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.