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—