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 my 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[82-A]?--I think him impertinently officious.--He had left the house before it occurred 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 a.s.sumed 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--G.o.d 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.

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 real 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 dest.i.tute.--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 _prost.i.tuting_ 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 l.u.s.tre 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 pa.s.sages 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 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 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 pa.s.sed 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, cl.u.s.tering round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name.

The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the cas.e.m.e.nts 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 a.s.sociation 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 gla.s.s-door opposite my chair and b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[67-A] To Original Stories.

[69-A] Countess Mount Cashel.

[82-A] This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.

EXTRACT

OF THE

CAVE OF FANCY.

A TALE.

[_Begun to be written in the year 1787, but never completed_]

CAVE OF FANCY.

CHAP. I.