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.