Mr. JOHNSON.
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 a 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
Mary Wollſtonecraft.
LETTER II
Henley, 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—partial 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, told 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 would 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[67-A], 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 parents 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.
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 loſe time in the vain attempt.
I had, the other day, the ſatiſfaction of again receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret[69-A].—With all a 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!—
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 drop 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 ſhows. The Critical appears to me 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 recollected 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 is grown ſo heavy, I find it intolerably troubleſome.——Good-night! 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 ſeed 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 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 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.
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 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 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 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.
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.
