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.