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diff --git a/old/67847-0.txt b/old/67847-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 32903b1..0000000 --- a/old/67847-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6751 +0,0 @@ -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_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS AND POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF -MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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