now write, if I did not think that there

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand,

-as I am told, your presence.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c011'><sup>[9]</sup></a></div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f9'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. The person to whom the letters are addressed, was

-about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed,

-to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London,

-by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon

-him.</p>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>January 9.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I just now received one of your hasty <em>notes</em>;

-for business so entirely occupies you, that you have

-not time, or sufficient command of thought, to

-write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into

-a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing

-you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb

-your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous

-struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to

-render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for

-which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple

-pleasures that flow from passion and affection,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life

-were impressed by a disappointed heart on my

-mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring

-to go back to my former nature, and have allowed

-some time to glide away, winged with the

-delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can

-give. Why have you so soon dissolved the charm?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude

-which your and ——’s never-ending

-plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but

-you are mistaken—I have still sufficient

-firmness to pursue my principle of action. The

-present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do

-justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and

-therefore I have not firmness to support it

-as you may think I ought. I should have been

-content, and still wish, to retire with you to a

-farm—My God! any thing, but these continual

-anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases

-the mind, and roots out affection from the

-heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet

-I will simply observe, that,

-led to expect you every week, I did not make the

-arrangements required by the present circumstances,

-to procure the necessaries of life. In order

-to have them, a servant, for that purpose only,

-is indispensible—The want of wood, has made

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>me catch the most violent cold I ever had; and

-my head is so disturbed by continual coughing,

-that I am unable to write without stopping frequently

-to recollect myself.—This however is

-one of the common evils which must be borne

-with——bodily pain does not touch the heart

-though it fatigues the spirits.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Still as you talk of your return, even in February,

-doubtingly, I have determined, the moment

-the weather changes, to wean my child. It is

-too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And

-as one has well said, “despair is a freeman,” we

-will go and seek our fortune together.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This is not a caprice of the moment—for your

-absence has given new weight to some conclusions,

-that I was very reluctantly forming before

-you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary

-object. If your feelings were in unison with

-mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary

-prospects of future advantage.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Jan. 15.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was just going to begin my letter with the

-tag end of a song, which would only have told

-you, what I may as well say simply, that it is

-pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received

-your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of

-December, and my anger died away. You can

-scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters

-have produced on me. After longing to hear

-from you during a tedious interval of suspense,

-I have seen a superscription written by you.

-Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion,

-I have laid it by me, till the person who brought

-it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it,

-I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that

-have damped all the rising affection of my soul.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Well now for business—</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>My animal is well; I have not yet taught her

-to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and

-now she has two, she makes good use of them

-to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &amp;c. You would laugh

-to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she

-will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing

-her eye on an object for some time, dart on it

-with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing

-can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a

-cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not

-forget to love us—and come soon to tell us that

-you do.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Jan. 30.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>From the purport of your last letters, I should

-suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and I

-have already written so many letters, that you

-have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge,

-I do not find it pleasant, or rather I have

-no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If

-you have received them, and are still detained by

-new projects, it is useless for me to say any more

-on the subject. I have done with it for ever;

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary

-interest suffers by your absence.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only

-hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous

-feelings have sometimes burst out. I

-therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a

-pretext to stay at home, lest I should have uttered

-unseasonable truths.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My child is well, and the spring will perhaps

-restore me to myself.—I have endured many inconveniences

-this winter, which should I be

-ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable.

-“The secondary pleasures of life,” you

-say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may

-be so; but I have ever considered them as secondary.

-If therefore you accuse me of wanting

-the resolution necessary to bear the <em>common</em><a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c011'><sup>[10]</sup></a> evils

-of life; I should answer, that I have not fashioned

-my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid

-them, cost what it would.——</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu!</p>

-

-<div class='c017'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f10'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. This probably alludes to some expression of the person

-to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as

-common evils, things upon which the letter-writer was disposed

-to bestow a different appellation.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><span class='fss'>EDITOR</span>.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXV.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>February 9.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The melancholy presentiment has for some

-time hung on my spirits, that we were parted

-for ever; and the letters I received this day, by

-Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without

-foundation. You allude to some other letters,

-which I suppose have miscarried; for most of

-those I have got, were only a few hasty lines,

-calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the

-superscriptions excited.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I mean not however to complain; yet so many

-feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating

-a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find it

-very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You left me indisposed, though you have taken

-no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey

-I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,

-I recovered my health; but a neglected

-cold, and continual inquietude during the last two

-months, have reduced me to a state of weakness

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>I never before experienced. Those who did not

-know that the canker-worm was at work at the

-core, cautioned me about suckling my child too

-long. God preserve this poor child and render

-her happier than her mother!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But I am wandering from my subject: indeed

-my head turns giddy, when I think that all the

-confidence I have had in the affection of others is

-come to this. I did not expect this blow from

-you. I have done my duty to you and my

-child; and if I am not to have any return of

-affection to reward me, I have the sad consolation

-of knowing that I deserved a better fate.

-My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but

-for this little darling I would cease to care about

-a life, which is now stripped of every charm.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation,

-when I meant simply to tell you, that I

-consider your requesting me to come to you, as

-merely dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely

-understand you. You request me to come, and

-then tell me that you have not given up all

-thoughts of returning to this place.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>When I determined to live with you, I was

-only governed by affection. I would share poverty

-with you, but I turn with affright from

-the sea of trouble on which you are entering. I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>have certain principles of action: I know what to

-look for to found my happiness on. It is not money.

-With you I wished for sufficient to procure

-the comforts of life—as it is, less will do.—I

-can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of

-life for my child, and she does not want more at

-present. I have two or three plans in my head to

-earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,

-neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a

-pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would sooner

-submit to menial service. I wanted the support

-of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did

-not think, when I complained of ——’s contemptible

-avidity to accumulate money, that he

-would have dragged you into his schemes.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a

-letter written soon after your departure, and

-another which tenderness made me keep back

-when it was written. You will see then the

-sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined

-moment. Do not insult me by saying,

-that “our being together is paramount to every

-other consideration!” Were it, you would not

-be running after a bubble at the expence of my

-peace of mind.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive

-from me.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span></div>

-<div class='section'>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Feb. 10.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>You talk of “permanent views and future

-comfort”—not for me, for I am dead to hope.

-The inquietudes of the last winter have finished

-the business, and my heart is not only broken,

-but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself

-in a galloping consumption, and the continual

-anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child,

-feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is

-on her account that I again write to you, to conjure

-you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her

-here with the German lady you may have heard

-me mention! She has a child of the same age,

-and they may be brought up together, as I wish

-her to be brought up. I shall write more fully

-on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up

-my present lodgings, and go into the same house.

-I can live much cheaper there, which is now

-become an object. I have had 3000 livres from

-——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s

-wages, &amp;c. and then I shall endeavour to

-procure what I want by my own exertions. I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the

-Americans.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— and I have not been on good terms a long

-time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted

-over me, on account of your determination to

-stay. I had provoked it is true, by some asperities

-against commerce, which have dropped from

-me, when we have argued about the propriety of

-your remaining where you are; and it is no matter,

-I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to

-care about trifles.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>When you first entered into these plans, you

-bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand

-pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a

-farm in America, which would have been an

-independence. You find now that you did not

-know yourself, and that a certain situation in life

-is more necessary to you than you imagined—more

-necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a

-year or two you may procure yourself what you

-call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but

-in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered

-with regret—I was going to say with remorse,

-but checked my pen.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>As I have never concealed the nature of my

-connection with you, reputation will not suffer.

-I shall never have a confident: I am content with

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>the approbation of my own mind; and, if there

-be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised.

-Reading what you have written relative to

-the desertion of women, I have often wondered

-how theory and practice could be so different, till

-I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and

-the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to

-my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with

-business, you need not write to them—I shall,

-when my mind is calmer. God bless you!

-Adieu!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>This has been such a period of barbarity and

-misery, I ought not to complain of having my

-share. I wish one moment that I had never

-heard of the cruelties that have been practised

-here, and the next envy the mothers who have

-been killed with their children. Surely I had

-suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with

-a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am

-imparting. You will think me mad: I would I

-were so, that I could forget my misery—so that

-my head or heart would be still.——</p>

-

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Feb. 19.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>When I first received your letter, putting off

-your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer

-though it was not the kind of wound over which

-time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the

-more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues

-me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding

-fault with every one, I have only reason

-enough to discover that the fault is in myself.

-My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I

-should not take any pains to recover my health.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that

-step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my

-only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians

-talk much of the danger attending any complaint

-on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for

-some months. They lay a stress also on the

-necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my

-God! how has mine been harrassed! But

-whilst the caprices of other women are gratified,

-“the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them

-too rudely,” I have not found a guardian angel,

-in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care

-from my bosom.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What sacrifices have you not made for a woman

-you did not respect!—But I will not go

-over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not

-understand you. You say that you have not

-given up all thoughts of returning here—and I

-know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>explain myself; but if you have not lost your

-memory, you will easily divine my meaning.

-What! is our life then only to be made up of separations?

-and am I only to return to a country,

-that has not merely lost all charms for me, but

-for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts

-to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought

-up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed,

-expecting you to join us, I had formed

-some plans of usefulness that have now vanished

-with my hopes of happiness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain

-with reason, that I am left here dependant on a

-man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered

-him callous to every sentiment connected

-with social or affectionate emotions. With a

-brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the

-pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in

-spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to

-borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him

-continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.

-Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet

-I have gone half a dozen times to the house

-to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you

-must guess why—Besides, I wish to

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which

-you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but

-I will be silent for ever.——</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>April 7.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Here I am at H——, on the wing towards

-you, and I write now, only to tell you that you

-may expect me in the course of three or four

-days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the

-different emotions which agitate my heart—You

-may term a feeling, which appears to me to be

-a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from

-sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very

-affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,

-without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that

-it is mutual.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and

-tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am

-cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed

-been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult

-to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.

-Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart! But for

-the little girl, I could almost wish that it should

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish

-of disappointment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my

-only pleasure, when I weaned her about ten days

-ago. I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.

-It was necessary it should be done

-soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal

-of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off

-till we met. It was a painful exertion to me,

-and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with

-the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw

-over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone,

-in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the

-next room for three or four nights, you cannot

-think with what joy I took her back again to sleep

-in my bosom!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for

-I do not see any necessity for you coming to me.

-Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little

-friend with me. My wishing to oblige him,

-made me put myself to some inconvenience——and

-delay my departure; which was irksome to

-me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I

-would not for the world say indifference, as you.

-God bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIX.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Here we are, my love, and mean to set out

-early in the morning; and if I can find you, I

-hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive

-to ——’s hotel, where —— tells me

-you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope

-you will take care there to receive us.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little

-friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our

-little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my

-share. But why do I write about trifles?—or

-any thing?—Are we not to meet soon?—What

-does your heart say!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Your’s truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have weaned my ——, and she is now

-eating way at the white bread.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XL.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>London, Friday, May 22.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just received your affectionate letter

-and am distressed to think that I have added to

-your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,

-when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind

-appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of

-your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was

-something relative to the circumstance you have

-mentioned, which made —— request to see

-me to-day, to <em>converse about a matter of great importance</em>.

-Be that as it may, his letter (such is

-the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me,

-and rendered the last night as distressing as the

-two former had been.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have laboured to calm my mind since you

-left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to

-be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different

-from the resignation of despair!—I am

-however no longer angry with you—nor will I

-ever utter another complaint—there are arguments

-which convince the reason, whilst they

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>carry death to the heart—We have had too many

-cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future

-prospect; but embitter the remembrances

-which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject

-never be revived!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It seems to me that I have not only lost the

-hope, but the power of being happy.——Every

-emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My

-soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings

-destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for dissapation,

-if not amusement merely to fatigue still

-more, I find, my irritable nerves.—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself

-well—I am out of the question; for, alass! I am

-nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what

-will render you most comfortable—or, to

-be more explicit—whether you desire to live with

-me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain

-it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for,

-believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted

-your peace.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and

-will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet

-you—at any rate I will avoid conversations,

-which only tend to harrass your feelings, because

-I am most affectionately yours.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I inclose you the letter, which you desired

-me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically

-to wish you a good morning—not because I

-am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep

-down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort

-to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems

-to whirl round in the very centre of my brain,

-which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures

-me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>We arrived here about an hour ago. I am

-extremely fatigued with the child, who would not

-rest quiet with any body but me, during the night

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>and now we are here in a comfortless, damp

-room, in a sort of tomb-like house. This however

-I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have

-finished this letter, (which I must do immediately,

-because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth,

-and enquire about a vessel and an inn.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will not distress you by talking of the depression

-of my spirits, or the struggle I had to

-keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too

-full to allow me to write with composure.—***,

-—dear ****,—am I always to be tossed about

-thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest <em>contented</em>

-in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping

-down, as it were, in a new

-world—cold and strange!—every other day?

-Why do you not attach those tender emotions

-round the idea of home, which even now dim my

-eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else

-is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will write to you again to-morrow, when I

-know how long I am to be detained—and hope to

-get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely

-and affectionately</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>—— is playing near me in high spirits. She

-was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn,

-she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>A lady has just sent to offer to take me to

-—— —. I have then only a moment to exclaim

-against the vague manner in which people give information</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact

-trifling, when compared with the sinking of the

-heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this

-painful string—God bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIV.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Friday June 12.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just received yours, dated the 9th,

-which I suppose was a mistake, for it could

-scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The

-general observations which apply to the state of

-your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they

-go; and I shall always consider it as one of the

-most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not

-meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses

-so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender

-avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to

-your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my

-friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of

-inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,

-for that gratification which only the heart

-can bestow.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The common run of men, I know, with strong

-health and gross appetites, must have variety to

-banish <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ennui</span></i>, because the imagination never leads

-its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>by according reason.—Ah! my friend,

-you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite

-pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection

-and desire, when the whole soul and senses are

-abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders

-every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these

-are emotions over which satiety has no power,

-and the recollection of which, even disappointment

-cannot disenchant; but they do not exist

-without self-denial. These emotions, more or less

-strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic

-of genius, the foundation of taste, and of

-that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of

-which the common herd of eaters and drinkers

-and <em>child-begetters</em>, certainly have no idea. You

-will smile at an observation that has just occurred

-to me: I consider those minds as the most strong

-and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus

-to their senses.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Well! you will ask, what is the result of all

-this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that

-it is possible for you, having great strength of

-mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of

-constitution, and purity of feeling—which would

-open your heart to me.——I would fain rest

-there!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity

-and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>hopes, which a determination to live

-has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate

-the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity.

-I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly

-daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it

-might become our tomb; and that the heart, still

-so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by

-death. At this moment ten thousand complicated

-sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart,

-and obscure my sight.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour

-to render that meeting happier than the

-last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices,

-in order to give vigour to affection, and to give

-play to the checked sentiments that nature intended

-should expand your heart? I cannot indeed,

-without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually

-contaminated; and bitter are the tears

-which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my

-child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in

-which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest,

-smiling at angry fate.—These are not common

-sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how

-much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually

-to blunt the shafts of disappointment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether

-you can live in something like a settled stile. Let

-our confidence in future be unbounded; consider

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to

-what you term “the zest of life;” and, when

-you have once a clear view of your own motives,

-of your own incentive to action, do not deceive

-me!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The train of thoughts which the writing of this

-epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I

-must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But

-first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to

-promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give

-me as much as you can of yourself. You have

-great mental energy; and your judgment seems

-to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination

-in discussing one subject.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow

-I may write more tranquilly. I cannot say when

-the vessel will sail in which I have determined to

-depart.</p>

-

-<hr class='c008' />

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Your second letter reached me about an hour

-ago. You were certainly wrong in supposing

-that I did not mention you with respect; though,

-without my being conscious of it, some sparks of

-resentment may have animated the gloom of despair—Yes;

-with less affection, I should have

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>been more respectful. However the regard which

-I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I

-imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to

-every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended

-for the public eye was to ——, and that I destroyed

-from delicacy before you saw them, because

-it was only written (of course warmly in

-your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown

-on you<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c011'><sup>[11]</sup></a>.</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f11'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of

-suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.</p>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and

-shall certainly use all my efforts to make the business

-terminate to your satisfaction in which I

-am engaged.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate

-united to yours by the most sacred principles of my

-soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a

-true, unsophisticated heart.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing

-on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained

-some days longer. At any rate, continue to write,

-(I want this support) till you are sure I am where

-I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——’s

-friend, I promise you) from whom I have received

-great civilities, will send them after me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to

-hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be

-convinced that you are not separating yourself

-from us. For my little darling is calling papa,

-and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And

-will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I

-shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced

-that my exertions will draw us more closely together.

-Once more adieu!</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday, June, 14.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I

-wish you would not fail to write to me for a

-little time, because I am not quite well—Whether

-I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning

-in violent fits of trembling—and, in spite of

-all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues

-me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician

-of this place; it was fortunate, for I should

-otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the

-necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman

-(I can admire, you know, a pretty woman,

-when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather

-interesting man.—They have behaved to me

-with great hospitality; and poor&#160;—— was never

-so happy in her life, as amongst their young

-brood.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>They took me in their carriage to ——

-and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity

-that would have astonished you.—The town

-did not please me quite so well as formerly—It

-appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that

-many of the inhabitants had lived in the same

-houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering

-how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I

-was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at

-pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place

-where I at present am, is much improved; but it

-is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism

-have made, since I resided in this country.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The wind does not appear inclined to change,

-so I am still forced to linger—When do you think

-that you shall be able to set out for France? I do

-not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and

-still less your connections on the other side of the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your

-entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness.—Even

-now I am almost afraid to ask

-you whether the pleasure of being free does not

-over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me?

-Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel

-me necessary to you—or why should we meet

-again?—but, the moment after, despair damps

-my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of

-tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of

-life.——God bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely and affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>June 15.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I want to know how you have settled with

-respect to ——. In short, be very particular

-in your account of all your affairs—let our

-confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The last

-time we were separated, was a separation indeed

-on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously,

-let the most affectionate interchange of

-sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment.

-I almost dread that your plans will prove

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>abortive—yet should the most unlucky turn send

-you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a

-treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle

-with the world again. Accuse me not of

-pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened

-my heart to its author, I have wondered that you

-did not set a higher value on my heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to

-add, if you will not take one from me, and believe

-me yours</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sincerely,</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The wind still continues in the same quarter.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Tuesday morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The captain has just sent to inform me, that I

-must be on board in the course of a few hours.—I

-wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would

-have been a comfort to me to have received another

-letter from you—Should one arrive, it will

-be sent after me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why

-the quitting England seems to be a fresh parting.

-Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak

-forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my

-health renders me sensible to every thing. It is

-surprising, that in London, in a continual conflict

-of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,

-bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced

-into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading

-away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that

-withers up all my faculties.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The child is perfectly well. My hand seems

-unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this

-inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.

-It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been

-so perpetually the sport of disappointment, having

-a heart that has been as it were a mark for

-misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some

-new shape. Well, let it come—I care not!—what

-have I to dread, who have so little to hope

-for! God bless you—I am most affectionately

-and sincerely yours.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was hurried on board yesterday about three

-o’clock, the wind having changed. But before

-evening it steered round to the old point; and

-here we are, in the midst of mists and waters,

-only taking advantage of the tide to advance a

-few miles.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You will scarcely suppose that I left the town

-with reluctance—yet it was even so—for I

-wished to receive another letter from you, and I

-felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the

-amiable family, who had treated me with so

-much hospitality and kindness. They will probably

-send me your letter, if it arrives this

-morning; for here we are likely to remain, I

-am afraid to think how long.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The vessel is very commodious, and the captain

-a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There

-being no other passengers, I have the cabin to

-myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a

-few books with me to beguile weariness; but I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments

-of suspence in writing some effusions, than

-in reading.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What are you about? How are your affairs

-going on? It may be a long time before you

-answer these questions. My dear friend, my

-heart sinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to

-struggle continually with my affections and feelings?

-Ah! why are those affections and feelings

-the source of so much misery, when they seem

-to have been given to vivify my heart, and

-extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on

-this subject. Will you not endeavour to cherish

-all the affection you can for me? What am I

-saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other

-gratifications are dearer to you. How is every

-remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?

-What a world is this! They only seem

-happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial

-enjoyments. Adieu.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— begins to play with the cabin boy,

-and is as gay as a lark. I will labour to be tranquil;

-and am in every mood,</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Your’s sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIX.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Here I am still—and I have just received

-your letter of Monday by the pilot who promised

-to bring it to me, if we were detained, as

-expected, by the wind. It is indeed wearisome

-to be thus tossed about without going forward.

-I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to

-take care of the child, who is a little tormented

-by her teeth, because —— is unable to do

-any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion

-of the ship, as we ride at anchor.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>These are however trifling inconveniences, compared

-with anguish of mind—compared with the

-sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth

-I never in my life suffered so much from depression

-of spirits—from despair. I do not sleep—or,

-if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying

-dreams, in which I often meet you with

-different casts of countenance.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will not, my dear ——, torment you by

-dwelling on my sufferings—and will use all my

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at

-present it is most painfully active. I find I

-am not equal to these continual struggles—yet

-your letter this morning has afforded me some

-comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One

-thing let me tell you, when we meet again—surely

-we are to meet!—it must be to part no

-more. I mean not to have seas between us, it

-is more than I can support.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel,

-every thing here would disgust my senses, had I

-nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s

-free, the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too

-much hurt to regard trifles.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Your’s most truly</div>

-      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER L.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Saturday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned

-by the wind, with every outward object

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances

-that sadden my heart.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>How am I altered by disappointment!—When

-going to ——, ten years ago, the elasticity of my

-mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and

-the imagination still could dip her brush in the

-rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling

-colours. Now I am going towards the North in

-search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this

-desolated heart? All nature seems to frown, or

-rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold

-as my expectations! Before I left the shore,

-tormented, as I now am, by these North-east

-<em>chillers</em>, I could not help exclaiming—Give me,

-gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I

-am never to meet the genial affection that still

-warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to

-linger there.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am now going on shore with the captain,

-though the weather be rough, to seek for milk,

-&amp;c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after

-which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded

-by disagreeable smells, I have lost the

-little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking

-almost drives me to the brink of madness—only

-to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish

-slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery

-I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every

-exertion in my power.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>Poor —— still continues sick, and ——

-grows weary when the weather will not allow her

-to remain on deck.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hope this will be the last letter I shall write

-from England to you—are you not tired of this

-lingering adieu?</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The captain last night, after I had written my

-letter to you intended to be left at a little village,

-offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had

-a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board

-again, for the wind has changed.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I half expected to find a letter from you here.

-Had you written one hap-hazard it would have

-been kind and considerate—you might have

-known, had you thought, that the wind would

-not permit me to depart. These are attentions

-more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>why do I foolishly continue to look for

-them?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship

-is very cold—you see I am hurt. God bless

-you! I may perhaps be some time or other,

-independent in every sense of the word—Ah!

-there is but one sense of it of consequence. I

-will break or bend this weak heart—yet even

-now it is full.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The child is well; I did not leave her on

-board.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>June 27, Saturday.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I arrived in ——. I have now but a

-moment, before the post goes out, to inform you

-we have got here; though not without considerable

-difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat

-above twenty miles below.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>What I suffered in the vessel I will not now

-descant upon, nor mention the pleasure I received

-from the sight of the rocky coast. This

-morning however, walking to join the carriage

-that was to transport us to this place, I fell,

-without any previous warning, senseless on the

-rocks—and how I escaped with life I can scarcely

-guess. I was in a stupor for a quarter of an

-hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to

-my senses; the contusion is great, and my brain

-confused. The child is well.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident,

-has sufficiently deranged me, and here I

-could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing

-warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must

-nevertheless go to bed. For God’s sake, let me

-hear from you immediately my friend! I am not

-well, and yet you see I cannot die.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>June 29.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you

-of my arrival; and I alluded to the extreme

-fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s

-illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise

-mentioned to you my fall, the effects of

-which I still feel, though I do not think it will

-have any serious consequences.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary

-to go to ——. The inns are here so

-bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his

-house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all

-sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse

-me, from which I cannot escape.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My friend—my friend, I am not well—a

-deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart.

-I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;

-and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being

-buoyed up by the hopes that render them bearable.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>“How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears

-to me all the bustle into which I see people

-here so eagerly enter! I long every night to

-go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow;

-but there is a canker-worm in my bosom

-that never sleeps.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 1.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul

-has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment.

-Every thing fatigues me—this is a life

-that cannot last long. It is you who must determine

-with respect to futurity—and, when you

-have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must

-either resolve to live together, or part for ever,

-I cannot bear these continual struggles—But I

-wish you to examine carefully your own heart

-and mind; and if you perceive the least chance of

-being happier without me than with me, or if

-your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do

-not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will

-never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I

-mentioned to you—for we must either live together,

-or I will be entirely independent.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with

-precision——You know however that what I

-so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments

-of the moment—You can only contribute

-to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need

-of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest

-friendship is of any value, why will you not look

-to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless

-affections cannot bestow?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Tell me then, will you determine to meet me

-at Basle?—I shall, I should imagine, be at ——

-before the close of August; and, after you settle

-your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-b'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>God bless you!</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey

-with her teeth.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LV.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 3.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>There was a gloominess diffused through

-your last letter, the impression of which still rests

-on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly

-you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment,

-I flatter myself it has long since given place to

-your usual cheerfulness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness

-as I assure you) there is nothing I would

-not endure in the way of privation, rather than

-disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy,

-I will labour to hide my sorrows in my

-bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,

-affectionate friend.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I grow more and more attached to my little

-girl—and I cherish this affection without fear, because

-it must be a long time before it can become

-bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature.

-On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea,

-have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that

-the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an

-empty name!” and nothing but the sight of her—her

-playful smiles, which seemed to cling and

-twine round my heart—could have stopped me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>What peculiar misery has fallen to my share!

-To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest

-restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to

-sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in

-my imagination; and started with affright from

-every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing

-with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to

-scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love

-in some minds, is an affair of sentiment,

-arising from the same delicacy of perception

-(or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties

-of nature, poetry, &amp;c. alive to the charms of

-those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they

-must be felt, they cannot be described.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Love is a want of my heart. I have examined

-myself lately with more care than formerly,

-and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming

-at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed

-all the energy of my soul—almost rooted out

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped

-the enthusiasm of character, which converts the

-grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly

-feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment.

-Despair, since the birth of my child, has

-rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed to be

-fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and

-such is the elasticity of my constitution, and

-the purity of the atmosphere here, that health

-unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but

-the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand

-me?) has made me forget the respect

-due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that

-are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed

-to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish

-the heavenly spark.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Still, when we meet again, I will not torment

-you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my

-former conduct—and will not in future confound

-myself with the beings whom I feel to be my

-inferiors. I will listen to delicacy, or pride.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 4.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s

-mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections

-from you—and, though every remembrance

-stings me to the soul, I think of you, till

-I make allowance for the very defects of character,

-that have given such a cruel stab to my

-peace.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Still  however I am more alive than you have

-seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree

-of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable

-to the benumbing stupour that, for the

-last year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps

-this change is more owing to returning

-health, than to the vigour of my reason—for, in

-spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share,)

-the purity of this air, and the being continually

-out in it, for I sleep in the country every night,

-has made an alteration in my appearance that

-really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>already streak my cheeks—and I have seen a

-<em>physical</em> life in my eyes, after I have been climbing

-the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous

-hopes of youth.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that

-I had forgotten to hope! Reason, or rather experience,

-does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s

-pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with

-——’s children, and makes friends for herself.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Do not tell me, that you are happier without

-us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah!

-why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why

-are you a creature of such sympathy

-that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness

-of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my

-misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually

-shading your defects, and lending you charms,

-whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call

-me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only

-dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded

-heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 7.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I could not help feeling extremely mortified

-last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My

-being at —— was but a chance, and you

-might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes

-so great, as to silence the usual expressions

-of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a thing as

-a broken heart! There are characters whose very

-energy prays upon them; and who, ever inclined

-to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest

-satisfied with the common comforts of life. I

-have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched

-into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel

-keener anguish, when alone with my child.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment

-cut me off from life, this romantic

-country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel

-alive to painful sensations?—But it cannot—it

-shall not last long.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek

-for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a

-negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go

-into the air.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 14.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am now on my journey to ——. I felt

-more at leaving my child, than I thought I

-should—and, whilst at night I imagined every

-instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her

-voice—I asked myself how I could think of parting

-with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale,

-that “God will temper the winds to the shorn

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be

-shielded, when my naked bosom has had to

-brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could

-add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements

-to the pangs of disappointed affection, and

-the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of

-confidence, that snaps every social tie!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>All is not right somewhere. When you first

-knew me, I was not thus lost. I could still confide,

-for I opened my heart to you—of this only

-comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness,

-you tell me, was your first object. Strange

-want of judgment!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will not complain; but, from the soundness

-of your understanding, I am convinced, if you

-give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,

-that your conduct to me, so far from being generous,

-has not been just. I mean not to allude to

-factitious principles of morality; but to the simple

-basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend

-to argue—Your not writing is cruel, and my

-reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Poor —— would fain have accompanied

-me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather

-convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden

-changes of countenance since, have alarmed her

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some

-accident—But it would have injured the child

-this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I hear not of your having written to me

-at ——. Very well! Act as you please, there

-is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether

-I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come

-here about, I will not trouble you with letters to

-which you do not reply.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIX.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 18.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am here in ——, separated from my

-child, and here I must remain a month at least, or

-I might as well never have come.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have begun —— which will, I hope,

-discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.

-I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my

-not having done it sooner.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>I shall make no further comments on your silence.

-God bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LX.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>July 30.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just received two of your letters, dated

-the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have

-received several from me, informing you of my

-detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly.

-I have suffered, God knows, since I left

-you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness

-of heart! My mind however is at present

-painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost

-rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint,

-it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>pleasure is all I have to hope for—if a spark of

-hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I will try to write with a degree of composure.

-I wish for us to live together, because I want you

-to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl.

-I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the

-world, or that she should only be protected by

-your sense of duty. Next to preserving her,

-my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace.

-I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life.

-There are wounds that can never be healed, but

-they may be allowed to fester in silence without

-wincing.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>When we meet again, you shall be convinced

-that I have more resolution than you give me credit

-for. I will not torment you. If I am destined

-always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal

-the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened

-cord of life or reason will at last snap, and

-set me free.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy

-of the bliss its feelings anticipate—and I cannot

-even persuade myself, wretched as they have

-made me, that my principles and sentiments are

-not founded in nature and truth. But to have

-done with these subjects.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>I have been seriously employed in this way since

-I came to ——; yet I never was so much in the

-air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,

-and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently

-improved. The child, —— informs

-me, is well. I long to be with her.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Write to me immediately—were I only to think

-of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor,

-with the simplicity of character, part of which

-you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to

-you</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*  *&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been subscribing other letters—so I

-mechanically did the same to yours.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Aug. 5.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Employment and exercise have been of

-great service to me; and I have entirely recovered

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>the strength and activity I lost during the

-time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better

-health; and my mind, though trembling to

-the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.

-I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and

-more happiness here, than for a long—long time

-past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation

-to the exquisite delight this wild country

-and fine summer have afforded me.) Still, on examining

-my heart, I find that it is so constituted,

-I cannot live without some particular affection.—I

-am afraid not without a passion, and I feel the

-want of it more in society, than in solitude——</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet

-occurs, my eyes fill with tears, and my

-trembling hand stops—you may then depend on

-my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed

-to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my

-own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has

-made me sometimes overlook delicacy, the same

-tenderness will in future restrain me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Aug. 7.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me

-to health, braced my muscles, and covered my

-ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I

-cannot tell you that my mind is calm,

-though I have snatched some moments of exquisite

-delight, wandering through the woods, and

-resting on the rocks.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable;

-we must determine on something—and

-soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I

-am sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was

-wretched, when we were together—Expecting

-too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,

-slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought

-not, if you form another attachment. But I promise

-you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little

-reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>after the cruel disappointments that have rent my

-heart; but that of my child seems to depend on

-our being together. Still I do not wish you to

-sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain

-good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide

-for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed

-to part to meet no more. Her affection

-must not be divided. She must be a comfort to

-me, if I am to have no other, and only know me

-as her support. I feel that I cannot endure the

-anguish of corresponding with you, if we are only

-to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness

-elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose.

-I will be dead to you. I cannot express

-to you what pain it gives me to write about an

-eternal separation. You must determine, examine

-yourself—But, for God’s sake! spare me

-the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the

-trial; but I will not complain.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you,

-it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting

-apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what new

-form of misery I have to dread.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes

-written peevishly; but you will impute it to

-affection, if you understand any thing of the

-heart of</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Aug. 9.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Five of your letters have been sent after me

-from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was

-written in a style which I may have merited, but

-did not expect from you. However this is not a

-time to reply to it, except to assure you that you

-shall not be tormented with any more complaints.

-I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned

-you with my affection.——</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My child is very well. We shall soon meet,

-to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.

-I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am

-informed how your affairs terminate.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIV.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Aug. 26.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I arrived here last night, and with the most

-exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to

-my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps

-cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to

-see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing

-intelligence attaches me more and more to

-her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my

-duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me

-forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an

-independence for her; but I will not be too anxious

-on this head.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have already told you, that I have recovered

-my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind,

-have returned with a renovated constitution. As

-for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made,

-perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so

-termed.——</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>You tell me that my letters torture you; I

-will not describe the effect yours have on me. I

-received three this morning, the last dated the 7th

-of this month. I mean not to give vent to the

-emotions they produced. Certainly you are right;

-our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an

-ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do

-not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus.

-I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion,

-a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget

-that I exist: I will never remind you. Something

-emphatical whispers me to put an end to these

-struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I

-cannot please. I can take care of my child; you

-need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable,

-<em>that you will try to cherish tenderness

-for me.</em> Do no violence to yourself! When we

-are separated, our interest, since you give so much

-weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely

-divided. I want not protection without affection;

-and support I need not, whilst my faculties

-are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England;

-but painful feelings must give way to superior

-considerations. I may not be able to acquire

-the sum necessary to maintain my child and

-self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland.

-I shall not remain at ——, living expensively.

-But be not alarmed! I shall not force

-myself on you any more.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed,

-my lips tremble, as if shook by cold,

-though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>September 6.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I received just now your letter of the 20th.

-I had written you a letter last night, into which

-imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul.

-I will copy the part relative to business. I am

-not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for

-more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of

-life—to prevent even that, you had better never

-hear from me—and repose on the idea that I am

-happy.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Gracious God! It is impossible for me to

-stifle something like resentment, when I receive

-fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have

-suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I

-have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and

-the lively sympathies which bind

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful

-kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure

-and I have shaken hands.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only

-converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have

-no home—no resting place to look to.—I am

-strangely cast off.—How often, passing through

-the rocks, I have thought, “But for this child

-I would lay my head on one of them, and never

-open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly

-alive to all the affections of my nature—I have

-never met with one, softer than the stone that I

-would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought

-I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families

-continually, who are bound together by affection

-or principle—and, when I am conscious

-that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost

-to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to

-demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven,

-“Why am I thus abandoned?”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You say now</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not understand you. It is necessary for you

-to write more explicitly——and determine on

-some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another

-blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I

-shall not write to you again, till I receive an

-answer to this. I must compose my tortured

-soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for

-my head is disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for

-it is with difficulty frequently that I

-make out what you mean to say—You write I

-suppose, at Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your

-head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if

-you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of

-affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the

-child.——Adieu!</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>September 25.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have just finished a letter, to be given in

-charge to captain ——. In that I complained of

-your silence, and expressed my surprise that three

-mails should have arrived without bringing a line

-for me. Since I closed it, I hear of another, and

-still no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain

-—— remained  a few days longer, I would

-have returned with him to England. What have

-I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you

-fully. Do you do the same—and quickly. Do

-not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved

-this of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed.

-Adieu!</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>September 27.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>When you receive this, I shall either have

-landed, or be hovering on the British coast—your

-letter of the 18th decided me.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>By what criterion of principle or affection, you

-term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary,

-I cannot determine.—You desire me to decide—I

-had decided. You must have had long ago two

-letters of mine, from ——, to the same purport,

-to consider.—In these, God knows! there

-was but too much affection, and the agonies of a

-distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What

-more then had I to say?—The negative

-was to come from you.—You had perpetually

-recurred to your promise of meeting me in the

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand

-a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with

-extreme harshness, coldness I am accustomed to;

-in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,

-much less of friendship.—I only see a desire

-to heave a load off your shoulders.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am above disputing about words.—It matters

-not in what terms you decide.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The tremendous power who formed this heart,

-must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest,

-in various shapes, is the principal mobile,

-I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the

-fiat of fate I submit.—I am content to be wretched;

-but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have

-no cause to complain, but for having had too

-much regard for you—for having expected a degree

-of permanent happiness, when you only

-sought for a momentary gratification.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting

-myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make

-me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On

-this tenderness and affection with what confidence

-did I rest!—but I leaned on a spear, that has

-pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a

-faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We

-certainly are differently organized;

-for even now, when conviction has been stamped

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it

-possible. It depends at present on you, whether

-you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, till

-I see or hear from you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined,

-if your next letter be like the last, to

-write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure

-lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There

-I will endeavour in a few months to

-obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from

-you I will not receive any more.—I am not

-yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Some people, whom my unhappiness has

-interested, though they know not the extent of it,

-will assist me to attain the object I have in view,

-the independence of my child. Should a peace

-take place, ready money will go a great way in

-France—and I will borrow a sum, which my

-industry <em>shall</em> enable me to pay at my leisure, to

-purchase a small estate for my girl.—The assistance

-I shall find necessary to complete her education,

-I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce

-her to such society as she will like—and

-thus securing for her all the chance for happiness,

-which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded

-that the felicity which has hitherto cheated

-my expectation, will not always elude my grasp.

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly

-longed to arrive at his port.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall not come up in the vessel all the way,

-because I have no place to go to. Captain ——

-will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,

-that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and

-that I wish to see you, though it be the last

-time.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday, October 4</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the packet, to inform

-you, that your letter of the 18th of last month,

-had determined me to set out with captain ——;

-but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted,

-that you have not yet received it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided,

-that it was most for the interest of my little

-girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect,

-for us to live together; and I even thought

-that you would be glad, some years hence, when

-the tumult of business was over, to repose in the

-society of an affectionate friend, and mark the

-progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring

-to be of use in the circle you at last resolved

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>to rest in; for you cannot run about for

-ever.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>From the tenour of your last letter however, I

-am led to imagine, that you have formed some

-new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly request

-you to see me once more, and immediately.

-This is the only proof I require of the friendship

-you profess for me. I will then decide, since you

-boggle about a mere form.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am labouring to write with calmness, but the

-extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having

-any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious

-that the friend whom I most wish to see,

-will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed

-of my arrival, does not come under the description

-of common misery. Every emotion yields

-to an overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the

-playfulness of my child distresses me. On her account,

-I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless

-as is my situation. Besides, I did not wish

-to surprise you. You have told me, that you

-would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and,

-even in your last unkind letter, you talk of

-the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell

-me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian

-knot.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me,

-without fail, by the return of the post. Direct

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me

-whether you will come to me here, or where you

-will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday

-morning.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing

-from you, or any human being: my die is cast!—I

-have fortitude enough to determine to do my

-duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or

-calm my trembling heart.—That Being who

-moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear

-up by the roots the propensity to affection which

-has been the torment of my life—but life will have

-an end!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Should you come here (a few months ago I

-could not have doubted it) you will find me at ——

-If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me

-where.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIX.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>I write you now on my knees; imploring

-you to send my child and the maid with ——, to

-Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——,

-rue ——, section de ——. Should they be removed,

-—— can give their direction.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention

-the confession which I forced from her—a

-little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing

-but my extreme stupidity could have rendered

-me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured

-me that you had no attachment, I thought we

-might still have lived together.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall make no comments on your conduct;

-or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep

-with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace.

-When you receive this, my burning head will be

-cold.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather

-than a night like the last. Your treatment has

-thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am

-serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear

-is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour

-to recal my hated existence. But I shall

-plunge into the Thames where there is the least

-chance of my being snatched from the death I

-seek.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you! May you never know by experience

-what you have made me endure. Should

-your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its

-way to your heart; and, in the midst of business

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you,

-the victim of your deviation from rectitude.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXX.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have only to lament, that, when the

-bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly

-brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination

-is not to be baffled by disappointment;

-nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt,

-which was one of the calmest acts of reason.

-In this respect, I am only accountable to myself.

-Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by

-other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You say, “that you know not how to extricate

-ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we

-have been plunged.” You are extricated long

-since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am

-condemned to live longer, it is a living death.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It appears to me, that you lay much more stress

-on delicacy, than on principle; but I am unable

-to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have

-been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>indeed you have any friendship for me.—But

-since your new attachment is the only thing sacred

-in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints

-shall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps

-I am mistaken in supposing that even my

-death could, for more than a moment.—This is

-what you call magnanimity.—It is happy for

-yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest

-degree.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Your continually asserting, that you will do all

-in your power to contribute to my comfort (when

-you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears

-to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not

-such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never

-wanted but your heart.—That gone, you have

-nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear,

-I should not shrink from life.—Forgive me then,

-if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect

-attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which

-I have not merited—and as rather done out of

-tenderness for your own reputation, than for me.

-Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value

-money (therefore I will not accept what you do

-not care for) though I do much less, because certain

-privations are not painful to me. When I

-am dead, respect for yourself will make you take

-care of the child.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I write with difficulty—probably I shall never

-write to you again.—Adieu!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am compelled at last to say that you treat me

-ungenerously. I agree with you, that</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither

-poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the

-task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>My child may have to blush for her mother’s

-want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude

-of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;

-but she shall not despise me for meanness.

-You are now perfectly free.—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which

-appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness

-to me. You ask “If I am well or tranquil?”—They

-who think me so, must want a heart to

-estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the

-organ of my own sentiments.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I must tell you, that I am very much mortified

-by your continually offering me pecuniary

-assistance—and, considering your going to the new

-house, as an open avowal that you abandon me,

-let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive

-any thing from you—and I say this at the

-moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt

-to obtain a temporary supply. But this

-even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments

-and misfortunes seem to suit the habit of

-my mind.—</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Have but a little patience and I will remove

-myself where it will not be necessary for you to

-talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me

-see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it

-through any other medium—that the affair is

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>finished. It is an insult to me to suppose, that I

-can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if

-you hear nothing of me, it will be the same

-thing to you.</p>

-

-<p class='c012'>Even your seeing me has been to oblige other

-people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Thursday Afternoon.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to

-send the things of mine which were left at the

-house, I have to request you to let —— bring

-them to ——.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you

-need not be restrained from coming here to transact

-your business,—And, whatever I may think,

-and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly

-complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge

-of wright and wrong, I have been most ungenerously

-treated: but, wishing now only to hide

-myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I

-long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>for my child. I only mean by this to say,

-that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Farewell.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>London, November 27.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>The letter, without an address, which you

-put up with the letters you returned, did not meet

-my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters

-aside—I did not wish to look over a register of

-sorrow.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My not having seen it, will account for my

-having written to you with anger—under the impression

-your departure, without even a line left

-for me, made on me, even after your late conduct,

-which could not lead me to expect much attention

-to my sufferings.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared

-to me so unfeeling,” has almost overturned

-my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know

-where I am, or what I do. The grief I cannot

-conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>me, banishing almost every other) I labour to

-conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but

-an exercise of fortitude, continually on the

-stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb,

-where I am buried alive.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>But I meant to reason with you, and not to

-complain.—You tell me, “that I shall judge

-more cooly of your mode of acting, some time

-hence.” But is it not possible that <em>passion</em> clouds

-your reason, as much as it does mine?—and

-ought you not to doubt, whether those principles

-are so “exalted,” as you term them, which only

-lead to your own gratification? In other words,

-whether it be just to have no principle of action,

-but that of following your inclination, trampling

-on the affection you have fostered and the expectations

-you have excited?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I

-know you are not what you now seem—nor will

-you always act or feel as you now do, though I

-may never be comforted by the change. Even at

-Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will see

-my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish

-will drop on your heart, which you have forced

-from mine.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I thought I could quickly

-have refuted all your <em>ingenious</em> arguments; but

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am

-miserable!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It seems to me, that my conduct has always

-been governed by the strictest principles of justice

-and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social

-feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered

-me!—I have loved with my whole soul, only to

-discover that I had no chance of a return—and

-that existence is a burthen without it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the

-offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary

-support—I must again reject it.—Trifling

-are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God

-bless you!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand

-what is generosity.—You seem to me only

-to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless

-whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In

-truth I have been rudely handled. <em>Do you judge

-coolly</em>, and I trust you will not continue to call those

-capricious feelings “the most refined,” which

-would undermine not only the most sacred principles,

-but the affections which unite mankind.——You

-would render mothers unnatural—and

-there would be no such thing as a father!—If

-your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it

-is certainly the most easy.—It does not require

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves

-for the moment, let others suffer what they

-will!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart

-thirsts for justice from you—and whilst I recollect

-that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I

-am convinced you will not always justify your

-own.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not

-always banish from your mind, that you have

-acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to

-gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do

-truth and principle require such sacrifices?</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>London, December 8.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Having just been informed that —— is to

-return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a

-sure opportunity of writing, because I am not

-certain that my last, by Dover, has reached you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Resentment, and even anger, are momentary

-emotions with me—and I wished to tell you so,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the

-light of an enemy.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>That I have not been used <em>well</em> I must ever

-feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish

-I do at present—for I began even now to write

-calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears

-to me a frightful dream. Ah! ask yourself if

-you have not condescended to employ a little address,

-I could almost say cunning, unworthy of

-you?—Principles are sacred things—and we never

-play with truth, with impunity.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The expectation (I have too fondly nourished

-it) of regaining your affection, every day grows

-fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me, when

-I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see

-you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.

-You will feel something like remorse, for having

-lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to

-inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age,

-you will remember that you had one disinterested

-friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick.

-The hour of recollection will come—and you will

-not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you

-fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,

-your heart, and your principles of action, are all

-superior to your present conduct. You do, you

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>must, respect me—and you will be sorry to forfeit

-my esteem.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You know best whether I am still preserving

-the remembrance of an imaginary being. I once

-thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I

-am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily

-press on me, to be cleared up by time.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You may render me unhappy; but cannot

-make me contemptible in my own eyes. I shall

-still be able to support my child, though I am

-disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which

-I once believed would have afforded you equal

-pleasure.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural

-generosity, because I thought your property in

-jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested

-you, <em>if you could conveniently</em>, not to forget my

-father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was

-interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet

-not only my requests were neglected, but some

-trifling debts were not discharged, that now come

-on me. Was this friendship—or generosity?

-Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself?

-Still I have an affection for you.—God bless

-you.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVI.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c015'>As the parting from you for ever is the most

-serious event of my life, I will once expostulate

-with you, and call not the language of truth and

-feeling ingenuity!</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I know the soundness of your understanding—and

-know that it is impossible for you always to

-confound the caprices of every wayward inclination

-with the manly dictates of principle.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why

-do I?——Because you cannot estrange your heart

-entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on

-my side. You urge, “that your conduct was

-unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your coolness

-has hurt me, with what tenderness have you

-endeavoured to remove the impression!—and even

-before I returned to England, you took great pains

-to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned

-by the effect of a worn-out constitution—and

-you concluded your letter with these words,

-“Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to

-my port, and I will still fly down to my two dear

-girls with a heart all their own.”</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>With these assurances, is it extraordinary that

-I should believe what I wished? I might—and

-did think that you had a struggle with old propensities;

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>but I still thought that I and virtue

-should at last prevail. I still thought that you had

-a magnanimity of character, which would enable

-you to conquer yourself.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you

-have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.

-You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction

-you would feel, would amply repay you.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart

-I pierce—and the time will come, when you will

-lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,

-even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I

-would owe every thing to your generosity—but,

-for God’s sake, keep me no longer in

-suspense!—Let me see you once more!——</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVII.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>You must do as you please with respect to

-the child. I could wish that it might be done

-soon, that my name may be no more mentioned

-to you. It is now finished. Convinced that you

-have neither regard nor friendship, I disdain to

-utter a reproach, though I have had reason to

-think, that the “forbearance” talked of, has not

-been very delicate. It is however of no consequence.

-I am glad you are satisfied with your

-own conduct.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal

-farewel. Yet I flinch not from the duties

-which tie me to life.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>That there is “sophistry” on one side or

-other, is certain; but now it matters not on

-which. On my part it has not been a question

-of words. Yet your understanding or mine must

-be strangely warped, for what you term “delicacy,”

-appears to me to be exactly the contrary.

-I have no criterion for morality, and have thought

-in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow

-an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of

-principle and affection. Mine has been of a very

-different nature, or it would not have stood the

-brunt of your sarcasms.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be

-any part of me that will survive the sense of my

-misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The

-impetuosity of your senses, may have led you

-to term mere animal desire, the source of principle;

-and it may give zest to some years to come.

-Whether you will always think so, I shall never

-know.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something

-like conviction forces me to believe, that

-you are not what you appear to be.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I part with you in peace.</p>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>

-  <h2 id='French' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>PRESENT CHARACTER</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>FRENCH NATION.</span></h2>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c018'>INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS

-ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE

-FRENCH NATION.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c002'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Paris, February 15, 1793.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MY DEAR FRIEND,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind,

-to guard as carefully the remembrance of

-the first impression made by a nation, as by a countenance;

-because we imperceptibly lose sight of

-the national character, when we become more intimate

-with individuals. It is not then useless or

-presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered

-Paris, the striking contrast of riches and poverty,

-elegance and slovenliness, urbanity and deceit,

-every where caught my eye, and saddened my

-soul; and these impressions are still the foundation

-of my remarks on the manners, which flatter

-the senses, more than they interest the heart, and

-yet excite more interest than esteem.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>The whole mode of life here tends indeed to

-render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their

-favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing,

-they are always sipping the sparkling joy on the

-brim of the cup, leaving satiety in the bottom for

-those who venture to drink deep. On all sides

-they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and

-seemingly so void of care, that often, when I am

-walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that

-they alone understand the full import of the term

-leisure; and they trifle their time away with such

-an air of contentment, I know not how to wish

-them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They

-play before me like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying

-the passing ray; whilst an English head, searching

-for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of

-pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their

-chief enjoyment, it is true, rises from vanity:

-but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation

-of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the

-heavy burden of life, which reason too often

-weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder to the

-other.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Investigating the modification of the passion, as

-I would analyze the elements that give a form to

-dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to their source

-the causes which have combined to render this

-nation the most polished, in a physical sense, and

-probably the most superficial in the world; and I

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>mean to follow the windings of the various

-streams that disembogue into a terrific gulf, in

-which all the dignity of our nature is absorbed.

-For every thing has conspired to make the French

-the most sensual people in the world; and what

-can render the heart so hard, or so effectually

-stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of

-sensuality?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The frequent repetition of the word French,

-appears invidious; let me then make a previous

-observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,

-when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing

-with milk and honey. Remember that it is not

-the morals of a particular people that I would decry;

-for are we not all of the same stock? But I

-wish calmly to consider the stage of civilization

-in which I find the French, and, giving a sketch

-of their character, and unfolding the circumstances

-which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour

-to throw some light on the history of man,

-and on the present important subjects of discussion.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I would I could first inform you that, out of

-the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues,

-rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair form

-of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her

-wings to shelter all her children! I should then hear

-the account of the barbarities that have rent the bosom

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>of France patiently, and bless the firm hand

-that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy

-of birth is levelled with the ground, only to

-make room for that of riches, I am afraid that

-the morals of the people will not be much improved

-by the change, or the government rendered

-less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the

-misery produced by the present struggle, without

-adverting to the standing evils of the old system.

-I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I think of

-the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at

-Paris; but I also hear the same live stream cry

-aloud from the highways, through which the retreating

-armies passed with famine and death in

-their rear, and I hide my face with awe before

-the inscrutable ways of Providence, sweeping in

-such various directions the bosom of destruction

-over the sons of men.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Before I came to France, I cherished, you

-know, an opinion, that strong virtues might exist

-with the polished manners produced by the

-progress of civilization; and I even anticipated

-the epoch, when, in the course of improvement,

-men would labour to become virtuous, without

-being goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective

-of the golden age, fading before the attentive

-eye of observation, almost eludes my sight;

-and, losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect

-state, start not, my friend, if I bring forward

-an opinion, which at the first glance seems to be

-levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>become an Atheist, I assure you, by residing at

-Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you

-will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that,

-when the passions are justly poized, we become

-harmless, and in the same proportion useless.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The wants of reason are very few; and, were

-we to consider dispassionately the real value of most

-things, we should probably rest satisfied with the

-simple gratification of our physical necessities, and

-be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently,

-only that wanton, the imagination, with

-her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and

-makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside

-every obstacle merely to catch a disappointment.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>The desire also of being useful to others, is continually

-damped by experience; and, if the exertions

-of humanity were not in some measure their

-own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle

-with care, to make some people ungrateful,

-and others idle?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You will call these melancholy effusions, and

-guess that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all

-the bustling folly of childhood, without the innocence

-which renders ignorance charming, I am

-too severe in my strictures. It may be so; and I

-am aware that the good effects of the revolution

-will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of

-Epicurus has only been at work to root out the simple

-emotions of the heart, which, being natural,

-are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by

-the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>fostered, is it surprising that simplicity

-of manners, and singleness of heart, rarely appear,

-to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so

-passing sweet?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have

-shot, I sometimes ask, with a doubting accent,

-Whether a nation can go back to the purity of

-manners which has hitherto been maintained unsullied

-only by the keen air of poverty, when,

-emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity

-are become the wants of nature? I cannot

-yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning

-on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe,

-that little is to be expected from the narrow

-principle of commerce which seems every

-where to be shoving aside <em>the point of honour</em> of

-the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">noblesse</span></i>. I can look beyond the evils of the

-moment, and do not expect muddied water to

-become clear before it has had time to stand; yet,

-even for the moment, it is the most terrific of all

-sights, to see men vicious without warmth—to see

-the order that should be the superscription of virtue,

-cultivated to give security to crimes which

-only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is,

-in fact, the very essence of vice, though with the

-wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions

-often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus

-humanity, generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes

-render a character grand, and even useful,

-when hurried away by lawless passions; but what

-can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>lives for himself alone, and considering his fellow-creatures

-merely as machines of pleasure, never

-forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping

-ever within the pale of the law, he crushes his

-thousands with impunity; but it is with that degree

-of management, which makes him, to borrow

-a significant vulgarism, a villain <em>in grain</em>.

-The very excess of his depravation preserves him,

-whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who

-prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce

-his approach, falls into a snare.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You may think it too soon to form an opinion

-of the future government, yet it is impossible to

-avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every

-thing whispers me, that names, not principles,

-are changed, and when I see that the turn of the

-tide has left the dregs of the old system to corrupt

-the new. For the same pride of office, the same

-desire of power are still visible; with this aggravation,

-that, fearing to return to obscurity after

-having but just acquired a relish for distinction,

-each hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with

-these new titles, endeavours to make hay while

-the sun shines; and every petty municipal officer,

-become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day,

-stalks like a cock on a dunghill.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I shall now conclude this desultory letter;

-which however will enable you to foresee that I

-shall treat more of morals than manners.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours ——</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>

-  <h2 id='Infants' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.</span></h2>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I ought to appologize for not having written

-to you on the subject you mentioned; but, to

-tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead

-of an answer, I have begun a series of letters on

-the management of children in their infancy. Replying

-then to your question, I have the public

-in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew

-what modes appear to me necessary, to render the

-infancy of children more healthy and happy. I

-have long thought, that the cause which renders

-children as hard to rear as the most fragile plant,

-is our deviation from simplicity. I know that

-some able physicians have recommended the method

-I have pursued, and I mean to point out the

-good effects I have observed in practice. I am

-aware that many matrons will exclaim against me

-and dwell on the number of children they have

-brought up, as their mothers did before them

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>without troubling themselves with new-fangled

-notions; yet, though, in my uncle Toby’s

-words, they should attempt to silence me, by

-“wishing I had seen their large” families, I

-must suppose, while a third part of the human

-species, according to the most accurate calculation,

-die during their infancy, just at the

-threshold of life, that there is some errors in

-the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which

-counteracts their own endeavours. I may be mistaken

-in some particulars; for general rules,

-founded on the soundest reason, demand individual

-modification; but, if I can persuade any of the

-rising generation to exercise their reason on this

-head, I am content. My advice will probably

-be found most useful to mothers in the middle

-class; and it is from that the lower imperceptibly

-gains improvement. Custom, produced by

-reason in one, may safely be the effect of imitation

-in the other.</p>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-  <div class='nf-center'>

-    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='chapter'>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>

-  <h2 id='Johnson' class='c004'><span class='sc'>LETTERS<br /> TO<br /> Mr. JOHNSON</span>,<br /> <span class='small'>BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.</span></h2>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Dublin, April 14, [1787.]</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>DEAR SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that

-I ought never to expect to enjoy health. My

-mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour

-to be useful, I grow too much interested for my

-own peace. Confined almost entirely to the society

-of children, I am anxiously solicitous for

-their future welfare, and mortified beyond measure,

-when counteracted in my endeavours to improve

-them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the

-swarm of little ones which surround me, and observe

-disorders, without having power to apply the

-proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to

-life, when it is always a painful warfare, and when

-I am deprived of all the pleasures I relish?—I

-allude to rational conversations, and domestic affections.

-Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in

-a strange land, tied to one spot, and subject to the

-caprice of another, can I be contented? I am desirous

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>to convince you that I have <em>some</em> cause for

-sorrow—and am not without reason detached

-from life. I shall hope to hear that you are well,

-and am yours sincerely,</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Wollstonecraft.</span></div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking,

-<em>enjoyed</em> solitude. My sister could not accompany

-me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone

-by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring

-beautiful fields and pleasure-grounds: the

-prospects were of such a placid kind, I <em>caught</em>

-tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was

-<em>still</em>, though active. Were I to give you an account

-how I have spent my time, you would smile.

-I found an old French bible here, and amused myself

-with comparing it with our English translation—then

-I would listen to the falling leaves, or

-observe the various tints the autumn gave to

-them. At other times, the singing of a robin, or

-the noise of a water-mill, engaged my attention—for

-I was, at the same time perhaps discussing

-some knotty point, or straying from this <em>tiny</em> world

-to new systems. After these excursions, I returned

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>to the family meals, to’d the children stories

-(they think me <em>vastly</em> agreeable) and my sister was

-amused.—Well, will you allow me to call this

-way of passing my days pleasant?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe

-it will enable me to say all I have to add to this

-epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for

-me? I often think of my new plan of life; and,

-lest my sister should try to prevail on me to alter

-it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am

-determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female

-determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet

-resolved to do any thing of consequence, that I did

-not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished

-my purpose, improbable as it might have appeared

-to a more timid mind. In the course of near

-nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some experience,

-and felt many <em>severe</em> disappointments—and

-what is the amount? I long for a little peace

-and <em>independence</em>! Every obligation we receive

-from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes

-from our native freedom, and debases the mind,

-makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of

-grovelling!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line in4'>I am, sir, yours, &amp;c.</div>

-      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft</span>.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Market Harborough, Sept. 20.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>You left me with three opulent tradesmen;

-their conversation was not calculated to beguile the

-way, when the sable curtain concealed the beauties

-of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and

-shrunk away without wishing to grow rich; even

-the novelty of the subjects did not render them

-pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in

-all their different forms—I was not surprised by

-any glimpse of the sublime or beautiful—though

-one of them imagined I should be a useful partner

-in a good <em>firm</em>. I was very much fatigued, and

-have scarcely recovered myself. I do not expect

-to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley afforded:

-I meet with new objects to employ my

-mind; but many painful emotions are complicated

-with the reflections they give rise to.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I do not intend to enter on the <em>old</em> topic, yet

-hope to hear from you—and am yours, &amp;c.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft.</span></div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Friday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Though your remarks are generally judicious—I

-cannot <em>now</em> concur with you, I mean with

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>respect to the preface<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c011'><sup>[12]</sup></a>, and have not altered it.

-I hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud

-humility. A general rule <em>only</em> extends to the majority—and,

-believe me, the few judicious who

-may peruse my book, will not feel themselves

-hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is

-said in a book intended for children.</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f12'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. To Original Stories.</p>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily

-imagine that I am indolent. I would not spare

-any labour to do my duty—and after the most laborious

-day, that single thought would solace me

-more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy.

-I find I could not translate the MS. well. If it

-was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated;

-but the hand, and errors in orthography,

-or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first

-setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot

-do well—and I should loose time in the vain

-attempt.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again

-receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c011'><sup>[13]</sup></a>.

-With all the mother’s fondness I could transcribe

-a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me,

-and dependence on heaven increase, &amp;c.—I miss

-her innocent caresses—and sometimes indulge a

-pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer

-my childless age—if I am to live to be old. At

-any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not

-contemplate—and my reason may permit me to

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>love a female. I now allude to ——. I have

-received another letter from her, and her childish

-complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual,

-good-night.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>If parents attended to their children, I would

-not have written the stories; for, what are books,

-compared to conversations which affection inforces!—</p>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f13'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. Countess Mount Cashel.</p>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>Remember you are to settle <em>my account</em>, as I

-want to know how much I am in your debt—but

-do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that

-score. The generality of people in trade would

-not be much obliged to me for a like civility, <em>but

-you were a man</em> before you were a bookseller—so I

-am your sincere friend,</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am sick with vexation, and wish I could

-knock my foolish head against the wall, that bodily

-pain might make me feel less anguish from

-self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never

-more displeased with myself, and I will tell you

-the cause. You may recollect that I did not mention

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>to you the circumstance of —— having

-a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it dropt

-from me when I conversed with my sister; because

-I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing

-it. Last Sunday, when his character was

-aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of vindication

-I informed ****** that he was now independent;

-but, at the same time, desired him not

-to repeat my information to B——; yet, last

-Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s

-gave Mrs. —— an account of it. As Mr. ——

-knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush

-to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence,

-and this morning came (not to reproach

-me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury

-I have done him. Let what will be the consequence,

-I will reimburse him, if I deny myself

-the necessaries of life—and even then my folly

-will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive

-the misery I at this moment endure—that I,

-whose power of doing good is so limited, should

-do harm, galls my very soul. **** may laugh

-at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——

-to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely

-it is hell to despise one’s self! I did not

-want this additional vexation—at this time I have

-many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not

-call on you this month, nor stir out. My stomach

-has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am

-unable to lean over the desk.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div>

-  <span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>

-  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c015'>As I am become a reviewer, I think it right

-in the way of business, to consider the subject.

-You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as

-the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly

-shews. The Critical appears to be a timid,

-mean production, and its success is a reflection on

-the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a

-body, who ever gave it credit for much? The

-voice of the people is only the voice of truth,

-when some man of abilities has had time to get

-fast hold of the <span class='fss'>GREAT NOSE</span> of the monster.

-Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and

-dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded

-me more amusement, though every article

-almost wants energy and a <em>cant</em> of virtue and

-liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager

-to pay court to established fame. The account

-of Necker is one unvaried tone of admiration.

-Surely men were born only to provide for the

-sustenance of the body by enfeebling the mind!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>You made me very low-spirited last night, by

-your manner of talking.—You are my only friend—the

-only person I am <em>intimate</em> with.—I never

-had a father, or a brother—you have been both

-to me, ever since I knew you—yet I have sometimes

-been very petulant.—I have been thinking

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>of those instances of ill humour and quickness, and

-they appeared like crimes.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>

-      <div class='line in12'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions

-too often silence the suggestions of reason. Your

-note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and produced

-a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a

-beam of despondent tranquillity over the features.

-I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was more

-than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome

-nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious.—Last

-Thursday, in particular, I imagined

-—— was thrown into great distress by his

-folly; and I, unable to assist him, was in an

-agony. My nerves were in such a painful state

-of irritation—I suffered more than I can express.

-Society was necessary—and might have diverted

-me till I gained more strength; but I blushed

-when I recollect how often I had teazed you

-with childish complaints, and the reveries of a

-disordered imagination. I even <em>imagined</em> that I

-intruded on you, because you never called on me—though

-you perceived that I was not well.—I

-have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which

-gives me many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge

-that life is but a jest—and often a frightful dream—yet

-catch myself every day searching for something

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment.

-I am a strange compound of weakness

-and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I

-will endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly

-a great defect in my mind—my wayward

-heart creates its own misery—Why I am made

-thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form some

-idea of the whole of my existence, I must be content

-to weep and dance like a child—long for

-a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but

-mine, alas! has lost its bells, and grown so heavy,

-I find it intolerably troublesome.——Goodnight!

-I have been pursuing a number of strange

-thoughts since I began to write, and have actually

-both wept and laughed immoderately—Surely I

-am a fool—</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I really want a German grammar, as I intend

-to attempt to learn that language——and I

-will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am

-persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure

-an independence, and render myself useful.

-To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind

-with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away.

-I see the necessity of labouring now—and of that

-necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>I am thankful that I have more than common

-incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw

-my pleasures from the employments that are

-within my reach. You perceive this is not a

-gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly

-grateful to you—without your humane and <em>delicate</em>

-assistance, how many obstacles should I not have

-had to encounter—too often should I have been

-out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom

-I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear

-sir, and call friend a being I respect.—Adieu!</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>I thought you <em>very</em> unkind, nay, very unfeeling,

-last night. My cares and vexations, I

-will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour,

-as they arise from disinterestedness and <em>unbending</em>

-principles; nor can that mode of conduct

-be a reflection on my understanding, which enables

-me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live

-for myself alone. I am not the only character

-deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with

-various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed

-local fame and present comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s

-cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose,

-you would quietly have told him, he was a fool

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>for not being calm, and that wise men striving

-against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I

-have done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference

-cold in wisdom’s guise,”—and turn to the

-source of perfection—who perhaps never disregarded

-an almost broken heart, especially when a

-respect, a practical respect, for virtue, sharpened

-the wounds of adversity. I am ill—I stayed in

-bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking

-of getting money to extricate myself out of some

-of my difficulties—the struggle is now over. I

-will condescend to try to obtain some in a disagreeable

-way.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did

-you know his motive for calling<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c011'><sup>[14]</sup></a>?—I think him

-impertinently officious.—He had left the house

-before it occured to me in the strong light it does

-now, or I should have told him so.—My poverty

-makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a superficial

-puppy—His intimacy with Miss ——

-gave him a privilege, which he should not have

-assumed with me—a proposal might be made to

-his cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not

-have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him

-that I am offended—and do not wish to see

-him again——When I meet him at your house,

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him

-by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my

-body—but it shall never bend to support that

-body—God of heaven, save thy child from this

-living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My

-hand trembles—I am very sick—sick at heart.—</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='footnote' id='f14'>

-<p class='c007'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary

-considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned

-thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which

-immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.</p>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Tuesday Evening.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>When you left me this morning, and I reflected

-a moment—your <em>officious</em> message, which

-at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like

-an insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then

-the necessity of forcing a smile—when I chance to

-meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of informing

-you of my sentiments.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Wednesday, 3 o’clock.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='lg-container-l'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged

-to enter again on a subject, that has already

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>raised a tumult of <em>indignant</em> emotions in my bosom,

-which I was labouring to suppress when I received

-your letter. I shall now <em>condescend</em> to answer your

-epistle; but let me first tell you, that, in my <em>unprotected</em>

-situation, I make a point of never forgiving

-a <em>deliberate insult</em>—and in that light I consider

-your late officious conduct. It is not according to

-my nature to mince matters—I will then tell you

-in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered

-you in the light of a <em>civil</em> acquaintance—on

-the word friend I lay a peculiar emphasis—and, as

-a mere acquaintance, you were rude and <em>cruel</em>, to

-step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and

-misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr.

-Johnson, had made the proposal—I should have

-been severely hurt—have thought him unkind

-and unfeeling, but not <em>impertinent</em>. The privilege

-of intimacy you had no claim to, and should have

-referred the man to myself—if you had not sufficient

-discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir,

-poor and destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will

-never bend, or take indirect methods, to obtain the

-consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it

-was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the

-struggle would soon be over. I can bear any thing

-but my own contempt.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>In a few words, what I call an insult, is the

-bare supposition that I could for a moment think of

-<em>prostituting</em> my person for a maintenance; for in

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>that point of view does such a marriage appear to

-me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract,

-and never by words and local opinions shield myself

-from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse

-me when I add, that I wish never to see, but

-as a perfect stranger, a person who could so

-grossly mistake my character. An apology is not

-necessary—if you were inclined to make one—nor

-any further expostulations. I again repeat, I

-cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient

-delicacy to respect poverty, even where it

-gives lustre to a character——and I tell you sir, I

-am poor, yet can live without your benevolent

-exertions.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>I send you <em>all</em> the books I had to review except

-Dr. J——’s Sermons, which I have begun. If

-you wish me to look over any more trash this

-month, you must send it directly. I have been

-so low-spirited since I saw you—I was quite glad,

-last night, to feel myself affected by some passages

-in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I

-seemed (suddenly) to <em>find</em> my <em>soul</em> again. It has

-been for some time I cannot tell where. Send me

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>the Speaker, and <em>Mary</em>, I want one, and I shall

-soon want for some paper—you may as well send

-it at the same time, for I am trying to brace my

-nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid reason

-is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning

-a long time with my untoward spirits, and yet

-my hand trembles. I could finish a period very

-<em>prettily</em> now, by saying that it ought to be steady

-when I add that I am yours sincerely,</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed

-Dr. J—’s s—— on his wife, be it known

-unto you—I <em>will</em> not do it any other way—I felt

-some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect

-to the memory of a man—who, spite of all his

-faults, I have an affection for—I say <em>have</em>, for I

-believe he is somewhere—<em>where</em> my soul has been

-gadding perhaps;—but <em>you</em> do not live on conjectures.</p>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>

-

-<p class='c015'>My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am

-pleased with, now I see it in one point of view—and,

-as I have made free with the author, I hope

-you will not have often to say—what does this

-mean?</p>

-

-<p class='c007'>You forgot you were to make out my account,

-I am, of course, over head and ears in debt; but I

-have not that kind of pride, which makes some

-dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>the contrary, when I involuntarily lament that I

-have not a father or brother, I thankfully recollect

-that I have received unexpected kindness from

-you and a few others. So reason allows, what nature

-impels me to—for I cannot live without loving

-my fellow creatures—nor can I love them,

-without discovering some virtue.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r c003'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>Paris, December 26, 1792.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<p class='c007'>I should immediately on the receipt of your

-letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your

-punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not

-wished to wait till I could tell you that this day

-was not stained with blood. Indeed the prudent

-precautions taken by the National Convention to

-prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs

-of faction would not dare to bark, much less to bite,

-however true to their scent; and I was not mistaken;

-for the citizens, who were all called out,

-are returning home with composed countenances,

-shouldering their arms. About nine o’clock this

-morning, the king passed by my window, moving

-silently along (excepting now and then a few

-strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness

-more awful) through empty streets, surrounded

-by the national guards, who, clustering round the

-carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The

-inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements

-were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor

-<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>did I see any thing like an insulting gesture. For

-the first time since I entered France, I bowed to

-the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety

-of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my

-own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why, but

-an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly

-from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting,

-with more dignity than I expected from his character,

-in a hackney coach, going to meet death,

-where so many of his race have triumphed. My

-fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering

-the capital with all his pomp, after one of

-the victories most flattering to his pride, only to see

-the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the

-sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever

-since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot

-dismiss the lively images that have filled my imagination

-all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity

-me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the

-paper, I have seen eyes glare through a glass-door

-opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at me.

-Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My

-apartments are remote from those of the servants,

-the only persons who sleep with me in an immense

-hotel, one folding door opening after another. I

-wish I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to

-see something alive; death in so many frightful

-shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to

-bed—and, for the first time in my life, I cannot

-put out the candle.</p>

-

-<div class='lg-container-r'>

-  <div class='linegroup'>

-    <div class='group'>

-      <div class='line'>M. W.</div>

-    </div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-<div class='nf-center c002'>

-    <div>FINIS.</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-<div class='pbb'>

- <hr class='pb c003' />

-</div>

-<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>

-

-<div class='chapter ph2'>

-

-<div class='nf-center-c0'>

-<div class='nf-center c019'>

-    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>

-  </div>

-</div>

-

-</div>

-

- <ol class='ol_1 c002'>

-    <li>P. <a href='#t133'>133</a>, the first character in “_are” failed to print.  Added “c” to make it

-    “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out

-    to give a freshness to days browned by <em>c</em>are!”

-

-    </li>

-    <li>P.  <a href='#t147'>147</a>, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.

-

-    </li>

-    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.

-

-    </li>

-    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

-    </li>

-  </ol>

-

-</div>

-

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+  <body>
+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67847 ***</div>
+
+<div class='tnotes covernote'>
+
+<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
+
+<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_frontispiece.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+<div class='ic001'>
+<p><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='titlepage'>
+
+<div>
+  <h1 class='c001'>MEMOIRS<br /> <span class='small'>AND</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>POSTHUMOUS WORKS</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF</span><br /> <span class='large'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>AUTHOR</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF A</span><br /> <span class='large'>VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.</span><br /> <span class='small'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</span><br /> <br /> <span class='xlarge'>VOL. I.</span></h1>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div>DUBLIN:</div>
+    <div class='c003'><em>Printed by Thomas Burnside</em>,</div>
+    <div><span class='small'>FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.</span></div>
+    <div class='c003'>1798.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS<br /> <span class='large'>OF VOL. I.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c002'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Memoirs'>Memoirs.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Letters'>Letters.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#French'>Letter on the present Character of the French Nation.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Infants'>Letter on the Management of Infants.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Johnson'>Letters to Mr. Johnson.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
+  <h2 id='Memoirs' class='c004'>MEMOIRS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c005'>CHAP. I.<br /> <span class='large'>1759–1775.</span></h3>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>It has always appeared to me, that to give to
+the public some account of the life of a person
+of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent
+on survivors. It seldom happens that such a person
+passes through life, without being the subject
+of thoughtless calumny, or malignant misrepresentation.
+It cannot happen that the public at
+large should be on a footing with their intimate
+acquaintance, and be the observer of those virtues
+which discover themselves principally in personal
+intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind
+is more or less influenced by a liberal passion
+for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to
+these benefactors, when they assert and establish
+on their part, the honour they loved. The justice
+which is thus done to the illustrious dead,
+converts into the fairest source of animation and
+encouragement to those who would follow them
+in the same career. The human species at large
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>is interested in this justice, as it teaches them to
+place their respect and affection, upon those qualities
+which best deserve to be esteemed and loved.
+I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that
+the more fully we are presented with the picture
+and story of such persons as are the subject of the
+following narrative, the more generally shall we
+feel in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and
+a sympathy in their excellencies. There are not
+many individuals with whose character the public
+welfare and improvement are more intimately
+connected, than the author of A Vindication of
+the Rights of Woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The facts detailed in the following pages, are
+principally taken from the mouth of the person
+to whom they relate; and of the veracity and ingenuousness
+of her habits, perhaps no one that
+was ever acquainted with her, entertains a doubt.
+The writer of this narrative, when he has met
+with persons, that in any degree created to themselves
+an interest and attachment in his mind, has
+always felt a curiosity to be acquainted with the
+scenes through which they had passed, and the
+incidents that had contributed to form their understandings
+and character. Impelled by this sentiment,
+he repeatedly led the conversation of
+Mary to topics of this sort; and, once or twice,
+he made notes in her presence, of a few dates
+calculated to arrange the circumstances in his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>mind. To the materials thus collected, he has
+added an industrious enquiry among the persons
+most intimately acquainted with her at the different
+periods of her life.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of
+April 1759. Her father’s name was Edward
+John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of
+the family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom
+of Ireland: her paternal grandfather was a
+respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is
+supposed to have left to his son a property of
+10,000l. Three of her brothers and two sisters
+are still living; their names, Edward, James,
+Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward
+only was older than herself; he resides in London.
+James is in Paris, and Charles in or near Philadelphia
+in America. Her sisters have for some
+years been engaged in the office of governesses in
+private families, and are both at present in Ireland.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was
+bred to any profession; but, about the time of her
+birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an amusement
+than a business, to the occupation of farming.
+He was of a very active, and somewhat versatile
+disposition, and so frequently changed his
+abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>of her birth. She told me, that the doubt in her
+mind in that respect, lay between London, and a
+farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal
+scene of the five first years of her life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some
+portion of that exquisite sensibility, soundness of
+understanding, and decision of character, which
+were the leading features of her mind through the
+whole course of her life. She experienced in the
+first period of her existence, but few of those indulgences
+and marks of affection, which are principally
+calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows
+of our early years. She was not the favourite
+either of her father or mother. Her father
+was a man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject
+to alternate fits of kindness and cruelty. In
+his family he was a despot, and his wife appears
+to have been the first, and most submissive of his
+subjects. The mother’s partiality was fixed upon
+the eldest son, and her system of government relative
+to Mary, was characterized by considerable
+rigour. She, at length, became convinced of
+her mistake, and adopted a different plan with
+her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs
+of Woman, Mary speaks of “the petty cares
+which obscured the morning of her heroine’s life;
+continual restraint in the most trivial matters;
+unconditional submission to orders, which, as a
+mere child, she soon discovered to be unreasonable,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>because inconsistent and contradictory; and
+the being obliged often to sit, in the presence of
+her parents, for three or four hours together,
+without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe,
+to be considered as copying the outline of the first
+period of her own existence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But it was in vain that the blighting winds of
+unkindness or indifference, seemed destined to
+counteract the superiority of Mary’s mind. It
+surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees,
+from a person little considered in the family, she
+became in some sort its director and umpire.
+The despotism of her education cost her many a
+heart-ache. She was not formed to be the contented
+and unresisting subject of a despot; but I
+have heard her remark more than once, that,
+when she felt she had done wrong, the reproof or
+chastisement of her mother, instead of being a terror
+to her, she found to be the only thing capable
+of reconciling her to herself. The blows of
+her father on the contrary, which were the mere
+ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of humbling
+her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions
+she felt her superiority, and was apt to betray
+marks of contempt. The quickness of her
+father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten
+similar violence towards his wife. When that
+was the case, Mary would often throw herself
+between the despot and his victim, with the purpose
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>to receive upon her own person the blows
+that might be directed against her mother. She
+has even laid whole nights upon the landing-place
+near their chamber-door, when, mistakenly, or
+with reason, she apprehended that her father
+might break out into paroxysms of violence. The
+conduct he held towards the members of his family,
+was of the same kind as that he observed towards
+animals. He was for the most part extravagantly
+fond of them; but, when he was displeased,
+and this frequently happened, and for
+very trivial reasons, his anger was alarming.
+Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have called,
+“a very good hater.” In some instance of passion
+exercised by her father to one of his dogs, she
+was accustomed to speak of her emotions of abhorrence,
+as having risen to agony. In a word,
+her conduct during her girlish years, was such,
+as to extort some portion of affection from her
+mother, and to hold her father in considerable
+awe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In one respect, the system of education of the
+mother appears to have had merit. All her children
+were vigorous and healthy. This seems
+very much to depend upon the management of
+our infant years. It is affirmed by some persons
+of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the
+sciences of health and disease, that there is no period
+of human life so little subject to mortality as
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>the period of infancy. Yet, from the mismanagement
+to which children are exposed, many
+of the diseases of childhood are rendered fatal, and
+more persons die in that, than in any other period
+of human life. Mary had projected a work upon
+this subject, which she had carefully considered,
+and well understood. She has indeed left a specimen
+of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,
+three years and a half old, who is a singular
+example of vigorous constitution and florid health.
+Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of Soho-square,
+whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised
+to revise her production. This is but one
+out of numerous projects of activity and usefulness,
+which her untimely death has fatally terminated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The rustic situation in which Mary had spent
+her infancy, no doubt contributed to confirm the
+stamina of her constitution. She sported in the
+open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing
+scenes of nature, for which she always retained
+the most exquisite relish. Dolls and the other
+amusements usually appropriated to female children,
+she held in contempt; and felt a much
+greater propensity to join in the active and hardy
+sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to
+those of her own sex.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>About the time that Mary completed the fifth
+year of her age, her father removed to a small
+distance from his former habitation, and took a
+farm near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest,
+a little way out of the Chelmsford road. In
+Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his
+residence, and occupied a convenient house behind
+the town of Barking in Essex, eight miles from
+London. In this situation some of their nearest
+neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire,
+successively member of parliament for several boroughs,
+and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.
+Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot;
+but his brother was almost a constant inhabitant,
+and his family in habits of the most frequent intercourse
+with the family of Mary. Here Mr.
+Wollstonecraft remained for three years. In September
+1796, I accompanied my wife on a visit to
+this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility,
+the scenes of her childhood. We found
+the house uninhabited, and the garden in a wild
+and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance
+with the market-place, the streets, and the wharf,
+the latter of which we found crowded with barges,
+and full of activity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft
+again removed to a farm near Beverly in Yorkshire.
+Here the family remained for six years,
+and consequently, Mary did not quit this residence,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>till she had attained the age of fifteen years and
+five months. The principal part of her school
+education passed during this period: but it was
+not to any advantage of infant literature, that she
+was indebted for her subsequent eminence; her
+education in this respect was merely such, as
+was afforded by the day-schools of the place, in
+which she resided. To her recollections Beverly
+appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by
+genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly.
+She was surprized, when she visited it in 1795,
+upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality
+so very much below the picture in her imagination.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer;
+but the restlessness of his disposition would
+not suffer him to content himself with the occupation
+in which for some years he had been engaged,
+and the temptation of a commercial speculation
+of some sort being held out to him, he
+removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton
+near London, for the purpose of its execution.
+Here he remained for a year and a half; but, being
+frustrated in his expectations of profit, he,
+after that term, gave up the project in which he
+was engaged, and returned to his former pursuits.
+During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of
+these memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting
+college in that place. It is perhaps a question
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>of curious speculation to enquire, what would
+have been the amount of the difference in the
+pursuits and enjoyments of each party, if they
+had met, and considered each other with the same
+distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards
+impressed with in the year 1796. The
+writer had then completed the twentieth, and
+Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which
+would have been predominant; the disadvantages
+of obscurity, and the pressure of a family; or the
+gratifications and improvement that might have
+flowed from their intercourse?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this
+time was a Mr. Clare, who inhabited the next
+house to that which was tenanted by her father,
+and to whom she was probably in some degree
+indebted for the early cultivation of her mind.
+Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have
+been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his
+person he was deformed and delicate; and his
+figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of
+the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry,
+and was not destitute of taste. His manners
+were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,
+the demonstrations of which appeared to have
+been somewhat too artificially cultivated. His
+habits were those of a perfect recluse. He seldom
+went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to
+a friend of Mary a pair of shoes, which had served
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary frequently
+spent days and weeks together, at the house of
+Mr. Clare.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. II.<br /> <span class='large'>1775–1783.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>But a connection more memorable originated
+about this time, between Mary and a person of
+her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship
+so fervent, as for years to have constituted
+the ruling passion of her mind. The name of
+this person was Frances Blood; she was two years
+older than Mary. Her residence was at that time
+at Newington Butts, a village near the southern
+extremity of the metropolis; and the original instrument
+for bringing these two friends acquainted,
+was Mrs. Clare, wife of the gentleman already
+mentioned, who was on a footing of considerable
+intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance
+of Fanny, like that of Mr. Clare, contributed
+to ripen the immature talents of Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The situation in which Mary was introduced
+to her, bore a resemblance to the first interview
+of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted
+to the door of a small house, but furnished with
+peculiar neatness and propriety. The first object
+that caught her sight, was a young woman of a
+slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>age, busily employed in feeding and managing
+some children, born of the same parents, but
+considerably inferior to her in age. The impression
+Mary received from this spectacle was indelible;
+and, before the interview was concluded,
+she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal
+friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments.
+She sung and played with taste.
+She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and
+by the employment of this talent, for some time
+maintained her father, mother, and family, but
+ultimately ruined her health by her extraordinary
+exertions. She read and wrote with considerable
+application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate
+propriety followed her in these, as in her
+other occupations.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl
+of sixteen, contemplated Fanny, in the first instance,
+with sentiments of inferiority and reverence.
+Though they were much together, yet,
+the distance of their habitation being considerable,
+they supplied the want of more frequent interviews
+by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found
+Fanny’s letters better spelt and better indited than
+her own, and felt herself abashed. She had hitherto
+paid but a superficial attention to literature.
+She had read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>thirst of knowledge; but she had not
+thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to
+excel was now awakened, and she applied herself
+with passion and earnestness. Fanny undertook
+to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy
+and method, her lessons were given with
+considerable skill.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It has already been mentioned that in the spring
+of the year 1776, Mr. Wollstonecroft quitted his
+situation at Hoxton, and returned to his former
+agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which
+he now fixed was in Wales, a circumstance that
+was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s darling spirit
+of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the
+Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family
+of a Mr. Allen, two of whose daughters are since
+married to the two elder sons of the celebrated
+English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence
+for little more than a year. He returned to
+the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose
+spirit of independence was unalterable, had influence
+enough to determine his choice in favour of
+the village of Walworth, that she might be near
+her chosen friend. It was probably before this,
+that she has once or twice started the idea of quitting
+her parental roof, and providing for herself.
+But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>and conditions were stipulated with her, relative
+to her having an apartment in the house that
+should be exclusively her own, and her commanding
+the other requisites of study. She did not
+however think herself fairly treated in these instances,
+and either the conditions abovementioned,
+or some others, were not observed in the sequel,
+with the fidelity she expected. In one case,
+she had procured an eligible situation, and every
+thing was settled respecting her removal to it,
+when the intreaties and tears of her mother led her
+to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon
+the engagement.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These however were only temporary delays.
+Her propensities continued the same, and the motives
+by which she was instigated were unabated.
+In the year 1778, she being nineteen years of age,
+a proposal was made to her of living as a companion
+with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady,
+with one son already adult. Upon enquiry she
+found that Mrs. Dawson was a woman of great
+peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great
+variety of companions in succession, and that no
+one had found it practicable to continue with her.
+Mary was not discouraged by this information,
+and accepted the situation, with a resolution that
+she would effect in this respect, what none of her
+predecessors had been able to do. In the sequel
+she had reason to consider the account she had received
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>as sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax
+in her endeavours. By method, constancy
+and firmness, she found the means of making her
+situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally
+confess, that Mary was the only person
+that had lived with her in that situation, in her
+treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for
+two years, and only left her, summoned by the
+melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly
+declining health. True to the calls of humanity,
+Mary felt in this intelligence an irresistible motive,
+and eagerly returned to the paternal roof which
+she had before resolutely quitted. The residence
+of her father at this time, was at Enfield near
+London. He had, I believe, given up agriculture
+from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing
+that he now made it less a source of profit
+than loss, and being thought advisable that he
+should rather live upon the interest of his property
+already in possession.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering,
+but hopeless. Mary was assiduous in her attendance
+upon her mother. At first, every attention
+was received with acknowledgements and
+gratitude; but, as the attentions grew habitual,
+and the health of the mother more and more
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>wretched, they were rather exacted, than received.
+Nothing would be taken by the unfortunate
+patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was
+denied night or day, and by the time nature was
+exhausted in the parent, the daughter was qualified
+to assume her place, and become in turn herself
+a patient. The last words her mother ever
+uttered were, “A little patience, and all will be
+over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to
+by Mary in the course of her writings.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary
+bid a final adieu to the roof of her father. According
+to my memorandum, I find her next the
+inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village
+of Fulham. Upon what plan they now lived
+together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not
+that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional
+burthen upon the industry of her friend.
+Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they approached
+more nearly to a footing of equality;
+and their attachment became more rooted and active.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was ever ready at the call of distress,
+and, in particular, during her whole life was eager
+and active to promote the welfare of every
+member of her family. In 1780 she attended the
+death-bed of her mother; in 1782 she was summoned
+by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop,
+who, subsequently to a dangerous lying-in, remained
+for some months in a very afflicting situation.
+Mary continued with her sister without intermission,
+to her perfect recovery.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. III.<br /> <span class='large'>1783–1785.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth
+year of her age. Her project, five years before,
+had been personal independence; it was now usefulness.
+In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s
+illness, and during the subsequent convalescence,
+she had leisure to ruminate upon purposes
+of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek
+something more arduous than the mere removal of
+personal vexations; and the sensibility of her
+heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.
+The derangement of her father’s affairs
+daily became more and more glaring; and
+a small independent provision made for herself
+and her sisters appears to have been sacrificed in
+the wreck. For ten years, from 1782 to 1792,
+she may be said to have been, in a great degree,
+the victim of a desire to promote the benefit of
+others. She did not foresee the severe disappointment
+with which an exclusive purpose of this sort
+is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay
+a stress upon the consequent gratitude of those she
+benefited; and she did not sufficiently consider
+that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>interests and society of others, we acquire a more
+exquisite sense of their defects, and are tormented
+with their untractableness and folly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The project upon which she now determined,
+was no other than that of a day-school, to be superintended
+by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two
+sisters.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>They accordingly opened one in the year 1783,
+at the village of Islington; but in the course of a
+few months removed it to Newington Green.
+Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced
+the future events of her life. The first of
+these in her own estimation was Dr. Richard
+Price, well known for his political and mathematical
+calculations, and universally esteemed by
+those who knew him, for the simplicity of his
+manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The
+regard conceived by these two persons for each
+other, was mutual, and partook of a spirit of the
+purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the
+principles of the church of England, but her esteem
+for this venerable preacher led her occasionally
+to attend upon his public instructions. Her
+religion was, in reality, little allied to any system
+of forms; and, as she has often told me, was
+founded rather in taste, than in the niceties of polemical
+discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached
+itself to the sublime and the amiable. She
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>found an inexpressible delight in the beauties of
+nature, and in the splendid reveries of the imagination.
+But nature itself, she thought, would be
+no better than a vast blank, if the mind of the observer
+did not supply it with an animating soul.
+When she walked amidst the wonders of nature,
+she was accustomed to converse with her God.
+To her mind he was pictured as not less amiable,
+generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted.
+In fact, she had received few lessons of religion in
+her youth, and her religion was almost entirely of
+her own creation. But she was not on that account
+the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous
+in discharging what she considered as its duties.
+She could not recollect the time when she had believed
+the doctrine of future punishments. The
+tenets of her system were the growth of her own
+moral taste, and her religion therefore had always
+been a gratification, never a terror to her. She
+expected a future state; but she would not allow
+her ideas of that future state to be modified by the
+notions of judgment and retribution. From this
+sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure
+she took in an occasional attendance upon the sermons
+of Dr. Price, was not accompanied with a
+superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact
+is, that, so far down as the year 1787, she regularly
+frequented public worship, for the most part
+according to the forms of the church of England.
+After that period her attendance became less constant,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>and in no long time was wholly discontinued.
+I believe it may be admitted as a maxim,
+that no person of a well furnished mind, that has
+shaken off the implicit subjection of youth, and
+is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can bring
+himself to conform to the public and regular routine
+of sermons and prayers.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Another of the friends she acquired at this period,
+was Mrs. Burgh, widow of the author of
+the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally
+well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her
+benevolence. Mary, whenever she had occasion
+to allude to her, to the last period of her life, paid
+the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining
+friend necessary to be enumerated in this place,
+is the Rev. John Hewlet, now master of a Boarding-school
+at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I
+shall have occasion to mention hereafter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have already said that Fanny’s health had
+been materially injured by her incessant labours
+for the maintenance of her family. She had also
+suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon
+her mind. To these different sources of ill health
+she became gradually a victim: and at length
+discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption.
+By the medical men that attended
+her, she was advised to try the effects of a southern
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>climate; and, about the beginning of the
+year 1785, sailed for Lisbon.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated
+her friend, was a sentiment of inferiority
+and reverence; but that, from the operation
+of a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably
+changed. Fanny had originally been far before
+her in literary attainments; this disparity no
+longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might
+endeavour to free herself from the delusions of
+self-esteem, this period of observation upon her
+own mind and that of her friend, could not pass,
+without her perceiving that there were some essential
+characteristics of genius, which she possessed,
+and in which her friend was deficient. The
+principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable
+greatness of soul, by which, after a
+short internal struggle, she was accustomed to
+rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever
+Mary undertook, she perhaps in all instances accomplished;
+and, to her lofty spirit, scarcely
+any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform.
+Fanny, on the contrary, was a woman of a timid
+and irresolute nature, accustomed to yield to
+difficulties, and probably priding herself in this
+morbid softness of her temper. One instance
+that I have heard Mary relate of this sort, was,
+that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with
+her domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>to have a home of her own. Mary, who felt nothing
+more pressing than to relieve the inconveniencies
+of her friend, determined to accomplish
+this object for her. It cost her infinite exertions;
+but at length she was able to announce to Fanny
+that a house was prepared, and that she was on
+the spot to receive her. The answer which
+Fanny returned to the letter of her friend, consisted
+almost wholly of an enumeration of objections
+to the quitting her family, which she had
+not thought of before, but which now appeared
+to her of considerable weight.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The judgment which experience had taught
+Mary to form of the mind of her friend, determined
+her in the advice she gave, at the period to
+which I have brought down the story. Fanny
+was recommended to seek a softer climate, but
+she had no funds to defray the expence of such an
+undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of
+Dublin, but then resident in the kingdom of Portugal,
+paid his addresses to her. The state of her
+health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford
+the shadow of a hope; it was not therefore a
+time at which it was most obvious to think of
+marriage. She conceived however that nothing
+should be omitted, which might alleviate, if it
+could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy
+acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly
+made the voyage to Lisbon; and the marriage
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>took place on the twenty-fourth of February
+1785.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The change of climate and situation was productive
+of little benefit; and the life of Fanny was
+only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which
+soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time,
+was impressed with the idea that her friend would
+die in this distant country; and, shocked with the
+recollection of her separation from the circle of her
+friends, determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend
+her. This resolution was treated by her acquaintance
+as in the utmost degree visionary; but
+she was not to be diverted from her point. She
+had not money to defray her expences: she must
+quit for a long time the school, the very existence
+of which probably depended upon her exertions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>No person was ever better formed for the business
+of education; if it be not a sort of absurdity
+to speak of a person as formed for an inferior object,
+who is in possession of talents, in the fullest
+degree adequate to something on a more important
+and comprehensive scale. Mary had a quickness
+of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies,
+but which led her to imagine that she
+saw the mind of the person with whom she had
+any transaction, and to refer the principle of her
+approbation or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>of their sentiments. She was occasionally
+severe and imperious in her resentments; and,
+when she strongly disapproved, was apt to express
+her censure in terms that gave a very humiliating
+sensation to the person against whom it was directed.
+Her displeasure however never assumed
+its severest form, but when it was barbed by disappointment.
+Where she expected little, she was
+not very rigid in her censure of error.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But, to whatever the defects of her temper
+might amount, they were never exercised upon
+her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to
+make use of an ungenerous advantage, or to
+wound the defenceless. To her servants there
+never was a mistress more considerate or more
+kind. With children she was the mirror of patience.
+Perhaps, in all her extensive experience
+upon the subject of education, she never betrayed
+one symptom of irascibility. Her heart was the
+seat of every benevolent feeling; and accordingly,
+in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness
+and sympathy alone that prompted her conduct.
+Sympathy, when it mounts to a certain
+height, inevitably begets affection in the person
+to whom it is exercised; and I have heard her
+say, that she never was concerned in the education
+of one child, who was not personally attached to
+her, and earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure.
+Another eminent advantage she possessed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>in the business of education, was that she
+was little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty.
+She saw, as it were by intuition, the path which
+her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm
+confidence in her own power to effect what she
+desired. Yet, with all this, she had scarcely a
+tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched
+symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments;
+and governed herself accordingly.
+While I thus enumerate her more than maternal
+qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the
+recollection of her orphan children!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her
+from the journey to Lisbon, she found among
+them a willingness to facilitate the execution of
+her project, when it was once fixed. Mrs.
+Burgh in particular, supplied her with money,
+which however she always conceived came from
+Dr. Price. This loan, I have reason to believe,
+was faithfully repaid.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was during her residence at Newington Green,
+that she was introduced to the acquaintance of
+Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as
+in some sort the father of English literature. The
+doctor treated her with particular kindness and
+attention, had a long conversation with her, and
+desired her to repeat her visit often. This she
+firmly purposed to do; but the news of his last
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>illness, and then of his death, intervened to prevent
+her making a second visit.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived
+but a short time before her friend was prematurely
+delivered, and the event was fatal to
+both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto
+the chosen object of Mary’s attachment, died on
+the 29th of November, 1785.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters
+from Norway, written ten years after her decease.
+“When a warm heart has received strong impressions,
+they are not to be effaced. Emotions
+become sentiments; and the imagination renders
+even transient sensations permanent, by fondly retracing
+them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight,
+recollect views I have seen, which are not
+to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every
+nerve, which I shall never more meet. The
+grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of
+my youth; still she is present with me, and I
+hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the
+heath.”</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IV.<br /> <span class='large'>1785–1787.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably
+to enlarge the understanding of Mary.
+She was admitted into the best company the English
+factory afforded. She made many profound
+observations on the character of the natives, and
+the baleful effects of superstition. The obsequies
+of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by
+stealth and in darkness, tended to invigorate these
+observations in her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She sailed upon her voyage home about the
+twentieth of December. On this occasion a circumstance
+occurred, that deserves to be recorded.
+While they were on their passage, they fell in
+with a French vessel, in great distress, and in
+daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same
+time that it was almost destitute of provisions.
+The Frenchman hailed them, and intreated the
+English captain, in consideration of his melancholy
+situation, to take him and his crew on board.
+The Englishman represented in reply, that his
+stock of provisions was by no means adequate to
+such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>refused compliance. Mary, shocked at
+his apparent insensibility, took up the cause of
+the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have
+him called to a severe account, when he arrived
+in England. She finally prevailed, and had the
+satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in
+question possibly owed their lives to her interposition.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When she arrived in England, she found that
+her school had suffered considerably in her absence.
+It can be little reproach to any one, to
+say that they were found incapable of supplying
+her place. She not only excelled in the management
+of the children, but had also the talent of
+being attentive and obliging to the parents, without
+degrading herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period at which I am now arrived is important,
+as conducting to the first step of her literary
+career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned
+literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary
+produce, and had urged her to make trial
+of the truth of his judgment. At this time she
+was desirous of assisting the father and mother of
+Fanny in an object they had in view, the transporting
+themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,
+what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready
+to take on herself to effect. For this purpose
+she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one hundred
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education
+of Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from
+the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St. Paul’s Church
+Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,
+which she immediately applied to the
+object for the sake of which the pamphlet was
+written.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the
+affair of the school. She was dissatisfied with
+the different appearance it presented upon her return,
+from the state in which she left it. Experience
+impressed upon her a rooted aversion to
+that sort of cohabitation with her sisters, which
+the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation
+is a point of delicate experiment, and is, in a
+majority of instances, pregnant with ill humour
+and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit
+of adventure which characterized Mary, were
+not felt in an equal degree by her sisters, so that
+a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant
+upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the
+other hand, they could scarcely perhaps be perfectly
+easy, in observing the superior degree of
+deference and courtship, which her merit extorted
+from almost every one that knew her. Her kindness
+for them was not diminished, but she resolved
+that the mode of its exertion in future should
+be different, tending to their benefit, without intrenching
+upon her own liberty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her,
+such as, regarding only the situations through
+which she had lately passed, is usually termed advantageous.
+This was, to accept the office of
+governess to the daughters of Lord Viscount
+Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of Kingston
+of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held
+out to her, were such as she determined to accept,
+at the same time resolving to retain the situation
+only for a short time. Independence was
+the object after which she thirsted, and she was
+fixed to try whether it might not be found in literary
+occupation. She was desirous however first
+to accumulate a small sum of money, which
+should enable her to consider at leisure the different
+literary engagements that might offer, and
+provide in some degree for the eventual deficiency
+of her earliest attempts.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough,
+was offered to her through the medium
+of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the
+under masters of Eton school. She spent some
+time at the house of this gentleman, immediately
+after her giving up the school at Newington
+Green. Here she had an opportunity of making
+an accurate observation upon the manners and
+conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas
+she retained of it were by no means favourable.
+By all that she saw, she was confirmed in a very
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of day-schools,
+where, as she expressed it, “children
+have the opportunity of conversing with children,
+without interfering with domestic affections, the
+foundation of virtue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though her residence in the family of Lord
+Kingsborough continued scarcely more than
+twelve months, she left behind her, with them
+and their connections, a very advantageous impression.
+The governesses the young ladies had
+hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,
+controlled in every thing by the mother;
+Mary insisted upon the unbounded exercise of her
+own discretion. When the young ladies heard of
+their governess coming from England, they heard
+in imagination of a new enemy, and declared their
+resolution to guard themselves accordingly. Mary
+however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence,
+and the friendship that soon grew up between
+her and Margaret King, now Countess
+Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon
+degree cordial and affectionate. Mary
+always spoke of this young lady in terms of the
+truest applause, both in relation to the eminence
+of her intellectual powers, and the ingenuous
+amiableness of her disposition. Lady Kingsborough,
+from the best motives, had imposed upon
+her daughters a variety of prohibitions, both as to
+the books they should read, and in many other respects.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>These prohibitions had their usual effects;
+inordinate desire for the things forbidden,
+and clandestine indulgence. Mary immediately
+restored the children to their liberty, and undertook
+to govern them by their affections only. The
+salutary effects of the new system of education
+were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough
+soon felt no other uneasiness than lest the children
+should love their governess better than their mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the
+persons who visited Lord Kingsborough’s house,
+for she always appeared there with the air of an
+equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her
+mention the ludicrous distress of a woman of quality,
+whose name I have forgotten, that, in a large
+company, singled out Mary, and entered into a
+long conversation with her. After the conversation
+was over, she enquired whom she had been
+talking with, and found, to her utter mortification
+and dismay, that it was Miss King’s governess.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance,
+whom Mary was accustomed to speak of
+with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,
+member of parliament for the county of Wexford.
+She held his talents in very high estimation; she
+was strongly prepossessed in favour of the goodness
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>of his heart; and she always spoke of him as
+the most perfect gentleman she had ever known.
+She felt the regret of a disappointed friend, at
+the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer
+of the year 1787 at Bristol Hot-Wells, and had
+formed the project of proceeding from thence to
+the Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to
+accompany them. The plan however was ultimately
+given up, and Mary in consequence closed
+her connection with them, earlier than she otherwise
+had purposed to do.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little
+book which bears the title of Mary, a Fiction. A
+considerable part of this story consists, with certain
+modifications, of the incidents of her own
+friendship with Fanny. All the events that do
+not relate to that subject are fictitious.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This little work, if Mary had never produced
+any thing else, would serve, with persons of true
+taste and sensibility, to establish the eminence of
+her genius. The story is nothing. He that
+looks into the book only for incident, will probably
+lay it down with disgust. But the feelings
+are of the truest and most exquisite class; every
+circumstance is adorned with that species of imagination,
+which enlists itself under the banners of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment,
+as it is called, is too often another name for a
+work of affectation. He that should imagine
+that the sentiments of this book are affected,
+would indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. V.<br /> <span class='large'>1787–1790.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Being now determined to enter upon her literary
+plan, Mary came immediately from Bristol
+to the metropolis. Her conduct under this
+circumstance was such as to do credit both to her
+own heart, and that of Mr. Johnson, her publisher,
+between whom and herself there now
+commenced an intimate friendship. She had seen
+him upon occasion of publishing her Thoughts on
+the Education of Daughters, and she addressed
+two or three letters to him during her residence
+in Ireland. Upon her arrival in London in August
+1787, she went immediately to his house,
+and frankly explained to him her purpose, at the
+same time requesting his assistance and advice as to
+its execution. After a short conversation Mr.
+Johnson invited her to make his house her home,
+till she should have suited herself with a fixed residence.
+She accordingly resided at this time two
+or three weeks under his roof. At the same period
+she paid a visit or two of similar duration to
+some friends, at no great distance from the metropolis.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house
+in George-street, on the Surry side of Black Friar’s
+Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for
+her during her excursion into the country. The
+three years immediately ensuing, may be said, in
+the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have
+been the most active period of her life. She
+brought with her to this habitation, the novel of
+Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,
+and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale,
+entitled, the Cave of Fancy, which she thought
+proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am
+told that at this period she appeared under great
+dejection of spirits, and filled with melancholy
+regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A period
+of two years had elapsed since the death of that
+friend; but it was possibly the composition of the
+fiction of Mary, that renewed her sorrows in their
+original force. Soon after entering upon her new
+habitation, she produced a little work, entitled,
+Original Stories from Real Life, intended for the
+use of children. At the commencement of her
+literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement
+aversion to the being regarded, by her
+ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an author,
+and to have employed some precautions to
+prevent its occurrence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The employment which the bookseller suggested
+to her, as the easiest and most certain source of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>pecuniary income, of course, was translation.
+With this view she improved herself in her
+French, with which she had previously but a
+slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and
+German languages. The greater part of her literary
+engagements at this time, were such as
+were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She new-modelled
+and abridged a work, translated from
+the Dutch, entitled, Young Grandison: she began
+a translation from the French, of a book, called,
+the New Robinson; but in this undertaking,
+she was, I believe, anticipated by another translator:
+and she compiled a series of extracts in verse
+and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s
+Speaker, which bears the title of the Female
+Reader; but which, from a cause not worth
+mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different
+name in the title-page.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson
+instituted the Analytical Review, in which
+Mary took a considerable share. She also translated
+Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions;
+made an abridgement of Lavater’s Physiognomy,
+from the French, which has never been
+published; and compressed Salzmann’s Elements
+of Morality, a German production, into a publication
+in three volumes duodecimo. The translation
+of Salzmann produced a correspondence
+between Mary and the author; and he afterwards
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German
+translation of the Rights of Woman. Such were
+her principal literary occupations, from the autumn
+of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort
+of miscellaneous literary employment, seems, for
+the time at least, rather to damp and contract,
+than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The
+writer is accustomed to see his performances answer
+the mere mercantile purpose of the day, and
+confounded with those of persons to whom he is
+secretly conscious of a superiority. No neighbour
+mind serves as a mirror to reflect the generous
+confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps
+the man never yet existed who could maintain his
+enthusiasm to its full vigour, in the midst of this
+kind of solitariness. He is touched with the torpedo
+of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which
+Mary produced during this period, is marked with
+those daring flights, which exhibit themselves in
+the little fiction she composed just before its commencement.
+Among effusions of a nobler cast,
+I find occasionally interspersed some of that homily-language,
+which, to speak from my own feelings,
+is calculated to damp the moral courage, it
+was intended to awaken. This is probably to be
+assigned to the causes above described.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>I have already said that one of the purposes
+which Mary had conceived, a few years before,
+as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise insipid,
+or embittered, draught of human life, was
+usefulness. On this side, the period of her existence
+of which I am now treating, is more brilliant,
+than in any literary view. She determined
+to apply as great a part as possible of the produce
+of her present employments, to the assistance of
+her friends and of the distressed; and, for this
+purpose, laid down to herself rules of the most
+rigid economy. She began with endeavouring to
+promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived
+that there was no situation in which she could
+place them, at once so respectable and agreeable,
+as that of governesses in private families. She
+determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour
+to qualify them for such an undertaking.
+Her younger sister she sent to Paris, where she remained
+near two years. The elder she placed in
+a school near London, first as a parlour-boarder,
+and afterwards as a teacher. Her brother James,
+who had already been at sea, she first took into
+her house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction,
+to qualify him for a respectable situation in
+the royal navy, where he was shortly after made
+a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite
+brother, had been articled to the eldest, an attorney
+in the Minories; but, not being satisfied with
+his situation, she removed him; and in some time
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>after, having first placed him with a farmer for
+instruction, she fitted him out for America, where
+his speculations, founded upon the basis she had
+provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous.
+The reason so much of this parental sort
+of care fell upon her, was, that her father had
+by this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances.
+His affairs having grown too complex
+for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them
+to the management of a near relation; but Mary,
+not being satisfied with the conduct of the business,
+took them into her own hands. The exertions
+she made, and the struggles which she entered
+into however, in this instance, were ultimately
+fruitless. To the day of her death her father
+was almost wholly supported by funds which
+she supplied to him. In addition to her exertions
+for her own family, she took a young girl of about
+seven years of age under her protection and care,
+the niece of Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present
+Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then lately
+dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period, from the end of the year 1787 to
+the end of the year 1790, though consumed in
+labours of little eclat, served still further to establish
+her in a friendly connection from which she
+derived many pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller,
+contracted a great personal regard for her,
+which resembled in many respects that of a parent.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>As she frequented his house, she of course became
+acquainted with his guests. Among these
+may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,
+Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late
+Mr. George Anderson, accountant to the board
+of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,
+the celebrated painter. Between both of the
+two latter and herself, there existed sentiments of
+genuine affection and friendship.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VI.<br /> <span class='large'>1790–1792.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had
+for the most part, been silent; and had been productive
+of income to herself, without apparently
+leading to the wreath of fame. From this time
+she was destined to attract the notice of the public,
+and perhaps no female writer ever obtained
+so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It cannot be doubted that, while, for three
+years of literary employment, she “held the
+noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was insensibly
+advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The
+uninterrupted habit of composition gave a freedom
+and firmness to the expression of her sentiments.
+The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,
+and enlarged her mind. The French
+revolution, while it gave a fundamental shock to
+the human intellect through every region of the
+globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect
+in the progress of Mary’s reflections. The prejudices
+of her early years suffered a vehement
+concussion. Her respect for establishments was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>undermined. At this period occurred a misunderstanding
+upon public grounds, with one of her
+early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds
+and exploded absurdities, had been increased, by
+the operation of those very circumstances, by
+which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the
+race of independence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The event, immediately introductory to the
+rank which from this time she held in the lists of
+literature, was the publication of Burke’s Reflections
+on the Revolution in France. This book,
+after having been long promised to the world,
+finally made its appearance on the first of November
+1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty,
+and impressed with a warm interest in the
+struggle that was now going on, seized her pen in
+the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which
+she was strongly susceptible. She was in the habit
+of composing with rapidity, and her answer,
+which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,
+obtained extraordinary notice. Marked
+as it is with the vehemence and impetuousness of
+its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too
+contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the
+great man against whom its attack is directed.
+But this circumstance was not injurious to the success
+of the publication. Burke had been warmly
+loved by the most liberal and enlightened friends
+of freedom, and they were proportionably inflamed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon
+what they deemed to be its sacred cause.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Short as was the time in which Mary composed
+her Answer to Burke’s Reflections, there was
+one anecdote she told me concerning it, which
+seems worth recording in this place. It was sent
+to the press, as is the general practice when the
+early publication of a piece is deemed a matter of
+importance, before the composition was finished.
+When Mary had arrived at about the middle of
+her work, she was seized with a temporary fit of
+torpor and indolence, and began to repent of
+her undertaking. In this state of mind, she
+called, one evening, as she was in the practice
+of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of
+relieving herself by an hour or two’s conversation.
+Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her
+nature, led her to describe what had just past in
+her thoughts. Mr. Johnson immediately, in a
+kind and friendly way, intreated her not to put
+any constraint upon her inclination, and to give
+herself no uneasiness about the sheets already printed,
+which he would cheerfully throw a side, if it
+would contribute to her happiness. Mary had
+wanted stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged,
+in what she well knew to be an unreasonable
+access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily
+falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect
+that she would lay aside her undertaking,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>piqued her pride. She immediately went home;
+and proceeded to the end of her work, with no
+other interruptions but what were absolutely indispensible.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is probable that the applause which attended
+her Answer to Burke, elevated the tone of her
+mind. She had always felt much confidence in
+her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that
+the actual perception of a similar feeling respecting
+us in a multitude of others, must increase the
+confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any
+human being. Mary accordingly proceeded, in
+a short time after, to the composition of her most
+celebrated production, the Vindication of the
+Rights of Woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Never did any author enter into a cause, with
+a more ardent desire to be found, not a flourishing
+and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.
+She considered herself as standing forth in defence
+of one half of the human species, labouring under
+a yoke which, through all the records of time,
+had degraded them from the station of rational
+beings, and almost sunk them to the level of the
+brutes. She saw indeed, that they were often attempted
+to be held in silken fetters, and bribed
+into the love of slavery; but the disguise and the
+treachery served only the more fully to confirm
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language
+of Calista, as</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c009'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“In every state of life the slaves of men:”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>the rich as alternately under the despotism of a
+father, a brother, and a husband; and the middling
+and the poorer classes shut out from the acquisition
+of bread with independence, when they
+are not shut out from the very means of an industrious
+subsistence. Such were the views she
+entertained of the subject; and such the feelings
+with which she warmed her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The work is certainly a very bold and original
+production. The strength and firmness with
+which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau,
+Dr. Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting
+the condition of women, cannot but make a strong
+impression upon every ingenuous reader. The
+public at large formed very different opinions respecting
+the character of the performance. Many
+of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather masculine
+description. The spirited and decisive way
+in which the author explodes the system of gallantry,
+and the species of homage with which the
+sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty
+produced a sentiment in their mind, which
+they mistook for a sense of injustice. The pretty
+soft creatures that are so often to be found in the
+female sex, and that class of men who believe
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>they could not exist without such pretty, soft creatures
+to resort to, were in arms against the author
+of so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There
+are also, it must be confessed, occasional passages
+of a stern and rugged feature, incompatible with
+the true stamina of the writer’s character. But,
+if they did not belong to her fixed and permanent
+character, they belonged to her character <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">pro
+tempore</span></i>; and what she thought, she scorned to
+qualify.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian
+temper, which characterised some parts
+of the book, it is impossible not to remark a luxuriance
+of imagination, and a trembling delicacy
+of sentiment, which would have done honour to
+a poet, bursting with all the visions of an Armida
+and a Dido.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The contradiction, to the public apprehension
+was equally great, as to the person of the author,
+as it was when they considered the temper of the
+book. In the champion of her sex, who was described
+as endeavouring to invest them with all the
+rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted to
+seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to
+find a sturdy, muscular, raw-boned virago; and
+they were not a little surprised, when, instead of
+all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>and, in the best and most engaging sense, feminine
+in her manners.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is
+undoubtedly a very unequal performance, and
+eminently deficient in method and arrangement.
+When tried by the hoary and long-established laws
+of literary composition, it can scarcely maintain
+its claim to be placed in the first class of human
+productions. But when we consider the importance
+of its doctrines, and the eminence of genius
+it displays, it seems not very improbable that it
+will be read as long as the English language endures.
+The publication of this book forms an
+epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and
+Mary Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be
+found to have performed more substantial service
+for the cause of her sex, than all the other
+writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves
+animated in the behalf of oppressed and injured
+beauty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects
+of this performance, will be changed into
+astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of
+this inestimable moment, was begun, carried on,
+and finished in the state in which it now appears,
+in a period of no more than six weeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is necessary here that I should resume the
+subject of the friendship that subsisted between
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of
+the most memorable events in her subsequent
+history. He is a native of the republic of Switzerland,
+and has spent the principal part of his
+life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence
+of his genius can scarcely be disputed; it
+has indeed received the testimony which is the
+least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable
+of his contemporary artists. He has one
+of the most striking characteristics of genius, a
+daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure.
+The work in which he is at present engaged,
+a series of pictures for the illustration of
+Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced
+solely upon the incitement of his own mind, is a
+proof of this, if indeed his whole life had not sufficiently
+proved it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends,
+and was at this time in the habit of visiting him
+two or three times a week. Mary, one of whose
+strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations
+of pleasure she felt from the associations of
+visible objects, had hitherto never been acquainted,
+with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced
+therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was
+a high gratification to her; while he found in
+Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the
+emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any
+other with whom he ever conversed. Painting,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>and subjects closely connected with painting, were
+their almost constant topics of conversation; and
+they found them inexhaustible. It cannot be
+doubted, but that this was a species of exercise
+very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s
+mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary
+derived improvement from Mr. Fuseli, she may
+also be suspected of having caught the infection
+of some of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli
+was ardently attached to literature; but the demands
+of his profession have prevented him from
+keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance
+with it, that belles-lettres scholars frequently
+possess. Of consequence, the favourites
+of his boyish years remain his only favourites.
+Homer is with Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit
+of every human perfection. Milton, Shakespear,
+and Richardson, have also engaged much of his
+attention. The nearest rival of Homer, I believe,
+if Homer can have a rival, is Jean Jacques Rousseau.
+A young man embraces entire the opinions
+of a favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had
+leisure to bring the opinions of his youth to a revision.
+Smitten with Rousseau’s conception of the
+perfectness of the savage state, and the essential
+abortiveness of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at
+all our little attempts at improvement, with a spirit
+that borders perhaps too much upon contempt
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>and indifference. One of his favourite positions
+is the divinity of genius. This is a power that
+comes complete at once from the hands of the
+Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man
+of real genius are such, in all their grand and most
+important features, as no subsequent assiduity can
+amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat
+of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a
+disposition to search, in every thing new or modern,
+for occasions of censure. I believe Mary
+came something more a cynic out of the school of
+Mr. Fuseli, than she went into it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the principal circumstance that relates to
+the intercourse of Mary, and this celebrated artist,
+remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli frequently;
+he amused, delighted and instructed her.
+As a painter, it was impossible she should not wish
+to see his works, and consequently to frequent his
+house. She visited him; her visits were returned.
+Notwithstanding the inequality of their years,
+Mary was not of a temper to live upon terms of
+so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,
+without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in
+his society, she transferred by association to his
+person. What she experienced in this respect,
+was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy
+and restraint in which she had hitherto lived, and
+to which the rules of polished society condemn an
+unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>ardent affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married
+man, and his wife the acquaintance of Mary.
+She readily perceived the restrictions which this
+circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she
+made light of any difficulty that might arise out
+of them. Not that she was insensible to the value
+of domestic endearments between persons of
+an opposite sex, but that she scorned to suppose,
+that she could feel a struggle, in conforming to
+the laws she should lay down to her conduct.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There cannot perhaps be a properer place than
+the present, to state her principles upon this subject,
+such at least as they were when I knew her
+best. She set a great value on a mutual affection
+between persons of an opposite sex. She regarded
+it as the principal solace of human life. It
+was her maxim, “that the imagination should
+awaken the senses, and not the senses the imagination.”
+In other words, that whatever related
+to the gratification of the senses, ought to arise,
+in a human being of a pure mind, only as the consequence
+of an individual affection. She regarded
+the manners and habits of the majority of our sex
+in that respect, with strong disapprobation. She
+conceived that true virtue would prescribe the
+most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and
+the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it
+existed.—There is no reason to doubt that, if Mr.
+Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of their
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>acquaintance, he would have been the man of her
+choice. As it was, she conceived it both practicable
+and eligible, to cultivate a distinguishing affection
+for him, and to foster it by the endearments
+of personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness,
+without departing in the smallest degree from
+the rules she prescribed to herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In September 1791, she removed from the
+house she occupied in George-street, to a large
+and commodious apartment in Store-street, Bedford-square.
+She began to think that she had
+been too rigid, in the laws of frugality and self-denial
+with which she set out in her literary career;
+and now added to the neatness and cleanliness
+which she had always scrupulously observed,
+a certain degree of elegance, and those temperate
+indulgences in furniture and accommodation,
+from which a sound and uncorrupted taste never
+fails to derive pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was in the month of November in the same
+year (1791), that the writer of this narrative was
+first in company with the person to whom it relates.
+He dined with her at a friend’s, together
+with Mr. Thomas Paine and one or two other
+persons. The invitation was of his own seeking,
+his object being to see the author of the Rights of
+Man, with whom he had never before conversed.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>The interview was not fortunate. Mary and
+myself parted, mutually displeased with each
+other. I had not read her Rights of Woman.
+I had barely looked into her Answer to Burke,
+and been displeased, as literary men are apt to be,
+with a few offences, against grammar and other
+minute points of composition. I had therefore
+little curiosity to see Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and a
+very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,
+in his general habits, is no great talker; and,
+though he threw in occasionally some shrewd and
+striking remarks, the conversation lay principally
+between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard
+her, very frequently when I wished to hear Paine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We touched on a considerable variety of topics,
+and particularly on the characters and habits of
+certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been
+observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree,
+the practice of seeing every thing on the
+gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a plentiful
+hand, where circumstances were in any respect
+doubtful. I, on the contrary, had a strong
+propensity, to favourable construction, and particularly,
+where I found unequivocal marks of
+genius, strongly to incline to the supposition of
+generous and manly virtue. We ventilated in this
+way the characters of Voltaire and others, who
+have obtained from some individuals an ardent admiration,
+while the greater number have treated
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at
+last provoked to tell me, that praise, lavished in
+the way that I lavished it, could do no credit either
+to the commended or the commender. We discussed
+some questions on the subject of religion,
+in which her opinions approached much nearer to
+the received ones, than mine. As the conversation
+proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the
+tone of my own share in it. We touched upon
+all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly
+upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice,
+in giving an account of the conversation to a party
+in which I supped, though I was not sparing of
+my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of
+active and independent thinking. On her side,
+she did me no part of what perhaps I considered
+as justice.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We met two or three times in the course of the
+following year, but made a very small degree of
+progress towards a cordial acquaintance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over
+to France, where she continued to reside for upwards
+of two years. One of her principal inducements
+to this step, related, I believe, to Mr.
+Fuseli. She had, at first, considered it as reasonable
+and judicious, to cultivate what I may be
+permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him;
+but she did not, in the sequel, find all the satisfaction
+in this plan, which she had originally expected
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much
+pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently.
+Her ardent imagination was continually
+conjuring up pictures of the happiness she should
+have found, if fortune had favoured their
+more intimate union. She felt herself formed for
+domestic affection, and all those tender charities,
+which men of sensibility have constantly treated
+as the dearest band of human society. General
+conversation and society could not satisfy her. She
+felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass of
+her species; and she repined when she reflected,
+that the best years of her life were spent in this
+comfortless solitude. These ideas made the cordial
+intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first
+been one of her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual
+torment to her. She conceived it necessary
+to snap the chain of this association in her mind;
+and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new
+climate, and mingle in different scenes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street,
+which lasted more than twelve months,
+she produced nothing, except a few articles in the
+Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were
+chiefly employed upon the Sequel to the Rights of
+Woman; but she has scarcely left behind her a
+single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned
+to have had this destination.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VII.<br /> <span class='large'>1792–1795.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>The original plan of Mary, respecting
+her residence in France, had no precise limits
+in the article of duration; the single purpose
+she had in view being that of an endeavour to
+heal her distempered mind. She did not proceed
+so far as even to discharge her lodging in London;
+and, to some friends who saw her immediately
+before her departure, she spoke merely of an
+absence of six weeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion
+did not originally seem to produce the effects she
+had expected from it. She was in a land of strangers;
+she had no acquaintance; she had even to
+acquire the power of receiving and communicating
+ideas with facility in the language of the country.
+Her first residence was in a spacious mansion
+to which she had been invited, but the master of
+which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at the time
+of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself
+surrounded only with servants. The gloominess
+of her mind communicated its own colour to the
+objects she saw; and in this temper she began a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>series of Letters on the Present Character of the
+French Nation, one of which she forwarded to
+her publisher, and which appears in the collection
+of her posthumous works. This performance she
+soon after discontinued; and it is, as she justly remarks,
+tinged with the saturnine temper which at
+that time pervaded her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary carried with her introductions to several
+agreeable families in Paris. She renewed her acquaintance
+with Paine. There also subsisted a
+very sincere friendship between her and Helen
+Maria Williams, author of a collection of poems
+of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in
+Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke
+of in terms of ardent commendation, both for the
+excellence of his disposition, and the force of
+his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I
+believe, a Swede. It is almost unnecessary to
+mention, that she was personally acquainted with
+the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the house that, I believe, she principally
+frequented at this time, was that of Mr. Thomas
+Christie, a person whose pursuits were mercantile,
+and who had written a volume on the French revolution.
+With Mrs. Christie her acquaintance
+was more intimate than with her husband.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was about four months after her arrival at
+Paris in December 1792, that she entered into
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>that species of connection, for which her heart secretly
+panted, and which had the effect of diffusing
+an immediate tranquillity and cheerfulness
+over her manners. The person with whom it
+was formed (for it would be an idle piece
+of delicacy, to attempt to suppress a name, which
+is known to every one whom the reputation of
+Mary has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay,
+native of the United States of North America.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was
+at the house of Mr. Christie; and it perhaps deserves
+to be noticed, that the emotions he then excited
+in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike,
+and that, for some time, she shunned all occasions
+of meeting him. This sentiment however
+speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Previously to the partiality she conceived for
+him, she had determined upon a journey to Switzerland,
+induced chiefly by motives of economy.
+But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport;
+and it was probably the intercourse that
+now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that
+changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging
+at Neuilly, a village three miles from Paris.—Her
+habitation here was a solitary house in the
+midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than
+herself and the gardener, an old man, who performed
+for her many of the offices of a domestic,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>and would sometimes contend for the honour of
+making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration
+for his guest, and would set before her,
+when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine
+sort, which she could not without the greatest difficulty
+obtain, when she had any person with her
+as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and
+for the most part executed, her Historical and
+Moral View of the French Revolution<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c011'><sup>[1]</sup></a>, into
+which, as she observes, are incorporated most of
+the observations she had collected for her Letters,
+and which was written with more sobriety and
+cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been
+commenced. In the evening she was accustomed
+to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring
+wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured
+to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible
+robberies and murders that had been committed
+there.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. No part of the proposed continuation of this work,
+has been found among the papers of the author.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The commencement of the attachment Mary
+now formed, had neither confidant nor adviser.—She
+always conceived it to be a gross breach of delicacy
+to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred
+nature, an affair of the heart. The origin
+of the connection was about the middle of April
+1793, and it was carried on in a private manner
+for four months. At the expiration of that period
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>a circumstance occurred that induced her to
+declare it. The French convention, exasperated
+at the conduct of the British government, particularly
+in the affair of Toulon, formed a decree
+against the citizens of this country, by one article
+of which the English, resident in France, were ordered
+into prison till the period of a general peace.
+Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr. Imlay
+who, at the time their connection was formed, had
+no property whatever; because she would not involve
+him in certain family embarrassments to
+which she conceived herself exposed, or make
+him answerable for the pecuniary demands that
+existed against her. She however considered their
+engagement as of the most sacred nature; and
+they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating
+to America, as soon as they should have realized
+a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they desired.
+The decree however that I have just mentioned,
+made it necessary, not that a marriage
+should actually take place, but that Mary should
+take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature
+of their connection, she conceived herself entitled
+to do, and obtain a certificate from the American
+ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Their engagement being thus avowed, they
+thought proper to reside under the same roof, and
+for that purpose removed to Paris.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>Mary was now arrived at the situation, which,
+for two or three preceding years, her reason had
+pointed out to her as affording the most substantial
+prospect of happiness. She had been tossed
+and agitated by the waves of misfortune. Her
+childhood, as she often said, had known few of the
+endearments, which constitute the principal happiness
+of childhood. The temper of her father
+had early given to her mind a severe cast of thought,
+and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for
+the confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of
+her entrance upon womanhood, had been darkened,
+by an attendance upon the death-bed of
+her mother, and the still more afflicting calamity
+of her eldest sister. Her exertions to create a
+joint independence for her sisters and herself, had
+been attended, neither with the success, nor the
+pleasure, she had hoped from them. Her first
+youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny, had encountered
+many disappointments, and, in fine, a
+melancholy and premature catastrophe. Soon after
+these accumulated mortifications, she was engaged
+in a contest with a near relation, whom she
+regarded as unprincipled, respecting the wreck
+of her father’s fortune. In this affair she suffered
+the double pain, which arises from moral indignation,
+and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions
+to assist almost every member of her family, were
+great and unremitted. Finally, when she indulged
+a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>imagined that she should find in it the solace of
+her cares, she perceived too late, that, by continually
+impressing on her mind fruitless images of
+unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only
+served to give new pungency to the sensibility that
+was destroying her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Some persons may be inclined to observe, that
+the evils here enumerated, are not among the heaviest
+in the catalogue of human calamities. But
+evils take their rank, more from the temper of the
+mind that suffers them, than from their abstract
+nature. Upon a man of a hard and insensible disposition,
+the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless
+and impotent. There are persons, by no
+means hard and insensible, who, from an elastic
+and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted
+to look on the fair side of things, and, having
+suffered one fall, immediately rise again, to pursue
+their course, with the same eagerness, the
+same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On
+the other hand, we not unfrequently meet with
+persons, endowed with the most exquisite and delicious
+sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too
+fine a texture to encounter the vicissitudes of human
+affairs, to whom pleasure is transport, and
+disappointment is agony indescribable. This character
+is finely pourtrayed by the author of the
+Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in this respect a
+female Werter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>She brought then, in the present instance, a
+wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the bosom
+of a chosen friend. Let it not however be
+imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and
+ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole
+character seemed to change with a change of fortune.
+Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits,
+were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity
+and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She was
+like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough,
+and appears again with the brilliancy, the sleekness,
+and the elastic activity of its happiest age.—She
+was playful, full of confidence, kindness and
+sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her
+cheeks new colour and smoothness. Her voice became
+chearful; her temper overflowing with universal
+kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness
+from day to day illuminated her countenance,
+which all who knew her will so well recollect,
+and which won, both heart and soul, the affection
+of almost every one that beheld it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of
+whose honour and principles she had the most exalted
+idea. She nourished an individual affection,
+which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint;
+and a heart like her’s was not formed to
+nourish affection by halves. Her conception of
+Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted
+him closely round her heart;” and she “indulged
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>the thought, that she had thrown out some tendrils,
+to cling to the elm by which she wished to
+be supported.” This was “talking a new language
+to her;” but, “conscious that she was not
+a parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage
+and foster the luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence
+was entire; her love was unbounded.
+Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose
+to all the sensibilities of her nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her
+attachment to Mr. Imlay gained a new link, by
+finding reason to suppose herself with child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Their establishment at Paris, was however broken
+up almost as soon as formed, by the circumstance
+of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business,
+urged as he said, by the prospect of a family, and
+this being a favourable crisis in French affairs for
+commercial speculations. The pursuits in which
+he was engaged, led him in the month of September
+to Havre de Grace, then called Havre Marat,
+probably to superintend the shipping of goods, in
+which he was jointly engaged with some other
+person or persons. Mary remained in the capital.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The solitude in which she was now left, proved
+an unexpected trial. Domestic affections constituted
+the object upon which her heart was fixed;
+and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>Imlay “did not attach those tender emotions
+round the idea of home,” which, every time
+they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture.
+She had expected his return from week to week,
+and from month to month; but a succession of business
+still continued to detain him at Havre. At
+the same time the sanguinary character which the
+government of France began every day more decisively
+to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity
+from the first months of her pregnancy. Before
+she left Neuilly, she happened one day to enter
+Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis
+Quinze), when an execution, attended with some
+peculiar aggravations, had just taken place, and the
+blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the
+pavement. The emotions of her soul burst forth
+in indignant exclamations, while a prudent bystander
+warned her of her danger, and intreated
+her to hasten and hide her discontents. She described
+to me, more than once, the anguish she
+felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud,
+and the twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable
+sensations she had ever experienced.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually
+postponed, she determined, in January 1794, to
+join him at Havre. One motive that influenced
+her, though, I believe, by no means the principal,
+was the growing cruelties of Robespierre, and the
+desire she felt to be in any other place, rather than
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>the devoted city, in the midst of which they
+were perpetrated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>From January to September, Mr. Imlay and
+Mary lived together, with great harmony, at
+Havre, where the child, with which she was
+pregnant, was born, on the fourteenth of May,
+and named Frances, in remembrance of the dear
+friend of her youth, whose image could never be
+erased from her memory.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure
+from Havre for the port of London. As this step
+was said to be necessary in the way of business, he
+endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre,
+and once more take up her abode at Paris. Robespierre
+was now no more, and, of consequence, the
+only objection she had to residing in the capital,
+was removed. Mr. Imlay was already in London,
+before she undertook her journey, and it proved
+the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the
+carriage, in which she travelled, being overturned
+no less than four times between Havre and Paris.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This absence, like that of the preceding year
+in which Mr. Imlay had removed to Havre, was
+represented as an absence that was to have a short
+duration. In two months he was once again to
+join her at Paris. It proved however the prelude
+to an eternal separation. The agonies of such a
+separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>would have found them upon every supposition,
+were vastly increased, by the lingering method in
+which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for
+a long time, hung upon it. This circumstance
+produced the effect, of holding her mind, by force,
+as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and
+not suffering her to derive the just advantage from
+the energy and elasticity of her character.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The procrastination of which I am speaking
+was however productive of one advantage. It
+put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities
+that awaited her, till the close of the year.
+She gained an additional three months of comparative
+happiness. But she purchased it at a very
+dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered
+greater misery, than dyed the whole year
+1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It
+was wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of
+which the mind is continually awakened, by a
+glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring hope.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred,
+unhappy passion? Because it is of the
+very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate itself.
+He does not love, who can resign this cherished
+sentiment, without suffering some of the
+sharpest struggles that our nature is capable of enduring.
+Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart
+upon this chosen friend; and one of the last impressions
+a worthy mind can submit to receive, is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom
+it has fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to
+entertain a favourable opinion of human nature;
+she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,
+in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest.
+Mr. Imlay undertook to prove, in his letters written
+immediately after their complete separation,
+that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to
+the strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was
+of a different opinion. Whatever the reader may
+decide in this respect, there is one sentiment that,
+I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of
+pity for the mistake of the man, who, being in
+possession of such a friendship and attachment as
+those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial
+price, and, “like the base Indian, throw a pearl
+away, richer than all his tribe.<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c011'><sup>[2]</sup></a>”</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived
+particular gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan,
+who had lately become a fugitive from Ireland, in consequence
+of a political prosecution, and in whom she found
+those qualities which were always eminently engaging to her,
+great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VIII.<br /> <span class='large'>1795–1796.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>In April 1795, Mary returned once more to
+London, being requested to do so by Mr. Imlay,
+who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her
+in the journey, before she could complete the necessary
+arrangements for her departure. But,
+notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she
+came to England with a heavy heart, not daring,
+after all the uncertainties and anguish she had endured,
+to trust to the suggestions of hope.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were
+but too faithfully verified. Mr. Imlay had already
+formed another connection; as it is said,
+with a young actress from a strolling company of
+players. His attentions therefore to Mary were
+formal and constrained, and she probably had but
+little of his society. This alteration could not escape
+her penetrating glance. He ascribed it to
+pressure of business, and some pecuniary embarrassments
+which, at that time, occurred to him; it
+was of little consequence to Mary what was the
+cause. She saw, but too well, though she strove
+not to see, that his affections were lost to her for
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>It is impossible to imagine a period of greater
+pain and mortification than Mary passed, for
+about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to
+the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr.
+Imlay had provided for her. She had come over
+to England, a country for which she, at this time,
+expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted
+to horror,” in search of happiness. She feared
+that that happiness had altogether escaped her;
+but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience
+which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest
+for her arrival. When she saw him, all her
+fears were confirmed. What a picture was she
+capable of forming to herself, of the overflowing
+kindness of a meeting, after an interval of so much
+anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of
+this sort were present to her burning imagination.
+It is in vain, on such occasions, for reserve and reproach
+to endeavour to curb in the emotions of an
+affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished
+were speedily blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay,
+was cold and embarrassed. Discussions (“explanations”
+they were called) followed; cruel explanations,
+that only added to the anguish of a heart
+already overwhelmed in grief! They had small
+pretensions indeed to explicitness; but they sufficiently
+told, that the case admitted not of remedy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity
+in this pressing emergency. “Love, dear,
+delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had
+forced her to resign; and now her rational prospects
+were blasted, just as she had learned to be
+contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated,
+life became an intolerable burthen. While
+she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk of
+purposes of separation and independence. But,
+now that they were in the same house, she could
+not withhold herself from endeavours to revive
+their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours
+continually added fuel to the fire that destroyed
+her. She formed a desperate purpose to
+die.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This part of the story of Mary is involved in
+considerable obscurity. I only know, that Mr.
+Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a
+moment when he was uncertain whether or no it
+were already executed, and that his feelings were
+roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing
+to his activity and representations, that her life
+was, at this time, saved. She determined to continue
+to exist. Actuated by this purpose, she
+took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and
+affectionateness of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved
+in a question of considerable difficulty, respecting
+a mercantile adventure in Norway. It
+seemed to require the presence of some very judicious
+agent, to conduct the business to its desired
+termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>and take the business into her own hands.
+Such a voyage seemed the most desireable thing
+to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,
+in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her
+feelings, to be employed in promoting the interest
+of a man, from whom she had experienced such
+severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired
+to be reconciled. The moment of desperation
+I have mentioned, occurred in the close of
+May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon
+this new expedition.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The narrative of this voyage is before the
+world, and perhaps a book of travels that so irresistibly
+seizes on the heart, never, in any other
+instance, found its way from the press. The occasional
+harshness and ruggedness of character,
+that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
+Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there
+was a book calculated to make a man in love with
+its author, this appears to me to be the book. She
+speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with
+melancholy, and dissolves us in tenderness, at the
+same time that she displays a genius which commands
+all our admiration. Affliction had tempered
+her heart to a softness almost more than human;
+and the gentleness of her spirit seems precisely
+to accord with all the romance of unbounded
+attachment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with
+imagination and sensibility, with all, and more
+than all, “that youthful poets fancy, when they
+love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so
+pleased, to the arms of her former lover. Her
+return was hastened by the ambiguity, to her apprehension,
+of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised
+to meet her upon her return from Norway,
+probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to
+pass some time in Switzerland. The style however
+of his letters to her during her tour, was not
+such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to
+him very urgently, to explain himself, relative
+to the footing upon which they were hereafter to
+stand to each other. In his answer, which reached
+her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as
+“extraordinary and unnecessary,” and desired her
+to be at the pains to decide for herself. Feeling
+herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she
+instantly determined to sail for London by the very
+first opportunity, that she might thus bring to a
+termination the suspence that preyed upon her
+soul.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was not long after her arrival in London in
+the commencement of October, that she attained
+the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured
+her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced
+from him after she entered it, flashed conviction
+upon her, in spite of his asseverations. She made
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>further enquiries, and at length was informed by
+a servant, of the real state of the case. Under the
+immediate shock which the painful certainty gave
+her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the
+ready-furnished house he had provided for his new
+mistress. What was the particular nature of
+their conference I am unable to relate. It is sufficient
+to say that the wretchedness of the night
+which succeeded this fatal discovery, impressed
+her with the feeling, that she would sooner suffer
+a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal
+misery.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The agony of her mind determined her; and
+that determination gave her a sort of desperate serenity.
+She resolved to plunge herself in the
+Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot
+nearer to London, she took a boat, and rowed to
+Putney. Her first thought had led her to Battersea-bridge,
+but she found it too public. It was
+night when she arrived at Putney, and by that
+time had begun to rain with great violence. The
+rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and
+down the bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly
+drenched and heavy with the wet, which she did
+for half an hour without meeting a human being.
+She then leaped from the top of the bridge, but
+still seemed to find a difficulty in sinking, which,
+she endeavoured to counteract by pressing her
+clothes closely round her. After some time she
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>became insensible; but she always spoke of the
+pain she underwent as such, that, though she
+could afterwards have determined upon almost any
+other species of voluntary death, it would have
+been impossible for her to resolve upon encountering
+the same sensations again. I am doubtful,
+whether this is to be ascribed to the mere nature
+of suffocation, or was not owing to the preternatural
+action of a desperate spirit.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>After having been for a considerable time insensible,
+she was recovered by the exertions of those
+by whom the body was found. She had fought,
+with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period
+to her existence, and yet she lived to have every
+prospect of a long possession of enjoyment and happiness.
+It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with
+suicides, that we find reason to suppose, if they
+had survived their gloomy purpose, that they
+would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably
+happy. It arises indeed, in some measure,
+out of the very nature of a spirit of self-destruction;
+which implies a degree of anguish, that the constitution
+of the human mind will not suffer to remain
+long undiminished. This is a serious reflection.
+Probably no man would destroy himself
+from an impatience of present pain, if he
+felt a moral certainty that there were years of enjoyment
+still in reserve for him. It is perhaps a
+futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>in that state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral
+reasoning is nothing but the awakening of certain
+feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,
+is too strong to leave us much chance of
+impressing him with other feelings, that should
+have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if
+the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure
+cannot be expected to have much weight with a
+man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is
+so much the more to be wished, that men would
+impress their minds, in their sober moments, with
+a conception, which, being rendered habitual,
+seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in
+a paroxysm of desperation.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The present situation of Mary, of necessity
+produced some further intercourse between her
+and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and
+Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to
+remove to her house in Finsbury-square. In the
+mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
+was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of
+course, fostered in her mind the idea that it would
+be once more in her choice to live with him.
+With whatever intention the idea was suggested,
+it was certainly calculated to increase the agitation
+of her mind. In one respect however it produced
+an effect unlike that which might most obviously
+have been looked for. It roused within
+her the characteristic energy of mind, which she
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the
+necessity of bringing the affair to a point, and
+not suffering months and years to roll on in uncertainty
+and suspence. This idea inspired her with
+an extraordinary resolution. The language she
+employed, was, in effect, as follows: “If we
+are ever to live together again, it must be now.
+We meet now, or we part for ever. You say,
+You cannot abruptly break off the connection
+you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage
+and character, to wait the uncertain issue of that
+connection. I am determined to come to a decision.
+I consent then, for the present, to live with
+you, and the woman to whom you have associated
+yourself. I think it important that you should
+learn habitually to feel for your child the affection
+of a father. But, if you reject this proposal,
+here we end. You are now free. We will correspond
+no more. We will have no intercourse
+of any kind. I will be to you as a person that is
+dead.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious
+as it was, was at first accepted; and
+Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a
+house he was upon the point of hiring, that she
+might judge whether it was calculated to please
+her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted
+his concession.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the
+woman with whom he was at present connected,
+went to Paris, where they remained three months.
+Mary had, previously to this, fixed herself in a
+lodging in Finsbury-place, where, for some time,
+she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for
+the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen
+this situation; “existing,” as she expressed it,
+“in a living tomb, and her life but an exercise of
+fortitude, continually on the stretch.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for
+her thoughts to brood upon a passion, which all
+that she had suffered had not yet been able to extinguish.
+Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned
+to England, she could not restrain herself,
+from making another effort, and desiring to see
+him once more. “During his absence, affection
+had led her to make numberless excuses for his
+conduct,” and she probably wished to believe that
+his present connection was, as he represented it,
+purely of a casual nature. To this application,
+she observes, that “he returned no other answer,
+except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that
+he would not see her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This answer, though, at the moment, highly
+irritating to Mary, was not the ultimate close of
+the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business
+with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>house of Mr. Christie was the only one at which
+Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this
+was, that, when Mr. Imlay had been already
+more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at
+Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr.
+Imlay was in the parlour. The room was full of
+company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s voice in
+the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her
+not to make her appearance. Mary however was
+not to be controlled. She thought, as she afterwards
+told me, that it was not consistent with
+conscious rectitude, that she should shrink, as if
+abashed, from the presence of one by whom she
+deemed herself injured. Her child was with her.
+She entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately
+led up the child, now near two years of age,
+to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary
+into another apartment, and promised to dine
+with her at her lodging, I believe, the next
+day.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the interview which took place in consequence
+of this appointment, he expressed himself
+to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated
+to sooth her despair. Though he could
+conduct himself, when absent from her, in a way
+which she censured as unfeeling; this species of
+sternness constantly expired when he came into
+her presence. Mary was prepared at this moment
+to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the
+gentleness of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>awakening the hope of returning day. For
+an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;
+and even after the period of delirium expired, she
+still dwelt, with an aching eye, upon the air-built
+and unsubstantial prospect of a reconciliation.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At his particular request, she retained the name
+of Imlay, which, a short time before, he had
+seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as
+she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the
+world that she did so—not in the least—but she
+was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot, or tear
+herself away in appearance, when she could not in
+reality.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The day after this interview, she set out upon a
+visit to the country, where she spent nearly the
+whole of the month of March. It was, I believe,
+while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary
+communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely
+to expel from her mind, all remaining
+doubt as to the issue of the affair.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was now aware that every demand of
+forbearance towards him, of duty to her child,
+and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted
+predilection, was discharged. She determined
+to rouse herself, and cast off for ever an attachment,
+which to her had been a spring of inexhaustible
+bitterness. Her present residence among
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>the scenes of nature, was favourable to this purpose.
+She was at the house of an old and
+intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton,
+whose partiality for her was strong and sincere.
+Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir William
+East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the
+kindness of her friend, and the hospitable and,
+distinguishing attentions of this respectable family,
+she derived considerable benefit. She had been
+amused and interested in her journey to Norway;
+but with this difference, that, at that time, her
+mind perpetually returned with trembling anxiety
+to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,
+whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted
+spirit, she threw aside every thought that recurred
+to him, while she felt herself called upon to
+make one more effort for life and happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw
+Mr. Imlay; probably, not long after her return
+to town. They met by accident upon the New
+Road; he alighted from his horse, and walked
+with her some time; and the rencounter passed,
+as she assured me, without producing in her any
+oppressive emotion.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed
+best to have known the real state of the case,
+she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and
+was displeased when any person, in her hearing,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>expressed contempt of him. She was characterised
+by a strong sense of indignation; but her emotions
+of this sort were short-lived, and in no
+long time subsided into a dignified sereneness and
+equanimity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay,
+as we have seen, was not completely dismissed,
+till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
+that she did not, like ordinary persons
+under extreme anguish of mind, suffer her understanding,
+in the mean time, to sink into listlessness
+and debility. The most inapprehensive reader
+may conceive what was the mental torture she
+endured, when he considers, that she was twice,
+with an interval of four months, from the end of
+May to the beginning of October, prompted by
+it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she
+wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its
+expiration she prepared them for the press, and
+they were published in the close of that year. In
+January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy,
+which turns, in the serious scenes, upon the
+incidents of her own story. It was offered to both
+the winter-managers, and remained among her
+papers at the period of her decease; but it appeared
+to me to be in so crude and imperfect a state,
+that I judged it most respectful to her memory to
+commit it to the flames. To understand this extraordinary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>degree of activity, we must recollect
+however the entire solitude, in which most of her
+hours were at that time consumed.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IX.<br /> <span class='large'>1796–1797.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I am now led, by the progress of the story, to
+the last branch of her history, the connection between
+Mary and myself. And this I relate with
+the same simplicity that has pervaded every other
+part of my narrative. If there ever were any
+motives of prudence or delicacy, that could impose
+a qualification upon the story, they are now
+over. They could have no relation but to factitious
+rules of decorum. There are no circumstance
+of her life, that, in the judgment of honour
+and reason, could brand her with disgrace. Never
+did there exist a human being, that needed, with
+less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon
+the universe to judge them. An event of the most
+deplorable sort, his awfully imposed silence upon
+the gabble of frivolity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We renewed our acquaintance in January
+1796, but with no particular effect, except so far
+as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to
+the respect I had always entertained for her talents.
+It was in the close of that month that I read her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>Letters from Norway; and the impression that
+book produced upon me has been already related.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw
+her after her excursion into Berkshire. On that
+day she called upon me in Somers Town, she having,
+since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,
+Pentonville, at no great distance from
+the place of my habitation. From that time our
+intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible
+degrees.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The partiality we conceived for each other,
+was in that mode, which I have always regarded
+as the purest and most refined style of love. It
+grew with equal advances in the mind of each.
+It would have been impossible for the most minute
+observer to have said who was before, and
+who was after. One sex did not take the priority
+which long established custom has awarded it, nor
+the other overstep that delicacy which is so severely
+imposed. I am not conscious that either
+party can assume to have been the agent or the
+patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in the affair.
+When, in the course of things, the disclosure
+came, there was nothing, in a manner, for
+either party to disclose to the other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In July 1796 I made an excursion into the
+county of Norfolk, which occupied nearly the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>whole of that month. During this period Mary
+removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to
+Judd place West, which may be considered as the
+extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,
+she had occupied a furnished lodging. She
+had meditated a tour to Italy or Switzerland, and
+knew not how soon she should set out with that
+view. Now however she felt herself reconciled
+to a longer abode in England, probably without
+exactly knowing why this change had taken
+place in her mind. She had a quantity of furniture
+locked up at a broker’s ever since her residence
+in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable
+to bring it into use. This circumstance
+occasioned her present removal.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The temporary separation attendant on my
+little journey, had its effect on the mind of both
+parties. It gave a space for the maturing of inclination.
+I believe that, during this interval,
+each furnished to the other the principal topic of
+solitary and daily contemplation. Absence bestows
+a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection,
+which it with difficulty acquires in any other way.
+It seems to resemble the communication of spirits,
+without the medium, or the impediment of this
+earthly frame.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When we met again, we met with new pleasure,
+and, I may add, with a more decisive preference
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>for each other. It was however three
+weeks longer, before the sentiment which trembled
+upon the tongue, burst from the lips of either.
+There was, as I have already said, no period of
+throes and resolute explanation attendant on the
+tale. It was friendship melting into love. Previously
+to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,
+yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety
+to have assurance complete.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her
+lover, hoping to find a heart with which she might
+safely treasure her world of affection; fearing to
+commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy
+experience, fraught with that generous confidence,
+which, in a great soul, is never extinguished.
+I had never loved till now; or, at least, had
+never nourished a passion to the same growth, or
+met with an object so consummately worthy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend
+any thing to indiscriminate adoption, contrary
+to the established rules and prejudices of
+mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous
+upon the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine
+march of sentiment, as to require the overflowing
+of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and
+that which, wherever delicacy and imagination
+exist, is of all things most sacredly private, to blow
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>a trumpet before it, and to record the moment
+when it has arrived at its climax.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There were however other reasons why we did
+not immediately marry. Mary felt an entire conviction
+of the propriety of her conduct. It would
+be absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered
+by desertion, she was not right to give way to the
+emotions of kindness which our intimacy produced,
+and to seek for that support in friendship and
+affection, which could alone give pleasure to her
+heart, and peace to her meditations. It was only
+about six months since she had resolutely banished
+every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at
+least eighteen that he ought to have been banished,
+and would have been banished, had it not been
+for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to
+leave no measure untried to regain him. Add to
+this, that the laws of etiquette ordinarily laid down
+in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that the
+sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed
+by the rule and the square. But Mary had an
+extreme aversion to be made the topic of vulgar
+discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this,
+the dreadful trials through which she had recently
+passed, may well plead in its excuse. She felt
+that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken
+of, in the former instance; and she could not resolve
+to do any thing that should immediately revive
+that painful topic.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>For myself, it is certain that I had for many
+years regarded marriage with so well-grounded an
+apprehension, that, notwithstanding the partiality
+for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I
+should have felt it very difficult, at least in the
+present stage of our intercourse, to have resolved
+on such a measure. Thus, partly from similar,
+and partly from different motives, we felt alike in
+this, as we did perhaps in every other circumstance
+that related to our intercourse.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have nothing further that I find it necessary to
+record, till the commencement of April 1797.
+We then judged it proper to declare our marriage,
+which had taken place a little before. The principal
+motive for complying with this ceremony,
+was the circumstance of Mary’s being in a state
+of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps
+with reason, to incur that exclusion from the society
+of many valuable and excellent individuals,
+which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should
+have felt an extreme repugnance to the having
+caused her such an inconvenience. And, after the
+experiment of seven months of as intimate an intercourse
+as our respective modes of living would
+admit, there was certainly less hazard to either,
+in the subjecting ourselves to those consequences
+which the laws of England annex to the relations
+of husband and wife. On the sixth of April we
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>entered into possession of a house, which had been
+taken by us in concert.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In this place I have a very curious circumstance
+to notice, which I am happy to have occasion to
+mention, as it tends to expose certain regulations
+of polished society, of which the absurdity vies
+with the odiousness. Mary had long possessed the
+advantage of an acquaintance with many persons
+of genius, and with others whom the effects of an
+intercourse with elegant society, combined with a
+certain portion of information and good sense, sufficed
+to render amusing companions. She had
+lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in
+this respect; and her mind, trembling between
+the opposite impressions of past anguish and
+renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of
+recreation. Wherever Mary appeared, admiration
+attended upon her. She had always displayed
+talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding,
+her travels, her long residence in
+France, the discipline of affliction, and the smiling,
+new-born peace which awaked a corresponding
+smile in her animated countenance, inexpressibly
+increased them. The way in which the story
+of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles,
+was probably the result of the partiality she excited.
+These elegant personages were divided
+between their cautious adherence to forms, and
+the desire to seek their own gratification. Mary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>made no secret of the nature of her connection
+with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well
+know, she put herself to the trouble of explaining
+it to a person totally indifferent to her, because
+he never failed to publish every thing he knew,
+and, she was sure, would repeat her explanation
+to his numerous acquaintance. She was of too
+proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy.
+These persons however, in spite of all that could
+be said, persisted in shutting their eyes, and pretending
+they took her for a married woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Observe the consequence of this! While she
+was, and constantly professed to be, an unmarried
+mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and
+the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself
+a wife, and that by a marriage perhaps unexceptionable,
+the case was altered. Mary and
+myself, ignorant as we were of these elevated
+refinements, supposed that our marriage would
+place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of
+polished society, than ever. But it forced these
+people to see the truth, and to confess their belief
+of what they had carefully been told; and
+this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that
+the date of our marriage had nothing to do with
+this, that question being never once mentioned
+during this period. Mary indeed had, till now,
+retained the name of Imlay, which had first been
+assumed from necessity in France; but its being
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness
+that attends the introduction of a change,
+and not from an apprehension of consequences of
+this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the
+nature of her situation, surely sufficed to make
+the name she bore perfectly immaterial.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a
+story, but in the language of contempt and ridicule.
+A serious reflection however upon the
+whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different
+sort. Mary retained the most numerous portion
+of her acquaintance, and the majority of those
+whom she principally valued. It was only the
+supporters and the subjects of the unprincipled
+manners of a court, that she lost. This however
+is immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding
+strictly considered, and uniformly acted upon,
+would have been to proscribe her from all valuable
+society. And who was the person proscribed?
+The firmest champion, and, as I strongly suspect,
+the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!
+A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined,
+and as delicate, as ever inhabited a human heart!
+It is fit that such persons should stand by, that we
+may have room enough for the dull and insolent
+dictators, the gamblers and demireps of polished
+society!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance
+Mary principally regretted upon this occasion,
+were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their
+acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe,
+is to be ranked among her recent acquisitions.
+Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,
+which she conceived to be imposed on her by the
+peculiarity of her situation, to conform to the
+rules I have described. She is endowed with that
+rich and generous sensibility, which should best
+enable its possessor completely to feel the merits of
+her deceased friend. She very truly observes, in
+a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway
+were read by no one, who was in possession
+of “more reciprocity of feeling, or more deeply
+impressed with admiration of the writer’s extraordinary
+powers.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction
+reached her of so unexpected a circumstance,
+that was rather exquisite. But she disdained to
+sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of
+the supercilious and the foolish, and presently shook
+off the impression of the first surprize. That
+once subsided, I well know that the event was
+thought of, with no emotions, but those of superiority
+to the injustice she sustained; and was not
+of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which
+seemed hourly to become more vigorous and
+firm.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>I think I may venture to say, that no two persons
+ever found in each other’s society, a satisfaction
+more pure and refined. What it was in itself,
+can now only be known, in its full extent, to the
+survivor. But, I believe, the serenity of her
+countenance, 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. She
+had always possessed, in an unparallelled 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.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>While we lived as near neighbours only, and
+before our last removal, her mind had attained
+considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom
+with those emotions of anguish, which had been
+but too familiar to her. But the improvement in
+this respect, which accrued upon our removal
+and establishment, was extremely obvious. She
+was a worshipper of domestic life. She loved to
+observe the growth of affection between me and
+her daughter, then three years of age, as well as
+my anxiety respecting the child not yet born.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature
+seems to be in this respect, is the source of a
+thousand endearments. No one knew better than
+Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite delight,
+from trifles, which a suspicious and formal
+wisdom would scarcely deign to remark. A little
+ride into the country with myself and the child,
+has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the
+heart, a general expression of confidence and affectionate
+soul, a sort of infantine, yet dignified endearment,
+which those who have felt may understand,
+but which I should in vain attempt to
+pourtray.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was
+fortunate enough to introduce her to some of my
+acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she attached
+herself with all the ardour of approbation and
+friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of
+selfish and transitory pleasures. It is perhaps
+scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced by
+the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject
+of cohabitation, I engaged an apartment, about
+twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,
+Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose
+of my study and literary occupations. Trifles
+however will be interesting to some readers,
+when they relate to the last period of the life of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>such a person as Mary. I will add therefore,
+that we were both of us of opinion, that it was
+possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each
+other’s society. Influenced by that opinion, it
+was my practice to repair to the apartment I
+have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently
+not to make my appearance in the Polygon, till
+the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning
+the notion, prevalent in many situations in life,
+that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society,
+but in company with each other; and we
+rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of
+complying with, this rule. By these means,
+though, for the most part, we spent the latter
+half of each day in one another’s society,
+yet we were in no danger of satiety. We
+seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the
+novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the
+more delicious and heart-felt pleasures of domestic
+life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Whatever may be thought, in other respects,
+of the plan we laid down to ourselves, we probably
+derived a real advantage from it, as to the
+constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary
+pursuits. Mary had a variety of projects of this
+sort, for the exercise of her talents, and the benefit
+of society; and, if she had lived, I believe
+the world would have had very little reason to
+complain of any remission of her industry. One
+of her projects, which has been already mentioned,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>was a series of Letters on the Management of
+Infants. Though she had been for some time
+digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to
+the press, I have found comparatively nothing
+that she had committed to paper respecting it.
+Another project, of longer standing, was of a series
+of books for the instruction of children. A
+fragment she left in execution of this project, is
+inserted in her Posthumous Works.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the principal work, in which she was engaged
+for more than twelve months before her
+decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of
+Woman. I shall not stop here to explain the
+nature of the work, as so much of it as was already
+written, is now given to the public. I shall only
+observe that, impressed as she could not fail to be,
+with the consciousness of her talents, she was desirous,
+in this instance, that they should effect
+what they were capable of effecting. She was
+sensible how arduous a task it is to produce a truly
+excellent novel; and she roused her faculties
+to grapple with it. All her other works were
+produced with a rapidity, that did not give her
+powers time fully to expand. But this was written
+slowly and with mature consideration. She
+began it in several forms, which she successively
+rejected, after they were considerably advanced.
+She wrote many parts of the work again and again,
+and, when she had finished what she intended for
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>the first part, she felt herself more urgently stimulated
+to revise and improve what she had written,
+than to proceed, with constancy of application, in
+the parts that were to follow.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. X.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>I am now led, by the course of my narrative,
+to the last fatal scene of her life. She was taken
+in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.
+She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding
+Friday, the confluence, I believe, of a
+sudden alarm. But from that time she was in
+perfect health. She was so far from being under
+any apprehension as to the difficulties of child-birth,
+as frequently to ridicule the fashion of ladies in England,
+who keep their chamber for one full month
+after delivery. For herself, she proposed coming
+down to dinner on the day immediately following.
+She had already had some experience on the subject
+in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted
+in every point to her judgment and her
+wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas
+of decorum, which certainly ought to have no
+place, at least in cases of danger, she determined
+to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of
+midwife. She was sensible that the proper business
+of a midwife, in the instance of a natural
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations of
+nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand
+the interposition of art.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At five o’clock in the morning of the day of
+delivery, she felt what she conceived to be some
+notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,
+matron and midwife to the Westminster
+Lying-in Hospital, who had seen Mary several
+times previous to her delivery, was soon after
+sent for, and arrived about nine. During the
+whole day Mary was perfectly chearful. Her
+pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she
+wrote several notes, three addressed to me, who
+had gone, as usual, to my apartments, for the
+purpose of study. About two o’clock in the afternoon,
+she went up to her chamber—never
+more to descend.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child was born at twenty minutes after
+eleven at night. Mary had requested that I
+would not come into the chamber till all was
+over, and signified her intention of then performing
+the interesting office of presenting
+the new-born child to its father. I was sitting
+in a parlour; and it was not till after two o’clock
+on Thursday morning, that I received the alarming
+intelligence, that the placenta was not yet
+removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed
+any further, and gave her opinion for calling in a
+male practitioner. I accordingly went for Dr.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same
+hospital, who arrived between three and four
+hours after the birth of the child. He immediately
+proceeded to the extraction of the placenta,
+which he brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied
+that the whole was removed. In that point
+however it afterwards appeared that he was mistaken.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period from the birth of the child till about
+eight o’clock the next morning, was a period full
+of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was considerable,
+and produced an almost uninterrupted
+series of fainting fits. I went to the chamber soon
+after four in the morning, and found her in this
+state. She told me some time on Thursday,
+“that she should have died the preceding night,
+but that she was determined not to leave me.”—She
+added, with one of those smiles which so
+eminently illuminated her countenance, “that I
+should not be like Porson,” alluding to the circumstance
+of that great man having lost his wife,
+after being only a few months married. Speaking
+of what she had already passed through, she declared,
+“that she had never known what bodily
+pain was before.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated
+his visit. Mary had just before expressed some inclination
+to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man probably
+of more science than any other medical professor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>in England, and between whom and herself
+there had long subsisted a mutual friendship. I
+mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather discountenanced
+the idea, observing that he saw no
+necessity for it, and that he supposed Dr. Fordyce
+was not particularly conversant with obstetrical
+cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After
+Dr. Poignand was gone, I determined to send for
+Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the patient
+about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He,
+however, perceived no particular cause of alarm;
+and, on that or the next day, quoted, as I am told,
+Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a corroboration
+of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety
+of employing females in the capacity of midwives.
+Mary, “had had a woman, and was doing extremely
+well.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What had passed, however, in the night between
+Wednesday and Thursday, had so far alarmed me,
+that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the
+chamber, during the following day. But my
+alarms wore off, as time advanced. Appearances
+were more favourable, than the exhausted state of
+the patient would almost have permitted me to
+expect. Friday morning, therefore, I devoted to a
+business of some urgency, which called me to different
+parts of the town, and which, before dinner,
+I happily completed. On my return, and
+during the evening, I received the most pleasurable
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>sensations from the promising state of the patient.
+I was now perfectly satisfied that every
+thing was safe, and that, if she did not take cold,
+or suffer from any external accident, her speedy
+recovery was certain.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday,
+but not absolutely alarming.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Sunday, the third of September, I now regard
+as the day, that finally decided on the fate of the
+object dearest to my heart that the universe contained.
+Encouraged by what I considered as the
+progress of her recovery, I accompanied a friend
+in the morning in several calls, one of them as far
+as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time.
+On my return I found a degree of anxiety in every
+face, and was told that she had had a sort of shivering
+fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the
+length of my absence. My sister and a friend of
+hers, had been engaged to dine below stairs, but a
+message was sent to put them off, and Mary ordered
+that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in
+the room immediately under her on the first floor,
+but in the ground-floor parlour. I felt a pang at
+having been so long and so unseasonably absent,
+and determined that I would not repeat the fault.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the evening she had a second shivering fit,
+the symptoms of which were in the highest degree
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,
+the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her.
+This continued probably for five minutes. She
+told me, after it was over, that it had been a struggle
+between life and death, and that she had been
+more than once, in the course of it, at the point of
+expiring. I now apprehend these to have been
+the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned
+by the part of the placenta that remained
+in the womb. At the time, however, I was far
+from considering it in that light. When I went
+for Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock
+on the morning of Thursday, despair was in my
+heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta
+was stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical
+science, I felt as if the death of Mary was
+in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited
+my bosom; and her chearings were so delightful,
+that I hugged her obstinately to my heart. I was
+only mortified at what appeared to me a new delay
+in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I
+immediately sent for Dr. Fordyce, who had been
+with her in the morning, as well as on the three
+preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this
+morning, but declined paying any further visits,
+as we had thought proper to call in Dr. Fordyce.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted.
+On Tuesday I found it necessary again
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who
+brought with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street,
+under the idea that some operation might be
+necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously
+persisted in viewing the fair side of things;
+and therefore the interval between Sunday and
+Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture
+of chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce
+forbad the child’s having the breast, and we therefore
+procured puppies to draw off the milk. This
+occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and
+the other attendants. Nothing could exceed the
+equanimity, the patience and affectionateness of
+the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I
+dwelt with trembling fondness on every favourable
+circumstance; and, as far it was possible in so
+dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind
+speeches, rewarded my affection.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture
+in the melancholy series. It was now decided
+that the only chance of supporting her
+through what she had to suffer, was by supplying
+her rather freely with wine. This task was devolved
+upon me. I began about four o’clock in
+the afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the
+nature of diseases and of the human frame, thus
+to play with a life that now seemed all that was
+dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a
+task. I knew neither what was too much, nor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,
+under every disadvantage, to go on. This
+lasted for three hours. Towards the end of that
+time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who
+came out of the room, “What she thought of
+her mistress?” she replied, “that, in her judgment,
+she was going as fast as possible.” There
+are moments, when any creature that lives, has
+power to drive one into madness. I seemed to
+know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of
+no consequence—It added to the measure of my
+distraction. A little after seven I intreated a friend
+to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him instantly
+wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily
+called on the patient on the preceding Saturday,
+and two or three times since. He had seen
+her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending
+the wine diet. That day he dined four
+miles out of town, on the side of the metropolis,
+which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this,
+my friend returned with him after three-quarters
+of an hour’s absence. No one who knows my
+friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success,
+when I name Mr. Basil Montagu. The
+sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly, gave me a
+stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it
+possible to experience.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday
+evening, to the hour of her death. It was impossible
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>to exceed his kindness and affectionate attention.
+It excited in every spectator a sentiment
+like adoration. His conduct was uniformly tender
+and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing
+every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable
+appearance. If skill or attention could
+have saved her, Mary would still live. In addition
+to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr.
+Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day. She had for
+nurses, or rather for friends, watching every occasion
+to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an
+excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very
+kind and judicious lady, and a favourite female
+servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.
+Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu,
+Mr. Marshal, and Mr. Dyson, sat up nearly the
+whole of the last week of her existence in the
+house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any
+part of the metropolis, at a moment’s warning.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to
+bed for a few hours on Wednesday night. Towards
+morning he came into my room with an account
+that the patient was surprisingly better. I
+went instantly into the chamber. But I now sought
+to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest anguish
+I have any conception of, consists in that
+crushing of a new-born hope which I had already
+two or three times experienced. If Mary recovered,
+it was well, and I should see it time
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>enough. But it was too mighty a thought to
+bear being trifled with, and turned out and admitted
+in this abrupt way.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my
+gloomy thoughts, when, about ten o’clock on
+Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare
+ourselves, for we had reason to expect the
+fatal event every moment. To my thinking, she
+did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,
+which I supposed to precede death; but it is
+probable that death does not always take place by
+that gradual process I had pictured to myself; a
+sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did
+not die on Thursday night.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Till now it does not appear that she had any
+serious thoughts of dying; but on Friday and Saturday,
+the two last days of her life, she occasionally
+spoke as if she expected it. This was, however,
+only at intervals; the thought did not seem
+to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle rejoiced in
+this. He observed, and there is great force in the
+suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object,
+than a sick man, that knows he is dying. The
+thought must be expected to destroy his courage,
+to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract
+every favourable effort of nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>On these two days her faculties were in too decayed
+a state, to be able to follow any train of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.
+Her religion, as I have already shown, was not
+calculated to be the torment of a sick bed; and, in
+fact, during her whole illness, not one word of a
+religious cast fell from her lips.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She was affectionate and compliant to the last.
+I observed on Friday and Saturday nights, that,
+whenever her attendants recommended to her to
+sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by
+breathing, perhaps for the space of a minute, in
+the manner of a person that sleeps, though the effort,
+from the state of her disorder, usually proved
+ineffectual.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She was not tormented by useless contradiction.
+One night the servant, from an error in judgment,
+teazed her with idle expostulations; but she complained
+of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray,
+pray, do not let her reason with me,”
+was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so
+dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous
+importunity of nurses everlastingly repeated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very
+desirous of obtaining from her any directions,
+that she might wish to have followed after her decease.
+Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I
+talked to her for a good while of the two children.
+In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not impressing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>the idea of death, I was obliged to manage
+my expressions. I therefore affected to proceed
+wholly upon the ground of her having been
+very ill, and that it would be some time before she
+could expect to be well; wishing her to tell me
+any thing that she would choose to have done respecting
+the children, as they would now be principally
+under my care. After having repeated
+this idea to her in a great variety of forms, she at
+length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I
+know what you are thinking of,” but added, that
+she had nothing to communicate to me upon the
+subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the
+two last days. Mr. Carlisle observed that her
+continuance was almost miraculous, and he was on
+the watch for favourable appearances, believing it
+highly improper to give up all hope, and remarking,
+that perhaps one in a million, of persons in her
+state might possibly recover. I conceive that not
+one in a million, unites so good a constitution of
+body and of mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These were the amusements of persons in the
+very gulph of despair. At six o’clock on Sunday
+morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called
+me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in
+conformity to my request, that I might not be left
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>to receive all at once the intelligence that she was
+no more. She expired at twenty minutes before
+eight.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of
+September, at ten o’clock in the morning, in the
+church-yard of the parish church of St. Pancras,
+Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed,
+attended the ceremony; and a plain monument
+is now erecting on the spot, by some of
+her friends, with the following inscription:</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div><span class='sc'>mary wollstonecraft godwin,</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>author of</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>a vindication</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>of the rights of woman.</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>born, XXVII april MDCCLIX.</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>died, X september MDCCXCVII.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>The loss of the world in this admirable woman,
+I leave to other men to collect; my own I well
+know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do
+not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed
+in her conversation: these increased every day,
+in proportion as we knew each other better, and
+as our mutual confidence increased. They can be
+measured only by the treasures of her mind, and
+the virtues of her heart. But this is a subject for
+meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding
+to, was the improvement that I have for
+ever lost.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture
+to use this sort of language) in different directions;
+I, chiefly an attempt at logical and metaphysical
+distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque.
+One of the leading passions of my
+mind has been an anxious desire not to be deceived.
+This has led me to view the topics of my reflection
+on all sides; and to examine and re-examine
+without end, the questions that interest me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But it was not merely (to judge at least from all
+the reports of my memory in this respect) the
+difference of propensities, that made the difference
+in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated
+as long as I can remember, by an ambition for
+intellectual distinction; but, as long as I can remember,
+I have been discouraged, when I have
+endeavoured to cast the sum of my intellectual value,
+by finding that I did not possess, in the degree
+of some other men, an intuitive perception
+of intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong
+and lively sense of the pleasures of the imagination;
+but I have seldom been right in assigning to them
+their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering
+examination, and the change and correction
+of my first opinions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed,
+in a degree superior to any other person I ever
+knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>She was often right, by this means only, in matters
+of mere speculation. Her religion, her philosophy,
+(in both of which the errors were comparatively
+few, and the strain dignified and generous)
+were, as I have already said, the pure result
+of feeling and taste. She adopted one opinion,
+and rejected another, spontaneously, by a
+sort of tact and the force of a cultivated imagination;
+and yet, though perhaps, in the strict sense
+of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising
+what a degree of soundness is to be found in her
+determinations. But, if this quality was of use
+to her in topics that seem the proper province of
+reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly
+appealing to the intellectual taste. In a robust
+and unwavering judgment of this sort, there is a
+kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it
+produces a responsive vibration in every ingenuous
+mind. In this sense, my oscillation and scepticism
+were fixed by her boldness. When a true
+opinion emanated in this way from another mind,
+the conviction produced in my own assumed a
+similar character, instantaneous and firm. This
+species of intellect probably differs from the other,
+chiefly in the relation of earlier and later. What
+the one perceives instantaneously (circumstances
+having produced in it, either a premature attention
+to objects of this sort, or a greater boldness
+of decision) the other receives only by degrees.
+What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>minute attention to first impressions, and a just
+appreciation of them; habits that are never so
+effectually generated, as by the daily recurrence
+of a striking example.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This light was lent to me for a very short
+period, and is now extinguished for ever!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>While I have described the improvement I was
+in the act of receiving, I believe I have put down
+the leading traits of her intellectual character.</p>
+
+<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>The following Letters may possibly be found
+to contain the finest examples of the language of
+sentiment and passion ever presented to the world.
+They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated
+Romance of Werter, though the incidents to
+which they relate are of a very different cast.
+Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable
+of affording pleasure, will receive no delight
+from the present publication. The editor apprehends
+that, in the judgment of those best qualified
+to decide upon the comparison, these Letters
+will be admitted to have the superiority over the
+fiction of Goethe. They are the offspring of a
+glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with
+the passion it essays to describe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>To the series of letters constituting the principal
+article in these two volumes, are added various
+pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found
+discreditable to the talents of the author. The
+slight fragment of Letters on the Management of
+Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it seems to
+have some value, as presenting to us with vividness
+the intention of the writer on this important
+subject. The publication of a few select Letters
+to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just monument
+to the sincerity of his friendship, and a
+valuable and interesting specimen of the mind of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>the writer. The Letter on the Present Character
+of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of
+Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part
+of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, safely
+be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on
+Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature,
+appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April last,
+and is the only piece in this collection which has
+previously found its way to the press.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>
+  <h2 id='Letters' class='c004'>LETTERS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Two o’Clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>My dear love, after making my arrangements
+for our snug dinner to-day, I have been taken by
+storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an
+early hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day
+they intend to pass here. I shall, however, leave
+the key in the door, and hope to find you at my
+fire-side when I return, about eight o’clock. Will
+you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will
+find better, and till then think very affectionately
+of her.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours, truly,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an
+answer.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>[August]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I obey an emotion of my heart, which made
+me think of wishing thee, my love, good night!
+before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I
+can to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two
+under Colonel ——’s eye. You can scarcely
+imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day,
+when we are to begin almost to live together; and
+you would smile to hear how many plans of employment
+I have in my head, now that I am confident
+that my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish
+me with that dignified tenderness,
+which I have only found in you; and your own
+dear girl will try to keep under a quickness of
+feeling, that has sometimes given you pain—Yes,
+I will be <em>good</em>, that I may deserve to be happy:
+and whilst you love me, I cannot again fall into
+the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen
+almost too heavy to be borne.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says,
+that is equal to a kiss—yet I would rather give
+you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude
+to Heaven, and affection to you. I like
+the word affection, because it signifies something
+habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>we have mind enough to keep our hearts
+warm.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock
+to-morrow<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c011'><sup>[3]</sup></a>—Yours—</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier
+girl,” probably from a supposition that she owed her existence
+to this interview.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You have often called me, dear girl, but you
+would now say good, did you know how very attentive
+I have been to the —— ever since I came
+to Paris. I am not however going to trouble you
+with the account, because I like to see your eyes
+praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during
+such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful
+to the heart, when the honey that drops
+from the lips is not merely words.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these
+people enter, to force me to huddle away my
+letter) be content with only a kiss of <span class='fss'>DUTY</span>—you
+<em>must</em> be glad to see me—because you are
+glad—or I will make love to the <em>shade</em> of Mirabeau,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I
+was talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me
+that it will ever have sufficient warmth to love,
+whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so
+highly respect principle.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of
+principles—far—and, if I had not begun
+to form a new theory respecting men, I should,
+in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I
+could have made something of his——it was composed
+of such materials—Hush! here they come—and
+love flies away in the twinkling of an eye,
+leaving a little brush of his wing on my pale
+cheeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am
+going to Mr. ——’s to meet him.&#160;——, and some
+others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and
+to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall probably not be able to return to ——
+to-morrow; but it is no matter, because I must
+take a carriage, I have so many books, that I immediately
+want, to take with me—On Friday
+then I shall expect you to dine with me—and, if
+you come a little before dinner, it is so long since I
+have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours
+affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c011'><sup>[4]</sup></a>.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
+<p class='c015'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. This and the thirteen following letters appear to have
+been written during a separation of several months; the date
+Paris.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning [September.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously
+announced, called here yesterday for the
+payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed
+at not finding you at home. I sent him to Mr.&#160;—— I have since seen him, and he tells me that
+he has settled the business.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>So much for business!—may I venture to talk a
+little longer about less weighty affairs?—How are
+you?—I have been following you all along the
+road this comfortless weather; for, when I am
+absent from those I love, my imagination is as
+lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by
+their presence—I was going to say caresses—and
+why should I not? I have found out that I have
+more than you, in one respect; because I can,
+without any violent effort of reason, find food for
+love in the same object, much longer than you
+can.—The way to my senses is through my heart;
+but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a
+shorter cut to yours.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very
+sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>woman <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>, a soft word for desirable; and,
+beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy,
+few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion
+in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I
+wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that
+the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly,
+rob those whose sensibility keeps down their
+vanity, of the few roses that afford them solace in
+the thorny road of life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not know how I fell into these reflections,
+excepting one thought produced it—that these
+continual separations were necessary to warm your
+affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and
+away you go.—This
+joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though
+I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy
+tears have found their way into my eyes, that
+linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my
+heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures
+in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a
+mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as
+well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with
+me a <em>little</em> longer!—When we are settled in the
+country together, more duties will open before
+me, and my heart, which now, trembling into
+peace, is agitated by every emotion that awaken
+the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest
+on yours, with that dignity your character, not
+to talk of my own, demands.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>Take care of yourself—and write soon to your
+own girl (you may add dear, if you please) who
+sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you
+of it, by becoming happier</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your letter, and feel as
+if I could not go to bed tranquilly without saying
+a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my
+mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I
+have felt some gentle twitches, which make me
+begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
+who will soon be sensible of my care.—This
+thought has not only produced an overflowing of
+tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to
+calm my mind and take exercise, lest I should
+destroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual
+interest, you know. Yesterday—do not
+smile!—finding that I had hurt myself by lifting
+precipitately a large log of wood, I sat down in
+an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Are you very busy?</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>So you may reckon on its being finished soon,
+though not before you come home, unless you are
+detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
+you will.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, write to me, my best love,
+and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expressions
+of kindness will again beguile the time, as
+sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also
+over and over again, that your happiness (and
+you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected
+with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they
+rise, the fumes of former discontent, that have
+too often clouded the sunshine, which you have
+endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God
+bless you! Take care of yourself, and remember
+with tenderness your affectionate</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am going to rest very happy, and you have
+made me so.—This is the kindest good night I
+can utter.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable,
+as well as myself—for be it known to
+thee, that I answered thy first letter, the very night it
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not
+receive it before Wednesday, because it was not
+sent off till the next day.—There is a full, true,
+and particular account.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for
+I think that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise
+of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the
+same thing, when the temper is governed by a
+square and compass.—There is nothing picturesque
+in this straight-lined equality, and the passions
+always give grace to the actions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Recollection now makes my heart bound to
+thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face,
+though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
+exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is
+what I should have expected from thy character.—No;
+I have thy honest countenance before me—Pop—relaxed
+by tenderness; a little—little
+wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening
+with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than
+soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all
+the world.—I have not left the hue of love out
+of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has
+spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I
+feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles
+in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
+grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature,
+who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>give more warmth to the sentiment it divides—I
+must pause a moment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing
+thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence
+in your affection, when absent, than present;
+nay, I think that you must love me, for,
+in the sincerity of my heart let me say it, I believe
+I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and
+have a degree of sensibility that you can see and
+relish.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning (December 29.)</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You seem to have taken up your abode at
+H——. Pray sir! when do you think of coming
+home? or, to write very considerately,
+when will business permit you? I shall expect
+(as the country people say in England) that you
+will make a <em>power</em> of money to indemnify me for
+your absence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I
+to see you this week, or this month?—I do not
+know what you are about—for, as you did not
+tell me, I would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally
+pretty communicative.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear
+from you, so do not give yourself airs, but to get
+a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry
+with you for not informing me whether she
+had brought one with her or not.—On this score
+I will cork up some of the kind things that were
+ready to drop from my pen, which has never
+been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will
+only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or
+a kind look, to escape me, when I pass the flippers—which
+I could not remove from my <em>salle</em> door,
+though they are not the handsomest of their kind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing
+worth having is to be purchased. God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Night (December 30.)</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My best love, your letter to-night was particularly
+grateful to my heart, depressed by the
+letters I received by ——, for he brought me
+several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr.
+—— was for me. Mr. ——’s letter
+was long and very affectionate; but the account
+he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviously
+makes the best of them, has vexed me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>A melancholy letter from my sister —— has
+also harrassed my mind—that from my brother
+would have given me sincere pleasure; but for</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>There is a spirit of independence in this letter,
+that will please you; and you shall see it, when
+we are once more over the fire together—I think
+that you would hail him as a brother, with one of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>your tender looks, when your heart not only gives
+a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness,
+that he would meet with a glow half made up of
+bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where
+shall I find a word to express the relationship
+which subsists between us? Shall I ask the little
+twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence
+that was to tell you how much he would be inclined
+to love the man loved by his sister. I have
+been fancying myself sitting between you, ever
+since I began to write, and my heart has leaped
+at the thought! You see how I chat to you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I did not receive your letter till I came home;
+and I did not expect it, so the post came in much
+later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I
+wanted one.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— tells me that he has written again
+and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a
+kind of separation, if you did not love those I
+love.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There was so much considerate tenderness in
+your epistle to-night, that, if it has not made you
+dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how
+very dear you are to me, by charming away half
+my cares.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as
+captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing
+to let him go without a kind greeting, because
+trifles of this sort, without having any effect on
+my mind, damp my spirits:—and you, with all
+your struggles to be manly, have some of this
+same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love
+to see it striving to master your features; besides,
+these kind of sympathies are the life of affection:
+and why, in cultivating our understandings, should
+we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which
+gush out to give a freshness to days browned by
+care!<a id='t133'></a></p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The books sent to me are such as we may read
+together; so I shall not look into them till you return;
+when you shall read, whilst I mend my
+stockings.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Night [January 1.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>As I have been, you tell me, three days
+without writing, I ought not to complain of two:
+yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,
+I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing
+it, affect the heroism I do not feel?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s
+and heart be organized from mine! You will tell
+me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of
+them! The face of things, public and private,
+vexes me. The “peace” and clemency which
+seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear
+again. “I am fallen,” as Milton said, “on
+evil days;” for I really believe that Europe will
+be in a state of convulsion, during half a century
+at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always
+rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a
+person can find a resting-place, imagining it is
+lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is
+to be done over anew!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should I attempt to write any more, I could
+not change the strain. My head aches, and my
+heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded
+garden,” where “things rank and vile”
+flourish best.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>If you do not return soon—or, which is no such
+mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your slippers
+out at the window, and be off—nobody knows
+where.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Finding that I was observed, I told the good
+women, the two Mrs. ——, simply that I was
+with child: and let them stare!—and ——,
+nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care—Yet
+I wish to avoid ——’s coarse jokes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Considering the care and anxiety a woman must
+have about a child before it comes into the world,
+it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong to
+her. When men get immersed in the world, they
+seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary
+to continue or produce life!—Are these the
+privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race,
+whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate
+stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man
+to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A
+man is a tyrant!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may now tell me, that, if it were not for
+me, you would be laughing away with some honest
+fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social
+sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I
+should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.—It
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>is necessary to be in good-humour
+with you, to be pleased with the world.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was very low-spirited last night, ready to
+quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes
+absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince
+the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning
+it. I do not want to be loved like a goddess;
+but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
+you!<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c011'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. Some further letters, written during the remainder of
+the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to
+have been destroyed by the person to whom they are addressed.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your kind and rational
+letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with
+shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,
+if you would again open it to me, and nestle
+closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by
+saying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing
+with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I
+intreat you. Do not turn from me, for indeed I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>love you fondly, and have been very wretched,
+since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking
+that you had no confidence in me—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a
+few more of these caprices of sensibility would
+destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indisposed
+for a few days past, and the notion that I
+was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little
+animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
+tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My
+bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and every
+thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach;
+still I feel intimations of its existence, though they
+have been fainter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do you think that the creature goes regularly
+to sleep? I am ready to ask as many questions as
+Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not
+continue to be angry with me! You perceive that
+I am already smiling through my tears—You
+have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits
+are melting into playfulness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write the moment you receive this. I shall
+count the minutes. But drop not an angry word,
+I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve
+a scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant),
+wait till you come back—and then, if you are
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you the
+next.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because
+he talked of going to H——. Hearing that
+I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming
+that it was some words that he incautiously
+let fall, which rendered me so.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart
+against a return of tenderness; and, as I now in
+fancy cling to you, be more than ever my support.
+Feel but as affectionate when you read this
+letter, as I did writing it, and you will make
+happy, your</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will never, if I am not entirely cured of
+quarrelling, begin to encourage “quick-coming
+fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my
+love, I could not open your letter for some time;
+and, though it was not half as severe as I merited,
+it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously
+alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>care for a little pain on my own account;
+but all the fears which I have had for a few days
+past, returned with fresh force. This morning I
+am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You
+perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of
+me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One thing you mistake in my character, and
+imagine that to be coldness which is just the contrary.
+For, when I am hurt by the person most
+dear to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions,
+in which tenderness would be uppermost, or
+stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost
+a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am
+treated with coldness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own&#160;——.
+I know the quickness of your feelings—and let
+me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there
+is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy.
+My own happiness wholly depends on you—and,
+knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
+look forward to a rational prospect of as much
+felicity as the earth affords—with a little dash of
+rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me,
+when we meet again, as you have sometimes
+greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been wishing the time away, my kind
+love, unable to rest till I knew that my penitential
+letter had reached your hand, and this afternoon,
+when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such
+exquisite pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart
+smote her to think that you were to receive another
+cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do
+not forget that even those letters were full of love;
+and I shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to
+be mollified by my penitence, before you took me
+again to your heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been unwell, and would not, now I am
+recovering, take a journey, because I have been
+seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
+continually the fatal consequence of my folly.
+But, should you think it right to remain at H—,
+I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
+fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and
+before then I shall be strong again.—Yet do not
+be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
+such care of myself, as I have done since you restored
+my peace of mind. The girl is come to
+warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night!
+and write a line or two in the morning.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wish you were here to walk with me this
+fine morning! yet your absence shall not prevent
+me. I have stayed at home too much; though,
+when I was so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless
+of every thing.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will now sally forth (you will go with me in
+my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air
+will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
+before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief
+that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my
+whole system.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The two or three letters, which I have written
+to you lately, my love, will serve as an answer to
+your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your
+motives and conduct. I always respected them;
+and was only hurt, by what seemed to me a want
+of confidence, and consequently affection.—I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three
+months at H—, I might as well have been with
+you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded
+over—Let us now be friends!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day,
+sealing my pardon—and I will be careful not
+to torment you with my querulous humours, at
+least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances
+direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit
+you to return, convinced that you will hasten
+to your&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*, when you have attained (or
+lost sight of) the object of your journey.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side!
+Yes, my love, my fancy was instantly at
+work, and I found my head on your shoulder,
+whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures
+that were clinging to your knees. I did not absolutely
+determine that there should be six—if
+you have not set your heart on this round number.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am going to dine with Mrs.&#160;——. I have
+not been to visit her since the first day she came
+to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as
+much as I can; for the exercise I have taken
+these two or three days past, has been of such service
+to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last
+night, and then not much.—The two Mrs.&#160;——s
+have been very anxious and tender.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I need not desire you to give the colonel a good
+bottle of wine.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you yesterday, my&#160;——; but,
+finding that the colonel is still detained (for his
+passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I
+am not willing to let so many days elapse without
+your hearing from me, after having talked of
+illness and apprehensions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I
+am (I must use my Yorkshire phrase; for, when
+my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of
+childhood into my head) so <em>lightsome</em>, that I
+think it will not <em>go badly with me</em>.—And nothing
+shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection
+for you, but by a new-born tenderness that plays
+cheerly round my dilating heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out
+in the air the greater part of yesterday; and, if
+I get over this evening without a return of the
+fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more
+of illness. I have promised the little creature,
+that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not
+again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and,
+since I could not hug either it or you to my breast,
+I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over
+this prattle—but it is only for your eye.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst
+you were harrassed by impediments in your undertakings,
+I was giving you additional uneasiness.—If
+you can make any of your plans answer—it
+is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient;
+but, should they fail, we will struggle
+cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching
+blasts of poverty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor
+girl, and write long letters; for I not only like
+them for being longer, but because more heart
+steals into them; and I am happy to catch your
+heart whenever I can.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I seize this opportunity to inform you that I
+am to set out on Thursday with Mr.&#160;——,
+and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad
+I shall be to see you. I have just got my passport,
+so I do not foresee any impediment to my
+reaching H——, to bid you good-night next
+Friday in my new apartment—where I am to
+meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to
+sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we
+parted.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You have, by your tenderness and worth,
+twisted yourself more artfully round my heart,
+than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the
+thought, that I have thrown out some tendrils to
+cling to the elm by which I wished to be supported.—This
+is talking a new language for me!—But,
+knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am
+willing to receive the proofs of affection, that
+every pulse replies to, when I think of being
+once more in the same house with you.—God
+bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I only send this as an <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">avant-coureur</span></i>, without
+jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the
+wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after
+you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed,
+I am sure; or, more properly speaking,
+cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are
+not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of
+it. I will not allow that your temper is even,
+though I have promised myself, in order to obtain
+my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle
+it for a long, long time—I am afraid to say
+never.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that
+I am driving towards you in person! My mind,
+unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather
+has never left you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am well, and have no apprehension that I
+shall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow
+the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to
+H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has
+always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever
+I wished.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>We are such creatures of habit, my love, that,
+though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so,
+for your going, when I knew that you were to
+stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment;
+yet I could not sleep.—I turned to
+your side of the bed, and tried to make the most
+of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to
+tell me I was churlish about; but all would not
+do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast,
+though the weather was not very inviting—and
+here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing
+you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one
+of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten,
+and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I do not mean to dally with you this
+morning—So God bless you! Take care of yourself
+and sometimes fold<a id='t147'></a> to your heart your affectionate.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table
+the little bit of paper I was to inclose.—This comes
+of being in love at the fag end of a letter of business.—You
+know, you say, they will not chime
+together.—I had got you by the fire-side, with
+<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> smoking on the board, to lard your poor
+bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without
+taking the paper up, that was directly under my
+eyes!—What had I got in them to render me so
+blind?—I give you leave to answer the question,
+if you will not scold; for I am</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, August 17.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have promised —— to go with him to
+his country-house, where he is now permitted to
+dine—and the little darling, to be sure<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c011'><sup>[6]</sup></a>—whom
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>I cannot help kissing with more fondness, since
+you left us. I think I shall enjoy the fine prospect,
+and that it will rather enliven than satiate
+my imagination.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now
+been born a considerable time.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the
+manners of a gentlewoman, with a dash of the
+easy French coquetry, which renders her <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>.
+But <em>Monsieur</em> her husband, whom nature
+never dreamed of casting in either the mould
+of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward
+figure in the foreground of the picture.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and
+the house smelt of commerce from top to
+toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste,
+only proved it to be one of the things not to be
+bought with gold. I was in a room a moment
+alone, and my attention was attracted by the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pendule</span></i>.
+A nymph was offering up her vows before
+a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (saving
+your presence), who was kicking his heels in the
+air. Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of
+traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces,
+that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
+<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sombre</span></i> day of life—whilst the imagination, not
+allowing us to see things as they are, enables us to
+catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight,
+the thirst for which seems to be given only
+to tantalize us.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will
+call me severe, and bid me let the square-headed
+money-getters alone. Peace to them! though
+none of the social spirits (and there are not a few
+of different descriptions, who sport about the various
+inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain
+my pen.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been writing, expecting poor ——
+to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of
+business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
+associates with your image, I wonder I
+stumbled on any other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely
+worth having, even with a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> every day, and a
+pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate
+my judgment, if you will permit me to
+keep alive the sentiments in your heart which
+may be termed romantic, because, the offspring
+of the senses and the imagination, they resemble
+the mother more than the father<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c011'><sup>[7]</sup></a>, when they produce
+the suffusion I admire. In spite of icy age,
+I hope still to see it, if you have not determined
+only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the
+stupid—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. She means, “the latter more than the former.”</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, August 19, Tuesday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I received both your letters to-day—I had
+reckoned on hearing from you yesterday, therefore
+was disappointed, though I imputed your silence
+to the right cause. I intended answering
+your kind letter immediately, that you might have
+felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came
+in, and some other things interrupted me; so
+that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving
+a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you,
+what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire
+I have shown to keep my place, or gain more
+ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary
+your affection is to my happiness.—Still I
+do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to
+wish that your attention to my happiness should
+arise <em>as much</em> from love, which is always rather a
+selfish passion, as reason—that is, I want you to
+promote my felicity, by seeking your own—For,
+whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your
+generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for
+your affection on the very quality I most admire.
+No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand
+my affection; but, unless the attachment
+appears to me clearly mutual, I shall labour only
+to esteem your character, instead of cherishing a
+tenderness for your person.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>I write in a hurry, because the little one, who
+has been sleeping a long time, begins to call for
+me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that
+all my affections grow on me, till they become
+too strong for my peace, though they all afford
+me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for
+our little girl was at first very reasonable—more
+the effect of reason, a sense of duty, than feeling—now,
+she has got into my heart and imagination,
+and when I walk out without her, her little
+figure is ever dancing before me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You too have somehow clung round my heart—I
+found I could not eat my dinner in the great
+room—and, when I took up the large knife to
+carve for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do
+not however suppose that I am melancholy—for,
+when you are from me, I not only wonder how
+I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt
+your affection.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it
+roused my indignation) with the effusion of tenderness,
+with which I assure you, that you are the
+friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, August 20.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I want to know what steps you have taken
+respecting ——. Knavery always rouses my indignation—I
+should be gratified to hear that the
+law had chastised —— severely; but I do not
+wish you to see him, because the business does not
+now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
+know how you would express your contempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am
+still pleased with the dignity of his conduct.—The
+other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use
+of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean
+to point out to you, as one of the few instances
+of address which do credit to the abilities of the
+man, without taking away from that confidence
+in his openness of heart, which is the true basis of
+both public and private friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little
+reserve of temper in you, of which I have sometimes
+complained! You have been used to a cunning
+woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay,
+in <em>managing</em> my happiness, you now and
+then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself
+till honest sympathy, giving you to me without
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>disguise, lets me look into a heart, which my halfbroken
+one wishes to creep into, to be revived
+and cherished.——You have frankness of heart,
+but not often exactly that overflowing (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">épanchement
+de cœur</span></i>), which becoming almost childish,
+appears a weakness only to the weak.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you
+to enquire likewise whether, as a member declared
+in the convention, Robespierre really maintained
+a number of mistresses—Should it prove so,
+I suspect that they rather flattered his vanity than
+his senses.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do
+not suppose that I mean to close it without mentioning
+the little damsel—who has been almost
+springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very
+like you—but I do not love her the less for that,
+whether I am angry or pleased with you.—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIII<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c011'><sup>[8]</sup></a>.</h3>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
+<p class='c015'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. This is the first of a series of letters written during a
+separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting
+ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the
+address of London.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 22.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just written two letters, that are
+going by other conveyances, and which I reckon
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>on your receiving long before this. I therefore
+merely write, because I know I should be disappointed
+at seeing any one who had left you, if you
+did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell
+me why you did not write a longer—and you
+will want to be told, over and over again, that our
+little Hercules is quite recovered.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Besides looking at me there are three other
+things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to
+look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music—yesterday
+at the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">féte</span></i>, she enjoyed the two latter;
+but to honor J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give
+her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—and
+why not?—for I have always been half
+in love with him.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk
+about alum or soap? There is nothing picturesque
+in your present pursuits; my imagination then
+rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with
+you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my
+basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I recollect
+your looks and words, when I have been sitting
+on the window, regarding the waving
+corn!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient
+respect for the imagination—I could prove to you
+in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the
+great distinction of our nature, the only purifier
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>of the passions—animals have a portion of reason,
+and equal, if not more exquisite, senses;
+but no trace of imagination, or her offspring
+taste, appears in any of their actions. The impulse
+of the senses, passions, if you will, and the
+conclusions of reason draw men together; but
+the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven
+to animate this cold creature of clay, producing
+all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture,
+rendering men social by expanding their
+hearts instead of leaving them leisure to calculate
+how many comforts society affords.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>If you call these observations romantic, a
+phrase in this place which would be tantamount to
+nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are
+embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of
+life—Bring me then back your barrier face, or
+you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl;
+and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances
+that will be ever dear to me; for I am
+yours truly</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Evening. Sept. 23.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been playing and laughing with the
+little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>address you without emotion. Pressing her to
+my bosom, she looked so like you (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, your
+best looks, for I do not admire your commercial
+face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch,
+and I began to think that there was something in
+the assertion of man and wife being one—for you
+seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening
+the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic
+tears you excited.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not
+for the present—the rest is all flown away; and,
+indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
+of some people here, who have ruffled my
+temper for two or three days past.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yesterday B—— sent to me for my
+packet of letters. He called on me before; and I
+like him better than I did—that is, I have the
+same opinion of his understanding, but I think
+with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy
+of feeling with respect to women, than are
+commonly to be met with. His manner too of
+speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine,
+interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,
+and requested him to see her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose
+will write about business. Public affairs I do not
+descant on, except to tell you that they write
+now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty
+of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I
+plainly perceive.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope you take care of your health. I have
+got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I
+believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
+alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open
+my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking,
+which agitate and fatigue me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is my third letter; when am I to hear
+from you? I need not tell you, I suppose, that I
+am now writing with somebody in the room with
+me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s.
+I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you
+adieu.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I desired you, in one of my other letters, to
+bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you
+should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know
+that you will love her more and more, for she is a
+little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as
+much vivacity, I think, as you could wish for.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was going to tell you of two or three things
+which displease me here; but they are not of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations.
+I have received a letter from Mr. ——.
+I want you to bring —— with you. Madame
+S—— is by me, reading a German translation of
+your letters—she desires me to give her love to
+you, on account of what you say of the negroes.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately,</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, Sept. 28.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have written to you three or four letters;
+but different causes have prevented my sending
+them by the persons who promised to take or forward
+them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go
+by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive,
+before I hope, and believe, you will have set out
+on your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give
+it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to
+whom I also gave a letter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot help being anxious to hear from you;
+but I shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes,
+or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.—I
+have had so many little plagues
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>here, that I have almost lamented that I left
+H——.  ——, who is at best a most helpless
+creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy,
+more trouble than use to me, so that I still continue
+to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed
+rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature;
+for, setting aside a mother’s fondness (which, by
+the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent
+smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing
+degree of sensibility and observation. The
+other day by B——’s child, a fine one, she
+looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,
+and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I
+will swear.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if
+you have not forgot) in which you pressed me
+very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to
+fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are
+almost too sacred to be alluded to.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you
+wish to be the protector of your child, and the
+comfort of her mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have received, for you, letters from ——.
+I want to hear how that affair finishes, though I
+do not know whether I have most contempt for
+his folly or knavery.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your own</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>October 1.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is a heartless task to write letters, without
+knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I
+have given two to ——, who has been a-going,
+a-going, every day, for a week past; and three
+others, which were written in a low-spirited
+strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been
+able to forward by the opportunities that were
+mentioned to me. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tant mieux!</span></i> you will say,
+and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that
+the contents of a letter, when you are so far away,
+should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would
+afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I
+just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,
+which you wrote during your last absence. You
+are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will
+not plague you. The letter which you chance to
+receive, when the absence is so long, ought to
+bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter
+alloy, into your eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>After your return I hope indeed, that you will
+not be so immersed in business, as during the last
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>three or four months past—for even money, taking
+into the account all the future comforts it is
+to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if
+painful impressions are left on the mind.—These
+impressions were much more lively, soon after
+you went away, than at present—for a thousand
+tender recollections efface the melancholy traces
+they left on my mind—and every emotion is on
+the same side as my reason, which always was on
+yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious
+to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of
+character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot
+be happy with you, I will seek it no where
+else.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little darling grows every day more dear
+to me—and she often has a kiss, when we are
+alone together, which I give her for you, with
+all my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been interrupted—and must send off my
+letter. The liberty of the press will produce a
+great effect here—the <em>cry of blood will not be vain</em>!—Some
+more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins
+are conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last
+slap of the tail of the beast.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies
+here, which I shall not now trouble you with
+a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>rendered her useless. The girl I have got
+has more vivacity, which is better for the child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of ——
+and —— with you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really
+loves his wife, and is anxious about his children;
+but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings
+have given him an inveterate habit of drinking,
+that destroys his health, as well as renders his person
+disgusting.—If his wife had more sense, or delicacy,
+she might restrain him: as it is, nothing
+will save him.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>October 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to
+hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned
+such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged
+to throw them aside till the little girl and I were
+alone together; and this said little girl, our darling,
+is become a most intelligent little creature,
+and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>which I do not find quite so convenient. I once
+told you, that the sensations before she was born,
+and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they
+do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I
+feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs
+outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street,
+or after a short absence. She has now the advantage
+of having two good nurses, and I am at
+present able to discharge my duty to her, without
+being the slave of it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have therefore employed and amused myself
+since I got rid of ——, and am making a progress
+in the language amongst other things. I have
+also made some new acquaintance. I have almost
+<em>charmed</em> a judge of the tribunal, R——,
+who, though I should not have thought it possible,
+has humanity, if not <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">beaucoup d’esprit</span></i>. But
+let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I
+shall be half in love with the author of the <em>Marseillaise</em>,
+who is a handsome man, a little too
+broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the
+violin.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What do you say to this threat?—why, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre
+nous</span></i>, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when
+writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is
+proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when
+he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy,
+and come back quickly to play with your girls?
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer
+best.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My heart longs for your return, my love, and
+only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet
+do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come
+back, before you have arranged things in such a
+manner, that it will not be necessary for you to
+leave us soon again, or to make exertions which
+injure your constitution.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and tenderly</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the
+inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an answer.—It
+is for a person uncomfortably situated.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December, 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been, my love, for some days tormented
+by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form—I
+had been expecting you daily—and I heard that
+many vessels had been driven on shore during the
+late gale.—Well, I now see your letter, and find
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>that you are safe: I will not regret then that your
+exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, return to me when you have
+arranged the other matters, which —— has been
+crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are
+safe—and not separated from me by a sea that
+must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier
+than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes
+dreading that fate has not done persecuting me?
+Come to me my dearest friend, father of my
+child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at
+this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an
+independence is desirable; and it is always within
+our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you
+the world again appears empty to me. But I am
+recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that
+have flitted across my mind for some days past,
+and haunted my dreams.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and
+I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little
+mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;” but
+certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress
+than she is to me. Her eyes follow me every
+where, and by affection I have the most despotic
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes;
+I love her more than I thought I should.
+When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced
+her as my only comfort—when pleased with
+you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I
+cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst
+I am kissing her for resembling you. But there
+would be no end to these details. Fold us both to
+your heart; for I am truly and affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIX.</h3>
+
+<div class='c016'>December 28.</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize
+with you in all your disappointments.—Yet, knowing
+that you are well, and think of me with affection,
+I only lament other disappointments, because
+I am sorry that you should thus exert your
+self in vain, and that you are kept from me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>——, I know, urges you to stay, and is
+continually branching out into new projects, because
+he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,
+rather an immense one, merely to have
+the credit of having made it. But we who are
+governed by other motives, ought not to be led
+on by him. When we meet we will discuss this
+subject—You will listen to reason, and it has
+probably occurred to you, that it will be better,
+in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may
+demand more time, and still enable you to arrive
+at the same end. It appears to me absurd to
+waste life in preparing to live.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Would it not now be possible to arrange your
+business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes,
+of which I have had my share since
+your departure? It is not possible to enter into
+business, as an employment necessary to keep the
+faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions)
+the pot boiling, without suffering what
+must ever be considered as a secondary object, to
+engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection
+out of the heart?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person
+who has promised to forward it with ——’s.
+I wish then to counteract, in some measure,
+what he has doubtless recommended most
+warmly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>Stay, my friend, whilst it is <em>absolutely</em> necessary.—I
+will give you no tenderer name, though it
+glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
+the settling the <em>present</em> objects permit. <em>I do not
+consent</em> to your taking any other journey—or the
+little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows
+where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to
+your affection, and, I may add, to your reason,
+(for this immoderate desire of wealth, which
+makes —— so eager to have you remain, is
+contrary to your principles of action), I will not
+importune you.—I will only tell you that I long
+to see you—and, being at peace with you, I
+shall be hurt, rather than made angry by delays.
+Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprized
+if I sometimes, when left to myself,
+grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a
+dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I
+say happiness, because remembrance retrenches
+all the dark shades of the picture.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use
+her legs.—She wants you to bear your part in the
+nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing
+her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you
+to thank her mother for taking such care of her,
+as you only can.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December 29.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though I suppose you have later intelligence,
+yet, as —— has just informed me
+that he has an opportunity of sending immediately
+to you, I take advantage of it to inclose you</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse
+with the world, which obliges one to see
+the worst side of human nature! Why cannot
+you be content with the object you had first in
+view, when you entered into this wearisome
+labyrinth? I know very well that you have been
+imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project,
+successful or abortive, only give place to
+two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?
+I am contented to do my part; and, even here,
+sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult
+to obtain. And let me tell you, I have my
+project also—and, if you do not soon return, the
+little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we
+will not accept any of your cold kindness—your
+distant civilities—no; not we.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented
+by the desire which&#160;—— manifests
+to have you remain where you are.—Yet why
+do I talk to you?—if he can persuade you let
+him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and
+your own wishes do not make you throw aside
+these eternal projects, I am above using any arguments,
+though reason, as well as affection
+seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual,
+they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Since my arrival here, I have found the German
+lady, of whom you have heard me speak. Her
+first child died in the month; but she has another,
+about the age of my ——, a fine little creature.
+They are still but contriving to live —— earning
+their daily bread—yet, though they are
+but just above poverty, I envy them. She is a
+tender affectionate mother—fatigued even by
+her attention. However she has an affectionate
+husband in her turn, to render her care light, and
+to share her pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness
+for my little girl, I grow sad very often
+when I am playing with her, that you are not
+here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds
+and her little heart becomes attached!—These
+appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>suffer them to escape you, in search of what we
+may never enjoy. It is your own maxim to
+“live in the present moment.”—<em>If you do</em>—stay,
+for God’s sake; but tell me  truth—if not, tell
+me when I may expect to see you, and let me
+not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow
+sick at heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my
+darling to my bosom to comfort me.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should you receive three or four of the
+letters at once which I have written lately, do
+not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean
+to wife you. I only take advantage of every
+occasion, that one out of three of my epistles
+may reach your hands, and inform you that I am
+not of&#160;——’s opinion, who talks till he makes
+me angry, of the necessity of your staying two
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>or three months longer. I do not like this life of
+continual inquietude—and, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, I am determined
+to try to earn some money here myself,
+in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run
+about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for
+the little girl and I will live without your
+assistance, unless you are with us. I may be
+termed proud—Be it so—but I will never
+abandon certain principles of action.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The common run of men have such an ignoble
+way of thinking, that if they debauch their
+hearts, and prostitute their persons, following
+perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the
+wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no
+right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan
+whenever he deigns to return, with open arms,
+though his have been polluted by half an hundred
+promiscuous amours during his absence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct
+things; yet the former is necessary, to give life
+to the other—and such a degree of respect do I
+think due to myself, that, if only probity, which
+is a good thing in its place, brings you back,
+never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart,
+or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there
+is an end of all my hopes of happiness—I
+could not forgive it, if I would.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you
+perceive. You know my opinion of men in general;
+you know that I think them systematic
+tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world,
+to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of
+feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I
+lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on
+her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a tie to a world
+that for me is ever sown with thorns.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when,
+in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection I can
+give, to dread to lose you. —— has taken
+such pains to convince me that you must and
+ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed
+my spirits.—You have always known my opinion—I
+have ever declared, that two people, who mean
+to live together, ought not to be long separated. If
+certain things are more necessary to you than me—search
+for them—Say but one word, and you
+shall never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s
+sake, let us struggle with poverty—with any evil,
+but these continual inquietudes of business, which
+I have been told were to last but a few months,
+though every day the end appears more distant!
+This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined
+to forward to you; the rest lie by, because
+I was unwilling to give you pain, and I
+should not now write, if I did not think that there
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand,
+as I am told, your presence.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c011'><sup>[9]</sup></a></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. The person to whom the letters are addressed, was
+about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed,
+to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London,
+by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon
+him.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>January 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I just now received one of your hasty <em>notes</em>;
+for business so entirely occupies you, that you have
+not time, or sufficient command of thought, to
+write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into
+a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing
+you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb
+your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous
+struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to
+render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for
+which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple
+pleasures that flow from passion and affection,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life
+were impressed by a disappointed heart on my
+mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring
+to go back to my former nature, and have allowed
+some time to glide away, winged with the
+delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can
+give. Why have you so soon dissolved the charm?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude
+which your and ——’s never-ending
+plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but
+you are mistaken—I have still sufficient
+firmness to pursue my principle of action. The
+present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do
+justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and
+therefore I have not firmness to support it
+as you may think I ought. I should have been
+content, and still wish, to retire with you to a
+farm—My God! any thing, but these continual
+anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases
+the mind, and roots out affection from the
+heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet
+I will simply observe, that,
+led to expect you every week, I did not make the
+arrangements required by the present circumstances,
+to procure the necessaries of life. In order
+to have them, a servant, for that purpose only,
+is indispensible—The want of wood, has made
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>me catch the most violent cold I ever had; and
+my head is so disturbed by continual coughing,
+that I am unable to write without stopping frequently
+to recollect myself.—This however is
+one of the common evils which must be borne
+with——bodily pain does not touch the heart
+though it fatigues the spirits.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still as you talk of your return, even in February,
+doubtingly, I have determined, the moment
+the weather changes, to wean my child. It is
+too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And
+as one has well said, “despair is a freeman,” we
+will go and seek our fortune together.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is not a caprice of the moment—for your
+absence has given new weight to some conclusions,
+that I was very reluctantly forming before
+you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary
+object. If your feelings were in unison with
+mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
+prospects of future advantage.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Jan. 15.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was just going to begin my letter with the
+tag end of a song, which would only have told
+you, what I may as well say simply, that it is
+pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received
+your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of
+December, and my anger died away. You can
+scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters
+have produced on me. After longing to hear
+from you during a tedious interval of suspense,
+I have seen a superscription written by you.
+Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion,
+I have laid it by me, till the person who brought
+it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it,
+I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that
+have damped all the rising affection of my soul.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well now for business—</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My animal is well; I have not yet taught her
+to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and
+now she has two, she makes good use of them
+to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &amp;c. You would laugh
+to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she
+will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing
+her eye on an object for some time, dart on it
+with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing
+can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a
+cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not
+forget to love us—and come soon to tell us that
+you do.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Jan. 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>From the purport of your last letters, I should
+suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and I
+have already written so many letters, that you
+have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge,
+I do not find it pleasant, or rather I have
+no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If
+you have received them, and are still detained by
+new projects, it is useless for me to say any more
+on the subject. I have done with it for ever;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary
+interest suffers by your absence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only
+hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous
+feelings have sometimes burst out. I
+therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a
+pretext to stay at home, lest I should have uttered
+unseasonable truths.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child is well, and the spring will perhaps
+restore me to myself.—I have endured many inconveniences
+this winter, which should I be
+ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable.
+“The secondary pleasures of life,” you
+say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may
+be so; but I have ever considered them as secondary.
+If therefore you accuse me of wanting
+the resolution necessary to bear the <em>common</em><a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c011'><sup>[10]</sup></a> evils
+of life; I should answer, that I have not fashioned
+my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid
+them, cost what it would.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='c017'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. This probably alludes to some expression of the person
+to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as
+common evils, things upon which the letter-writer was disposed
+to bestow a different appellation.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='fss'>EDITOR</span>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>February 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The melancholy presentiment has for some
+time hung on my spirits, that we were parted
+for ever; and the letters I received this day, by
+Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without
+foundation. You allude to some other letters,
+which I suppose have miscarried; for most of
+those I have got, were only a few hasty lines,
+calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the
+superscriptions excited.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I mean not however to complain; yet so many
+feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating
+a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find it
+very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You left me indisposed, though you have taken
+no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey
+I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,
+I recovered my health; but a neglected
+cold, and continual inquietude during the last two
+months, have reduced me to a state of weakness
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>I never before experienced. Those who did not
+know that the canker-worm was at work at the
+core, cautioned me about suckling my child too
+long. God preserve this poor child and render
+her happier than her mother!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I am wandering from my subject: indeed
+my head turns giddy, when I think that all the
+confidence I have had in the affection of others is
+come to this. I did not expect this blow from
+you. I have done my duty to you and my
+child; and if I am not to have any return of
+affection to reward me, I have the sad consolation
+of knowing that I deserved a better fate.
+My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but
+for this little darling I would cease to care about
+a life, which is now stripped of every charm.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation,
+when I meant simply to tell you, that I
+consider your requesting me to come to you, as
+merely dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely
+understand you. You request me to come, and
+then tell me that you have not given up all
+thoughts of returning to this place.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When I determined to live with you, I was
+only governed by affection. I would share poverty
+with you, but I turn with affright from
+the sea of trouble on which you are entering. I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>have certain principles of action: I know what to
+look for to found my happiness on. It is not money.
+With you I wished for sufficient to procure
+the comforts of life—as it is, less will do.—I
+can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of
+life for my child, and she does not want more at
+present. I have two or three plans in my head to
+earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
+neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a
+pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would sooner
+submit to menial service. I wanted the support
+of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did
+not think, when I complained of ——’s contemptible
+avidity to accumulate money, that he
+would have dragged you into his schemes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a
+letter written soon after your departure, and
+another which tenderness made me keep back
+when it was written. You will see then the
+sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined
+moment. Do not insult me by saying,
+that “our being together is paramount to every
+other consideration!” Were it, you would not
+be running after a bubble at the expence of my
+peace of mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive
+from me.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span></div>
+<div class='section'>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Feb. 10.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You talk of “permanent views and future
+comfort”—not for me, for I am dead to hope.
+The inquietudes of the last winter have finished
+the business, and my heart is not only broken,
+but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself
+in a galloping consumption, and the continual
+anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child,
+feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is
+on her account that I again write to you, to conjure
+you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her
+here with the German lady you may have heard
+me mention! She has a child of the same age,
+and they may be brought up together, as I wish
+her to be brought up. I shall write more fully
+on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up
+my present lodgings, and go into the same house.
+I can live much cheaper there, which is now
+become an object. I have had 3000 livres from
+——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s
+wages, &amp;c. and then I shall endeavour to
+procure what I want by my own exertions. I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the
+Americans.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— and I have not been on good terms a long
+time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted
+over me, on account of your determination to
+stay. I had provoked it is true, by some asperities
+against commerce, which have dropped from
+me, when we have argued about the propriety of
+your remaining where you are; and it is no matter,
+I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to
+care about trifles.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you first entered into these plans, you
+bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand
+pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a
+farm in America, which would have been an
+independence. You find now that you did not
+know yourself, and that a certain situation in life
+is more necessary to you than you imagined—more
+necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a
+year or two you may procure yourself what you
+call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but
+in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered
+with regret—I was going to say with remorse,
+but checked my pen.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>As I have never concealed the nature of my
+connection with you, reputation will not suffer.
+I shall never have a confident: I am content with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>the approbation of my own mind; and, if there
+be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised.
+Reading what you have written relative to
+the desertion of women, I have often wondered
+how theory and practice could be so different, till
+I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and
+the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to
+my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with
+business, you need not write to them—I shall,
+when my mind is calmer. God bless you!
+Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>This has been such a period of barbarity and
+misery, I ought not to complain of having my
+share. I wish one moment that I had never
+heard of the cruelties that have been practised
+here, and the next envy the mothers who have
+been killed with their children. Surely I had
+suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with
+a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am
+imparting. You will think me mad: I would I
+were so, that I could forget my misery—so that
+my head or heart would be still.——</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Feb. 19.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When I first received your letter, putting off
+your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer
+though it was not the kind of wound over which
+time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the
+more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues
+me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding
+fault with every one, I have only reason
+enough to discover that the fault is in myself.
+My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I
+should not take any pains to recover my health.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that
+step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my
+only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians
+talk much of the danger attending any complaint
+on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for
+some months. They lay a stress also on the
+necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my
+God! how has mine been harrassed! But
+whilst the caprices of other women are gratified,
+“the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them
+too rudely,” I have not found a guardian angel,
+in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care
+from my bosom.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What sacrifices have you not made for a woman
+you did not respect!—But I will not go
+over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not
+understand you. You say that you have not
+given up all thoughts of returning here—and I
+know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>explain myself; but if you have not lost your
+memory, you will easily divine my meaning.
+What! is our life then only to be made up of separations?
+and am I only to return to a country,
+that has not merely lost all charms for me, but
+for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts
+to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought
+up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed,
+expecting you to join us, I had formed
+some plans of usefulness that have now vanished
+with my hopes of happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain
+with reason, that I am left here dependant on a
+man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered
+him callous to every sentiment connected
+with social or affectionate emotions. With a
+brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the
+pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in
+spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to
+borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him
+continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.
+Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet
+I have gone half a dozen times to the house
+to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you
+must guess why—Besides, I wish to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which
+you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but
+I will be silent for ever.——</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>April 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here I am at H——, on the wing towards
+you, and I write now, only to tell you that you
+may expect me in the course of three or four
+days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the
+different emotions which agitate my heart—You
+may term a feeling, which appears to me to be
+a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from
+sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very
+affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,
+without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that
+it is mutual.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and
+tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am
+cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed
+been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult
+to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.
+Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart! But for
+the little girl, I could almost wish that it should
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish
+of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my
+only pleasure, when I weaned her about ten days
+ago. I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.
+It was necessary it should be done
+soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal
+of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off
+till we met. It was a painful exertion to me,
+and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with
+the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw
+over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone,
+in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the
+next room for three or four nights, you cannot
+think with what joy I took her back again to sleep
+in my bosom!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for
+I do not see any necessity for you coming to me.
+Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little
+friend with me. My wishing to oblige him,
+made me put myself to some inconvenience——and
+delay my departure; which was irksome to
+me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I
+would not for the world say indifference, as you.
+God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here we are, my love, and mean to set out
+early in the morning; and if I can find you, I
+hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive
+to ——’s hotel, where —— tells me
+you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope
+you will take care there to receive us.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little
+friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our
+little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my
+share. But why do I write about trifles?—or
+any thing?—Are we not to meet soon?—What
+does your heart say!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have weaned my ——, and she is now
+eating way at the white bread.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XL.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, Friday, May 22.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your affectionate letter
+and am distressed to think that I have added to
+your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,
+when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind
+appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of
+your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was
+something relative to the circumstance you have
+mentioned, which made —— request to see
+me to-day, to <em>converse about a matter of great importance</em>.
+Be that as it may, his letter (such is
+the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me,
+and rendered the last night as distressing as the
+two former had been.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have laboured to calm my mind since you
+left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to
+be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different
+from the resignation of despair!—I am
+however no longer angry with you—nor will I
+ever utter another complaint—there are arguments
+which convince the reason, whilst they
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>carry death to the heart—We have had too many
+cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future
+prospect; but embitter the remembrances
+which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject
+never be revived!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It seems to me that I have not only lost the
+hope, but the power of being happy.——Every
+emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My
+soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings
+destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for dissapation,
+if not amusement merely to fatigue still
+more, I find, my irritable nerves.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself
+well—I am out of the question; for, alass! I am
+nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what
+will render you most comfortable—or, to
+be more explicit—whether you desire to live with
+me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain
+it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for,
+believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted
+your peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and
+will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet
+you—at any rate I will avoid conversations,
+which only tend to harrass your feelings, because
+I am most affectionately yours.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I inclose you the letter, which you desired
+me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically
+to wish you a good morning—not because I
+am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep
+down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort
+to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems
+to whirl round in the very centre of my brain,
+which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures
+me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>We arrived here about an hour ago. I am
+extremely fatigued with the child, who would not
+rest quiet with any body but me, during the night
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>and now we are here in a comfortless, damp
+room, in a sort of tomb-like house. This however
+I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have
+finished this letter, (which I must do immediately,
+because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth,
+and enquire about a vessel and an inn.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not distress you by talking of the depression
+of my spirits, or the struggle I had to
+keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too
+full to allow me to write with composure.—***,
+—dear ****,—am I always to be tossed about
+thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest <em>contented</em>
+in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping
+down, as it were, in a new
+world—cold and strange!—every other day?
+Why do you not attach those tender emotions
+round the idea of home, which even now dim my
+eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else
+is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will write to you again to-morrow, when I
+know how long I am to be detained—and hope to
+get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely
+and affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>—— is playing near me in high spirits. She
+was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn,
+she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>A lady has just sent to offer to take me to
+—— —. I have then only a moment to exclaim
+against the vague manner in which people give information</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact
+trifling, when compared with the sinking of the
+heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this
+painful string—God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday June 12.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received yours, dated the 9th,
+which I suppose was a mistake, for it could
+scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The
+general observations which apply to the state of
+your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they
+go; and I shall always consider it as one of the
+most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not
+meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses
+so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender
+avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to
+your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my
+friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of
+inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,
+for that gratification which only the heart
+can bestow.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The common run of men, I know, with strong
+health and gross appetites, must have variety to
+banish <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ennui</span></i>, because the imagination never leads
+its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>by according reason.—Ah! my friend,
+you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite
+pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection
+and desire, when the whole soul and senses are
+abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders
+every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these
+are emotions over which satiety has no power,
+and the recollection of which, even disappointment
+cannot disenchant; but they do not exist
+without self-denial. These emotions, more or less
+strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic
+of genius, the foundation of taste, and of
+that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of
+which the common herd of eaters and drinkers
+and <em>child-begetters</em>, certainly have no idea. You
+will smile at an observation that has just occurred
+to me: I consider those minds as the most strong
+and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus
+to their senses.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well! you will ask, what is the result of all
+this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that
+it is possible for you, having great strength of
+mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of
+constitution, and purity of feeling—which would
+open your heart to me.——I would fain rest
+there!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity
+and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>hopes, which a determination to live
+has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate
+the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity.
+I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly
+daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it
+might become our tomb; and that the heart, still
+so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by
+death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
+sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart,
+and obscure my sight.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour
+to render that meeting happier than the
+last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices,
+in order to give vigour to affection, and to give
+play to the checked sentiments that nature intended
+should expand your heart? I cannot indeed,
+without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually
+contaminated; and bitter are the tears
+which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my
+child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in
+which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest,
+smiling at angry fate.—These are not common
+sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
+much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually
+to blunt the shafts of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether
+you can live in something like a settled stile. Let
+our confidence in future be unbounded; consider
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to
+what you term “the zest of life;” and, when
+you have once a clear view of your own motives,
+of your own incentive to action, do not deceive
+me!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The train of thoughts which the writing of this
+epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I
+must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But
+first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to
+promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give
+me as much as you can of yourself. You have
+great mental energy; and your judgment seems
+to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination
+in discussing one subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow
+I may write more tranquilly. I cannot say when
+the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
+depart.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Your second letter reached me about an hour
+ago. You were certainly wrong in supposing
+that I did not mention you with respect; though,
+without my being conscious of it, some sparks of
+resentment may have animated the gloom of despair—Yes;
+with less affection, I should have
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>been more respectful. However the regard which
+I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I
+imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
+every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended
+for the public eye was to ——, and that I destroyed
+from delicacy before you saw them, because
+it was only written (of course warmly in
+your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown
+on you<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c011'><sup>[11]</sup></a>.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of
+suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and
+shall certainly use all my efforts to make the business
+terminate to your satisfaction in which I
+am engaged.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate
+united to yours by the most sacred principles of my
+soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a
+true, unsophisticated heart.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing
+on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained
+some days longer. At any rate, continue to write,
+(I want this support) till you are sure I am where
+I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——’s
+friend, I promise you) from whom I have received
+great civilities, will send them after me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to
+hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be
+convinced that you are not separating yourself
+from us. For my little darling is calling papa,
+and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And
+will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I
+shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced
+that my exertions will draw us more closely together.
+Once more adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, June, 14.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I
+wish you would not fail to write to me for a
+little time, because I am not quite well—Whether
+I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning
+in violent fits of trembling—and, in spite of
+all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues
+me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician
+of this place; it was fortunate, for I should
+otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the
+necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman
+(I can admire, you know, a pretty woman,
+when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather
+interesting man.—They have behaved to me
+with great hospitality; and poor&#160;—— was never
+so happy in her life, as amongst their young
+brood.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>They took me in their carriage to ——
+and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity
+that would have astonished you.—The town
+did not please me quite so well as formerly—It
+appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that
+many of the inhabitants had lived in the same
+houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering
+how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I
+was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at
+pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place
+where I at present am, is much improved; but it
+is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism
+have made, since I resided in this country.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wind does not appear inclined to change,
+so I am still forced to linger—When do you think
+that you shall be able to set out for France? I do
+not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and
+still less your connections on the other side of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your
+entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness.—Even
+now I am almost afraid to ask
+you whether the pleasure of being free does not
+over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me?
+Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel
+me necessary to you—or why should we meet
+again?—but, the moment after, despair damps
+my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of
+tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of
+life.——God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely and affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 15.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I want to know how you have settled with
+respect to ——. In short, be very particular
+in your account of all your affairs—let our
+confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The last
+time we were separated, was a separation indeed
+on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously,
+let the most affectionate interchange of
+sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment.
+I almost dread that your plans will prove
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>abortive—yet should the most unlucky turn send
+you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a
+treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle
+with the world again. Accuse me not of
+pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened
+my heart to its author, I have wondered that you
+did not set a higher value on my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to
+add, if you will not take one from me, and believe
+me yours</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sincerely,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wind still continues in the same quarter.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The captain has just sent to inform me, that I
+must be on board in the course of a few hours.—I
+wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
+have been a comfort to me to have received another
+letter from you—Should one arrive, it will
+be sent after me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why
+the quitting England seems to be a fresh parting.
+Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak
+forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my
+health renders me sensible to every thing. It is
+surprising, that in London, in a continual conflict
+of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,
+bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced
+into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading
+away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that
+withers up all my faculties.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child is perfectly well. My hand seems
+unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this
+inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.
+It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been
+so perpetually the sport of disappointment, having
+a heart that has been as it were a mark for
+misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some
+new shape. Well, let it come—I care not!—what
+have I to dread, who have so little to hope
+for! God bless you—I am most affectionately
+and sincerely yours.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was hurried on board yesterday about three
+o’clock, the wind having changed. But before
+evening it steered round to the old point; and
+here we are, in the midst of mists and waters,
+only taking advantage of the tide to advance a
+few miles.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will scarcely suppose that I left the town
+with reluctance—yet it was even so—for I
+wished to receive another letter from you, and I
+felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the
+amiable family, who had treated me with so
+much hospitality and kindness. They will probably
+send me your letter, if it arrives this
+morning; for here we are likely to remain, I
+am afraid to think how long.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The vessel is very commodious, and the captain
+a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There
+being no other passengers, I have the cabin to
+myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a
+few books with me to beguile weariness; but I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments
+of suspence in writing some effusions, than
+in reading.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What are you about? How are your affairs
+going on? It may be a long time before you
+answer these questions. My dear friend, my
+heart sinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to
+struggle continually with my affections and feelings?
+Ah! why are those affections and feelings
+the source of so much misery, when they seem
+to have been given to vivify my heart, and
+extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on
+this subject. Will you not endeavour to cherish
+all the affection you can for me? What am I
+saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other
+gratifications are dearer to you. How is every
+remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
+What a world is this! They only seem
+happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial
+enjoyments. Adieu.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— begins to play with the cabin boy,
+and is as gay as a lark. I will labour to be tranquil;
+and am in every mood,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here I am still—and I have just received
+your letter of Monday by the pilot who promised
+to bring it to me, if we were detained, as
+expected, by the wind. It is indeed wearisome
+to be thus tossed about without going forward.
+I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to
+take care of the child, who is a little tormented
+by her teeth, because —— is unable to do
+any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion
+of the ship, as we ride at anchor.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These are however trifling inconveniences, compared
+with anguish of mind—compared with the
+sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth
+I never in my life suffered so much from depression
+of spirits—from despair. I do not sleep—or,
+if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying
+dreams, in which I often meet you with
+different casts of countenance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not, my dear ——, torment you by
+dwelling on my sufferings—and will use all my
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at
+present it is most painfully active. I find I
+am not equal to these continual struggles—yet
+your letter this morning has afforded me some
+comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One
+thing let me tell you, when we meet again—surely
+we are to meet!—it must be to part no
+more. I mean not to have seas between us, it
+is more than I can support.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel,
+every thing here would disgust my senses, had I
+nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s
+free, the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too
+much hurt to regard trifles.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s most truly</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER L.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned
+by the wind, with every outward object
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances
+that sadden my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>How am I altered by disappointment!—When
+going to ——, ten years ago, the elasticity of my
+mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and
+the imagination still could dip her brush in the
+rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling
+colours. Now I am going towards the North in
+search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this
+desolated heart? All nature seems to frown, or
+rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold
+as my expectations! Before I left the shore,
+tormented, as I now am, by these North-east
+<em>chillers</em>, I could not help exclaiming—Give me,
+gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I
+am never to meet the genial affection that still
+warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to
+linger there.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now going on shore with the captain,
+though the weather be rough, to seek for milk,
+&amp;c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after
+which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded
+by disagreeable smells, I have lost the
+little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking
+almost drives me to the brink of madness—only
+to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish
+slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery
+I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every
+exertion in my power.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>Poor —— still continues sick, and ——
+grows weary when the weather will not allow her
+to remain on deck.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope this will be the last letter I shall write
+from England to you—are you not tired of this
+lingering adieu?</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The captain last night, after I had written my
+letter to you intended to be left at a little village,
+offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had
+a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board
+again, for the wind has changed.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I half expected to find a letter from you here.
+Had you written one hap-hazard it would have
+been kind and considerate—you might have
+known, had you thought, that the wind would
+not permit me to depart. These are attentions
+more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>why do I foolishly continue to look for
+them?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship
+is very cold—you see I am hurt. God bless
+you! I may perhaps be some time or other,
+independent in every sense of the word—Ah!
+there is but one sense of it of consequence. I
+will break or bend this weak heart—yet even
+now it is full.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child is well; I did not leave her on
+board.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 27, Saturday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I arrived in ——. I have now but a
+moment, before the post goes out, to inform you
+we have got here; though not without considerable
+difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat
+above twenty miles below.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>What I suffered in the vessel I will not now
+descant upon, nor mention the pleasure I received
+from the sight of the rocky coast. This
+morning however, walking to join the carriage
+that was to transport us to this place, I fell,
+without any previous warning, senseless on the
+rocks—and how I escaped with life I can scarcely
+guess. I was in a stupor for a quarter of an
+hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to
+my senses; the contusion is great, and my brain
+confused. The child is well.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident,
+has sufficiently deranged me, and here I
+could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing
+warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must
+nevertheless go to bed. For God’s sake, let me
+hear from you immediately my friend! I am not
+well, and yet you see I cannot die.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 29.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you
+of my arrival; and I alluded to the extreme
+fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s
+illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise
+mentioned to you my fall, the effects of
+which I still feel, though I do not think it will
+have any serious consequences.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary
+to go to ——. The inns are here so
+bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his
+house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all
+sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse
+me, from which I cannot escape.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my friend, I am not well—a
+deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart.
+I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;
+and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being
+buoyed up by the hopes that render them bearable.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>“How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears
+to me all the bustle into which I see people
+here so eagerly enter! I long every night to
+go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow;
+but there is a canker-worm in my bosom
+that never sleeps.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 1.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul
+has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment.
+Every thing fatigues me—this is a life
+that cannot last long. It is you who must determine
+with respect to futurity—and, when you
+have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must
+either resolve to live together, or part for ever,
+I cannot bear these continual struggles—But I
+wish you to examine carefully your own heart
+and mind; and if you perceive the least chance of
+being happier without me than with me, or if
+your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do
+not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will
+never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I
+mentioned to you—for we must either live together,
+or I will be entirely independent.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with
+precision——You know however that what I
+so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments
+of the moment—You can only contribute
+to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need
+of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest
+friendship is of any value, why will you not look
+to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless
+affections cannot bestow?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Tell me then, will you determine to meet me
+at Basle?—I shall, I should imagine, be at ——
+before the close of August; and, after you settle
+your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>God bless you!</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey
+with her teeth.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 3.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>There was a gloominess diffused through
+your last letter, the impression of which still rests
+on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly
+you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment,
+I flatter myself it has long since given place to
+your usual cheerfulness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness
+as I assure you) there is nothing I would
+not endure in the way of privation, rather than
+disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy,
+I will labour to hide my sorrows in my
+bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
+affectionate friend.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I grow more and more attached to my little
+girl—and I cherish this affection without fear, because
+it must be a long time before it can become
+bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature.
+On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea,
+have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that
+the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an
+empty name!” and nothing but the sight of her—her
+playful smiles, which seemed to cling and
+twine round my heart—could have stopped me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What peculiar misery has fallen to my share!
+To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest
+restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to
+sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in
+my imagination; and started with affright from
+every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing
+with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to
+scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love
+in some minds, is an affair of sentiment,
+arising from the same delicacy of perception
+(or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties
+of nature, poetry, &amp;c. alive to the charms of
+those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they
+must be felt, they cannot be described.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Love is a want of my heart. I have examined
+myself lately with more care than formerly,
+and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming
+at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed
+all the energy of my soul—almost rooted out
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped
+the enthusiasm of character, which converts the
+grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly
+feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment.
+Despair, since the birth of my child, has
+rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed to be
+fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and
+such is the elasticity of my constitution, and
+the purity of the atmosphere here, that health
+unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but
+the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand
+me?) has made me forget the respect
+due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that
+are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed
+to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish
+the heavenly spark.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still, when we meet again, I will not torment
+you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my
+former conduct—and will not in future confound
+myself with the beings whom I feel to be my
+inferiors. I will listen to delicacy, or pride.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 4.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s
+mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections
+from you—and, though every remembrance
+stings me to the soul, I think of you, till
+I make allowance for the very defects of character,
+that have given such a cruel stab to my
+peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still  however I am more alive than you have
+seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree
+of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
+to the benumbing stupour that, for the
+last year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps
+this change is more owing to returning
+health, than to the vigour of my reason—for, in
+spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share,)
+the purity of this air, and the being continually
+out in it, for I sleep in the country every night,
+has made an alteration in my appearance that
+really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>already streak my cheeks—and I have seen a
+<em>physical</em> life in my eyes, after I have been climbing
+the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous
+hopes of youth.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that
+I had forgotten to hope! Reason, or rather experience,
+does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
+pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with
+——’s children, and makes friends for herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not tell me, that you are happier without
+us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah!
+why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why
+are you a creature of such sympathy
+that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness
+of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my
+misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually
+shading your defects, and lending you charms,
+whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call
+me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only
+dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded
+heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I could not help feeling extremely mortified
+last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My
+being at —— was but a chance, and you
+might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes
+so great, as to silence the usual expressions
+of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a thing as
+a broken heart! There are characters whose very
+energy prays upon them; and who, ever inclined
+to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest
+satisfied with the common comforts of life. I
+have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched
+into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel
+keener anguish, when alone with my child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment
+cut me off from life, this romantic
+country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel
+alive to painful sensations?—But it cannot—it
+shall not last long.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek
+for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a
+negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go
+into the air.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 14.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now on my journey to ——. I felt
+more at leaving my child, than I thought I
+should—and, whilst at night I imagined every
+instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her
+voice—I asked myself how I could think of parting
+with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale,
+that “God will temper the winds to the shorn
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be
+shielded, when my naked bosom has had to
+brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could
+add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements
+to the pangs of disappointed affection, and
+the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of
+confidence, that snaps every social tie!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>All is not right somewhere. When you first
+knew me, I was not thus lost. I could still confide,
+for I opened my heart to you—of this only
+comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness,
+you tell me, was your first object. Strange
+want of judgment!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not complain; but, from the soundness
+of your understanding, I am convinced, if you
+give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,
+that your conduct to me, so far from being generous,
+has not been just. I mean not to allude to
+factitious principles of morality; but to the simple
+basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend
+to argue—Your not writing is cruel, and my
+reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor —— would fain have accompanied
+me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather
+convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden
+changes of countenance since, have alarmed her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some
+accident—But it would have injured the child
+this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hear not of your having written to me
+at ——. Very well! Act as you please, there
+is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether
+I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come
+here about, I will not trouble you with letters to
+which you do not reply.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 18.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am here in ——, separated from my
+child, and here I must remain a month at least, or
+I might as well never have come.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have begun —— which will, I hope,
+discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.
+I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my
+not having done it sooner.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>I shall make no further comments on your silence.
+God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received two of your letters, dated
+the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have
+received several from me, informing you of my
+detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly.
+I have suffered, God knows, since I left
+you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness
+of heart! My mind however is at present
+painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost
+rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint,
+it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>pleasure is all I have to hope for—if a spark of
+hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will try to write with a degree of composure.
+I wish for us to live together, because I want you
+to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl.
+I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the
+world, or that she should only be protected by
+your sense of duty. Next to preserving her,
+my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace.
+I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life.
+There are wounds that can never be healed, but
+they may be allowed to fester in silence without
+wincing.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When we meet again, you shall be convinced
+that I have more resolution than you give me credit
+for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
+always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal
+the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened
+cord of life or reason will at last snap, and
+set me free.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy
+of the bliss its feelings anticipate—and I cannot
+even persuade myself, wretched as they have
+made me, that my principles and sentiments are
+not founded in nature and truth. But to have
+done with these subjects.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>I have been seriously employed in this way since
+I came to ——; yet I never was so much in the
+air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,
+and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently
+improved. The child, —— informs
+me, is well. I long to be with her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write to me immediately—were I only to think
+of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor,
+with the simplicity of character, part of which
+you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to
+you</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*  *&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been subscribing other letters—so I
+mechanically did the same to yours.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 5.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Employment and exercise have been of
+great service to me; and I have entirely recovered
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>the strength and activity I lost during the
+time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better
+health; and my mind, though trembling to
+the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.
+I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and
+more happiness here, than for a long—long time
+past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation
+to the exquisite delight this wild country
+and fine summer have afforded me.) Still, on examining
+my heart, I find that it is so constituted,
+I cannot live without some particular affection.—I
+am afraid not without a passion, and I feel the
+want of it more in society, than in solitude——</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet
+occurs, my eyes fill with tears, and my
+trembling hand stops—you may then depend on
+my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed
+to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my
+own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has
+made me sometimes overlook delicacy, the same
+tenderness will in future restrain me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me
+to health, braced my muscles, and covered my
+ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I
+cannot tell you that my mind is calm,
+though I have snatched some moments of exquisite
+delight, wandering through the woods, and
+resting on the rocks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable;
+we must determine on something—and
+soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I
+am sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was
+wretched, when we were together—Expecting
+too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
+slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought
+not, if you form another attachment. But I promise
+you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
+reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>after the cruel disappointments that have rent my
+heart; but that of my child seems to depend on
+our being together. Still I do not wish you to
+sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain
+good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide
+for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed
+to part to meet no more. Her affection
+must not be divided. She must be a comfort to
+me, if I am to have no other, and only know me
+as her support. I feel that I cannot endure the
+anguish of corresponding with you, if we are only
+to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness
+elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose.
+I will be dead to you. I cannot express
+to you what pain it gives me to write about an
+eternal separation. You must determine, examine
+yourself—But, for God’s sake! spare me
+the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the
+trial; but I will not complain.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you,
+it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting
+apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what new
+form of misery I have to dread.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes
+written peevishly; but you will impute it to
+affection, if you understand any thing of the
+heart of</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Five of your letters have been sent after me
+from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was
+written in a style which I may have merited, but
+did not expect from you. However this is not a
+time to reply to it, except to assure you that you
+shall not be tormented with any more complaints.
+I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned
+you with my affection.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child is very well. We shall soon meet,
+to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.
+I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am
+informed how your affairs terminate.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I arrived here last night, and with the most
+exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to
+my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps
+cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to
+see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing
+intelligence attaches me more and more to
+her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my
+duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me
+forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an
+independence for her; but I will not be too anxious
+on this head.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have already told you, that I have recovered
+my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind,
+have returned with a renovated constitution. As
+for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made,
+perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so
+termed.——</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>You tell me that my letters torture you; I
+will not describe the effect yours have on me. I
+received three this morning, the last dated the 7th
+of this month. I mean not to give vent to the
+emotions they produced. Certainly you are right;
+our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an
+ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do
+not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus.
+I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion,
+a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget
+that I exist: I will never remind you. Something
+emphatical whispers me to put an end to these
+struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I
+cannot please. I can take care of my child; you
+need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable,
+<em>that you will try to cherish tenderness
+for me.</em> Do no violence to yourself! When we
+are separated, our interest, since you give so much
+weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely
+divided. I want not protection without affection;
+and support I need not, whilst my faculties
+are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England;
+but painful feelings must give way to superior
+considerations. I may not be able to acquire
+the sum necessary to maintain my child and
+self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland.
+I shall not remain at ——, living expensively.
+But be not alarmed! I shall not force
+myself on you any more.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed,
+my lips tremble, as if shook by cold,
+though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 6.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I received just now your letter of the 20th.
+I had written you a letter last night, into which
+imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul.
+I will copy the part relative to business. I am
+not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for
+more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of
+life—to prevent even that, you had better never
+hear from me—and repose on the idea that I am
+happy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Gracious God! It is impossible for me to
+stifle something like resentment, when I receive
+fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have
+suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I
+have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and
+the lively sympathies which bind
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful
+kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure
+and I have shaken hands.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only
+converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have
+no home—no resting place to look to.—I am
+strangely cast off.—How often, passing through
+the rocks, I have thought, “But for this child
+I would lay my head on one of them, and never
+open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly
+alive to all the affections of my nature—I have
+never met with one, softer than the stone that I
+would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought
+I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families
+continually, who are bound together by affection
+or principle—and, when I am conscious
+that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost
+to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to
+demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven,
+“Why am I thus abandoned?”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say now</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not understand you. It is necessary for you
+to write more explicitly——and determine on
+some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another
+blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I
+shall not write to you again, till I receive an
+answer to this. I must compose my tortured
+soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for
+my head is disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for
+it is with difficulty frequently that I
+make out what you mean to say—You write I
+suppose, at Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your
+head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if
+you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of
+affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the
+child.——Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 25.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just finished a letter, to be given in
+charge to captain ——. In that I complained of
+your silence, and expressed my surprise that three
+mails should have arrived without bringing a line
+for me. Since I closed it, I hear of another, and
+still no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain
+—— remained  a few days longer, I would
+have returned with him to England. What have
+I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you
+fully. Do you do the same—and quickly. Do
+not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved
+this of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed.
+Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 27.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you receive this, I shall either have
+landed, or be hovering on the British coast—your
+letter of the 18th decided me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>By what criterion of principle or affection, you
+term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary,
+I cannot determine.—You desire me to decide—I
+had decided. You must have had long ago two
+letters of mine, from ——, to the same purport,
+to consider.—In these, God knows! there
+was but too much affection, and the agonies of a
+distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What
+more then had I to say?—The negative
+was to come from you.—You had perpetually
+recurred to your promise of meeting me in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand
+a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with
+extreme harshness, coldness I am accustomed to;
+in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
+much less of friendship.—I only see a desire
+to heave a load off your shoulders.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am above disputing about words.—It matters
+not in what terms you decide.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The tremendous power who formed this heart,
+must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest,
+in various shapes, is the principal mobile,
+I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the
+fiat of fate I submit.—I am content to be wretched;
+but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have
+no cause to complain, but for having had too
+much regard for you—for having expected a degree
+of permanent happiness, when you only
+sought for a momentary gratification.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting
+myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make
+me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
+this tenderness and affection with what confidence
+did I rest!—but I leaned on a spear, that has
+pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a
+faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We
+certainly are differently organized;
+for even now, when conviction has been stamped
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it
+possible. It depends at present on you, whether
+you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, till
+I see or hear from you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined,
+if your next letter be like the last, to
+write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure
+lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There
+I will endeavour in a few months to
+obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from
+you I will not receive any more.—I am not
+yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Some people, whom my unhappiness has
+interested, though they know not the extent of it,
+will assist me to attain the object I have in view,
+the independence of my child. Should a peace
+take place, ready money will go a great way in
+France—and I will borrow a sum, which my
+industry <em>shall</em> enable me to pay at my leisure, to
+purchase a small estate for my girl.—The assistance
+I shall find necessary to complete her education,
+I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce
+her to such society as she will like—and
+thus securing for her all the chance for happiness,
+which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded
+that the felicity which has hitherto cheated
+my expectation, will not always elude my grasp.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly
+longed to arrive at his port.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall not come up in the vessel all the way,
+because I have no place to go to. Captain ——
+will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
+that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and
+that I wish to see you, though it be the last
+time.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, October 4</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the packet, to inform
+you, that your letter of the 18th of last month,
+had determined me to set out with captain ——;
+but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted,
+that you have not yet received it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided,
+that it was most for the interest of my little
+girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect,
+for us to live together; and I even thought
+that you would be glad, some years hence, when
+the tumult of business was over, to repose in the
+society of an affectionate friend, and mark the
+progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring
+to be of use in the circle you at last resolved
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>to rest in; for you cannot run about for
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>From the tenour of your last letter however, I
+am led to imagine, that you have formed some
+new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly request
+you to see me once more, and immediately.
+This is the only proof I require of the friendship
+you profess for me. I will then decide, since you
+boggle about a mere form.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am labouring to write with calmness, but the
+extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having
+any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious
+that the friend whom I most wish to see,
+will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed
+of my arrival, does not come under the description
+of common misery. Every emotion yields
+to an overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the
+playfulness of my child distresses me. On her account,
+I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless
+as is my situation. Besides, I did not wish
+to surprise you. You have told me, that you
+would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and,
+even in your last unkind letter, you talk of
+the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell
+me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian
+knot.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me,
+without fail, by the return of the post. Direct
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me
+whether you will come to me here, or where you
+will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday
+morning.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing
+from you, or any human being: my die is cast!—I
+have fortitude enough to determine to do my
+duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or
+calm my trembling heart.—That Being who
+moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear
+up by the roots the propensity to affection which
+has been the torment of my life—but life will have
+an end!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should you come here (a few months ago I
+could not have doubted it) you will find me at ——
+If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me
+where.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIX.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I write you now on my knees; imploring
+you to send my child and the maid with ——, to
+Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——,
+rue ——, section de ——. Should they be removed,
+—— can give their direction.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention
+the confession which I forced from her—a
+little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
+but my extreme stupidity could have rendered
+me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured
+me that you had no attachment, I thought we
+might still have lived together.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall make no comments on your conduct;
+or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep
+with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace.
+When you receive this, my burning head will be
+cold.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather
+than a night like the last. Your treatment has
+thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am
+serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear
+is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour
+to recal my hated existence. But I shall
+plunge into the Thames where there is the least
+chance of my being snatched from the death I
+seek.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you! May you never know by experience
+what you have made me endure. Should
+your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its
+way to your heart; and, in the midst of business
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you,
+the victim of your deviation from rectitude.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have only to lament, that, when the
+bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly
+brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination
+is not to be baffled by disappointment;
+nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt,
+which was one of the calmest acts of reason.
+In this respect, I am only accountable to myself.
+Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by
+other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say, “that you know not how to extricate
+ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we
+have been plunged.” You are extricated long
+since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am
+condemned to live longer, it is a living death.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It appears to me, that you lay much more stress
+on delicacy, than on principle; but I am unable
+to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have
+been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>indeed you have any friendship for me.—But
+since your new attachment is the only thing sacred
+in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints
+shall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps
+I am mistaken in supposing that even my
+death could, for more than a moment.—This is
+what you call magnanimity.—It is happy for
+yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest
+degree.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Your continually asserting, that you will do all
+in your power to contribute to my comfort (when
+you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears
+to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not
+such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never
+wanted but your heart.—That gone, you have
+nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear,
+I should not shrink from life.—Forgive me then,
+if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect
+attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which
+I have not merited—and as rather done out of
+tenderness for your own reputation, than for me.
+Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value
+money (therefore I will not accept what you do
+not care for) though I do much less, because certain
+privations are not painful to me. When I
+am dead, respect for yourself will make you take
+care of the child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I write with difficulty—probably I shall never
+write to you again.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am compelled at last to say that you treat me
+ungenerously. I agree with you, that</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither
+poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the
+task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child may have to blush for her mother’s
+want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude
+of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
+but she shall not despise me for meanness.
+You are now perfectly free.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which
+appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness
+to me. You ask “If I am well or tranquil?”—They
+who think me so, must want a heart to
+estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the
+organ of my own sentiments.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I must tell you, that I am very much mortified
+by your continually offering me pecuniary
+assistance—and, considering your going to the new
+house, as an open avowal that you abandon me,
+let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive
+any thing from you—and I say this at the
+moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt
+to obtain a temporary supply. But this
+even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments
+and misfortunes seem to suit the habit of
+my mind.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Have but a little patience and I will remove
+myself where it will not be necessary for you to
+talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me
+see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it
+through any other medium—that the affair is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>finished. It is an insult to me to suppose, that I
+can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if
+you hear nothing of me, it will be the same
+thing to you.</p>
+
+<p class='c012'>Even your seeing me has been to oblige other
+people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Afternoon.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to
+send the things of mine which were left at the
+house, I have to request you to let —— bring
+them to ——.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you
+need not be restrained from coming here to transact
+your business,—And, whatever I may think,
+and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly
+complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge
+of wright and wrong, I have been most ungenerously
+treated: but, wishing now only to hide
+myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I
+long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>for my child. I only mean by this to say,
+that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Farewell.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, November 27.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The letter, without an address, which you
+put up with the letters you returned, did not meet
+my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters
+aside—I did not wish to look over a register of
+sorrow.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My not having seen it, will account for my
+having written to you with anger—under the impression
+your departure, without even a line left
+for me, made on me, even after your late conduct,
+which could not lead me to expect much attention
+to my sufferings.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared
+to me so unfeeling,” has almost overturned
+my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know
+where I am, or what I do. The grief I cannot
+conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
+conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but
+an exercise of fortitude, continually on the
+stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb,
+where I am buried alive.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I meant to reason with you, and not to
+complain.—You tell me, “that I shall judge
+more cooly of your mode of acting, some time
+hence.” But is it not possible that <em>passion</em> clouds
+your reason, as much as it does mine?—and
+ought you not to doubt, whether those principles
+are so “exalted,” as you term them, which only
+lead to your own gratification? In other words,
+whether it be just to have no principle of action,
+but that of following your inclination, trampling
+on the affection you have fostered and the expectations
+you have excited?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I
+know you are not what you now seem—nor will
+you always act or feel as you now do, though I
+may never be comforted by the change. Even at
+Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will see
+my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish
+will drop on your heart, which you have forced
+from mine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I thought I could quickly
+have refuted all your <em>ingenious</em> arguments; but
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am
+miserable!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It seems to me, that my conduct has always
+been governed by the strictest principles of justice
+and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social
+feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered
+me!—I have loved with my whole soul, only to
+discover that I had no chance of a return—and
+that existence is a burthen without it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the
+offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary
+support—I must again reject it.—Trifling
+are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God
+bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand
+what is generosity.—You seem to me only
+to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless
+whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In
+truth I have been rudely handled. <em>Do you judge
+coolly</em>, and I trust you will not continue to call those
+capricious feelings “the most refined,” which
+would undermine not only the most sacred principles,
+but the affections which unite mankind.——You
+would render mothers unnatural—and
+there would be no such thing as a father!—If
+your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it
+is certainly the most easy.—It does not require
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves
+for the moment, let others suffer what they
+will!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart
+thirsts for justice from you—and whilst I recollect
+that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I
+am convinced you will not always justify your
+own.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not
+always banish from your mind, that you have
+acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
+gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do
+truth and principle require such sacrifices?</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, December 8.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Having just been informed that —— is to
+return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a
+sure opportunity of writing, because I am not
+certain that my last, by Dover, has reached you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Resentment, and even anger, are momentary
+emotions with me—and I wished to tell you so,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the
+light of an enemy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>That I have not been used <em>well</em> I must ever
+feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish
+I do at present—for I began even now to write
+calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears
+to me a frightful dream. Ah! ask yourself if
+you have not condescended to employ a little address,
+I could almost say cunning, unworthy of
+you?—Principles are sacred things—and we never
+play with truth, with impunity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The expectation (I have too fondly nourished
+it) of regaining your affection, every day grows
+fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me, when
+I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see
+you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.
+You will feel something like remorse, for having
+lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to
+inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age,
+you will remember that you had one disinterested
+friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick.
+The hour of recollection will come—and you will
+not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you
+fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,
+your heart, and your principles of action, are all
+superior to your present conduct. You do, you
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>must, respect me—and you will be sorry to forfeit
+my esteem.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You know best whether I am still preserving
+the remembrance of an imaginary being. I once
+thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I
+am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily
+press on me, to be cleared up by time.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may render me unhappy; but cannot
+make me contemptible in my own eyes. I shall
+still be able to support my child, though I am
+disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which
+I once believed would have afforded you equal
+pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural
+generosity, because I thought your property in
+jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested
+you, <em>if you could conveniently</em>, not to forget my
+father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was
+interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet
+not only my requests were neglected, but some
+trifling debts were not discharged, that now come
+on me. Was this friendship—or generosity?
+Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself?
+Still I have an affection for you.—God bless
+you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>As the parting from you for ever is the most
+serious event of my life, I will once expostulate
+with you, and call not the language of truth and
+feeling ingenuity!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I know the soundness of your understanding—and
+know that it is impossible for you always to
+confound the caprices of every wayward inclination
+with the manly dictates of principle.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why
+do I?——Because you cannot estrange your heart
+entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on
+my side. You urge, “that your conduct was
+unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your coolness
+has hurt me, with what tenderness have you
+endeavoured to remove the impression!—and even
+before I returned to England, you took great pains
+to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned
+by the effect of a worn-out constitution—and
+you concluded your letter with these words,
+“Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to
+my port, and I will still fly down to my two dear
+girls with a heart all their own.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With these assurances, is it extraordinary that
+I should believe what I wished? I might—and
+did think that you had a struggle with old propensities;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>but I still thought that I and virtue
+should at last prevail. I still thought that you had
+a magnanimity of character, which would enable
+you to conquer yourself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you
+have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.
+You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction
+you would feel, would amply repay you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart
+I pierce—and the time will come, when you will
+lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,
+even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I
+would owe every thing to your generosity—but,
+for God’s sake, keep me no longer in
+suspense!—Let me see you once more!——</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVII.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>You must do as you please with respect to
+the child. I could wish that it might be done
+soon, that my name may be no more mentioned
+to you. It is now finished. Convinced that you
+have neither regard nor friendship, I disdain to
+utter a reproach, though I have had reason to
+think, that the “forbearance” talked of, has not
+been very delicate. It is however of no consequence.
+I am glad you are satisfied with your
+own conduct.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal
+farewel. Yet I flinch not from the duties
+which tie me to life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>That there is “sophistry” on one side or
+other, is certain; but now it matters not on
+which. On my part it has not been a question
+of words. Yet your understanding or mine must
+be strangely warped, for what you term “delicacy,”
+appears to me to be exactly the contrary.
+I have no criterion for morality, and have thought
+in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow
+an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of
+principle and affection. Mine has been of a very
+different nature, or it would not have stood the
+brunt of your sarcasms.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be
+any part of me that will survive the sense of my
+misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The
+impetuosity of your senses, may have led you
+to term mere animal desire, the source of principle;
+and it may give zest to some years to come.
+Whether you will always think so, I shall never
+know.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something
+like conviction forces me to believe, that
+you are not what you appear to be.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I part with you in peace.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>
+  <h2 id='French' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>PRESENT CHARACTER</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>FRENCH NATION.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c018'>INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS
+ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE
+FRENCH NATION.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, February 15, 1793.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR FRIEND,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind,
+to guard as carefully the remembrance of
+the first impression made by a nation, as by a countenance;
+because we imperceptibly lose sight of
+the national character, when we become more intimate
+with individuals. It is not then useless or
+presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered
+Paris, the striking contrast of riches and poverty,
+elegance and slovenliness, urbanity and deceit,
+every where caught my eye, and saddened my
+soul; and these impressions are still the foundation
+of my remarks on the manners, which flatter
+the senses, more than they interest the heart, and
+yet excite more interest than esteem.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>The whole mode of life here tends indeed to
+render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their
+favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing,
+they are always sipping the sparkling joy on the
+brim of the cup, leaving satiety in the bottom for
+those who venture to drink deep. On all sides
+they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and
+seemingly so void of care, that often, when I am
+walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that
+they alone understand the full import of the term
+leisure; and they trifle their time away with such
+an air of contentment, I know not how to wish
+them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They
+play before me like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying
+the passing ray; whilst an English head, searching
+for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of
+pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their
+chief enjoyment, it is true, rises from vanity:
+but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation
+of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the
+heavy burden of life, which reason too often
+weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder to the
+other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Investigating the modification of the passion, as
+I would analyze the elements that give a form to
+dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to their source
+the causes which have combined to render this
+nation the most polished, in a physical sense, and
+probably the most superficial in the world; and I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>mean to follow the windings of the various
+streams that disembogue into a terrific gulf, in
+which all the dignity of our nature is absorbed.
+For every thing has conspired to make the French
+the most sensual people in the world; and what
+can render the heart so hard, or so effectually
+stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of
+sensuality?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The frequent repetition of the word French,
+appears invidious; let me then make a previous
+observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
+when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing
+with milk and honey. Remember that it is not
+the morals of a particular people that I would decry;
+for are we not all of the same stock? But I
+wish calmly to consider the stage of civilization
+in which I find the French, and, giving a sketch
+of their character, and unfolding the circumstances
+which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour
+to throw some light on the history of man,
+and on the present important subjects of discussion.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I would I could first inform you that, out of
+the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues,
+rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair form
+of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her
+wings to shelter all her children! I should then hear
+the account of the barbarities that have rent the bosom
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>of France patiently, and bless the firm hand
+that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy
+of birth is levelled with the ground, only to
+make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
+the morals of the people will not be much improved
+by the change, or the government rendered
+less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the
+misery produced by the present struggle, without
+adverting to the standing evils of the old system.
+I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I think of
+the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at
+Paris; but I also hear the same live stream cry
+aloud from the highways, through which the retreating
+armies passed with famine and death in
+their rear, and I hide my face with awe before
+the inscrutable ways of Providence, sweeping in
+such various directions the bosom of destruction
+over the sons of men.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Before I came to France, I cherished, you
+know, an opinion, that strong virtues might exist
+with the polished manners produced by the
+progress of civilization; and I even anticipated
+the epoch, when, in the course of improvement,
+men would labour to become virtuous, without
+being goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective
+of the golden age, fading before the attentive
+eye of observation, almost eludes my sight;
+and, losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect
+state, start not, my friend, if I bring forward
+an opinion, which at the first glance seems to be
+levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>become an Atheist, I assure you, by residing at
+Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you
+will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that,
+when the passions are justly poized, we become
+harmless, and in the same proportion useless.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wants of reason are very few; and, were
+we to consider dispassionately the real value of most
+things, we should probably rest satisfied with the
+simple gratification of our physical necessities, and
+be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently,
+only that wanton, the imagination, with
+her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and
+makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside
+every obstacle merely to catch a disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The desire also of being useful to others, is continually
+damped by experience; and, if the exertions
+of humanity were not in some measure their
+own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle
+with care, to make some people ungrateful,
+and others idle?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will call these melancholy effusions, and
+guess that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all
+the bustling folly of childhood, without the innocence
+which renders ignorance charming, I am
+too severe in my strictures. It may be so; and I
+am aware that the good effects of the revolution
+will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of
+Epicurus has only been at work to root out the simple
+emotions of the heart, which, being natural,
+are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by
+the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>fostered, is it surprising that simplicity
+of manners, and singleness of heart, rarely appear,
+to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so
+passing sweet?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have
+shot, I sometimes ask, with a doubting accent,
+Whether a nation can go back to the purity of
+manners which has hitherto been maintained unsullied
+only by the keen air of poverty, when,
+emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity
+are become the wants of nature? I cannot
+yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning
+on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe,
+that little is to be expected from the narrow
+principle of commerce which seems every
+where to be shoving aside <em>the point of honour</em> of
+the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">noblesse</span></i>. I can look beyond the evils of the
+moment, and do not expect muddied water to
+become clear before it has had time to stand; yet,
+even for the moment, it is the most terrific of all
+sights, to see men vicious without warmth—to see
+the order that should be the superscription of virtue,
+cultivated to give security to crimes which
+only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is,
+in fact, the very essence of vice, though with the
+wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions
+often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus
+humanity, generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes
+render a character grand, and even useful,
+when hurried away by lawless passions; but what
+can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>lives for himself alone, and considering his fellow-creatures
+merely as machines of pleasure, never
+forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping
+ever within the pale of the law, he crushes his
+thousands with impunity; but it is with that degree
+of management, which makes him, to borrow
+a significant vulgarism, a villain <em>in grain</em>.
+The very excess of his depravation preserves him,
+whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who
+prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce
+his approach, falls into a snare.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may think it too soon to form an opinion
+of the future government, yet it is impossible to
+avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every
+thing whispers me, that names, not principles,
+are changed, and when I see that the turn of the
+tide has left the dregs of the old system to corrupt
+the new. For the same pride of office, the same
+desire of power are still visible; with this aggravation,
+that, fearing to return to obscurity after
+having but just acquired a relish for distinction,
+each hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with
+these new titles, endeavours to make hay while
+the sun shines; and every petty municipal officer,
+become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day,
+stalks like a cock on a dunghill.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall now conclude this desultory letter;
+which however will enable you to foresee that I
+shall treat more of morals than manners.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours ——</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>
+  <h2 id='Infants' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I ought to appologize for not having written
+to you on the subject you mentioned; but, to
+tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead
+of an answer, I have begun a series of letters on
+the management of children in their infancy. Replying
+then to your question, I have the public
+in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew
+what modes appear to me necessary, to render the
+infancy of children more healthy and happy. I
+have long thought, that the cause which renders
+children as hard to rear as the most fragile plant,
+is our deviation from simplicity. I know that
+some able physicians have recommended the method
+I have pursued, and I mean to point out the
+good effects I have observed in practice. I am
+aware that many matrons will exclaim against me
+and dwell on the number of children they have
+brought up, as their mothers did before them
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>without troubling themselves with new-fangled
+notions; yet, though, in my uncle Toby’s
+words, they should attempt to silence me, by
+“wishing I had seen their large” families, I
+must suppose, while a third part of the human
+species, according to the most accurate calculation,
+die during their infancy, just at the
+threshold of life, that there is some errors in
+the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which
+counteracts their own endeavours. I may be mistaken
+in some particulars; for general rules,
+founded on the soundest reason, demand individual
+modification; but, if I can persuade any of the
+rising generation to exercise their reason on this
+head, I am content. My advice will probably
+be found most useful to mothers in the middle
+class; and it is from that the lower imperceptibly
+gains improvement. Custom, produced by
+reason in one, may safely be the effect of imitation
+in the other.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>
+  <h2 id='Johnson' class='c004'><span class='sc'>LETTERS<br /> TO<br /> Mr. JOHNSON</span>,<br /> <span class='small'>BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Dublin, April 14, [1787.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that
+I ought never to expect to enjoy health. My
+mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour
+to be useful, I grow too much interested for my
+own peace. Confined almost entirely to the society
+of children, I am anxiously solicitous for
+their future welfare, and mortified beyond measure,
+when counteracted in my endeavours to improve
+them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the
+swarm of little ones which surround me, and observe
+disorders, without having power to apply the
+proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to
+life, when it is always a painful warfare, and when
+I am deprived of all the pleasures I relish?—I
+allude to rational conversations, and domestic affections.
+Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in
+a strange land, tied to one spot, and subject to the
+caprice of another, can I be contented? I am desirous
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>to convince you that I have <em>some</em> cause for
+sorrow—and am not without reason detached
+from life. I shall hope to hear that you are well,
+and am yours sincerely,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Wollstonecraft.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking,
+<em>enjoyed</em> solitude. My sister could not accompany
+me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone
+by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring
+beautiful fields and pleasure-grounds: the
+prospects were of such a placid kind, I <em>caught</em>
+tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was
+<em>still</em>, though active. Were I to give you an account
+how I have spent my time, you would smile.
+I found an old French bible here, and amused myself
+with comparing it with our English translation—then
+I would listen to the falling leaves, or
+observe the various tints the autumn gave to
+them. At other times, the singing of a robin, or
+the noise of a water-mill, engaged my attention—for
+I was, at the same time perhaps discussing
+some knotty point, or straying from this <em>tiny</em> world
+to new systems. After these excursions, I returned
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>to the family meals, to’d the children stories
+(they think me <em>vastly</em> agreeable) and my sister was
+amused.—Well, will you allow me to call this
+way of passing my days pleasant?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe
+it will enable me to say all I have to add to this
+epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for
+me? I often think of my new plan of life; and,
+lest my sister should try to prevail on me to alter
+it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am
+determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female
+determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet
+resolved to do any thing of consequence, that I did
+not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished
+my purpose, improbable as it might have appeared
+to a more timid mind. In the course of near
+nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some experience,
+and felt many <em>severe</em> disappointments—and
+what is the amount? I long for a little peace
+and <em>independence</em>! Every obligation we receive
+from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes
+from our native freedom, and debases the mind,
+makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of
+grovelling!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'>I am, sir, yours, &amp;c.</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft</span>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Market Harborough, Sept. 20.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You left me with three opulent tradesmen;
+their conversation was not calculated to beguile the
+way, when the sable curtain concealed the beauties
+of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and
+shrunk away without wishing to grow rich; even
+the novelty of the subjects did not render them
+pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in
+all their different forms—I was not surprised by
+any glimpse of the sublime or beautiful—though
+one of them imagined I should be a useful partner
+in a good <em>firm</em>. I was very much fatigued, and
+have scarcely recovered myself. I do not expect
+to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley afforded:
+I meet with new objects to employ my
+mind; but many painful emotions are complicated
+with the reflections they give rise to.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not intend to enter on the <em>old</em> topic, yet
+hope to hear from you—and am yours, &amp;c.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though your remarks are generally judicious—I
+cannot <em>now</em> concur with you, I mean with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>respect to the preface<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c011'><sup>[12]</sup></a>, and have not altered it.
+I hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud
+humility. A general rule <em>only</em> extends to the majority—and,
+believe me, the few judicious who
+may peruse my book, will not feel themselves
+hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is
+said in a book intended for children.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. To Original Stories.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily
+imagine that I am indolent. I would not spare
+any labour to do my duty—and after the most laborious
+day, that single thought would solace me
+more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy.
+I find I could not translate the MS. well. If it
+was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated;
+but the hand, and errors in orthography,
+or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first
+setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot
+do well—and I should loose time in the vain
+attempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again
+receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c011'><sup>[13]</sup></a>.
+With all the mother’s fondness I could transcribe
+a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me,
+and dependence on heaven increase, &amp;c.—I miss
+her innocent caresses—and sometimes indulge a
+pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer
+my childless age—if I am to live to be old. At
+any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not
+contemplate—and my reason may permit me to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>love a female. I now allude to ——. I have
+received another letter from her, and her childish
+complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual,
+good-night.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If parents attended to their children, I would
+not have written the stories; for, what are books,
+compared to conversations which affection inforces!—</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. Countess Mount Cashel.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Remember you are to settle <em>my account</em>, as I
+want to know how much I am in your debt—but
+do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that
+score. The generality of people in trade would
+not be much obliged to me for a like civility, <em>but
+you were a man</em> before you were a bookseller—so I
+am your sincere friend,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am sick with vexation, and wish I could
+knock my foolish head against the wall, that bodily
+pain might make me feel less anguish from
+self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never
+more displeased with myself, and I will tell you
+the cause. You may recollect that I did not mention
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>to you the circumstance of —— having
+a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it dropt
+from me when I conversed with my sister; because
+I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing
+it. Last Sunday, when his character was
+aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of vindication
+I informed ****** that he was now independent;
+but, at the same time, desired him not
+to repeat my information to B——; yet, last
+Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s
+gave Mrs. —— an account of it. As Mr. ——
+knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush
+to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence,
+and this morning came (not to reproach
+me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury
+I have done him. Let what will be the consequence,
+I will reimburse him, if I deny myself
+the necessaries of life—and even then my folly
+will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive
+the misery I at this moment endure—that I,
+whose power of doing good is so limited, should
+do harm, galls my very soul. **** may laugh
+at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——
+to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely
+it is hell to despise one’s self! I did not
+want this additional vexation—at this time I have
+many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not
+call on you this month, nor stir out. My stomach
+has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am
+unable to lean over the desk.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>As I am become a reviewer, I think it right
+in the way of business, to consider the subject.
+You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as
+the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly
+shews. The Critical appears to be a timid,
+mean production, and its success is a reflection on
+the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a
+body, who ever gave it credit for much? The
+voice of the people is only the voice of truth,
+when some man of abilities has had time to get
+fast hold of the <span class='fss'>GREAT NOSE</span> of the monster.
+Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and
+dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded
+me more amusement, though every article
+almost wants energy and a <em>cant</em> of virtue and
+liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager
+to pay court to established fame. The account
+of Necker is one unvaried tone of admiration.
+Surely men were born only to provide for the
+sustenance of the body by enfeebling the mind!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>You made me very low-spirited last night, by
+your manner of talking.—You are my only friend—the
+only person I am <em>intimate</em> with.—I never
+had a father, or a brother—you have been both
+to me, ever since I knew you—yet I have sometimes
+been very petulant.—I have been thinking
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>of those instances of ill humour and quickness, and
+they appeared like crimes.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions
+too often silence the suggestions of reason. Your
+note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and produced
+a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a
+beam of despondent tranquillity over the features.
+I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was more
+than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome
+nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious.—Last
+Thursday, in particular, I imagined
+—— was thrown into great distress by his
+folly; and I, unable to assist him, was in an
+agony. My nerves were in such a painful state
+of irritation—I suffered more than I can express.
+Society was necessary—and might have diverted
+me till I gained more strength; but I blushed
+when I recollect how often I had teazed you
+with childish complaints, and the reveries of a
+disordered imagination. I even <em>imagined</em> that I
+intruded on you, because you never called on me—though
+you perceived that I was not well.—I
+have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which
+gives me many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge
+that life is but a jest—and often a frightful dream—yet
+catch myself every day searching for something
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment.
+I am a strange compound of weakness
+and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I
+will endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly
+a great defect in my mind—my wayward
+heart creates its own misery—Why I am made
+thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form some
+idea of the whole of my existence, I must be content
+to weep and dance like a child—long for
+a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but
+mine, alas! has lost its bells, and grown so heavy,
+I find it intolerably troublesome.——Goodnight!
+I have been pursuing a number of strange
+thoughts since I began to write, and have actually
+both wept and laughed immoderately—Surely I
+am a fool—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I really want a German grammar, as I intend
+to attempt to learn that language——and I
+will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am
+persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure
+an independence, and render myself useful.
+To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind
+with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away.
+I see the necessity of labouring now—and of that
+necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>I am thankful that I have more than common
+incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw
+my pleasures from the employments that are
+within my reach. You perceive this is not a
+gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly
+grateful to you—without your humane and <em>delicate</em>
+assistance, how many obstacles should I not have
+had to encounter—too often should I have been
+out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom
+I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear
+sir, and call friend a being I respect.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I thought you <em>very</em> unkind, nay, very unfeeling,
+last night. My cares and vexations, I
+will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour,
+as they arise from disinterestedness and <em>unbending</em>
+principles; nor can that mode of conduct
+be a reflection on my understanding, which enables
+me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live
+for myself alone. I am not the only character
+deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with
+various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed
+local fame and present comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s
+cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose,
+you would quietly have told him, he was a fool
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>for not being calm, and that wise men striving
+against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I
+have done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference
+cold in wisdom’s guise,”—and turn to the
+source of perfection—who perhaps never disregarded
+an almost broken heart, especially when a
+respect, a practical respect, for virtue, sharpened
+the wounds of adversity. I am ill—I stayed in
+bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking
+of getting money to extricate myself out of some
+of my difficulties—the struggle is now over. I
+will condescend to try to obtain some in a disagreeable
+way.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did
+you know his motive for calling<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c011'><sup>[14]</sup></a>?—I think him
+impertinently officious.—He had left the house
+before it occured to me in the strong light it does
+now, or I should have told him so.—My poverty
+makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a superficial
+puppy—His intimacy with Miss ——
+gave him a privilege, which he should not have
+assumed with me—a proposal might be made to
+his cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not
+have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him
+that I am offended—and do not wish to see
+him again——When I meet him at your house,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him
+by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my
+body—but it shall never bend to support that
+body—God of heaven, save thy child from this
+living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My
+hand trembles—I am very sick—sick at heart.—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary
+considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned
+thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which
+immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Evening.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you left me this morning, and I reflected
+a moment—your <em>officious</em> message, which
+at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like
+an insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then
+the necessity of forcing a smile—when I chance to
+meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of informing
+you of my sentiments.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday, 3 o’clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged
+to enter again on a subject, that has already
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>raised a tumult of <em>indignant</em> emotions in my bosom,
+which I was labouring to suppress when I received
+your letter. I shall now <em>condescend</em> to answer your
+epistle; but let me first tell you, that, in my <em>unprotected</em>
+situation, I make a point of never forgiving
+a <em>deliberate insult</em>—and in that light I consider
+your late officious conduct. It is not according to
+my nature to mince matters—I will then tell you
+in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered
+you in the light of a <em>civil</em> acquaintance—on
+the word friend I lay a peculiar emphasis—and, as
+a mere acquaintance, you were rude and <em>cruel</em>, to
+step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and
+misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr.
+Johnson, had made the proposal—I should have
+been severely hurt—have thought him unkind
+and unfeeling, but not <em>impertinent</em>. The privilege
+of intimacy you had no claim to, and should have
+referred the man to myself—if you had not sufficient
+discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir,
+poor and destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will
+never bend, or take indirect methods, to obtain the
+consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it
+was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the
+struggle would soon be over. I can bear any thing
+but my own contempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In a few words, what I call an insult, is the
+bare supposition that I could for a moment think of
+<em>prostituting</em> my person for a maintenance; for in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>that point of view does such a marriage appear to
+me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract,
+and never by words and local opinions shield myself
+from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse
+me when I add, that I wish never to see, but
+as a perfect stranger, a person who could so
+grossly mistake my character. An apology is not
+necessary—if you were inclined to make one—nor
+any further expostulations. I again repeat, I
+cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient
+delicacy to respect poverty, even where it
+gives lustre to a character——and I tell you sir, I
+am poor, yet can live without your benevolent
+exertions.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I send you <em>all</em> the books I had to review except
+Dr. J——’s Sermons, which I have begun. If
+you wish me to look over any more trash this
+month, you must send it directly. I have been
+so low-spirited since I saw you—I was quite glad,
+last night, to feel myself affected by some passages
+in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I
+seemed (suddenly) to <em>find</em> my <em>soul</em> again. It has
+been for some time I cannot tell where. Send me
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>the Speaker, and <em>Mary</em>, I want one, and I shall
+soon want for some paper—you may as well send
+it at the same time, for I am trying to brace my
+nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid reason
+is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning
+a long time with my untoward spirits, and yet
+my hand trembles. I could finish a period very
+<em>prettily</em> now, by saying that it ought to be steady
+when I add that I am yours sincerely,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed
+Dr. J—’s s—— on his wife, be it known
+unto you—I <em>will</em> not do it any other way—I felt
+some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect
+to the memory of a man—who, spite of all his
+faults, I have an affection for—I say <em>have</em>, for I
+believe he is somewhere—<em>where</em> my soul has been
+gadding perhaps;—but <em>you</em> do not live on conjectures.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am
+pleased with, now I see it in one point of view—and,
+as I have made free with the author, I hope
+you will not have often to say—what does this
+mean?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You forgot you were to make out my account,
+I am, of course, over head and ears in debt; but I
+have not that kind of pride, which makes some
+dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>the contrary, when I involuntarily lament that I
+have not a father or brother, I thankfully recollect
+that I have received unexpected kindness from
+you and a few others. So reason allows, what nature
+impels me to—for I cannot live without loving
+my fellow creatures—nor can I love them,
+without discovering some virtue.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, December 26, 1792.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I should immediately on the receipt of your
+letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your
+punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
+wished to wait till I could tell you that this day
+was not stained with blood. Indeed the prudent
+precautions taken by the National Convention to
+prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs
+of faction would not dare to bark, much less to bite,
+however true to their scent; and I was not mistaken;
+for the citizens, who were all called out,
+are returning home with composed countenances,
+shouldering their arms. About nine o’clock this
+morning, the king passed by my window, moving
+silently along (excepting now and then a few
+strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness
+more awful) through empty streets, surrounded
+by the national guards, who, clustering round the
+carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The
+inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements
+were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>did I see any thing like an insulting gesture. For
+the first time since I entered France, I bowed to
+the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety
+of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my
+own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why, but
+an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly
+from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting,
+with more dignity than I expected from his character,
+in a hackney coach, going to meet death,
+where so many of his race have triumphed. My
+fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering
+the capital with all his pomp, after one of
+the victories most flattering to his pride, only to see
+the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the
+sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
+since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot
+dismiss the lively images that have filled my imagination
+all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity
+me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the
+paper, I have seen eyes glare through a glass-door
+opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at me.
+Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My
+apartments are remote from those of the servants,
+the only persons who sleep with me in an immense
+hotel, one folding door opening after another. I
+wish I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to
+see something alive; death in so many frightful
+shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to
+bed—and, for the first time in my life, I cannot
+put out the candle.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>M. W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div>FINIS.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c003' />
+</div>
+<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
+
+<div class='chapter ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c019'>
+    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+ <ol class='ol_1 c002'>
+    <li>P. <a href='#t133'>133</a>, the first character in “_are” failed to print.  Added “c” to make it
+    “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out
+    to give a freshness to days browned by <em>c</em>are!”
+
+    </li>
+    <li>P.  <a href='#t147'>147</a>, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+    </li>
+  </ol>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67847 ***</div>
+  </body>
+  <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57c on 2022-04-15 20:09:52 GMT -->
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary
+Wollstonecraft Godwin, by Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
+
+Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
+
+Release Date: April 15, 2022 [eBook #67847]
+
+Language: English
+
+Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading
+             Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
+             images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS
+OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN ***
+
+
+[Illustration: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN]
+
+
+
+
+                                MEMOIRS
+                                  AND
+                            POSTHUMOUS WORKS
+                                   OF
+                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
+                                 AUTHOR
+                                  OF A
+                  VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
+                            IN TWO VOLUMES.
+
+                                VOL. I.
+
+
+                                DUBLIN:
+
+                     _Printed by Thomas Burnside_,
+                   FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.
+
+                                 1798.
+
+
+
+
+                                CONTENTS
+                               OF VOL. I.
+
+
+        _Memoirs._
+
+        _Letters._
+
+        _Letter on the present Character of the French Nation._
+
+        _Letter on the Management of Infants._
+
+        _Letters to Mr. Johnson._
+
+
+
+
+                                MEMOIRS.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. I.
+                               1759–1775.
+
+
+It has always appeared to me, that to give to the public some account of
+the life of a person of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent on
+survivors. It seldom happens that such a person passes through life,
+without being the subject of thoughtless calumny, or malignant
+misrepresentation. It cannot happen that the public at large should be
+on a footing with their intimate acquaintance, and be the observer of
+those virtues which discover themselves principally in personal
+intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind is more or less influenced by a
+liberal passion for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to these
+benefactors, when they assert and establish on their part, the honour
+they loved. The justice which is thus done to the illustrious dead,
+converts into the fairest source of animation and encouragement to those
+who would follow them in the same career. The human species at large is
+interested in this justice, as it teaches them to place their respect
+and affection, upon those qualities which best deserve to be esteemed
+and loved. I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that the more
+fully we are presented with the picture and story of such persons as are
+the subject of the following narrative, the more generally shall we feel
+in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and a sympathy in their
+excellencies. There are not many individuals with whose character the
+public welfare and improvement are more intimately connected, than the
+author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
+
+The facts detailed in the following pages, are principally taken from
+the mouth of the person to whom they relate; and of the veracity and
+ingenuousness of her habits, perhaps no one that was ever acquainted
+with her, entertains a doubt. The writer of this narrative, when he has
+met with persons, that in any degree created to themselves an interest
+and attachment in his mind, has always felt a curiosity to be acquainted
+with the scenes through which they had passed, and the incidents that
+had contributed to form their understandings and character. Impelled by
+this sentiment, he repeatedly led the conversation of Mary to topics of
+this sort; and, once or twice, he made notes in her presence, of a few
+dates calculated to arrange the circumstances in his mind. To the
+materials thus collected, he has added an industrious enquiry among the
+persons most intimately acquainted with her at the different periods of
+her life.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of April 1759. Her father’s
+name was Edward John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of the
+family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom of Ireland: her paternal
+grandfather was a respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is
+supposed to have left to his son a property of 10,000l. Three of her
+brothers and two sisters are still living; their names, Edward, James,
+Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward only was older than
+herself; he resides in London. James is in Paris, and Charles in or near
+Philadelphia in America. Her sisters have for some years been engaged in
+the office of governesses in private families, and are both at present
+in Ireland.
+
+I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was bred to any profession;
+but, about the time of her birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an
+amusement than a business, to the occupation of farming. He was of a
+very active, and somewhat versatile disposition, and so frequently
+changed his abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place of her
+birth. She told me, that the doubt in her mind in that respect, lay
+between London, and a farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal
+scene of the five first years of her life.
+
+Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some portion of that exquisite
+sensibility, soundness of understanding, and decision of character,
+which were the leading features of her mind through the whole course of
+her life. She experienced in the first period of her existence, but few
+of those indulgences and marks of affection, which are principally
+calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows of our early years. She
+was not the favourite either of her father or mother. Her father was a
+man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject to alternate fits of
+kindness and cruelty. In his family he was a despot, and his wife
+appears to have been the first, and most submissive of his subjects. The
+mother’s partiality was fixed upon the eldest son, and her system of
+government relative to Mary, was characterized by considerable rigour.
+She, at length, became convinced of her mistake, and adopted a different
+plan with her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs of Woman, Mary
+speaks of “the petty cares which obscured the morning of her heroine’s
+life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters; unconditional
+submission to orders, which, as a mere child, she soon discovered to be
+unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory; and the being
+obliged often to sit, in the presence of her parents, for three or four
+hours together, without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe, to
+be considered as copying the outline of the first period of her own
+existence.
+
+But it was in vain that the blighting winds of unkindness or
+indifference, seemed destined to counteract the superiority of Mary’s
+mind. It surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees, from a person
+little considered in the family, she became in some sort its director
+and umpire. The despotism of her education cost her many a heart-ache.
+She was not formed to be the contented and unresisting subject of a
+despot; but I have heard her remark more than once, that, when she felt
+she had done wrong, the reproof or chastisement of her mother, instead
+of being a terror to her, she found to be the only thing capable of
+reconciling her to herself. The blows of her father on the contrary,
+which were the mere ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of
+humbling her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions she felt her
+superiority, and was apt to betray marks of contempt. The quickness of
+her father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten similar violence
+towards his wife. When that was the case, Mary would often throw herself
+between the despot and his victim, with the purpose to receive upon her
+own person the blows that might be directed against her mother. She has
+even laid whole nights upon the landing-place near their chamber-door,
+when, mistakenly, or with reason, she apprehended that her father might
+break out into paroxysms of violence. The conduct he held towards the
+members of his family, was of the same kind as that he observed towards
+animals. He was for the most part extravagantly fond of them; but, when
+he was displeased, and this frequently happened, and for very trivial
+reasons, his anger was alarming. Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have
+called, “a very good hater.” In some instance of passion exercised by
+her father to one of his dogs, she was accustomed to speak of her
+emotions of abhorrence, as having risen to agony. In a word, her conduct
+during her girlish years, was such, as to extort some portion of
+affection from her mother, and to hold her father in considerable awe.
+
+In one respect, the system of education of the mother appears to have
+had merit. All her children were vigorous and healthy. This seems very
+much to depend upon the management of our infant years. It is affirmed
+by some persons of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the
+sciences of health and disease, that there is no period of human life so
+little subject to mortality as the period of infancy. Yet, from the
+mismanagement to which children are exposed, many of the diseases of
+childhood are rendered fatal, and more persons die in that, than in any
+other period of human life. Mary had projected a work upon this subject,
+which she had carefully considered, and well understood. She has indeed
+left a specimen of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,
+three years and a half old, who is a singular example of vigorous
+constitution and florid health. Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of
+Soho-square, whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised to
+revise her production. This is but one out of numerous projects of
+activity and usefulness, which her untimely death has fatally
+terminated.
+
+The rustic situation in which Mary had spent her infancy, no doubt
+contributed to confirm the stamina of her constitution. She sported in
+the open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing scenes of
+nature, for which she always retained the most exquisite relish. Dolls
+and the other amusements usually appropriated to female children, she
+held in contempt; and felt a much greater propensity to join in the
+active and hardy sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to
+those of her own sex.
+
+About the time that Mary completed the fifth year of her age, her father
+removed to a small distance from his former habitation, and took a farm
+near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest, a little way out of the
+Chelmsford road. In Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his
+residence, and occupied a convenient house behind the town of Barking in
+Essex, eight miles from London. In this situation some of their nearest
+neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire, successively member of
+parliament for several boroughs, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.
+Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot; but his brother was
+almost a constant inhabitant, and his family in habits of the most
+frequent intercourse with the family of Mary. Here Mr. Wollstonecraft
+remained for three years. In September 1796, I accompanied my wife on a
+visit to this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility, the
+scenes of her childhood. We found the house uninhabited, and the garden
+in a wild and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance with the
+market-place, the streets, and the wharf, the latter of which we found
+crowded with barges, and full of activity.
+
+In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft again removed to a farm near
+Beverly in Yorkshire. Here the family remained for six years, and
+consequently, Mary did not quit this residence, till she had attained
+the age of fifteen years and five months. The principal part of her
+school education passed during this period: but it was not to any
+advantage of infant literature, that she was indebted for her subsequent
+eminence; her education in this respect was merely such, as was afforded
+by the day-schools of the place, in which she resided. To her
+recollections Beverly appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by
+genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly. She was surprized, when
+she visited it in 1795, upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality
+so very much below the picture in her imagination.
+
+Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer; but the restlessness of
+his disposition would not suffer him to content himself with the
+occupation in which for some years he had been engaged, and the
+temptation of a commercial speculation of some sort being held out to
+him, he removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton near London, for
+the purpose of its execution. Here he remained for a year and a half;
+but, being frustrated in his expectations of profit, he, after that
+term, gave up the project in which he was engaged, and returned to his
+former pursuits. During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of these
+memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting college in that
+place. It is perhaps a question of curious speculation to enquire, what
+would have been the amount of the difference in the pursuits and
+enjoyments of each party, if they had met, and considered each other
+with the same distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards
+impressed with in the year 1796. The writer had then completed the
+twentieth, and Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which would have
+been predominant; the disadvantages of obscurity, and the pressure of a
+family; or the gratifications and improvement that might have flowed
+from their intercourse?
+
+One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this time was a Mr. Clare, who
+inhabited the next house to that which was tenanted by her father, and
+to whom she was probably in some degree indebted for the early
+cultivation of her mind. Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have
+been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his person he was deformed
+and delicate; and his figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of
+the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry, and was not destitute
+of taste. His manners were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,
+the demonstrations of which appeared to have been somewhat too
+artificially cultivated. His habits were those of a perfect recluse. He
+seldom went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to a friend of Mary a
+pair of shoes, which had served him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary
+frequently spent days and weeks together, at the house of Mr. Clare.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. II.
+                               1775–1783.
+
+
+But a connection more memorable originated about this time, between Mary
+and a person of her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship so
+fervent, as for years to have constituted the ruling passion of her
+mind. The name of this person was Frances Blood; she was two years older
+than Mary. Her residence was at that time at Newington Butts, a village
+near the southern extremity of the metropolis; and the original
+instrument for bringing these two friends acquainted, was Mrs. Clare,
+wife of the gentleman already mentioned, who was on a footing of
+considerable intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance of Fanny, like
+that of Mr. Clare, contributed to ripen the immature talents of Mary.
+
+The situation in which Mary was introduced to her, bore a resemblance to
+the first interview of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted to the
+door of a small house, but furnished with peculiar neatness and
+propriety. The first object that caught her sight, was a young woman of
+a slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of age, busily employed
+in feeding and managing some children, born of the same parents, but
+considerably inferior to her in age. The impression Mary received from
+this spectacle was indelible; and, before the interview was concluded,
+she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal friendship.
+
+Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments. She sung and
+played with taste. She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and by
+the employment of this talent, for some time maintained her father,
+mother, and family, but ultimately ruined her health by her
+extraordinary exertions. She read and wrote with considerable
+application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate propriety
+followed her in these, as in her other occupations.
+
+Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl of sixteen, contemplated
+Fanny, in the first instance, with sentiments of inferiority and
+reverence. Though they were much together, yet, the distance of their
+habitation being considerable, they supplied the want of more frequent
+interviews by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found Fanny’s letters
+better spelt and better indited than her own, and felt herself abashed.
+She had hitherto paid but a superficial attention to literature. She had
+read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable thirst of knowledge;
+but she had not thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to excel was
+now awakened, and she applied herself with passion and earnestness.
+Fanny undertook to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy
+and method, her lessons were given with considerable skill.
+
+It has already been mentioned that in the spring of the year 1776, Mr.
+Wollstonecroft quitted his situation at Hoxton, and returned to his
+former agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which he now fixed was
+in Wales, a circumstance that was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s
+darling spirit of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the
+Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family of a Mr. Allen, two
+of whose daughters are since married to the two elder sons of the
+celebrated English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.
+
+Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence for little more than a
+year. He returned to the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose spirit
+of independence was unalterable, had influence enough to determine his
+choice in favour of the village of Walworth, that she might be near her
+chosen friend. It was probably before this, that she has once or twice
+started the idea of quitting her parental roof, and providing for
+herself. But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea, and conditions
+were stipulated with her, relative to her having an apartment in the
+house that should be exclusively her own, and her commanding the other
+requisites of study. She did not however think herself fairly treated in
+these instances, and either the conditions abovementioned, or some
+others, were not observed in the sequel, with the fidelity she expected.
+In one case, she had procured an eligible situation, and every thing was
+settled respecting her removal to it, when the intreaties and tears of
+her mother led her to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon the
+engagement.
+
+These however were only temporary delays. Her propensities continued the
+same, and the motives by which she was instigated were unabated. In the
+year 1778, she being nineteen years of age, a proposal was made to her
+of living as a companion with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady, with
+one son already adult. Upon enquiry she found that Mrs. Dawson was a
+woman of great peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great variety
+of companions in succession, and that no one had found it practicable to
+continue with her. Mary was not discouraged by this information, and
+accepted the situation, with a resolution that she would effect in this
+respect, what none of her predecessors had been able to do. In the
+sequel she had reason to consider the account she had received as
+sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax in her endeavours. By
+method, constancy and firmness, she found the means of making her
+situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally confess, that
+Mary was the only person that had lived with her in that situation, in
+her treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.
+
+With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for two years, and only left
+her, summoned by the melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly
+declining health. True to the calls of humanity, Mary felt in this
+intelligence an irresistible motive, and eagerly returned to the
+paternal roof which she had before resolutely quitted. The residence of
+her father at this time, was at Enfield near London. He had, I believe,
+given up agriculture from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing
+that he now made it less a source of profit than loss, and being thought
+advisable that he should rather live upon the interest of his property
+already in possession.
+
+The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering, but hopeless. Mary was
+assiduous in her attendance upon her mother. At first, every attention
+was received with acknowledgements and gratitude; but, as the attentions
+grew habitual, and the health of the mother more and more wretched, they
+were rather exacted, than received. Nothing would be taken by the
+unfortunate patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was denied night
+or day, and by the time nature was exhausted in the parent, the daughter
+was qualified to assume her place, and become in turn herself a patient.
+The last words her mother ever uttered were, “A little patience, and all
+will be over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to by Mary in the
+course of her writings.
+
+Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary bid a final adieu to the
+roof of her father. According to my memorandum, I find her next the
+inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village of Fulham. Upon what
+plan they now lived together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not
+that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional burthen upon the
+industry of her friend. Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they
+approached more nearly to a footing of equality; and their attachment
+became more rooted and active.
+
+Mary was ever ready at the call of distress, and, in particular, during
+her whole life was eager and active to promote the welfare of every
+member of her family. In 1780 she attended the death-bed of her mother;
+in 1782 she was summoned by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend
+her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop, who, subsequently to a
+dangerous lying-in, remained for some months in a very afflicting
+situation. Mary continued with her sister without intermission, to her
+perfect recovery.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. III.
+                               1783–1785.
+
+
+Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth year of her age. Her project,
+five years before, had been personal independence; it was now
+usefulness. In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s illness, and
+during the subsequent convalescence, she had leisure to ruminate upon
+purposes of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek something more
+arduous than the mere removal of personal vexations; and the sensibility
+of her heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.
+The derangement of her father’s affairs daily became more and more
+glaring; and a small independent provision made for herself and her
+sisters appears to have been sacrificed in the wreck. For ten years,
+from 1782 to 1792, she may be said to have been, in a great degree, the
+victim of a desire to promote the benefit of others. She did not foresee
+the severe disappointment with which an exclusive purpose of this sort
+is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay a stress upon the
+consequent gratitude of those she benefited; and she did not
+sufficiently consider that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the
+interests and society of others, we acquire a more exquisite sense of
+their defects, and are tormented with their untractableness and folly.
+
+The project upon which she now determined, was no other than that of a
+day-school, to be superintended by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two
+sisters.
+
+They accordingly opened one in the year 1783, at the village of
+Islington; but in the course of a few months removed it to Newington
+Green. Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced the future
+events of her life. The first of these in her own estimation was Dr.
+Richard Price, well known for his political and mathematical
+calculations, and universally esteemed by those who knew him, for the
+simplicity of his manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The regard
+conceived by these two persons for each other, was mutual, and partook
+of a spirit of the purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the
+principles of the church of England, but her esteem for this venerable
+preacher led her occasionally to attend upon his public instructions.
+Her religion was, in reality, little allied to any system of forms; and,
+as she has often told me, was founded rather in taste, than in the
+niceties of polemical discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached
+itself to the sublime and the amiable. She found an inexpressible
+delight in the beauties of nature, and in the splendid reveries of the
+imagination. But nature itself, she thought, would be no better than a
+vast blank, if the mind of the observer did not supply it with an
+animating soul. When she walked amidst the wonders of nature, she was
+accustomed to converse with her God. To her mind he was pictured as not
+less amiable, generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted. In fact,
+she had received few lessons of religion in her youth, and her religion
+was almost entirely of her own creation. But she was not on that account
+the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous in discharging what she
+considered as its duties. She could not recollect the time when she had
+believed the doctrine of future punishments. The tenets of her system
+were the growth of her own moral taste, and her religion therefore had
+always been a gratification, never a terror to her. She expected a
+future state; but she would not allow her ideas of that future state to
+be modified by the notions of judgment and retribution. From this
+sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure she took in an
+occasional attendance upon the sermons of Dr. Price, was not accompanied
+with a superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact is, that, so
+far down as the year 1787, she regularly frequented public worship, for
+the most part according to the forms of the church of England. After
+that period her attendance became less constant, and in no long time was
+wholly discontinued. I believe it may be admitted as a maxim, that no
+person of a well furnished mind, that has shaken off the implicit
+subjection of youth, and is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can
+bring himself to conform to the public and regular routine of sermons
+and prayers.
+
+Another of the friends she acquired at this period, was Mrs. Burgh,
+widow of the author of the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally
+well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her benevolence. Mary,
+whenever she had occasion to allude to her, to the last period of her
+life, paid the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining friend
+necessary to be enumerated in this place, is the Rev. John Hewlet, now
+master of a Boarding-school at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I shall
+have occasion to mention hereafter.
+
+I have already said that Fanny’s health had been materially injured by
+her incessant labours for the maintenance of her family. She had also
+suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon her mind. To these
+different sources of ill health she became gradually a victim: and at
+length discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption. By the
+medical men that attended her, she was advised to try the effects of a
+southern climate; and, about the beginning of the year 1785, sailed for
+Lisbon.
+
+The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated her friend, was a
+sentiment of inferiority and reverence; but that, from the operation of
+a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably changed. Fanny had
+originally been far before her in literary attainments; this disparity
+no longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might endeavour to free
+herself from the delusions of self-esteem, this period of observation
+upon her own mind and that of her friend, could not pass, without her
+perceiving that there were some essential characteristics of genius,
+which she possessed, and in which her friend was deficient. The
+principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable greatness of
+soul, by which, after a short internal struggle, she was accustomed to
+rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever Mary undertook, she
+perhaps in all instances accomplished; and, to her lofty spirit,
+scarcely any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform. Fanny, on the
+contrary, was a woman of a timid and irresolute nature, accustomed to
+yield to difficulties, and probably priding herself in this morbid
+softness of her temper. One instance that I have heard Mary relate of
+this sort, was, that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with her
+domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire to have a home of her
+own. Mary, who felt nothing more pressing than to relieve the
+inconveniencies of her friend, determined to accomplish this object for
+her. It cost her infinite exertions; but at length she was able to
+announce to Fanny that a house was prepared, and that she was on the
+spot to receive her. The answer which Fanny returned to the letter of
+her friend, consisted almost wholly of an enumeration of objections to
+the quitting her family, which she had not thought of before, but which
+now appeared to her of considerable weight.
+
+The judgment which experience had taught Mary to form of the mind of her
+friend, determined her in the advice she gave, at the period to which I
+have brought down the story. Fanny was recommended to seek a softer
+climate, but she had no funds to defray the expence of such an
+undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of Dublin, but then resident in
+the kingdom of Portugal, paid his addresses to her. The state of her
+health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford the shadow of a hope;
+it was not therefore a time at which it was most obvious to think of
+marriage. She conceived however that nothing should be omitted, which
+might alleviate, if it could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy
+acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly made the voyage to Lisbon;
+and the marriage took place on the twenty-fourth of February 1785.
+
+The change of climate and situation was productive of little benefit;
+and the life of Fanny was only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which
+soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time, was impressed with the
+idea that her friend would die in this distant country; and, shocked
+with the recollection of her separation from the circle of her friends,
+determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend her. This resolution was
+treated by her acquaintance as in the utmost degree visionary; but she
+was not to be diverted from her point. She had not money to defray her
+expences: she must quit for a long time the school, the very existence
+of which probably depended upon her exertions.
+
+No person was ever better formed for the business of education; if it be
+not a sort of absurdity to speak of a person as formed for an inferior
+object, who is in possession of talents, in the fullest degree adequate
+to something on a more important and comprehensive scale. Mary had a
+quickness of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies, but
+which led her to imagine that she saw the mind of the person with whom
+she had any transaction, and to refer the principle of her approbation
+or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice of their sentiments. She
+was occasionally severe and imperious in her resentments; and, when she
+strongly disapproved, was apt to express her censure in terms that gave
+a very humiliating sensation to the person against whom it was directed.
+Her displeasure however never assumed its severest form, but when it was
+barbed by disappointment. Where she expected little, she was not very
+rigid in her censure of error.
+
+But, to whatever the defects of her temper might amount, they were never
+exercised upon her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to make use
+of an ungenerous advantage, or to wound the defenceless. To her servants
+there never was a mistress more considerate or more kind. With children
+she was the mirror of patience. Perhaps, in all her extensive experience
+upon the subject of education, she never betrayed one symptom of
+irascibility. Her heart was the seat of every benevolent feeling; and
+accordingly, in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness and
+sympathy alone that prompted her conduct. Sympathy, when it mounts to a
+certain height, inevitably begets affection in the person to whom it is
+exercised; and I have heard her say, that she never was concerned in the
+education of one child, who was not personally attached to her, and
+earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure. Another eminent
+advantage she possessed in the business of education, was that she was
+little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty. She saw, as it were by
+intuition, the path which her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm
+confidence in her own power to effect what she desired. Yet, with all
+this, she had scarcely a tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched
+symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments; and governed
+herself accordingly. While I thus enumerate her more than maternal
+qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the recollection of
+her orphan children!
+
+Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her from the journey to Lisbon,
+she found among them a willingness to facilitate the execution of her
+project, when it was once fixed. Mrs. Burgh in particular, supplied her
+with money, which however she always conceived came from Dr. Price. This
+loan, I have reason to believe, was faithfully repaid.
+
+It was during her residence at Newington Green, that she was introduced
+to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as
+in some sort the father of English literature. The doctor treated her
+with particular kindness and attention, had a long conversation with
+her, and desired her to repeat her visit often. This she firmly purposed
+to do; but the news of his last illness, and then of his death,
+intervened to prevent her making a second visit.
+
+Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived but a short time
+before her friend was prematurely delivered, and the event was fatal to
+both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto the chosen object of
+Mary’s attachment, died on the 29th of November, 1785.
+
+It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters from Norway, written
+ten years after her decease. “When a warm heart has received strong
+impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments; and
+the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent, by fondly
+retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I
+have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every
+nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear
+friend, the friend of my youth; still she is present with me, and I hear
+her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath.”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. IV.
+                               1785–1787.
+
+
+No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably to enlarge the
+understanding of Mary. She was admitted into the best company the
+English factory afforded. She made many profound observations on the
+character of the natives, and the baleful effects of superstition. The
+obsequies of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by stealth and in
+darkness, tended to invigorate these observations in her mind.
+
+She sailed upon her voyage home about the twentieth of December. On this
+occasion a circumstance occurred, that deserves to be recorded. While
+they were on their passage, they fell in with a French vessel, in great
+distress, and in daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same
+time that it was almost destitute of provisions. The Frenchman hailed
+them, and intreated the English captain, in consideration of his
+melancholy situation, to take him and his crew on board. The Englishman
+represented in reply, that his stock of provisions was by no means
+adequate to such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely refused
+compliance. Mary, shocked at his apparent insensibility, took up the
+cause of the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have him called to
+a severe account, when he arrived in England. She finally prevailed, and
+had the satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in question possibly
+owed their lives to her interposition.
+
+When she arrived in England, she found that her school had suffered
+considerably in her absence. It can be little reproach to any one, to
+say that they were found incapable of supplying her place. She not only
+excelled in the management of the children, but had also the talent of
+being attentive and obliging to the parents, without degrading herself.
+
+The period at which I am now arrived is important, as conducting to the
+first step of her literary career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned
+literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary produce, and had
+urged her to make trial of the truth of his judgment. At this time she
+was desirous of assisting the father and mother of Fanny in an object
+they had in view, the transporting themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,
+what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready to take on herself
+to effect. For this purpose she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one
+hundred and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education of
+Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St.
+Paul’s Church Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,
+which she immediately applied to the object for the sake of which the
+pamphlet was written.
+
+Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the affair of the school. She
+was dissatisfied with the different appearance it presented upon her
+return, from the state in which she left it. Experience impressed upon
+her a rooted aversion to that sort of cohabitation with her sisters,
+which the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation is a point of
+delicate experiment, and is, in a majority of instances, pregnant with
+ill humour and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit of adventure
+which characterized Mary, were not felt in an equal degree by her
+sisters, so that a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant
+upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the other hand, they could
+scarcely perhaps be perfectly easy, in observing the superior degree of
+deference and courtship, which her merit extorted from almost every one
+that knew her. Her kindness for them was not diminished, but she
+resolved that the mode of its exertion in future should be different,
+tending to their benefit, without intrenching upon her own liberty.
+
+Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her, such as, regarding only the
+situations through which she had lately passed, is usually termed
+advantageous. This was, to accept the office of governess to the
+daughters of Lord Viscount Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of
+Kingston of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held out to her, were such
+as she determined to accept, at the same time resolving to retain the
+situation only for a short time. Independence was the object after which
+she thirsted, and she was fixed to try whether it might not be found in
+literary occupation. She was desirous however first to accumulate a
+small sum of money, which should enable her to consider at leisure the
+different literary engagements that might offer, and provide in some
+degree for the eventual deficiency of her earliest attempts.
+
+The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough, was offered to her
+through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the under
+masters of Eton school. She spent some time at the house of this
+gentleman, immediately after her giving up the school at Newington
+Green. Here she had an opportunity of making an accurate observation
+upon the manners and conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas
+she retained of it were by no means favourable. By all that she saw, she
+was confirmed in a very favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of
+day-schools, where, as she expressed it, “children have the opportunity
+of conversing with children, without interfering with domestic
+affections, the foundation of virtue.”
+
+Though her residence in the family of Lord Kingsborough continued
+scarcely more than twelve months, she left behind her, with them and
+their connections, a very advantageous impression. The governesses the
+young ladies had hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,
+controlled in every thing by the mother; Mary insisted upon the
+unbounded exercise of her own discretion. When the young ladies heard of
+their governess coming from England, they heard in imagination of a new
+enemy, and declared their resolution to guard themselves accordingly.
+Mary however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence, and the
+friendship that soon grew up between her and Margaret King, now Countess
+Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon degree cordial and
+affectionate. Mary always spoke of this young lady in terms of the
+truest applause, both in relation to the eminence of her intellectual
+powers, and the ingenuous amiableness of her disposition. Lady
+Kingsborough, from the best motives, had imposed upon her daughters a
+variety of prohibitions, both as to the books they should read, and in
+many other respects. These prohibitions had their usual effects;
+inordinate desire for the things forbidden, and clandestine indulgence.
+Mary immediately restored the children to their liberty, and undertook
+to govern them by their affections only. The salutary effects of the new
+system of education were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough soon
+felt no other uneasiness than lest the children should love their
+governess better than their mother.
+
+Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the persons who visited Lord
+Kingsborough’s house, for she always appeared there with the air of an
+equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her mention the ludicrous
+distress of a woman of quality, whose name I have forgotten, that, in a
+large company, singled out Mary, and entered into a long conversation
+with her. After the conversation was over, she enquired whom she had
+been talking with, and found, to her utter mortification and dismay,
+that it was Miss King’s governess.
+
+One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance, whom Mary was
+accustomed to speak of with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,
+member of parliament for the county of Wexford. She held his talents in
+very high estimation; she was strongly prepossessed in favour of the
+goodness of his heart; and she always spoke of him as the most perfect
+gentleman she had ever known. She felt the regret of a disappointed
+friend, at the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.
+
+Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer of the year 1787 at Bristol
+Hot-Wells, and had formed the project of proceeding from thence to the
+Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to accompany them. The plan
+however was ultimately given up, and Mary in consequence closed her
+connection with them, earlier than she otherwise had purposed to do.
+
+At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little book which bears the title
+of Mary, a Fiction. A considerable part of this story consists, with
+certain modifications, of the incidents of her own friendship with
+Fanny. All the events that do not relate to that subject are fictitious.
+
+This little work, if Mary had never produced any thing else, would
+serve, with persons of true taste and sensibility, to establish the
+eminence of her genius. The story is nothing. He that looks into the
+book only for incident, will probably lay it down with disgust. But the
+feelings are of the truest and most exquisite class; every circumstance
+is adorned with that species of imagination, which enlists itself under
+the banners of delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment, as it is
+called, is too often another name for a work of affectation. He that
+should imagine that the sentiments of this book are affected, would
+indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. V.
+                               1787–1790.
+
+
+Being now determined to enter upon her literary plan, Mary came
+immediately from Bristol to the metropolis. Her conduct under this
+circumstance was such as to do credit both to her own heart, and that of
+Mr. Johnson, her publisher, between whom and herself there now commenced
+an intimate friendship. She had seen him upon occasion of publishing her
+Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, and she addressed two or three
+letters to him during her residence in Ireland. Upon her arrival in
+London in August 1787, she went immediately to his house, and frankly
+explained to him her purpose, at the same time requesting his assistance
+and advice as to its execution. After a short conversation Mr. Johnson
+invited her to make his house her home, till she should have suited
+herself with a fixed residence. She accordingly resided at this time two
+or three weeks under his roof. At the same period she paid a visit or
+two of similar duration to some friends, at no great distance from the
+metropolis.
+
+At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house in George-street, on the
+Surry side of Black Friar’s Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for
+her during her excursion into the country. The three years immediately
+ensuing, may be said, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have
+been the most active period of her life. She brought with her to this
+habitation, the novel of Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,
+and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale, entitled, the Cave of
+Fancy, which she thought proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am
+told that at this period she appeared under great dejection of spirits,
+and filled with melancholy regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A
+period of two years had elapsed since the death of that friend; but it
+was possibly the composition of the fiction of Mary, that renewed her
+sorrows in their original force. Soon after entering upon her new
+habitation, she produced a little work, entitled, Original Stories from
+Real Life, intended for the use of children. At the commencement of her
+literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement aversion to
+the being regarded, by her ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an
+author, and to have employed some precautions to prevent its occurrence.
+
+The employment which the bookseller suggested to her, as the easiest and
+most certain source of pecuniary income, of course, was translation.
+With this view she improved herself in her French, with which she had
+previously but a slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and
+German languages. The greater part of her literary engagements at this
+time, were such as were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She
+new-modelled and abridged a work, translated from the Dutch, entitled,
+Young Grandison: she began a translation from the French, of a book,
+called, the New Robinson; but in this undertaking, she was, I believe,
+anticipated by another translator: and she compiled a series of extracts
+in verse and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s Speaker, which bears
+the title of the Female Reader; but which, from a cause not worth
+mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different name in the
+title-page.
+
+About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson instituted the Analytical
+Review, in which Mary took a considerable share. She also translated
+Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions; made an abridgement of
+Lavater’s Physiognomy, from the French, which has never been published;
+and compressed Salzmann’s Elements of Morality, a German production,
+into a publication in three volumes duodecimo. The translation of
+Salzmann produced a correspondence between Mary and the author; and he
+afterwards repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German translation
+of the Rights of Woman. Such were her principal literary occupations,
+from the autumn of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.
+
+It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort of miscellaneous
+literary employment, seems, for the time at least, rather to damp and
+contract, than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The writer is
+accustomed to see his performances answer the mere mercantile purpose of
+the day, and confounded with those of persons to whom he is secretly
+conscious of a superiority. No neighbour mind serves as a mirror to
+reflect the generous confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps the
+man never yet existed who could maintain his enthusiasm to its full
+vigour, in the midst of this kind of solitariness. He is touched with
+the torpedo of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which Mary produced
+during this period, is marked with those daring flights, which exhibit
+themselves in the little fiction she composed just before its
+commencement. Among effusions of a nobler cast, I find occasionally
+interspersed some of that homily-language, which, to speak from my own
+feelings, is calculated to damp the moral courage, it was intended to
+awaken. This is probably to be assigned to the causes above described.
+
+I have already said that one of the purposes which Mary had conceived, a
+few years before, as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise
+insipid, or embittered, draught of human life, was usefulness. On this
+side, the period of her existence of which I am now treating, is more
+brilliant, than in any literary view. She determined to apply as great a
+part as possible of the produce of her present employments, to the
+assistance of her friends and of the distressed; and, for this purpose,
+laid down to herself rules of the most rigid economy. She began with
+endeavouring to promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived that
+there was no situation in which she could place them, at once so
+respectable and agreeable, as that of governesses in private families.
+She determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour to qualify
+them for such an undertaking. Her younger sister she sent to Paris,
+where she remained near two years. The elder she placed in a school near
+London, first as a parlour-boarder, and afterwards as a teacher. Her
+brother James, who had already been at sea, she first took into her
+house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction, to qualify him for a
+respectable situation in the royal navy, where he was shortly after made
+a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite brother, had been articled
+to the eldest, an attorney in the Minories; but, not being satisfied
+with his situation, she removed him; and in some time after, having
+first placed him with a farmer for instruction, she fitted him out for
+America, where his speculations, founded upon the basis she had
+provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous. The reason so much
+of this parental sort of care fell upon her, was, that her father had by
+this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances. His affairs having
+grown too complex for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them to
+the management of a near relation; but Mary, not being satisfied with
+the conduct of the business, took them into her own hands. The exertions
+she made, and the struggles which she entered into however, in this
+instance, were ultimately fruitless. To the day of her death her father
+was almost wholly supported by funds which she supplied to him. In
+addition to her exertions for her own family, she took a young girl of
+about seven years of age under her protection and care, the niece of
+Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then
+lately dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.
+
+The period, from the end of the year 1787 to the end of the year 1790,
+though consumed in labours of little eclat, served still further to
+establish her in a friendly connection from which she derived many
+pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, contracted a great personal
+regard for her, which resembled in many respects that of a parent. As
+she frequented his house, she of course became acquainted with his
+guests. Among these may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,
+Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late Mr. George Anderson,
+accountant to the board of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,
+the celebrated painter. Between both of the two latter and herself,
+there existed sentiments of genuine affection and friendship.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. VI.
+                               1790–1792.
+
+
+Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had for the most part, been
+silent; and had been productive of income to herself, without apparently
+leading to the wreath of fame. From this time she was destined to
+attract the notice of the public, and perhaps no female writer ever
+obtained so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.
+
+It cannot be doubted that, while, for three years of literary
+employment, she “held the noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was
+insensibly advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The uninterrupted
+habit of composition gave a freedom and firmness to the expression of
+her sentiments. The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,
+and enlarged her mind. The French revolution, while it gave a
+fundamental shock to the human intellect through every region of the
+globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect in the progress of
+Mary’s reflections. The prejudices of her early years suffered a
+vehement concussion. Her respect for establishments was undermined. At
+this period occurred a misunderstanding upon public grounds, with one of
+her early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds and exploded
+absurdities, had been increased, by the operation of those very
+circumstances, by which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the race
+of independence.
+
+The event, immediately introductory to the rank which from this time she
+held in the lists of literature, was the publication of Burke’s
+Reflections on the Revolution in France. This book, after having been
+long promised to the world, finally made its appearance on the first of
+November 1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty, and impressed
+with a warm interest in the struggle that was now going on, seized her
+pen in the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which she was
+strongly susceptible. She was in the habit of composing with rapidity,
+and her answer, which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,
+obtained extraordinary notice. Marked as it is with the vehemence and
+impetuousness of its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too
+contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the great man against whom its
+attack is directed. But this circumstance was not injurious to the
+success of the publication. Burke had been warmly loved by the most
+liberal and enlightened friends of freedom, and they were proportionably
+inflamed and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon what they deemed
+to be its sacred cause.
+
+Short as was the time in which Mary composed her Answer to Burke’s
+Reflections, there was one anecdote she told me concerning it, which
+seems worth recording in this place. It was sent to the press, as is the
+general practice when the early publication of a piece is deemed a
+matter of importance, before the composition was finished. When Mary had
+arrived at about the middle of her work, she was seized with a temporary
+fit of torpor and indolence, and began to repent of her undertaking. In
+this state of mind, she called, one evening, as she was in the practice
+of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of relieving herself by an
+hour or two’s conversation. Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her
+nature, led her to describe what had just past in her thoughts. Mr.
+Johnson immediately, in a kind and friendly way, intreated her not to
+put any constraint upon her inclination, and to give herself no
+uneasiness about the sheets already printed, which he would cheerfully
+throw a side, if it would contribute to her happiness. Mary had wanted
+stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged, in what she well knew
+to be an unreasonable access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily
+falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect that she would lay
+aside her undertaking, piqued her pride. She immediately went home; and
+proceeded to the end of her work, with no other interruptions but what
+were absolutely indispensible.
+
+It is probable that the applause which attended her Answer to Burke,
+elevated the tone of her mind. She had always felt much confidence in
+her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that the actual perception of
+a similar feeling respecting us in a multitude of others, must increase
+the confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any human being. Mary
+accordingly proceeded, in a short time after, to the composition of her
+most celebrated production, the Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
+
+Never did any author enter into a cause, with a more ardent desire to be
+found, not a flourishing and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.
+She considered herself as standing forth in defence of one half of the
+human species, labouring under a yoke which, through all the records of
+time, had degraded them from the station of rational beings, and almost
+sunk them to the level of the brutes. She saw indeed, that they were
+often attempted to be held in silken fetters, and bribed into the love
+of slavery; but the disguise and the treachery served only the more
+fully to confirm her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language of
+Calista, as
+
+              “In every state of life the slaves of men:”
+
+the rich as alternately under the despotism of a father, a brother, and
+a husband; and the middling and the poorer classes shut out from the
+acquisition of bread with independence, when they are not shut out from
+the very means of an industrious subsistence. Such were the views she
+entertained of the subject; and such the feelings with which she warmed
+her mind.
+
+The work is certainly a very bold and original production. The strength
+and firmness with which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau, Dr.
+Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting the condition of women,
+cannot but make a strong impression upon every ingenuous reader. The
+public at large formed very different opinions respecting the character
+of the performance. Many of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather
+masculine description. The spirited and decisive way in which the author
+explodes the system of gallantry, and the species of homage with which
+the sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty produced a
+sentiment in their mind, which they mistook for a sense of injustice.
+The pretty soft creatures that are so often to be found in the female
+sex, and that class of men who believe they could not exist without such
+pretty, soft creatures to resort to, were in arms against the author of
+so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There are also, it must be
+confessed, occasional passages of a stern and rugged feature,
+incompatible with the true stamina of the writer’s character. But, if
+they did not belong to her fixed and permanent character, they belonged
+to her character _pro tempore_; and what she thought, she scorned to
+qualify.
+
+Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian temper, which
+characterised some parts of the book, it is impossible not to remark a
+luxuriance of imagination, and a trembling delicacy of sentiment, which
+would have done honour to a poet, bursting with all the visions of an
+Armida and a Dido.
+
+The contradiction, to the public apprehension was equally great, as to
+the person of the author, as it was when they considered the temper of
+the book. In the champion of her sex, who was described as endeavouring
+to invest them with all the rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted
+to seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to find a sturdy,
+muscular, raw-boned virago; and they were not a little surprised, when,
+instead of all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person, and, in
+the best and most engaging sense, feminine in her manners.
+
+The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is undoubtedly a very unequal
+performance, and eminently deficient in method and arrangement. When
+tried by the hoary and long-established laws of literary composition, it
+can scarcely maintain its claim to be placed in the first class of human
+productions. But when we consider the importance of its doctrines, and
+the eminence of genius it displays, it seems not very improbable that it
+will be read as long as the English language endures. The publication of
+this book forms an epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and Mary
+Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be found to have performed more
+substantial service for the cause of her sex, than all the other
+writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves animated in the
+behalf of oppressed and injured beauty.
+
+The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects of this performance,
+will be changed into astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of this
+inestimable moment, was begun, carried on, and finished in the state in
+which it now appears, in a period of no more than six weeks.
+
+It is necessary here that I should resume the subject of the friendship
+that subsisted between Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of
+the most memorable events in her subsequent history. He is a native of
+the republic of Switzerland, and has spent the principal part of his
+life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence of his genius can
+scarcely be disputed; it has indeed received the testimony which is the
+least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable of his
+contemporary artists. He has one of the most striking characteristics of
+genius, a daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure. The work
+in which he is at present engaged, a series of pictures for the
+illustration of Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced solely
+upon the incitement of his own mind, is a proof of this, if indeed his
+whole life had not sufficiently proved it.
+
+Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends, and was at this time
+in the habit of visiting him two or three times a week. Mary, one of
+whose strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations of pleasure
+she felt from the associations of visible objects, had hitherto never
+been acquainted, with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced
+therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was a high gratification to her;
+while he found in Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the
+emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any other with whom he
+ever conversed. Painting, and subjects closely connected with painting,
+were their almost constant topics of conversation; and they found them
+inexhaustible. It cannot be doubted, but that this was a species of
+exercise very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s mind.
+
+Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary derived improvement from Mr.
+Fuseli, she may also be suspected of having caught the infection of some
+of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli was ardently attached to
+literature; but the demands of his profession have prevented him from
+keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance with it, that
+belles-lettres scholars frequently possess. Of consequence, the
+favourites of his boyish years remain his only favourites. Homer is with
+Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit of every human perfection. Milton,
+Shakespear, and Richardson, have also engaged much of his attention. The
+nearest rival of Homer, I believe, if Homer can have a rival, is Jean
+Jacques Rousseau. A young man embraces entire the opinions of a
+favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had leisure to bring the
+opinions of his youth to a revision. Smitten with Rousseau’s conception
+of the perfectness of the savage state, and the essential abortiveness
+of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at all our little attempts at
+improvement, with a spirit that borders perhaps too much upon contempt
+and indifference. One of his favourite positions is the divinity of
+genius. This is a power that comes complete at once from the hands of
+the Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man of real genius
+are such, in all their grand and most important features, as no
+subsequent assiduity can amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat
+of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a disposition to search,
+in every thing new or modern, for occasions of censure. I believe Mary
+came something more a cynic out of the school of Mr. Fuseli, than she
+went into it.
+
+But the principal circumstance that relates to the intercourse of Mary,
+and this celebrated artist, remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli
+frequently; he amused, delighted and instructed her. As a painter, it
+was impossible she should not wish to see his works, and consequently to
+frequent his house. She visited him; her visits were returned.
+Notwithstanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a temper
+to live upon terms of so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,
+without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in his society, she
+transferred by association to his person. What she experienced in this
+respect, was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy and restraint
+in which she had hitherto lived, and to which the rules of polished
+society condemn an unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and ardent
+affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married man, and his wife the
+acquaintance of Mary. She readily perceived the restrictions which this
+circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she made light of any
+difficulty that might arise out of them. Not that she was insensible to
+the value of domestic endearments between persons of an opposite sex,
+but that she scorned to suppose, that she could feel a struggle, in
+conforming to the laws she should lay down to her conduct.
+
+There cannot perhaps be a properer place than the present, to state her
+principles upon this subject, such at least as they were when I knew her
+best. She set a great value on a mutual affection between persons of an
+opposite sex. She regarded it as the principal solace of human life. It
+was her maxim, “that the imagination should awaken the senses, and not
+the senses the imagination.” In other words, that whatever related to
+the gratification of the senses, ought to arise, in a human being of a
+pure mind, only as the consequence of an individual affection. She
+regarded the manners and habits of the majority of our sex in that
+respect, with strong disapprobation. She conceived that true virtue
+would prescribe the most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and
+the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it existed.—There is no
+reason to doubt that, if Mr. Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of
+their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her choice. As it was,
+she conceived it both practicable and eligible, to cultivate a
+distinguishing affection for him, and to foster it by the endearments of
+personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness, without departing
+in the smallest degree from the rules she prescribed to herself.
+
+In September 1791, she removed from the house she occupied in
+George-street, to a large and commodious apartment in Store-street,
+Bedford-square. She began to think that she had been too rigid, in the
+laws of frugality and self-denial with which she set out in her literary
+career; and now added to the neatness and cleanliness which she had
+always scrupulously observed, a certain degree of elegance, and those
+temperate indulgences in furniture and accommodation, from which a sound
+and uncorrupted taste never fails to derive pleasure.
+
+It was in the month of November in the same year (1791), that the writer
+of this narrative was first in company with the person to whom it
+relates. He dined with her at a friend’s, together with Mr. Thomas Paine
+and one or two other persons. The invitation was of his own seeking, his
+object being to see the author of the Rights of Man, with whom he had
+never before conversed.
+
+The interview was not fortunate. Mary and myself parted, mutually
+displeased with each other. I had not read her Rights of Woman. I had
+barely looked into her Answer to Burke, and been displeased, as literary
+men are apt to be, with a few offences, against grammar and other minute
+points of composition. I had therefore little curiosity to see Mrs.
+Wollstonecraft, and a very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,
+in his general habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in
+occasionally some shrewd and striking remarks, the conversation lay
+principally between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard her, very
+frequently when I wished to hear Paine.
+
+We touched on a considerable variety of topics, and particularly on the
+characters and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been
+observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree, the practice of
+seeing every thing on the gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a
+plentiful hand, where circumstances were in any respect doubtful. I, on
+the contrary, had a strong propensity, to favourable construction, and
+particularly, where I found unequivocal marks of genius, strongly to
+incline to the supposition of generous and manly virtue. We ventilated
+in this way the characters of Voltaire and others, who have obtained
+from some individuals an ardent admiration, while the greater number
+have treated them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at last provoked
+to tell me, that praise, lavished in the way that I lavished it, could
+do no credit either to the commended or the commender. We discussed some
+questions on the subject of religion, in which her opinions approached
+much nearer to the received ones, than mine. As the conversation
+proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the tone of my own share in it. We
+touched upon all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly upon
+any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice, in giving an account of the
+conversation to a party in which I supped, though I was not sparing of
+my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of active and independent
+thinking. On her side, she did me no part of what perhaps I considered
+as justice.
+
+We met two or three times in the course of the following year, but made
+a very small degree of progress towards a cordial acquaintance.
+
+In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over to France, where she
+continued to reside for upwards of two years. One of her principal
+inducements to this step, related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli. She had, at
+first, considered it as reasonable and judicious, to cultivate what I
+may be permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him; but she did not,
+in the sequel, find all the satisfaction in this plan, which she had
+originally expected from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much
+pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent
+imagination was continually conjuring up pictures of the happiness she
+should have found, if fortune had favoured their more intimate union.
+She felt herself formed for domestic affection, and all those tender
+charities, which men of sensibility have constantly treated as the
+dearest band of human society. General conversation and society could
+not satisfy her. She felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass
+of her species; and she repined when she reflected, that the best years
+of her life were spent in this comfortless solitude. These ideas made
+the cordial intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first been one of
+her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual torment to her. She
+conceived it necessary to snap the chain of this association in her
+mind; and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new climate, and
+mingle in different scenes.
+
+It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street, which lasted
+more than twelve months, she produced nothing, except a few articles in
+the Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were chiefly employed
+upon the Sequel to the Rights of Woman; but she has scarcely left behind
+her a single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned to have
+had this destination.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. VII.
+                               1792–1795.
+
+
+The original plan of Mary, respecting her residence in France, had no
+precise limits in the article of duration; the single purpose she had in
+view being that of an endeavour to heal her distempered mind. She did
+not proceed so far as even to discharge her lodging in London; and, to
+some friends who saw her immediately before her departure, she spoke
+merely of an absence of six weeks.
+
+It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion did not originally seem
+to produce the effects she had expected from it. She was in a land of
+strangers; she had no acquaintance; she had even to acquire the power of
+receiving and communicating ideas with facility in the language of the
+country. Her first residence was in a spacious mansion to which she had
+been invited, but the master of which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at
+the time of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself surrounded
+only with servants. The gloominess of her mind communicated its own
+colour to the objects she saw; and in this temper she began a series of
+Letters on the Present Character of the French Nation, one of which she
+forwarded to her publisher, and which appears in the collection of her
+posthumous works. This performance she soon after discontinued; and it
+is, as she justly remarks, tinged with the saturnine temper which at
+that time pervaded her mind.
+
+Mary carried with her introductions to several agreeable families in
+Paris. She renewed her acquaintance with Paine. There also subsisted a
+very sincere friendship between her and Helen Maria Williams, author of
+a collection of poems of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in
+Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke of in terms of ardent
+commendation, both for the excellence of his disposition, and the force
+of his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I believe, a Swede. It
+is almost unnecessary to mention, that she was personally acquainted
+with the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.
+
+But the house that, I believe, she principally frequented at this time,
+was that of Mr. Thomas Christie, a person whose pursuits were
+mercantile, and who had written a volume on the French revolution. With
+Mrs. Christie her acquaintance was more intimate than with her husband.
+
+It was about four months after her arrival at Paris in December 1792,
+that she entered into that species of connection, for which her heart
+secretly panted, and which had the effect of diffusing an immediate
+tranquillity and cheerfulness over her manners. The person with whom it
+was formed (for it would be an idle piece of delicacy, to attempt to
+suppress a name, which is known to every one whom the reputation of Mary
+has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay, native of the United States of
+North America.
+
+The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was at the house of Mr.
+Christie; and it perhaps deserves to be noticed, that the emotions he
+then excited in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike, and that,
+for some time, she shunned all occasions of meeting him. This sentiment
+however speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.
+
+Previously to the partiality she conceived for him, she had determined
+upon a journey to Switzerland, induced chiefly by motives of economy.
+But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport; and it was probably
+the intercourse that now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that
+changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging at Neuilly, a
+village three miles from Paris.—Her habitation here was a solitary house
+in the midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than herself and the
+gardener, an old man, who performed for her many of the offices of a
+domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of making her bed.
+The gardener had a great veneration for his guest, and would set before
+her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she
+could not without the greatest difficulty obtain, when she had any
+person with her as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for
+the most part executed, her Historical and Moral View of the French
+Revolution[1], into which, as she observes, are incorporated most of the
+observations she had collected for her Letters, and which was written
+with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been
+commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a
+walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured
+to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies and murders
+that had been committed there.
+
+Footnote 1:
+
+  No part of the proposed continuation of this work, has been found
+  among the papers of the author.
+
+The commencement of the attachment Mary now formed, had neither
+confidant nor adviser.—She always conceived it to be a gross breach of
+delicacy to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred nature, an
+affair of the heart. The origin of the connection was about the middle
+of April 1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for four
+months. At the expiration of that period a circumstance occurred that
+induced her to declare it. The French convention, exasperated at the
+conduct of the British government, particularly in the affair of Toulon,
+formed a decree against the citizens of this country, by one article of
+which the English, resident in France, were ordered into prison till the
+period of a general peace. Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr.
+Imlay who, at the time their connection was formed, had no property
+whatever; because she would not involve him in certain family
+embarrassments to which she conceived herself exposed, or make him
+answerable for the pecuniary demands that existed against her. She
+however considered their engagement as of the most sacred nature; and
+they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating to America, as soon as
+they should have realized a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they
+desired. The decree however that I have just mentioned, made it
+necessary, not that a marriage should actually take place, but that Mary
+should take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature of their
+connection, she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a
+certificate from the American ambassador, as the wife of a native of
+that country.
+
+Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought proper to reside under
+the same roof, and for that purpose removed to Paris.
+
+Mary was now arrived at the situation, which, for two or three preceding
+years, her reason had pointed out to her as affording the most
+substantial prospect of happiness. She had been tossed and agitated by
+the waves of misfortune. Her childhood, as she often said, had known few
+of the endearments, which constitute the principal happiness of
+childhood. The temper of her father had early given to her mind a severe
+cast of thought, and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for the
+confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of her entrance upon
+womanhood, had been darkened, by an attendance upon the death-bed of her
+mother, and the still more afflicting calamity of her eldest sister. Her
+exertions to create a joint independence for her sisters and herself,
+had been attended, neither with the success, nor the pleasure, she had
+hoped from them. Her first youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny,
+had encountered many disappointments, and, in fine, a melancholy and
+premature catastrophe. Soon after these accumulated mortifications, she
+was engaged in a contest with a near relation, whom she regarded as
+unprincipled, respecting the wreck of her father’s fortune. In this
+affair she suffered the double pain, which arises from moral
+indignation, and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions to assist
+almost every member of her family, were great and unremitted. Finally,
+when she indulged a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly
+imagined that she should find in it the solace of her cares, she
+perceived too late, that, by continually impressing on her mind
+fruitless images of unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only
+served to give new pungency to the sensibility that was destroying her.
+
+Some persons may be inclined to observe, that the evils here enumerated,
+are not among the heaviest in the catalogue of human calamities. But
+evils take their rank, more from the temper of the mind that suffers
+them, than from their abstract nature. Upon a man of a hard and
+insensible disposition, the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless
+and impotent. There are persons, by no means hard and insensible, who,
+from an elastic and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted to
+look on the fair side of things, and, having suffered one fall,
+immediately rise again, to pursue their course, with the same eagerness,
+the same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On the other hand, we not
+unfrequently meet with persons, endowed with the most exquisite and
+delicious sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too fine a texture to
+encounter the vicissitudes of human affairs, to whom pleasure is
+transport, and disappointment is agony indescribable. This character is
+finely pourtrayed by the author of the Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in
+this respect a female Werter.
+
+She brought then, in the present instance, a wounded and sick heart, to
+take refuge in the bosom of a chosen friend. Let it not however be
+imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and ruined in its taste
+for pleasure. No; her whole character seemed to change with a change of
+fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits, were forgotten, and
+she assumed all the simplicity and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She
+was like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough, and appears again
+with the brilliancy, the sleekness, and the elastic activity of its
+happiest age.—She was playful, full of confidence, kindness and
+sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new colour and
+smoothness. Her voice became chearful; her temper overflowing with
+universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to
+day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well
+recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affection of almost
+every one that beheld it.
+
+Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of whose honour and principles
+she had the most exalted idea. She nourished an individual affection,
+which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint; and a heart like
+her’s was not formed to nourish affection by halves. Her conception of
+Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted him closely round her
+heart;” and she “indulged the thought, that she had thrown out some
+tendrils, to cling to the elm by which she wished to be supported.” This
+was “talking a new language to her;” but, “conscious that she was not a
+parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage and foster the
+luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence was entire; her love was
+unbounded. Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose to all
+the sensibilities of her nature.
+
+Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her attachment to Mr. Imlay
+gained a new link, by finding reason to suppose herself with child.
+
+Their establishment at Paris, was however broken up almost as soon as
+formed, by the circumstance of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business, urged
+as he said, by the prospect of a family, and this being a favourable
+crisis in French affairs for commercial speculations. The pursuits in
+which he was engaged, led him in the month of September to Havre de
+Grace, then called Havre Marat, probably to superintend the shipping of
+goods, in which he was jointly engaged with some other person or
+persons. Mary remained in the capital.
+
+The solitude in which she was now left, proved an unexpected trial.
+Domestic affections constituted the object upon which her heart was
+fixed; and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr. Imlay “did not
+attach those tender emotions round the idea of home,” which, every time
+they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture. She had expected his
+return from week to week, and from month to month; but a succession of
+business still continued to detain him at Havre. At the same time the
+sanguinary character which the government of France began every day more
+decisively to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity from the first
+months of her pregnancy. Before she left Neuilly, she happened one day
+to enter Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis Quinze), when
+an execution, attended with some peculiar aggravations, had just taken
+place, and the blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the pavement.
+The emotions of her soul burst forth in indignant exclamations, while a
+prudent bystander warned her of her danger, and intreated her to hasten
+and hide her discontents. She described to me, more than once, the
+anguish she felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud, and the
+twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable sensations she had ever
+experienced.
+
+Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually postponed, she determined,
+in January 1794, to join him at Havre. One motive that influenced her,
+though, I believe, by no means the principal, was the growing cruelties
+of Robespierre, and the desire she felt to be in any other place, rather
+than the devoted city, in the midst of which they were perpetrated.
+
+From January to September, Mr. Imlay and Mary lived together, with great
+harmony, at Havre, where the child, with which she was pregnant, was
+born, on the fourteenth of May, and named Frances, in remembrance of the
+dear friend of her youth, whose image could never be erased from her
+memory.
+
+In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure from Havre for the port of
+London. As this step was said to be necessary in the way of business, he
+endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre, and once more take up
+her abode at Paris. Robespierre was now no more, and, of consequence,
+the only objection she had to residing in the capital, was removed. Mr.
+Imlay was already in London, before she undertook her journey, and it
+proved the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the carriage, in which
+she travelled, being overturned no less than four times between Havre
+and Paris.
+
+This absence, like that of the preceding year in which Mr. Imlay had
+removed to Havre, was represented as an absence that was to have a short
+duration. In two months he was once again to join her at Paris. It
+proved however the prelude to an eternal separation. The agonies of such
+a separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary would have found them
+upon every supposition, were vastly increased, by the lingering method
+in which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for a long time, hung
+upon it. This circumstance produced the effect, of holding her mind, by
+force, as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and not
+suffering her to derive the just advantage from the energy and
+elasticity of her character.
+
+The procrastination of which I am speaking was however productive of one
+advantage. It put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities
+that awaited her, till the close of the year. She gained an additional
+three months of comparative happiness. But she purchased it at a very
+dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered greater misery, than
+dyed the whole year 1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It was
+wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of which the mind is
+continually awakened, by a glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring
+hope.
+
+Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred, unhappy passion?
+Because it is of the very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate
+itself. He does not love, who can resign this cherished sentiment,
+without suffering some of the sharpest struggles that our nature is
+capable of enduring. Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart upon this
+chosen friend; and one of the last impressions a worthy mind can submit
+to receive, is that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom it has
+fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to entertain a favourable
+opinion of human nature; she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,
+in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest. Mr. Imlay undertook
+to prove, in his letters written immediately after their complete
+separation, that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to the
+strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was of a different opinion.
+Whatever the reader may decide in this respect, there is one sentiment
+that, I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of pity for the
+mistake of the man, who, being in possession of such a friendship and
+attachment as those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial price, and,
+“like the base Indian, throw a pearl away, richer than all his
+tribe.[2]”
+
+Footnote 2:
+
+  A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived particular
+  gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan, who had lately become a
+  fugitive from Ireland, in consequence of a political prosecution, and
+  in whom she found those qualities which were always eminently engaging
+  to her, great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAP. VIII.
+                               1795–1796.
+
+
+In April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requested to do
+so by Mr. Imlay, who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her in
+the journey, before she could complete the necessary arrangements for
+her departure. But, notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she
+came to England with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the
+uncertainties and anguish she had endured, to trust to the suggestions
+of hope.
+
+The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified.
+Mr. Imlay had already formed another connection; as it is said, with a
+young actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions
+therefore to Mary were formal and constrained, and she probably had but
+little of his society. This alteration could not escape her penetrating
+glance. He ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary
+embarrassments which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little
+consequence to Mary what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though
+she strove not to see, that his affections were lost to her for ever.
+
+It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification
+than Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to
+the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for
+her. She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this
+time, expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted to horror,” in
+search of happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether
+escaped her; but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience
+which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she
+saw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of
+forming to herself, of the overflowing kindness of a meeting, after an
+interval of so much anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of this
+sort were present to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on such
+occasions, for reserve and reproach to endeavour to curb in the emotions
+of an affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished were speedily
+blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarrassed.
+Discussions (“explanations” they were called) followed; cruel
+explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart already
+overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions indeed to explicitness;
+but they sufficiently told, that the case admitted not of remedy.
+
+Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity in this pressing
+emergency. “Love, dear, delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend
+some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had forced her to resign; and now
+her rational prospects were blasted, just as she had learned to be
+contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated, life became an
+intolerable burthen. While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk
+of purposes of separation and independence. But, now that they were in
+the same house, she could not withhold herself from endeavours to revive
+their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours continually added
+fuel to the fire that destroyed her. She formed a desperate purpose to
+die.
+
+This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I
+only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a
+moment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and
+that his feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing
+to his activity and representations, that her life was, at this time,
+saved. She determined to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose,
+she took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and affectionateness
+of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable
+difficulty, respecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to
+require the presence of some very judicious agent, to conduct the
+business to its desired termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,
+and take the business into her own hands. Such a voyage seemed the most
+desireable thing to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,
+in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her feelings, to be
+employed in promoting the interest of a man, from whom she had
+experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired to
+be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have mentioned, occurred in
+the close of May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon this new
+expedition.
+
+The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of
+travels that so irresistibly seizes on the heart, never, in any other
+instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and
+ruggedness of character, that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
+Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to
+make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book.
+She speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and
+dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius
+which commands all our admiration. Affliction had tempered her heart to
+a softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit
+seems precisely to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.
+
+Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and
+sensibility, with all, and more than all, “that youthful poets fancy,
+when they love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to
+the arms of her former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity,
+to her apprehension, of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised to meet her
+upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to
+pass some time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her
+during her tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to
+him very urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon
+which they were hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which
+reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as “extraordinary and
+unnecessary,” and desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself.
+Feeling herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly
+determined to sail for London by the very first opportunity, that she
+might thus bring to a termination the suspence that preyed upon her
+soul.
+
+It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of
+October, that she attained the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured
+her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced from him after she
+entered it, flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations.
+She made further enquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of
+the real state of the case. Under the immediate shock which the painful
+certainty gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the
+ready-furnished house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the
+particular nature of their conference I am unable to relate. It is
+sufficient to say that the wretchedness of the night which succeeded
+this fatal discovery, impressed her with the feeling, that she would
+sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal misery.
+
+The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a
+sort of desperate serenity. She resolved to plunge herself in the
+Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she
+took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to
+Battersea-bridge, but she found it too public. It was night when she
+arrived at Putney, and by that time had begun to rain with great
+violence. The rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and down the
+bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly drenched and heavy with the
+wet, which she did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She
+then leaped from the top of the bridge, but still seemed to find a
+difficulty in sinking, which, she endeavoured to counteract by pressing
+her clothes closely round her. After some time she became insensible;
+but she always spoke of the pain she underwent as such, that, though she
+could afterwards have determined upon almost any other species of
+voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to resolve upon
+encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether this is
+to be ascribed to the mere nature of suffocation, or was not owing to
+the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.
+
+After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered
+by the exertions of those by whom the body was found. She had fought,
+with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and
+yet she lived to have every prospect of a long possession of enjoyment
+and happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that
+we find reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose,
+that they would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably happy.
+It arises indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of
+self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the
+constitution of the human mind will not suffer to remain long
+undiminished. This is a serious reflection. Probably no man would
+destroy himself from an impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral
+certainty that there were years of enjoyment still in reserve for him.
+It is perhaps a futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that
+state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the
+awakening of certain feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,
+is too strong to leave us much chance of impressing him with other
+feelings, that should have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if
+the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure cannot be expected to
+have much weight with a man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is
+so much the more to be wished, that men would impress their minds, in
+their sober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered habitual,
+seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in a paroxysm of
+desperation.
+
+The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further
+intercourse between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and
+Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in
+Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
+was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of course, fostered in her
+mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him.
+With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly
+calculated to increase the agitation of her mind. In one respect however
+it produced an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been
+looked for. It roused within her the characteristic energy of mind,
+which she seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of
+bringing the affair to a point, and not suffering months and years to
+roll on in uncertainty and suspence. This idea inspired her with an
+extraordinary resolution. The language she employed, was, in effect, as
+follows: “If we are ever to live together again, it must be now. We meet
+now, or we part for ever. You say, You cannot abruptly break off the
+connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character,
+to wait the uncertain issue of that connection. I am determined to come
+to a decision. I consent then, for the present, to live with you, and
+the woman to whom you have associated yourself. I think it important
+that you should learn habitually to feel for your child the affection of
+a father. But, if you reject this proposal, here we end. You are now
+free. We will correspond no more. We will have no intercourse of any
+kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead.”
+
+The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at
+first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house
+he was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was
+calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted his
+concession.
+
+In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at
+present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary
+had, previously to this, fixed herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place,
+where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for
+the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen this situation;
+“existing,” as she expressed it, “in a living tomb, and her life but an
+exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch.”
+
+Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a
+passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to
+extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she
+could not restrain herself, from making another effort, and desiring to
+see him once more. “During his absence, affection had led her to make
+numberless excuses for his conduct,” and she probably wished to believe
+that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely of a
+casual nature. To this application, she observes, that “he returned no
+other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he
+would not see her.”
+
+This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not
+the ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business
+with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the
+only one at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was,
+that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town,
+Mary called at Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was
+in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s
+voice in the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make
+her appearance. Mary however was not to be controlled. She thought, as
+she afterwards told me, that it was not consistent with conscious
+rectitude, that she should shrink, as if abashed, from the presence of
+one by whom she deemed herself injured. Her child was with her. She
+entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near
+two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary into
+another apartment, and promised to dine with her at her lodging, I
+believe, the next day.
+
+In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he
+expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated
+to sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from
+her, in a way which she censured as unfeeling; this species of sternness
+constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at
+this moment to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the gentleness
+of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam, awakening the hope of
+returning day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;
+and even after the period of delirium expired, she still dwelt, with an
+aching eye, upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a
+reconciliation.
+
+At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a
+short time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as
+she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the world that she
+did so—not in the least—but she was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot,
+or tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality.”
+
+The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country,
+where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I
+believe, while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary
+communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely to expel from her
+mind, all remaining doubt as to the issue of the affair.
+
+Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty
+to her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted
+predilection, was discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast
+off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a spring of
+inexhaustible bitterness. Her present residence among the scenes of
+nature, was favourable to this purpose. She was at the house of an old
+and intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton, whose partiality for
+her was strong and sincere. Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir
+William East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the kindness of her
+friend, and the hospitable and, distinguishing attentions of this
+respectable family, she derived considerable benefit. She had been
+amused and interested in her journey to Norway; but with this
+difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with
+trembling anxiety to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,
+whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw aside every
+thought that recurred to him, while she felt herself called upon to make
+one more effort for life and happiness.
+
+Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long
+after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he
+alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the
+rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any
+oppressive emotion.
+
+Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the
+real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and
+was displeased when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of
+him. She was characterised by a strong sense of indignation; but her
+emotions of this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided
+into a dignified sereneness and equanimity.
+
+The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not
+completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
+that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind,
+suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness
+and debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the
+mental torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with
+an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of
+October, prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she
+wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration she prepared
+them for the press, and they were published in the close of that year.
+In January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy, which turns, in
+the serious scenes, upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered
+to both the winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the period
+of her decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and imperfect a
+state, that I judged it most respectful to her memory to commit it to
+the flames. To understand this extraordinary degree of activity, we must
+recollect however the entire solitude, in which most of her hours were
+at that time consumed.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAP. IX.
+                               1796–1797.
+
+
+I am now led, by the progress of the story, to the last branch of her
+history, the connection between Mary and myself. And this I relate with
+the same simplicity that has pervaded every other part of my narrative.
+If there ever were any motives of prudence or delicacy, that could
+impose a qualification upon the story, they are now over. They could
+have no relation but to factitious rules of decorum. There are no
+circumstance of her life, that, in the judgment of honour and reason,
+could brand her with disgrace. Never did there exist a human being, that
+needed, with less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon the
+universe to judge them. An event of the most deplorable sort, his
+awfully imposed silence upon the gabble of frivolity.
+
+We renewed our acquaintance in January 1796, but with no particular
+effect, except so far as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to
+the respect I had always entertained for her talents. It was in the
+close of that month that I read her Letters from Norway; and the
+impression that book produced upon me has been already related.
+
+It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw her after her
+excursion into Berkshire. On that day she called upon me in Somers Town,
+she having, since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,
+Pentonville, at no great distance from the place of my habitation. From
+that time our intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible
+degrees.
+
+The partiality we conceived for each other, was in that mode, which I
+have always regarded as the purest and most refined style of love. It
+grew with equal advances in the mind of each. It would have been
+impossible for the most minute observer to have said who was before, and
+who was after. One sex did not take the priority which long established
+custom has awarded it, nor the other overstep that delicacy which is so
+severely imposed. I am not conscious that either party can assume to
+have been the agent or the patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in
+the affair. When, in the course of things, the disclosure came, there
+was nothing, in a manner, for either party to disclose to the other.
+
+In July 1796 I made an excursion into the county of Norfolk, which
+occupied nearly the whole of that month. During this period Mary
+removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to Judd place West, which may
+be considered as the extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,
+she had occupied a furnished lodging. She had meditated a tour to Italy
+or Switzerland, and knew not how soon she should set out with that view.
+Now however she felt herself reconciled to a longer abode in England,
+probably without exactly knowing why this change had taken place in her
+mind. She had a quantity of furniture locked up at a broker’s ever since
+her residence in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable to bring
+it into use. This circumstance occasioned her present removal.
+
+The temporary separation attendant on my little journey, had its effect
+on the mind of both parties. It gave a space for the maturing of
+inclination. I believe that, during this interval, each furnished to the
+other the principal topic of solitary and daily contemplation. Absence
+bestows a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection, which it with
+difficulty acquires in any other way. It seems to resemble the
+communication of spirits, without the medium, or the impediment of this
+earthly frame.
+
+When we met again, we met with new pleasure, and, I may add, with a more
+decisive preference for each other. It was however three weeks longer,
+before the sentiment which trembled upon the tongue, burst from the lips
+of either. There was, as I have already said, no period of throes and
+resolute explanation attendant on the tale. It was friendship melting
+into love. Previously to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,
+yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety to have assurance complete.
+
+Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her lover, hoping to find a
+heart with which she might safely treasure her world of affection;
+fearing to commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy experience,
+fraught with that generous confidence, which, in a great soul, is never
+extinguished. I had never loved till now; or, at least, had never
+nourished a passion to the same growth, or met with an object so
+consummately worthy.
+
+We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to
+indiscriminate adoption, contrary to the established rules and
+prejudices of mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous upon
+the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine march of sentiment, as to
+require the overflowing of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and that
+which, wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of all things most
+sacredly private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to record the moment
+when it has arrived at its climax.
+
+There were however other reasons why we did not immediately marry. Mary
+felt an entire conviction of the propriety of her conduct. It would be
+absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered by desertion, she was not
+right to give way to the emotions of kindness which our intimacy
+produced, and to seek for that support in friendship and affection,
+which could alone give pleasure to her heart, and peace to her
+meditations. It was only about six months since she had resolutely
+banished every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at least eighteen that
+he ought to have been banished, and would have been banished, had it not
+been for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to leave no measure
+untried to regain him. Add to this, that the laws of etiquette
+ordinarily laid down in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that
+the sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed by the rule and
+the square. But Mary had an extreme aversion to be made the topic of
+vulgar discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this, the dreadful
+trials through which she had recently passed, may well plead in its
+excuse. She felt that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken of,
+in the former instance; and she could not resolve to do any thing that
+should immediately revive that painful topic.
+
+For myself, it is certain that I had for many years regarded marriage
+with so well-grounded an apprehension, that, notwithstanding the
+partiality for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I should have
+felt it very difficult, at least in the present stage of our
+intercourse, to have resolved on such a measure. Thus, partly from
+similar, and partly from different motives, we felt alike in this, as we
+did perhaps in every other circumstance that related to our intercourse.
+
+I have nothing further that I find it necessary to record, till the
+commencement of April 1797. We then judged it proper to declare our
+marriage, which had taken place a little before. The principal motive
+for complying with this ceremony, was the circumstance of Mary’s being
+in a state of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps with reason, to
+incur that exclusion from the society of many valuable and excellent
+individuals, which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should have
+felt an extreme repugnance to the having caused her such an
+inconvenience. And, after the experiment of seven months of as intimate
+an intercourse as our respective modes of living would admit, there was
+certainly less hazard to either, in the subjecting ourselves to those
+consequences which the laws of England annex to the relations of husband
+and wife. On the sixth of April we entered into possession of a house,
+which had been taken by us in concert.
+
+In this place I have a very curious circumstance to notice, which I am
+happy to have occasion to mention, as it tends to expose certain
+regulations of polished society, of which the absurdity vies with the
+odiousness. Mary had long possessed the advantage of an acquaintance
+with many persons of genius, and with others whom the effects of an
+intercourse with elegant society, combined with a certain portion of
+information and good sense, sufficed to render amusing companions. She
+had lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in this respect; and
+her mind, trembling between the opposite impressions of past anguish and
+renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of recreation.
+Wherever Mary appeared, admiration attended upon her. She had always
+displayed talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding, her
+travels, her long residence in France, the discipline of affliction, and
+the smiling, new-born peace which awaked a corresponding smile in her
+animated countenance, inexpressibly increased them. The way in which the
+story of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles, was probably the
+result of the partiality she excited. These elegant personages were
+divided between their cautious adherence to forms, and the desire to
+seek their own gratification. Mary made no secret of the nature of her
+connection with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well know, she put
+herself to the trouble of explaining it to a person totally indifferent
+to her, because he never failed to publish every thing he knew, and, she
+was sure, would repeat her explanation to his numerous acquaintance. She
+was of too proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy. These
+persons however, in spite of all that could be said, persisted in
+shutting their eyes, and pretending they took her for a married woman.
+
+Observe the consequence of this! While she was, and constantly professed
+to be, an unmarried mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and
+the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself a wife, and that by a
+marriage perhaps unexceptionable, the case was altered. Mary and myself,
+ignorant as we were of these elevated refinements, supposed that our
+marriage would place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of
+polished society, than ever. But it forced these people to see the
+truth, and to confess their belief of what they had carefully been told;
+and this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that the date of our
+marriage had nothing to do with this, that question being never once
+mentioned during this period. Mary indeed had, till now, retained the
+name of Imlay, which had first been assumed from necessity in France;
+but its being retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness that
+attends the introduction of a change, and not from an apprehension of
+consequences of this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the nature
+of her situation, surely sufficed to make the name she bore perfectly
+immaterial.
+
+It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a story, but in the
+language of contempt and ridicule. A serious reflection however upon the
+whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different sort. Mary retained the
+most numerous portion of her acquaintance, and the majority of those
+whom she principally valued. It was only the supporters and the subjects
+of the unprincipled manners of a court, that she lost. This however is
+immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding strictly considered, and
+uniformly acted upon, would have been to proscribe her from all valuable
+society. And who was the person proscribed? The firmest champion, and,
+as I strongly suspect, the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!
+A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined, and as delicate, as ever
+inhabited a human heart! It is fit that such persons should stand by,
+that we may have room enough for the dull and insolent dictators, the
+gamblers and demireps of polished society!
+
+Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance Mary principally
+regretted upon this occasion, were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their
+acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe, is to be ranked among her
+recent acquisitions. Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,
+which she conceived to be imposed on her by the peculiarity of her
+situation, to conform to the rules I have described. She is endowed with
+that rich and generous sensibility, which should best enable its
+possessor completely to feel the merits of her deceased friend. She very
+truly observes, in a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway
+were read by no one, who was in possession of “more reciprocity of
+feeling, or more deeply impressed with admiration of the writer’s
+extraordinary powers.”
+
+Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction reached her of so
+unexpected a circumstance, that was rather exquisite. But she disdained
+to sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of the supercilious
+and the foolish, and presently shook off the impression of the first
+surprize. That once subsided, I well know that the event was thought of,
+with no emotions, but those of superiority to the injustice she
+sustained; and was not of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which
+seemed hourly to become more vigorous and firm.
+
+I think I may venture to say, that no two persons ever found in each
+other’s society, a satisfaction more pure and refined. What it was in
+itself, can now only be known, in its full extent, to the survivor. But,
+I believe, the serenity of her countenance, 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. She had always
+possessed, in an unparallelled 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.
+
+While we lived as near neighbours only, and before our last removal, her
+mind had attained considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom
+with those emotions of anguish, which had been but too familiar to her.
+But the improvement in this respect, which accrued upon our removal and
+establishment, was extremely obvious. She was a worshipper of domestic
+life. She loved to observe the growth of affection between me and her
+daughter, then three years of age, as well as my anxiety respecting the
+child not yet born. Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature
+seems to be in this respect, is the source of a thousand endearments. No
+one knew better than Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite
+delight, from trifles, which a suspicious and formal wisdom would
+scarcely deign to remark. A little ride into the country with myself and
+the child, has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the heart, a
+general expression of confidence and affectionate soul, a sort of
+infantine, yet dignified endearment, which those who have felt may
+understand, but which I should in vain attempt to pourtray.
+
+In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was fortunate enough to
+introduce her to some of my acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she
+attached herself with all the ardour of approbation and friendship.
+
+Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory
+pleasures. It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced
+by the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject of cohabitation, I
+engaged an apartment, about twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,
+Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary
+occupations. Trifles however will be interesting to some readers, when
+they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I
+will add therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was
+possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other’s society.
+Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the
+apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make
+my appearance in the Polygon, till the hour of dinner. We agreed in
+condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man
+and his wife cannot visit in mixed society, but in company with each
+other; and we rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of
+complying with, this rule. By these means, though, for the most part, we
+spent the latter half of each day in one another’s society, yet we were
+in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree,
+the novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the more delicious and
+heart-felt pleasures of domestic life.
+
+Whatever may be thought, in other respects, of the plan we laid down to
+ourselves, we probably derived a real advantage from it, as to the
+constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary pursuits. Mary had a
+variety of projects of this sort, for the exercise of her talents, and
+the benefit of society; and, if she had lived, I believe the world would
+have had very little reason to complain of any remission of her
+industry. One of her projects, which has been already mentioned, was a
+series of Letters on the Management of Infants. Though she had been for
+some time digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to the press,
+I have found comparatively nothing that she had committed to paper
+respecting it. Another project, of longer standing, was of a series of
+books for the instruction of children. A fragment she left in execution
+of this project, is inserted in her Posthumous Works.
+
+But the principal work, in which she was engaged for more than twelve
+months before her decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of Woman. I
+shall not stop here to explain the nature of the work, as so much of it
+as was already written, is now given to the public. I shall only observe
+that, impressed as she could not fail to be, with the consciousness of
+her talents, she was desirous, in this instance, that they should effect
+what they were capable of effecting. She was sensible how arduous a task
+it is to produce a truly excellent novel; and she roused her faculties
+to grapple with it. All her other works were produced with a rapidity,
+that did not give her powers time fully to expand. But this was written
+slowly and with mature consideration. She began it in several forms,
+which she successively rejected, after they were considerably advanced.
+She wrote many parts of the work again and again, and, when she had
+finished what she intended for the first part, she felt herself more
+urgently stimulated to revise and improve what she had written, than to
+proceed, with constancy of application, in the parts that were to
+follow.
+
+
+
+
+                                CHAP. X.
+
+
+I am now led, by the course of my narrative, to the last fatal scene of
+her life. She was taken in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.
+She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding Friday, the
+confluence, I believe, of a sudden alarm. But from that time she was in
+perfect health. She was so far from being under any apprehension as to
+the difficulties of child-birth, as frequently to ridicule the fashion
+of ladies in England, who keep their chamber for one full month after
+delivery. For herself, she proposed coming down to dinner on the day
+immediately following. She had already had some experience on the
+subject in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted in every point
+to her judgment and her wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas
+of decorum, which certainly ought to have no place, at least in cases of
+danger, she determined to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of
+midwife. She was sensible that the proper business of a midwife, in the
+instance of a natural labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations
+of nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand the interposition of
+art.
+
+At five o’clock in the morning of the day of delivery, she felt what she
+conceived to be some notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,
+matron and midwife to the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, who had seen
+Mary several times previous to her delivery, was soon after sent for,
+and arrived about nine. During the whole day Mary was perfectly
+chearful. Her pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she wrote
+several notes, three addressed to me, who had gone, as usual, to my
+apartments, for the purpose of study. About two o’clock in the
+afternoon, she went up to her chamber—never more to descend.
+
+The child was born at twenty minutes after eleven at night. Mary had
+requested that I would not come into the chamber till all was over, and
+signified her intention of then performing the interesting office of
+presenting the new-born child to its father. I was sitting in a parlour;
+and it was not till after two o’clock on Thursday morning, that I
+received the alarming intelligence, that the placenta was not yet
+removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed any further, and gave
+her opinion for calling in a male practitioner. I accordingly went for
+Dr. Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same hospital, who
+arrived between three and four hours after the birth of the child. He
+immediately proceeded to the extraction of the placenta, which he
+brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied that the whole was
+removed. In that point however it afterwards appeared that he was
+mistaken.
+
+The period from the birth of the child till about eight o’clock the next
+morning, was a period full of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was
+considerable, and produced an almost uninterrupted series of fainting
+fits. I went to the chamber soon after four in the morning, and found
+her in this state. She told me some time on Thursday, “that she should
+have died the preceding night, but that she was determined not to leave
+me.”—She added, with one of those smiles which so eminently illuminated
+her countenance, “that I should not be like Porson,” alluding to the
+circumstance of that great man having lost his wife, after being only a
+few months married. Speaking of what she had already passed through, she
+declared, “that she had never known what bodily pain was before.”
+
+On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated his visit. Mary had just
+before expressed some inclination to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man
+probably of more science than any other medical professor in England,
+and between whom and herself there had long subsisted a mutual
+friendship. I mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather
+discountenanced the idea, observing that he saw no necessity for it, and
+that he supposed Dr. Fordyce was not particularly conversant with
+obstetrical cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After Dr. Poignand
+was gone, I determined to send for Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the
+patient about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He, however,
+perceived no particular cause of alarm; and, on that or the next day,
+quoted, as I am told, Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a
+corroboration of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety of employing
+females in the capacity of midwives. Mary, “had had a woman, and was
+doing extremely well.”
+
+What had passed, however, in the night between Wednesday and Thursday,
+had so far alarmed me, that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the
+chamber, during the following day. But my alarms wore off, as time
+advanced. Appearances were more favourable, than the exhausted state of
+the patient would almost have permitted me to expect. Friday morning,
+therefore, I devoted to a business of some urgency, which called me to
+different parts of the town, and which, before dinner, I happily
+completed. On my return, and during the evening, I received the most
+pleasurable sensations from the promising state of the patient. I was
+now perfectly satisfied that every thing was safe, and that, if she did
+not take cold, or suffer from any external accident, her speedy recovery
+was certain.
+
+Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday, but not absolutely
+alarming.
+
+Sunday, the third of September, I now regard as the day, that finally
+decided on the fate of the object dearest to my heart that the universe
+contained. Encouraged by what I considered as the progress of her
+recovery, I accompanied a friend in the morning in several calls, one of
+them as far as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time. On my
+return I found a degree of anxiety in every face, and was told that she
+had had a sort of shivering fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the
+length of my absence. My sister and a friend of hers, had been engaged
+to dine below stairs, but a message was sent to put them off, and Mary
+ordered that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in the room
+immediately under her on the first floor, but in the ground-floor
+parlour. I felt a pang at having been so long and so unseasonably
+absent, and determined that I would not repeat the fault.
+
+In the evening she had a second shivering fit, the symptoms of which
+were in the highest degree alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,
+the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her. This continued
+probably for five minutes. She told me, after it was over, that it had
+been a struggle between life and death, and that she had been more than
+once, in the course of it, at the point of expiring. I now apprehend
+these to have been the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned
+by the part of the placenta that remained in the womb. At the time,
+however, I was far from considering it in that light. When I went for
+Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock on the morning of Thursday,
+despair was in my heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta was
+stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical science, I felt as
+if the death of Mary was in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited my
+bosom; and her chearings were so delightful, that I hugged her
+obstinately to my heart. I was only mortified at what appeared to me a
+new delay in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I immediately sent
+for Dr. Fordyce, who had been with her in the morning, as well as on the
+three preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this morning, but
+declined paying any further visits, as we had thought proper to call in
+Dr. Fordyce.
+
+The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted. On Tuesday I found it
+necessary again to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who brought
+with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street, under the idea that some
+operation might be necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously
+persisted in viewing the fair side of things; and therefore the interval
+between Sunday and Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture of
+chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce forbad the child’s having the
+breast, and we therefore procured puppies to draw off the milk. This
+occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and the other attendants.
+Nothing could exceed the equanimity, the patience and affectionateness
+of the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I dwelt with trembling
+fondness on every favourable circumstance; and, as far it was possible
+in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind speeches,
+rewarded my affection.
+
+Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy
+series. It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her
+through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with
+wine. This task was devolved upon me. I began about four o’clock in the
+afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of
+the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was
+dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task. I knew neither what
+was too much, nor what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,
+under every disadvantage, to go on. This lasted for three hours. Towards
+the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came
+out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that,
+in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.” There are moments,
+when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness. I
+seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no
+consequence—It added to the measure of my distraction. A little after
+seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him
+instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the
+patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had
+seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine
+diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the
+metropolis, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend
+returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence. No one who
+knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I
+name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly,
+gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to
+experience.
+
+Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her
+death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate
+attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration. His
+conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing
+every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance. If
+skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live. In
+addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and
+Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for friends,
+watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an
+excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious lady,
+and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.
+Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr.
+Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the
+house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis,
+at a moment’s warning.
+
+Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to bed for a few hours on
+Wednesday night. Towards morning he came into my room with an account
+that the patient was surprisingly better. I went instantly into the
+chamber. But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest
+anguish I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a
+new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced. If
+Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough. But it was
+too mighty a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and
+admitted in this abrupt way.
+
+I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my gloomy thoughts, when,
+about ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare
+ourselves, for we had reason to expect the fatal event every moment. To
+my thinking, she did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,
+which I supposed to precede death; but it is probable that death does
+not always take place by that gradual process I had pictured to myself;
+a sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did not die on Thursday
+night.
+
+Till now it does not appear that she had any serious thoughts of dying;
+but on Friday and Saturday, the two last days of her life, she
+occasionally spoke as if she expected it. This was, however, only at
+intervals; the thought did not seem to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle
+rejoiced in this. He observed, and there is great force in the
+suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object, than a sick man, that
+knows he is dying. The thought must be expected to destroy his courage,
+to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract every favourable
+effort of nature.
+
+On these two days her faculties were in too decayed a state, to be able
+to follow any train of ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.
+Her religion, as I have already shown, was not calculated to be the
+torment of a sick bed; and, in fact, during her whole illness, not one
+word of a religious cast fell from her lips.
+
+She was affectionate and compliant to the last. I observed on Friday and
+Saturday nights, that, whenever her attendants recommended to her to
+sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by breathing, perhaps
+for the space of a minute, in the manner of a person that sleeps, though
+the effort, from the state of her disorder, usually proved ineffectual.
+
+She was not tormented by useless contradiction. One night the servant,
+from an error in judgment, teazed her with idle expostulations; but she
+complained of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray, pray, do not
+let her reason with me,” was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so
+dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous importunity of nurses
+everlastingly repeated.
+
+Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very desirous of obtaining
+from her any directions, that she might wish to have followed after her
+decease. Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I talked to her for a good
+while of the two children. In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not
+impressing the idea of death, I was obliged to manage my expressions. I
+therefore affected to proceed wholly upon the ground of her having been
+very ill, and that it would be some time before she could expect to be
+well; wishing her to tell me any thing that she would choose to have
+done respecting the children, as they would now be principally under my
+care. After having repeated this idea to her in a great variety of
+forms, she at length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I know
+what you are thinking of,” but added, that she had nothing to
+communicate to me upon the subject.
+
+The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the two last days. Mr.
+Carlisle observed that her continuance was almost miraculous, and he was
+on the watch for favourable appearances, believing it highly improper to
+give up all hope, and remarking, that perhaps one in a million, of
+persons in her state might possibly recover. I conceive that not one in
+a million, unites so good a constitution of body and of mind.
+
+These were the amusements of persons in the very gulph of despair. At
+six o’clock on Sunday morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called
+me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in conformity to my
+request, that I might not be left to receive all at once the
+intelligence that she was no more. She expired at twenty minutes before
+eight.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of September, at ten
+o’clock in the morning, in the church-yard of the parish church of St.
+Pancras, Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed, attended the
+ceremony; and a plain monument is now erecting on the spot, by some of
+her friends, with the following inscription:
+
+                      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
+                               AUTHOR OF
+                             A VINDICATION
+                        OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
+                       BORN, XXVII APRIL MDCCLIX.
+                      DIED, X SEPTEMBER MDCCXCVII.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+The loss of the world in this admirable woman, I leave to other men to
+collect; my own I well know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do
+not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed in her conversation:
+these increased every day, in proportion as we knew each other better,
+and as our mutual confidence increased. They can be measured only by the
+treasures of her mind, and the virtues of her heart. But this is a
+subject for meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding to, was
+the improvement that I have for ever lost.
+
+We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture to use this sort of
+language) in different directions; I, chiefly an attempt at logical and
+metaphysical distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque. One of the
+leading passions of my mind has been an anxious desire not to be
+deceived. This has led me to view the topics of my reflection on all
+sides; and to examine and re-examine without end, the questions that
+interest me.
+
+But it was not merely (to judge at least from all the reports of my
+memory in this respect) the difference of propensities, that made the
+difference in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated as long as
+I can remember, by an ambition for intellectual distinction; but, as
+long as I can remember, I have been discouraged, when I have endeavoured
+to cast the sum of my intellectual value, by finding that I did not
+possess, in the degree of some other men, an intuitive perception of
+intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong and lively sense of the
+pleasures of the imagination; but I have seldom been right in assigning
+to them their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering
+examination, and the change and correction of my first opinions.
+
+What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed, in a degree superior to
+any other person I ever knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.
+She was often right, by this means only, in matters of mere speculation.
+Her religion, her philosophy, (in both of which the errors were
+comparatively few, and the strain dignified and generous) were, as I
+have already said, the pure result of feeling and taste. She adopted one
+opinion, and rejected another, spontaneously, by a sort of tact and the
+force of a cultivated imagination; and yet, though perhaps, in the
+strict sense of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising what a
+degree of soundness is to be found in her determinations. But, if this
+quality was of use to her in topics that seem the proper province of
+reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly appealing to the
+intellectual taste. In a robust and unwavering judgment of this sort,
+there is a kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it produces a
+responsive vibration in every ingenuous mind. In this sense, my
+oscillation and scepticism were fixed by her boldness. When a true
+opinion emanated in this way from another mind, the conviction produced
+in my own assumed a similar character, instantaneous and firm. This
+species of intellect probably differs from the other, chiefly in the
+relation of earlier and later. What the one perceives instantaneously
+(circumstances having produced in it, either a premature attention to
+objects of this sort, or a greater boldness of decision) the other
+receives only by degrees. What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a
+minute attention to first impressions, and a just appreciation of them;
+habits that are never so effectually generated, as by the daily
+recurrence of a striking example.
+
+This light was lent to me for a very short period, and is now
+extinguished for ever!
+
+While I have described the improvement I was in the act of receiving, I
+believe I have put down the leading traits of her intellectual
+character.
+
+
+The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest
+examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the
+world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated Romance of
+Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very
+different cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of
+affording pleasure, will receive no delight from the present
+publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best
+qualified to decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted
+to have the superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the
+offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the
+passion it essays to describe.
+
+To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two
+volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be
+found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of
+Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it
+seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the
+intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a
+few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just
+monument to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and
+interesting specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the
+Present Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of
+Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman,
+may, I believe, safely be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on
+Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the
+Monthly Magazine for April last, and is the only piece in this
+collection which has previously found its way to the press.
+
+
+
+
+                                LETTERS.
+
+
+                               LETTER I.
+
+                                                            Two o’Clock.
+
+My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I
+have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early
+hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day they intend to pass here. I shall,
+however, leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side
+when I return, about eight o’clock. Will you not wait for poor
+Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately
+of her.
+
+                                                     Yours, truly,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.
+
+
+                               LETTER II.
+
+                                      Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,
+                                                          [August]
+
+I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my
+love, good night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can
+to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ——’s eye. You
+can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we
+are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how
+many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident that
+my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish me with that dignified
+tenderness, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will
+try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you
+pain—Yes, I will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy: and whilst
+you love me, I cannot again fall into the miserable state, which
+rendered life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne.
+
+But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet
+I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with
+gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection,
+because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try
+whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow[3]—Yours—
+
+Footnote 3:
+
+  The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,”
+  probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this
+  interview.
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER III.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you
+know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever since I came to
+Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I
+like to see your eyes praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during
+such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart,
+when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.
+
+Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me
+to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY—you _must_
+be glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the
+_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was
+talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me that it will ever have
+sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so
+highly respect principle.——
+
+Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—far—and, if I had
+not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the vanity
+of my heart, have imagined that I could have made something of his——it
+was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love flies away
+in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my
+pale cheeks.
+
+I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——’s to meet
+him. ——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and
+to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.
+
+I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no
+matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I
+immediately want, to take with me—On Friday then I shall expect you to
+dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long
+since I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER IV[4].
+
+Footnote 4:
+
+  This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
+  during a separation of several months; the date Paris.
+
+                                             Friday Morning [September.]
+
+A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here
+yesterday for the payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed at not
+finding you at home. I sent him to Mr. —— I have since seen him, and he
+tells me that he has settled the business.
+
+So much for business!—may I venture to talk a little longer about less
+weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the
+road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love,
+my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by
+their presence—I was going to say caresses—and why should I not? I have
+found out that I have more than you, in one respect; because I can,
+without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same
+object, much longer than you can.—The way to my senses is through my
+heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to
+yours.
+
+With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly
+is necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable;
+and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment
+by fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish
+my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by
+their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity,
+of the few roses that afford them solace in the thorny road of life.
+
+I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought
+produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your
+affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you
+go.—This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to
+write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my
+eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart
+whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world.—Pardon
+then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as
+well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with me a _little_
+longer!—When we are settled in the country together, more duties will
+open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is
+agitated by every emotion that awaken the remembrance of old griefs,
+will learn to rest on yours, with that dignity your character, not to
+talk of my own, demands.
+
+Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear,
+if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of
+it, by becoming happier
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER V.
+
+                                                           Sunday Night.
+
+I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed
+tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that
+my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.
+
+Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle
+twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
+who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced
+an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm
+my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we
+are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding
+that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I
+sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.
+
+Are you very busy?
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come
+home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
+you will.—
+
+Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be
+patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the
+time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over
+again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely
+connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the
+fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine,
+which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you!
+Take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the
+kindest good night I can utter.
+
+
+                               LETTER VI.
+
+                                                         Friday Morning.
+
+I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as
+myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy first letter, the
+very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it
+before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There
+is a full, true, and particular account.—
+
+Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of
+stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to
+the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and
+compass.—There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality,
+and the passions always give grace to the actions.
+
+Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy
+money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
+exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have
+expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before
+me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and
+thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than
+soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not
+left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has
+spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst
+a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
+grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus
+alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it
+divides—I must pause a moment.
+
+Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know
+why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than
+present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my
+heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am
+true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER VII.
+
+                                           Sunday Morning (December 29.)
+
+You seem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray sir! when do you think
+of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business
+permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that
+you will make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this
+month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I
+would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.
+
+I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself
+airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for
+not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this
+score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop
+from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or,
+will only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or a kind look, to
+escape me, when I pass the flippers—which I could not remove from my
+_salle_ door, though they are not the handsomest of their kind.
+
+Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be
+purchased. God bless you.
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER VIII.
+
+                                             Monday Night (December 30.)
+
+My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my
+heart, depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me
+several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. —— was for me. Mr. ——’s
+letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of
+his own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed
+me.
+
+A melancholy letter from my sister —— has also harrassed my mind—that
+from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+There is a spirit of independence in this letter, that will please you;
+and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together—I
+think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender
+looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance
+of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of
+bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where shall I find a word to
+express the relationship which subsists between us? Shall I ask the
+little twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you
+how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I
+have been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to
+write, and my heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to
+you.
+
+I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it,
+so the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I
+wanted one.
+
+Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a
+little!—It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I
+love.
+
+There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that,
+if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how
+very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER IX.
+
+                                         Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]
+
+Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take
+one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because
+trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my
+spirits:—and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of this
+same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to
+master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of
+affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to
+dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to
+days browned by care!
+
+The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not
+look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my
+stockings.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER X.
+
+                                            Wednesday Night [January 1.]
+
+As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to
+complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,
+I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do
+not feel?
+
+I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s and heart be organized from
+mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of
+them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The “peace” and
+clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. “I
+am fallen,” as Milton said, “on evil days;” for I really believe that
+Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least.
+Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up
+a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is
+lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!
+
+Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My
+head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded
+garden,” where “things rank and vile” flourish best.
+
+If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of
+it—I will throw your slippers out at the window, and be off—nobody knows
+where.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——,
+simply that I was with child: and let them stare!—and ——, nay, all the
+world, may know it for aught I care—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s coarse
+jokes.
+
+Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before
+it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong
+to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all
+sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are
+these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the
+hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is
+sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A
+man is a tyrant!
+
+You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing
+away with some honest fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social
+sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an
+heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour
+with you, to be pleased with the world.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                       Thursday Morning.
+
+I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful
+temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the
+matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it. I do not want to
+be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
+you![5]
+
+Footnote 5:
+
+  Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a
+  similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the
+  person to whom they are addressed.
+
+
+                               LETTER XI.
+
+                                                           Monday Night.
+
+I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide
+my face, glowing with shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,
+if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my
+fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes
+overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I intreat you. Do
+not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very
+wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had
+no confidence in me—
+
+It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices
+of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much
+indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or
+perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
+tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been
+dreadfully disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my
+stomach; still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have
+been fainter.
+
+Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to
+ask as many questions as Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not
+continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling
+through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are
+melting into playfulness.
+
+Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop
+not an angry word, I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a
+scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come
+back—and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you
+the next.
+
+—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to
+H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming
+that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me
+so.
+
+God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of
+tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my
+support. Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did
+writing it, and you will make happy, your
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
+encourage “quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my
+love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
+half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling,
+as seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a
+little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a
+few days past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will
+you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a
+child of me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.
+
+One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
+which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear
+to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness
+would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me
+almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with
+coldness.
+
+I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickness of
+your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you,
+there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness
+wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
+look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
+affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
+at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
+yet most affectionate
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIII.
+
+                                                         Thursday Night.
+
+I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I
+knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand, and this
+afternoon, when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite
+pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you
+were to receive another cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do not forget
+that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect,
+that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took
+me again to your heart.
+
+I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,
+because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
+continually the fatal consequence of my folly. But, should you think it
+right to remain at H—, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
+fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be
+strong again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
+such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind.
+The girl is come to warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night! and
+write a line or two in the morning.
+
+                                                                Morning.
+
+I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence
+shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was
+so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.
+
+I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether
+this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
+before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my
+bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system.
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIV.
+
+                                                       Saturday Morning.
+
+The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,
+will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect
+your motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by
+what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I
+thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at H—, I
+might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I
+brooded over—Let us now be friends!
+
+I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and
+I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at
+least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not
+enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will
+hasten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the
+object of your journey.
+
+What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my
+fancy was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder,
+whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging to
+your knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if
+you have not set your heart on this round number.
+
+I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the
+first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much
+as I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past,
+has been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I
+am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not
+much.—The two Mrs. ——s have been very anxious and tender.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.
+
+
+                               LETTER XV.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+I wrote to you yesterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is still
+detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am
+not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
+after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
+
+I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my
+Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions
+of childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go
+badly with me_.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you;
+for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a
+new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
+
+I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the
+greater part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a
+return of the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of
+illness. I have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought
+to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me;
+and, since I could not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my
+heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your
+eye.
+
+I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
+impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
+uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do
+not think a little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
+struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
+poverty.
+
+Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters;
+for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals
+into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
+
+                                                     Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XVI.
+
+                                                        Tuesday Morning.
+
+I seize this opportunity to inform you that I am to set out on Thursday
+with Mr. ——, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall
+be to see you. I have just got my passport, so I do not foresee any
+impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my
+new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to
+smile me to sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we parted.
+
+You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully
+round my heart, than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the thought,
+that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I
+wished to be supported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But,
+knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the
+proofs of affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being
+once more in the same house with you.—God bless you!
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XVII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you,
+that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after
+you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more
+properly speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not
+as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it. I will not allow that
+your temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain
+my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am
+afraid to say never.
+
+Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in
+person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has
+never left you.
+
+I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too
+fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to
+H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my
+body to do whatever I wished.
+
+                                                 Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XVIII.
+
+                                         H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.
+
+We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
+sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay
+such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not
+sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of
+the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish
+about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before
+breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am,
+wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I
+write, with one of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a
+suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.
+
+But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take
+care of yourself and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XIX.
+
+Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper
+I was to inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag end of a letter
+of business.—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got
+you by the fire-side, with _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your
+poor bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper
+up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me
+so blind?—I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not
+scold; for I am
+
+                                         Yours most affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER XX.
+
+                                                      Sunday, August 17.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now
+permitted to dine—and the little darling, to be sure[6]—whom I cannot
+help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall
+enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven than satiate my
+imagination.
+
+Footnote 6:
+
+  The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
+  considerable time.
+
+I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a
+dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_. But
+_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either
+the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
+foreground of the picture.
+
+The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce
+from top to toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only
+proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
+room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_. A
+nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
+Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air. Ah!
+kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the
+loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
+_sombre_ day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see
+things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running
+stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to
+tantalize us.
+
+But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid
+me let the square-headed money-getters alone. Peace to them! though none
+of the social spirits (and there are not a few of different
+descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a
+twitch to restrain my pen.
+
+I have been writing, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I
+merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
+associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
+
+Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with
+a _gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
+cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the
+sentiments in your heart which may be termed romantic, because, the
+offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother
+more than the father[7], when they produce the suffusion I admire. In
+spite of icy age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined
+only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid—
+
+                                                         Yours
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Footnote 7:
+
+  She means, “the latter more than the former.”
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER XXI.
+
+                                                 H—, August 19, Tuesday.
+
+I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you
+yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to
+the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that
+you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came in, and some
+other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet,
+leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is
+sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my
+place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary
+your affection is to my happiness.—Still I do not think it false
+delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness
+should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish
+passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by
+seeking your own—For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your
+generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the
+very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which
+demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly
+mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of
+cherishing a tenderness for your person.
+
+I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long
+time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that
+all my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace,
+though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our
+little girl was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a
+sense of duty, than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and
+imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever
+dancing before me.
+
+You too have somehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my
+dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve
+for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do not however suppose that I am
+melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find
+fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.
+
+I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)
+with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are
+the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXII.
+
+                                                          H—, August 20.
+
+I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always
+rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had
+chastised —— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the
+business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
+know how you would express your contempt.
+
+Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the
+dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made
+use of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you,
+as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities
+of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of
+heart, which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.
+
+Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in
+you, of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a
+cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in _managing_ my
+happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself
+till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look
+into a heart, which my halfbroken one wishes to creep into, to be
+revived and cherished.——You have frankness of heart, but not often
+exactly that overflowing (_épanchement de cœur_), which becoming almost
+childish, appears a weakness only to the weak.
+
+But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether,
+as a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a
+number of mistresses—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather
+flattered his vanity than his senses.
+
+Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to
+close it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost
+springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not
+love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.—
+
+                                             Yours affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                            LETTER XXIII[8].
+
+Footnote 8:
+
+  This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation
+  of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were
+  sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.
+
+                                                           September 22.
+
+I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances,
+and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore
+merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one
+who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short,
+to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told,
+over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
+
+Besides looking at me there are three other things, which delight her—to
+ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud
+music—yesterday at the _féte_, she enjoyed the two latter; but to honor
+J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had
+round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.
+
+Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap?
+There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination
+then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you
+coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I
+recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,
+regarding the waving corn!
+
+Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the
+imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of
+sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the
+passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more
+exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,
+appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if
+you will, and the conclusions of reason draw men together; but the
+imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven to animate this cold
+creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to
+rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts instead of
+leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
+
+If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which
+would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you
+are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then
+back your barrier face, or you shall have nothing to say to my
+barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances that
+will be ever dear to me; for I am yours truly
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXIV.
+
+                                                      Evening. Sept. 23.
+
+I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I
+cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my
+bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do
+not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the
+touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of
+man and wife being one—for you seemed to pervade my whole frame,
+quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears
+you excited.
+
+Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is
+all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
+of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days
+past.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                                Morning.
+
+Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me
+before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same
+opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more
+tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are
+commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl,
+about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,
+and requested him to see her.
+
+I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business.
+Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write
+now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will
+overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.
+
+I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness
+at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
+alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into
+reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.
+
+This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell
+you, I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me,
+and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then kiss the girl
+for you, and bid you adieu.
+
+I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your
+barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know
+that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate,
+intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I think, as you could wish
+for.
+
+I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here;
+but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing
+sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring ——
+with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your
+letters—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you
+say of the negroes.
+
+                                             Yours most affectionately,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXV.
+
+                                                        Paris, Sept. 28.
+
+I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have
+prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward
+them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he
+will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on
+your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as
+Mr. —— is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.
+
+I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass
+you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar
+circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have
+almost lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at best a most helpless
+creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to
+me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She
+indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting
+aside a mother’s fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her
+little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing
+degree of sensibility and observation. The other day by B——’s child, a
+fine one, she looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,
+and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.
+
+I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in
+which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to
+fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to
+be alluded to.
+
+Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector
+of your child, and the comfort of her mother.
+
+I have received, for you, letters from ——. I want to hear how that
+affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for
+his folly or knavery.
+
+                                                         Your own
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXVI.
+
+                                                              October 1.
+
+It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they
+will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going,
+a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were
+written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not
+been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me.
+_Tant mieux!_ you will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be
+sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should
+damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford—judging of your
+feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,
+which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear
+affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you
+chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only
+tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.
+
+After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in
+business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money,
+taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be
+gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the
+mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away,
+than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the
+melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same
+side as my reason, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be
+almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of
+character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I
+will seek it no where else.
+
+My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a
+kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my
+heart.
+
+I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the
+press will produce a great effect here—the _cry of blood will not be
+vain_!—Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are
+conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last slap of the tail of the beast.
+
+I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I shall
+not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her
+pregnancy rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity,
+which is better for the child.
+
+I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.
+
+—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is
+anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and
+social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that
+destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting.—If his
+wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is,
+nothing will save him.
+
+                                     Yours most truly and affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXVII.
+
+                                                             October 26.
+
+My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the
+sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was
+obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone
+together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most
+intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the
+morning too, which I do not find quite so convenient. I once told you,
+that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were
+pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel,
+when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me
+unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has now the
+advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to
+discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.
+
+I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and
+am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also
+made some new acquaintance. I have almost _charmed_ a judge of the
+tribunal, R——, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has
+humanity, if not _beaucoup d’esprit_. But let me tell you, if you do not
+make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the
+_Marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so,
+and plays sweetly on the violin.
+
+What do you say to this threat?—why, _entre nous_, I like to give way to
+a sprightly vein, when writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is
+proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when he is pleased.” Will you
+not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls?
+but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks
+happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to
+come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it
+will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make
+exertions which injure your constitution.
+
+                                         Yours most truly and tenderly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray
+call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.
+
+
+                             LETTER XXVIII.
+
+                                                           December, 26.
+
+I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not
+allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that
+many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now
+see your letter, and find that you are safe: I will not regret then that
+your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other
+matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you
+are safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For,
+feeling that I am happier than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes
+dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me my dearest
+friend, father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this
+moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it
+is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the
+world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the
+melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past,
+and haunted my dreams.
+
+My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are
+not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;”
+but certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress than she is to
+me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most
+despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her
+more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have
+embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and
+laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst
+I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these
+details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately
+
+                                                         Yours
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXIX.
+
+                                                            December 28.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your
+disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with
+affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that
+you should thus exert your self in vain, and that you are kept from me.
+
+——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new
+projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,
+rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But
+we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him.
+When we meet we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and
+it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to
+pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you
+to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in
+preparing to live.
+
+Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner
+as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your
+departure? It is not possible to enter into business, as an employment
+necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the
+expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be
+considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive
+sentiment and affection out of the heart?
+
+I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to
+forward it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what
+he has doubtless recommended most warmly.
+
+Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.—I will give you no
+tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
+the settling the _present_ objects permit. _I do not consent_ to your
+taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord
+knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection,
+and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth,
+which makes —— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your
+principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you
+that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt,
+rather than made angry by delays. Having suffered so much in life, do
+not be surprized if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and
+suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I
+say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the
+picture.
+
+My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use her legs.—She wants you
+to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with
+dancing her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her
+mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXX.
+
+                                                            December 29.
+
+Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just
+informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I
+take advantage of it to inclose you
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which
+obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be
+content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into
+this wearisome labyrinth? I know very well that you have been
+imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or
+abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid
+poverty? I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to
+escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And let me tell
+you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little
+girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your
+cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.
+
+This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire
+which —— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk
+to you?—if he can persuade you let him!—for, if you are not happier with
+me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal
+projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason, as well as
+affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will
+occur to you—and you will act accordingly.
+
+Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have
+heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another,
+about the age of my ——, a fine little creature. They are still but
+contriving to live —— earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but
+just above poverty, I envy them. She is a tender affectionate
+mother—fatigued even by her attention. However she has an affectionate
+husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her
+pleasure.
+
+I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I
+grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here,
+to observe with me how her mind unfolds and her little heart becomes
+attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer
+them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy. It is your own
+maxim to “live in the present moment.”—_If you do_—stay, for God’s sake;
+but tell me truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let
+me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.
+
+Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort
+me.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XXXI.
+
+                                                            December 30.
+
+Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have
+written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to
+wife you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three
+of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not
+of ——’s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of
+your staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of
+continual inquietude—and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn
+some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to
+run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little
+girl and I will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I
+may be termed proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles
+of action.
+
+The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that if they
+debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a
+gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they
+maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan
+whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been
+polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.
+
+I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former
+is necessary, to give life to the other—and such a degree of respect do
+I think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in
+its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the
+heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end
+of all my hopes of happiness—I could not forgive it, if I would.
+
+I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion
+of men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and
+that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with
+sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I
+lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am
+sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.
+
+You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the
+strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. —— has
+taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it
+has inconceivably depressed my spirits.—You have always known my
+opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live
+together, ought not to be long separated. If certain things are more
+necessary to you than me—search for them—Say but one word, and you shall
+never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s sake, let us struggle with
+poverty—with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business,
+which I have been told were to last but a few months, though every day
+the end appears more distant! This is the first letter in this strain
+that I have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was
+unwilling to give you pain, and I should not now write, if I did not
+think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as
+I am told, your presence.
+
+                                                              * * * *[9]
+
+Footnote 9:
+
+  The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at
+  Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was
+  recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of
+  business now accumulated upon him.
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXII.
+
+                                                              January 9.
+
+I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely
+occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought,
+to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects
+and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not
+absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.
+
+Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to
+obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure,
+for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that
+flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy
+views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I
+knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and
+have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only
+spontaneous enjoyment can give. Why have you so soon dissolved the
+charm?
+
+I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s
+never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you
+are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of
+action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to
+my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness
+to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and
+still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these
+continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and
+roots out affection from the heart.
+
+I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will
+simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the
+arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the
+necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose
+only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most
+violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual
+coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to
+recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be
+borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart though it fatigues the
+spirits.
+
+Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have
+determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child. It is too
+soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said,
+“despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.
+
+This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new
+weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before
+you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object. If your feelings
+were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
+prospects of future advantage.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIII.
+
+                                                                Jan. 15.
+
+I was just going to begin my letter with the tag end of a song, which
+would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is
+pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters,
+dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can
+scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me.
+After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I
+have seen a superscription written by you. Promising myself pleasure,
+and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought
+it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a
+dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.
+
+Well now for business—
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing
+the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and
+now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit,
+&c. You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she
+will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object
+for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing
+can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not
+affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come soon to tell us
+that you do.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIV.
+
+                                                                Jan. 30.
+
+From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will
+scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you
+have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it
+pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground
+again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new
+projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have
+done with it for ever; yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary
+interest suffers by your absence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make
+money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I
+therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at
+home, lest I should have uttered unseasonable truths.
+
+My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I
+have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed
+to mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of
+life,” you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I
+have ever considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of
+wanting the resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life;
+I should answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them,
+because I would avoid them, cost what it would.——
+
+Adieu!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+Footnote 10:
+
+  This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the
+  letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things
+  upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different
+  appellation.
+
+                                                                 EDITOR.
+
+
+                              LETTER XXXV.
+
+                                                             February 9.
+
+The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that
+we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,
+convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other
+letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got,
+were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the
+sight of the superscriptions excited.
+
+I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for
+utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I
+find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.
+
+You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the
+most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,
+I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude
+during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I
+never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm
+was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.
+God preserve this poor child and render her happier than her mother!
+
+But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I
+think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is
+come to this. I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty
+to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to
+reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a
+better fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but for this
+little darling I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped
+of every charm.
+
+You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to
+tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely
+dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely understand you. You request me to
+come, and then tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of
+returning to this place.
+
+When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. I
+would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of
+trouble on which you are entering. I have certain principles of action:
+I know what to look for to found my happiness on. It is not money. With
+you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is,
+less will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life
+for my child, and she does not want more at present. I have two or three
+plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
+neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to
+you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service. I wanted the support
+of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I
+complained of ——’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he
+would have dragged you into his schemes.
+
+I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a letter written soon after your
+departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was
+written. You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more
+determined moment. Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together
+is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be
+running after a bubble at the expence of my peace of mind.
+
+Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXVI.
+
+                                                                Feb. 10.
+
+You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am
+dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the
+business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution
+destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the
+continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the
+fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write
+to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here
+with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of
+the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be
+brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this,
+I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can
+live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000
+livres from ——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s wages, &c.
+and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I
+shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.
+
+—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very
+unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I
+had provoked it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have
+dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your
+remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of
+the bitter cup to care about trifles.
+
+When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the
+gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm
+in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you
+did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more
+necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted
+heart—For a year or two you may procure yourself what you call pleasure;
+eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I
+shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but
+checked my pen.
+
+As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you,
+reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content
+with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of
+hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written
+relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and
+practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments
+of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my
+sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not
+write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to
+complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of
+the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the
+mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered
+enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the
+vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so,
+that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXVII.
+
+                                                                Feb. 19.
+
+When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an
+indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now
+calmer though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the
+quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow.
+Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with
+every one, I have only reason enough to discover that the fault is in
+myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take
+any pains to recover my health.
+
+As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a
+repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough.
+Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs,
+after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the
+necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my God! how has mine been
+harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the
+wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely,” I have not found
+a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from
+my bosom.
+
+What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I
+will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand
+you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning
+here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain
+myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my
+meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and
+am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms
+for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror,
+only to be left there a prey to it!
+
+Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl
+would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some
+plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.
+
+In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am
+left here dependant on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has
+rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or
+affectionate emotions. With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help
+displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite
+of the effect it is visible it has had on me.
+
+Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to
+avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me. Do
+not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen
+times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you
+must guess why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects
+to which you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but I will be
+silent for ever.——
+
+
+                            LETTER XXXVIII.
+
+                                                                April 7.
+
+Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell
+you that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I
+shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate
+my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of
+delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot
+indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,
+without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that it is mutual.
+
+I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes,
+when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed
+been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh
+hopes, as to regain tranquillity. Enough of this—lie still, foolish
+heart! But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease
+to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.
+
+Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I
+weaned her about ten days ago. I am however glad I conquered my
+repugnance. It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish
+to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off
+till we met. It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to
+throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain
+throw over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after
+sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you
+cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!
+
+I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity
+for you coming to me. Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend
+with me. My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some
+inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have
+not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say
+indifference, as you. God bless you!
+
+                                                         Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XXXIX.
+
+                                    Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
+
+Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and if I
+can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive to ——’s
+hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope
+you will take care there to receive us.
+
+I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to
+take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my
+share. But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to
+meet soon?—What does your heart say!
+
+                                                     Your’s truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I have weaned my ——, and she is now eating way at the white bread.
+
+
+                               LETTER XL.
+
+                                                 London, Friday, May 22.
+
+I have just received your affectionate letter and am distressed to think
+that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,
+when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be
+necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I
+suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have
+mentioned, which made —— request to see me to-day, to _converse about a
+matter of great importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the
+state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last
+night as distressing as the two former had been.
+
+I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that
+tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so
+different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry
+with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments
+which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart—We have
+had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future
+prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to
+affection.—Let the subject never be revived!
+
+It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of
+being happy.——Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has
+been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and
+sought for dissapation, if not amusement merely to fatigue still more, I
+find, my irritable nerves.—
+
+My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the question;
+for, alass! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what will
+render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you desire
+to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell
+me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily
+interrupted your peace.
+
+I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a
+cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which
+only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately
+yours.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLI.
+
+                                                              Wednesday.
+
+I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am
+tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am
+angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I
+shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to
+whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of
+fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
+
+God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLII.
+
+                                              —, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
+
+We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the
+child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night
+and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like
+house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished
+this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out
+early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
+
+I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or
+the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full
+to allow me to write with composure.—***, —dear ****,—am I always to be
+tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in?
+How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in
+a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach
+those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my
+eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity,
+electrified by sympathy.
+
+I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be
+detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours
+sincerely and affectionately
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+—— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise
+of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!
+
+
+                             LETTER XLIII.
+
+                                                               Thursday.
+
+A lady has just sent to offer to take me to —— —. I have then only a
+moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give
+information
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when
+compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to
+touch this painful string—God bless you!
+
+                                                     Yours truly,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLIV.
+
+                                                         Friday June 12.
+
+I have just received yours, dated the 9th, which I suppose was a
+mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The
+general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear
+to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of
+the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before
+satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up
+every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your
+sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the
+impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,
+for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.
+
+The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites,
+must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never leads
+its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented by according
+reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite
+pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the
+whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that
+renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions
+over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even
+disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without
+self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the
+distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of
+that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of which the common
+herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begetters_, certainly have no
+idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me: I
+consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination
+acts as the stimulus to their senses.
+
+Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I
+cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength
+of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and
+purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.——I would fain rest
+there!
+
+Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my
+attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live
+has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that
+despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my
+child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might
+become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might
+there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
+sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.
+
+Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting
+happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in
+order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked
+sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot
+indeed, without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually
+contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I
+recollect why my child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in
+which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry
+fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
+much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the
+shafts of disappointment.
+
+Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something
+like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded;
+consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term
+“the zest of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own
+motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!
+
+The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me
+so wretched, that I must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But
+first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my
+happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself.
+You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just,
+that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.
+
+The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly.
+I cannot say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
+depart.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                                       Saturday Morning.
+
+Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly
+wrong in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though,
+without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have
+animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have
+been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so
+unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
+every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye
+was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them,
+because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent
+any odium being thrown on you[11].
+
+Footnote 11:
+
+  This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and
+  not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
+
+I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my
+efforts to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I
+am engaged.
+
+My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most
+sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a
+true, unsophisticated heart.
+
+                                                     Yours most truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am
+afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to
+write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot
+expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a
+gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received
+great civilities, will send them after me.
+
+Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on;
+and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself
+from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot
+word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I
+shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will
+draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!
+
+
+                              LETTER XLV.
+
+                                                       Sunday, June, 14.
+
+I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to
+write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I
+have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of
+trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every
+thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.
+
+Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was
+fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the
+necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you
+know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather
+interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and
+poor —— was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.
+
+They took me in their carriage to —— and I ran over my favourite walks,
+with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not please
+me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I
+found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever
+since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have
+vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at
+pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am,
+is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and
+fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.
+
+The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to
+linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I
+do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your
+connections on the other side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I
+think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme
+restlessness.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you whether the
+pleasure of being free does not over-balance the pain you felt at
+parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me
+necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the moment after,
+despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of
+tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!
+
+                                     Yours sincerely and affectionately
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLVI.
+
+                                                                June 15.
+
+I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be
+very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence,
+my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation
+indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most
+affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of
+disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet
+should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true
+friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the
+world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has
+opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a
+higher value on my heart.
+
+Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to add, if you will not take one
+from me, and believe me yours
+
+                                                     Sincerely,
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+The wind still continues in the same quarter.
+
+
+                             LETTER XLVII.
+
+                                                        Tuesday morning.
+
+The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the
+course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
+have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from
+you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.
+
+My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why the quitting England seems
+to be a fresh parting. Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak
+forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
+sensible to every thing. It is surprising, that in London, in a
+continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,
+bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by
+despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that
+withers up all my faculties.
+
+The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I
+know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. It
+is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been so perpetually the sport
+of disappointment, having a heart that has been as it were a mark for
+misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. Well, let it
+come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!
+God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER XLVIII.
+
+                                                      Wednesday Morning.
+
+I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having
+changed. But before evening it steered round to the old point; and here
+we are, in the midst of mists and waters, only taking advantage of the
+tide to advance a few miles.
+
+You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it
+was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt
+pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had
+treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably
+send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely
+to remain, I am afraid to think how long.
+
+The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted
+kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to
+myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to
+beguile weariness; but I seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments
+of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.
+
+What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time
+before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within
+me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and
+feelings? Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so
+much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and
+extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. Will you not
+endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I
+saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other gratifications are dearer
+to you. How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
+What a world is this! They only seem happy, who never look beyond
+sensual or artificial enjoyments. Adieu.
+
+—— begins to play with the cabin boy, and is as gay as a lark. I will
+labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
+
+                                             Your’s sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER XLIX.
+
+                                                               Thursday.
+
+Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the
+pilot who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as expected,
+by the wind. It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without
+going forward. I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to take care
+of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is
+unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the
+ship, as we ride at anchor.
+
+These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of
+mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth
+I never in my life suffered so much from depression of spirits—from
+despair. I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most
+terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of
+countenance.
+
+I will not, my dear ——, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and
+will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at
+present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these
+continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some
+comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you, when
+we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean
+not to have seas between us, it is more than I can support.
+
+The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.
+
+In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would
+disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free,
+the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
+
+                                                 Your’s most truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER L.
+
+                                                               Saturday.
+
+This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with
+every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the
+remembrances that sadden my heart.
+
+How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the
+elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and the
+imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and
+sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in
+search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature
+seems to frown, or rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold as my
+expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these
+North-east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious
+Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial
+affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger
+there.
+
+I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough,
+to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after
+which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable
+smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till
+thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for
+I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the
+misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my
+power.
+
+Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will
+not allow her to remain on deck.
+
+I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to
+you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER LI.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to
+be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had
+a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind
+has changed.
+
+I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one
+hap-hazard it would have been kind and considerate—you might have known,
+had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are
+attentions more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But why do
+I foolishly continue to look for them?
+
+Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt.
+God bless you! I may perhaps be some time or other, independent in every
+sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I
+will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.
+
+                                                 Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+The child is well; I did not leave her on board.
+
+
+                              LETTER LII.
+
+                                                      June 27, Saturday.
+
+I arrived in ——. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to
+inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty,
+for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.
+
+What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon, nor mention
+the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast. This morning
+however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this
+place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and
+how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupor for a
+quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my
+senses; the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is
+well.
+
+Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently
+deranged me, and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing
+warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must nevertheless go to bed.
+For God’s sake, let me hear from you immediately my friend! I am not
+well, and yet you see I cannot die.
+
+                                                 Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LIII.
+
+                                                                June 29.
+
+I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I
+alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s
+illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my
+fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will
+have any serious consequences.
+
+—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns are
+here so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am
+overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the
+endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
+
+My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies
+heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;
+and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the
+hopes that render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,”
+appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly
+enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my
+pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LIV.
+
+                                                                 July 1.
+
+I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow
+and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot
+last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and,
+when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to
+live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual
+struggles—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind;
+and if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than
+with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not
+dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will
+then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together,
+or I will be entirely independent.
+
+My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision——You know
+however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments
+of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the
+consolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest
+friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of
+satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?
+
+Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should
+imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your
+affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
+
+                    God bless you!
+                                Yours truly
+                                            * * * *
+
+Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey with her teeth.
+
+
+                               LETTER LV.
+
+                                                                 July 3.
+
+There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression
+of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you
+throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has
+long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.
+
+Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you)
+there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than
+disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to
+hide my sorrows in my bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
+affectionate friend.
+
+I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this
+affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can
+become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature. On
+ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my
+troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that
+the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!” and
+nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling
+and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.
+
+What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles,
+I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to
+sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and
+started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that
+stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar
+the fragrance of reviving nature.
+
+My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love in some minds, is
+an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or
+taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c.
+alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were,
+impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.
+
+Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care
+than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming
+at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my
+soul—almost rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped the
+enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a
+fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common
+enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me
+stupid—soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch
+of disappointment.
+
+I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my
+constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health
+unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.
+
+I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of
+regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect
+due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of
+the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can
+extinguish the heavenly spark.
+
+Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I
+blush when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound
+myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to
+delicacy, or pride.
+
+
+                              LETTER LVI.
+
+                                                                 July 4.
+
+I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot
+tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to
+the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of
+character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.
+
+Still however I am more alive than you have seen me for a long, long
+time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
+to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my
+faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than
+to the vigour of my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have
+had my share,) the purity of this air, and the being continually out in
+it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my
+appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already
+streak my cheeks—and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I
+have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes
+of youth.
+
+With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!
+Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
+pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, and makes
+friends for herself.
+
+Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us
+in Switzerland? Ah! why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why
+are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or
+rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my
+misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and
+lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call
+me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the
+sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.
+
+
+                              LETTER LVII.
+
+                                                                 July 7.
+
+I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving
+a letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have
+hazarded it; and would a year ago.
+
+I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to
+silence the usual expressions of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a
+thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy prays
+upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion,
+cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have
+endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation
+possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.
+
+Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from
+life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
+God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive to painful
+sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.
+
+The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be
+wounded to the soul by a negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go
+into the air.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LVIII.
+
+                                                                July 14.
+
+I am now on my journey to ——. I felt more at leaving my child, than I
+thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I
+heard the half-formed sounds of her voice—I asked myself how I could
+think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?
+
+Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the
+winds to the shorn lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be
+shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless
+storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to
+the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a
+discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!
+
+All is not right somewhere. When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.
+I could still confide, for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort
+you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first
+object. Strange want of judgment!
+
+I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am
+convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,
+that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.
+I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the
+simple basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend to argue—Your
+not writing is cruel, and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant
+wretchedness.
+
+Poor —— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my
+fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of
+countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually
+afraid of some accident—But it would have injured the child this warm
+season, as she is cutting her teeth.
+
+I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you
+please, there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can,
+or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you
+with letters to which you do not reply.
+
+
+                              LETTER LIX.
+
+                                                                July 18.
+
+I am here in ——, separated from my child, and here I must remain a month
+at least, or I might as well never have come.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have begun —— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a
+pecuniary kind. I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having
+done it sooner.
+
+I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                               LETTER LX.
+
+                                                                July 30.
+
+I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of
+June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my
+detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God
+knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness
+of heart! My mind however is at present painfully active, and the
+sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of
+complaint, it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected pleasure is all I
+have to hope for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.
+
+I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live
+together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my
+poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or
+that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to
+preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I
+have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life. There are wounds
+that can never be healed, but they may be allowed to fester in silence
+without wincing.
+
+When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution
+than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
+always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I
+cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last
+snap, and set me free.
+
+Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings
+anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made
+me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and
+truth. But to have done with these subjects.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ——; yet I
+never was so much in the air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,
+and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The
+child, —— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.
+
+Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you
+to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which
+you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you
+
+                                               Yours most affectionately
+                                                       * * * *  * * * *
+
+I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to
+yours.
+
+
+                              LETTER LXI.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 5.
+
+Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have
+entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of
+my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though
+trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same. I have,
+it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for
+a long—long time past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other
+appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer
+have afforded me.) Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so
+constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection.—I am
+afraid not without a passion, and I feel the want of it more in society,
+than in solitude——
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs, my eyes fill
+with tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my
+resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine
+my anguish in my own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me
+sometimes overlook delicacy, the same tenderness will in future restrain
+me.
+
+God bless you!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXII.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 7.
+
+Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my
+muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former
+activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched
+some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and
+resting on the rocks.
+
+This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on
+something—and soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am
+sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched, when we were
+together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
+slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought not, if you form another
+attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
+reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel
+disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to
+depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a
+chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I
+can provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part
+to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a
+comfort to me, if I am to have no other, and only know me as her
+support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with
+you, if we are only to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness
+elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to
+you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an
+eternal separation. You must determine, examine yourself—But, for God’s
+sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the trial;
+but I will not complain.
+
+Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you, it is all flown, and
+absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what
+new form of misery I have to dread.
+
+I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but
+you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the
+heart of
+
+                                                     Yours truly
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXIII.
+
+                                                                 Aug. 9.
+
+Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the
+14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did
+not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except
+to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints.
+I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my
+affection.——
+
+My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I
+mean, I and my girl. I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am
+informed how your affairs terminate.
+
+                                                     Yours sincerely
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXIV.
+
+                                                                Aug. 26.
+
+I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once
+more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps
+cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play
+alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I
+have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in
+future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an
+independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.
+
+I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and
+even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As
+for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the
+calm contentment so termed.——
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect
+yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th
+of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.
+Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an
+ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend—or you
+would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of
+compassion, a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I
+will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to
+these struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I cannot please. I
+can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our
+fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to cherish tenderness for
+me._ Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest,
+since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be
+entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I
+need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living
+in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior
+considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to
+maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to
+Switzerland. I shall not remain at ——, living expensively. But be not
+alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.
+
+Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed, my lips tremble, as
+if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.
+
+God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXV.
+
+                                                            September 6.
+
+I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter
+last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of
+soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently
+vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment
+of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and
+repose on the idea that I am happy.
+
+Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like
+resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I
+have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that
+happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and the lively sympathies
+which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They
+are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure and I have shaken hands.
+
+I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people
+immersed in trade and sensuality.
+
+I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting place to
+look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks,
+I have thought, “But for this child I would lay my head on one of them,
+and never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the
+affections of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone
+that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it
+was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound
+together by affection or principle—and, when I am conscious that I have
+fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself,
+I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus
+abandoned?”
+
+You say now
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more
+explicitly——and determine on some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this
+suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or
+eternally part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer
+to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent
+subjects.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is
+disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty
+frequently that I make out what you mean to say—You write I suppose, at
+Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for
+your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of
+affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the child.——Adieu!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXVI.
+
+                                                           September 25.
+
+I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ——. In
+that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three
+mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed
+it, I hear of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write
+calmly—this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain —— remained
+a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have
+I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the
+same—and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this
+of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed. Adieu!
+
+
+                             LETTER LXVII.
+
+                                                           September 27.
+
+When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
+British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.
+
+By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
+extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to
+decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
+from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there
+was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were
+but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative
+was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of
+meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a
+yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am
+accustomed to; in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
+much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your
+shoulders.
+
+I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you
+decide.
+
+The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in
+a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal
+mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I
+submit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of
+me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for
+you—for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only
+sought for a momentary gratification.
+
+I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your
+tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
+this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I
+leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off
+a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly
+are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been
+stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It
+depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take
+no step, till I see or hear from you.
+
+Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be
+like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and
+not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few
+months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will
+not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on
+your beneficence.
+
+Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not
+the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view,
+the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money
+will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry
+_shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for
+my girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her
+education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to
+such society as she will like—and thus securing for her all the chance
+for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that
+the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always
+elude my grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly
+longed to arrive at his port.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place
+to go to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
+that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see
+you, though it be the last time.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXVIII.
+
+                                                       Sunday, October 4
+
+I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the
+18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but,
+as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet
+received it.
+
+You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided, that it was most for
+the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I
+expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be
+glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose
+in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our
+interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at
+last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.
+
+From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that
+you have formed some new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly
+request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof
+I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide,
+since you boggle about a mere form.
+
+I am labouring to write with calmness, but the extreme anguish I feel,
+at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be
+conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a
+disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come
+under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an
+overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses
+me. On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as
+is my situation. Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told
+me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even
+in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me
+and my child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian
+knot.
+
+I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the
+return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office,
+and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me.
+I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
+
+Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing from you, or any human
+being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my
+duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling
+heart.—That Being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up
+by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of
+my life—but life will have an end!
+
+Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
+will find me at —— If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
+
+                                                    Yours affectionately
+                                                                * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXIX.
+
+I write you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid
+with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——,
+section de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.
+
+Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.
+
+Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I
+forced from her—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
+but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet,
+whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might
+still have lived together.
+
+I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world.
+Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When
+you receive this, my burning head will be cold.
+
+I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.
+Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am
+serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body
+will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I
+shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being
+snatched from the death I seek.
+
+God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me
+endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
+your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall
+appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                              LETTER LXX.
+
+                                                         Sunday Morning.
+
+I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I
+was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination
+is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a
+frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this
+respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed
+reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.
+
+You say, “that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the
+wretchedness into which we have been plunged.” You are extricated long
+since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it
+is a living death.
+
+It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on
+principle; but I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would
+have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you
+have any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only
+thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall
+never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that
+even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call
+magnanimity.—It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in
+the highest degree.
+
+Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to
+contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance),
+appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar
+comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart.—That gone,
+you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not
+shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any
+direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which
+I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own
+reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you
+value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for)
+though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me.
+When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the
+child.
+
+I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you
+again.—Adieu!
+
+God bless you!
+
+
+                              LETTER LXXI.
+
+                                                         Monday Morning.
+
+I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree
+with you, that
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy.
+I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may
+lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
+but she shall not despise me for meanness. You are now perfectly free.—
+
+God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXII.
+
+                                                         Saturday Night.
+
+I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be
+dictated by any tenderness to me. You ask “If I am well or
+tranquil?”—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my
+feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
+
+I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually
+offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new
+house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I
+will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the
+moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary
+supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and
+misfortunes seem to suit the habit of my mind.—
+
+Have but a little patience and I will remove myself where it will not be
+necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
+written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other
+medium—that the affair is finished. It is an insult to me to suppose,
+that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear
+nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.
+
+
+Even your seeing me has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
+distracted mind.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXIII.
+
+                                                     Thursday Afternoon.
+
+Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were
+left at the house, I have to request you to let —— bring them to ——.
+
+I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained
+from coming here to transact your business,—And, whatever I may think,
+and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have
+any criterion to judge of wright and wrong, I have been most
+ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be
+silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect
+and provide for my child. I only mean by this to say, that you having
+nothing to fear from my desperation.
+
+                                                               Farewell.
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXIV.
+
+                                                    London, November 27.
+
+The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
+returned, did not meet my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters
+aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
+
+My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with
+anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for
+me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
+expect much attention to my sufferings.
+
+In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has
+almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I
+am, or what I do. The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel
+recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
+conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but an exercise of
+fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this
+tomb, where I am buried alive.
+
+But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, “that
+I shall judge more cooly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But
+is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does
+mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so
+“exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?
+In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but
+that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have
+fostered and the expectations you have excited?
+
+My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I know you are not what you
+now seem—nor will you always act or feel as you now do, though I may
+never be comforted by the change. Even at Paris, my image will haunt
+you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will
+drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
+
+I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your
+_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am
+miserable!
+
+It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the
+strictest principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social
+feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my
+whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that
+existence is a burthen without it.
+
+I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship,
+you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling
+are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God bless you!
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You
+seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether
+you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In truth I have been rudely handled.
+_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those
+capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only
+the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You
+would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a
+father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly
+the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to
+please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!
+
+Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from
+you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I am
+convinced you will not always justify your own.
+
+Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your
+mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
+gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle
+require such sacrifices?
+
+
+                              LETTER LXXV.
+
+                                                     London, December 8.
+
+Having just been informed that —— is to return immediately to Paris, I
+would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain
+that my last, by Dover, has reached you.
+
+Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wished
+to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light
+of an enemy.
+
+That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always
+with the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write
+calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.
+
+I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.
+Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little
+address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are
+sacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.
+
+The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your
+affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me,
+when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you
+will not always forget me. You will feel something like remorse, for
+having lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior
+gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had
+one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour
+of recollection will come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part
+of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,
+your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your
+present conduct. You do, you must, respect me—and you will be sorry to
+forfeit my esteem.
+
+You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an
+imaginary being. I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am
+obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be
+cleared up by time.
+
+You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own
+eyes. I shall still be able to support my child, though I am
+disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed
+would have afforded you equal pleasure.
+
+Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I
+thought your property in jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested you,
+_if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some
+other people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet
+not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not
+discharged, that now come on me. Was this friendship—or generosity? Will
+you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for
+you.—God bless you.
+
+                                                                 * * * *
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXVI.
+
+As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I
+will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and
+feeling ingenuity!
+
+I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is
+impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward
+inclination with the manly dictates of principle.
+
+You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why do I?——Because you cannot estrange
+your heart entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on my side. You
+urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your
+coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to
+remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took
+great pains to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the
+effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with
+these words, “Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to my port, and
+I will still fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”
+
+With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I
+wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old
+propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last
+prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which
+would enable you to conquer yourself.
+
+—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me
+feelings of this kind. You could restore me to life and hope, and the
+satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.
+
+In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time
+will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,
+even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every
+thing to your generosity—but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in
+suspense!—Let me see you once more!——
+
+
+                             LETTER LXXVII.
+
+You must do as you please with respect to the child. I could wish that
+it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It
+is now finished. Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship,
+I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that
+the “forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate. It is however
+of no consequence. I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.
+
+I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel. Yet I flinch
+not from the duties which tie me to life.
+
+That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it
+matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words.
+Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped, for what you
+term “delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no
+criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations
+which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of
+principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it
+would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.
+
+The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that
+will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my
+affections. The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term
+mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to
+some years to come. Whether you will always think so, I shall never
+know.
+
+It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction
+forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
+
+I part with you in peace.
+
+
+
+
+                                 LETTER
+                                 ON THE
+                           PRESENT CHARACTER
+                                 OF THE
+                             FRENCH NATION.
+
+  INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE
+    FRENCH NATION.
+
+
+                                               Paris, February 15, 1793.
+
+ MY DEAR FRIEND,
+
+It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind, to guard as
+carefully the remembrance of the first impression made by a nation, as
+by a countenance; because we imperceptibly lose sight of the national
+character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then
+useless or presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered Paris, the
+striking contrast of riches and poverty, elegance and slovenliness,
+urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and saddened my soul;
+and these impressions are still the foundation of my remarks on the
+manners, which flatter the senses, more than they interest the heart,
+and yet excite more interest than esteem.
+
+The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous,
+and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they
+are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving
+satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all sides
+they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of
+care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me,
+that they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they
+trifle their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how
+to wish them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me
+like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English
+head, searching for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of
+pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their chief enjoyment, it
+is true, rises from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders
+vexation of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burden of
+life, which reason too often weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder
+to the other.
+
+Investigating the modification of the passion, as I would analyze the
+elements that give a form to dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to
+their source the causes which have combined to render this nation the
+most polished, in a physical sense, and probably the most superficial in
+the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that
+disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature
+is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most
+sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or
+so effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of
+sensuality?
+
+The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me
+then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
+when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey.
+Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would
+decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to
+consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and,
+giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances
+which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light
+on the history of man, and on the present important subjects of
+discussion.
+
+I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and
+follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair
+form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter
+all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that
+have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that
+lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled
+with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
+the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the
+government rendered less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the
+misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the
+standing evils of the old system. I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I
+think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I
+also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through
+which the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear,
+and I hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of Providence,
+sweeping in such various directions the bosom of destruction over the
+sons of men.
+
+Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong
+virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress
+of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course
+of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being
+goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective of the golden age, fading
+before the attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and,
+losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my
+friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the first glance seems
+to be levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not become an Atheist,
+I assure you, by residing at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or,
+if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the
+passions are justly poized, we become harmless, and in the same
+proportion useless.
+
+The wants of reason are very few; and, were we to consider
+dispassionately the real value of most things, we should probably rest
+satisfied with the simple gratification of our physical necessities, and
+be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently, only that
+wanton, the imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward,
+and makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside every obstacle merely
+to catch a disappointment.
+
+The desire also of being useful to others, is continually damped by
+experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in some measure
+their own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle with care, to
+make some people ungrateful, and others idle?
+
+You will call these melancholy effusions, and guess that, fatigued by
+the vivacity, which has all the bustling folly of childhood, without the
+innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too severe in my
+strictures. It may be so; and I am aware that the good effects of the
+revolution will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of Epicurus
+has only been at work to root out the simple emotions of the heart,
+which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by
+the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government fostered, is
+it surprising that simplicity of manners, and singleness of heart,
+rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so passing
+sweet?
+
+Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have shot, I sometimes ask, with
+a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners
+which has hitherto been maintained unsullied only by the keen air of
+poverty, when, emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity are
+become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer
+day is dawning on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe, that
+little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which
+seems every where to be shoving aside _the point of honour_ of the
+_noblesse_. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect
+muddied water to become clear before it has had time to stand; yet, even
+for the moment, it is the most terrific of all sights, to see men
+vicious without warmth—to see the order that should be the
+superscription of virtue, cultivated to give security to crimes which
+only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is, in fact, the very
+essence of vice, though with the wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane
+emotions often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus humanity,
+generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes render a character grand,
+and even useful, when hurried away by lawless passions; but what can
+equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himself alone,
+and considering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleasure,
+never forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping ever within the
+pale of the law, he crushes his thousands with impunity; but it is with
+that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a significant
+vulgarism, a villain _in grain_. The very excess of his depravation
+preserves him, whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who prowls
+about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a
+snare.
+
+You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government,
+yet it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every
+thing whispers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I
+see that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to
+corrupt the new. For the same pride of office, the same desire of power
+are still visible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to
+obscurity after having but just acquired a relish for distinction, each
+hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with these new titles,
+endeavours to make hay while the sun shines; and every petty municipal
+officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, stalks like a
+cock on a dunghill.
+
+I shall now conclude this desultory letter; which however will enable
+you to foresee that I shall treat more of morals than manners.
+
+                                                                Yours ——
+
+
+
+
+                                 LETTER
+                                 ON THE
+                         MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.
+
+
+I ought to appologize for not having written to you on the subject you
+mentioned; but, to tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead of
+an answer, I have begun a series of letters on the management of
+children in their infancy. Replying then to your question, I have the
+public in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew what modes appear to
+me necessary, to render the infancy of children more healthy and happy.
+I have long thought, that the cause which renders children as hard to
+rear as the most fragile plant, is our deviation from simplicity. I know
+that some able physicians have recommended the method I have pursued,
+and I mean to point out the good effects I have observed in practice. I
+am aware that many matrons will exclaim against me and dwell on the
+number of children they have brought up, as their mothers did before
+them without troubling themselves with new-fangled notions; yet, though,
+in my uncle Toby’s words, they should attempt to silence me, by “wishing
+I had seen their large” families, I must suppose, while a third part of
+the human species, according to the most accurate calculation, die
+during their infancy, just at the threshold of life, that there is some
+errors in the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which counteracts
+their own endeavours. I may be mistaken in some particulars; for general
+rules, founded on the soundest reason, demand individual modification;
+but, if I can persuade any of the rising generation to exercise their
+reason on this head, I am content. My advice will probably be found most
+useful to mothers in the middle class; and it is from that the lower
+imperceptibly gains improvement. Custom, produced by reason in one, may
+safely be the effect of imitation in the other.
+
+ —                —                —                —                —
+
+
+
+
+                                LETTERS
+                                   TO
+                              MR. JOHNSON,
+                 BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.
+
+
+                               LETTER I.
+
+                                               Dublin, April 14, [1787.]
+
+ DEAR SIR,
+
+I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that I ought never to expect
+to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour to be
+useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost
+entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their
+future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my
+endeavours to improve them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the swarm
+of little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having
+power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life,
+when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the
+pleasures I relish?—I allude to rational conversations, and domestic
+affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land,
+tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be
+contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for
+sorrow—and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to
+hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,
+
+                                                         WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                               LETTER II.
+
+                                              Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking, _enjoyed_ solitude. My
+sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone
+by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and
+pleasure-grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I _caught_
+tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was _still_, though active.
+Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile.
+I found an old French bible here, and amused myself with comparing it
+with our English translation—then I would listen to the falling leaves,
+or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them. At other times,
+the singing of a robin, or the noise of a water-mill, engaged my
+attention—for I was, at the same time perhaps discussing some knotty
+point, or straying from this _tiny_ world to new systems. After these
+excursions, I returned to the family meals, to’d the children stories
+(they think me _vastly_ agreeable) and my sister was amused.—Well, will
+you allow me to call this way of passing my days pleasant?
+
+I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say
+all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation
+for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, lest my sister should
+try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I
+am determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but
+let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do any thing of consequence,
+that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my
+purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In
+the course of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some
+experience, and felt many _severe_ disappointments—and what is the
+amount? I long for a little peace and _independence_! Every obligation
+we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our
+native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not
+fond of grovelling!
+
+                                                   I am, sir, yours, &c.
+                                               MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER III.
+
+                                            Market Harborough, Sept. 20.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+You left me with three opulent tradesmen; their conversation was not
+calculated to beguile the way, when the sable curtain concealed the
+beauties of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and shrunk away
+without wishing to grow rich; even the novelty of the subjects did not
+render them pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in all their
+different forms—I was not surprised by any glimpse of the sublime or
+beautiful—though one of them imagined I should be a useful partner in a
+good _firm_. I was very much fatigued, and have scarcely recovered
+myself. I do not expect to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley
+afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful
+emotions are complicated with the reflections they give rise to.
+
+I do not intend to enter on the _old_ topic, yet hope to hear from
+you—and am yours, &c.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                               LETTER IV.
+
+                                                           Friday Night.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Though your remarks are generally judicious—I cannot _now_ concur with
+you, I mean with respect to the preface[12], and have not altered it. I
+hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule
+_only_ extends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious who
+may peruse my book, will not feel themselves hurt—and the weak are too
+vain to mind what is said in a book intended for children.
+
+Footnote 12:
+
+  To Original Stories.
+
+I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily imagine that I am
+indolent. I would not spare any labour to do my duty—and after the most
+laborious day, that single thought would solace me more than any
+pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the MS.
+well. If it was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated; but
+the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a
+stumbling-block at the first setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing
+I cannot do well—and I should loose time in the vain attempt.
+
+I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter from
+my poor, dear Margaret[13]. With all the mother’s fondness I could
+transcribe a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me, and
+dependence on heaven increase, &c.—I miss her innocent caresses—and
+sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my
+childless age—if I am to live to be old. At any rate, I may hear of the
+virtues I may not contemplate—and my reason may permit me to love a
+female. I now allude to ——. I have received another letter from her, and
+her childish complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual, good-night.
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the
+stories; for, what are books, compared to conversations which affection
+inforces!—
+
+Footnote 13:
+
+  Countess Mount Cashel.
+
+
+                               LETTER V.
+
+ MY DEAR SIR,
+
+Remember you are to settle _my account_, as I want to know how much I am
+in your debt—but do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that
+score. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me
+for a like civility, _but you were a man_ before you were a
+bookseller—so I am your sincere friend,
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                               LETTER VI.
+
+                                                         Friday Morning.
+
+I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head against
+the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from
+self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with
+myself, and I will tell you the cause. You may recollect that I did not
+mention to you the circumstance of —— having a fortune left to him; nor
+did a hint of it dropt from me when I conversed with my sister; because
+I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when
+his character was aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of
+vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the
+same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, last
+Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s gave Mrs. —— an account
+of it. As Mr. —— knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush to
+think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning
+came (not to reproach me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury I
+have done him. Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse him,
+if I deny myself the necessaries of life—and even then my folly will
+sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at this moment
+endure—that I, whose power of doing good is so limited, should do harm,
+galls my very soul. **** may laugh at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——
+to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely it is hell to despise
+one’s self! I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have
+many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this
+month, nor stir out. My stomach has been so suddenly and violently
+affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER VII.
+
+As I am become a reviewer, I think it right in the way of business, to
+consider the subject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as
+the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly shews. The Critical
+appears to be a timid, mean production, and its success is a reflection
+on the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who ever gave
+it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice of truth,
+when some man of abilities has had time to get fast hold of the GREAT
+NOSE of the monster. Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and
+dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amusement,
+though every article almost wants energy and a _cant_ of virtue and
+liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to
+established fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of
+admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the sustenance of
+the body by enfeebling the mind!
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                              LETTER VIII.
+
+You made me very low-spirited last night, by your manner of talking.—You
+are my only friend—the only person I am _intimate_ with.—I never had a
+father, or a brother—you have been both to me, ever since I knew you—yet
+I have sometimes been very petulant.—I have been thinking of those
+instances of ill humour and quickness, and they appeared like crimes.
+
+                                                       Yours sincerely
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                               LETTER IX.
+
+                                                         Saturday Night.
+
+I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
+suggestions of reason. Your note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and
+produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent
+tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was
+more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the
+morning I have grown delirious.—Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined
+—— was thrown into great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist
+him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of
+irritation—I suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary—and
+might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blushed when I
+recollect how often I had teazed you with childish complaints, and the
+reveries of a disordered imagination. I even _imagined_ that I intruded
+on you, because you never called on me—though you perceived that I was
+not well.—I have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gives me
+many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest—and often
+a frightful dream—yet catch myself every day searching for something
+serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment. I am a strange
+compound of weakness and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will
+endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my
+mind—my wayward heart creates its own misery—Why I am made thus I cannot
+tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence, I
+must be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be
+tired of it as soon as I get it.
+
+We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has
+lost its bells, and grown so heavy, I find it intolerably
+troublesome.——Goodnight! I have been pursuing a number of strange
+thoughts since I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed
+immoderately—Surely I am a fool—
+
+                                                                 MARY W.
+
+
+                               LETTER X.
+
+                                                         Monday Morning.
+
+I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that
+language——and I will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am
+persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an independence, and
+render myself useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind
+with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away. I see the necessity of
+labouring now—and of that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,
+I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to pursue
+knowledge, and draw my pleasures from the employments that are within my
+reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment
+particularly grateful to you—without your humane and _delicate_
+assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had to encounter—too
+often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom
+I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a
+being I respect.—Adieu!
+
+                                                                 MARY W.
+
+
+                               LETTER XI.
+
+I thought you _very_ unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares
+and vexations, I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as
+they arise from disinterestedness and _unbending_ principles; nor can
+that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables
+me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not
+the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with
+various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present
+comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose, you
+would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that
+wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have
+done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference cold in wisdom’s
+guise,”—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never
+disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a
+practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am
+ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking of
+getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—the
+struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a
+disagreeable way.
+
+Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for
+calling[14]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house
+before it occured to me in the strong light it does now, or I should
+have told him so.—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a
+superficial puppy—His intimacy with Miss —— gave him a privilege, which
+he should not have assumed with me—a proposal might be made to his
+cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me.
+Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wish to see him again——When
+I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull
+him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body—but it shall
+never bend to support that body—God of heaven, save thy child from this
+living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very
+sick—sick at heart.—
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+Footnote 14:
+
+  This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary
+  considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to
+  recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are
+  addressed to the gentleman himself.
+
+
+                              LETTER XII.
+
+                                                        Tuesday Evening.
+
+ SIR,
+
+When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—your _officious_
+message, which at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like an
+insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the necessity of forcing a
+smile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of
+informing you of my sentiments.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER XIII.
+
+                                                   Wednesday, 3 o’clock.
+
+ SIR,
+
+It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a
+subject, that has already raised a tumult of _indignant_ emotions in my
+bosom, which I was labouring to suppress when I received your letter. I
+shall now _condescend_ to answer your epistle; but let me first tell
+you, that, in my _unprotected_ situation, I make a point of never
+forgiving a _deliberate insult_—and in that light I consider your late
+officious conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters—I
+will then tell you in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered
+you in the light of a _civil_ acquaintance—on the word friend I lay a
+peculiar emphasis—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and
+_cruel_, to step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and
+misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr. Johnson, had made the
+proposal—I should have been severely hurt—have thought him unkind and
+unfeeling, but not _impertinent_. The privilege of intimacy you had no
+claim to, and should have referred the man to myself—if you had not
+sufficient discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and
+destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will never bend, or take indirect
+methods, to obtain the consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it
+was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the struggle would soon
+be over. I can bear any thing but my own contempt.
+
+In a few words, what I call an insult, is the bare supposition that I
+could for a moment think of _prostituting_ my person for a maintenance;
+for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who
+consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local
+opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and
+understanding.
+
+It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse me when I add, that I
+wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so
+grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary—if you were
+inclined to make one—nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I
+cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to
+respect poverty, even where it gives lustre to a character——and I tell
+you sir, I am poor, yet can live without your benevolent exertions.
+
+                                                    MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
+
+
+                              LETTER XIV.
+
+I send you _all_ the books I had to review except Dr. J——’s Sermons,
+which I have begun. If you wish me to look over any more trash this
+month, you must send it directly. I have been so low-spirited since I
+saw you—I was quite glad, last night, to feel myself affected by some
+passages in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I seemed
+(suddenly) to _find_ my _soul_ again. It has been for some time I cannot
+tell where. Send me the Speaker, and _Mary_, I want one, and I shall
+soon want for some paper—you may as well send it at the same time, for I
+am trying to brace my nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid
+reason is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning a long time with
+my untoward spirits, and yet my hand trembles. I could finish a period
+very _prettily_ now, by saying that it ought to be steady when I add
+that I am yours sincerely,
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—’s s—— on his
+wife, be it known unto you—I _will_ not do it any other way—I felt some
+pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the memory of a man—who,
+spite of all his faults, I have an affection for—I say _have_, for I
+believe he is somewhere—_where_ my soul has been gadding perhaps;—but
+_you_ do not live on conjectures.
+
+
+                               LETTER XV.
+
+My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am pleased with, now I see it
+in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope
+you will not have often to say—what does this mean?
+
+You forgot you were to make out my account, I am, of course, over head
+and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes some
+dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On the contrary, when I
+involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully
+recollect that I have received unexpected kindness from you and a few
+others. So reason allows, what nature impels me to—for I cannot live
+without loving my fellow creatures—nor can I love them, without
+discovering some virtue.
+
+                                                                   MARY.
+
+
+                              LETTER XVI.
+
+                                               Paris, December 26, 1792.
+
+I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have
+thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
+wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with
+blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention
+to prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not
+dare to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was
+not mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning
+home with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine
+o’clock this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently
+along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered
+the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the
+national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve
+their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements
+were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an
+insulting gesture. For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to
+the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so
+perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why,
+but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes,
+when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his
+character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his
+race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me,
+entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most
+flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity
+overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
+since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images
+that have filled my imagination all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity
+me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes
+glare through a glass-door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at
+me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are
+remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in
+an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another. I wish I had
+even kept the cat with me!—I want to see something alive; death in so
+many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed—and,
+for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.
+
+                                                                   M. W.
+
+
+                                 FINIS.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ 1. P. 133, the first character in “_are” failed to print. Added “c” to
+      make it “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these
+      springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days
+      browned by _c_are!”
+ 2. P. 147, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.
+ 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
+      spelling.
+ 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+ 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+
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+<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, by Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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+
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 15, 2022 [eBook #67847]</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
+  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN ***</div>
+
+<div class='tnotes covernote'>
+
+<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
+
+<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_frontispiece.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+<div class='ic001'>
+<p><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin</span></p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='titlepage'>
+
+<div>
+  <h1 class='c001'>MEMOIRS<br /> <span class='small'>AND</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>POSTHUMOUS WORKS</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF</span><br /> <span class='large'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,</span><br /> <span class='xlarge'>AUTHOR</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF A</span><br /> <span class='large'>VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.</span><br /> <span class='small'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</span><br /> <br /> <span class='xlarge'>VOL. I.</span></h1>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div>DUBLIN:</div>
+    <div class='c003'><em>Printed by Thomas Burnside</em>,</div>
+    <div><span class='small'>FOR J. RICE, III, GRAFTON-STREET.</span></div>
+    <div class='c003'>1798.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS<br /> <span class='large'>OF VOL. I.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c002'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Memoirs'>Memoirs.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Letters'>Letters.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#French'>Letter on the present Character of the French Nation.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Infants'>Letter on the Management of Infants.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em><a href='#Johnson'>Letters to Mr. Johnson.</a></em></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
+  <h2 id='Memoirs' class='c004'>MEMOIRS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c005'>CHAP. I.<br /> <span class='large'>1759–1775.</span></h3>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>It has always appeared to me, that to give to
+the public some account of the life of a person
+of eminent merit deceased, is a duty incumbent
+on survivors. It seldom happens that such a person
+passes through life, without being the subject
+of thoughtless calumny, or malignant misrepresentation.
+It cannot happen that the public at
+large should be on a footing with their intimate
+acquaintance, and be the observer of those virtues
+which discover themselves principally in personal
+intercourse. Every benefactor of mankind
+is more or less influenced by a liberal passion
+for fame; and survivors only pay a debt due to
+these benefactors, when they assert and establish
+on their part, the honour they loved. The justice
+which is thus done to the illustrious dead,
+converts into the fairest source of animation and
+encouragement to those who would follow them
+in the same career. The human species at large
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>is interested in this justice, as it teaches them to
+place their respect and affection, upon those qualities
+which best deserve to be esteemed and loved.
+I cannot easily prevail on myself to doubt, that
+the more fully we are presented with the picture
+and story of such persons as are the subject of the
+following narrative, the more generally shall we
+feel in ourselves an attachment to their fate, and
+a sympathy in their excellencies. There are not
+many individuals with whose character the public
+welfare and improvement are more intimately
+connected, than the author of A Vindication of
+the Rights of Woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The facts detailed in the following pages, are
+principally taken from the mouth of the person
+to whom they relate; and of the veracity and ingenuousness
+of her habits, perhaps no one that
+was ever acquainted with her, entertains a doubt.
+The writer of this narrative, when he has met
+with persons, that in any degree created to themselves
+an interest and attachment in his mind, has
+always felt a curiosity to be acquainted with the
+scenes through which they had passed, and the
+incidents that had contributed to form their understandings
+and character. Impelled by this sentiment,
+he repeatedly led the conversation of
+Mary to topics of this sort; and, once or twice,
+he made notes in her presence, of a few dates
+calculated to arrange the circumstances in his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>mind. To the materials thus collected, he has
+added an industrious enquiry among the persons
+most intimately acquainted with her at the different
+periods of her life.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of
+April 1759. Her father’s name was Edward
+John, and the name of her mother Elizabeth, of
+the family of Dixons of Ballyshannon in the kingdom
+of Ireland: her paternal grandfather was a
+respectable manufacturer in Spitalfields, and is
+supposed to have left to his son a property of
+10,000l. Three of her brothers and two sisters
+are still living; their names, Edward, James,
+Charles, Eliza, and Everina. Of these, Edward
+only was older than herself; he resides in London.
+James is in Paris, and Charles in or near Philadelphia
+in America. Her sisters have for some
+years been engaged in the office of governesses in
+private families, and are both at present in Ireland.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am doubtful whether the father of Mary was
+bred to any profession; but, about the time of her
+birth, he resorted, rather perhaps as an amusement
+than a business, to the occupation of farming.
+He was of a very active, and somewhat versatile
+disposition, and so frequently changed his
+abode, as to throw some ambiguity upon the place
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>of her birth. She told me, that the doubt in her
+mind in that respect, lay between London, and a
+farm upon Epping Forest, which was the principal
+scene of the five first years of her life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was distinguished in early youth, by some
+portion of that exquisite sensibility, soundness of
+understanding, and decision of character, which
+were the leading features of her mind through the
+whole course of her life. She experienced in the
+first period of her existence, but few of those indulgences
+and marks of affection, which are principally
+calculated to sooth the subjection and sorrows
+of our early years. She was not the favourite
+either of her father or mother. Her father
+was a man of quick, impetuous disposition, subject
+to alternate fits of kindness and cruelty. In
+his family he was a despot, and his wife appears
+to have been the first, and most submissive of his
+subjects. The mother’s partiality was fixed upon
+the eldest son, and her system of government relative
+to Mary, was characterized by considerable
+rigour. She, at length, became convinced of
+her mistake, and adopted a different plan with
+her younger daughters. When in the Wrongs
+of Woman, Mary speaks of “the petty cares
+which obscured the morning of her heroine’s life;
+continual restraint in the most trivial matters;
+unconditional submission to orders, which, as a
+mere child, she soon discovered to be unreasonable,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>because inconsistent and contradictory; and
+the being obliged often to sit, in the presence of
+her parents, for three or four hours together,
+without daring to utter a word;” she is, I believe,
+to be considered as copying the outline of the first
+period of her own existence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But it was in vain that the blighting winds of
+unkindness or indifference, seemed destined to
+counteract the superiority of Mary’s mind. It
+surmounted every obstacle; and, by degrees,
+from a person little considered in the family, she
+became in some sort its director and umpire.
+The despotism of her education cost her many a
+heart-ache. She was not formed to be the contented
+and unresisting subject of a despot; but I
+have heard her remark more than once, that,
+when she felt she had done wrong, the reproof or
+chastisement of her mother, instead of being a terror
+to her, she found to be the only thing capable
+of reconciling her to herself. The blows of
+her father on the contrary, which were the mere
+ebullitions of a passionate temper, instead of humbling
+her, roused her indignation. Upon such occasions
+she felt her superiority, and was apt to betray
+marks of contempt. The quickness of her
+father’s temper, led him sometimes to threaten
+similar violence towards his wife. When that
+was the case, Mary would often throw herself
+between the despot and his victim, with the purpose
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>to receive upon her own person the blows
+that might be directed against her mother. She
+has even laid whole nights upon the landing-place
+near their chamber-door, when, mistakenly, or
+with reason, she apprehended that her father
+might break out into paroxysms of violence. The
+conduct he held towards the members of his family,
+was of the same kind as that he observed towards
+animals. He was for the most part extravagantly
+fond of them; but, when he was displeased,
+and this frequently happened, and for
+very trivial reasons, his anger was alarming.
+Mary was what Dr. Johnson would have called,
+“a very good hater.” In some instance of passion
+exercised by her father to one of his dogs, she
+was accustomed to speak of her emotions of abhorrence,
+as having risen to agony. In a word,
+her conduct during her girlish years, was such,
+as to extort some portion of affection from her
+mother, and to hold her father in considerable
+awe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In one respect, the system of education of the
+mother appears to have had merit. All her children
+were vigorous and healthy. This seems
+very much to depend upon the management of
+our infant years. It is affirmed by some persons
+of the present day, most profoundly skilled in the
+sciences of health and disease, that there is no period
+of human life so little subject to mortality as
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>the period of infancy. Yet, from the mismanagement
+to which children are exposed, many
+of the diseases of childhood are rendered fatal, and
+more persons die in that, than in any other period
+of human life. Mary had projected a work upon
+this subject, which she had carefully considered,
+and well understood. She has indeed left a specimen
+of her skill in this respect in her eldest daughter,
+three years and a half old, who is a singular
+example of vigorous constitution and florid health.
+Mr. Anthony Carlisle, surgeon, of Soho-square,
+whom to name is sufficiently to honour, had promised
+to revise her production. This is but one
+out of numerous projects of activity and usefulness,
+which her untimely death has fatally terminated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The rustic situation in which Mary had spent
+her infancy, no doubt contributed to confirm the
+stamina of her constitution. She sported in the
+open air, and amidst the picturesque and refreshing
+scenes of nature, for which she always retained
+the most exquisite relish. Dolls and the other
+amusements usually appropriated to female children,
+she held in contempt; and felt a much
+greater propensity to join in the active and hardy
+sports of her brothers, than to confine herself to
+those of her own sex.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>About the time that Mary completed the fifth
+year of her age, her father removed to a small
+distance from his former habitation, and took a
+farm near the Whalebone upon Epping Forest,
+a little way out of the Chelmsford road. In
+Michaelmas, 1765, he once more changed his
+residence, and occupied a convenient house behind
+the town of Barking in Essex, eight miles from
+London. In this situation some of their nearest
+neighbours were, Bamber Gascoyne, esquire,
+successively member of parliament for several boroughs,
+and his brother, Mr. Joseph Gascoyne.
+Bamber Gascoyne resided but little on this spot;
+but his brother was almost a constant inhabitant,
+and his family in habits of the most frequent intercourse
+with the family of Mary. Here Mr.
+Wollstonecraft remained for three years. In September
+1796, I accompanied my wife on a visit to
+this spot. No person reviewed with greater sensibility,
+the scenes of her childhood. We found
+the house uninhabited, and the garden in a wild
+and ruinous state. She renewed her acquaintance
+with the market-place, the streets, and the wharf,
+the latter of which we found crowded with barges,
+and full of activity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In Michaelmas, 1768, Mr. Wollstonecraft
+again removed to a farm near Beverly in Yorkshire.
+Here the family remained for six years,
+and consequently, Mary did not quit this residence,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>till she had attained the age of fifteen years and
+five months. The principal part of her school
+education passed during this period: but it was
+not to any advantage of infant literature, that she
+was indebted for her subsequent eminence; her
+education in this respect was merely such, as
+was afforded by the day-schools of the place, in
+which she resided. To her recollections Beverly
+appeared a very handsome town, surrounded by
+genteel families, and with a brilliant assembly.
+She was surprized, when she visited it in 1795,
+upon her voyage to Norway, to find the reality
+so very much below the picture in her imagination.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Hitherto Mr. Wollstonecraft had been a farmer;
+but the restlessness of his disposition would
+not suffer him to content himself with the occupation
+in which for some years he had been engaged,
+and the temptation of a commercial speculation
+of some sort being held out to him, he
+removed to a house in Queen’s-Row, in Hoxton
+near London, for the purpose of its execution.
+Here he remained for a year and a half; but, being
+frustrated in his expectations of profit, he,
+after that term, gave up the project in which he
+was engaged, and returned to his former pursuits.
+During this residence at Hoxton, the writer of
+these memoirs inhabited, as a student, at the dissenting
+college in that place. It is perhaps a question
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>of curious speculation to enquire, what would
+have been the amount of the difference in the
+pursuits and enjoyments of each party, if they
+had met, and considered each other with the same
+distinguishing regard in 1776, as they were afterwards
+impressed with in the year 1796. The
+writer had then completed the twentieth, and
+Mary the seventeenth year of her age. Which
+would have been predominant; the disadvantages
+of obscurity, and the pressure of a family; or the
+gratifications and improvement that might have
+flowed from their intercourse?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One of the acquaintances Mary formed at this
+time was a Mr. Clare, who inhabited the next
+house to that which was tenanted by her father,
+and to whom she was probably in some degree
+indebted for the early cultivation of her mind.
+Mr. Clare was a clergyman, and appears to have
+been a humourist of a very singular cast. In his
+person he was deformed and delicate; and his
+figure, I am told, bore a resemblance to that of
+the celebrated Pope. He had a fondness for poetry,
+and was not destitute of taste. His manners
+were expressive of a tenderness and benevolence,
+the demonstrations of which appeared to have
+been somewhat too artificially cultivated. His
+habits were those of a perfect recluse. He seldom
+went out of his drawing-room, and he shewed to
+a friend of Mary a pair of shoes, which had served
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>him, he said, for fourteen years. Mary frequently
+spent days and weeks together, at the house of
+Mr. Clare.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. II.<br /> <span class='large'>1775–1783.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>But a connection more memorable originated
+about this time, between Mary and a person of
+her own sex, for whom she contracted a friendship
+so fervent, as for years to have constituted
+the ruling passion of her mind. The name of
+this person was Frances Blood; she was two years
+older than Mary. Her residence was at that time
+at Newington Butts, a village near the southern
+extremity of the metropolis; and the original instrument
+for bringing these two friends acquainted,
+was Mrs. Clare, wife of the gentleman already
+mentioned, who was on a footing of considerable
+intimacy with both parties. The acquaintance
+of Fanny, like that of Mr. Clare, contributed
+to ripen the immature talents of Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The situation in which Mary was introduced
+to her, bore a resemblance to the first interview
+of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted
+to the door of a small house, but furnished with
+peculiar neatness and propriety. The first object
+that caught her sight, was a young woman of a
+slender and elegant form, and eighteen years of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>age, busily employed in feeding and managing
+some children, born of the same parents, but
+considerably inferior to her in age. The impression
+Mary received from this spectacle was indelible;
+and, before the interview was concluded,
+she had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal
+friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Fanny was a young woman of extraordinary accomplishments.
+She sung and played with taste.
+She drew with exquisite fidelity and neatness; and
+by the employment of this talent, for some time
+maintained her father, mother, and family, but
+ultimately ruined her health by her extraordinary
+exertions. She read and wrote with considerable
+application; and the same ideas of minute and delicate
+propriety followed her in these, as in her
+other occupations.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary, a wild, but animated and aspiring girl
+of sixteen, contemplated Fanny, in the first instance,
+with sentiments of inferiority and reverence.
+Though they were much together, yet,
+the distance of their habitation being considerable,
+they supplied the want of more frequent interviews
+by an assiduous correspondence. Mary found
+Fanny’s letters better spelt and better indited than
+her own, and felt herself abashed. She had hitherto
+paid but a superficial attention to literature.
+She had read, to gratify the ardor of an inextinguishable
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>thirst of knowledge; but she had not
+thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to
+excel was now awakened, and she applied herself
+with passion and earnestness. Fanny undertook
+to be her instructor; and, so far as related to accuracy
+and method, her lessons were given with
+considerable skill.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It has already been mentioned that in the spring
+of the year 1776, Mr. Wollstonecroft quitted his
+situation at Hoxton, and returned to his former
+agricultural pursuits. The situation upon which
+he now fixed was in Wales, a circumstance that
+was felt as a severe blow to Mary’s darling spirit
+of friendship. The principal acquaintance of the
+Wollstonecrofts in this retirement, was the family
+of a Mr. Allen, two of whose daughters are since
+married to the two elder sons of the celebrated
+English potter, Josiah Wedgwood.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Wales however was Mr. Wollstonecroft’s residence
+for little more than a year. He returned to
+the neighbourhood of London; and Mary, whose
+spirit of independence was unalterable, had influence
+enough to determine his choice in favour of
+the village of Walworth, that she might be near
+her chosen friend. It was probably before this,
+that she has once or twice started the idea of quitting
+her parental roof, and providing for herself.
+But she was prevailed upon to resign this idea,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>and conditions were stipulated with her, relative
+to her having an apartment in the house that
+should be exclusively her own, and her commanding
+the other requisites of study. She did not
+however think herself fairly treated in these instances,
+and either the conditions abovementioned,
+or some others, were not observed in the sequel,
+with the fidelity she expected. In one case,
+she had procured an eligible situation, and every
+thing was settled respecting her removal to it,
+when the intreaties and tears of her mother led her
+to surrender her own inclinations, and abandon
+the engagement.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These however were only temporary delays.
+Her propensities continued the same, and the motives
+by which she was instigated were unabated.
+In the year 1778, she being nineteen years of age,
+a proposal was made to her of living as a companion
+with a Mrs. Dawson of Bath, a widow lady,
+with one son already adult. Upon enquiry she
+found that Mrs. Dawson was a woman of great
+peculiarity of temper, that she had had a great
+variety of companions in succession, and that no
+one had found it practicable to continue with her.
+Mary was not discouraged by this information,
+and accepted the situation, with a resolution that
+she would effect in this respect, what none of her
+predecessors had been able to do. In the sequel
+she had reason to consider the account she had received
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>as sufficiently accurate, but she did not relax
+in her endeavours. By method, constancy
+and firmness, she found the means of making her
+situation tolerable; and Mrs. Dawson would occasionally
+confess, that Mary was the only person
+that had lived with her in that situation, in her
+treatment of whom she felt herself under any restraint.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With Mrs. Dawson she continued to reside for
+two years, and only left her, summoned by the
+melancholy circumstance of her mother’s rapidly
+declining health. True to the calls of humanity,
+Mary felt in this intelligence an irresistible motive,
+and eagerly returned to the paternal roof which
+she had before resolutely quitted. The residence
+of her father at this time, was at Enfield near
+London. He had, I believe, given up agriculture
+from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing
+that he now made it less a source of profit
+than loss, and being thought advisable that he
+should rather live upon the interest of his property
+already in possession.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The illness of Mrs. Wollstonecroft was lingering,
+but hopeless. Mary was assiduous in her attendance
+upon her mother. At first, every attention
+was received with acknowledgements and
+gratitude; but, as the attentions grew habitual,
+and the health of the mother more and more
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>wretched, they were rather exacted, than received.
+Nothing would be taken by the unfortunate
+patient, but from the hands of Mary; rest was
+denied night or day, and by the time nature was
+exhausted in the parent, the daughter was qualified
+to assume her place, and become in turn herself
+a patient. The last words her mother ever
+uttered were, “A little patience, and all will be
+over!” and these words are repeatedly referred to
+by Mary in the course of her writings.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Upon the death of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Mary
+bid a final adieu to the roof of her father. According
+to my memorandum, I find her next the
+inmate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village
+of Fulham. Upon what plan they now lived
+together, I am unable to ascertain; certainly not
+that of Mary’s becoming in any degree an additional
+burthen upon the industry of her friend.
+Thus situated, their intimacy ripened; they approached
+more nearly to a footing of equality;
+and their attachment became more rooted and active.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was ever ready at the call of distress,
+and, in particular, during her whole life was eager
+and active to promote the welfare of every
+member of her family. In 1780 she attended the
+death-bed of her mother; in 1782 she was summoned
+by a not less melancholy occasion, to attend
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>her sister Eliza, married to a Mr. Bishop,
+who, subsequently to a dangerous lying-in, remained
+for some months in a very afflicting situation.
+Mary continued with her sister without intermission,
+to her perfect recovery.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. III.<br /> <span class='large'>1783–1785.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Mary was now arrived at the twenty-fourth
+year of her age. Her project, five years before,
+had been personal independence; it was now usefulness.
+In the solitude of attendance on her sister’s
+illness, and during the subsequent convalescence,
+she had leisure to ruminate upon purposes
+of this sort. Her expanded mind led her to seek
+something more arduous than the mere removal of
+personal vexations; and the sensibility of her
+heart would not suffer her to rest in solitary gratifications.
+The derangement of her father’s affairs
+daily became more and more glaring; and
+a small independent provision made for herself
+and her sisters appears to have been sacrificed in
+the wreck. For ten years, from 1782 to 1792,
+she may be said to have been, in a great degree,
+the victim of a desire to promote the benefit of
+others. She did not foresee the severe disappointment
+with which an exclusive purpose of this sort
+is pregnant; she was inexperienced enough to lay
+a stress upon the consequent gratitude of those she
+benefited; and she did not sufficiently consider
+that, in proportion as we involve ourselves in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>interests and society of others, we acquire a more
+exquisite sense of their defects, and are tormented
+with their untractableness and folly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The project upon which she now determined,
+was no other than that of a day-school, to be superintended
+by Fanny Blood, herself, and her two
+sisters.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>They accordingly opened one in the year 1783,
+at the village of Islington; but in the course of a
+few months removed it to Newington Green.
+Here Mary formed some acquaintances who influenced
+the future events of her life. The first of
+these in her own estimation was Dr. Richard
+Price, well known for his political and mathematical
+calculations, and universally esteemed by
+those who knew him, for the simplicity of his
+manners, and the ardour of his benevolence. The
+regard conceived by these two persons for each
+other, was mutual, and partook of a spirit of the
+purest attachment. Mary had been bred in the
+principles of the church of England, but her esteem
+for this venerable preacher led her occasionally
+to attend upon his public instructions. Her
+religion was, in reality, little allied to any system
+of forms; and, as she has often told me, was
+founded rather in taste, than in the niceties of polemical
+discussion. Her mind constitutionally attached
+itself to the sublime and the amiable. She
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>found an inexpressible delight in the beauties of
+nature, and in the splendid reveries of the imagination.
+But nature itself, she thought, would be
+no better than a vast blank, if the mind of the observer
+did not supply it with an animating soul.
+When she walked amidst the wonders of nature,
+she was accustomed to converse with her God.
+To her mind he was pictured as not less amiable,
+generous and kind, than great, wise and exalted.
+In fact, she had received few lessons of religion in
+her youth, and her religion was almost entirely of
+her own creation. But she was not on that account
+the less attached to it, or the less scrupulous
+in discharging what she considered as its duties.
+She could not recollect the time when she had believed
+the doctrine of future punishments. The
+tenets of her system were the growth of her own
+moral taste, and her religion therefore had always
+been a gratification, never a terror to her. She
+expected a future state; but she would not allow
+her ideas of that future state to be modified by the
+notions of judgment and retribution. From this
+sketch, it is sufficiently evident, that the pleasure
+she took in an occasional attendance upon the sermons
+of Dr. Price, was not accompanied with a
+superstitious adherence to his doctrines. The fact
+is, that, so far down as the year 1787, she regularly
+frequented public worship, for the most part
+according to the forms of the church of England.
+After that period her attendance became less constant,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>and in no long time was wholly discontinued.
+I believe it may be admitted as a maxim,
+that no person of a well furnished mind, that has
+shaken off the implicit subjection of youth, and
+is not the zealous partisan of a sect, can bring
+himself to conform to the public and regular routine
+of sermons and prayers.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Another of the friends she acquired at this period,
+was Mrs. Burgh, widow of the author of
+the Political Disquisitions, a woman universally
+well spoken of for the warmth and purity of her
+benevolence. Mary, whenever she had occasion
+to allude to her, to the last period of her life, paid
+the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining
+friend necessary to be enumerated in this place,
+is the Rev. John Hewlet, now master of a Boarding-school
+at Schecklewel near Hackney, whom I
+shall have occasion to mention hereafter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have already said that Fanny’s health had
+been materially injured by her incessant labours
+for the maintenance of her family. She had also
+suffered a disappointment, which preyed upon
+her mind. To these different sources of ill health
+she became gradually a victim: and at length
+discovered all the symptoms of a pulmonary consumption.
+By the medical men that attended
+her, she was advised to try the effects of a southern
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>climate; and, about the beginning of the
+year 1785, sailed for Lisbon.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The first feeling with which Mary had contemplated
+her friend, was a sentiment of inferiority
+and reverence; but that, from the operation
+of a ten years’ acquaintance, was considerably
+changed. Fanny had originally been far before
+her in literary attainments; this disparity no
+longer existed. In whatever degree Mary might
+endeavour to free herself from the delusions of
+self-esteem, this period of observation upon her
+own mind and that of her friend, could not pass,
+without her perceiving that there were some essential
+characteristics of genius, which she possessed,
+and in which her friend was deficient. The
+principal of these was a firmness of mind, an unconquerable
+greatness of soul, by which, after a
+short internal struggle, she was accustomed to
+rise above difficulties and suffering. Whatever
+Mary undertook, she perhaps in all instances accomplished;
+and, to her lofty spirit, scarcely
+any thing she desired, appeared hard to perform.
+Fanny, on the contrary, was a woman of a timid
+and irresolute nature, accustomed to yield to
+difficulties, and probably priding herself in this
+morbid softness of her temper. One instance
+that I have heard Mary relate of this sort, was,
+that, at a certain time, Fanny, dissatisfied with
+her domestic situation, expressed an earnest desire
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>to have a home of her own. Mary, who felt nothing
+more pressing than to relieve the inconveniencies
+of her friend, determined to accomplish
+this object for her. It cost her infinite exertions;
+but at length she was able to announce to Fanny
+that a house was prepared, and that she was on
+the spot to receive her. The answer which
+Fanny returned to the letter of her friend, consisted
+almost wholly of an enumeration of objections
+to the quitting her family, which she had
+not thought of before, but which now appeared
+to her of considerable weight.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The judgment which experience had taught
+Mary to form of the mind of her friend, determined
+her in the advice she gave, at the period to
+which I have brought down the story. Fanny
+was recommended to seek a softer climate, but
+she had no funds to defray the expence of such an
+undertaking. At this time Mr. Hugh Skeys of
+Dublin, but then resident in the kingdom of Portugal,
+paid his addresses to her. The state of her
+health Mary considered such as scarcely to afford
+the shadow of a hope; it was not therefore a
+time at which it was most obvious to think of
+marriage. She conceived however that nothing
+should be omitted, which might alleviate, if it
+could not cure; and accordingly urged her speedy
+acceptance of the proposal. Fanny accordingly
+made the voyage to Lisbon; and the marriage
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>took place on the twenty-fourth of February
+1785.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The change of climate and situation was productive
+of little benefit; and the life of Fanny was
+only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which
+soon declared itself. Mary, in the mean time,
+was impressed with the idea that her friend would
+die in this distant country; and, shocked with the
+recollection of her separation from the circle of her
+friends, determined to pass over to Lisbon to attend
+her. This resolution was treated by her acquaintance
+as in the utmost degree visionary; but
+she was not to be diverted from her point. She
+had not money to defray her expences: she must
+quit for a long time the school, the very existence
+of which probably depended upon her exertions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>No person was ever better formed for the business
+of education; if it be not a sort of absurdity
+to speak of a person as formed for an inferior object,
+who is in possession of talents, in the fullest
+degree adequate to something on a more important
+and comprehensive scale. Mary had a quickness
+of temper, not apt to take offence with inadvertencies,
+but which led her to imagine that she
+saw the mind of the person with whom she had
+any transaction, and to refer the principle of her
+approbation or displeasure to the cordiality or injustice
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>of their sentiments. She was occasionally
+severe and imperious in her resentments; and,
+when she strongly disapproved, was apt to express
+her censure in terms that gave a very humiliating
+sensation to the person against whom it was directed.
+Her displeasure however never assumed
+its severest form, but when it was barbed by disappointment.
+Where she expected little, she was
+not very rigid in her censure of error.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But, to whatever the defects of her temper
+might amount, they were never exercised upon
+her inferiors in station or age. She scorned to
+make use of an ungenerous advantage, or to
+wound the defenceless. To her servants there
+never was a mistress more considerate or more
+kind. With children she was the mirror of patience.
+Perhaps, in all her extensive experience
+upon the subject of education, she never betrayed
+one symptom of irascibility. Her heart was the
+seat of every benevolent feeling; and accordingly,
+in all her intercourse with children, it was kindness
+and sympathy alone that prompted her conduct.
+Sympathy, when it mounts to a certain
+height, inevitably begets affection in the person
+to whom it is exercised; and I have heard her
+say, that she never was concerned in the education
+of one child, who was not personally attached to
+her, and earnestly concerned not to incur her displeasure.
+Another eminent advantage she possessed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>in the business of education, was that she
+was little troubled with scepticism and uncertainty.
+She saw, as it were by intuition, the path which
+her mind determined to pursue, and had a firm
+confidence in her own power to effect what she
+desired. Yet, with all this, she had scarcely a
+tincture of obstinacy. She carefully watched
+symptoms as they rose, and the success of her experiments;
+and governed herself accordingly.
+While I thus enumerate her more than maternal
+qualities, it is impossible not to feel a pang at the
+recollection of her orphan children!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though her friends earnestly dissuaded her
+from the journey to Lisbon, she found among
+them a willingness to facilitate the execution of
+her project, when it was once fixed. Mrs.
+Burgh in particular, supplied her with money,
+which however she always conceived came from
+Dr. Price. This loan, I have reason to believe,
+was faithfully repaid.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was during her residence at Newington Green,
+that she was introduced to the acquaintance of
+Dr. Johnson, who was at that time considered as
+in some sort the father of English literature. The
+doctor treated her with particular kindness and
+attention, had a long conversation with her, and
+desired her to repeat her visit often. This she
+firmly purposed to do; but the news of his last
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>illness, and then of his death, intervened to prevent
+her making a second visit.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Her residence in Lisbon was not long. She arrived
+but a short time before her friend was prematurely
+delivered, and the event was fatal to
+both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto
+the chosen object of Mary’s attachment, died on
+the 29th of November, 1785.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is thus that she speaks of her in her letters
+from Norway, written ten years after her decease.
+“When a warm heart has received strong impressions,
+they are not to be effaced. Emotions
+become sentiments; and the imagination renders
+even transient sensations permanent, by fondly retracing
+them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight,
+recollect views I have seen, which are not
+to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every
+nerve, which I shall never more meet. The
+grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of
+my youth; still she is present with me, and I
+hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the
+heath.”</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IV.<br /> <span class='large'>1785–1787.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>No doubt the voyage to Lisbon tended considerably
+to enlarge the understanding of Mary.
+She was admitted into the best company the English
+factory afforded. She made many profound
+observations on the character of the natives, and
+the baleful effects of superstition. The obsequies
+of Fanny, which it was necessary to perform by
+stealth and in darkness, tended to invigorate these
+observations in her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She sailed upon her voyage home about the
+twentieth of December. On this occasion a circumstance
+occurred, that deserves to be recorded.
+While they were on their passage, they fell in
+with a French vessel, in great distress, and in
+daily expectation of foundering at sea, at the same
+time that it was almost destitute of provisions.
+The Frenchman hailed them, and intreated the
+English captain, in consideration of his melancholy
+situation, to take him and his crew on board.
+The Englishman represented in reply, that his
+stock of provisions was by no means adequate to
+such an additional number of mouths, and absolutely
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>refused compliance. Mary, shocked at
+his apparent insensibility, took up the cause of
+the sufferers, and threatened the captain to have
+him called to a severe account, when he arrived
+in England. She finally prevailed, and had the
+satisfaction to reflect, that the persons in
+question possibly owed their lives to her interposition.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When she arrived in England, she found that
+her school had suffered considerably in her absence.
+It can be little reproach to any one, to
+say that they were found incapable of supplying
+her place. She not only excelled in the management
+of the children, but had also the talent of
+being attentive and obliging to the parents, without
+degrading herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period at which I am now arrived is important,
+as conducting to the first step of her literary
+career. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned
+literature to Mary as a certain source of pecuniary
+produce, and had urged her to make trial
+of the truth of his judgment. At this time she
+was desirous of assisting the father and mother of
+Fanny in an object they had in view, the transporting
+themselves to Ireland; and, as usual,
+what she desired in a pecuniary view, she was ready
+to take on herself to effect. For this purpose
+she wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one hundred
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>and sixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education
+of Daughters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from
+the bookseller, Mr. Johnson in St. Paul’s Church
+Yard, ten guineas for the copy-right of this manuscript,
+which she immediately applied to the
+object for the sake of which the pamphlet was
+written.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the
+affair of the school. She was dissatisfied with
+the different appearance it presented upon her return,
+from the state in which she left it. Experience
+impressed upon her a rooted aversion to
+that sort of cohabitation with her sisters, which
+the project of the school imposed. Cohabitation
+is a point of delicate experiment, and is, in a
+majority of instances, pregnant with ill humour
+and unhappiness. The activity and ardent spirit
+of adventure which characterized Mary, were
+not felt in an equal degree by her sisters, so that
+a disproportionate share of every burthen attendant
+upon the situation, fell to her lot. On the
+other hand, they could scarcely perhaps be perfectly
+easy, in observing the superior degree of
+deference and courtship, which her merit extorted
+from almost every one that knew her. Her kindness
+for them was not diminished, but she resolved
+that the mode of its exertion in future should
+be different, tending to their benefit, without intrenching
+upon her own liberty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>Thus circumstanced, a proposal was made her,
+such as, regarding only the situations through
+which she had lately passed, is usually termed advantageous.
+This was, to accept the office of
+governess to the daughters of Lord Viscount
+Kingsborough, eldest son to the Earl of Kingston
+of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held
+out to her, were such as she determined to accept,
+at the same time resolving to retain the situation
+only for a short time. Independence was
+the object after which she thirsted, and she was
+fixed to try whether it might not be found in literary
+occupation. She was desirous however first
+to accumulate a small sum of money, which
+should enable her to consider at leisure the different
+literary engagements that might offer, and
+provide in some degree for the eventual deficiency
+of her earliest attempts.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The situation in the family of Lord Kingsborough,
+was offered to her through the medium
+of the Rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the
+under masters of Eton school. She spent some
+time at the house of this gentleman, immediately
+after her giving up the school at Newington
+Green. Here she had an opportunity of making
+an accurate observation upon the manners and
+conduct of that celebrated seminary, and the ideas
+she retained of it were by no means favourable.
+By all that she saw, she was confirmed in a very
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>favourite opinion of her’s, in behalf of day-schools,
+where, as she expressed it, “children
+have the opportunity of conversing with children,
+without interfering with domestic affections, the
+foundation of virtue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though her residence in the family of Lord
+Kingsborough continued scarcely more than
+twelve months, she left behind her, with them
+and their connections, a very advantageous impression.
+The governesses the young ladies had
+hitherto had, were only a species of upper servants,
+controlled in every thing by the mother;
+Mary insisted upon the unbounded exercise of her
+own discretion. When the young ladies heard of
+their governess coming from England, they heard
+in imagination of a new enemy, and declared their
+resolution to guard themselves accordingly. Mary
+however speedily succeeded in gaining their confidence,
+and the friendship that soon grew up between
+her and Margaret King, now Countess
+Mount Cashel, the eldest daughter, was in an uncommon
+degree cordial and affectionate. Mary
+always spoke of this young lady in terms of the
+truest applause, both in relation to the eminence
+of her intellectual powers, and the ingenuous
+amiableness of her disposition. Lady Kingsborough,
+from the best motives, had imposed upon
+her daughters a variety of prohibitions, both as to
+the books they should read, and in many other respects.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>These prohibitions had their usual effects;
+inordinate desire for the things forbidden,
+and clandestine indulgence. Mary immediately
+restored the children to their liberty, and undertook
+to govern them by their affections only. The
+salutary effects of the new system of education
+were speedily visible; and Lady Kingsborough
+soon felt no other uneasiness than lest the children
+should love their governess better than their mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the
+persons who visited Lord Kingsborough’s house,
+for she always appeared there with the air of an
+equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her
+mention the ludicrous distress of a woman of quality,
+whose name I have forgotten, that, in a large
+company, singled out Mary, and entered into a
+long conversation with her. After the conversation
+was over, she enquired whom she had been
+talking with, and found, to her utter mortification
+and dismay, that it was Miss King’s governess.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One of the persons among her Irish acquaintance,
+whom Mary was accustomed to speak of
+with the highest respect, was Mr. George Ogle,
+member of parliament for the county of Wexford.
+She held his talents in very high estimation; she
+was strongly prepossessed in favour of the goodness
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>of his heart; and she always spoke of him as
+the most perfect gentleman she had ever known.
+She felt the regret of a disappointed friend, at
+the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Lord Kingsborough’s family passed the summer
+of the year 1787 at Bristol Hot-Wells, and had
+formed the project of proceeding from thence to
+the Continent, a tour in which Mary purposed to
+accompany them. The plan however was ultimately
+given up, and Mary in consequence closed
+her connection with them, earlier than she otherwise
+had purposed to do.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At Bristol Hot-Wells she composed the little
+book which bears the title of Mary, a Fiction. A
+considerable part of this story consists, with certain
+modifications, of the incidents of her own
+friendship with Fanny. All the events that do
+not relate to that subject are fictitious.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This little work, if Mary had never produced
+any thing else, would serve, with persons of true
+taste and sensibility, to establish the eminence of
+her genius. The story is nothing. He that
+looks into the book only for incident, will probably
+lay it down with disgust. But the feelings
+are of the truest and most exquisite class; every
+circumstance is adorned with that species of imagination,
+which enlists itself under the banners of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>delicacy and sentiment. A work of sentiment,
+as it is called, is too often another name for a
+work of affectation. He that should imagine
+that the sentiments of this book are affected,
+would indeed be entitled to our profoundest commiseration.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. V.<br /> <span class='large'>1787–1790.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Being now determined to enter upon her literary
+plan, Mary came immediately from Bristol
+to the metropolis. Her conduct under this
+circumstance was such as to do credit both to her
+own heart, and that of Mr. Johnson, her publisher,
+between whom and herself there now
+commenced an intimate friendship. She had seen
+him upon occasion of publishing her Thoughts on
+the Education of Daughters, and she addressed
+two or three letters to him during her residence
+in Ireland. Upon her arrival in London in August
+1787, she went immediately to his house,
+and frankly explained to him her purpose, at the
+same time requesting his assistance and advice as to
+its execution. After a short conversation Mr.
+Johnson invited her to make his house her home,
+till she should have suited herself with a fixed residence.
+She accordingly resided at this time two
+or three weeks under his roof. At the same period
+she paid a visit or two of similar duration to
+some friends, at no great distance from the metropolis.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>At Michaelmas 1787, she entered upon a house
+in George-street, on the Surry side of Black Friar’s
+Bridge, which Mr. Johnson had provided for
+her during her excursion into the country. The
+three years immediately ensuing, may be said, in
+the ordinary acceptation of the term, to have
+been the most active period of her life. She
+brought with her to this habitation, the novel of
+Mary, which had not yet been sent to the press,
+and the commencement of a sort of oriental tale,
+entitled, the Cave of Fancy, which she thought
+proper afterwards to lay aside unfinished. I am
+told that at this period she appeared under great
+dejection of spirits, and filled with melancholy
+regret for the loss of her youthful friend. A period
+of two years had elapsed since the death of that
+friend; but it was possibly the composition of the
+fiction of Mary, that renewed her sorrows in their
+original force. Soon after entering upon her new
+habitation, she produced a little work, entitled,
+Original Stories from Real Life, intended for the
+use of children. At the commencement of her
+literary career, she is said to have conceived a vehement
+aversion to the being regarded, by her
+ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an author,
+and to have employed some precautions to
+prevent its occurrence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The employment which the bookseller suggested
+to her, as the easiest and most certain source of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>pecuniary income, of course, was translation.
+With this view she improved herself in her
+French, with which she had previously but a
+slight acquaintance, and acquired the Italian and
+German languages. The greater part of her literary
+engagements at this time, were such as
+were presented to her by Mr. Johnson. She new-modelled
+and abridged a work, translated from
+the Dutch, entitled, Young Grandison: she began
+a translation from the French, of a book, called,
+the New Robinson; but in this undertaking,
+she was, I believe, anticipated by another translator:
+and she compiled a series of extracts in verse
+and prose, upon the model of Dr. Enfield’s
+Speaker, which bears the title of the Female
+Reader; but which, from a cause not worth
+mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different
+name in the title-page.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnson
+instituted the Analytical Review, in which
+Mary took a considerable share. She also translated
+Necker on the Importance of Religious opinions;
+made an abridgement of Lavater’s Physiognomy,
+from the French, which has never been
+published; and compressed Salzmann’s Elements
+of Morality, a German production, into a publication
+in three volumes duodecimo. The translation
+of Salzmann produced a correspondence
+between Mary and the author; and he afterwards
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German
+translation of the Rights of Woman. Such were
+her principal literary occupations, from the autumn
+of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It perhaps deserves to be remarked that this sort
+of miscellaneous literary employment, seems, for
+the time at least, rather to damp and contract,
+than to enlarge and invigorate the genius. The
+writer is accustomed to see his performances answer
+the mere mercantile purpose of the day, and
+confounded with those of persons to whom he is
+secretly conscious of a superiority. No neighbour
+mind serves as a mirror to reflect the generous
+confidence he felt within himself; and perhaps
+the man never yet existed who could maintain his
+enthusiasm to its full vigour, in the midst of this
+kind of solitariness. He is touched with the torpedo
+of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which
+Mary produced during this period, is marked with
+those daring flights, which exhibit themselves in
+the little fiction she composed just before its commencement.
+Among effusions of a nobler cast,
+I find occasionally interspersed some of that homily-language,
+which, to speak from my own feelings,
+is calculated to damp the moral courage, it
+was intended to awaken. This is probably to be
+assigned to the causes above described.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>I have already said that one of the purposes
+which Mary had conceived, a few years before,
+as necessary to give a relish to the otherwise insipid,
+or embittered, draught of human life, was
+usefulness. On this side, the period of her existence
+of which I am now treating, is more brilliant,
+than in any literary view. She determined
+to apply as great a part as possible of the produce
+of her present employments, to the assistance of
+her friends and of the distressed; and, for this
+purpose, laid down to herself rules of the most
+rigid economy. She began with endeavouring to
+promote the interest of her sisters. She conceived
+that there was no situation in which she could
+place them, at once so respectable and agreeable,
+as that of governesses in private families. She
+determined therefore in the first place, to endeavour
+to qualify them for such an undertaking.
+Her younger sister she sent to Paris, where she remained
+near two years. The elder she placed in
+a school near London, first as a parlour-boarder,
+and afterwards as a teacher. Her brother James,
+who had already been at sea, she first took into
+her house, and next sent to Woolwich for instruction,
+to qualify him for a respectable situation in
+the royal navy, where he was shortly after made
+a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite
+brother, had been articled to the eldest, an attorney
+in the Minories; but, not being satisfied with
+his situation, she removed him; and in some time
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>after, having first placed him with a farmer for
+instruction, she fitted him out for America, where
+his speculations, founded upon the basis she had
+provided, are said to have been extremely prosperous.
+The reason so much of this parental sort
+of care fell upon her, was, that her father had
+by this time considerably embarrassed his circumstances.
+His affairs having grown too complex
+for himself to disentangle, he had entrusted them
+to the management of a near relation; but Mary,
+not being satisfied with the conduct of the business,
+took them into her own hands. The exertions
+she made, and the struggles which she entered
+into however, in this instance, were ultimately
+fruitless. To the day of her death her father
+was almost wholly supported by funds which
+she supplied to him. In addition to her exertions
+for her own family, she took a young girl of about
+seven years of age under her protection and care,
+the niece of Mrs. John Hunter, and of the present
+Mrs. Skeys, for whose mother, then lately
+dead, she had entertained a sincere friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period, from the end of the year 1787 to
+the end of the year 1790, though consumed in
+labours of little eclat, served still further to establish
+her in a friendly connection from which she
+derived many pleasures. Mr. Johnson, the bookseller,
+contracted a great personal regard for her,
+which resembled in many respects that of a parent.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>As she frequented his house, she of course became
+acquainted with his guests. Among these
+may be mentioned as persons possessing her esteem,
+Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, the late
+Mr. George Anderson, accountant to the board
+of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuseli,
+the celebrated painter. Between both of the
+two latter and herself, there existed sentiments of
+genuine affection and friendship.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VI.<br /> <span class='large'>1790–1792.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>Hitherto the literary career of Mary, had
+for the most part, been silent; and had been productive
+of income to herself, without apparently
+leading to the wreath of fame. From this time
+she was destined to attract the notice of the public,
+and perhaps no female writer ever obtained
+so great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It cannot be doubted that, while, for three
+years of literary employment, she “held the
+noiseless tenor of her way,” her mind was insensibly
+advancing towards a vigorous maturity. The
+uninterrupted habit of composition gave a freedom
+and firmness to the expression of her sentiments.
+The society she frequented, nourished her understanding,
+and enlarged her mind. The French
+revolution, while it gave a fundamental shock to
+the human intellect through every region of the
+globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous effect
+in the progress of Mary’s reflections. The prejudices
+of her early years suffered a vehement
+concussion. Her respect for establishments was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>undermined. At this period occurred a misunderstanding
+upon public grounds, with one of her
+early friends, whose attachment to musty creeds
+and exploded absurdities, had been increased, by
+the operation of those very circumstances, by
+which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the
+race of independence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The event, immediately introductory to the
+rank which from this time she held in the lists of
+literature, was the publication of Burke’s Reflections
+on the Revolution in France. This book,
+after having been long promised to the world,
+finally made its appearance on the first of November
+1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty,
+and impressed with a warm interest in the
+struggle that was now going on, seized her pen in
+the first bursts of indignation, an emotion of which
+she was strongly susceptible. She was in the habit
+of composing with rapidity, and her answer,
+which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared,
+obtained extraordinary notice. Marked
+as it is with the vehemence and impetuousness of
+its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too
+contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the
+great man against whom its attack is directed.
+But this circumstance was not injurious to the success
+of the publication. Burke had been warmly
+loved by the most liberal and enlightened friends
+of freedom, and they were proportionably inflamed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon
+what they deemed to be its sacred cause.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Short as was the time in which Mary composed
+her Answer to Burke’s Reflections, there was
+one anecdote she told me concerning it, which
+seems worth recording in this place. It was sent
+to the press, as is the general practice when the
+early publication of a piece is deemed a matter of
+importance, before the composition was finished.
+When Mary had arrived at about the middle of
+her work, she was seized with a temporary fit of
+torpor and indolence, and began to repent of
+her undertaking. In this state of mind, she
+called, one evening, as she was in the practice
+of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of
+relieving herself by an hour or two’s conversation.
+Here, the habitual ingenuousness of her
+nature, led her to describe what had just past in
+her thoughts. Mr. Johnson immediately, in a
+kind and friendly way, intreated her not to put
+any constraint upon her inclination, and to give
+herself no uneasiness about the sheets already printed,
+which he would cheerfully throw a side, if it
+would contribute to her happiness. Mary had
+wanted stimulus. She had not expected to be encouraged,
+in what she well knew to be an unreasonable
+access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily
+falling in with her ill humour, and seeming to expect
+that she would lay aside her undertaking,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>piqued her pride. She immediately went home;
+and proceeded to the end of her work, with no
+other interruptions but what were absolutely indispensible.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is probable that the applause which attended
+her Answer to Burke, elevated the tone of her
+mind. She had always felt much confidence in
+her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that
+the actual perception of a similar feeling respecting
+us in a multitude of others, must increase the
+confidence, and stimulate the adventure of any
+human being. Mary accordingly proceeded, in
+a short time after, to the composition of her most
+celebrated production, the Vindication of the
+Rights of Woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Never did any author enter into a cause, with
+a more ardent desire to be found, not a flourishing
+and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion.
+She considered herself as standing forth in defence
+of one half of the human species, labouring under
+a yoke which, through all the records of time,
+had degraded them from the station of rational
+beings, and almost sunk them to the level of the
+brutes. She saw indeed, that they were often attempted
+to be held in silken fetters, and bribed
+into the love of slavery; but the disguise and the
+treachery served only the more fully to confirm
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>her opposition. She regarded her sex in the language
+of Calista, as</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c009'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“In every state of life the slaves of men:”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'>the rich as alternately under the despotism of a
+father, a brother, and a husband; and the middling
+and the poorer classes shut out from the acquisition
+of bread with independence, when they
+are not shut out from the very means of an industrious
+subsistence. Such were the views she
+entertained of the subject; and such the feelings
+with which she warmed her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The work is certainly a very bold and original
+production. The strength and firmness with
+which the author repels the opinions of Rousseau,
+Dr. Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting
+the condition of women, cannot but make a strong
+impression upon every ingenuous reader. The
+public at large formed very different opinions respecting
+the character of the performance. Many
+of the sentiments are undoubtedly of a rather masculine
+description. The spirited and decisive way
+in which the author explodes the system of gallantry,
+and the species of homage with which the
+sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty
+produced a sentiment in their mind, which
+they mistook for a sense of injustice. The pretty
+soft creatures that are so often to be found in the
+female sex, and that class of men who believe
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>they could not exist without such pretty, soft creatures
+to resort to, were in arms against the author
+of so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. There
+are also, it must be confessed, occasional passages
+of a stern and rugged feature, incompatible with
+the true stamina of the writer’s character. But,
+if they did not belong to her fixed and permanent
+character, they belonged to her character <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">pro
+tempore</span></i>; and what she thought, she scorned to
+qualify.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, along with this rigid, and somewhat amazonian
+temper, which characterised some parts
+of the book, it is impossible not to remark a luxuriance
+of imagination, and a trembling delicacy
+of sentiment, which would have done honour to
+a poet, bursting with all the visions of an Armida
+and a Dido.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The contradiction, to the public apprehension
+was equally great, as to the person of the author,
+as it was when they considered the temper of the
+book. In the champion of her sex, who was described
+as endeavouring to invest them with all the
+rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted to
+seek the occasion of beholding her, expected to
+find a sturdy, muscular, raw-boned virago; and
+they were not a little surprised, when, instead of
+all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>and, in the best and most engaging sense, feminine
+in her manners.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is
+undoubtedly a very unequal performance, and
+eminently deficient in method and arrangement.
+When tried by the hoary and long-established laws
+of literary composition, it can scarcely maintain
+its claim to be placed in the first class of human
+productions. But when we consider the importance
+of its doctrines, and the eminence of genius
+it displays, it seems not very improbable that it
+will be read as long as the English language endures.
+The publication of this book forms an
+epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and
+Mary Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be
+found to have performed more substantial service
+for the cause of her sex, than all the other
+writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves
+animated in the behalf of oppressed and injured
+beauty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The censure of the liberal critic as to the defects
+of this performance, will be changed into
+astonishment, when I tell him, that a work of
+this inestimable moment, was begun, carried on,
+and finished in the state in which it now appears,
+in a period of no more than six weeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is necessary here that I should resume the
+subject of the friendship that subsisted between
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of
+the most memorable events in her subsequent
+history. He is a native of the republic of Switzerland,
+and has spent the principal part of his
+life in the island of Great Britain. The eminence
+of his genius can scarcely be disputed; it
+has indeed received the testimony which is the
+least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable
+of his contemporary artists. He has one
+of the most striking characteristics of genius, a
+daring, as well as persevering, spirit of adventure.
+The work in which he is at present engaged,
+a series of pictures for the illustration of
+Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced
+solely upon the incitement of his own mind, is a
+proof of this, if indeed his whole life had not sufficiently
+proved it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends,
+and was at this time in the habit of visiting him
+two or three times a week. Mary, one of whose
+strongest characteristics was the exquisite sensations
+of pleasure she felt from the associations of
+visible objects, had hitherto never been acquainted,
+with an eminent painter. The being thus introduced
+therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was
+a high gratification to her; while he found in
+Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the
+emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any
+other with whom he ever conversed. Painting,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>and subjects closely connected with painting, were
+their almost constant topics of conversation; and
+they found them inexhaustible. It cannot be
+doubted, but that this was a species of exercise
+very conducive to the improvement of Mary’s
+mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary
+derived improvement from Mr. Fuseli, she may
+also be suspected of having caught the infection
+of some of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli
+was ardently attached to literature; but the demands
+of his profession have prevented him from
+keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance
+with it, that belles-lettres scholars frequently
+possess. Of consequence, the favourites
+of his boyish years remain his only favourites.
+Homer is with Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit
+of every human perfection. Milton, Shakespear,
+and Richardson, have also engaged much of his
+attention. The nearest rival of Homer, I believe,
+if Homer can have a rival, is Jean Jacques Rousseau.
+A young man embraces entire the opinions
+of a favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had
+leisure to bring the opinions of his youth to a revision.
+Smitten with Rousseau’s conception of the
+perfectness of the savage state, and the essential
+abortiveness of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at
+all our little attempts at improvement, with a spirit
+that borders perhaps too much upon contempt
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>and indifference. One of his favourite positions
+is the divinity of genius. This is a power that
+comes complete at once from the hands of the
+Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man
+of real genius are such, in all their grand and most
+important features, as no subsequent assiduity can
+amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat
+of a caustic turn of mind, with much wit, and a
+disposition to search, in every thing new or modern,
+for occasions of censure. I believe Mary
+came something more a cynic out of the school of
+Mr. Fuseli, than she went into it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the principal circumstance that relates to
+the intercourse of Mary, and this celebrated artist,
+remains to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli frequently;
+he amused, delighted and instructed her.
+As a painter, it was impossible she should not wish
+to see his works, and consequently to frequent his
+house. She visited him; her visits were returned.
+Notwithstanding the inequality of their years,
+Mary was not of a temper to live upon terms of
+so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius,
+without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in
+his society, she transferred by association to his
+person. What she experienced in this respect,
+was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy
+and restraint in which she had hitherto lived, and
+to which the rules of polished society condemn an
+unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>ardent affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married
+man, and his wife the acquaintance of Mary.
+She readily perceived the restrictions which this
+circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she
+made light of any difficulty that might arise out
+of them. Not that she was insensible to the value
+of domestic endearments between persons of
+an opposite sex, but that she scorned to suppose,
+that she could feel a struggle, in conforming to
+the laws she should lay down to her conduct.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There cannot perhaps be a properer place than
+the present, to state her principles upon this subject,
+such at least as they were when I knew her
+best. She set a great value on a mutual affection
+between persons of an opposite sex. She regarded
+it as the principal solace of human life. It
+was her maxim, “that the imagination should
+awaken the senses, and not the senses the imagination.”
+In other words, that whatever related
+to the gratification of the senses, ought to arise,
+in a human being of a pure mind, only as the consequence
+of an individual affection. She regarded
+the manners and habits of the majority of our sex
+in that respect, with strong disapprobation. She
+conceived that true virtue would prescribe the
+most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and
+the most perfect fidelity to that affection when it
+existed.—There is no reason to doubt that, if Mr.
+Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of their
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>acquaintance, he would have been the man of her
+choice. As it was, she conceived it both practicable
+and eligible, to cultivate a distinguishing affection
+for him, and to foster it by the endearments
+of personal intercourse and a reciprocation of kindness,
+without departing in the smallest degree from
+the rules she prescribed to herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In September 1791, she removed from the
+house she occupied in George-street, to a large
+and commodious apartment in Store-street, Bedford-square.
+She began to think that she had
+been too rigid, in the laws of frugality and self-denial
+with which she set out in her literary career;
+and now added to the neatness and cleanliness
+which she had always scrupulously observed,
+a certain degree of elegance, and those temperate
+indulgences in furniture and accommodation,
+from which a sound and uncorrupted taste never
+fails to derive pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was in the month of November in the same
+year (1791), that the writer of this narrative was
+first in company with the person to whom it relates.
+He dined with her at a friend’s, together
+with Mr. Thomas Paine and one or two other
+persons. The invitation was of his own seeking,
+his object being to see the author of the Rights of
+Man, with whom he had never before conversed.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>The interview was not fortunate. Mary and
+myself parted, mutually displeased with each
+other. I had not read her Rights of Woman.
+I had barely looked into her Answer to Burke,
+and been displeased, as literary men are apt to be,
+with a few offences, against grammar and other
+minute points of composition. I had therefore
+little curiosity to see Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and a
+very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine,
+in his general habits, is no great talker; and,
+though he threw in occasionally some shrewd and
+striking remarks, the conversation lay principally
+between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard
+her, very frequently when I wished to hear Paine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We touched on a considerable variety of topics,
+and particularly on the characters and habits of
+certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been
+observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree,
+the practice of seeing every thing on the
+gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a plentiful
+hand, where circumstances were in any respect
+doubtful. I, on the contrary, had a strong
+propensity, to favourable construction, and particularly,
+where I found unequivocal marks of
+genius, strongly to incline to the supposition of
+generous and manly virtue. We ventilated in this
+way the characters of Voltaire and others, who
+have obtained from some individuals an ardent admiration,
+while the greater number have treated
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at
+last provoked to tell me, that praise, lavished in
+the way that I lavished it, could do no credit either
+to the commended or the commender. We discussed
+some questions on the subject of religion,
+in which her opinions approached much nearer to
+the received ones, than mine. As the conversation
+proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the
+tone of my own share in it. We touched upon
+all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly
+upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice,
+in giving an account of the conversation to a party
+in which I supped, though I was not sparing of
+my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of
+active and independent thinking. On her side,
+she did me no part of what perhaps I considered
+as justice.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We met two or three times in the course of the
+following year, but made a very small degree of
+progress towards a cordial acquaintance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over
+to France, where she continued to reside for upwards
+of two years. One of her principal inducements
+to this step, related, I believe, to Mr.
+Fuseli. She had, at first, considered it as reasonable
+and judicious, to cultivate what I may be
+permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him;
+but she did not, in the sequel, find all the satisfaction
+in this plan, which she had originally expected
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much
+pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently.
+Her ardent imagination was continually
+conjuring up pictures of the happiness she should
+have found, if fortune had favoured their
+more intimate union. She felt herself formed for
+domestic affection, and all those tender charities,
+which men of sensibility have constantly treated
+as the dearest band of human society. General
+conversation and society could not satisfy her. She
+felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass of
+her species; and she repined when she reflected,
+that the best years of her life were spent in this
+comfortless solitude. These ideas made the cordial
+intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first
+been one of her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual
+torment to her. She conceived it necessary
+to snap the chain of this association in her mind;
+and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new
+climate, and mingle in different scenes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is singular, that during her residence in Store-street,
+which lasted more than twelve months,
+she produced nothing, except a few articles in the
+Analytical Review. Her literary meditations were
+chiefly employed upon the Sequel to the Rights of
+Woman; but she has scarcely left behind her a
+single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned
+to have had this destination.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VII.<br /> <span class='large'>1792–1795.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>The original plan of Mary, respecting
+her residence in France, had no precise limits
+in the article of duration; the single purpose
+she had in view being that of an endeavour to
+heal her distempered mind. She did not proceed
+so far as even to discharge her lodging in London;
+and, to some friends who saw her immediately
+before her departure, she spoke merely of an
+absence of six weeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion
+did not originally seem to produce the effects she
+had expected from it. She was in a land of strangers;
+she had no acquaintance; she had even to
+acquire the power of receiving and communicating
+ideas with facility in the language of the country.
+Her first residence was in a spacious mansion
+to which she had been invited, but the master of
+which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at the time
+of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself
+surrounded only with servants. The gloominess
+of her mind communicated its own colour to the
+objects she saw; and in this temper she began a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>series of Letters on the Present Character of the
+French Nation, one of which she forwarded to
+her publisher, and which appears in the collection
+of her posthumous works. This performance she
+soon after discontinued; and it is, as she justly remarks,
+tinged with the saturnine temper which at
+that time pervaded her mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary carried with her introductions to several
+agreeable families in Paris. She renewed her acquaintance
+with Paine. There also subsisted a
+very sincere friendship between her and Helen
+Maria Williams, author of a collection of poems
+of uncommon merit, who at that time resided in
+Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke
+of in terms of ardent commendation, both for the
+excellence of his disposition, and the force of
+his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I
+believe, a Swede. It is almost unnecessary to
+mention, that she was personally acquainted with
+the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the house that, I believe, she principally
+frequented at this time, was that of Mr. Thomas
+Christie, a person whose pursuits were mercantile,
+and who had written a volume on the French revolution.
+With Mrs. Christie her acquaintance
+was more intimate than with her husband.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was about four months after her arrival at
+Paris in December 1792, that she entered into
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>that species of connection, for which her heart secretly
+panted, and which had the effect of diffusing
+an immediate tranquillity and cheerfulness
+over her manners. The person with whom it
+was formed (for it would be an idle piece
+of delicacy, to attempt to suppress a name, which
+is known to every one whom the reputation of
+Mary has reached,) was Mr. Gilbert Imlay,
+native of the United States of North America.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was
+at the house of Mr. Christie; and it perhaps deserves
+to be noticed, that the emotions he then excited
+in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike,
+and that, for some time, she shunned all occasions
+of meeting him. This sentiment however
+speedily gave place to one of the greatest kindness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Previously to the partiality she conceived for
+him, she had determined upon a journey to Switzerland,
+induced chiefly by motives of economy.
+But she had some difficulty in procuring a passport;
+and it was probably the intercourse that
+now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that
+changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging
+at Neuilly, a village three miles from Paris.—Her
+habitation here was a solitary house in the
+midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than
+herself and the gardener, an old man, who performed
+for her many of the offices of a domestic,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>and would sometimes contend for the honour of
+making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration
+for his guest, and would set before her,
+when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine
+sort, which she could not without the greatest difficulty
+obtain, when she had any person with her
+as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and
+for the most part executed, her Historical and
+Moral View of the French Revolution<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c011'><sup>[1]</sup></a>, into
+which, as she observes, are incorporated most of
+the observations she had collected for her Letters,
+and which was written with more sobriety and
+cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been
+commenced. In the evening she was accustomed
+to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring
+wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured
+to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible
+robberies and murders that had been committed
+there.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. No part of the proposed continuation of this work,
+has been found among the papers of the author.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The commencement of the attachment Mary
+now formed, had neither confidant nor adviser.—She
+always conceived it to be a gross breach of delicacy
+to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred
+nature, an affair of the heart. The origin
+of the connection was about the middle of April
+1793, and it was carried on in a private manner
+for four months. At the expiration of that period
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>a circumstance occurred that induced her to
+declare it. The French convention, exasperated
+at the conduct of the British government, particularly
+in the affair of Toulon, formed a decree
+against the citizens of this country, by one article
+of which the English, resident in France, were ordered
+into prison till the period of a general peace.
+Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr. Imlay
+who, at the time their connection was formed, had
+no property whatever; because she would not involve
+him in certain family embarrassments to
+which she conceived herself exposed, or make
+him answerable for the pecuniary demands that
+existed against her. She however considered their
+engagement as of the most sacred nature; and
+they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating
+to America, as soon as they should have realized
+a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they desired.
+The decree however that I have just mentioned,
+made it necessary, not that a marriage
+should actually take place, but that Mary should
+take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature
+of their connection, she conceived herself entitled
+to do, and obtain a certificate from the American
+ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Their engagement being thus avowed, they
+thought proper to reside under the same roof, and
+for that purpose removed to Paris.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>Mary was now arrived at the situation, which,
+for two or three preceding years, her reason had
+pointed out to her as affording the most substantial
+prospect of happiness. She had been tossed
+and agitated by the waves of misfortune. Her
+childhood, as she often said, had known few of the
+endearments, which constitute the principal happiness
+of childhood. The temper of her father
+had early given to her mind a severe cast of thought,
+and substituted the inflexibility of resistance for
+the confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of
+her entrance upon womanhood, had been darkened,
+by an attendance upon the death-bed of
+her mother, and the still more afflicting calamity
+of her eldest sister. Her exertions to create a
+joint independence for her sisters and herself, had
+been attended, neither with the success, nor the
+pleasure, she had hoped from them. Her first
+youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny, had encountered
+many disappointments, and, in fine, a
+melancholy and premature catastrophe. Soon after
+these accumulated mortifications, she was engaged
+in a contest with a near relation, whom she
+regarded as unprincipled, respecting the wreck
+of her father’s fortune. In this affair she suffered
+the double pain, which arises from moral indignation,
+and disappointed benevolence. Her exertions
+to assist almost every member of her family, were
+great and unremitted. Finally, when she indulged
+a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>imagined that she should find in it the solace of
+her cares, she perceived too late, that, by continually
+impressing on her mind fruitless images of
+unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only
+served to give new pungency to the sensibility that
+was destroying her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Some persons may be inclined to observe, that
+the evils here enumerated, are not among the heaviest
+in the catalogue of human calamities. But
+evils take their rank, more from the temper of the
+mind that suffers them, than from their abstract
+nature. Upon a man of a hard and insensible disposition,
+the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless
+and impotent. There are persons, by no
+means hard and insensible, who, from an elastic
+and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted
+to look on the fair side of things, and, having
+suffered one fall, immediately rise again, to pursue
+their course, with the same eagerness, the
+same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On
+the other hand, we not unfrequently meet with
+persons, endowed with the most exquisite and delicious
+sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too
+fine a texture to encounter the vicissitudes of human
+affairs, to whom pleasure is transport, and
+disappointment is agony indescribable. This character
+is finely pourtrayed by the author of the
+Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in this respect a
+female Werter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>She brought then, in the present instance, a
+wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the bosom
+of a chosen friend. Let it not however be
+imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and
+ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole
+character seemed to change with a change of fortune.
+Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits,
+were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity
+and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She was
+like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough,
+and appears again with the brilliancy, the sleekness,
+and the elastic activity of its happiest age.—She
+was playful, full of confidence, kindness and
+sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her
+cheeks new colour and smoothness. Her voice became
+chearful; her temper overflowing with universal
+kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness
+from day to day illuminated her countenance,
+which all who knew her will so well recollect,
+and which won, both heart and soul, the affection
+of almost every one that beheld it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary now reposed herself upon a person, of
+whose honour and principles she had the most exalted
+idea. She nourished an individual affection,
+which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint;
+and a heart like her’s was not formed to
+nourish affection by halves. Her conception of
+Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted
+him closely round her heart;” and she “indulged
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>the thought, that she had thrown out some tendrils,
+to cling to the elm by which she wished to
+be supported.” This was “talking a new language
+to her;” but, “conscious that she was not
+a parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage
+and foster the luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence
+was entire; her love was unbounded.
+Now, for the first time in her life, she gave a loose
+to all the sensibilities of her nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her
+attachment to Mr. Imlay gained a new link, by
+finding reason to suppose herself with child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Their establishment at Paris, was however broken
+up almost as soon as formed, by the circumstance
+of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business,
+urged as he said, by the prospect of a family, and
+this being a favourable crisis in French affairs for
+commercial speculations. The pursuits in which
+he was engaged, led him in the month of September
+to Havre de Grace, then called Havre Marat,
+probably to superintend the shipping of goods, in
+which he was jointly engaged with some other
+person or persons. Mary remained in the capital.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The solitude in which she was now left, proved
+an unexpected trial. Domestic affections constituted
+the object upon which her heart was fixed;
+and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>Imlay “did not attach those tender emotions
+round the idea of home,” which, every time
+they recurred, dimmed her eyes with moisture.
+She had expected his return from week to week,
+and from month to month; but a succession of business
+still continued to detain him at Havre. At
+the same time the sanguinary character which the
+government of France began every day more decisively
+to assume, contributed to banish tranquillity
+from the first months of her pregnancy. Before
+she left Neuilly, she happened one day to enter
+Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis
+Quinze), when an execution, attended with some
+peculiar aggravations, had just taken place, and the
+blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the
+pavement. The emotions of her soul burst forth
+in indignant exclamations, while a prudent bystander
+warned her of her danger, and intreated
+her to hasten and hide her discontents. She described
+to me, more than once, the anguish she
+felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Verginaud,
+and the twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable
+sensations she had ever experienced.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually
+postponed, she determined, in January 1794, to
+join him at Havre. One motive that influenced
+her, though, I believe, by no means the principal,
+was the growing cruelties of Robespierre, and the
+desire she felt to be in any other place, rather than
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>the devoted city, in the midst of which they
+were perpetrated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>From January to September, Mr. Imlay and
+Mary lived together, with great harmony, at
+Havre, where the child, with which she was
+pregnant, was born, on the fourteenth of May,
+and named Frances, in remembrance of the dear
+friend of her youth, whose image could never be
+erased from her memory.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure
+from Havre for the port of London. As this step
+was said to be necessary in the way of business, he
+endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre,
+and once more take up her abode at Paris. Robespierre
+was now no more, and, of consequence, the
+only objection she had to residing in the capital,
+was removed. Mr. Imlay was already in London,
+before she undertook her journey, and it proved
+the most fatiguing journey she ever made; the
+carriage, in which she travelled, being overturned
+no less than four times between Havre and Paris.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This absence, like that of the preceding year
+in which Mr. Imlay had removed to Havre, was
+represented as an absence that was to have a short
+duration. In two months he was once again to
+join her at Paris. It proved however the prelude
+to an eternal separation. The agonies of such a
+separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>would have found them upon every supposition,
+were vastly increased, by the lingering method in
+which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for
+a long time, hung upon it. This circumstance
+produced the effect, of holding her mind, by force,
+as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and
+not suffering her to derive the just advantage from
+the energy and elasticity of her character.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The procrastination of which I am speaking
+was however productive of one advantage. It
+put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities
+that awaited her, till the close of the year.
+She gained an additional three months of comparative
+happiness. But she purchased it at a very
+dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered
+greater misery, than dyed the whole year
+1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It
+was wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of
+which the mind is continually awakened, by a
+glimmering of fondly cherished, expiring hope.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Why did she thus obstinately cling to an ill-starred,
+unhappy passion? Because it is of the
+very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate itself.
+He does not love, who can resign this cherished
+sentiment, without suffering some of the
+sharpest struggles that our nature is capable of enduring.
+Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart
+upon this chosen friend; and one of the last impressions
+a worthy mind can submit to receive, is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom
+it has fixed all its esteem. Mary had struggled to
+entertain a favourable opinion of human nature;
+she had unweariedly sought for a kindred mind,
+in whose integrity and fidelity to take up her rest.
+Mr. Imlay undertook to prove, in his letters written
+immediately after their complete separation,
+that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to
+the strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly Mary was
+of a different opinion. Whatever the reader may
+decide in this respect, there is one sentiment that,
+I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of
+pity for the mistake of the man, who, being in
+possession of such a friendship and attachment as
+those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial
+price, and, “like the base Indian, throw a pearl
+away, richer than all his tribe.<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c011'><sup>[2]</sup></a>”</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. A person, from whose society at this time Mary derived
+particular gratification, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan,
+who had lately become a fugitive from Ireland, in consequence
+of a political prosecution, and in whom she found
+those qualities which were always eminently engaging to her,
+great integrity of disposition, and great kindness of heart.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. VIII.<br /> <span class='large'>1795–1796.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>In April 1795, Mary returned once more to
+London, being requested to do so by Mr. Imlay,
+who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her
+in the journey, before she could complete the necessary
+arrangements for her departure. But,
+notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she
+came to England with a heavy heart, not daring,
+after all the uncertainties and anguish she had endured,
+to trust to the suggestions of hope.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were
+but too faithfully verified. Mr. Imlay had already
+formed another connection; as it is said,
+with a young actress from a strolling company of
+players. His attentions therefore to Mary were
+formal and constrained, and she probably had but
+little of his society. This alteration could not escape
+her penetrating glance. He ascribed it to
+pressure of business, and some pecuniary embarrassments
+which, at that time, occurred to him; it
+was of little consequence to Mary what was the
+cause. She saw, but too well, though she strove
+not to see, that his affections were lost to her for
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>It is impossible to imagine a period of greater
+pain and mortification than Mary passed, for
+about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to
+the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr.
+Imlay had provided for her. She had come over
+to England, a country for which she, at this time,
+expressed “a repugnance, that almost amounted
+to horror,” in search of happiness. She feared
+that that happiness had altogether escaped her;
+but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience
+which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest
+for her arrival. When she saw him, all her
+fears were confirmed. What a picture was she
+capable of forming to herself, of the overflowing
+kindness of a meeting, after an interval of so much
+anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of
+this sort were present to her burning imagination.
+It is in vain, on such occasions, for reserve and reproach
+to endeavour to curb in the emotions of an
+affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished
+were speedily blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay,
+was cold and embarrassed. Discussions (“explanations”
+they were called) followed; cruel explanations,
+that only added to the anguish of a heart
+already overwhelmed in grief! They had small
+pretensions indeed to explicitness; but they sufficiently
+told, that the case admitted not of remedy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity
+in this pressing emergency. “Love, dear,
+delusive!” as she expressed herself to a friend
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>some time afterwards, “rigorous reason had
+forced her to resign; and now her rational prospects
+were blasted, just as she had learned to be
+contented with rational enjoyments.” Thus situated,
+life became an intolerable burthen. While
+she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk of
+purposes of separation and independence. But,
+now that they were in the same house, she could
+not withhold herself from endeavours to revive
+their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours
+continually added fuel to the fire that destroyed
+her. She formed a desperate purpose to
+die.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This part of the story of Mary is involved in
+considerable obscurity. I only know, that Mr.
+Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a
+moment when he was uncertain whether or no it
+were already executed, and that his feelings were
+roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing
+to his activity and representations, that her life
+was, at this time, saved. She determined to continue
+to exist. Actuated by this purpose, she
+took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and
+affectionateness of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved
+in a question of considerable difficulty, respecting
+a mercantile adventure in Norway. It
+seemed to require the presence of some very judicious
+agent, to conduct the business to its desired
+termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>and take the business into her own hands.
+Such a voyage seemed the most desireable thing
+to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,
+in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her
+feelings, to be employed in promoting the interest
+of a man, from whom she had experienced such
+severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired
+to be reconciled. The moment of desperation
+I have mentioned, occurred in the close of
+May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon
+this new expedition.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The narrative of this voyage is before the
+world, and perhaps a book of travels that so irresistibly
+seizes on the heart, never, in any other
+instance, found its way from the press. The occasional
+harshness and ruggedness of character,
+that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
+Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there
+was a book calculated to make a man in love with
+its author, this appears to me to be the book. She
+speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with
+melancholy, and dissolves us in tenderness, at the
+same time that she displays a genius which commands
+all our admiration. Affliction had tempered
+her heart to a softness almost more than human;
+and the gentleness of her spirit seems precisely
+to accord with all the romance of unbounded
+attachment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with
+imagination and sensibility, with all, and more
+than all, “that youthful poets fancy, when they
+love,” she returned to England, and, if he had so
+pleased, to the arms of her former lover. Her
+return was hastened by the ambiguity, to her apprehension,
+of Mr. Imlay’s conduct. He had promised
+to meet her upon her return from Norway,
+probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to
+pass some time in Switzerland. The style however
+of his letters to her during her tour, was not
+such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to
+him very urgently, to explain himself, relative
+to the footing upon which they were hereafter to
+stand to each other. In his answer, which reached
+her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as
+“extraordinary and unnecessary,” and desired her
+to be at the pains to decide for herself. Feeling
+herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she
+instantly determined to sail for London by the very
+first opportunity, that she might thus bring to a
+termination the suspence that preyed upon her
+soul.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was not long after her arrival in London in
+the commencement of October, that she attained
+the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured
+her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced
+from him after she entered it, flashed conviction
+upon her, in spite of his asseverations. She made
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>further enquiries, and at length was informed by
+a servant, of the real state of the case. Under the
+immediate shock which the painful certainty gave
+her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the
+ready-furnished house he had provided for his new
+mistress. What was the particular nature of
+their conference I am unable to relate. It is sufficient
+to say that the wretchedness of the night
+which succeeded this fatal discovery, impressed
+her with the feeling, that she would sooner suffer
+a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal
+misery.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The agony of her mind determined her; and
+that determination gave her a sort of desperate serenity.
+She resolved to plunge herself in the
+Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot
+nearer to London, she took a boat, and rowed to
+Putney. Her first thought had led her to Battersea-bridge,
+but she found it too public. It was
+night when she arrived at Putney, and by that
+time had begun to rain with great violence. The
+rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and
+down the bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly
+drenched and heavy with the wet, which she did
+for half an hour without meeting a human being.
+She then leaped from the top of the bridge, but
+still seemed to find a difficulty in sinking, which,
+she endeavoured to counteract by pressing her
+clothes closely round her. After some time she
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>became insensible; but she always spoke of the
+pain she underwent as such, that, though she
+could afterwards have determined upon almost any
+other species of voluntary death, it would have
+been impossible for her to resolve upon encountering
+the same sensations again. I am doubtful,
+whether this is to be ascribed to the mere nature
+of suffocation, or was not owing to the preternatural
+action of a desperate spirit.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>After having been for a considerable time insensible,
+she was recovered by the exertions of those
+by whom the body was found. She had fought,
+with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period
+to her existence, and yet she lived to have every
+prospect of a long possession of enjoyment and happiness.
+It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with
+suicides, that we find reason to suppose, if they
+had survived their gloomy purpose, that they
+would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably
+happy. It arises indeed, in some measure,
+out of the very nature of a spirit of self-destruction;
+which implies a degree of anguish, that the constitution
+of the human mind will not suffer to remain
+long undiminished. This is a serious reflection.
+Probably no man would destroy himself
+from an impatience of present pain, if he
+felt a moral certainty that there were years of enjoyment
+still in reserve for him. It is perhaps a
+futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>in that state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral
+reasoning is nothing but the awakening of certain
+feelings; and the feeling by which he is actuated,
+is too strong to leave us much chance of
+impressing him with other feelings, that should
+have force enough to counter-balance it. But, if
+the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure
+cannot be expected to have much weight with a
+man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is
+so much the more to be wished, that men would
+impress their minds, in their sober moments, with
+a conception, which, being rendered habitual,
+seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in
+a paroxysm of desperation.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The present situation of Mary, of necessity
+produced some further intercourse between her
+and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and
+Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to
+remove to her house in Finsbury-square. In the
+mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
+was merely a casual, sensual connection; and of
+course, fostered in her mind the idea that it would
+be once more in her choice to live with him.
+With whatever intention the idea was suggested,
+it was certainly calculated to increase the agitation
+of her mind. In one respect however it produced
+an effect unlike that which might most obviously
+have been looked for. It roused within
+her the characteristic energy of mind, which she
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the
+necessity of bringing the affair to a point, and
+not suffering months and years to roll on in uncertainty
+and suspence. This idea inspired her with
+an extraordinary resolution. The language she
+employed, was, in effect, as follows: “If we
+are ever to live together again, it must be now.
+We meet now, or we part for ever. You say,
+You cannot abruptly break off the connection
+you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage
+and character, to wait the uncertain issue of that
+connection. I am determined to come to a decision.
+I consent then, for the present, to live with
+you, and the woman to whom you have associated
+yourself. I think it important that you should
+learn habitually to feel for your child the affection
+of a father. But, if you reject this proposal,
+here we end. You are now free. We will correspond
+no more. We will have no intercourse
+of any kind. I will be to you as a person that is
+dead.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious
+as it was, was at first accepted; and
+Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a
+house he was upon the point of hiring, that she
+might judge whether it was calculated to please
+her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted
+his concession.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the
+woman with whom he was at present connected,
+went to Paris, where they remained three months.
+Mary had, previously to this, fixed herself in a
+lodging in Finsbury-place, where, for some time,
+she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for
+the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen
+this situation; “existing,” as she expressed it,
+“in a living tomb, and her life but an exercise of
+fortitude, continually on the stretch.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for
+her thoughts to brood upon a passion, which all
+that she had suffered had not yet been able to extinguish.
+Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned
+to England, she could not restrain herself,
+from making another effort, and desiring to see
+him once more. “During his absence, affection
+had led her to make numberless excuses for his
+conduct,” and she probably wished to believe that
+his present connection was, as he represented it,
+purely of a casual nature. To this application,
+she observes, that “he returned no other answer,
+except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that
+he would not see her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This answer, though, at the moment, highly
+irritating to Mary, was not the ultimate close of
+the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business
+with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>house of Mr. Christie was the only one at which
+Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this
+was, that, when Mr. Imlay had been already
+more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at
+Mr. Christie’s one evening, at a time when Mr.
+Imlay was in the parlour. The room was full of
+company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary’s voice in
+the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her
+not to make her appearance. Mary however was
+not to be controlled. She thought, as she afterwards
+told me, that it was not consistent with
+conscious rectitude, that she should shrink, as if
+abashed, from the presence of one by whom she
+deemed herself injured. Her child was with her.
+She entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately
+led up the child, now near two years of age,
+to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary
+into another apartment, and promised to dine
+with her at her lodging, I believe, the next
+day.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the interview which took place in consequence
+of this appointment, he expressed himself
+to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated
+to sooth her despair. Though he could
+conduct himself, when absent from her, in a way
+which she censured as unfeeling; this species of
+sternness constantly expired when he came into
+her presence. Mary was prepared at this moment
+to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the
+gentleness of his carriage, was to her as a sunbeam,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>awakening the hope of returning day. For
+an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;
+and even after the period of delirium expired, she
+still dwelt, with an aching eye, upon the air-built
+and unsubstantial prospect of a reconciliation.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At his particular request, she retained the name
+of Imlay, which, a short time before, he had
+seemed to dispute with her. “It was not,” as
+she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, “for the
+world that she did so—not in the least—but she
+was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot, or tear
+herself away in appearance, when she could not in
+reality.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The day after this interview, she set out upon a
+visit to the country, where she spent nearly the
+whole of the month of March. It was, I believe,
+while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary
+communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely
+to expel from her mind, all remaining
+doubt as to the issue of the affair.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary was now aware that every demand of
+forbearance towards him, of duty to her child,
+and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted
+predilection, was discharged. She determined
+to rouse herself, and cast off for ever an attachment,
+which to her had been a spring of inexhaustible
+bitterness. Her present residence among
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>the scenes of nature, was favourable to this purpose.
+She was at the house of an old and
+intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton,
+whose partiality for her was strong and sincere.
+Mrs. Cotton’s nearest neighbour was Sir William
+East, baronet; and from the joint effect of the
+kindness of her friend, and the hospitable and,
+distinguishing attentions of this respectable family,
+she derived considerable benefit. She had been
+amused and interested in her journey to Norway;
+but with this difference, that, at that time, her
+mind perpetually returned with trembling anxiety
+to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay’s future conduct,
+whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted
+spirit, she threw aside every thought that recurred
+to him, while she felt herself called upon to
+make one more effort for life and happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw
+Mr. Imlay; probably, not long after her return
+to town. They met by accident upon the New
+Road; he alighted from his horse, and walked
+with her some time; and the rencounter passed,
+as she assured me, without producing in her any
+oppressive emotion.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed
+best to have known the real state of the case,
+she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and
+was displeased when any person, in her hearing,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>expressed contempt of him. She was characterised
+by a strong sense of indignation; but her emotions
+of this sort were short-lived, and in no
+long time subsided into a dignified sereneness and
+equanimity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay,
+as we have seen, was not completely dismissed,
+till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
+that she did not, like ordinary persons
+under extreme anguish of mind, suffer her understanding,
+in the mean time, to sink into listlessness
+and debility. The most inapprehensive reader
+may conceive what was the mental torture she
+endured, when he considers, that she was twice,
+with an interval of four months, from the end of
+May to the beginning of October, prompted by
+it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she
+wrote her letters from Norway. Shortly after its
+expiration she prepared them for the press, and
+they were published in the close of that year. In
+January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy,
+which turns, in the serious scenes, upon the
+incidents of her own story. It was offered to both
+the winter-managers, and remained among her
+papers at the period of her decease; but it appeared
+to me to be in so crude and imperfect a state,
+that I judged it most respectful to her memory to
+commit it to the flames. To understand this extraordinary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>degree of activity, we must recollect
+however the entire solitude, in which most of her
+hours were at that time consumed.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. IX.<br /> <span class='large'>1796–1797.</span></h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I am now led, by the progress of the story, to
+the last branch of her history, the connection between
+Mary and myself. And this I relate with
+the same simplicity that has pervaded every other
+part of my narrative. If there ever were any
+motives of prudence or delicacy, that could impose
+a qualification upon the story, they are now
+over. They could have no relation but to factitious
+rules of decorum. There are no circumstance
+of her life, that, in the judgment of honour
+and reason, could brand her with disgrace. Never
+did there exist a human being, that needed, with
+less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon
+the universe to judge them. An event of the most
+deplorable sort, his awfully imposed silence upon
+the gabble of frivolity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We renewed our acquaintance in January
+1796, but with no particular effect, except so far
+as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to
+the respect I had always entertained for her talents.
+It was in the close of that month that I read her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>Letters from Norway; and the impression that
+book produced upon me has been already related.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw
+her after her excursion into Berkshire. On that
+day she called upon me in Somers Town, she having,
+since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,
+Pentonville, at no great distance from
+the place of my habitation. From that time our
+intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible
+degrees.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The partiality we conceived for each other,
+was in that mode, which I have always regarded
+as the purest and most refined style of love. It
+grew with equal advances in the mind of each.
+It would have been impossible for the most minute
+observer to have said who was before, and
+who was after. One sex did not take the priority
+which long established custom has awarded it, nor
+the other overstep that delicacy which is so severely
+imposed. I am not conscious that either
+party can assume to have been the agent or the
+patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in the affair.
+When, in the course of things, the disclosure
+came, there was nothing, in a manner, for
+either party to disclose to the other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In July 1796 I made an excursion into the
+county of Norfolk, which occupied nearly the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>whole of that month. During this period Mary
+removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to
+Judd place West, which may be considered as the
+extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,
+she had occupied a furnished lodging. She
+had meditated a tour to Italy or Switzerland, and
+knew not how soon she should set out with that
+view. Now however she felt herself reconciled
+to a longer abode in England, probably without
+exactly knowing why this change had taken
+place in her mind. She had a quantity of furniture
+locked up at a broker’s ever since her residence
+in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable
+to bring it into use. This circumstance
+occasioned her present removal.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The temporary separation attendant on my
+little journey, had its effect on the mind of both
+parties. It gave a space for the maturing of inclination.
+I believe that, during this interval,
+each furnished to the other the principal topic of
+solitary and daily contemplation. Absence bestows
+a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection,
+which it with difficulty acquires in any other way.
+It seems to resemble the communication of spirits,
+without the medium, or the impediment of this
+earthly frame.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When we met again, we met with new pleasure,
+and, I may add, with a more decisive preference
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>for each other. It was however three
+weeks longer, before the sentiment which trembled
+upon the tongue, burst from the lips of either.
+There was, as I have already said, no period of
+throes and resolute explanation attendant on the
+tale. It was friendship melting into love. Previously
+to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,
+yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety
+to have assurance complete.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her
+lover, hoping to find a heart with which she might
+safely treasure her world of affection; fearing to
+commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy
+experience, fraught with that generous confidence,
+which, in a great soul, is never extinguished.
+I had never loved till now; or, at least, had
+never nourished a passion to the same growth, or
+met with an object so consummately worthy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend
+any thing to indiscriminate adoption, contrary
+to the established rules and prejudices of
+mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous
+upon the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine
+march of sentiment, as to require the overflowing
+of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and
+that which, wherever delicacy and imagination
+exist, is of all things most sacredly private, to blow
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>a trumpet before it, and to record the moment
+when it has arrived at its climax.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There were however other reasons why we did
+not immediately marry. Mary felt an entire conviction
+of the propriety of her conduct. It would
+be absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered
+by desertion, she was not right to give way to the
+emotions of kindness which our intimacy produced,
+and to seek for that support in friendship and
+affection, which could alone give pleasure to her
+heart, and peace to her meditations. It was only
+about six months since she had resolutely banished
+every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at
+least eighteen that he ought to have been banished,
+and would have been banished, had it not been
+for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to
+leave no measure untried to regain him. Add to
+this, that the laws of etiquette ordinarily laid down
+in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that the
+sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed
+by the rule and the square. But Mary had an
+extreme aversion to be made the topic of vulgar
+discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this,
+the dreadful trials through which she had recently
+passed, may well plead in its excuse. She felt
+that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken
+of, in the former instance; and she could not resolve
+to do any thing that should immediately revive
+that painful topic.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>For myself, it is certain that I had for many
+years regarded marriage with so well-grounded an
+apprehension, that, notwithstanding the partiality
+for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I
+should have felt it very difficult, at least in the
+present stage of our intercourse, to have resolved
+on such a measure. Thus, partly from similar,
+and partly from different motives, we felt alike in
+this, as we did perhaps in every other circumstance
+that related to our intercourse.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have nothing further that I find it necessary to
+record, till the commencement of April 1797.
+We then judged it proper to declare our marriage,
+which had taken place a little before. The principal
+motive for complying with this ceremony,
+was the circumstance of Mary’s being in a state
+of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps
+with reason, to incur that exclusion from the society
+of many valuable and excellent individuals,
+which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should
+have felt an extreme repugnance to the having
+caused her such an inconvenience. And, after the
+experiment of seven months of as intimate an intercourse
+as our respective modes of living would
+admit, there was certainly less hazard to either,
+in the subjecting ourselves to those consequences
+which the laws of England annex to the relations
+of husband and wife. On the sixth of April we
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>entered into possession of a house, which had been
+taken by us in concert.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In this place I have a very curious circumstance
+to notice, which I am happy to have occasion to
+mention, as it tends to expose certain regulations
+of polished society, of which the absurdity vies
+with the odiousness. Mary had long possessed the
+advantage of an acquaintance with many persons
+of genius, and with others whom the effects of an
+intercourse with elegant society, combined with a
+certain portion of information and good sense, sufficed
+to render amusing companions. She had
+lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in
+this respect; and her mind, trembling between
+the opposite impressions of past anguish and
+renovating tranquilly, found ease in this species of
+recreation. Wherever Mary appeared, admiration
+attended upon her. She had always displayed
+talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding,
+her travels, her long residence in
+France, the discipline of affliction, and the smiling,
+new-born peace which awaked a corresponding
+smile in her animated countenance, inexpressibly
+increased them. The way in which the story
+of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles,
+was probably the result of the partiality she excited.
+These elegant personages were divided
+between their cautious adherence to forms, and
+the desire to seek their own gratification. Mary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>made no secret of the nature of her connection
+with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well
+know, she put herself to the trouble of explaining
+it to a person totally indifferent to her, because
+he never failed to publish every thing he knew,
+and, she was sure, would repeat her explanation
+to his numerous acquaintance. She was of too
+proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocracy.
+These persons however, in spite of all that could
+be said, persisted in shutting their eyes, and pretending
+they took her for a married woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Observe the consequence of this! While she
+was, and constantly professed to be, an unmarried
+mother; she was fit society for the squeamish and
+the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself
+a wife, and that by a marriage perhaps unexceptionable,
+the case was altered. Mary and
+myself, ignorant as we were of these elevated
+refinements, supposed that our marriage would
+place her upon a surer footing in the calendar of
+polished society, than ever. But it forced these
+people to see the truth, and to confess their belief
+of what they had carefully been told; and
+this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that
+the date of our marriage had nothing to do with
+this, that question being never once mentioned
+during this period. Mary indeed had, till now,
+retained the name of Imlay, which had first been
+assumed from necessity in France; but its being
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>retained thus long, was purely from the aukwardness
+that attends the introduction of a change,
+and not from an apprehension of consequences of
+this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness as to the
+nature of her situation, surely sufficed to make
+the name she bore perfectly immaterial.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a
+story, but in the language of contempt and ridicule.
+A serious reflection however upon the
+whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different
+sort. Mary retained the most numerous portion
+of her acquaintance, and the majority of those
+whom she principally valued. It was only the
+supporters and the subjects of the unprincipled
+manners of a court, that she lost. This however
+is immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding
+strictly considered, and uniformly acted upon,
+would have been to proscribe her from all valuable
+society. And who was the person proscribed?
+The firmest champion, and, as I strongly suspect,
+the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!
+A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined,
+and as delicate, as ever inhabited a human heart!
+It is fit that such persons should stand by, that we
+may have room enough for the dull and insolent
+dictators, the gamblers and demireps of polished
+society!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance
+Mary principally regretted upon this occasion,
+were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons.—Their
+acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe,
+is to be ranked among her recent acquisitions.
+Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,
+which she conceived to be imposed on her by the
+peculiarity of her situation, to conform to the
+rules I have described. She is endowed with that
+rich and generous sensibility, which should best
+enable its possessor completely to feel the merits of
+her deceased friend. She very truly observes, in
+a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway
+were read by no one, who was in possession
+of “more reciprocity of feeling, or more deeply
+impressed with admiration of the writer’s extraordinary
+powers.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction
+reached her of so unexpected a circumstance,
+that was rather exquisite. But she disdained to
+sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of
+the supercilious and the foolish, and presently shook
+off the impression of the first surprize. That
+once subsided, I well know that the event was
+thought of, with no emotions, but those of superiority
+to the injustice she sustained; and was not
+of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which
+seemed hourly to become more vigorous and
+firm.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>I think I may venture to say, that no two persons
+ever found in each other’s society, a satisfaction
+more pure and refined. What it was in itself,
+can now only be known, in its full extent, to the
+survivor. But, I believe, the serenity of her
+countenance, 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. She
+had always possessed, in an unparallelled 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.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>While we lived as near neighbours only, and
+before our last removal, her mind had attained
+considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom
+with those emotions of anguish, which had been
+but too familiar to her. But the improvement in
+this respect, which accrued upon our removal
+and establishment, was extremely obvious. She
+was a worshipper of domestic life. She loved to
+observe the growth of affection between me and
+her daughter, then three years of age, as well as
+my anxiety respecting the child not yet born.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature
+seems to be in this respect, is the source of a
+thousand endearments. No one knew better than
+Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite delight,
+from trifles, which a suspicious and formal
+wisdom would scarcely deign to remark. A little
+ride into the country with myself and the child,
+has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the
+heart, a general expression of confidence and affectionate
+soul, a sort of infantine, yet dignified endearment,
+which those who have felt may understand,
+but which I should in vain attempt to
+pourtray.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was
+fortunate enough to introduce her to some of my
+acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she attached
+herself with all the ardour of approbation and
+friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of
+selfish and transitory pleasures. It is perhaps
+scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced by
+the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject
+of cohabitation, I engaged an apartment, about
+twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,
+Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose
+of my study and literary occupations. Trifles
+however will be interesting to some readers,
+when they relate to the last period of the life of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>such a person as Mary. I will add therefore,
+that we were both of us of opinion, that it was
+possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each
+other’s society. Influenced by that opinion, it
+was my practice to repair to the apartment I
+have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently
+not to make my appearance in the Polygon, till
+the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning
+the notion, prevalent in many situations in life,
+that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society,
+but in company with each other; and we
+rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of
+complying with, this rule. By these means,
+though, for the most part, we spent the latter
+half of each day in one another’s society,
+yet we were in no danger of satiety. We
+seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the
+novelty and lively sensation of a visit, with the
+more delicious and heart-felt pleasures of domestic
+life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Whatever may be thought, in other respects,
+of the plan we laid down to ourselves, we probably
+derived a real advantage from it, as to the
+constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary
+pursuits. Mary had a variety of projects of this
+sort, for the exercise of her talents, and the benefit
+of society; and, if she had lived, I believe
+the world would have had very little reason to
+complain of any remission of her industry. One
+of her projects, which has been already mentioned,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>was a series of Letters on the Management of
+Infants. Though she had been for some time
+digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to
+the press, I have found comparatively nothing
+that she had committed to paper respecting it.
+Another project, of longer standing, was of a series
+of books for the instruction of children. A
+fragment she left in execution of this project, is
+inserted in her Posthumous Works.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But the principal work, in which she was engaged
+for more than twelve months before her
+decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of
+Woman. I shall not stop here to explain the
+nature of the work, as so much of it as was already
+written, is now given to the public. I shall only
+observe that, impressed as she could not fail to be,
+with the consciousness of her talents, she was desirous,
+in this instance, that they should effect
+what they were capable of effecting. She was
+sensible how arduous a task it is to produce a truly
+excellent novel; and she roused her faculties
+to grapple with it. All her other works were
+produced with a rapidity, that did not give her
+powers time fully to expand. But this was written
+slowly and with mature consideration. She
+began it in several forms, which she successively
+rejected, after they were considerably advanced.
+She wrote many parts of the work again and again,
+and, when she had finished what she intended for
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>the first part, she felt herself more urgently stimulated
+to revise and improve what she had written,
+than to proceed, with constancy of application, in
+the parts that were to follow.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>
+  <h3 class='c001'>CHAP. X.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>I am now led, by the course of my narrative,
+to the last fatal scene of her life. She was taken
+in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.
+She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding
+Friday, the confluence, I believe, of a
+sudden alarm. But from that time she was in
+perfect health. She was so far from being under
+any apprehension as to the difficulties of child-birth,
+as frequently to ridicule the fashion of ladies in England,
+who keep their chamber for one full month
+after delivery. For herself, she proposed coming
+down to dinner on the day immediately following.
+She had already had some experience on the subject
+in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted
+in every point to her judgment and her
+wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas
+of decorum, which certainly ought to have no
+place, at least in cases of danger, she determined
+to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of
+midwife. She was sensible that the proper business
+of a midwife, in the instance of a natural
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations of
+nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand
+the interposition of art.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>At five o’clock in the morning of the day of
+delivery, she felt what she conceived to be some
+notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,
+matron and midwife to the Westminster
+Lying-in Hospital, who had seen Mary several
+times previous to her delivery, was soon after
+sent for, and arrived about nine. During the
+whole day Mary was perfectly chearful. Her
+pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she
+wrote several notes, three addressed to me, who
+had gone, as usual, to my apartments, for the
+purpose of study. About two o’clock in the afternoon,
+she went up to her chamber—never
+more to descend.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child was born at twenty minutes after
+eleven at night. Mary had requested that I
+would not come into the chamber till all was
+over, and signified her intention of then performing
+the interesting office of presenting
+the new-born child to its father. I was sitting
+in a parlour; and it was not till after two o’clock
+on Thursday morning, that I received the alarming
+intelligence, that the placenta was not yet
+removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed
+any further, and gave her opinion for calling in a
+male practitioner. I accordingly went for Dr.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same
+hospital, who arrived between three and four
+hours after the birth of the child. He immediately
+proceeded to the extraction of the placenta,
+which he brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied
+that the whole was removed. In that point
+however it afterwards appeared that he was mistaken.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The period from the birth of the child till about
+eight o’clock the next morning, was a period full
+of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was considerable,
+and produced an almost uninterrupted
+series of fainting fits. I went to the chamber soon
+after four in the morning, and found her in this
+state. She told me some time on Thursday,
+“that she should have died the preceding night,
+but that she was determined not to leave me.”—She
+added, with one of those smiles which so
+eminently illuminated her countenance, “that I
+should not be like Porson,” alluding to the circumstance
+of that great man having lost his wife,
+after being only a few months married. Speaking
+of what she had already passed through, she declared,
+“that she had never known what bodily
+pain was before.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated
+his visit. Mary had just before expressed some inclination
+to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man probably
+of more science than any other medical professor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>in England, and between whom and herself
+there had long subsisted a mutual friendship. I
+mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather discountenanced
+the idea, observing that he saw no
+necessity for it, and that he supposed Dr. Fordyce
+was not particularly conversant with obstetrical
+cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After
+Dr. Poignand was gone, I determined to send for
+Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the patient
+about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He,
+however, perceived no particular cause of alarm;
+and, on that or the next day, quoted, as I am told,
+Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a corroboration
+of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety
+of employing females in the capacity of midwives.
+Mary, “had had a woman, and was doing extremely
+well.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What had passed, however, in the night between
+Wednesday and Thursday, had so far alarmed me,
+that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the
+chamber, during the following day. But my
+alarms wore off, as time advanced. Appearances
+were more favourable, than the exhausted state of
+the patient would almost have permitted me to
+expect. Friday morning, therefore, I devoted to a
+business of some urgency, which called me to different
+parts of the town, and which, before dinner,
+I happily completed. On my return, and
+during the evening, I received the most pleasurable
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>sensations from the promising state of the patient.
+I was now perfectly satisfied that every
+thing was safe, and that, if she did not take cold,
+or suffer from any external accident, her speedy
+recovery was certain.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday,
+but not absolutely alarming.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Sunday, the third of September, I now regard
+as the day, that finally decided on the fate of the
+object dearest to my heart that the universe contained.
+Encouraged by what I considered as the
+progress of her recovery, I accompanied a friend
+in the morning in several calls, one of them as far
+as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time.
+On my return I found a degree of anxiety in every
+face, and was told that she had had a sort of shivering
+fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the
+length of my absence. My sister and a friend of
+hers, had been engaged to dine below stairs, but a
+message was sent to put them off, and Mary ordered
+that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in
+the room immediately under her on the first floor,
+but in the ground-floor parlour. I felt a pang at
+having been so long and so unseasonably absent,
+and determined that I would not repeat the fault.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the evening she had a second shivering fit,
+the symptoms of which were in the highest degree
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,
+the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her.
+This continued probably for five minutes. She
+told me, after it was over, that it had been a struggle
+between life and death, and that she had been
+more than once, in the course of it, at the point of
+expiring. I now apprehend these to have been
+the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned
+by the part of the placenta that remained
+in the womb. At the time, however, I was far
+from considering it in that light. When I went
+for Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock
+on the morning of Thursday, despair was in my
+heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta
+was stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical
+science, I felt as if the death of Mary was
+in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited
+my bosom; and her chearings were so delightful,
+that I hugged her obstinately to my heart. I was
+only mortified at what appeared to me a new delay
+in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I
+immediately sent for Dr. Fordyce, who had been
+with her in the morning, as well as on the three
+preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this
+morning, but declined paying any further visits,
+as we had thought proper to call in Dr. Fordyce.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted.
+On Tuesday I found it necessary again
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who
+brought with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street,
+under the idea that some operation might be
+necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously
+persisted in viewing the fair side of things;
+and therefore the interval between Sunday and
+Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture
+of chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce
+forbad the child’s having the breast, and we therefore
+procured puppies to draw off the milk. This
+occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and
+the other attendants. Nothing could exceed the
+equanimity, the patience and affectionateness of
+the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I
+dwelt with trembling fondness on every favourable
+circumstance; and, as far it was possible in so
+dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind
+speeches, rewarded my affection.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture
+in the melancholy series. It was now decided
+that the only chance of supporting her
+through what she had to suffer, was by supplying
+her rather freely with wine. This task was devolved
+upon me. I began about four o’clock in
+the afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the
+nature of diseases and of the human frame, thus
+to play with a life that now seemed all that was
+dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a
+task. I knew neither what was too much, nor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,
+under every disadvantage, to go on. This
+lasted for three hours. Towards the end of that
+time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who
+came out of the room, “What she thought of
+her mistress?” she replied, “that, in her judgment,
+she was going as fast as possible.” There
+are moments, when any creature that lives, has
+power to drive one into madness. I seemed to
+know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of
+no consequence—It added to the measure of my
+distraction. A little after seven I intreated a friend
+to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him instantly
+wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily
+called on the patient on the preceding Saturday,
+and two or three times since. He had seen
+her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending
+the wine diet. That day he dined four
+miles out of town, on the side of the metropolis,
+which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this,
+my friend returned with him after three-quarters
+of an hour’s absence. No one who knows my
+friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success,
+when I name Mr. Basil Montagu. The
+sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly, gave me a
+stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it
+possible to experience.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday
+evening, to the hour of her death. It was impossible
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>to exceed his kindness and affectionate attention.
+It excited in every spectator a sentiment
+like adoration. His conduct was uniformly tender
+and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing
+every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable
+appearance. If skill or attention could
+have saved her, Mary would still live. In addition
+to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr.
+Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day. She had for
+nurses, or rather for friends, watching every occasion
+to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an
+excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very
+kind and judicious lady, and a favourite female
+servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.
+Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu,
+Mr. Marshal, and Mr. Dyson, sat up nearly the
+whole of the last week of her existence in the
+house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any
+part of the metropolis, at a moment’s warning.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to
+bed for a few hours on Wednesday night. Towards
+morning he came into my room with an account
+that the patient was surprisingly better. I
+went instantly into the chamber. But I now sought
+to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest anguish
+I have any conception of, consists in that
+crushing of a new-born hope which I had already
+two or three times experienced. If Mary recovered,
+it was well, and I should see it time
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>enough. But it was too mighty a thought to
+bear being trifled with, and turned out and admitted
+in this abrupt way.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my
+gloomy thoughts, when, about ten o’clock on
+Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare
+ourselves, for we had reason to expect the
+fatal event every moment. To my thinking, she
+did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,
+which I supposed to precede death; but it is
+probable that death does not always take place by
+that gradual process I had pictured to myself; a
+sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did
+not die on Thursday night.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Till now it does not appear that she had any
+serious thoughts of dying; but on Friday and Saturday,
+the two last days of her life, she occasionally
+spoke as if she expected it. This was, however,
+only at intervals; the thought did not seem
+to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle rejoiced in
+this. He observed, and there is great force in the
+suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object,
+than a sick man, that knows he is dying. The
+thought must be expected to destroy his courage,
+to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract
+every favourable effort of nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>On these two days her faculties were in too decayed
+a state, to be able to follow any train of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.
+Her religion, as I have already shown, was not
+calculated to be the torment of a sick bed; and, in
+fact, during her whole illness, not one word of a
+religious cast fell from her lips.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She was affectionate and compliant to the last.
+I observed on Friday and Saturday nights, that,
+whenever her attendants recommended to her to
+sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by
+breathing, perhaps for the space of a minute, in
+the manner of a person that sleeps, though the effort,
+from the state of her disorder, usually proved
+ineffectual.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>She was not tormented by useless contradiction.
+One night the servant, from an error in judgment,
+teazed her with idle expostulations; but she complained
+of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray,
+pray, do not let her reason with me,”
+was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so
+dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous
+importunity of nurses everlastingly repeated.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very
+desirous of obtaining from her any directions,
+that she might wish to have followed after her decease.
+Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I
+talked to her for a good while of the two children.
+In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not impressing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>the idea of death, I was obliged to manage
+my expressions. I therefore affected to proceed
+wholly upon the ground of her having been
+very ill, and that it would be some time before she
+could expect to be well; wishing her to tell me
+any thing that she would choose to have done respecting
+the children, as they would now be principally
+under my care. After having repeated
+this idea to her in a great variety of forms, she at
+length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I
+know what you are thinking of,” but added, that
+she had nothing to communicate to me upon the
+subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the
+two last days. Mr. Carlisle observed that her
+continuance was almost miraculous, and he was on
+the watch for favourable appearances, believing it
+highly improper to give up all hope, and remarking,
+that perhaps one in a million, of persons in her
+state might possibly recover. I conceive that not
+one in a million, unites so good a constitution of
+body and of mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These were the amusements of persons in the
+very gulph of despair. At six o’clock on Sunday
+morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called
+me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in
+conformity to my request, that I might not be left
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>to receive all at once the intelligence that she was
+no more. She expired at twenty minutes before
+eight.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of
+September, at ten o’clock in the morning, in the
+church-yard of the parish church of St. Pancras,
+Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed,
+attended the ceremony; and a plain monument
+is now erecting on the spot, by some of
+her friends, with the following inscription:</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div><span class='sc'>mary wollstonecraft godwin,</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>author of</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>a vindication</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>of the rights of woman.</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>born, XXVII april MDCCLIX.</span></div>
+    <div><span class='sc'>died, X september MDCCXCVII.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<p class='c007'>The loss of the world in this admirable woman,
+I leave to other men to collect; my own I well
+know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do
+not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed
+in her conversation: these increased every day,
+in proportion as we knew each other better, and
+as our mutual confidence increased. They can be
+measured only by the treasures of her mind, and
+the virtues of her heart. But this is a subject for
+meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding
+to, was the improvement that I have for
+ever lost.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture
+to use this sort of language) in different directions;
+I, chiefly an attempt at logical and metaphysical
+distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque.
+One of the leading passions of my
+mind has been an anxious desire not to be deceived.
+This has led me to view the topics of my reflection
+on all sides; and to examine and re-examine
+without end, the questions that interest me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But it was not merely (to judge at least from all
+the reports of my memory in this respect) the
+difference of propensities, that made the difference
+in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated
+as long as I can remember, by an ambition for
+intellectual distinction; but, as long as I can remember,
+I have been discouraged, when I have
+endeavoured to cast the sum of my intellectual value,
+by finding that I did not possess, in the degree
+of some other men, an intuitive perception
+of intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong
+and lively sense of the pleasures of the imagination;
+but I have seldom been right in assigning to them
+their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering
+examination, and the change and correction
+of my first opinions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed,
+in a degree superior to any other person I ever
+knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>She was often right, by this means only, in matters
+of mere speculation. Her religion, her philosophy,
+(in both of which the errors were comparatively
+few, and the strain dignified and generous)
+were, as I have already said, the pure result
+of feeling and taste. She adopted one opinion,
+and rejected another, spontaneously, by a
+sort of tact and the force of a cultivated imagination;
+and yet, though perhaps, in the strict sense
+of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising
+what a degree of soundness is to be found in her
+determinations. But, if this quality was of use
+to her in topics that seem the proper province of
+reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly
+appealing to the intellectual taste. In a robust
+and unwavering judgment of this sort, there is a
+kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it
+produces a responsive vibration in every ingenuous
+mind. In this sense, my oscillation and scepticism
+were fixed by her boldness. When a true
+opinion emanated in this way from another mind,
+the conviction produced in my own assumed a
+similar character, instantaneous and firm. This
+species of intellect probably differs from the other,
+chiefly in the relation of earlier and later. What
+the one perceives instantaneously (circumstances
+having produced in it, either a premature attention
+to objects of this sort, or a greater boldness
+of decision) the other receives only by degrees.
+What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>minute attention to first impressions, and a just
+appreciation of them; habits that are never so
+effectually generated, as by the daily recurrence
+of a striking example.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This light was lent to me for a very short
+period, and is now extinguished for ever!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>While I have described the improvement I was
+in the act of receiving, I believe I have put down
+the leading traits of her intellectual character.</p>
+
+<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>The following Letters may possibly be found
+to contain the finest examples of the language of
+sentiment and passion ever presented to the world.
+They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated
+Romance of Werter, though the incidents to
+which they relate are of a very different cast.
+Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable
+of affording pleasure, will receive no delight
+from the present publication. The editor apprehends
+that, in the judgment of those best qualified
+to decide upon the comparison, these Letters
+will be admitted to have the superiority over the
+fiction of Goethe. They are the offspring of a
+glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with
+the passion it essays to describe.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>To the series of letters constituting the principal
+article in these two volumes, are added various
+pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found
+discreditable to the talents of the author. The
+slight fragment of Letters on the Management of
+Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it seems to
+have some value, as presenting to us with vividness
+the intention of the writer on this important
+subject. The publication of a few select Letters
+to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just monument
+to the sincerity of his friendship, and a
+valuable and interesting specimen of the mind of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>the writer. The Letter on the Present Character
+of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of
+Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part
+of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, safely
+be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on
+Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature,
+appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April last,
+and is the only piece in this collection which has
+previously found its way to the press.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>
+  <h2 id='Letters' class='c004'>LETTERS.</h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Two o’Clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>My dear love, after making my arrangements
+for our snug dinner to-day, I have been taken by
+storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an
+early hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day
+they intend to pass here. I shall, however, leave
+the key in the door, and hope to find you at my
+fire-side when I return, about eight o’clock. Will
+you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will
+find better, and till then think very affectionately
+of her.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours, truly,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an
+answer.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday night,</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>[August]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I obey an emotion of my heart, which made
+me think of wishing thee, my love, good night!
+before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I
+can to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two
+under Colonel ——’s eye. You can scarcely
+imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day,
+when we are to begin almost to live together; and
+you would smile to hear how many plans of employment
+I have in my head, now that I am confident
+that my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish
+me with that dignified tenderness,
+which I have only found in you; and your own
+dear girl will try to keep under a quickness of
+feeling, that has sometimes given you pain—Yes,
+I will be <em>good</em>, that I may deserve to be happy:
+and whilst you love me, I cannot again fall into
+the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen
+almost too heavy to be borne.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says,
+that is equal to a kiss—yet I would rather give
+you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude
+to Heaven, and affection to you. I like
+the word affection, because it signifies something
+habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>we have mind enough to keep our hearts
+warm.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock
+to-morrow<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c011'><sup>[3]</sup></a>—Yours—</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier
+girl,” probably from a supposition that she owed her existence
+to this interview.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You have often called me, dear girl, but you
+would now say good, did you know how very attentive
+I have been to the —— ever since I came
+to Paris. I am not however going to trouble you
+with the account, because I like to see your eyes
+praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that during
+such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful
+to the heart, when the honey that drops
+from the lips is not merely words.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these
+people enter, to force me to huddle away my
+letter) be content with only a kiss of <span class='fss'>DUTY</span>—you
+<em>must</em> be glad to see me—because you are
+glad—or I will make love to the <em>shade</em> of Mirabeau,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I
+was talking to Madame ——, forcibly telling me
+that it will ever have sufficient warmth to love,
+whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so
+highly respect principle.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of
+principles—far—and, if I had not begun
+to form a new theory respecting men, I should,
+in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I
+could have made something of his——it was composed
+of such materials—Hush! here they come—and
+love flies away in the twinkling of an eye,
+leaving a little brush of his wing on my pale
+cheeks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am
+going to Mr. ——’s to meet him.&#160;——, and some
+others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and
+to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall probably not be able to return to ——
+to-morrow; but it is no matter, because I must
+take a carriage, I have so many books, that I immediately
+want, to take with me—On Friday
+then I shall expect you to dine with me—and, if
+you come a little before dinner, it is so long since I
+have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours
+affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c011'><sup>[4]</sup></a>.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
+<p class='c015'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. This and the thirteen following letters appear to have
+been written during a separation of several months; the date
+Paris.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning [September.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously
+announced, called here yesterday for the
+payment of a draft; and he seemed disappointed
+at not finding you at home. I sent him to Mr.&#160;—— I have since seen him, and he tells me that
+he has settled the business.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>So much for business!—may I venture to talk a
+little longer about less weighty affairs?—How are
+you?—I have been following you all along the
+road this comfortless weather; for, when I am
+absent from those I love, my imagination is as
+lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by
+their presence—I was going to say caresses—and
+why should I not? I have found out that I have
+more than you, in one respect; because I can,
+without any violent effort of reason, find food for
+love in the same object, much longer than you
+can.—The way to my senses is through my heart;
+but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a
+shorter cut to yours.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very
+sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>woman <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>, a soft word for desirable; and,
+beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy,
+few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion
+in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I
+wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that
+the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly,
+rob those whose sensibility keeps down their
+vanity, of the few roses that afford them solace in
+the thorny road of life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not know how I fell into these reflections,
+excepting one thought produced it—that these
+continual separations were necessary to warm your
+affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and
+away you go.—This
+joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though
+I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy
+tears have found their way into my eyes, that
+linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my
+heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures
+in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a
+mind, that has been almost “crazed by care” as
+well as “crossed in hapless love,” and bear with
+me a <em>little</em> longer!—When we are settled in the
+country together, more duties will open before
+me, and my heart, which now, trembling into
+peace, is agitated by every emotion that awaken
+the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest
+on yours, with that dignity your character, not
+to talk of my own, demands.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>Take care of yourself—and write soon to your
+own girl (you may add dear, if you please) who
+sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you
+of it, by becoming happier</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your letter, and feel as
+if I could not go to bed tranquilly without saying
+a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my
+mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I
+have felt some gentle twitches, which make me
+begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
+who will soon be sensible of my care.—This
+thought has not only produced an overflowing of
+tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to
+calm my mind and take exercise, lest I should
+destroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual
+interest, you know. Yesterday—do not
+smile!—finding that I had hurt myself by lifting
+precipitately a large log of wood, I sat down in
+an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Are you very busy?</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>So you may reckon on its being finished soon,
+though not before you come home, unless you are
+detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
+you will.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, write to me, my best love,
+and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expressions
+of kindness will again beguile the time, as
+sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also
+over and over again, that your happiness (and
+you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected
+with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they
+rise, the fumes of former discontent, that have
+too often clouded the sunshine, which you have
+endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God
+bless you! Take care of yourself, and remember
+with tenderness your affectionate</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am going to rest very happy, and you have
+made me so.—This is the kindest good night I
+can utter.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable,
+as well as myself—for be it known to
+thee, that I answered thy first letter, the very night it
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not
+receive it before Wednesday, because it was not
+sent off till the next day.—There is a full, true,
+and particular account.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for
+I think that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise
+of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the
+same thing, when the temper is governed by a
+square and compass.—There is nothing picturesque
+in this straight-lined equality, and the passions
+always give grace to the actions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Recollection now makes my heart bound to
+thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face,
+though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
+exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is
+what I should have expected from thy character.—No;
+I have thy honest countenance before me—Pop—relaxed
+by tenderness; a little—little
+wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening
+with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than
+soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all
+the world.—I have not left the hue of love out
+of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has
+spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I
+feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles
+in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
+grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature,
+who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>give more warmth to the sentiment it divides—I
+must pause a moment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing
+thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence
+in your affection, when absent, than present;
+nay, I think that you must love me, for,
+in the sincerity of my heart let me say it, I believe
+I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and
+have a degree of sensibility that you can see and
+relish.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning (December 29.)</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You seem to have taken up your abode at
+H——. Pray sir! when do you think of coming
+home? or, to write very considerately,
+when will business permit you? I shall expect
+(as the country people say in England) that you
+will make a <em>power</em> of money to indemnify me for
+your absence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I
+to see you this week, or this month?—I do not
+know what you are about—for, as you did not
+tell me, I would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally
+pretty communicative.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear
+from you, so do not give yourself airs, but to get
+a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry
+with you for not informing me whether she
+had brought one with her or not.—On this score
+I will cork up some of the kind things that were
+ready to drop from my pen, which has never
+been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will
+only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or
+a kind look, to escape me, when I pass the flippers—which
+I could not remove from my <em>salle</em> door,
+though they are not the handsomest of their kind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing
+worth having is to be purchased. God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Night (December 30.)</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My best love, your letter to-night was particularly
+grateful to my heart, depressed by the
+letters I received by ——, for he brought me
+several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr.
+—— was for me. Mr. ——’s letter
+was long and very affectionate; but the account
+he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviously
+makes the best of them, has vexed me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>A melancholy letter from my sister —— has
+also harrassed my mind—that from my brother
+would have given me sincere pleasure; but for</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>There is a spirit of independence in this letter,
+that will please you; and you shall see it, when
+we are once more over the fire together—I think
+that you would hail him as a brother, with one of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>your tender looks, when your heart not only gives
+a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness,
+that he would meet with a glow half made up of
+bashfulness, and a desire to please the —— where
+shall I find a word to express the relationship
+which subsists between us? Shall I ask the little
+twitcher? But I have dropt half the sentence
+that was to tell you how much he would be inclined
+to love the man loved by his sister. I have
+been fancying myself sitting between you, ever
+since I began to write, and my heart has leaped
+at the thought! You see how I chat to you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I did not receive your letter till I came home;
+and I did not expect it, so the post came in much
+later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I
+wanted one.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— tells me that he has written again
+and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a
+kind of separation, if you did not love those I
+love.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>There was so much considerate tenderness in
+your epistle to-night, that, if it has not made you
+dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how
+very dear you are to me, by charming away half
+my cares.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning, [December 31.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as
+captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing
+to let him go without a kind greeting, because
+trifles of this sort, without having any effect on
+my mind, damp my spirits:—and you, with all
+your struggles to be manly, have some of this
+same sensibility. Do not bid it begone, for I love
+to see it striving to master your features; besides,
+these kind of sympathies are the life of affection:
+and why, in cultivating our understandings, should
+we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which
+gush out to give a freshness to days browned by
+care!<a id='t133'></a></p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The books sent to me are such as we may read
+together; so I shall not look into them till you return;
+when you shall read, whilst I mend my
+stockings.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Night [January 1.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>As I have been, you tell me, three days
+without writing, I ought not to complain of two:
+yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,
+I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing
+it, affect the heroism I do not feel?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s
+and heart be organized from mine! You will tell
+me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of
+them! The face of things, public and private,
+vexes me. The “peace” and clemency which
+seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear
+again. “I am fallen,” as Milton said, “on
+evil days;” for I really believe that Europe will
+be in a state of convulsion, during half a century
+at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always
+rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a
+person can find a resting-place, imagining it is
+lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is
+to be done over anew!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should I attempt to write any more, I could
+not change the strain. My head aches, and my
+heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded
+garden,” where “things rank and vile”
+flourish best.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>If you do not return soon—or, which is no such
+mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your slippers
+out at the window, and be off—nobody knows
+where.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Finding that I was observed, I told the good
+women, the two Mrs. ——, simply that I was
+with child: and let them stare!—and ——,
+nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care—Yet
+I wish to avoid ——’s coarse jokes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Considering the care and anxiety a woman must
+have about a child before it comes into the world,
+it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong to
+her. When men get immersed in the world, they
+seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary
+to continue or produce life!—Are these the
+privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race,
+whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate
+stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man
+to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A
+man is a tyrant!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may now tell me, that, if it were not for
+me, you would be laughing away with some honest
+fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social
+sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I
+should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.—It
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>is necessary to be in good-humour
+with you, to be pleased with the world.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was very low-spirited last night, ready to
+quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes
+absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince
+the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning
+it. I do not want to be loved like a goddess;
+but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
+you!<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c011'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. Some further letters, written during the remainder of
+the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to
+have been destroyed by the person to whom they are addressed.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your kind and rational
+letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with
+shame for my folly. I would hide it in your bosom,
+if you would again open it to me, and nestle
+closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by
+saying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing
+with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I
+intreat you. Do not turn from me, for indeed I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>love you fondly, and have been very wretched,
+since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking
+that you had no confidence in me—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a
+few more of these caprices of sensibility would
+destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indisposed
+for a few days past, and the notion that I
+was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little
+animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
+tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My
+bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and every
+thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach;
+still I feel intimations of its existence, though they
+have been fainter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do you think that the creature goes regularly
+to sleep? I am ready to ask as many questions as
+Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not
+continue to be angry with me! You perceive that
+I am already smiling through my tears—You
+have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits
+are melting into playfulness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write the moment you receive this. I shall
+count the minutes. But drop not an angry word,
+I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve
+a scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant),
+wait till you come back—and then, if you are
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you the
+next.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— —— did not write to you, I suppose, because
+he talked of going to H——. Hearing that
+I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming
+that it was some words that he incautiously
+let fall, which rendered me so.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart
+against a return of tenderness; and, as I now in
+fancy cling to you, be more than ever my support.
+Feel but as affectionate when you read this
+letter, as I did writing it, and you will make
+happy, your</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will never, if I am not entirely cured of
+quarrelling, begin to encourage “quick-coming
+fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my
+love, I could not open your letter for some time;
+and, though it was not half as severe as I merited,
+it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously
+alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>care for a little pain on my own account;
+but all the fears which I have had for a few days
+past, returned with fresh force. This morning I
+am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You
+perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of
+me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>One thing you mistake in my character, and
+imagine that to be coldness which is just the contrary.
+For, when I am hurt by the person most
+dear to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions,
+in which tenderness would be uppermost, or
+stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost
+a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am
+treated with coldness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own&#160;——.
+I know the quickness of your feelings—and let
+me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there
+is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy.
+My own happiness wholly depends on you—and,
+knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
+look forward to a rational prospect of as much
+felicity as the earth affords—with a little dash of
+rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me,
+when we meet again, as you have sometimes
+greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been wishing the time away, my kind
+love, unable to rest till I knew that my penitential
+letter had reached your hand, and this afternoon,
+when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such
+exquisite pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart
+smote her to think that you were to receive another
+cold one. Burn it also, my ——; yet do
+not forget that even those letters were full of love;
+and I shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to
+be mollified by my penitence, before you took me
+again to your heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been unwell, and would not, now I am
+recovering, take a journey, because I have been
+seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
+continually the fatal consequence of my folly.
+But, should you think it right to remain at H—,
+I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
+fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and
+before then I shall be strong again.—Yet do not
+be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
+such care of myself, as I have done since you restored
+my peace of mind. The girl is come to
+warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night!
+and write a line or two in the morning.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wish you were here to walk with me this
+fine morning! yet your absence shall not prevent
+me. I have stayed at home too much; though,
+when I was so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless
+of every thing.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will now sally forth (you will go with me in
+my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air
+will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
+before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief
+that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my
+whole system.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The two or three letters, which I have written
+to you lately, my love, will serve as an answer to
+your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your
+motives and conduct. I always respected them;
+and was only hurt, by what seemed to me a want
+of confidence, and consequently affection.—I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three
+months at H—, I might as well have been with
+you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded
+over—Let us now be friends!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day,
+sealing my pardon—and I will be careful not
+to torment you with my querulous humours, at
+least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances
+direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit
+you to return, convinced that you will hasten
+to your&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*, when you have attained (or
+lost sight of) the object of your journey.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side!
+Yes, my love, my fancy was instantly at
+work, and I found my head on your shoulder,
+whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures
+that were clinging to your knees. I did not absolutely
+determine that there should be six—if
+you have not set your heart on this round number.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am going to dine with Mrs.&#160;——. I have
+not been to visit her since the first day she came
+to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as
+much as I can; for the exercise I have taken
+these two or three days past, has been of such service
+to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>am quite well, I have scarcely slept before last
+night, and then not much.—The two Mrs.&#160;——s
+have been very anxious and tender.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I need not desire you to give the colonel a good
+bottle of wine.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you yesterday, my&#160;——; but,
+finding that the colonel is still detained (for his
+passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I
+am not willing to let so many days elapse without
+your hearing from me, after having talked of
+illness and apprehensions.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I
+am (I must use my Yorkshire phrase; for, when
+my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of
+childhood into my head) so <em>lightsome</em>, that I
+think it will not <em>go badly with me</em>.—And nothing
+shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection
+for you, but by a new-born tenderness that plays
+cheerly round my dilating heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out
+in the air the greater part of yesterday; and, if
+I get over this evening without a return of the
+fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more
+of illness. I have promised the little creature,
+that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not
+again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and,
+since I could not hug either it or you to my breast,
+I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over
+this prattle—but it is only for your eye.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst
+you were harrassed by impediments in your undertakings,
+I was giving you additional uneasiness.—If
+you can make any of your plans answer—it
+is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient;
+but, should they fail, we will struggle
+cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching
+blasts of poverty.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor
+girl, and write long letters; for I not only like
+them for being longer, but because more heart
+steals into them; and I am happy to catch your
+heart whenever I can.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I seize this opportunity to inform you that I
+am to set out on Thursday with Mr.&#160;——,
+and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad
+I shall be to see you. I have just got my passport,
+so I do not foresee any impediment to my
+reaching H——, to bid you good-night next
+Friday in my new apartment—where I am to
+meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to
+sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we
+parted.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You have, by your tenderness and worth,
+twisted yourself more artfully round my heart,
+than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the
+thought, that I have thrown out some tendrils to
+cling to the elm by which I wished to be supported.—This
+is talking a new language for me!—But,
+knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am
+willing to receive the proofs of affection, that
+every pulse replies to, when I think of being
+once more in the same house with you.—God
+bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I only send this as an <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">avant-coureur</span></i>, without
+jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the
+wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after
+you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed,
+I am sure; or, more properly speaking,
+cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are
+not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of
+it. I will not allow that your temper is even,
+though I have promised myself, in order to obtain
+my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle
+it for a long, long time—I am afraid to say
+never.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that
+I am driving towards you in person! My mind,
+unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather
+has never left you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am well, and have no apprehension that I
+shall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow
+the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to
+H—my spirits will not sink—and my mind has
+always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever
+I wished.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>We are such creatures of habit, my love, that,
+though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so,
+for your going, when I knew that you were to
+stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment;
+yet I could not sleep.—I turned to
+your side of the bed, and tried to make the most
+of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to
+tell me I was churlish about; but all would not
+do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast,
+though the weather was not very inviting—and
+here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing
+you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one
+of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten,
+and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I do not mean to dally with you this
+morning—So God bless you! Take care of yourself
+and sometimes fold<a id='t147'></a> to your heart your affectionate.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table
+the little bit of paper I was to inclose.—This comes
+of being in love at the fag end of a letter of business.—You
+know, you say, they will not chime
+together.—I had got you by the fire-side, with
+<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> smoking on the board, to lard your poor
+bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without
+taking the paper up, that was directly under my
+eyes!—What had I got in them to render me so
+blind?—I give you leave to answer the question,
+if you will not scold; for I am</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, August 17.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have promised —— to go with him to
+his country-house, where he is now permitted to
+dine—and the little darling, to be sure<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c011'><sup>[6]</sup></a>—whom
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>I cannot help kissing with more fondness, since
+you left us. I think I shall enjoy the fine prospect,
+and that it will rather enliven than satiate
+my imagination.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now
+been born a considerable time.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the
+manners of a gentlewoman, with a dash of the
+easy French coquetry, which renders her <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquante</span></i>.
+But <em>Monsieur</em> her husband, whom nature
+never dreamed of casting in either the mould
+of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward
+figure in the foreground of the picture.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and
+the house smelt of commerce from top to
+toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste,
+only proved it to be one of the things not to be
+bought with gold. I was in a room a moment
+alone, and my attention was attracted by the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pendule</span></i>.
+A nymph was offering up her vows before
+a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (saving
+your presence), who was kicking his heels in the
+air. Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of
+traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces,
+that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
+<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sombre</span></i> day of life—whilst the imagination, not
+allowing us to see things as they are, enables us to
+catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight,
+the thirst for which seems to be given only
+to tantalize us.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will
+call me severe, and bid me let the square-headed
+money-getters alone. Peace to them! though
+none of the social spirits (and there are not a few
+of different descriptions, who sport about the various
+inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain
+my pen.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been writing, expecting poor ——
+to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of
+business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
+associates with your image, I wonder I
+stumbled on any other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely
+worth having, even with a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gigot</span></i> every day, and a
+pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate
+my judgment, if you will permit me to
+keep alive the sentiments in your heart which
+may be termed romantic, because, the offspring
+of the senses and the imagination, they resemble
+the mother more than the father<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c011'><sup>[7]</sup></a>, when they produce
+the suffusion I admire. In spite of icy age,
+I hope still to see it, if you have not determined
+only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the
+stupid—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. She means, “the latter more than the former.”</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>EDITOR.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, August 19, Tuesday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I received both your letters to-day—I had
+reckoned on hearing from you yesterday, therefore
+was disappointed, though I imputed your silence
+to the right cause. I intended answering
+your kind letter immediately, that you might have
+felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came
+in, and some other things interrupted me; so
+that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving
+a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you,
+what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire
+I have shown to keep my place, or gain more
+ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary
+your affection is to my happiness.—Still I
+do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to
+wish that your attention to my happiness should
+arise <em>as much</em> from love, which is always rather a
+selfish passion, as reason—that is, I want you to
+promote my felicity, by seeking your own—For,
+whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your
+generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for
+your affection on the very quality I most admire.
+No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand
+my affection; but, unless the attachment
+appears to me clearly mutual, I shall labour only
+to esteem your character, instead of cherishing a
+tenderness for your person.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>I write in a hurry, because the little one, who
+has been sleeping a long time, begins to call for
+me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that
+all my affections grow on me, till they become
+too strong for my peace, though they all afford
+me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for
+our little girl was at first very reasonable—more
+the effect of reason, a sense of duty, than feeling—now,
+she has got into my heart and imagination,
+and when I walk out without her, her little
+figure is ever dancing before me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You too have somehow clung round my heart—I
+found I could not eat my dinner in the great
+room—and, when I took up the large knife to
+carve for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do
+not however suppose that I am melancholy—for,
+when you are from me, I not only wonder how
+I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt
+your affection.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it
+roused my indignation) with the effusion of tenderness,
+with which I assure you, that you are the
+friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>H—, August 20.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I want to know what steps you have taken
+respecting ——. Knavery always rouses my indignation—I
+should be gratified to hear that the
+law had chastised —— severely; but I do not
+wish you to see him, because the business does not
+now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
+know how you would express your contempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am
+still pleased with the dignity of his conduct.—The
+other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use
+of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean
+to point out to you, as one of the few instances
+of address which do credit to the abilities of the
+man, without taking away from that confidence
+in his openness of heart, which is the true basis of
+both public and private friendship.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little
+reserve of temper in you, of which I have sometimes
+complained! You have been used to a cunning
+woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay,
+in <em>managing</em> my happiness, you now and
+then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself
+till honest sympathy, giving you to me without
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>disguise, lets me look into a heart, which my halfbroken
+one wishes to creep into, to be revived
+and cherished.——You have frankness of heart,
+but not often exactly that overflowing (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">épanchement
+de cœur</span></i>), which becoming almost childish,
+appears a weakness only to the weak.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you
+to enquire likewise whether, as a member declared
+in the convention, Robespierre really maintained
+a number of mistresses—Should it prove so,
+I suspect that they rather flattered his vanity than
+his senses.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do
+not suppose that I mean to close it without mentioning
+the little damsel—who has been almost
+springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very
+like you—but I do not love her the less for that,
+whether I am angry or pleased with you.—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIII<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c011'><sup>[8]</sup></a>.</h3>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
+<p class='c015'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. This is the first of a series of letters written during a
+separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting
+ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the
+address of London.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 22.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just written two letters, that are
+going by other conveyances, and which I reckon
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>on your receiving long before this. I therefore
+merely write, because I know I should be disappointed
+at seeing any one who had left you, if you
+did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell
+me why you did not write a longer—and you
+will want to be told, over and over again, that our
+little Hercules is quite recovered.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Besides looking at me there are three other
+things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to
+look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music—yesterday
+at the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">féte</span></i>, she enjoyed the two latter;
+but to honor J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give
+her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—and
+why not?—for I have always been half
+in love with him.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk
+about alum or soap? There is nothing picturesque
+in your present pursuits; my imagination then
+rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with
+you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my
+basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I recollect
+your looks and words, when I have been sitting
+on the window, regarding the waving
+corn!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient
+respect for the imagination—I could prove to you
+in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the
+great distinction of our nature, the only purifier
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>of the passions—animals have a portion of reason,
+and equal, if not more exquisite, senses;
+but no trace of imagination, or her offspring
+taste, appears in any of their actions. The impulse
+of the senses, passions, if you will, and the
+conclusions of reason draw men together; but
+the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven
+to animate this cold creature of clay, producing
+all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture,
+rendering men social by expanding their
+hearts instead of leaving them leisure to calculate
+how many comforts society affords.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>If you call these observations romantic, a
+phrase in this place which would be tantamount to
+nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are
+embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of
+life—Bring me then back your barrier face, or
+you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl;
+and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances
+that will be ever dear to me; for I am
+yours truly</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Evening. Sept. 23.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been playing and laughing with the
+little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>address you without emotion. Pressing her to
+my bosom, she looked so like you (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, your
+best looks, for I do not admire your commercial
+face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch,
+and I began to think that there was something in
+the assertion of man and wife being one—for you
+seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening
+the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic
+tears you excited.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not
+for the present—the rest is all flown away; and,
+indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
+of some people here, who have ruffled my
+temper for two or three days past.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yesterday B—— sent to me for my
+packet of letters. He called on me before; and I
+like him better than I did—that is, I have the
+same opinion of his understanding, but I think
+with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy
+of feeling with respect to women, than are
+commonly to be met with. His manner too of
+speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine,
+interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,
+and requested him to see her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose
+will write about business. Public affairs I do not
+descant on, except to tell you that they write
+now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty
+of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I
+plainly perceive.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope you take care of your health. I have
+got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I
+believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
+alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open
+my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking,
+which agitate and fatigue me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is my third letter; when am I to hear
+from you? I need not tell you, I suppose, that I
+am now writing with somebody in the room with
+me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s.
+I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you
+adieu.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I desired you, in one of my other letters, to
+bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you
+should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know
+that you will love her more and more, for she is a
+little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as
+much vivacity, I think, as you could wish for.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was going to tell you of two or three things
+which displease me here; but they are not of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations.
+I have received a letter from Mr. ——.
+I want you to bring —— with you. Madame
+S—— is by me, reading a German translation of
+your letters—she desires me to give her love to
+you, on account of what you say of the negroes.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately,</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, Sept. 28.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have written to you three or four letters;
+but different causes have prevented my sending
+them by the persons who promised to take or forward
+them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go
+by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive,
+before I hope, and believe, you will have set out
+on your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give
+it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to
+whom I also gave a letter.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot help being anxious to hear from you;
+but I shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes,
+or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.—I
+have had so many little plagues
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>here, that I have almost lamented that I left
+H——.  ——, who is at best a most helpless
+creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy,
+more trouble than use to me, so that I still continue
+to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed
+rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature;
+for, setting aside a mother’s fondness (which, by
+the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent
+smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing
+degree of sensibility and observation. The
+other day by B——’s child, a fine one, she
+looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion,
+and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I
+will swear.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if
+you have not forgot) in which you pressed me
+very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to
+fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are
+almost too sacred to be alluded to.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you
+wish to be the protector of your child, and the
+comfort of her mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have received, for you, letters from ——.
+I want to hear how that affair finishes, though I
+do not know whether I have most contempt for
+his folly or knavery.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your own</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>October 1.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is a heartless task to write letters, without
+knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I
+have given two to ——, who has been a-going,
+a-going, every day, for a week past; and three
+others, which were written in a low-spirited
+strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been
+able to forward by the opportunities that were
+mentioned to me. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tant mieux!</span></i> you will say,
+and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that
+the contents of a letter, when you are so far away,
+should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would
+afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I
+just now stumbled on one of the kind letters,
+which you wrote during your last absence. You
+are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will
+not plague you. The letter which you chance to
+receive, when the absence is so long, ought to
+bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter
+alloy, into your eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>After your return I hope indeed, that you will
+not be so immersed in business, as during the last
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>three or four months past—for even money, taking
+into the account all the future comforts it is
+to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if
+painful impressions are left on the mind.—These
+impressions were much more lively, soon after
+you went away, than at present—for a thousand
+tender recollections efface the melancholy traces
+they left on my mind—and every emotion is on
+the same side as my reason, which always was on
+yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious
+to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of
+character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot
+be happy with you, I will seek it no where
+else.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little darling grows every day more dear
+to me—and she often has a kiss, when we are
+alone together, which I give her for you, with
+all my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been interrupted—and must send off my
+letter. The liberty of the press will produce a
+great effect here—the <em>cry of blood will not be vain</em>!—Some
+more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins
+are conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last
+slap of the tail of the beast.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies
+here, which I shall not now trouble you with
+a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>rendered her useless. The girl I have got
+has more vivacity, which is better for the child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of ——
+and —— with you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— is still here; he is a lost man.—He really
+loves his wife, and is anxious about his children;
+but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings
+have given him an inveterate habit of drinking,
+that destroys his health, as well as renders his person
+disgusting.—If his wife had more sense, or delicacy,
+she might restrain him: as it is, nothing
+will save him.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>October 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to
+hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned
+such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged
+to throw them aside till the little girl and I were
+alone together; and this said little girl, our darling,
+is become a most intelligent little creature,
+and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>which I do not find quite so convenient. I once
+told you, that the sensations before she was born,
+and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they
+do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I
+feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs
+outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street,
+or after a short absence. She has now the advantage
+of having two good nurses, and I am at
+present able to discharge my duty to her, without
+being the slave of it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have therefore employed and amused myself
+since I got rid of ——, and am making a progress
+in the language amongst other things. I have
+also made some new acquaintance. I have almost
+<em>charmed</em> a judge of the tribunal, R——,
+who, though I should not have thought it possible,
+has humanity, if not <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">beaucoup d’esprit</span></i>. But
+let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I
+shall be half in love with the author of the <em>Marseillaise</em>,
+who is a handsome man, a little too
+broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the
+violin.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What do you say to this threat?—why, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre
+nous</span></i>, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when
+writing to you. “The devil,” you know, is
+proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when
+he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy,
+and come back quickly to play with your girls?
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer
+best.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My heart longs for your return, my love, and
+only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet
+do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come
+back, before you have arranged things in such a
+manner, that it will not be necessary for you to
+leave us soon again, or to make exertions which
+injure your constitution.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly and tenderly</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>P. S. You would oblige me by delivering the
+inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an answer.—It
+is for a person uncomfortably situated.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December, 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been, my love, for some days tormented
+by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form—I
+had been expecting you daily—and I heard that
+many vessels had been driven on shore during the
+late gale.—Well, I now see your letter, and find
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>that you are safe: I will not regret then that your
+exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Be that as it may, return to me when you have
+arranged the other matters, which —— has been
+crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are
+safe—and not separated from me by a sea that
+must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier
+than ever I was, do you wonder at my sometimes
+dreading that fate has not done persecuting me?
+Come to me my dearest friend, father of my
+child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at
+this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an
+independence is desirable; and it is always within
+our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you
+the world again appears empty to me. But I am
+recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that
+have flitted across my mind for some days past,
+and haunted my dreams.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and
+I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little
+mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;” but
+certainly no lover was more attached to his mistress
+than she is to me. Her eyes follow me every
+where, and by affection I have the most despotic
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes;
+I love her more than I thought I should.
+When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced
+her as my only comfort—when pleased with
+you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I
+cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst
+I am kissing her for resembling you. But there
+would be no end to these details. Fold us both to
+your heart; for I am truly and affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXIX.</h3>
+
+<div class='c016'>December 28.</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize
+with you in all your disappointments.—Yet, knowing
+that you are well, and think of me with affection,
+I only lament other disappointments, because
+I am sorry that you should thus exert your
+self in vain, and that you are kept from me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>——, I know, urges you to stay, and is
+continually branching out into new projects, because
+he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,
+rather an immense one, merely to have
+the credit of having made it. But we who are
+governed by other motives, ought not to be led
+on by him. When we meet we will discuss this
+subject—You will listen to reason, and it has
+probably occurred to you, that it will be better,
+in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may
+demand more time, and still enable you to arrive
+at the same end. It appears to me absurd to
+waste life in preparing to live.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Would it not now be possible to arrange your
+business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes,
+of which I have had my share since
+your departure? It is not possible to enter into
+business, as an employment necessary to keep the
+faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions)
+the pot boiling, without suffering what
+must ever be considered as a secondary object, to
+engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection
+out of the heart?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person
+who has promised to forward it with ——’s.
+I wish then to counteract, in some measure,
+what he has doubtless recommended most
+warmly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>Stay, my friend, whilst it is <em>absolutely</em> necessary.—I
+will give you no tenderer name, though it
+glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
+the settling the <em>present</em> objects permit. <em>I do not
+consent</em> to your taking any other journey—or the
+little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows
+where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to
+your affection, and, I may add, to your reason,
+(for this immoderate desire of wealth, which
+makes —— so eager to have you remain, is
+contrary to your principles of action), I will not
+importune you.—I will only tell you that I long
+to see you—and, being at peace with you, I
+shall be hurt, rather than made angry by delays.
+Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprized
+if I sometimes, when left to myself,
+grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a
+dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I
+say happiness, because remembrance retrenches
+all the dark shades of the picture.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use
+her legs.—She wants you to bear your part in the
+nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing
+her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you
+to thank her mother for taking such care of her,
+as you only can.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December 29.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though I suppose you have later intelligence,
+yet, as —— has just informed me
+that he has an opportunity of sending immediately
+to you, I take advantage of it to inclose you</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse
+with the world, which obliges one to see
+the worst side of human nature! Why cannot
+you be content with the object you had first in
+view, when you entered into this wearisome
+labyrinth? I know very well that you have been
+imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project,
+successful or abortive, only give place to
+two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?
+I am contented to do my part; and, even here,
+sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult
+to obtain. And let me tell you, I have my
+project also—and, if you do not soon return, the
+little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we
+will not accept any of your cold kindness—your
+distant civilities—no; not we.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented
+by the desire which&#160;—— manifests
+to have you remain where you are.—Yet why
+do I talk to you?—if he can persuade you let
+him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and
+your own wishes do not make you throw aside
+these eternal projects, I am above using any arguments,
+though reason, as well as affection
+seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual,
+they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Since my arrival here, I have found the German
+lady, of whom you have heard me speak. Her
+first child died in the month; but she has another,
+about the age of my ——, a fine little creature.
+They are still but contriving to live —— earning
+their daily bread—yet, though they are
+but just above poverty, I envy them. She is a
+tender affectionate mother—fatigued even by
+her attention. However she has an affectionate
+husband in her turn, to render her care light, and
+to share her pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness
+for my little girl, I grow sad very often
+when I am playing with her, that you are not
+here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds
+and her little heart becomes attached!—These
+appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>suffer them to escape you, in search of what we
+may never enjoy. It is your own maxim to
+“live in the present moment.”—<em>If you do</em>—stay,
+for God’s sake; but tell me  truth—if not, tell
+me when I may expect to see you, and let me
+not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow
+sick at heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my
+darling to my bosom to comfort me.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>December 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should you receive three or four of the
+letters at once which I have written lately, do
+not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean
+to wife you. I only take advantage of every
+occasion, that one out of three of my epistles
+may reach your hands, and inform you that I am
+not of&#160;——’s opinion, who talks till he makes
+me angry, of the necessity of your staying two
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>or three months longer. I do not like this life of
+continual inquietude—and, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entre nous</span></i>, I am determined
+to try to earn some money here myself,
+in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run
+about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for
+the little girl and I will live without your
+assistance, unless you are with us. I may be
+termed proud—Be it so—but I will never
+abandon certain principles of action.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The common run of men have such an ignoble
+way of thinking, that if they debauch their
+hearts, and prostitute their persons, following
+perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the
+wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no
+right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan
+whenever he deigns to return, with open arms,
+though his have been polluted by half an hundred
+promiscuous amours during his absence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct
+things; yet the former is necessary, to give life
+to the other—and such a degree of respect do I
+think due to myself, that, if only probity, which
+is a good thing in its place, brings you back,
+never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart,
+or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there
+is an end of all my hopes of happiness—I
+could not forgive it, if I would.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you
+perceive. You know my opinion of men in general;
+you know that I think them systematic
+tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world,
+to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of
+feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I
+lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on
+her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a tie to a world
+that for me is ever sown with thorns.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when,
+in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection I can
+give, to dread to lose you. —— has taken
+such pains to convince me that you must and
+ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed
+my spirits.—You have always known my opinion—I
+have ever declared, that two people, who mean
+to live together, ought not to be long separated. If
+certain things are more necessary to you than me—search
+for them—Say but one word, and you
+shall never hear of me more.—If not—for God’s
+sake, let us struggle with poverty—with any evil,
+but these continual inquietudes of business, which
+I have been told were to last but a few months,
+though every day the end appears more distant!
+This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined
+to forward to you; the rest lie by, because
+I was unwilling to give you pain, and I
+should not now write, if I did not think that there
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand,
+as I am told, your presence.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c011'><sup>[9]</sup></a></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. The person to whom the letters are addressed, was
+about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed,
+to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London,
+by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon
+him.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>January 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I just now received one of your hasty <em>notes</em>;
+for business so entirely occupies you, that you have
+not time, or sufficient command of thought, to
+write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into
+a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing
+you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb
+your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous
+struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to
+render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for
+which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple
+pleasures that flow from passion and affection,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life
+were impressed by a disappointed heart on my
+mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring
+to go back to my former nature, and have allowed
+some time to glide away, winged with the
+delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can
+give. Why have you so soon dissolved the charm?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude
+which your and ——’s never-ending
+plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but
+you are mistaken—I have still sufficient
+firmness to pursue my principle of action. The
+present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do
+justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and
+therefore I have not firmness to support it
+as you may think I ought. I should have been
+content, and still wish, to retire with you to a
+farm—My God! any thing, but these continual
+anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases
+the mind, and roots out affection from the
+heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet
+I will simply observe, that,
+led to expect you every week, I did not make the
+arrangements required by the present circumstances,
+to procure the necessaries of life. In order
+to have them, a servant, for that purpose only,
+is indispensible—The want of wood, has made
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>me catch the most violent cold I ever had; and
+my head is so disturbed by continual coughing,
+that I am unable to write without stopping frequently
+to recollect myself.—This however is
+one of the common evils which must be borne
+with——bodily pain does not touch the heart
+though it fatigues the spirits.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still as you talk of your return, even in February,
+doubtingly, I have determined, the moment
+the weather changes, to wean my child. It is
+too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And
+as one has well said, “despair is a freeman,” we
+will go and seek our fortune together.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is not a caprice of the moment—for your
+absence has given new weight to some conclusions,
+that I was very reluctantly forming before
+you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary
+object. If your feelings were in unison with
+mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
+prospects of future advantage.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Jan. 15.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was just going to begin my letter with the
+tag end of a song, which would only have told
+you, what I may as well say simply, that it is
+pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received
+your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of
+December, and my anger died away. You can
+scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters
+have produced on me. After longing to hear
+from you during a tedious interval of suspense,
+I have seen a superscription written by you.
+Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion,
+I have laid it by me, till the person who brought
+it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it,
+I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that
+have damped all the rising affection of my soul.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well now for business—</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My animal is well; I have not yet taught her
+to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and
+now she has two, she makes good use of them
+to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &amp;c. You would laugh
+to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she
+will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing
+her eye on an object for some time, dart on it
+with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing
+can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a
+cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not
+forget to love us—and come soon to tell us that
+you do.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Jan. 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>From the purport of your last letters, I should
+suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and I
+have already written so many letters, that you
+have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge,
+I do not find it pleasant, or rather I have
+no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If
+you have received them, and are still detained by
+new projects, it is useless for me to say any more
+on the subject. I have done with it for ever;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>yet I ought to remind you, that your pecuniary
+interest suffers by your absence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only
+hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous
+feelings have sometimes burst out. I
+therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a
+pretext to stay at home, lest I should have uttered
+unseasonable truths.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child is well, and the spring will perhaps
+restore me to myself.—I have endured many inconveniences
+this winter, which should I be
+ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable.
+“The secondary pleasures of life,” you
+say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may
+be so; but I have ever considered them as secondary.
+If therefore you accuse me of wanting
+the resolution necessary to bear the <em>common</em><a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c011'><sup>[10]</sup></a> evils
+of life; I should answer, that I have not fashioned
+my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid
+them, cost what it would.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='c017'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. This probably alludes to some expression of the person
+to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as
+common evils, things upon which the letter-writer was disposed
+to bestow a different appellation.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='fss'>EDITOR</span>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>February 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The melancholy presentiment has for some
+time hung on my spirits, that we were parted
+for ever; and the letters I received this day, by
+Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without
+foundation. You allude to some other letters,
+which I suppose have miscarried; for most of
+those I have got, were only a few hasty lines,
+calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the
+superscriptions excited.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I mean not however to complain; yet so many
+feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating
+a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find it
+very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You left me indisposed, though you have taken
+no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey
+I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,
+I recovered my health; but a neglected
+cold, and continual inquietude during the last two
+months, have reduced me to a state of weakness
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>I never before experienced. Those who did not
+know that the canker-worm was at work at the
+core, cautioned me about suckling my child too
+long. God preserve this poor child and render
+her happier than her mother!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I am wandering from my subject: indeed
+my head turns giddy, when I think that all the
+confidence I have had in the affection of others is
+come to this. I did not expect this blow from
+you. I have done my duty to you and my
+child; and if I am not to have any return of
+affection to reward me, I have the sad consolation
+of knowing that I deserved a better fate.
+My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but
+for this little darling I would cease to care about
+a life, which is now stripped of every charm.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation,
+when I meant simply to tell you, that I
+consider your requesting me to come to you, as
+merely dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely
+understand you. You request me to come, and
+then tell me that you have not given up all
+thoughts of returning to this place.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When I determined to live with you, I was
+only governed by affection. I would share poverty
+with you, but I turn with affright from
+the sea of trouble on which you are entering. I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>have certain principles of action: I know what to
+look for to found my happiness on. It is not money.
+With you I wished for sufficient to procure
+the comforts of life—as it is, less will do.—I
+can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of
+life for my child, and she does not want more at
+present. I have two or three plans in my head to
+earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
+neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a
+pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would sooner
+submit to menial service. I wanted the support
+of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did
+not think, when I complained of ——’s contemptible
+avidity to accumulate money, that he
+would have dragged you into his schemes.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a
+letter written soon after your departure, and
+another which tenderness made me keep back
+when it was written. You will see then the
+sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined
+moment. Do not insult me by saying,
+that “our being together is paramount to every
+other consideration!” Were it, you would not
+be running after a bubble at the expence of my
+peace of mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive
+from me.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span></div>
+<div class='section'>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Feb. 10.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You talk of “permanent views and future
+comfort”—not for me, for I am dead to hope.
+The inquietudes of the last winter have finished
+the business, and my heart is not only broken,
+but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself
+in a galloping consumption, and the continual
+anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child,
+feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is
+on her account that I again write to you, to conjure
+you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her
+here with the German lady you may have heard
+me mention! She has a child of the same age,
+and they may be brought up together, as I wish
+her to be brought up. I shall write more fully
+on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up
+my present lodgings, and go into the same house.
+I can live much cheaper there, which is now
+become an object. I have had 3000 livres from
+——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s
+wages, &amp;c. and then I shall endeavour to
+procure what I want by my own exertions. I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the
+Americans.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— and I have not been on good terms a long
+time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted
+over me, on account of your determination to
+stay. I had provoked it is true, by some asperities
+against commerce, which have dropped from
+me, when we have argued about the propriety of
+your remaining where you are; and it is no matter,
+I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to
+care about trifles.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you first entered into these plans, you
+bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand
+pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a
+farm in America, which would have been an
+independence. You find now that you did not
+know yourself, and that a certain situation in life
+is more necessary to you than you imagined—more
+necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a
+year or two you may procure yourself what you
+call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but
+in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered
+with regret—I was going to say with remorse,
+but checked my pen.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>As I have never concealed the nature of my
+connection with you, reputation will not suffer.
+I shall never have a confident: I am content with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>the approbation of my own mind; and, if there
+be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised.
+Reading what you have written relative to
+the desertion of women, I have often wondered
+how theory and practice could be so different, till
+I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and
+the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to
+my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with
+business, you need not write to them—I shall,
+when my mind is calmer. God bless you!
+Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>This has been such a period of barbarity and
+misery, I ought not to complain of having my
+share. I wish one moment that I had never
+heard of the cruelties that have been practised
+here, and the next envy the mothers who have
+been killed with their children. Surely I had
+suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with
+a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am
+imparting. You will think me mad: I would I
+were so, that I could forget my misery—so that
+my head or heart would be still.——</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Feb. 19.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When I first received your letter, putting off
+your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer
+though it was not the kind of wound over which
+time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the
+more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues
+me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding
+fault with every one, I have only reason
+enough to discover that the fault is in myself.
+My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I
+should not take any pains to recover my health.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that
+step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my
+only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians
+talk much of the danger attending any complaint
+on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for
+some months. They lay a stress also on the
+necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my
+God! how has mine been harrassed! But
+whilst the caprices of other women are gratified,
+“the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them
+too rudely,” I have not found a guardian angel,
+in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care
+from my bosom.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What sacrifices have you not made for a woman
+you did not respect!—But I will not go
+over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not
+understand you. You say that you have not
+given up all thoughts of returning here—and I
+know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>explain myself; but if you have not lost your
+memory, you will easily divine my meaning.
+What! is our life then only to be made up of separations?
+and am I only to return to a country,
+that has not merely lost all charms for me, but
+for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts
+to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought
+up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed,
+expecting you to join us, I had formed
+some plans of usefulness that have now vanished
+with my hopes of happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain
+with reason, that I am left here dependant on a
+man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered
+him callous to every sentiment connected
+with social or affectionate emotions. With a
+brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the
+pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in
+spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to
+borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him
+continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.
+Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet
+I have gone half a dozen times to the house
+to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you
+must guess why—Besides, I wish to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which
+you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but
+I will be silent for ever.——</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>April 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here I am at H——, on the wing towards
+you, and I write now, only to tell you that you
+may expect me in the course of three or four
+days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the
+different emotions which agitate my heart—You
+may term a feeling, which appears to me to be
+a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from
+sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very
+affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,
+without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that
+it is mutual.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and
+tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am
+cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed
+been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult
+to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.
+Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart! But for
+the little girl, I could almost wish that it should
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish
+of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my
+only pleasure, when I weaned her about ten days
+ago. I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.
+It was necessary it should be done
+soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal
+of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off
+till we met. It was a painful exertion to me,
+and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with
+the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw
+over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone,
+in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the
+next room for three or four nights, you cannot
+think with what joy I took her back again to sleep
+in my bosom!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for
+I do not see any necessity for you coming to me.
+Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little
+friend with me. My wishing to oblige him,
+made me put myself to some inconvenience——and
+delay my departure; which was irksome to
+me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I
+would not for the world say indifference, as you.
+God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XXXIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here we are, my love, and mean to set out
+early in the morning; and if I can find you, I
+hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive
+to ——’s hotel, where —— tells me
+you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope
+you will take care there to receive us.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little
+friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our
+little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my
+share. But why do I write about trifles?—or
+any thing?—Are we not to meet soon?—What
+does your heart say!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have weaned my ——, and she is now
+eating way at the white bread.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XL.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, Friday, May 22.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received your affectionate letter
+and am distressed to think that I have added to
+your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,
+when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind
+appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of
+your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was
+something relative to the circumstance you have
+mentioned, which made —— request to see
+me to-day, to <em>converse about a matter of great importance</em>.
+Be that as it may, his letter (such is
+the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me,
+and rendered the last night as distressing as the
+two former had been.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have laboured to calm my mind since you
+left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to
+be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different
+from the resignation of despair!—I am
+however no longer angry with you—nor will I
+ever utter another complaint—there are arguments
+which convince the reason, whilst they
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>carry death to the heart—We have had too many
+cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future
+prospect; but embitter the remembrances
+which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject
+never be revived!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It seems to me that I have not only lost the
+hope, but the power of being happy.——Every
+emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My
+soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings
+destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for dissapation,
+if not amusement merely to fatigue still
+more, I find, my irritable nerves.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself
+well—I am out of the question; for, alass! I am
+nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what
+will render you most comfortable—or, to
+be more explicit—whether you desire to live with
+me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain
+it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for,
+believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted
+your peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and
+will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet
+you—at any rate I will avoid conversations,
+which only tend to harrass your feelings, because
+I am most affectionately yours.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I inclose you the letter, which you desired
+me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically
+to wish you a good morning—not because I
+am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep
+down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort
+to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems
+to whirl round in the very centre of my brain,
+which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures
+me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>We arrived here about an hour ago. I am
+extremely fatigued with the child, who would not
+rest quiet with any body but me, during the night
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>and now we are here in a comfortless, damp
+room, in a sort of tomb-like house. This however
+I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have
+finished this letter, (which I must do immediately,
+because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth,
+and enquire about a vessel and an inn.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not distress you by talking of the depression
+of my spirits, or the struggle I had to
+keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too
+full to allow me to write with composure.—***,
+—dear ****,—am I always to be tossed about
+thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest <em>contented</em>
+in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping
+down, as it were, in a new
+world—cold and strange!—every other day?
+Why do you not attach those tender emotions
+round the idea of home, which even now dim my
+eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else
+is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will write to you again to-morrow, when I
+know how long I am to be detained—and hope to
+get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely
+and affectionately</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>—— is playing near me in high spirits. She
+was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn,
+she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>A lady has just sent to offer to take me to
+—— —. I have then only a moment to exclaim
+against the vague manner in which people give information</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact
+trifling, when compared with the sinking of the
+heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this
+painful string—God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday June 12.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received yours, dated the 9th,
+which I suppose was a mistake, for it could
+scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The
+general observations which apply to the state of
+your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they
+go; and I shall always consider it as one of the
+most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not
+meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses
+so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender
+avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to
+your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my
+friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of
+inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,
+for that gratification which only the heart
+can bestow.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The common run of men, I know, with strong
+health and gross appetites, must have variety to
+banish <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ennui</span></i>, because the imagination never leads
+its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>by according reason.—Ah! my friend,
+you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite
+pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection
+and desire, when the whole soul and senses are
+abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders
+every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these
+are emotions over which satiety has no power,
+and the recollection of which, even disappointment
+cannot disenchant; but they do not exist
+without self-denial. These emotions, more or less
+strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic
+of genius, the foundation of taste, and of
+that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of
+which the common herd of eaters and drinkers
+and <em>child-begetters</em>, certainly have no idea. You
+will smile at an observation that has just occurred
+to me: I consider those minds as the most strong
+and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus
+to their senses.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Well! you will ask, what is the result of all
+this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that
+it is possible for you, having great strength of
+mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of
+constitution, and purity of feeling—which would
+open your heart to me.——I would fain rest
+there!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity
+and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>hopes, which a determination to live
+has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate
+the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity.
+I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly
+daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it
+might become our tomb; and that the heart, still
+so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by
+death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
+sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart,
+and obscure my sight.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour
+to render that meeting happier than the
+last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices,
+in order to give vigour to affection, and to give
+play to the checked sentiments that nature intended
+should expand your heart? I cannot indeed,
+without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually
+contaminated; and bitter are the tears
+which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my
+child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in
+which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest,
+smiling at angry fate.—These are not common
+sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
+much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually
+to blunt the shafts of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether
+you can live in something like a settled stile. Let
+our confidence in future be unbounded; consider
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to
+what you term “the zest of life;” and, when
+you have once a clear view of your own motives,
+of your own incentive to action, do not deceive
+me!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The train of thoughts which the writing of this
+epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I
+must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But
+first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to
+promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give
+me as much as you can of yourself. You have
+great mental energy; and your judgment seems
+to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination
+in discussing one subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow
+I may write more tranquilly. I cannot say when
+the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
+depart.</p>
+
+<hr class='c008' />
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Your second letter reached me about an hour
+ago. You were certainly wrong in supposing
+that I did not mention you with respect; though,
+without my being conscious of it, some sparks of
+resentment may have animated the gloom of despair—Yes;
+with less affection, I should have
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>been more respectful. However the regard which
+I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I
+imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
+every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended
+for the public eye was to ——, and that I destroyed
+from delicacy before you saw them, because
+it was only written (of course warmly in
+your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown
+on you<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c011'><sup>[11]</sup></a>.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of
+suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and
+shall certainly use all my efforts to make the business
+terminate to your satisfaction in which I
+am engaged.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate
+united to yours by the most sacred principles of my
+soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a
+true, unsophisticated heart.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing
+on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained
+some days longer. At any rate, continue to write,
+(I want this support) till you are sure I am where
+I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——’s
+friend, I promise you) from whom I have received
+great civilities, will send them after me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to
+hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be
+convinced that you are not separating yourself
+from us. For my little darling is calling papa,
+and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And
+will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I
+shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced
+that my exertions will draw us more closely together.
+Once more adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, June, 14.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I
+wish you would not fail to write to me for a
+little time, because I am not quite well—Whether
+I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning
+in violent fits of trembling—and, in spite of
+all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues
+me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician
+of this place; it was fortunate, for I should
+otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the
+necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman
+(I can admire, you know, a pretty woman,
+when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather
+interesting man.—They have behaved to me
+with great hospitality; and poor&#160;—— was never
+so happy in her life, as amongst their young
+brood.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>They took me in their carriage to ——
+and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity
+that would have astonished you.—The town
+did not please me quite so well as formerly—It
+appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that
+many of the inhabitants had lived in the same
+houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering
+how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I
+was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at
+pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place
+where I at present am, is much improved; but it
+is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism
+have made, since I resided in this country.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wind does not appear inclined to change,
+so I am still forced to linger—When do you think
+that you shall be able to set out for France? I do
+not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and
+still less your connections on the other side of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your
+entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness.—Even
+now I am almost afraid to ask
+you whether the pleasure of being free does not
+over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me?
+Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel
+me necessary to you—or why should we meet
+again?—but, the moment after, despair damps
+my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of
+tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of
+life.——God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely and affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in28'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 15.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I want to know how you have settled with
+respect to ——. In short, be very particular
+in your account of all your affairs—let our
+confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The last
+time we were separated, was a separation indeed
+on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously,
+let the most affectionate interchange of
+sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment.
+I almost dread that your plans will prove
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>abortive—yet should the most unlucky turn send
+you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a
+treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle
+with the world again. Accuse me not of
+pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened
+my heart to its author, I have wondered that you
+did not set a higher value on my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to
+add, if you will not take one from me, and believe
+me yours</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sincerely,</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wind still continues in the same quarter.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The captain has just sent to inform me, that I
+must be on board in the course of a few hours.—I
+wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
+have been a comfort to me to have received another
+letter from you—Should one arrive, it will
+be sent after me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why
+the quitting England seems to be a fresh parting.
+Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak
+forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my
+health renders me sensible to every thing. It is
+surprising, that in London, in a continual conflict
+of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,
+bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced
+into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading
+away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that
+withers up all my faculties.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child is perfectly well. My hand seems
+unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this
+inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.
+It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been
+so perpetually the sport of disappointment, having
+a heart that has been as it were a mark for
+misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some
+new shape. Well, let it come—I care not!—what
+have I to dread, who have so little to hope
+for! God bless you—I am most affectionately
+and sincerely yours.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLVIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was hurried on board yesterday about three
+o’clock, the wind having changed. But before
+evening it steered round to the old point; and
+here we are, in the midst of mists and waters,
+only taking advantage of the tide to advance a
+few miles.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will scarcely suppose that I left the town
+with reluctance—yet it was even so—for I
+wished to receive another letter from you, and I
+felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the
+amiable family, who had treated me with so
+much hospitality and kindness. They will probably
+send me your letter, if it arrives this
+morning; for here we are likely to remain, I
+am afraid to think how long.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The vessel is very commodious, and the captain
+a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There
+being no other passengers, I have the cabin to
+myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a
+few books with me to beguile weariness; but I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments
+of suspence in writing some effusions, than
+in reading.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What are you about? How are your affairs
+going on? It may be a long time before you
+answer these questions. My dear friend, my
+heart sinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to
+struggle continually with my affections and feelings?
+Ah! why are those affections and feelings
+the source of so much misery, when they seem
+to have been given to vivify my heart, and
+extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on
+this subject. Will you not endeavour to cherish
+all the affection you can for me? What am I
+saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other
+gratifications are dearer to you. How is every
+remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
+What a world is this! They only seem
+happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial
+enjoyments. Adieu.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— begins to play with the cabin boy,
+and is as gay as a lark. I will labour to be tranquil;
+and am in every mood,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in20'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER XLIX.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Here I am still—and I have just received
+your letter of Monday by the pilot who promised
+to bring it to me, if we were detained, as
+expected, by the wind. It is indeed wearisome
+to be thus tossed about without going forward.
+I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to
+take care of the child, who is a little tormented
+by her teeth, because —— is unable to do
+any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion
+of the ship, as we ride at anchor.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>These are however trifling inconveniences, compared
+with anguish of mind—compared with the
+sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth
+I never in my life suffered so much from depression
+of spirits—from despair. I do not sleep—or,
+if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying
+dreams, in which I often meet you with
+different casts of countenance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not, my dear ——, torment you by
+dwelling on my sufferings—and will use all my
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at
+present it is most painfully active. I find I
+am not equal to these continual struggles—yet
+your letter this morning has afforded me some
+comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One
+thing let me tell you, when we meet again—surely
+we are to meet!—it must be to part no
+more. I mean not to have seas between us, it
+is more than I can support.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel,
+every thing here would disgust my senses, had I
+nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s
+free, the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too
+much hurt to regard trifles.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Your’s most truly</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER L.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned
+by the wind, with every outward object
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances
+that sadden my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>How am I altered by disappointment!—When
+going to ——, ten years ago, the elasticity of my
+mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and
+the imagination still could dip her brush in the
+rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling
+colours. Now I am going towards the North in
+search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this
+desolated heart? All nature seems to frown, or
+rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold
+as my expectations! Before I left the shore,
+tormented, as I now am, by these North-east
+<em>chillers</em>, I could not help exclaiming—Give me,
+gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I
+am never to meet the genial affection that still
+warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to
+linger there.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now going on shore with the captain,
+though the weather be rough, to seek for milk,
+&amp;c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after
+which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded
+by disagreeable smells, I have lost the
+little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking
+almost drives me to the brink of madness—only
+to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish
+slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery
+I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every
+exertion in my power.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>Poor —— still continues sick, and ——
+grows weary when the weather will not allow her
+to remain on deck.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope this will be the last letter I shall write
+from England to you—are you not tired of this
+lingering adieu?</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The captain last night, after I had written my
+letter to you intended to be left at a little village,
+offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had
+a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board
+again, for the wind has changed.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I half expected to find a letter from you here.
+Had you written one hap-hazard it would have
+been kind and considerate—you might have
+known, had you thought, that the wind would
+not permit me to depart. These are attentions
+more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>why do I foolishly continue to look for
+them?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship
+is very cold—you see I am hurt. God bless
+you! I may perhaps be some time or other,
+independent in every sense of the word—Ah!
+there is but one sense of it of consequence. I
+will break or bend this weak heart—yet even
+now it is full.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The child is well; I did not leave her on
+board.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 27, Saturday.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I arrived in ——. I have now but a
+moment, before the post goes out, to inform you
+we have got here; though not without considerable
+difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat
+above twenty miles below.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>What I suffered in the vessel I will not now
+descant upon, nor mention the pleasure I received
+from the sight of the rocky coast. This
+morning however, walking to join the carriage
+that was to transport us to this place, I fell,
+without any previous warning, senseless on the
+rocks—and how I escaped with life I can scarcely
+guess. I was in a stupor for a quarter of an
+hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to
+my senses; the contusion is great, and my brain
+confused. The child is well.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident,
+has sufficiently deranged me, and here I
+could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing
+warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must
+nevertheless go to bed. For God’s sake, let me
+hear from you immediately my friend! I am not
+well, and yet you see I cannot die.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>June 29.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you
+of my arrival; and I alluded to the extreme
+fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s
+illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise
+mentioned to you my fall, the effects of
+which I still feel, though I do not think it will
+have any serious consequences.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary
+to go to ——. The inns are here so
+bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his
+house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all
+sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse
+me, from which I cannot escape.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend—my friend, I am not well—a
+deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart.
+I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;
+and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being
+buoyed up by the hopes that render them bearable.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>“How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears
+to me all the bustle into which I see people
+here so eagerly enter! I long every night to
+go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow;
+but there is a canker-worm in my bosom
+that never sleeps.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 1.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul
+has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment.
+Every thing fatigues me—this is a life
+that cannot last long. It is you who must determine
+with respect to futurity—and, when you
+have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must
+either resolve to live together, or part for ever,
+I cannot bear these continual struggles—But I
+wish you to examine carefully your own heart
+and mind; and if you perceive the least chance of
+being happier without me than with me, or if
+your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do
+not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will
+never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I
+mentioned to you—for we must either live together,
+or I will be entirely independent.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with
+precision——You know however that what I
+so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments
+of the moment—You can only contribute
+to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need
+of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest
+friendship is of any value, why will you not look
+to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless
+affections cannot bestow?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Tell me then, will you determine to meet me
+at Basle?—I shall, I should imagine, be at ——
+before the close of August; and, after you settle
+your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>God bless you!</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey
+with her teeth.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 3.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>There was a gloominess diffused through
+your last letter, the impression of which still rests
+on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly
+you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment,
+I flatter myself it has long since given place to
+your usual cheerfulness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness
+as I assure you) there is nothing I would
+not endure in the way of privation, rather than
+disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy,
+I will labour to hide my sorrows in my
+bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
+affectionate friend.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I grow more and more attached to my little
+girl—and I cherish this affection without fear, because
+it must be a long time before it can become
+bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature.
+On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea,
+have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that
+the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an
+empty name!” and nothing but the sight of her—her
+playful smiles, which seemed to cling and
+twine round my heart—could have stopped me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>What peculiar misery has fallen to my share!
+To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest
+restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to
+sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in
+my imagination; and started with affright from
+every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing
+with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to
+scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love
+in some minds, is an affair of sentiment,
+arising from the same delicacy of perception
+(or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties
+of nature, poetry, &amp;c. alive to the charms of
+those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they
+must be felt, they cannot be described.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Love is a want of my heart. I have examined
+myself lately with more care than formerly,
+and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming
+at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed
+all the energy of my soul—almost rooted out
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped
+the enthusiasm of character, which converts the
+grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly
+feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment.
+Despair, since the birth of my child, has
+rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed to be
+fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and
+such is the elasticity of my constitution, and
+the purity of the atmosphere here, that health
+unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but
+the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand
+me?) has made me forget the respect
+due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that
+are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed
+to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish
+the heavenly spark.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still, when we meet again, I will not torment
+you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my
+former conduct—and will not in future confound
+myself with the beings whom I feel to be my
+inferiors. I will listen to delicacy, or pride.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 4.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s
+mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections
+from you—and, though every remembrance
+stings me to the soul, I think of you, till
+I make allowance for the very defects of character,
+that have given such a cruel stab to my
+peace.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still  however I am more alive than you have
+seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree
+of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
+to the benumbing stupour that, for the
+last year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps
+this change is more owing to returning
+health, than to the vigour of my reason—for, in
+spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share,)
+the purity of this air, and the being continually
+out in it, for I sleep in the country every night,
+has made an alteration in my appearance that
+really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>already streak my cheeks—and I have seen a
+<em>physical</em> life in my eyes, after I have been climbing
+the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous
+hopes of youth.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that
+I had forgotten to hope! Reason, or rather experience,
+does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
+pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with
+——’s children, and makes friends for herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not tell me, that you are happier without
+us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah!
+why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why
+are you a creature of such sympathy
+that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness
+of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my
+misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually
+shading your defects, and lending you charms,
+whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call
+me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only
+dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded
+heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I could not help feeling extremely mortified
+last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My
+being at —— was but a chance, and you
+might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes
+so great, as to silence the usual expressions
+of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a thing as
+a broken heart! There are characters whose very
+energy prays upon them; and who, ever inclined
+to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest
+satisfied with the common comforts of life. I
+have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched
+into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel
+keener anguish, when alone with my child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment
+cut me off from life, this romantic
+country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel
+alive to painful sensations?—But it cannot—it
+shall not last long.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek
+for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a
+negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go
+into the air.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 14.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am now on my journey to ——. I felt
+more at leaving my child, than I thought I
+should—and, whilst at night I imagined every
+instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her
+voice—I asked myself how I could think of parting
+with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale,
+that “God will temper the winds to the shorn
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be
+shielded, when my naked bosom has had to
+brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could
+add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements
+to the pangs of disappointed affection, and
+the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of
+confidence, that snaps every social tie!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>All is not right somewhere. When you first
+knew me, I was not thus lost. I could still confide,
+for I opened my heart to you—of this only
+comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness,
+you tell me, was your first object. Strange
+want of judgment!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will not complain; but, from the soundness
+of your understanding, I am convinced, if you
+give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,
+that your conduct to me, so far from being generous,
+has not been just. I mean not to allude to
+factitious principles of morality; but to the simple
+basis of all rectitude. However I did not intend
+to argue—Your not writing is cruel, and my
+reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Poor —— would fain have accompanied
+me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather
+convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden
+changes of countenance since, have alarmed her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some
+accident—But it would have injured the child
+this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I hear not of your having written to me
+at ——. Very well! Act as you please, there
+is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether
+I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come
+here about, I will not trouble you with letters to
+which you do not reply.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LIX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 18.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am here in ——, separated from my
+child, and here I must remain a month at least, or
+I might as well never have come.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have begun —— which will, I hope,
+discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.
+I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my
+not having done it sooner.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>I shall make no further comments on your silence.
+God bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>July 30.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just received two of your letters, dated
+the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have
+received several from me, informing you of my
+detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly.
+I have suffered, God knows, since I left
+you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness
+of heart! My mind however is at present
+painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost
+rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint,
+it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>pleasure is all I have to hope for—if a spark of
+hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I will try to write with a degree of composure.
+I wish for us to live together, because I want you
+to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl.
+I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the
+world, or that she should only be protected by
+your sense of duty. Next to preserving her,
+my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace.
+I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life.
+There are wounds that can never be healed, but
+they may be allowed to fester in silence without
+wincing.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>When we meet again, you shall be convinced
+that I have more resolution than you give me credit
+for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
+always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal
+the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened
+cord of life or reason will at last snap, and
+set me free.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy
+of the bliss its feelings anticipate—and I cannot
+even persuade myself, wretched as they have
+made me, that my principles and sentiments are
+not founded in nature and truth. But to have
+done with these subjects.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>I have been seriously employed in this way since
+I came to ——; yet I never was so much in the
+air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,
+and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently
+improved. The child, —— informs
+me, is well. I long to be with her.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Write to me immediately—were I only to think
+of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor,
+with the simplicity of character, part of which
+you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to
+you</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours most affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*  *&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been subscribing other letters—so I
+mechanically did the same to yours.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 5.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Employment and exercise have been of
+great service to me; and I have entirely recovered
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>the strength and activity I lost during the
+time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better
+health; and my mind, though trembling to
+the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.
+I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and
+more happiness here, than for a long—long time
+past. (I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation
+to the exquisite delight this wild country
+and fine summer have afforded me.) Still, on examining
+my heart, I find that it is so constituted,
+I cannot live without some particular affection.—I
+am afraid not without a passion, and I feel the
+want of it more in society, than in solitude——</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet
+occurs, my eyes fill with tears, and my
+trembling hand stops—you may then depend on
+my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed
+to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my
+own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has
+made me sometimes overlook delicacy, the same
+tenderness will in future restrain me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 7.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me
+to health, braced my muscles, and covered my
+ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I
+cannot tell you that my mind is calm,
+though I have snatched some moments of exquisite
+delight, wandering through the woods, and
+resting on the rocks.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable;
+we must determine on something—and
+soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I
+am sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was
+wretched, when we were together—Expecting
+too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
+slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought
+not, if you form another attachment. But I promise
+you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
+reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>after the cruel disappointments that have rent my
+heart; but that of my child seems to depend on
+our being together. Still I do not wish you to
+sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain
+good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide
+for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed
+to part to meet no more. Her affection
+must not be divided. She must be a comfort to
+me, if I am to have no other, and only know me
+as her support. I feel that I cannot endure the
+anguish of corresponding with you, if we are only
+to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness
+elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose.
+I will be dead to you. I cannot express
+to you what pain it gives me to write about an
+eternal separation. You must determine, examine
+yourself—But, for God’s sake! spare me
+the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the
+trial; but I will not complain.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you,
+it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting
+apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what new
+form of misery I have to dread.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes
+written peevishly; but you will impute it to
+affection, if you understand any thing of the
+heart of</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours truly</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 9.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Five of your letters have been sent after me
+from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was
+written in a style which I may have merited, but
+did not expect from you. However this is not a
+time to reply to it, except to assure you that you
+shall not be tormented with any more complaints.
+I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned
+you with my affection.——</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child is very well. We shall soon meet,
+to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.
+I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am
+informed how your affairs terminate.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIV.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Aug. 26.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I arrived here last night, and with the most
+exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to
+my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps
+cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to
+see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing
+intelligence attaches me more and more to
+her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my
+duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me
+forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an
+independence for her; but I will not be too anxious
+on this head.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have already told you, that I have recovered
+my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind,
+have returned with a renovated constitution. As
+for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made,
+perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so
+termed.——</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>You tell me that my letters torture you; I
+will not describe the effect yours have on me. I
+received three this morning, the last dated the 7th
+of this month. I mean not to give vent to the
+emotions they produced. Certainly you are right;
+our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an
+ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do
+not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus.
+I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion,
+a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget
+that I exist: I will never remind you. Something
+emphatical whispers me to put an end to these
+struggles. Be free, I will not torment, when I
+cannot please. I can take care of my child; you
+need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable,
+<em>that you will try to cherish tenderness
+for me.</em> Do no violence to yourself! When we
+are separated, our interest, since you give so much
+weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely
+divided. I want not protection without affection;
+and support I need not, whilst my faculties
+are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England;
+but painful feelings must give way to superior
+considerations. I may not be able to acquire
+the sum necessary to maintain my child and
+self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland.
+I shall not remain at ——, living expensively.
+But be not alarmed! I shall not force
+myself on you any more.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>Adieu! I am agitated, my whole frame is convulsed,
+my lips tremble, as if shook by cold,
+though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 6.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I received just now your letter of the 20th.
+I had written you a letter last night, into which
+imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul.
+I will copy the part relative to business. I am
+not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for
+more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of
+life—to prevent even that, you had better never
+hear from me—and repose on the idea that I am
+happy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Gracious God! It is impossible for me to
+stifle something like resentment, when I receive
+fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have
+suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I
+have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and
+the lively sympathies which bind
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful
+kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure
+and I have shaken hands.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only
+converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have
+no home—no resting place to look to.—I am
+strangely cast off.—How often, passing through
+the rocks, I have thought, “But for this child
+I would lay my head on one of them, and never
+open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly
+alive to all the affections of my nature—I have
+never met with one, softer than the stone that I
+would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought
+I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families
+continually, who are bound together by affection
+or principle—and, when I am conscious
+that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost
+to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to
+demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven,
+“Why am I thus abandoned?”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say now</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not understand you. It is necessary for you
+to write more explicitly——and determine on
+some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>suspence—Decide—Do you fear to strike another
+blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I
+shall not write to you again, till I receive an
+answer to this. I must compose my tortured
+soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for
+my head is disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for
+it is with difficulty frequently that I
+make out what you mean to say—You write I
+suppose, at Mr. ——’s after dinner, when your
+head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if
+you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of
+affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the
+child.——Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 25.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have just finished a letter, to be given in
+charge to captain ——. In that I complained of
+your silence, and expressed my surprise that three
+mails should have arrived without bringing a line
+for me. Since I closed it, I hear of another, and
+still no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain
+—— remained  a few days longer, I would
+have returned with him to England. What have
+I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you
+fully. Do you do the same—and quickly. Do
+not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved
+this of you. I cannot write my mind is so distressed.
+Adieu!</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>September 27.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you receive this, I shall either have
+landed, or be hovering on the British coast—your
+letter of the 18th decided me.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>By what criterion of principle or affection, you
+term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary,
+I cannot determine.—You desire me to decide—I
+had decided. You must have had long ago two
+letters of mine, from ——, to the same purport,
+to consider.—In these, God knows! there
+was but too much affection, and the agonies of a
+distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What
+more then had I to say?—The negative
+was to come from you.—You had perpetually
+recurred to your promise of meeting me in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand
+a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with
+extreme harshness, coldness I am accustomed to;
+in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
+much less of friendship.—I only see a desire
+to heave a load off your shoulders.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am above disputing about words.—It matters
+not in what terms you decide.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The tremendous power who formed this heart,
+must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest,
+in various shapes, is the principal mobile,
+I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the
+fiat of fate I submit.—I am content to be wretched;
+but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have
+no cause to complain, but for having had too
+much regard for you—for having expected a degree
+of permanent happiness, when you only
+sought for a momentary gratification.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting
+myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make
+me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
+this tenderness and affection with what confidence
+did I rest!—but I leaned on a spear, that has
+pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a
+faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We
+certainly are differently organized;
+for even now, when conviction has been stamped
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it
+possible. It depends at present on you, whether
+you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, till
+I see or hear from you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined,
+if your next letter be like the last, to
+write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure
+lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There
+I will endeavour in a few months to
+obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from
+you I will not receive any more.—I am not
+yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Some people, whom my unhappiness has
+interested, though they know not the extent of it,
+will assist me to attain the object I have in view,
+the independence of my child. Should a peace
+take place, ready money will go a great way in
+France—and I will borrow a sum, which my
+industry <em>shall</em> enable me to pay at my leisure, to
+purchase a small estate for my girl.—The assistance
+I shall find necessary to complete her education,
+I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce
+her to such society as she will like—and
+thus securing for her all the chance for happiness,
+which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded
+that the felicity which has hitherto cheated
+my expectation, will not always elude my grasp.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly
+longed to arrive at his port.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall not come up in the vessel all the way,
+because I have no place to go to. Captain ——
+will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
+that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and
+that I wish to see you, though it be the last
+time.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXVIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday, October 4</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I wrote to you by the packet, to inform
+you, that your letter of the 18th of last month,
+had determined me to set out with captain ——;
+but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted,
+that you have not yet received it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided,
+that it was most for the interest of my little
+girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect,
+for us to live together; and I even thought
+that you would be glad, some years hence, when
+the tumult of business was over, to repose in the
+society of an affectionate friend, and mark the
+progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring
+to be of use in the circle you at last resolved
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>to rest in; for you cannot run about for
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>From the tenour of your last letter however, I
+am led to imagine, that you have formed some
+new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly request
+you to see me once more, and immediately.
+This is the only proof I require of the friendship
+you profess for me. I will then decide, since you
+boggle about a mere form.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am labouring to write with calmness, but the
+extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having
+any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious
+that the friend whom I most wish to see,
+will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed
+of my arrival, does not come under the description
+of common misery. Every emotion yields
+to an overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the
+playfulness of my child distresses me. On her account,
+I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless
+as is my situation. Besides, I did not wish
+to surprise you. You have told me, that you
+would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and,
+even in your last unkind letter, you talk of
+the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell
+me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian
+knot.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me,
+without fail, by the return of the post. Direct
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me
+whether you will come to me here, or where you
+will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday
+morning.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing
+from you, or any human being: my die is cast!—I
+have fortitude enough to determine to do my
+duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or
+calm my trembling heart.—That Being who
+moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear
+up by the roots the propensity to affection which
+has been the torment of my life—but life will have
+an end!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Should you come here (a few months ago I
+could not have doubted it) you will find me at ——
+If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me
+where.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours affectionately</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXIX.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I write you now on my knees; imploring
+you to send my child and the maid with ——, to
+Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——,
+rue ——, section de ——. Should they be removed,
+—— can give their direction.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>Let the maid have all my clothes without distinction.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention
+the confession which I forced from her—a
+little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
+but my extreme stupidity could have rendered
+me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured
+me that you had no attachment, I thought we
+might still have lived together.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall make no comments on your conduct;
+or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep
+with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace.
+When you receive this, my burning head will be
+cold.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather
+than a night like the last. Your treatment has
+thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am
+serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear
+is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour
+to recal my hated existence. But I shall
+plunge into the Thames where there is the least
+chance of my being snatched from the death I
+seek.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you! May you never know by experience
+what you have made me endure. Should
+your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its
+way to your heart; and, in the midst of business
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you,
+the victim of your deviation from rectitude.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Sunday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have only to lament, that, when the
+bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly
+brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination
+is not to be baffled by disappointment;
+nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt,
+which was one of the calmest acts of reason.
+In this respect, I am only accountable to myself.
+Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by
+other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You say, “that you know not how to extricate
+ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we
+have been plunged.” You are extricated long
+since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am
+condemned to live longer, it is a living death.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It appears to me, that you lay much more stress
+on delicacy, than on principle; but I am unable
+to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have
+been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>indeed you have any friendship for me.—But
+since your new attachment is the only thing sacred
+in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints
+shall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps
+I am mistaken in supposing that even my
+death could, for more than a moment.—This is
+what you call magnanimity.—It is happy for
+yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest
+degree.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Your continually asserting, that you will do all
+in your power to contribute to my comfort (when
+you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears
+to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not
+such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never
+wanted but your heart.—That gone, you have
+nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear,
+I should not shrink from life.—Forgive me then,
+if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect
+attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which
+I have not merited—and as rather done out of
+tenderness for your own reputation, than for me.
+Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value
+money (therefore I will not accept what you do
+not care for) though I do much less, because certain
+privations are not painful to me. When I
+am dead, respect for yourself will make you take
+care of the child.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I write with difficulty—probably I shall never
+write to you again.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you!</p>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am compelled at last to say that you treat me
+ungenerously. I agree with you, that</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither
+poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the
+task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+    <div class='c003'>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>My child may have to blush for her mother’s
+want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude
+of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
+but she shall not despise me for meanness.
+You are now perfectly free.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>God bless you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which
+appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness
+to me. You ask “If I am well or tranquil?”—They
+who think me so, must want a heart to
+estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the
+organ of my own sentiments.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I must tell you, that I am very much mortified
+by your continually offering me pecuniary
+assistance—and, considering your going to the new
+house, as an open avowal that you abandon me,
+let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive
+any thing from you—and I say this at the
+moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt
+to obtain a temporary supply. But this
+even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments
+and misfortunes seem to suit the habit of
+my mind.—</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Have but a little patience and I will remove
+myself where it will not be necessary for you to
+talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me
+see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it
+through any other medium—that the affair is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>finished. It is an insult to me to suppose, that I
+can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if
+you hear nothing of me, it will be the same
+thing to you.</p>
+
+<p class='c012'>Even your seeing me has been to oblige other
+people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thursday Afternoon.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to
+send the things of mine which were left at the
+house, I have to request you to let —— bring
+them to ——.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you
+need not be restrained from coming here to transact
+your business,—And, whatever I may think,
+and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly
+complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge
+of wright and wrong, I have been most ungenerously
+treated: but, wishing now only to hide
+myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I
+long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>for my child. I only mean by this to say,
+that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Farewell.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXIV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, November 27.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>The letter, without an address, which you
+put up with the letters you returned, did not meet
+my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters
+aside—I did not wish to look over a register of
+sorrow.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My not having seen it, will account for my
+having written to you with anger—under the impression
+your departure, without even a line left
+for me, made on me, even after your late conduct,
+which could not lead me to expect much attention
+to my sufferings.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared
+to me so unfeeling,” has almost overturned
+my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know
+where I am, or what I do. The grief I cannot
+conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
+conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but
+an exercise of fortitude, continually on the
+stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb,
+where I am buried alive.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>But I meant to reason with you, and not to
+complain.—You tell me, “that I shall judge
+more cooly of your mode of acting, some time
+hence.” But is it not possible that <em>passion</em> clouds
+your reason, as much as it does mine?—and
+ought you not to doubt, whether those principles
+are so “exalted,” as you term them, which only
+lead to your own gratification? In other words,
+whether it be just to have no principle of action,
+but that of following your inclination, trampling
+on the affection you have fostered and the expectations
+you have excited?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I
+know you are not what you now seem—nor will
+you always act or feel as you now do, though I
+may never be comforted by the change. Even at
+Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will see
+my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish
+will drop on your heart, which you have forced
+from mine.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I cannot write. I thought I could quickly
+have refuted all your <em>ingenious</em> arguments; but
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am
+miserable!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It seems to me, that my conduct has always
+been governed by the strictest principles of justice
+and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social
+feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered
+me!—I have loved with my whole soul, only to
+discover that I had no chance of a return—and
+that existence is a burthen without it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the
+offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary
+support—I must again reject it.—Trifling
+are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God
+bless you!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand
+what is generosity.—You seem to me only
+to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless
+whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In
+truth I have been rudely handled. <em>Do you judge
+coolly</em>, and I trust you will not continue to call those
+capricious feelings “the most refined,” which
+would undermine not only the most sacred principles,
+but the affections which unite mankind.——You
+would render mothers unnatural—and
+there would be no such thing as a father!—If
+your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it
+is certainly the most easy.—It does not require
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves
+for the moment, let others suffer what they
+will!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart
+thirsts for justice from you—and whilst I recollect
+that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I
+am convinced you will not always justify your
+own.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not
+always banish from your mind, that you have
+acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
+gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do
+truth and principle require such sacrifices?</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>London, December 8.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Having just been informed that —— is to
+return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a
+sure opportunity of writing, because I am not
+certain that my last, by Dover, has reached you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Resentment, and even anger, are momentary
+emotions with me—and I wished to tell you so,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the
+light of an enemy.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>That I have not been used <em>well</em> I must ever
+feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish
+I do at present—for I began even now to write
+calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears
+to me a frightful dream. Ah! ask yourself if
+you have not condescended to employ a little address,
+I could almost say cunning, unworthy of
+you?—Principles are sacred things—and we never
+play with truth, with impunity.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The expectation (I have too fondly nourished
+it) of regaining your affection, every day grows
+fainter and fainter.—Indeed it seems to me, when
+I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see
+you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.
+You will feel something like remorse, for having
+lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to
+inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age,
+you will remember that you had one disinterested
+friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick.
+The hour of recollection will come—and you will
+not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you
+fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind,
+your heart, and your principles of action, are all
+superior to your present conduct. You do, you
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>must, respect me—and you will be sorry to forfeit
+my esteem.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You know best whether I am still preserving
+the remembrance of an imaginary being. I once
+thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I
+am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily
+press on me, to be cleared up by time.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may render me unhappy; but cannot
+make me contemptible in my own eyes. I shall
+still be able to support my child, though I am
+disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which
+I once believed would have afforded you equal
+pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural
+generosity, because I thought your property in
+jeopardy. When I went to ——, I requested
+you, <em>if you could conveniently</em>, not to forget my
+father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was
+interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet
+not only my requests were neglected, but some
+trifling debts were not discharged, that now come
+on me. Was this friendship—or generosity?
+Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself?
+Still I have an affection for you.—God bless
+you.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>*&#160;*&#160;*&#160;*</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVI.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>As the parting from you for ever is the most
+serious event of my life, I will once expostulate
+with you, and call not the language of truth and
+feeling ingenuity!</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I know the soundness of your understanding—and
+know that it is impossible for you always to
+confound the caprices of every wayward inclination
+with the manly dictates of principle.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why
+do I?——Because you cannot estrange your heart
+entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on
+my side. You urge, “that your conduct was
+unequivocal.”—It was not.—When your coolness
+has hurt me, with what tenderness have you
+endeavoured to remove the impression!—and even
+before I returned to England, you took great pains
+to convince me that all my uneasiness was occasioned
+by the effect of a worn-out constitution—and
+you concluded your letter with these words,
+“Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to
+my port, and I will still fly down to my two dear
+girls with a heart all their own.”</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>With these assurances, is it extraordinary that
+I should believe what I wished? I might—and
+did think that you had a struggle with old propensities;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>but I still thought that I and virtue
+should at last prevail. I still thought that you had
+a magnanimity of character, which would enable
+you to conquer yourself.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>—— ——, believe me, it is not romance, you
+have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.
+You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction
+you would feel, would amply repay you.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart
+I pierce—and the time will come, when you will
+lament that you have thrown away a heart, that,
+even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I
+would owe every thing to your generosity—but,
+for God’s sake, keep me no longer in
+suspense!—Let me see you once more!——</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER LXXVII.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>You must do as you please with respect to
+the child. I could wish that it might be done
+soon, that my name may be no more mentioned
+to you. It is now finished. Convinced that you
+have neither regard nor friendship, I disdain to
+utter a reproach, though I have had reason to
+think, that the “forbearance” talked of, has not
+been very delicate. It is however of no consequence.
+I am glad you are satisfied with your
+own conduct.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal
+farewel. Yet I flinch not from the duties
+which tie me to life.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>That there is “sophistry” on one side or
+other, is certain; but now it matters not on
+which. On my part it has not been a question
+of words. Yet your understanding or mine must
+be strangely warped, for what you term “delicacy,”
+appears to me to be exactly the contrary.
+I have no criterion for morality, and have thought
+in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow
+an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of
+principle and affection. Mine has been of a very
+different nature, or it would not have stood the
+brunt of your sarcasms.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be
+any part of me that will survive the sense of my
+misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The
+impetuosity of your senses, may have led you
+to term mere animal desire, the source of principle;
+and it may give zest to some years to come.
+Whether you will always think so, I shall never
+know.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something
+like conviction forces me to believe, that
+you are not what you appear to be.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I part with you in peace.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>
+  <h2 id='French' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>PRESENT CHARACTER</span><br /> <span class='small'>OF THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>FRENCH NATION.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c018'>INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF LETTERS
+ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE
+FRENCH NATION.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c002'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, February 15, 1793.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR FRIEND,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind,
+to guard as carefully the remembrance of
+the first impression made by a nation, as by a countenance;
+because we imperceptibly lose sight of
+the national character, when we become more intimate
+with individuals. It is not then useless or
+presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered
+Paris, the striking contrast of riches and poverty,
+elegance and slovenliness, urbanity and deceit,
+every where caught my eye, and saddened my
+soul; and these impressions are still the foundation
+of my remarks on the manners, which flatter
+the senses, more than they interest the heart, and
+yet excite more interest than esteem.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>The whole mode of life here tends indeed to
+render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their
+favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing,
+they are always sipping the sparkling joy on the
+brim of the cup, leaving satiety in the bottom for
+those who venture to drink deep. On all sides
+they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and
+seemingly so void of care, that often, when I am
+walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that
+they alone understand the full import of the term
+leisure; and they trifle their time away with such
+an air of contentment, I know not how to wish
+them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They
+play before me like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying
+the passing ray; whilst an English head, searching
+for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of
+pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment.—Their
+chief enjoyment, it is true, rises from vanity:
+but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation
+of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the
+heavy burden of life, which reason too often
+weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder to the
+other.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Investigating the modification of the passion, as
+I would analyze the elements that give a form to
+dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to their source
+the causes which have combined to render this
+nation the most polished, in a physical sense, and
+probably the most superficial in the world; and I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>mean to follow the windings of the various
+streams that disembogue into a terrific gulf, in
+which all the dignity of our nature is absorbed.
+For every thing has conspired to make the French
+the most sensual people in the world; and what
+can render the heart so hard, or so effectually
+stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of
+sensuality?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The frequent repetition of the word French,
+appears invidious; let me then make a previous
+observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
+when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing
+with milk and honey. Remember that it is not
+the morals of a particular people that I would decry;
+for are we not all of the same stock? But I
+wish calmly to consider the stage of civilization
+in which I find the French, and, giving a sketch
+of their character, and unfolding the circumstances
+which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour
+to throw some light on the history of man,
+and on the present important subjects of discussion.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I would I could first inform you that, out of
+the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues,
+rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair form
+of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her
+wings to shelter all her children! I should then hear
+the account of the barbarities that have rent the bosom
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>of France patiently, and bless the firm hand
+that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy
+of birth is levelled with the ground, only to
+make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
+the morals of the people will not be much improved
+by the change, or the government rendered
+less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the
+misery produced by the present struggle, without
+adverting to the standing evils of the old system.
+I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I think of
+the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at
+Paris; but I also hear the same live stream cry
+aloud from the highways, through which the retreating
+armies passed with famine and death in
+their rear, and I hide my face with awe before
+the inscrutable ways of Providence, sweeping in
+such various directions the bosom of destruction
+over the sons of men.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Before I came to France, I cherished, you
+know, an opinion, that strong virtues might exist
+with the polished manners produced by the
+progress of civilization; and I even anticipated
+the epoch, when, in the course of improvement,
+men would labour to become virtuous, without
+being goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective
+of the golden age, fading before the attentive
+eye of observation, almost eludes my sight;
+and, losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect
+state, start not, my friend, if I bring forward
+an opinion, which at the first glance seems to be
+levelled aginst the existence of God! I am not
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>become an Atheist, I assure you, by residing at
+Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you
+will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that,
+when the passions are justly poized, we become
+harmless, and in the same proportion useless.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The wants of reason are very few; and, were
+we to consider dispassionately the real value of most
+things, we should probably rest satisfied with the
+simple gratification of our physical necessities, and
+be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently,
+only that wanton, the imagination, with
+her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and
+makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside
+every obstacle merely to catch a disappointment.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>The desire also of being useful to others, is continually
+damped by experience; and, if the exertions
+of humanity were not in some measure their
+own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle
+with care, to make some people ungrateful,
+and others idle?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You will call these melancholy effusions, and
+guess that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all
+the bustling folly of childhood, without the innocence
+which renders ignorance charming, I am
+too severe in my strictures. It may be so; and I
+am aware that the good effects of the revolution
+will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of
+Epicurus has only been at work to root out the simple
+emotions of the heart, which, being natural,
+are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by
+the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>fostered, is it surprising that simplicity
+of manners, and singleness of heart, rarely appear,
+to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so
+passing sweet?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have
+shot, I sometimes ask, with a doubting accent,
+Whether a nation can go back to the purity of
+manners which has hitherto been maintained unsullied
+only by the keen air of poverty, when,
+emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity
+are become the wants of nature? I cannot
+yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning
+on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe,
+that little is to be expected from the narrow
+principle of commerce which seems every
+where to be shoving aside <em>the point of honour</em> of
+the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">noblesse</span></i>. I can look beyond the evils of the
+moment, and do not expect muddied water to
+become clear before it has had time to stand; yet,
+even for the moment, it is the most terrific of all
+sights, to see men vicious without warmth—to see
+the order that should be the superscription of virtue,
+cultivated to give security to crimes which
+only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is,
+in fact, the very essence of vice, though with the
+wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions
+often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus
+humanity, generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes
+render a character grand, and even useful,
+when hurried away by lawless passions; but what
+can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>lives for himself alone, and considering his fellow-creatures
+merely as machines of pleasure, never
+forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping
+ever within the pale of the law, he crushes his
+thousands with impunity; but it is with that degree
+of management, which makes him, to borrow
+a significant vulgarism, a villain <em>in grain</em>.
+The very excess of his depravation preserves him,
+whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who
+prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce
+his approach, falls into a snare.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You may think it too soon to form an opinion
+of the future government, yet it is impossible to
+avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every
+thing whispers me, that names, not principles,
+are changed, and when I see that the turn of the
+tide has left the dregs of the old system to corrupt
+the new. For the same pride of office, the same
+desire of power are still visible; with this aggravation,
+that, fearing to return to obscurity after
+having but just acquired a relish for distinction,
+each hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with
+these new titles, endeavours to make hay while
+the sun shines; and every petty municipal officer,
+become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day,
+stalks like a cock on a dunghill.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I shall now conclude this desultory letter;
+which however will enable you to foresee that I
+shall treat more of morals than manners.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours ——</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>
+  <h2 id='Infants' class='c004'>LETTER<br /> <span class='small'>ON THE</span><br /> <span class='large'>MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c006'>I ought to appologize for not having written
+to you on the subject you mentioned; but, to
+tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead
+of an answer, I have begun a series of letters on
+the management of children in their infancy. Replying
+then to your question, I have the public
+in my thoughts, and shall endeavour to shew
+what modes appear to me necessary, to render the
+infancy of children more healthy and happy. I
+have long thought, that the cause which renders
+children as hard to rear as the most fragile plant,
+is our deviation from simplicity. I know that
+some able physicians have recommended the method
+I have pursued, and I mean to point out the
+good effects I have observed in practice. I am
+aware that many matrons will exclaim against me
+and dwell on the number of children they have
+brought up, as their mothers did before them
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>without troubling themselves with new-fangled
+notions; yet, though, in my uncle Toby’s
+words, they should attempt to silence me, by
+“wishing I had seen their large” families, I
+must suppose, while a third part of the human
+species, according to the most accurate calculation,
+die during their infancy, just at the
+threshold of life, that there is some errors in
+the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which
+counteracts their own endeavours. I may be mistaken
+in some particulars; for general rules,
+founded on the soundest reason, demand individual
+modification; but, if I can persuade any of the
+rising generation to exercise their reason on this
+head, I am content. My advice will probably
+be found most useful to mothers in the middle
+class; and it is from that the lower imperceptibly
+gains improvement. Custom, produced by
+reason in one, may safely be the effect of imitation
+in the other.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>—                —                —                —                —</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>
+  <h2 id='Johnson' class='c004'><span class='sc'>LETTERS<br /> TO<br /> Mr. JOHNSON</span>,<br /> <span class='small'>BOOKSELLER, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c013'>LETTER I.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Dublin, April 14, [1787.]</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_0 c000'>I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that
+I ought never to expect to enjoy health. My
+mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour
+to be useful, I grow too much interested for my
+own peace. Confined almost entirely to the society
+of children, I am anxiously solicitous for
+their future welfare, and mortified beyond measure,
+when counteracted in my endeavours to improve
+them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the
+swarm of little ones which surround me, and observe
+disorders, without having power to apply the
+proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to
+life, when it is always a painful warfare, and when
+I am deprived of all the pleasures I relish?—I
+allude to rational conversations, and domestic affections.
+Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in
+a strange land, tied to one spot, and subject to the
+caprice of another, can I be contented? I am desirous
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>to convince you that I have <em>some</em> cause for
+sorrow—and am not without reason detached
+from life. I shall hope to hear that you are well,
+and am yours sincerely,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Wollstonecraft.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER II.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Henly, Thursday, Sept. 13.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking,
+<em>enjoyed</em> solitude. My sister could not accompany
+me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone
+by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring
+beautiful fields and pleasure-grounds: the
+prospects were of such a placid kind, I <em>caught</em>
+tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was
+<em>still</em>, though active. Were I to give you an account
+how I have spent my time, you would smile.
+I found an old French bible here, and amused myself
+with comparing it with our English translation—then
+I would listen to the falling leaves, or
+observe the various tints the autumn gave to
+them. At other times, the singing of a robin, or
+the noise of a water-mill, engaged my attention—for
+I was, at the same time perhaps discussing
+some knotty point, or straying from this <em>tiny</em> world
+to new systems. After these excursions, I returned
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>to the family meals, to’d the children stories
+(they think me <em>vastly</em> agreeable) and my sister was
+amused.—Well, will you allow me to call this
+way of passing my days pleasant?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe
+it will enable me to say all I have to add to this
+epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for
+me? I often think of my new plan of life; and,
+lest my sister should try to prevail on me to alter
+it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am
+determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female
+determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet
+resolved to do any thing of consequence, that I did
+not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished
+my purpose, improbable as it might have appeared
+to a more timid mind. In the course of near
+nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some experience,
+and felt many <em>severe</em> disappointments—and
+what is the amount? I long for a little peace
+and <em>independence</em>! Every obligation we receive
+from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes
+from our native freedom, and debases the mind,
+makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of
+grovelling!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'>I am, sir, yours, &amp;c.</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft</span>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER III.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Market Harborough, Sept. 20.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>You left me with three opulent tradesmen;
+their conversation was not calculated to beguile the
+way, when the sable curtain concealed the beauties
+of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and
+shrunk away without wishing to grow rich; even
+the novelty of the subjects did not render them
+pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in
+all their different forms—I was not surprised by
+any glimpse of the sublime or beautiful—though
+one of them imagined I should be a useful partner
+in a good <em>firm</em>. I was very much fatigued, and
+have scarcely recovered myself. I do not expect
+to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley afforded:
+I meet with new objects to employ my
+mind; but many painful emotions are complicated
+with the reflections they give rise to.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I do not intend to enter on the <em>old</em> topic, yet
+hope to hear from you—and am yours, &amp;c.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Mary Wollstonecraft.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IV.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Though your remarks are generally judicious—I
+cannot <em>now</em> concur with you, I mean with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>respect to the preface<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c011'><sup>[12]</sup></a>, and have not altered it.
+I hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud
+humility. A general rule <em>only</em> extends to the majority—and,
+believe me, the few judicious who
+may peruse my book, will not feel themselves
+hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is
+said in a book intended for children.</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. To Original Stories.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily
+imagine that I am indolent. I would not spare
+any labour to do my duty—and after the most laborious
+day, that single thought would solace me
+more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy.
+I find I could not translate the MS. well. If it
+was not a MS., I should not be so easily intimidated;
+but the hand, and errors in orthography,
+or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first
+setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot
+do well—and I should loose time in the vain
+attempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again
+receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c011'><sup>[13]</sup></a>.
+With all the mother’s fondness I could transcribe
+a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me,
+and dependence on heaven increase, &amp;c.—I miss
+her innocent caresses—and sometimes indulge a
+pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer
+my childless age—if I am to live to be old. At
+any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not
+contemplate—and my reason may permit me to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>love a female. I now allude to ——. I have
+received another letter from her, and her childish
+complaints vex me—indeed they do.—As usual,
+good-night.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If parents attended to their children, I would
+not have written the stories; for, what are books,
+compared to conversations which affection inforces!—</p>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. Countess Mount Cashel.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER V.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MY DEAR SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>Remember you are to settle <em>my account</em>, as I
+want to know how much I am in your debt—but
+do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that
+score. The generality of people in trade would
+not be much obliged to me for a like civility, <em>but
+you were a man</em> before you were a bookseller—so I
+am your sincere friend,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Friday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am sick with vexation, and wish I could
+knock my foolish head against the wall, that bodily
+pain might make me feel less anguish from
+self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never
+more displeased with myself, and I will tell you
+the cause. You may recollect that I did not mention
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>to you the circumstance of —— having
+a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it dropt
+from me when I conversed with my sister; because
+I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing
+it. Last Sunday, when his character was
+aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of vindication
+I informed ****** that he was now independent;
+but, at the same time, desired him not
+to repeat my information to B——; yet, last
+Tuesday, he told him all, and the boy at B——’s
+gave Mrs. —— an account of it. As Mr. ——
+knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush
+to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence,
+and this morning came (not to reproach
+me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury
+I have done him. Let what will be the consequence,
+I will reimburse him, if I deny myself
+the necessaries of life—and even then my folly
+will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive
+the misery I at this moment endure—that I,
+whose power of doing good is so limited, should
+do harm, galls my very soul. **** may laugh
+at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——
+to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame.—Surely
+it is hell to despise one’s self! I did not
+want this additional vexation—at this time I have
+many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not
+call on you this month, nor stir out. My stomach
+has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am
+unable to lean over the desk.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>
+  <h3 class='c014'>LETTER VII.</h3>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c015'>As I am become a reviewer, I think it right
+in the way of business, to consider the subject.
+You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as
+the advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly
+shews. The Critical appears to be a timid,
+mean production, and its success is a reflection on
+the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a
+body, who ever gave it credit for much? The
+voice of the people is only the voice of truth,
+when some man of abilities has had time to get
+fast hold of the <span class='fss'>GREAT NOSE</span> of the monster.
+Of course, local fame is generally a clamour, and
+dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded
+me more amusement, though every article
+almost wants energy and a <em>cant</em> of virtue and
+liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager
+to pay court to established fame. The account
+of Necker is one unvaried tone of admiration.
+Surely men were born only to provide for the
+sustenance of the body by enfeebling the mind!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER VIII.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>You made me very low-spirited last night, by
+your manner of talking.—You are my only friend—the
+only person I am <em>intimate</em> with.—I never
+had a father, or a brother—you have been both
+to me, ever since I knew you—yet I have sometimes
+been very petulant.—I have been thinking
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>of those instances of ill humour and quickness, and
+they appeared like crimes.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Yours sincerely</div>
+      <div class='line in12'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER IX.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Saturday Night.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions
+too often silence the suggestions of reason. Your
+note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and produced
+a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a
+beam of despondent tranquillity over the features.
+I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was more
+than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome
+nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious.—Last
+Thursday, in particular, I imagined
+—— was thrown into great distress by his
+folly; and I, unable to assist him, was in an
+agony. My nerves were in such a painful state
+of irritation—I suffered more than I can express.
+Society was necessary—and might have diverted
+me till I gained more strength; but I blushed
+when I recollect how often I had teazed you
+with childish complaints, and the reveries of a
+disordered imagination. I even <em>imagined</em> that I
+intruded on you, because you never called on me—though
+you perceived that I was not well.—I
+have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which
+gives me many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge
+that life is but a jest—and often a frightful dream—yet
+catch myself every day searching for something
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment.
+I am a strange compound of weakness
+and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I
+will endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly
+a great defect in my mind—my wayward
+heart creates its own misery—Why I am made
+thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form some
+idea of the whole of my existence, I must be content
+to weep and dance like a child—long for
+a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but
+mine, alas! has lost its bells, and grown so heavy,
+I find it intolerably troublesome.——Goodnight!
+I have been pursuing a number of strange
+thoughts since I began to write, and have actually
+both wept and laughed immoderately—Surely I
+am a fool—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER X.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Monday Morning.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I really want a German grammar, as I intend
+to attempt to learn that language——and I
+will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am
+persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure
+an independence, and render myself useful.
+To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind
+with knowledge—The feed-time is passing away.
+I see the necessity of labouring now—and of that
+necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>I am thankful that I have more than common
+incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw
+my pleasures from the employments that are
+within my reach. You perceive this is not a
+gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly
+grateful to you—without your humane and <em>delicate</em>
+assistance, how many obstacles should I not have
+had to encounter—too often should I have been
+out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom
+I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear
+sir, and call friend a being I respect.—Adieu!</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XI.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I thought you <em>very</em> unkind, nay, very unfeeling,
+last night. My cares and vexations, I
+will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour,
+as they arise from disinterestedness and <em>unbending</em>
+principles; nor can that mode of conduct
+be a reflection on my understanding, which enables
+me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live
+for myself alone. I am not the only character
+deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with
+various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed
+local fame and present comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s
+cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose,
+you would quietly have told him, he was a fool
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>for not being calm, and that wise men striving
+against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I
+have done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference
+cold in wisdom’s guise,”—and turn to the
+source of perfection—who perhaps never disregarded
+an almost broken heart, especially when a
+respect, a practical respect, for virtue, sharpened
+the wounds of adversity. I am ill—I stayed in
+bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking
+of getting money to extricate myself out of some
+of my difficulties—the struggle is now over. I
+will condescend to try to obtain some in a disagreeable
+way.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did
+you know his motive for calling<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c011'><sup>[14]</sup></a>?—I think him
+impertinently officious.—He had left the house
+before it occured to me in the strong light it does
+now, or I should have told him so.—My poverty
+makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a superficial
+puppy—His intimacy with Miss ——
+gave him a privilege, which he should not have
+assumed with me—a proposal might be made to
+his cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not
+have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him
+that I am offended—and do not wish to see
+him again——When I meet him at your house,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him
+by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my
+body—but it shall never bend to support that
+body—God of heaven, save thy child from this
+living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My
+hand trembles—I am very sick—sick at heart.—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
+<p class='c007'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary
+considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned
+thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which
+immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.</p>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tuesday Evening.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>When you left me this morning, and I reflected
+a moment—your <em>officious</em> message, which
+at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like
+an insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then
+the necessity of forcing a smile—when I chance to
+meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of informing
+you of my sentiments.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIII.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Wednesday, 3 o’clock.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>SIR,</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged
+to enter again on a subject, that has already
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>raised a tumult of <em>indignant</em> emotions in my bosom,
+which I was labouring to suppress when I received
+your letter. I shall now <em>condescend</em> to answer your
+epistle; but let me first tell you, that, in my <em>unprotected</em>
+situation, I make a point of never forgiving
+a <em>deliberate insult</em>—and in that light I consider
+your late officious conduct. It is not according to
+my nature to mince matters—I will then tell you
+in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered
+you in the light of a <em>civil</em> acquaintance—on
+the word friend I lay a peculiar emphasis—and, as
+a mere acquaintance, you were rude and <em>cruel</em>, to
+step forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and
+misfortunes demand respect. If my friend, Mr.
+Johnson, had made the proposal—I should have
+been severely hurt—have thought him unkind
+and unfeeling, but not <em>impertinent</em>. The privilege
+of intimacy you had no claim to, and should have
+referred the man to myself—if you had not sufficient
+discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir,
+poor and destitute. Yet I have a spirit that will
+never bend, or take indirect methods, to obtain the
+consequence I despise; nay, if to support life it
+was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the
+struggle would soon be over. I can bear any thing
+but my own contempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>In a few words, what I call an insult, is the
+bare supposition that I could for a moment think of
+<em>prostituting</em> my person for a maintenance; for in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>that point of view does such a marriage appear to
+me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract,
+and never by words and local opinions shield myself
+from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>It is needless to say more—Only you must excuse
+me when I add, that I wish never to see, but
+as a perfect stranger, a person who could so
+grossly mistake my character. An apology is not
+necessary—if you were inclined to make one—nor
+any further expostulations. I again repeat, I
+cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient
+delicacy to respect poverty, even where it
+gives lustre to a character——and I tell you sir, I
+am poor, yet can live without your benevolent
+exertions.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XIV.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>I send you <em>all</em> the books I had to review except
+Dr. J——’s Sermons, which I have begun. If
+you wish me to look over any more trash this
+month, you must send it directly. I have been
+so low-spirited since I saw you—I was quite glad,
+last night, to feel myself affected by some passages
+in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I
+seemed (suddenly) to <em>find</em> my <em>soul</em> again. It has
+been for some time I cannot tell where. Send me
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>the Speaker, and <em>Mary</em>, I want one, and I shall
+soon want for some paper—you may as well send
+it at the same time, for I am trying to brace my
+nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid reason
+is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning
+a long time with my untoward spirits, and yet
+my hand trembles. I could finish a period very
+<em>prettily</em> now, by saying that it ought to be steady
+when I add that I am yours sincerely,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed
+Dr. J—’s s—— on his wife, be it known
+unto you—I <em>will</em> not do it any other way—I felt
+some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect
+to the memory of a man—who, spite of all his
+faults, I have an affection for—I say <em>have</em>, for I
+believe he is somewhere—<em>where</em> my soul has been
+gadding perhaps;—but <em>you</em> do not live on conjectures.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XV.</h3>
+
+<p class='c015'>My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am
+pleased with, now I see it in one point of view—and,
+as I have made free with the author, I hope
+you will not have often to say—what does this
+mean?</p>
+
+<p class='c007'>You forgot you were to make out my account,
+I am, of course, over head and ears in debt; but I
+have not that kind of pride, which makes some
+dislike to be obliged to those they respect. On
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>the contrary, when I involuntarily lament that I
+have not a father or brother, I thankfully recollect
+that I have received unexpected kindness from
+you and a few others. So reason allows, what nature
+impels me to—for I cannot live without loving
+my fellow creatures—nor can I love them,
+without discovering some virtue.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>MARY.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c014'>LETTER XVI.</h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Paris, December 26, 1792.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c007'>I should immediately on the receipt of your
+letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your
+punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
+wished to wait till I could tell you that this day
+was not stained with blood. Indeed the prudent
+precautions taken by the National Convention to
+prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs
+of faction would not dare to bark, much less to bite,
+however true to their scent; and I was not mistaken;
+for the citizens, who were all called out,
+are returning home with composed countenances,
+shouldering their arms. About nine o’clock this
+morning, the king passed by my window, moving
+silently along (excepting now and then a few
+strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness
+more awful) through empty streets, surrounded
+by the national guards, who, clustering round the
+carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The
+inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements
+were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>did I see any thing like an insulting gesture. For
+the first time since I entered France, I bowed to
+the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety
+of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my
+own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why, but
+an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly
+from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting,
+with more dignity than I expected from his character,
+in a hackney coach, going to meet death,
+where so many of his race have triumphed. My
+fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering
+the capital with all his pomp, after one of
+the victories most flattering to his pride, only to see
+the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the
+sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
+since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot
+dismiss the lively images that have filled my imagination
+all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity
+me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the
+paper, I have seen eyes glare through a glass-door
+opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at me.
+Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My
+apartments are remote from those of the servants,
+the only persons who sleep with me in an immense
+hotel, one folding door opening after another. I
+wish I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to
+see something alive; death in so many frightful
+shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to
+bed—and, for the first time in my life, I cannot
+put out the candle.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>M. W.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div>FINIS.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c003' />
+</div>
+<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
+
+<div class='chapter ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c019'>
+    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+ <ol class='ol_1 c002'>
+    <li>P. <a href='#t133'>133</a>, the first character in “_are” failed to print.  Added “c” to make it
+    “care” in the phrase “should we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out
+    to give a freshness to days browned by <em>c</em>are!”
+
+    </li>
+    <li>P.  <a href='#t147'>147</a>, changed “sold to your heart” to “fold to your heart”.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
+    </li>
+  </ol>
+
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN ***</div>
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