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.
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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.