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Title: Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft

Editor: William Godwin

Release date: October 29, 2007 [eBook #23233]
Most recently updated: May 4, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THE AUTHOR OF A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN ***

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

CONTENTS

Modern Text

VOL. I. and II.

The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment: to which is added, the First Book of a Series of Lessons for Children.

VOL. III. and IV.

Letters and Miscellaneous Pieces.

Text in 'Long S' Format

VOL. I. and II.

The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment: to which is added, the Firſt Book of a Series of Leſſons for Children.

VOL. III. and IV.

Letters and Miſcellaneous Pieces.

Transcriber's Notes

1. Corrections which have been made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrected text. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will appear.

2. This text contains blank space and lines of "——" and "*" characters. These are replicated from the printed pages, presumably they indicate censored text from the original source.

3. The listed errata at the beginning of Volume 1 and Volume 4 have been applied to the text.

4. The text as printed used incipits and long s font. The incipits have not been replicated in this version, but can be viewed on the page images. A version of the text containing the long s font has been made available.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.

VOL. I.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

THE

WRONGS OF WOMAN:

OR,

MARIA.

A FRAGMENT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The public are here presented with the last literary attempt of an author, whose fame has been uncommonly extensive, and whose talents have probably been most admired, by the persons by whom talents are estimated with the greatest accuracy and discrimination. There are few, to whom her writings could in any case have given pleasure, that would have wished that this fragment should have been suppressed, because it is a fragment. There is a sentiment, very dear to minds of taste and imagination, that finds a melancholy delight in contemplating these unfinished productions of genius, these sketches of what, if they had been filled up in a manner adequate to the writer's conception, would perhaps have given a new impulse to the manners of a world.

The purpose and structure of the following work, had long formed a favourite subject of meditation with its author, and she judged them capable of producing an important effect. The composition had been in progress for a period of twelve months. She was anxious to do justice to her conception, and recommenced and revised the manuscript several different times. So much of it as is here given to the public, she was far from considering as finished, and, in a letter to a friend directly written on this subject, she says, "I am perfectly aware that some of the incidents ought to be transposed, and heightened by more harmonious shading; and I wished in some degree to avail myself of criticism, before I began to adjust my events into a story, the outline of which I had sketched in my mind[x-A]." The only friends to whom the author communicated her manuscript, were Mr. Dyson, the translator of the Sorcerer, and the present editor; and it was impossible for the most inexperienced author to display a stronger desire of profiting by the censures and sentiments that might be suggested[x-B].

In revising these sheets for the press, it was necessary for the editor, in some places, to connect the more finished parts with the pages of an older copy, and a line or two in addition sometimes appeared requisite for that purpose. Wherever such a liberty has been taken, the additional phrases will be found inclosed in brackets; it being the editor's most earnest desire, to intrude nothing of himself into the work, but to give to the public the words, as well as ideas, of the real author.

What follows in the ensuing pages, is not a preface regularly drawn out by the author, but merely hints for a preface, which, though never filled up in the manner the writer intended, appeared to be worth preserving.

W. GODWIN.

AUTHOR's PREFACE.

The Wrongs of Woman, like the wrongs of the oppressed part of mankind, may be deemed necessary by their oppressors: but surely there are a few, who will dare to advance before the improvement of the age, and grant that my sketches are not the abortion of a distempered fancy, or the strong delineations of a wounded heart.

In writing this novel, I have rather endeavoured to pourtray passions than manners.

In many instances I could have made the incidents more dramatic, would I have sacrificed my main object, the desire of exhibiting the misery and oppression, peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and customs of society.

In the invention of the story, this view restrained my fancy; and the history ought rather to be considered, as of woman, than of an individual.

The sentiments I have embodied.

In many works of this species, the hero is allowed to be mortal, and to become wise and virtuous as well as happy, by a train of events and circumstances. The heroines, on the contrary, are to be born immaculate; and to act like goddesses of wisdom, just come forth highly finished Minervas from the head of Jove.

[The following is an extract of a letter from the author to a friend, to whom she communicated her manuscript.]

For my part, I cannot suppose any situation more distressing, than for a woman of sensibility, with an improving mind, to be bound to such a man as I have described for life; obliged to renounce all the humanizing affections, and to avoid cultivating her taste, lest her perception of grace and refinement of sentiment, should sharpen to agony the pangs of disappointment. Love, in which the imagination mingles its bewitching colouring, must be fostered by delicacy. I should despise, or rather call her an ordinary woman, who could endure such a husband as I have sketched.

These appear to me (matrimonial despotism of heart and conduct) to be the peculiar Wrongs of Woman, because they degrade the mind. What are termed great misfortunes, may more forcibly impress the mind of common readers; they have more of what may justly be termed stage-effect; but it is the delineation of finer sensations, which, in my opinion, constitutes the merit of our best novels. This is what I have in view; and to show the wrongs of different classes of women, equally oppressive, though, from the difference of education, necessarily various.

FOOTNOTES:

[x-A] A more copious extract of this letter is subjoined to the author's preface.

[x-B] The part communicated consisted of the first fourteen chapters.

ERRATA.

Page 3, line 2, dele half.

P. 81 and 118, for brackets [—], read inverted commas " thus "

CONTENTS.

VOL. I. and II.

The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment: to which is added, the First Book of a Series of Lessons for Children.

VOL. III. and IV.

.

Letters and Miscellaneous Pieces.

WRONGS

OF

WOMAN.

CHAP. I.

Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles, filled with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria sat, endeavouring to recal her scattered thoughts!

Surprise, astonishment, that bordered on distraction, seemed to have suspended her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen sense of anguish, a whirlwind of rage and indignation roused her torpid pulse. One recollection with frightful velocity following another, threatened to fire her brain, and make her a fit companion for the terrific inhabitants, whose groans and shrieks were no unsubstantial sounds of whistling winds, or startled birds, modulated by a romantic fancy, which amuse while they affright; but such tones of misery as carry a dreadful certainty directly to the heart. What effect must they then have produced on one, true to the touch of sympathy, and tortured by maternal apprehension!

Her infant's image was continually floating on Maria's sight, and the first smile of intelligence remembered, as none but a mother, an unhappy mother, can conceive. She heard her half speaking cooing, and felt the little twinkling fingers on her burning bosom—a bosom bursting with the nutriment for which this cherished child might now be pining in vain. From a stranger she could indeed receive the maternal aliment, Maria was grieved at the thought—but who would watch her with a mother's tenderness, a mother's self-denial?

The retreating shadows of former sorrows rushed back in a gloomy train, and seemed to be pictured on the walls of her prison, magnified by the state of mind in which they were viewed—Still she mourned for her child, lamented she was a daughter, and anticipated the aggravated ills of life that her sex rendered almost inevitable, even while dreading she was no more. To think that she was blotted out of existence was agony, when the imagination had been long employed to expand her faculties; yet to suppose her turned adrift on an unknown sea, was scarcely less afflicting.

After being two days the prey of impetuous, varying emotions, Maria began to reflect more calmly on her present situation, for she had actually been rendered incapable of sober reflection, by the discovery of the act of atrocity of which she was the victim. She could not have imagined, that, in all the fermentation of civilized depravity, a similar plot could have entered a human mind. She had been stunned by an unexpected blow; yet life, however joyless, was not to be indolently resigned, or misery endured without exertion, and proudly termed patience. She had hitherto meditated only to point the dart of anguish, and suppressed the heart heavings of indignant nature merely by the force of contempt. Now she endeavoured to brace her mind to fortitude, and to ask herself what was to be her employment in her dreary cell? Was it not to effect her escape, to fly to the succour of her child, and to baffle the selfish schemes of her tyrant—her husband?

These thoughts roused her sleeping spirit, and the self-possession returned, that seemed to have abandoned her in the infernal solitude into which she had been precipitated. The first emotions of overwhelming impatience began to subside, and resentment gave place to tenderness, and more tranquil meditation; though anger once more stopt the calm current of reflection, when she attempted to move her manacled arms. But this was an outrage that could only excite momentary feelings of scorn, which evaporated in a faint smile; for Maria was far from thinking a personal insult the most difficult to endure with magnanimous indifference.

She approached the small grated window of her chamber, and for a considerable time only regarded the blue expanse; though it commanded a view of a desolate garden, and of part of a huge pile of buildings, that, after having been suffered, for half a century, to fall to decay, had undergone some clumsy repairs, merely to render it habitable. The ivy had been torn off the turrets, and the stones not wanted to patch up the breaches of time, and exclude the warring elements, left in heaps in the disordered court. Maria contemplated this scene she knew not how long; or rather gazed on the walls, and pondered on her situation. To the master of this most horrid of prisons, she had, soon after her entrance, raved of injustice, in accents that would have justified his treatment, had not a malignant smile, when she appealed to his judgment, with a dreadful conviction stifled her remonstrating complaints. By force, or openly, what could be done? But surely some expedient might occur to an active mind, without any other employment, and possessed of sufficient resolution to put the risk of life into the balance with the chance of freedom.

A woman entered in the midst of these reflections, with a firm, deliberate step, strongly marked features, and large black eyes, which she fixed steadily on Maria's, as if she designed to intimidate her, saying at the same time—"You had better sit down and eat your dinner, than look at the clouds."

"I have no appetite," replied Maria, who had previously determined to speak mildly, "why then should I eat?"

"But, in spite of that, you must and shall eat something. I have had many ladies under my care, who have resolved to starve themselves; but, soon or late, they gave up their intent, as they recovered their senses."

"Do you really think me mad?" asked Maria, meeting the searching glance of her eye.

"Not just now. But what does that prove?—only that you must be the more carefully watched, for appearing at times so reasonable. You have not touched a morsel since you entered the house."—Maria sighed intelligibly.—"Could any thing but madness produce such a disgust for food?"

"Yes, grief; you would not ask the question if you knew what it was." The attendant shook her head; and a ghastly smile of desperate fortitude served as a forcible reply, and made Maria pause, before she added—"Yet I will take some refreshment: I mean not to die.—No; I will preserve my senses; and convince even you, sooner than you are aware of, that my intellects have never been disturbed, though the exertion of them may have been suspended by some infernal drug."

Doubt gathered still thicker on the brow of her guard, as she attempted to convict her of mistake.

"Have patience!" exclaimed Maria, with a solemnity that inspired awe. "My God! how have I been schooled into the practice!" A suffocation of voice betrayed the agonizing emotions she was labouring to keep down; and conquering a qualm of disgust, she calmly endeavoured to eat enough to prove her docility, perpetually turning to the suspicious female, whose observation she courted, while she was making the bed and adjusting the room.

"Come to me often," said Maria, with a tone of persuasion, in consequence of a vague plan that she had hastily adopted, when, after surveying this woman's form and features, she felt convinced that she had an understanding above the common standard; "and believe me mad, till you are obliged to acknowledge the contrary." The woman was no fool, that is, she was superior to her class; nor had misery quite petrified the life's-blood of humanity, to which reflections on our own misfortunes only give a more orderly course. The manner, rather than the expostulations, of Maria made a slight suspicion dart into her mind with corresponding sympathy, which various other avocations, and the habit of banishing compunction, prevented her, for the present, from examining more minutely.

But when she was told that no person, excepting the physician appointed by her family, was to be permitted to see the lady at the end of the gallery, she opened her keen eyes still wider, and uttered a—"hem!" before she enquired—"Why?" She was briefly told, in reply, that the malady was hereditary, and the fits not occurring but at very long and irregular intervals, she must be carefully watched; for the length of these lucid periods only rendered her more mischievous, when any vexation or caprice brought on the paroxysm of phrensy.

Had her master trusted her, it is probable that neither pity nor curiosity would have made her swerve from the straight line of her interest; for she had suffered too much in her intercourse with mankind, not to determine to look for support, rather to humouring their passions, than courting their approbation by the integrity of her conduct. A deadly blight had met her at the very threshold of existence; and the wretchedness of her mother seemed a heavy weight fastened on her innocent neck, to drag her down to perdition. She could not heroically determine to succour an unfortunate; but, offended at the bare supposition that she could be deceived with the same ease as a common servant, she no longer curbed her curiosity; and, though she never seriously fathomed her own intentions, she would sit, every moment she could steal from observation, listening to the tale, which Maria was eager to relate with all the persuasive eloquence of grief.

It is so cheering to see a human face, even if little of the divinity of virtue beam in it, that Maria anxiously expected the return of the attendant, as of a gleam of light to break the gloom of idleness. Indulged sorrow; she perceived, must blunt or sharpen the faculties to the two opposite extremes; producing stupidity, the moping melancholy of indolence; or the restless activity of a disturbed imagination. She sunk into one state, after being fatigued by the other: till the want of occupation became even more painful than the actual pressure or apprehension of sorrow; and the confinement that froze her into a nook of existence, with an unvaried prospect before her, the most insupportable of evils. The lamp of life seemed to be spending itself to chase the vapours of a dungeon which no art could dissipate.—And to what purpose did she rally all her energy?—Was not the world a vast prison, and women born slaves?

Though she failed immediately to rouse a lively sense of injustice in the mind of her guard, because it had been sophisticated into misanthropy, she touched her heart. Jemima (she had only a claim to a Christian name, which had not procured her any Christian privileges) could patiently hear of Maria's confinement on false pretences; she had felt the crushing hand of power, hardened by the exercise of injustice, and ceased to wonder at the perversions of the understanding, which systematize oppression; but, when told that her child, only four months old, had been torn from her, even while she was discharging the tenderest maternal office, the woman awoke in a bosom long estranged from feminine emotions, and Jemima determined to alleviate all in her power, without hazarding the loss of her place, the sufferings of a wretched mother, apparently injured, and certainly unhappy. A sense of right seems to result from the simplest act of reason, and to preside over the faculties of the mind, like the master-sense of feeling, to rectify the rest; but (for the comparison may be carried still farther) how often is the exquisite sensibility of both weakened or destroyed by the vulgar occupations, and ignoble pleasures of life?

The preserving her situation was, indeed, an important object to Jemima, who had been hunted from hole to hole, as if she had been a beast of prey, or infected with a moral plague. The wages she received, the greater part of which she hoarded, as her only chance for independence, were much more considerable than she could reckon on obtaining any where else, were it possible that she, an outcast from society, could be permitted to earn a subsistence in a reputable family. Hearing Maria perpetually complain of listlessness, and the not being able to beguile grief by resuming her customary pursuits, she was easily prevailed on, by compassion, and that involuntary respect for abilities, which those who possess them can never eradicate, to bring her some books and implements for writing. Maria's conversation had amused and interested her, and the natural consequence was a desire, scarcely observed by herself, of obtaining the esteem of a person she admired. The remembrance of better days was rendered more lively; and the sentiments then acquired appearing less romantic than they had for a long period, a spark of hope roused her mind to new activity.

How grateful was her attention to Maria! Oppressed by a dead weight of existence, or preyed on by the gnawing worm of discontent, with what eagerness did she endeavour to shorten the long days, which left no traces behind! She seemed to be sailing on the vast ocean of life, without seeing any land-mark to indicate the progress of time; to find employment was then to find variety, the animating principle of nature.

CHAP. II.

Earnestly as Maria endeavoured to soothe, by reading, the anguish of her wounded mind, her thoughts would often wander from the subject she was led to discuss, and tears of maternal tenderness obscured the reasoning page. She descanted on "the ills which flesh is heir to," with bitterness, when the recollection of her babe was revived by a tale of fictitious woe, that bore any resemblance to her own; and her imagination was continually employed, to conjure up and embody the various phantoms of misery, which folly and vice had let loose on the world. The loss of her babe was the tender string; against other cruel remembrances she laboured to steel her bosom; and even a ray of hope, in the midst of her gloomy reveries, would sometimes gleam on the dark horizon of futurity, while persuading herself that she ought to cease to hope, since happiness was no where to be found.—But of her child, debilitated by the grief with which its mother had been assailed before it saw the light, she could not think without an impatient struggle.

"I, alone, by my active tenderness, could have saved," she would exclaim, "from an early blight, this sweet blossom; and, cherishing it, I should have had something still to love."

In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one had been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.

The books she had obtained, were soon devoured, by one who had no other resource to escape from sorrow, and the feverish dreams of ideal wretchedness or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated sensibility. Writing was then the only alternative, and she wrote some rhapsodies descriptive of the state of her mind; but the events of her past life pressing on her, she resolved circumstantially to relate them, with the sentiments that experience, and more matured reason, would naturally suggest. They might perhaps instruct her daughter, and shield her from the misery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how to avoid.

This thought gave life to her diction, her soul flowed into it, and she soon found the task of recollecting almost obliterated impressions very interesting. She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and forgot her present in the retrospect of sorrows that had assumed an unalterable character.

Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never losing sight of her main object, Maria did not allow any opportunity to slip of winning on the affections of Jemima; for she discovered in her a strength of mind, that excited her esteem, clouded as it was by the misanthropy of despair.

An insulated being, from the misfortune of her birth, she despised and preyed on the society by which she had been oppressed, and loved not her fellow-creatures, because she had never been beloved. No mother had ever fondled her, no father or brother had protected her from outrage; and the man who had plunged her into infamy, and deserted her when she stood in greatest need of support, deigned not to smooth with kindness the road to ruin. Thus degraded, was she let loose on the world; and virtue, never nurtured by affection, assumed the stern aspect of selfish independence.

This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and dry remarks. Jemima indeed displayed a strange mixture of interest and suspicion; for she would listen to her with earnestness, and then suddenly interrupt the conversation, as if afraid of resigning, by giving way to her sympathy, her dear-bought knowledge of the world.

Maria alluded to the possibility of an escape, and mentioned a compensation, or reward; but the style in which she was repulsed made her cautious, and determine not to renew the subject, till she knew more of the character she had to work on. Jemima's countenance, and dark hints, seemed to say, "You are an extraordinary woman; but let me consider, this may only be one of your lucid intervals." Nay, the very energy of Maria's character, made her suspect that the extraordinary animation she perceived might be the effect of madness. "Should her husband then substantiate his charge, and get possession of her estate, from whence would come the promised annuity, or more desired protection? Besides, might not a woman, anxious to escape, conceal some of the circumstances which made against her? Was truth to be expected from one who had been entrapped, kidnapped, in the most fraudulent manner?"

In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compassion and respect seemed to make her swerve; and she still resolved not to be wrought on to do more than soften the rigour of confinement, till she could advance on surer ground.

Maria was not permitted to walk in the garden; but sometimes, from her window, she turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which she pined life away, on the poor wretches who strayed along the walks, and contemplated the most terrific of ruins—that of a human soul. What is the view of the fallen column, the mouldering arch, of the most exquisite workmanship, when compared with this living memento of the fragility, the instability, of reason, and the wild luxuriancy of noxious passions? Enthusiasm turned adrift, like some rich stream overflowing its banks, rushes forward with destructive velocity, inspiring a sublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—These are the ravages over which humanity must ever mournfully ponder, with a degree of anguish not excited by crumbling marble, or cankering brass, unfaithful to the trust of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind, embodied with the happiest art, we grieve most bitterly. The view of what has been done by man, produces a melancholy, yet aggrandizing, sense of what remains to be achieved by human intellect; but a mental convulsion, which, like the devastation of an earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into confusion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully ask on what ground we ourselves stand.

Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to breathe at large; for the frantic, those who in a strong imagination had lost a sense of woe, were closely confined. The playful tricks and mischievous devices of their disturbed fancy, that suddenly broke out, could not be guarded against, when they were permitted to enjoy any portion of freedom; for, so active was their imagination, that every new object which accidentally struck their senses, awoke to phrenzy their restless passions; as Maria learned from the burden of their incessant ravings.

Sometimes, with a strict injunction of silence, Jemima would allow Maria, at the close of evening, to stray along the narrow avenues that separated the dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change of scene! Maria wished to pass the threshold of her prison, yet, when by chance she met the eye of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its office, she shrunk back with more horror and affright, than if she had stumbled over a mangled corpse. Her busy fancy pictured the misery of a fond heart, watching over a friend thus estranged, absent, though present—over a poor wretch lost to reason and the social joys of existence; and losing all consciousness of misery in its excess. What a task, to watch the light of reason quivering in the eye, or with agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by hope, only to feel despair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or voice, suddenly remembered, or pathetically implored, only to be immediately forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!

The heart-rending sigh of melancholy sunk into her soul; and when she retired to rest, the petrified figures she had encountered, the only human forms she was doomed to observe, haunting her dreams with tales of mysterious wrongs, made her wish to sleep to dream no more.

Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the present moment appeared, they passed in such an unvaried tenor, Maria was surprised to find that she had already been six weeks buried alive, and yet had such faint hopes of effecting her enlargement. She was, earnestly as she had sought for employment, now angry with herself for having been amused by writing her narrative; and grieved to think that she had for an instant thought of any thing, but contriving to escape.

Jemima had evidently pleasure in her society: still, though she often left her with a glow of kindness, she returned with the same chilling air; and, when her heart appeared for a moment to open, some suggestion of reason forcibly closed it, before she could give utterance to the confidence Maria's conversation inspired.

Discouraged by these changes, Maria relapsed into despondency, when she was cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a fresh parcel of books; assuring her, that she had taken some pains to obtain them from one of the keepers, who attended a gentleman confined in the opposite corner of the gallery.

Maria took up the books with emotion. "They come," said she, "perhaps, from a wretch condemned, like me, to reason on the nature of madness, by having wrecked minds continually under his eye; and almost to wish himself—as I do—mad, to escape from the contemplation of it." Her heart throbbed with sympathetic alarm; and she turned over the leaves with awe, as if they had become sacred from passing through the hands of an unfortunate being, oppressed by a similar fate.

Dryden's Fables, Milton's Paradise Lost, with several modern productions, composed the collection. It was a mine of treasure. Some marginal notes, in Dryden's Fables, caught her attention: they were written with force and taste; and, in one of the modern pamphlets, there was a fragment left, containing various observations on the present state of society and government, with a comparative view of the politics of Europe and America. These remarks were written with a degree of generous warmth, when alluding to the enslaved state of the labouring majority, perfectly in unison with Maria's mode of thinking.

She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began to sketch a character, congenial with her own, from these shadowy outlines.—"Was he mad?" She re-perused the marginal notes, and they seemed the production of an animated, but not of a disturbed imagination. Confined to this speculation, every time she re-read them, some fresh refinement of sentiment, or acuteness of thought impressed her, which she was astonished at herself for not having before observed.

What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who cannot live without loving, as poets love; and who feel the electric spark of genius, wherever it awakens sentiment or grace. Maria had often thought, when disciplining her wayward heart, "that to charm, was to be virtuous." "They who make me wish to appear the most amiable and good in their eyes, must possess in a degree," she would exclaim, "the graces and virtues they call into action."

She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but, her attention strayed from cold arguments on the nature of what she felt, while she was feeling, and she snapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden's Guiscard and Sigismunda.

Maria, in the course of the ensuing day, returned some of the books, with the hope of getting others—and more marginal notes. Thus shut out from human intercourse, and compelled to view nothing but the prison of vexed spirits, to meet a wretch in the same situation, was more surely to find a friend, than to imagine a countryman one, in a strange land, where the human voice conveys no information to the eager ear.

"Did you ever see the unfortunate being to whom these books belong?" asked Maria, when Jemima brought her supper. "Yes. He sometimes walks out, between five and six, before the family is stirring, in the morning, with two keepers; but even then his hands are confined."

"What! is he so unruly?" enquired Maria, with an accent of disappointment.

"No, not that I perceive," replied Jemima; "but he has an untamed look, a vehemence of eye, that excites apprehension. Were his hands free, he looks as if he could soon manage both his guards: yet he appears tranquil."

"If he be so strong, he must be young," observed Maria.

"Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a person in his situation."

"Are you sure that he is mad?" interrupted Maria with eagerness. Jemima quitted the room, without replying.

"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, answering herself; "the man who could write those observations was not disordered in his intellects."

She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, she thought, "Of what use could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjustly confined?—Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more closely watched?—Still I should like to see him." She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o'clock, and starting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet she did not retire to warm herself and think in bed, till the sound of the servants, moving about the house, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden that morning. She was ashamed at feeling disappointed; and began to reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little objects which attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active duties or pursuits.

At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French? for, unless she did, the stranger's stock of books was exhausted. Maria replied in the affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the person to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new subject for contemplation, by describing the person of a lovely maniac, just brought into an adjoining chamber. She was singing the pathetic ballad of old Rob                  with the most heart-melting falls and pauses. Jemima had half-opened the door, when she distinguished her voice, and Maria stood close to it, scarcely daring to respire, lest a modulation should escape her, so exquisitely sweet, so passionately wild. She began with sympathy to pourtray to herself another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as it were, from the spray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and questions burst from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, so horrid, that Maria shut the door, and, turning her eyes up to heaven, exclaimed—"Gracious God!"

Several minutes elapsed before Maria could enquire respecting the rumour of the house (for this poor wretch was obviously not confined without a cause); and then Jemima could only tell her, that it was said, "she had been married, against her inclination, to a rich old man, extremely jealous (no wonder, for she was a charming creature); and that, in consequence of his treatment, or something which hung on her mind, she had, during her first lying-in, lost her senses."

What a subject of meditation—even to the very confines of madness.

"Woman, fragile flower! why were you suffered to adorn a world exposed to the inroad of such stormy elements?" thought Maria, while the poor maniac's strain was still breathing on her ear, and sinking into her very soul.

Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rousseau's Heloïse; and she sat reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguish the light. One instance of her kindness was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own hour of retiring to rest. She had read this work long since; but now it seemed to open a new world to her—the only one worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the restless rotation of thought, she rose and opened her window, just as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long silent shadows visible. The air swept across her face with a voluptuous freshness that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the sound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a startled bird, alone broke the stillness of reposing nature. Absorbed by the sublime sensibility which renders the consciousness of existence felicity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal scent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the season had changed since her confinement; yet life afforded no variety to solace an afflicted heart. She returned dispirited to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to the window. She looked not for the unknown, still how great was her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two attendants, as he turned into a side-path which led to the house! A confused recollection of having seen somebody who resembled him, immediately occurred, to puzzle and torment her with endless conjectures. Five minutes sooner, and she should have seen his face, and been out of suspense—was ever any thing so unlucky! His steady, bold step, and the whole air of his person, bursting as it were from a cloud, pleased her, and gave an outline to the imagination to sketch the individual form she wished to recognize.

Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to believe, she flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a friend, could she but find a way to interest him in her fate; still the personification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover far superior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the minutiæ of the coat and hat of the stranger. But if she lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux's sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he seemed to have an undoubted right, when she read on the margin of an impassioned letter, written in the well-known hand—"Rousseau alone, the true Prometheus of sentiment, possessed the fire of genius necessary to pourtray the passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart."

Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finished Rousseau, and begun to transcribe some selected passages; unable to quit either the author or the window, before she had a glimpse of the countenance she daily longed to see; and, when seen, it conveyed no distinct idea to her mind where she had seen it before. He must have been a transient acquaintance; but to discover an acquaintance was fortunate, could she contrive to attract his attention, and excite his sympathy.

Every glance afforded colouring for the picture she was delineating on her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the sound of his voice reached her. Conviction flashed on her; she had certainly, in a moment of distress, heard the same accents. They were manly, and characteristic of a noble mind; nay, even sweet—or sweet they seemed to her attentive ear.

She started back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a strange coincidence of circumstances inspired, and wondering why she thought so much of a stranger, obliged as she had been by his timely interference; [for she recollected, by degrees, all the circumstances of their former meeting.] She found however that she could think of nothing else; or, if she thought of her daughter, it was to wish that she had a father whom her mother could respect and love.

CHAP. III.

When perusing the first parcel of books, Maria had, with her pencil, written in one of them a few exclamations, expressive of compassion and sympathy, which she scarcely remembered, till turning over the leaves of one of the volumes, lately brought to her, a slip of paper dropped out, which Jemima hastily snatched up.

"Let me see it," demanded Maria impatiently, "You surely are not afraid of trusting me with the effusions of a madman?" "I must consider," replied Jemima; and withdrew, with the paper in her hand.

In a life of such seclusion, the passions gain undue force; Maria therefore felt a great degree of resentment and vexation, which she had not time to subdue, before Jemima, returning, delivered the paper.

"Whoever you are, who partake of my fate, accept my sincere commiseration—I would have said protection; but the privilege of man is denied me.

"My own situation forces a dreadful suspicion on my mind—I may not always languish in vain for freedom—say are you—I cannot ask the question; yet I will remember you when my remembrance can be of any use. I will enquire, why you are so mysteriously detained—and I will have an answer.

"henry darnford."

By the most pressing intreaties, Maria prevailed on Jemima to permit her to write a reply to this note. Another and another succeeded, in which explanations were not allowed relative to their present situation; but Maria, with sufficient explicitness, alluded to a former obligation; and they insensibly entered on an interchange of sentiments on the most important subjects. To write these letters was the business of the day, and to receive them the moment of sunshine. By some means, Darnford having discovered Maria's window, when she next appeared at it, he made her, behind his keepers, a profound bow of respect and recognition.

Two or three weeks glided away in this kind of intercourse, during which period Jemima, to whom Maria had given the necessary information respecting her family, had evidently gained some intelligence, which increased her desire of pleasing her charge, though she could not yet determine to liberate her. Maria took advantage of this favourable charge, without too minutely enquiring into the cause; and such was her eagerness to hold human converse, and to see her former protector, still a stranger to her, that she incessantly requested her guard to gratify her more than curiosity.

Writing to Darnford, she was led from the sad objects before her, and frequently rendered insensible to the horrid noises around her, which previously had continually employed her feverish fancy. Thinking it selfish to dwell on her own sufferings, when in the midst of wretches, who had not only lost all that endears life, but their very selves, her imagination was occupied with melancholy earnestness to trace the mazes of misery, through which so many wretches must have passed to this gloomy receptacle of disjointed souls, to the grand source of human corruption. Often at midnight was she waked by the dismal shrieks of demoniac rage, or of excruciating despair, uttered in such wild tones of indescribable anguish as proved the total absence of reason, and roused phantoms of horror in her mind, far more terrific than all that dreaming superstition ever drew. Besides, there was frequently something so inconceivably picturesque in the varying gestures of unrestrained passion, so irresistibly comic in their sallies, or so heart-piercingly pathetic in the little airs they would sing, frequently bursting out after an awful silence, as to fascinate the attention, and amuse the fancy, while torturing the soul. It was the uproar of the passions which she was compelled to observe; and to mark the lucid beam of reason, like a light trembling in a socket, or like the flash which divides the threatening clouds of angry heaven only to display the horrors which darkness shrouded.

Jemima would labour to beguile the tedious evenings, by describing the persons and manners of the unfortunate beings, whose figures or voices awoke sympathetic sorrow in Maria's bosom; and the stories she told were the more interesting, for perpetually leaving room to conjecture something extraordinary. Still Maria, accustomed to generalize her observations, was led to conclude from all she heard, that it was a vulgar error to suppose that people of abilities were the most apt to lose the command of reason. On the contrary, from most of the instances she could investigate, she thought it resulted, that the passions only appeared strong and disproportioned, because the judgment was weak and unexercised; and that they gained strength by the decay of reason, as the shadows lengthen during the sun's decline.

Maria impatiently wished to see her fellow-sufferer; but Darnford was still more earnest to obtain an interview. Accustomed to submit to every impulse of passion, and never taught, like women, to restrain the most natural, and acquire, instead of the bewitching frankness of nature, a factitious propriety of behaviour, every desire became a torrent that bore down all opposition.

His travelling trunk, which contained the books lent to Maria, had been sent to him, and with a part of its contents he bribed his principal keeper; who, after receiving the most solemn promise that he would return to his apartment without attempting to explore any part of the house, conducted him, in the dusk of the evening, to Maria's room.

Jemima had apprized her charge of the visit, and she expected with trembling impatience, inspired by a vague hope that he might again prove her deliverer, to see a man who had before rescued her from oppression. He entered with an animation of countenance, formed to captivate an enthusiast; and, hastily turned his eyes from her to the apartment, which he surveyed with apparent emotions of compassionate indignation. Sympathy illuminated his eye, and, taking her hand, he respectfully bowed on it, exclaiming—"This is extraordinary!—again to meet you, and in such circumstances!" Still, impressive as was the coincidence of events which brought them once more together, their full hearts did not overflow.—[54-A]

[And though, after this first visit, they were permitted frequently to repeat their interviews, they were for some time employed in] a reserved conversation, to which all the world might have listened; excepting, when discussing some literary subject, flashes of sentiment, inforced by each relaxing feature, seemed to remind them that their minds were already acquainted.

[By degrees, Darnford entered into the particulars of his story.] In a few words, he informed her that he had been a thoughtless, extravagant young man; yet, as he described his faults, they appeared to be the generous luxuriancy of a noble mind. Nothing like meanness tarnished the lustre of his youth, nor had the worm of selfishness lurked in the unfolding bud, even while he had been the dupe of others. Yet he tardily acquired the experience necessary to guard him against future imposition.

"I shall weary you," continued he, "by my egotism; and did not powerful emotions draw me to you,"—his eyes glistened as he spoke, and a trembling seemed to run through his manly frame,—"I would not waste these precious moments in talking of myself.

"My father and mother were people of fashion; married by their parents. He was fond of the turf, she of the card-table. I, and two or three other children since dead, were kept at home till we became intolerable. My father and mother had a visible dislike to each other, continually displayed; the servants were of the depraved kind usually found in the houses of people of fortune. My brothers and parents all dying, I was left to the care of guardians, and sent to Eton. I never knew the sweets of domestic affection, but I felt the want of indulgence and frivolous respect at school. I will not disgust you with a recital of the vices of my youth, which can scarcely be comprehended by female delicacy. I was taught to love by a creature I am ashamed to mention; and the other women with whom I afterwards became intimate, were of a class of which you can have no knowledge. I formed my acquaintance with them at the theatres; and, when vivacity danced in their eyes, I was not easily disgusted by the vulgarity which flowed from their lips. Having spent, a few years after I was of age, [the whole of] a considerable patrimony, excepting a few hundreds, I had no recourse but to purchase a commission in a new-raised regiment, destined to subjugate America. The regret I felt to renounce a life of pleasure, was counter-balanced by the curiosity I had to see America, or rather to travel; [nor had any of those circumstances occurred to my youth, which might have been calculated] to bind my country to my heart. I shall not trouble you with the details of a military life. My blood was still kept in motion; till, towards the close of the contest, I was wounded and taken prisoner.

"Confined to my bed, or chair, by a lingering cure, my only refuge from the preying activity of my mind, was books, which I read with great avidity, profiting by the conversation of my host, a man of sound understanding. My political sentiments now underwent a total change; and, dazzled by the hospitality of the Americans, I determined to take up my abode with freedom. I, therefore, with my usual impetuosity, sold my commission, and travelled into the interior parts of the country, to lay out my money to advantage. Added to this, I did not much like the puritanical manners of the large towns. Inequality of condition was there most disgustingly galling. The only pleasure wealth afforded, was to make an ostentatious display of it; for the cultivation of the fine arts, or literature, had not introduced into the first circles that polish of manners which renders the rich so essentially superior to the poor in Europe. Added to this, an influx of vices had been let in by the Revolution, and the most rigid principles of religion shaken to the centre, before the understanding could be gradually emancipated from the prejudices which led their ancestors undauntedly to seek an inhospitable clime and unbroken soil. The resolution, that led them, in pursuit of independence, to embark on rivers like seas, to search for unknown shores, and to sleep under the hovering mists of endless forests, whose baleful damps agued their limbs, was now turned into commercial speculations, till the national character exhibited a phenomenon in the history of the human mind—a head enthusiastically enterprising, with cold selfishness of heart. And woman, lovely woman!—they charm every where—still there is a degree of prudery, and a want of taste and ease in the manners of the American women, that renders them, in spite of their roses and lilies, far inferior to our European charmers. In the country, they have often a bewitching simplicity of character; but, in the cities, they have all the airs and ignorance of the ladies who give the tone to the circles of the large trading towns in England. They are fond of their ornaments, merely because they are good, and not because they embellish their persons; and are more gratified to inspire the women with jealousy of these exterior advantages, than the men with love. All the frivolity which often (excuse me, Madam) renders the society of modest women so stupid in England, here seemed to throw still more leaden fetters on their charms. Not being an adept in gallantry, I found that I could only keep myself awake in their company by making downright love to them.

"But, not to intrude on your patience, I retired to the track of land which I had purchased in the country, and my time passed pleasantly enough while I cut down the trees, built my house, and planted my different crops. But winter and idleness came, and I longed for more elegant society, to hear what was passing in the world, and to do something better than vegetate with the animals that made a very considerable part of my household. Consequently, I determined to travel. Motion was a substitute for variety of objects; and, passing over immense tracks of country, I exhausted my exuberant spirits, without obtaining much experience. I every where saw industry the fore-runner and not the consequence, of luxury; but this country, every thing being on an ample scale, did not afford those picturesque views, which a certain degree of cultivation is necessary gradually to produce. The eye wandered without an object to fix upon over immeasureable plains, and lakes that seemed replenished by the ocean, whilst eternal forests of small clustering trees, obstructed the circulation of air, and embarrassed the path, without gratifying the eye of taste. No cottage smiling in the waste, no travellers hailed us, to give life to silent nature; or, if perchance we saw the print of a footstep in our path, it was a dreadful warning to turn aside; and the head ached as if assailed by the scalping knife. The Indians who hovered on the skirts of the European settlements had only learned of their neighbours to plunder, and they stole their guns from them to do it with more safety.

"From the woods and back settlements, I returned to the towns, and learned to eat and drink most valiantly; but without entering into commerce (and I detested commerce) I found I could not live there; and, growing heartily weary of the land of liberty and vulgar aristocracy, seated on her bags of dollars, I resolved once more to visit Europe. I wrote to a distant relation in England, with whom I had been educated, mentioning the vessel in which I intended to sail. Arriving in London, my senses were intoxicated. I ran from street to street, from theatre to theatre, and the women of the town (again I must beg pardon for my habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.

"A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late to the hotel in which I had lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked down in a private street, and hurried, in a state of insensibility, into a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to be treated like one who had lost them. My keepers are deaf to my remonstrances and enquiries, yet assure me that my confinement shall not last long. Still I cannot guess, though I weary myself with conjectures, why I am confined, or in what part of England this house is situated. I imagine sometimes that I hear the sea roar, and wished myself again on the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you[65-A]."

A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative, when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the "never ending, still beginning," task of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice, and feeling them reverberate on her heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[54-A] The copy which had received the author's last corrections, breaks off in this place, and the pages which follow, to the end of Chap. IV, are printed from a copy in a less finished state.

[65-A] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former instance, appears to have been an after-thought of the author. This has occasioned the omission of any allusion to that circumstance in the preceding narration.

editor.

CHAP. IV.

Pity, and the forlorn seriousness of adversity, have both been considered as dispositions favourable to love, while satirical writers have attributed the propensity to the relaxing effect of idleness, what chance then had Maria of escaping, when pity, sorrow, and solitude all conspired to soften her mind, and nourish romantic wishes, and, from a natural progress, romantic expectations?

Maria was six-and-twenty. But, such was the native soundness of her constitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character of her mind. Revolving thought, and exercised affections had banished some of the playful graces of innocence, producing insensibly that irregularity of features which the struggles of the understanding to trace or govern the strong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint on the yielding mass. Grief and care had mellowed, without obscuring, the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulness which resided on her brow did not take from the feminine softness of her features; nay, such was the sensibility which often mantled over it, that she frequently appeared, like a large proportion of her sex, only born to feel; and the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almost voluptuous figure, inspired the idea of strength of mind, rather than of body. There was a simplicity sometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine ingenuousness, that led people of common discernment to underrate her talents, and smile at the flights of her imagination. But those who could not comprehend the delicacy of her sentiments, were attached by her unfailing sympathy, so that she was very generally beloved by characters of very different descriptions; still, she was too much under the influence of an ardent imagination to adhere to common rules.

There are mistakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the strength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would demonstrate its weakness, its incapacity to acquire a sane judgment. The youths who are satisfied with the ordinary pleasures of life, and do not sigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendship, will never arrive at great maturity of understanding; but if these reveries are cherished, as is too frequently the case with women, when experience ought to have taught them in what human happiness consists, they become as useless as they are wretched. Besides, their pains and pleasures are so dependent on outward circumstances, on the objects of their affections, that they seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind, able to choose its own pursuit.

Having had to struggle incessantly with the vices of mankind, Maria's imagination found repose in pourtraying the possible virtues the world might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an informing soul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a hero's mind, and fate presented a statue in which she might enshrine them.

We mean not to trace the progress of this passion, or recount how often Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midst of an interesting conversation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and frequently separated them on a false alarm, when they would have given worlds to remain a little longer together.

A magic lamp now seemed to be suspended in Maria's prison, and fairy landscapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late so blank. Rushing from the depth of despair, on the seraph wing of hope, she found herself happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.

To Darnford she had not shown a decided affection; the fear of outrunning his, a sure proof of love, made her often assume a coldness and indifference foreign from her character; and, even when giving way to the playful emotions of a heart just loosened from the frozen bond of grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expressing her sensibility, which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.

One evening, when Jemima left them, to listen to the sound of a distant footstep, which seemed cautiously to approach, he seized Maria's hand—it was not withdrawn. They conversed with earnestness of their situation; and, during the conversation, he once or twice gently drew her towards him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to touch the lips from which it issued; spirits of purity seemed to guard them, while all the enchanting graces of love sported on her cheeks, and languished in her eyes.

Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret, and, she once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria stood near his chair, to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back with solemnity, he hung down his head abashed; but lifting his eyes timidly, they met her's; she had determined, during that instant, and suffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour, reassured, a half-consenting, half-reluctant kiss, reluctant only from modesty; and there was a sacredness in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing face on his shoulder, that powerfully impressed him. Desire was lost in more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from insult and sorrow—to make her happy, seemed not only the first wish of his heart, but the most noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulsation, could he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which she, for a moment, allowed herself to be pressed to his bosom, the tear of rapturous sympathy, mingled with a soft melancholy sentiment of recollected disappointment, said—more of truth and faithfulness, than the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were silent—yet discoursed, how eloquently? till, after a moment's reflection, Maria drew her chair by the side of his, and, with a composed sweetness of voice, and supernatural benignity of countenance, said, "I must open my whole heart to you; you must be told who I am, why I am here, and why, telling you I am a wife, I blush not to"—the blush spoke the rest.

Jemima was again at her elbow, and the restraint of her presence did not prevent an animated conversation, in which love, sly urchin, was ever at bo-peep.

So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradise bloomed around them; or they, by a powerful spell, had been transported into Armida's garden. Love, the grand enchanter, "lapt them in Elysium," and every sense was harmonized to joy and social extacy. So animated, indeed, were their accents of tenderness, in discussing what, in other circumstances, would have been common-place subjects, that Jemima felt, with surprise, a tear of pleasure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away, half ashamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cause, with all the eager solicitude of a happy being wishing to impart to all nature its overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the first tear that social enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She seemed indeed to breathe more freely; the cloud of suspicion cleared away from her brow; she felt herself, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.

Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evanescent tints of hope fostered by thee? A despondent gloom had long obscured Maria's horizon—now the sun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every prospect was fair. Horror still reigned in the darkened cells, suspicion lurked in the passages, and whispered along the walls. The yells of men possessed, sometimes made them pause, and wonder that they felt so happy, in a tomb of living death. They even chid themselves for such apparent insensibility; still the world contained not three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the passage, was so softened by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that she voluntarily began an account of herself.

CHAP. V.

"My father," said Jemima, "seduced my mother, a pretty girl, with whom he lived fellow-servant; and she no sooner perceived the natural, the dreaded consequence, than the terrible conviction flashed on her—that she was ruined. Honesty, and a regard for her reputation, had been the only principles inculcated by her mother; and they had been so forcibly impressed, that she feared shame, more than the poverty to which it would lead. Her incessant importunities to prevail upon my father to screen her from reproach by marrying her, as he had promised in the fervour of seduction, estranged him from her so completely, that her very person became distasteful to him; and he began to hate, as well as despise me, before I was born.

"My mother, grieved to the soul by his neglect, and unkind treatment, actually resolved to famish herself; and injured her health by the attempt; though she had not sufficient resolution to adhere to her project, or renounce it entirely. Death came not at her call; yet sorrow, and the methods she adopted to conceal her condition, still doing the work of a house-maid, had such an effect on her constitution, that she died in the wretched garret, where her virtuous mistress had forced her to take refuge in the very pangs of labour, though my father, after a slight reproof, was allowed to remain in his place—allowed by the mother of six children, who, scarcely permitting a footstep to be heard, during her month's indulgence, felt no sympathy for the poor wretch, denied every comfort required by her situation.

"The day my mother died, the ninth after my birth, I was consigned to the care of the cheapest nurse my father could find; who suckled her own child at the same time, and lodged as many more as she could get, in two cellar-like apartments.

"Poverty, and the habit of seeing children die off her hands, had so hardened her heart, that the office of a mother did not awaken the tenderness of a woman; nor were the feminine caresses which seem a part of the rearing of a child, ever bestowed on me. The chicken has a wing to shelter under; but I had no bosom to nestle in, no kindred warmth to foster me. Left in dirt, to cry with cold and hunger till I was weary, and sleep without ever being prepared by exercise, or lulled by kindness to rest; could I be expected to become any thing but a weak and rickety babe? Still, in spite of neglect, I continued to exist, to learn to curse existence," her countenance grew ferocious as she spoke, "and the treatment that rendered me miserable, seemed to sharpen my wits. Confined then in a damp hovel, to rock the cradle of the succeeding tribe, I looked like a little old woman, or a hag shrivelling into nothing. The furrows of reflection and care contracted the youthful cheek, and gave a sort of supernatural wildness to the ever watchful eye. During this period, my father had married another fellow-servant, who loved him less, and knew better how to manage his passion, than my mother. She likewise proving with child, they agreed to keep a shop: my step-mother, if, being an illegitimate offspring, I may venture thus to characterize her, having obtained a sum of a rich relation, for that purpose.

"Soon after her lying-in, she prevailed on my father to take me home, to save the expence of maintaining me, and of hiring a girl to assist her in the care of the child. I was young, it was true, but appeared a knowing little thing, and might be made handy. Accordingly I was brought to her house; but not to a home—for a home I never knew. Of this child, a daughter, she was extravagantly fond; and it was a part of my employment, to assist to spoil her, by humouring all her whims, and bearing all her caprices. Feeling her own consequence, before she could speak, she had learned the art of tormenting me, and if I ever dared to resist, I received blows, laid on with no compunctious hand, or was sent to bed dinnerless, as well as supperless. I said that it was a part of my daily labour to attend this child, with the servility of a slave; still it was but a part. I was sent out in all seasons, and from place to place, to carry burdens far above my strength, without being allowed to draw near the fire, or ever being cheered by encouragement or kindness. No wonder then, treated like a creature of another species, that I began to envy, and at length to hate, the darling of the house. Yet, I perfectly remember, that it was the caresses, and kind expressions of my step-mother, which first excited my jealous discontent. Once, I cannot forget it, when she was calling in vain her wayward child to kiss her, I ran to her, saying, 'I will kiss you, ma'am!' and how did my heart, which was in my mouth, sink, what was my debasement of soul, when pushed away with—'I do not want you, pert thing!' Another day, when a new gown had excited the highest good humour, and she uttered the appropriate dear, addressed unexpectedly to me, I thought I could never do enough to please her; I was all alacrity, and rose proportionably in my own estimation.

"As her daughter grew up, she was pampered with cakes and fruit, while I was, literally speaking, fed with the refuse of the table, with her leavings. A liquorish tooth is, I believe, common to children, and I used to steal any thing sweet, that I could catch up with a chance of concealment. When detected, she was not content to chastize me herself at the moment, but, on my father's return in the evening (he was a shopman), the principal discourse was to recount my faults, and attribute them to the wicked disposition which I had brought into the world with me, inherited from my mother. He did not fail to leave the marks of his resentment on my body, and then solaced himself by playing with my sister.—I could have murdered her at those moments. To save myself from these unmerciful corrections, I resorted to falshood, and the untruths which I sturdily maintained, were brought in judgment against me, to support my tyrant's inhuman charge of my natural propensity to vice. Seeing me treated with contempt, and always being fed and dressed better, my sister conceived a contemptuous opinion of me, that proved an obstacle to all affection; and my father, hearing continually of my faults, began to consider me as a curse entailed on him for his sins: he was therefore easily prevailed on to bind me apprentice to one of my step-mother's friends, who kept a slop-shop in Wapping. I was represented (as it was said) in my true colours; but she, 'warranted,' snapping her fingers, 'that she should break my spirit or heart.'

"My mother replied, with a whine, 'that if any body could make me better, it was such a clever woman as herself; though, for her own part, she had tried in vain; but good-nature was her fault.'

"I shudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to endure. Not only under the lash of my task-mistress, but the drudge of the maid, apprentices and children, I never had a taste of human kindness to soften the rigour of perpetual labour. I had been introduced as an object of abhorrence into the family; as a creature of whom my step-mother, though she had been kind enough to let me live in the house with her own child, could make nothing. I was described as a wretch, whose nose must be kept to the grinding stone—and it was held there with an iron grasp. It seemed indeed the privilege of their superior nature to kick me about, like the dog or cat. If I were attentive, I was called fawning, if refractory, an obstinate mule, and like a mule I received their censure on my loaded back. Often has my mistress, for some instance of forgetfulness, thrown me from one side of the kitchen to the other, knocked my head against the wall, spit in my face, with various refinements on barbarity that I forbear to enumerate, though they were all acted over again by the servant, with additional insults, to which the appellation of bastard, was commonly added, with taunts or sneers. But I will not attempt to give you an adequate idea of my situation, lest you, who probably have never been drenched with the dregs of human misery, should think I exaggerate.

"I stole now, from absolute necessity,—bread; yet whatever else was taken, which I had it not in my power to take, was ascribed to me. I was the filching cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who must bear all; for if I endeavoured to exculpate myself, I was silenced, without any enquiries being made, with 'Hold your tongue, you never tell truth.' Even the very air I breathed was tainted with scorn; for I was sent to the neighbouring shops with Glutton, Liar, or Thief, written on my forehead. This was, at first, the most bitter punishment; but sullen pride, or a kind of stupid desperation, made me, at length, almost regardless of the contempt, which had wrung from me so many solitary tears at the only moments when I was allowed to rest.

"Thus was I the mark of cruelty till my sixteenth year; and then I have only to point out a change of misery; for a period I never knew. Allow me first to make one observation. Now I look back, I cannot help attributing the greater part of my misery, to the misfortune of having been thrown into the world without the grand support of life—a mother's affection. I had no one to love me; or to make me respected, to enable me to acquire respect. I was an egg dropped on the sand; a pauper by nature, shunted from family to family, who belonged to nobody—and nobody cared for me. I was despised from my birth, and denied the chance of obtaining a footing for myself in society. Yes; I had not even the chance of being considered as a fellow-creature—yet all the people with whom I lived, brutalized as they were by the low cunning of trade, and the despicable shifts of poverty, were not without bowels, though they never yearned for me. I was, in fact, born a slave, and chained by infamy to slavery during the whole of existence, without having any companions to alleviate it by sympathy, or teach me how to rise above it by their example. But, to resume the thread of my tale—

"At sixteen, I suddenly grew tall, and something like comeliness appeared on a Sunday, when I had time to wash my face, and put on clean clothes. My master had once or twice caught hold of me in the passage; but I instinctively avoided his disgusting caresses. One day however, when the family were at a methodist meeting, he contrived to be alone in the house with me, and by blows—yes; blows and menaces, compelled me to submit to his ferocious desire; and, to avoid my mistress's fury, I was obliged in future to comply, and skulk to my loft at his command, in spite of increasing loathing.

"The anguish which was now pent up in my bosom, seemed to open a new world to me: I began to extend my thoughts beyond myself, and grieve for human misery, till I discovered, with horror—ah! what horror!—that I was with child. I know not why I felt a mixed sensation of despair and tenderness, excepting that, ever called a bastard, a bastard appeared to me an object of the greatest compassion in creation.

"I communicated this dreadful circumstance to my master, who was almost equally alarmed at the intelligence; for he feared his wife, and public censure at the meeting. After some weeks of deliberation had elapsed, I in continual fear that my altered shape would be noticed, my master gave me a medicine in a phial, which he desired me to take, telling me, without any circumlocution, for what purpose it was designed. I burst into tears, I thought it was killing myself—yet was such a self as I worth preserving? He cursed me for a fool, and left me to my own reflections. I could not resolve to take this infernal potion; but I wrapped it up in an old gown, and hid it in a corner of my box.

"Nobody yet suspected me, because they had been accustomed to view me as a creature of another species. But the threatening storm at last broke over my devoted head—never shall I forget it! One Sunday evening when I was left, as usual, to take care of the house, my master came home intoxicated, and I became the prey of his brutal appetite. His extreme intoxication made him forget his customary caution, and my mistress entered and found us in a situation that could not have been more hateful to her than me. Her husband was 'pot-valiant,' he feared her not at the moment, nor had he then much reason, for she instantly turned the whole force of her anger another way. She tore off my cap, scratched, kicked, and buffetted me, till she had exhausted her strength, declaring, as she rested her arm, 'that I had wheedled her husband from her.—But, could any thing better be expected from a wretch, whom she had taken into her house out of pure charity?' What a torrent of abuse rushed out? till, almost breathless, she concluded with saying, 'that I was born a strumpet; it ran in my blood, and nothing good could come to those who harboured me.'

"My situation was, of course, discovered, and she declared that I should not stay another night under the same roof with an honest family. I was therefore pushed out of doors, and my trumpery thrown after me, when it had been contemptuously examined in the passage, lest I should have stolen any thing.

"Behold me then in the street, utterly destitute! Whither could I creep for shelter? To my father's roof I had no claim, when not pursued by shame—now I shrunk back as from death, from my mother's cruel reproaches, my father's execrations. I could not endure to hear him curse the day I was born, though life had been a curse to me. Of death I thought, but with a confused emotion of terror, as I stood leaning my head on a post, and starting at every footstep, lest it should be my mistress coming to tear my heart out. One of the boys of the shop passing by, heard my tale, and immediately repaired to his master, to give him a description of my situation; and he touched the right key—the scandal it would give rise to, if I were left to repeat my tale to every enquirer. This plea came home to his reason, who had been sobered by his wife's rage, the fury of which fell on him when I was out of her reach, and he sent the boy to me with half-a-guinea, desiring him to conduct me to a house, where beggars, and other wretches, the refuse of society, nightly lodged.

"This night was spent in a state of stupefaction, or desperation. I detested mankind, and abhorred myself.

"In the morning I ventured out, to throw myself in my master's way, at his usual hour of going abroad. I approached him, he 'damned me for a b——, declared I had disturbed the peace of the family, and that he had sworn to his wife, never to take any more notice of me.' He left me; but, instantly returning, he told me that he should speak to his friend, a parish-officer, to get a nurse for the brat I laid to him; and advised me, if I wished to keep out of the house of correction, not to make free with his name.

"I hurried back to my hole, and, rage giving place to despair, sought for the potion that was to procure abortion, and swallowed it, with a wish that it might destroy me, at the same time that it stopped the sensations of new-born life, which I felt with indescribable emotion. My head turned round, my heart grew sick, and in the horrors of approaching dissolution, mental anguish was swallowed up. The effect of the medicine was violent, and I was confined to my bed several days; but, youth and a strong constitution prevailing, I once more crawled out, to ask myself the cruel question, 'Whither I should go?' I had but two shillings left in my pocket, the rest had been expended, by a poor woman who slept in the same room, to pay for my lodging, and purchase the necessaries of which she partook.

"With this wretch I went into the neighbouring streets to beg, and my disconsolate appearance drew a few pence from the idle, enabling me still to command a bed; till, recovering from my illness, and taught to put on my rags to the best advantage, I was accosted from different motives, and yielded to the desire of the brutes I met, with the same detestation that I had felt for my still more brutal master. I have since read in novels of the blandishments of seduction, but I had not even the pleasure of being enticed into vice.

"I shall not," interrupted Jemima, "lead your imagination into all the scenes of wretchedness and depravity, which I was condemned to view; or mark the different stages of my debasing misery. Fate dragged me through the very kennels of society; I was still a slave, a bastard, a common property. Become familiar with vice, for I wish to conceal nothing from you, I picked the pockets of the drunkards who abused me; and proved by my conduct, that I deserved the epithets, with which they loaded me at moments when distrust ought to cease.

"Detesting my nightly occupation, though valuing, if I may so use the word, my independence, which only consisted in choosing the street in which I should wander, or the roof, when I had money, in which I should hide my head, I was some time before I could prevail on myself to accept of a place in a house of ill fame, to which a girl, with whom I had accidentally conversed in the street, had recommended me. I had been hunted almost into a a fever, by the watchmen of the quarter of the town I frequented; one, whom I had unwittingly offended, giving the word to the whole pack. You can scarcely conceive the tyranny exercised by these wretches: considering themselves as the instruments of the very laws they violate, the pretext which steels their conscience, hardens their heart. Not content with receiving from us, outlaws of society (let other women talk of favours) a brutal gratification gratuitously as a privilege of office, they extort a tithe of prostitution, and harrass with threats the poor creatures whose occupation affords not the means to silence the growl of avarice. To escape from this persecution, I once more entered into servitude.

"A life of comparative regularity restored my health; and—do not start—my manners were improved, in a situation where vice sought to render itself alluring, and taste was cultivated to fashion the person, if not to refine the mind. Besides, the common civility of speech, contrasted with the gross vulgarity to which I had been accustomed, was something like the polish of civilization. I was not shut out from all intercourse of humanity. Still I was galled by the yoke of service, and my mistress often flying into violent fits of passion, made me dread a sudden dismission, which I understood was always the case. I was therefore prevailed on, though I felt a horror of men, to accept the offer of a gentleman, rather in the decline of years, to keep his house, pleasantly situated in a little village near Hampstead.

"He was a man of great talents, and of brilliant wit; but, a worn-out votary of voluptuousness, his desires became fastidious in proportion as they grew weak, and the native tenderness of his heart was undermined by a vitiated imagination. A thoughtless career of libertinism and social enjoyment, had injured his health to such a degree, that, whatever pleasure his conversation afforded me (and my esteem was ensured by proofs of the generous humanity of his disposition), the being his mistress was purchasing it at a very dear rate. With such a keen perception of the delicacies of sentiment, with an imagination invigorated by the exercise of genius, how could he sink into the grossness of sensuality!

"But, to pass over a subject which I recollect with pain, I must remark to you, as an answer to your often-repeated question, 'Why my sentiments and language were superior to my station?' that I now began to read, to beguile the tediousness of solitude, and to gratify an inquisitive, active mind. I had often, in my childhood, followed a ballad-singer, to hear the sequel of a dismal story, though sure of being severely punished for delaying to return with whatever I was sent to purchase. I could just spell and put a sentence together, and I listened to the various arguments, though often mingled with obscenity, which occurred at the table where I was allowed to preside: for a literary friend or two frequently came home with my master, to dine and pass the night. Having lost the privileged respect of my sex, my presence, instead of restraining, perhaps gave the reins to their tongues; still I had the advantage of hearing discussions, from which, in the common course of life, women are excluded.

"You may easily imagine, that it was only by degrees that I could comprehend some of the subjects they investigated, or acquire from their reasoning what might be termed a moral sense. But my fondness of reading increasing, and my master occasionally shutting himself up in this retreat, for weeks together, to write, I had many opportunities of improvement. At first, considering money I was right!" (exclaimed Jemima, altering her tone of voice) "as the only means, after my loss of reputation, of obtaining respect, or even the toleration of humanity, I had not the least scruple to secrete a part of the sums intrusted to me, and to screen myself from detection by a system of falshood. But, acquiring new principles, I began to have the ambition of returning to the respectable part of society, and was weak enough to suppose it possible. The attention of my unassuming instructor, who, without being ignorant of his own powers, possessed great simplicity of manners, strengthened the illusion. Having sometimes caught up hints for thought, from my untutored remarks, he often led me to discuss the subjects he was treating, and would read to me his productions, previous to their publication, wishing to profit by the criticism of unsophisticated feeling. The aim of his writings was to touch the simple springs of the heart; for he despised the would-be oracles, the self-elected philosophers, who fright away fancy, while sifting each grain of thought to prove that slowness of comprehension is wisdom.

"I should have distinguished this as a moment of sunshine, a happy period in my life, had not the repugnance the disgusting libertinism of my protector inspired, daily become more painful.—And, indeed, I soon did recollect it as such with agony, when his sudden death (for he had recourse to the most exhilarating cordials to keep up the convivial tone of his spirits) again threw me into the desert of human society. Had he had any time for reflection, I am certain he would have left the little property in his power to me: but, attacked by the fatal apoplexy in town, his heir, a man of rigid morals, brought his wife with him to take possession of the house and effects, before I was even informed of his death,—'to prevent,' as she took care indirectly to tell me, 'such a creature as she supposed me to be, from purloining any of them, had I been apprized of the event in time.'

"The grief I felt at the sudden shock the information gave me, which at first had nothing selfish in it, was treated with contempt, and I was ordered to pack up my clothes; and a few trinkets and books, given me by the generous deceased, were contested, while they piously hoped, with a reprobating shake of the head, 'that God would have mercy on his sinful soul!' With some difficulty, I obtained my arrears of wages; but asking—such is the spirit-grinding consequence of poverty and infamy—for a character for honesty and economy, which God knows I merited, I was told by this—why must I call her woman?—'that it would go against her conscience to recommend a kept mistress.' Tears started in my eyes, burning tears; for there are situations in which a wretch is humbled by the contempt they are conscious they do not deserve.

"I returned to the metropolis; but the solitude of a poor lodging was inconceivably dreary, after the society I had enjoyed. To be cut off from human converse, now I had been taught to relish it, was to wander a ghost among the living. Besides, I foresaw, to aggravate the severity of my fate, that my little pittance would soon melt away. I endeavoured to obtain needlework; but, not having been taught early, and my hands being rendered clumsy by hard work, I did not sufficiently excel to be employed by the ready-made linen shops, when so many women, better qualified, were suing for it. The want of a character prevented my getting a place; for, irksome as servitude would have been to me, I should have made another trial, had it been feasible. Not that I disliked employment, but the inequality of condition to which I must have submitted. I had acquired a taste for literature, during the five years I had lived with a literary man, occasionally conversing with men of the first abilities of the age; and now to descend to the lowest vulgarity, was a degree of wretchedness not to be imagined unfelt. I had not, it is true, tasted the charms of affection, but I had been familiar with the graces of humanity.

"One of the gentlemen, whom I had frequently dined in company with, while I was treated like a companion, met me in the street, and enquired after my health. I seized the occasion, and began to describe my situation; but he was in haste to join, at dinner, a select party of choice spirits; therefore, without waiting to hear me, he impatiently put a guinea into my hand, saying, 'It was a pity such a sensible woman should be in distress—he wished me well from his soul.'

"To another I wrote, stating my case, and requesting advice. He was an advocate for unequivocal sincerity; and had often, in my presence, descanted on the evils which arise in society from the despotism of rank and riches.

"In reply, I received a long essay on the energy of the human mind, with continual allusions to his own force of character. He added, 'That the woman who could write such a letter as I had sent him, could never be in want of resources, were she to look into herself, and exert her powers; misery was the consequence of indolence, and, as to my being shut out from society, it was the lot of man to submit to certain privations.'

"How often have I heard," said Jemima, interrupting her narrative, "in conversation, and read in books, that every person willing to work may find employment? It is the vague assertion, I believe, of insensible indolence, when it relates to men; but, with respect to women, I am sure of its fallacy, unless they will submit to the most menial bodily labour; and even to be employed at hard labour is out of the reach of many, whose reputation misfortune or folly has tainted.

"How writers, professing to be friends to freedom, and the improvement of morals, can assert that poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine."

"No more can I," interrupted Maria, "yet they even expatiate on the peculiar happiness of indigence, though in what it can consist, excepting in brutal rest, when a man can barely earn a subsistence, I cannot imagine. The mind is necessarily imprisoned in its own little tenement; and, fully occupied by keeping it in repair, has not time to rove abroad for improvement. The book of knowledge is closely clasped, against those who must fulfil their daily task of severe manual labour or die; and curiosity, rarely excited by thought or information, seldom moves on the stagnate lake of ignorance."

"As far as I have been able to observe," replied Jemima, "prejudices, caught up by chance, are obstinately maintained by the poor, to the exclusion of improvement; they have not time to reason or reflect to any extent, or minds sufficiently exercised to adopt the principles of action, which form perhaps the only basis of contentment in every station[114-A]."

"And independence," said Darnford, "they are necessarily strangers to, even the independence of despising their persecutors. If the poor are happy, or can be happy, things are very well as they are. And I cannot conceive on what principle those writers contend for a change of system, who support this opinion. The authors on the other side of the question are much more consistent, who grant the fact; yet, insisting that it is the lot of the majority to be oppressed in this life, kindly turn them over to another, to rectify the false weights and measures of this, as the only way to justify the dispensations of Providence. I have not," continued Darnford, "an opinion more firmly fixed by observation in my mind, than that, though riches may fail to produce proportionate happiness, poverty most commonly excludes it, by shutting up all the avenues to improvement."

"And as for the affections," added Maria, with a sigh, "how gross, and even tormenting do they become, unless regulated by an improving mind! The culture of the heart ever, I believe, keeps pace with that of the mind. But pray go on," addressing Jemima, "though your narrative gives rise to the most painful reflections on the present state of society."

"Not to trouble you," continued she, "with a detailed description of all the painful feelings of unavailing exertion, I have only to tell you, that at last I got recommended to wash in a few families, who did me the favour to admit me into their houses, without the most strict enquiry, to wash from one in the morning till eight at night, for eighteen or twenty-pence a day. On the happiness to be enjoyed over a washing-tub I need not comment; yet you will allow me to observe, that this was a wretchedness of situation peculiar to my sex. A man with half my industry, and, I may say, abilities, could have procured a decent livelihood, and discharged some of the duties which knit mankind together; whilst I, who had acquired a taste for the rational, nay, in honest pride let me assert it, the virtuous enjoyments of life, was cast aside as the filth of society. Condemned to labour, like a machine, only to earn bread, and scarcely that, I became melancholy and desperate.

"I have now to mention a circumstance which fills me with remorse, and fear it will entirely deprive me of your esteem. A tradesman became attached to me, and visited me frequently,—and I at last obtained such a power over him, that he offered to take me home to his house.—Consider, dear madam, I was famishing: wonder not that I became a wolf!—The only reason for not taking me home immediately, was the having a girl in the house, with child by him—and this girl—I advised him—yes, I did! would I could forget it!—to turn out of doors: and one night he determined to follow my advice, Poor wretch! she fell upon her knees, reminded him that he had promised to marry her, that her parents were honest!—What did it avail?—She was turned out.

"She approached her father's door, in the skirts of London,—listened at the shutters,—but could not knock. A watchman had observed her go and return several times—Poor wretch!—" The remorse Jemima spoke of, seemed to be stinging her to the soul, as she proceeded."

"She left it, and, approaching a tub where horses were watered, she sat down in it, and, with desperate resolution, remained in that attitude—till resolution was no longer necessary!

"I happened that morning to be going out to wash, anticipating the moment when I should escape from such hard labour. I passed by, just as some men, going to work, drew out the stiff, cold corpse—Let me not recal the horrid moment!—I recognized her pale visage; I listened to the tale told by the spectators, and my heart did not burst. I thought of my own state, and wondered how I could be such a monster!—I worked hard; and, returning home, I was attacked by a fever. I suffered both in body and mind. I determined not to live with the wretch. But he did not try me; he left the neighbourhood. I once more returned to the wash-tub.

"Still this state, miserable as it was, admitted of aggravation. Lifting one day a heavy load, a tub fell against my shin, and gave me great pain. I did not pay much attention to the hurt, till it became a serious wound; being obliged to work as usual, or starve. But, finding myself at length unable to stand for any time, I thought of getting into an hospital. Hospitals, it should seem (for they are comfortless abodes for the sick) were expressly endowed for the reception of the friendless; yet I, who had on that plea a right to assistance, wanted the recommendation of the rich and respectable, and was several weeks languishing for admittance; fees were demanded on entering; and, what was still more unreasonable, security for burying me, that expence not coming into the letter of the charity. A guinea was the stipulated sum—I could as soon have raised a million; and I was afraid to apply to the parish for an order, lest they should have passed me, I knew not whither. The poor woman at whose house I lodged, compassionating my state, got me into the hospital; and the family where I received the hurt, sent me five shillings, three and six-pence of which I gave at my admittance—I know not for what.

"My leg grew quickly better; but I was dismissed before my cure was completed, because I could not afford to have my linen washed to appear decently, as the virago of a nurse said, when the gentlemen (the surgeons) came. I cannot give you an adequate idea of the wretchedness of an hospital; every thing is left to the care of people intent on gain. The attendants seem to have lost all feeling of compassion in the bustling discharge of their offices; death is so familiar to them, that they are not anxious to ward it off. Every thing appeared to be conducted for the accommodation of the medical men and their pupils, who came to make experiments on the poor, for the benefit of the rich. One of the physicians, I must not forget to mention, gave me half-a-crown, and ordered me some wine, when I was at the lowest ebb. I thought of making my case known to the lady-like matron; but her forbidding countenance prevented me. She condescended to look on the patients, and make general enquiries, two or three times a week; but the nurses knew the hour when the visit of ceremony would commence, and every thing was as it should be.

"After my dismission, I was more at a loss than ever for a subsistence, and, not to weary you with a repetition of the same unavailing attempts, unable to stand at the washing-tub, I began to consider the rich and poor as natural enemies, and became a thief from principle. I could not now cease to reason, but I hated mankind. I despised myself, yet I justified my conduct. I was taken, tried, and condemned to six months' imprisonment in a house of correction. My soul recoils with horror from the remembrance of the insults I had to endure, till, branded with shame, I was turned loose in the street, pennyless. I wandered from street to street, till, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, I sunk down senseless at a door, where I had vainly demanded a morsel of bread. I was sent by the inhabitant to the work-house, to which he had surlily bid me go, saying, he 'paid enough in conscience to the poor,' when, with parched tongue, I implored his charity. If those well-meaning people who exclaim against beggars, were acquainted with the treatment the poor receive in many of these wretched asylums, they would not stifle so easily involuntary sympathy, by saying that they have all parishes to go to, or wonder that the poor dread to enter the gloomy walls. What are the common run of work-houses, but prisons, in which many respectable old people, worn out by immoderate labour, sink into the grave in sorrow, to which they are carried like dogs!"

Alarmed by some indistinct noise, Jemima rose hastily to listen, and Maria, turning to Darnford, said, "I have indeed been shocked beyond expression when I have met a pauper's funeral. A coffin carried on the shoulders of three or four ill-looking wretches, whom the imagination might easily convert into a band of assassins, hastening to conceal the corpse, and quarrelling about the prey on their way. I know it is of little consequence how we are consigned to the earth; but I am led by this brutal insensibility, to what even the animal creation appears forcibly to feel, to advert to the wretched, deserted manner in which they died."

"True," rejoined Darnford, "and, till the rich will give more than a part of their wealth, till they will give time and attention to the wants of the distressed, never let them boast of charity. Let them open their hearts, and not their purses, and employ their minds in the service, if they are really actuated by humanity; or charitable institutions will always be the prey of the lowest order of knaves."

Jemima returning, seemed in haste to finish her tale. "The overseer farmed the poor of different parishes, and out of the bowels of poverty was wrung the money with which he purchased this dwelling, as a private receptacle for madness. He had been a keeper at a house of the same description, and conceived that he could make money much more readily in his old occupation. He is a shrewd—shall I say it?—villain. He observed something resolute in my manner, and offered to take me with him, and instruct me how to treat the disturbed minds he meant to intrust to my care. The offer of forty pounds a year, and to quit a workhouse, was not to be despised, though the condition of shutting my eyes and hardening my heart was annexed to it.

"I agreed to accompany him; and four years have I been attendant on many wretches, and"—she lowered her voice,—"the witness of many enormities. In solitude my mind seemed to recover its force, and many of the sentiments which I imbibed in the only tolerable period of my life, returned with their full force. Still what should induce me to be the champion for suffering humanity?—Who ever risked any thing for me?—Who ever acknowledged me to be a fellow-creature?"—

Maria took her hand, and Jemima, more overcome by kindness than she had ever been by cruelty, hastened out of the room to conceal her emotions.

Darnford soon after heard his summons, and, taking leave of him, Maria promised to gratify his curiosity, with respect to herself, the first opportunity.

FOOTNOTES:

[114-A] The copy which appears to have received the author's last corrections, ends at this place.

CHAP. VI.

Active as love was in the heart of Maria, the story she had just heard made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope closed, as if they had put forth too early, and the the happiest day of her life was overcast by the most melancholy reflections. Thinking of Jemima's peculiar fate and her own, she was led to consider the oppressed state of women, and to lament that she had given birth to a daughter. Sleep fled from her eyelids, while she dwelt on the wretchedness of unprotected infancy, till sympathy with Jemima changed to agony, when it seemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very state she so forcibly described.

Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had rather been benumbed than killed, by the keen frost she had to brave at her entrance into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, surely would not be fruitless; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it would afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only subject of reflection; and she watched impatiently for the dawn of day, with that determinate purpose which generally insures success.

At the usual hour, Jemima brought her breakfast, and a tender note from Darnford. She ran her eye hastily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded up the rapture a fresh assurance of affection, affection such as she wished to inspire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from its design. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria alluded to the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to the exclusion of sleep. She spoke with energy of Jemima's unmerited sufferings, and of the fate of a number of deserted females, placed within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impossible to escape. Perceiving the effect her conversation produced on the countenance of her guard, she grasped the arm of Jemima with that irresistible warmth which defies repulse, exclaiming—"With your heart, and such dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe of a mother's tenderness, a mother's care? In the name of God, assist me to snatch her from destruction! Let me but give her an education—let me but prepare her body and mind to encounter the ills which await her sex, and I will teach her to consider you as her second mother, and herself as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me—observe me closely, and read my very soul; you merit a better fate;" she held out her hand with a firm gesture of assurance; "and I will procure it for you, as a testimony of my esteem, as well as of my gratitude."

Jemima had not power to resist this persuasive torrent; and, owning that the house in which she was confined, was situated on the banks of the Thames, only a few miles from London, and not on the sea-coast, as Darnford had supposed, she promised to invent some excuse for her absence, and go herself to trace the situation, and enquire concerning the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention to do something more, but she seemed unwilling to impart her design; and Maria, glad to have obtained the main point, thought it best to leave her to the workings of her own mind; convinced that she had the power of interesting her still more in favour of herself and child, by a simple recital of facts.

In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow she should hasten to town before the family hour of rising, and received all the information necessary, as a clue to her search. The "Good night!" Maria uttered was peculiarly solemn and affectionate. Glad expectation sparkled in her eye; and, for the first time since her detention, she pronounced the name of her child with pleasureable fondness; and, with all the garrulity of a nurse, described her first smile when she recognized her mother. Recollecting herself, a still kinder "Adieu!" with a "God bless you!"—that seemed to include a maternal benediction, dismissed Jemima.

The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, lengthened by impatiently dwelling on the same idea, was intolerably wearisome. She listened for the sound of a particular clock, which some directions of the wind allowed her to hear distinctly. She marked the shadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening into darkness, her breath seemed oppressed while she anxiously counted nine.—The last sound was a stroke of despair on her heart; for she expected every moment, without seeing Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the savage female who supplied her place. She was even obliged to prepare for bed, restless as she was, not to disoblige her new attendant. She had been cautioned not to speak too freely to her; but the caution was needless, her countenance would still more emphatically have made her shrink back. Such was the ferocity of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of this hag, that Maria was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promised to see her before her door was shut for the night, came not?—and, when the key turned in the lock, to consign her to a night of suspence, she felt a degree of anguish which the circumstances scarcely justified.

Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the sound of a footstep, made her start and tremble with apprehension, something like what she felt, when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, she began to doubt whether she were not surrounded by demons?

Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms, she looked like a spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; especially as her eyes darted out of her head, to read in Jemima's countenance, almost as pallid, the intelligence she dared not trust her tongue to demand. Jemima put down the tea-things, and appeared very busy in arranging the table. Maria took up a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly recovering her fortitude, and restraining the convulsive movement which agitated the muscles of her mouth, she said, "Spare yourself the pain of preparing me for your information, I adjure you!—My child is dead!" Jemima solemnly answered, "Yes;" with a look expressive of compassion and angry emotions. "Leave me," added Maria, making a fresh effort to govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to conceal her anguish—"It is enough—I know that my babe is no more—I will hear the particulars when I am"—calmer, she could not utter; and Jemima, without importuning her by idle attempts to console her, left the room.

Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit Darnford's visits; and such is the force of early associations even on strong minds, that, for a while, she indulged the superstitious notion that she was justly punished by the death of her child, for having for an instant ceased to regret her loss. Two or three letters from Darnford, full of soothing, manly tenderness, only added poignancy to these accusing emotions; yet the passionate style in which he expressed, what he termed the first and fondest wish of his heart, "that his affection might make her some amends for the cruelty and injustice she had endured," inspired a sentiment of gratitude to heaven; and her eyes filled with delicious tears, when, at the conclusion of his letter, wishing to supply the place of her unworthy relations, whose want of principle he execrated, he assured her, calling her his dearest girl, "that it should henceforth be the business of his life to make her happy."

He begged, in a note sent the following morning, to be permitted to see her, when his presence would be no intrusion on her grief; and so earnestly intreated to be allowed, according to promise, to beguile the tedious moments of absence, by dwelling on the events of her past life, that she sent him the memoirs which had been written for her daughter, promising Jemima the perusal as soon as he returned them.

CHAP. VII.

"Addressing these memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I shall ever have an opportunity of instructing you, many observations will probably flow from my heart, which only a mother—a mother schooled in misery, could make.

"The tenderness of a father who knew the world, might be great; but could it equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion of the misery, which the constitution of society seems to have entailed on all her kind? It is, my child, my dearest daughter, only such a mother, who will dare to break through all restraint to provide for your happiness—who will voluntarily brave censure herself, to ward off sorrow from your bosom. From my narrative, my dear girl, you may gather the instruction, the counsel, which is meant rather to exercise than influence your mind.—Death may snatch me from you, before you can weigh my advice, or enter into my reasoning: I would then, with fond anxiety, lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to save you from the vain regret of having, through irresolution, let the spring-tide of existence pass away, unimproved, unenjoyed.—Gain experience—ah! gain it—while experience is worth having, and acquire sufficient fortitude to pursue your own happiness; it includes your utility, by a direct path. What is wisdom too often, but the owl of the goddess, who sits moping in a desolated heart; around me she shrieks, but I would invite all the gay warblers of spring to nestle in your blooming bosom.—Had I not wasted years in deliberating, after I ceased to doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be useful and happy.—For my sake, warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will not pass through existence without enjoying its genuine blessings, love and respect.

"Born in one of the most romantic parts of England, an enthusiastic fondness for the varying charms of nature is the first sentiment I recollect; or rather it was the first consciousness of pleasure that employed and formed my imagination.

"My father had been a captain of a man of war; but, disgusted with the service, on account of the preferment of men whose chief merit was their family connections or borough interest, he retired into the country; and, not knowing what to do with himself—married. In his family, to regain his lost consequence, he determined to keep up the same passive obedience, as in the vessels in which he had commanded. His orders were not to be disputed; and the whole house was expected to fly, at the word of command, as if to man the shrouds, or mount aloft in an elemental strife, big with life or death. He was to be instantaneously obeyed, especially by my mother, whom he very benevolently married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation, when she dared, in the slightest instance, to question his absolute authority. My eldest brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more respect by my father; and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the house. The representative of my father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the darling of my mother, he did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such indeed was my mother's extravagant partiality, that, in comparison with her affection for him, she might be said not to love the rest of her children. Yet none of the children seemed to have so little affection for her. Extreme indulgence had rendered him so selfish, that he only thought of himself; and from tormenting insects and animals, he became the despot of his brothers, and still more of his sisters.

"It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which obscured the morning of my life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters; unconditional submission to orders, which, as a mere child, I soon discovered to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory. Thus are we destined to experience a mixture of bitterness, with the recollection of our most innocent enjoyments.

"The circumstances which, during my childhood, occurred to fashion my mind, were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleasure to revive the fading remembrance of new-born delight, than you, my child, could feel in the perusal, I will not entice you to stray with me into the verdant meadow, to search for the flowers that youthful hopes scatter in every path; though, as I write, I almost scent the fresh green of spring—of that spring which never returns!

"I had two sisters, and one brother, younger than myself; my brother Robert was two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his parents, and the torment of the rest of the family. Such indeed is the force of prejudice, that what was called spirit and wit in him, was cruelly repressed as forwardness in me.

"My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from paying much attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a neighbouring heath, on which we bounded at pleasure, volatilized the humours that improper food might have generated. And to enjoy open air and freedom, was paradise, after the unnatural restraint of our fire-side, where we were often obliged to sit three or four hours together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out of humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boisterous amusement. I had however one advantage, an instructor, the brother of my father, who, intended for the church, had of course received a liberal education. But, becoming attached to a young lady of great beauty and large fortune, and acquiring in the world some opinions not consonant with the profession for which he was designed, he accepted, with the most sanguine expectations of success, the offer of a nobleman to accompany him to India, as his confidential secretary.

"A correspondence was regularly kept up with the object of his affection; and the intricacies of business, peculiarly wearisome to a man of a romantic turn of mind, contributed, with a forced absence, to increase his attachment. Every other passion was lost in this master-one, and only served to swell the torrent. Her relations, such were his waking dreams, who had despised him, would court in their turn his alliance, and all the blandishments of taste would grace the triumph of love.—While he basked in the warm sunshine of love, friendship also promised to shed its dewy freshness; for a friend, whom he loved next to his mistress, was the confident, who forwarded the letters from one to the other, to elude the observation of prying relations. A friend false in similar circumstances, is, my dearest girl, an old tale; yet, let not this example, or the frigid caution of cold-blooded moralists, make you endeavour to stifle hopes, which are the buds that naturally unfold themselves during the spring of life! Whilst your own heart is sincere, always expect to meet one glowing with the same sentiments; for to fly from pleasure, is not to avoid pain!

"My uncle realized, by good luck, rather than management, a handsome fortune; and returning on the wings of love, lost in the most enchanting reveries, to England, to share it with his mistress and his friend, he found them—united.

"There were some circumstances, not necessary for me to recite, which aggravated the guilt of the friend beyond measure, and the deception, that had been carried on to the last moment, was so base, it produced the most violent effect on my uncle's health and spirits. His native country, the world! lately a garden of blooming sweets, blasted by treachery, seemed changed into a parched desert, the abode of hissing serpents. Disappointment rankled in his heart; and, brooding over his wrongs, he was attacked by a raging fever, followed by a derangement of mind, which only gave place to habitual melancholy, as he recovered more strength of body.

"Declaring an intention never to marry, his relations were ever clustering about him, paying the grossest adulation to a man, who, disgusted with mankind, received them with scorn, or bitter sarcasms. Something in my countenance pleased him, when I began to prattle. Since his return, he appeared dead to affection; but I soon, by showing him innocent fondness, became a favourite; and endeavouring to enlarge and strengthen my mind, I grew dear to him in proportion as I imbibed his sentiments. He had a forcible manner of speaking, rendered more so by a certain impressive wildness of look and gesture, calculated to engage the attention of a young and ardent mind. It is not then surprising that I quickly adopted his opinions in preference, and reverenced him as one of a superior order of beings. He inculcated, with great warmth, self-respect, and a lofty consciousness of acting right, independent of the censure or applause of the world; nay, he almost taught me to brave, and even despise its censure, when convinced of the rectitude of my own intentions.

"Endeavouring to prove to me that nothing which deserved the name of love or friendship, existed in the world, he drew such animated pictures of his own feelings, rendered permanent by disappointment, as imprinted the sentiments strongly on my heart, and animated my imagination. These remarks are necessary to elucidate some peculiarities in my character, which by the world are indefinitely termed romantic.

"My uncle's increasing affection led him to visit me often. Still, unable to rest in any place, he did not remain long in the country to soften domestic tyranny; but he brought me books, for which I had a passion, and they conspired with his conversation, to make me form an ideal picture of life. I shall pass over the tyranny of my father, much as I suffered from it; but it is necessary to notice, that it undermined my mother's health; and that her temper, continually irritated by domestic bickering, became intolerably peevish.

"My eldest brother was articled to a neighbouring attorney, the shrewdest, and, I may add, the most unprincipled man in that part of the country. As my brother generally came home every Saturday, to astonish my mother by exhibiting his attainments, he gradually assumed a right of directing the whole family, not excepting my father. He seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humbling me; and if I ever ventured to complain of this treatment to either my father or mother, I was rudely rebuffed for presuming to judge of the conduct of my eldest brother.

"About this period a merchant's family came to settle in our neighbourhood. A mansion-house in the village, lately purchased, had been preparing the whole spring, and the sight of the costly furniture, sent from London, had excited my mother's envy, and roused my father's pride. My sensations were very different, and all of a pleasurable kind. I longed to see new characters, to break the tedious monotony of my life; and to find a friend, such as fancy had pourtrayed. I cannot then describe the emotion I felt, the Sunday they made their appearance at church. My eyes were rivetted on the pillar round which I expected first to catch a glimpse of them, and darted forth to meet a servant who hastily preceded a group of ladies, whose white robes and waving plumes, seemed to stream along the gloomy aisle, diffusing the light, by which I contemplated their figures.

"We visited them in form; and I quickly selected the eldest daughter for my friend. The second son, George, paid me particular attention, and finding his attainments and manners superior to those of the young men of the village, I began to imagine him superior to the rest of mankind. Had my home been more comfortable, or my previous acquaintance more numerous, I should not probably have been so eager to open my heart to new affections.

"Mr. Venables, the merchant, had acquired a large fortune by unremitting attention to business; but his health declining rapidly, he was obliged to retire, before his son, George, had acquired sufficient experience, to enable him to conduct their affairs on the same prudential plan, his father had invariably pursued. Indeed, he had laboured to throw off his authority, having despised his narrow plans and cautious speculation. The eldest son could not be prevailed on to enter the firm; and, to oblige his wife, and have peace in the house, Mr. Venables had purchased a commission for him in the guards.

"I am now alluding to circumstances which came to my knowledge long after; but it is necessary, my dearest child, that you should know the character of your father, to prevent your despising your mother; the only parent inclined to discharge a parent's duty. In London, George had acquired habits of libertinism, which he carefully concealed from his father and his commercial connections. The mask he wore, was so complete a covering of his real visage, that the praise his father lavished on his conduct, and, poor mistaken man! on his principles, contrasted with his brother's, rendered the notice he took of me peculiarly flattering. Without any fixed design, as I am now convinced, he continued to single me out at the dance, press my hand at parting, and utter expressions of unmeaning passion, to which I gave a meaning naturally suggested by the romantic turn of my thoughts. His stay in the country was short; his manners did not entirely please me; but, when he left us, the colouring of my picture became more vivid—Whither did not my imagination lead me? In short, I fancied myself in love—in love with the disinterestedness, fortitude, generosity, dignity, and humanity, with which I had invested the hero I dubbed. A circumstance which soon after occurred, rendered all these virtues palpable. [The incident is perhaps worth relating on other accounts, and therefore I shall describe it distinctly.]

"I had a great affection for my nurse, old Mary, for whom I used often to work, to spare her eyes. Mary had a younger sister, married to a sailor, while she was suckling me; for my mother only suckled my eldest brother, which might be the cause of her extraordinary partiality. Peggy, Mary's sister, lived with her, till her husband, becoming a mate in a West-India trader, got a little before-hand in the world. He wrote to his wife from the first port in the Channel, after his most successful voyage, to request her to come to London to meet him; he even wished her to determine on living there for the future, to save him the trouble of coming to her the moment he came on shore; and to turn a penny by keeping a green-stall. It was too much to set out on a journey the moment he had finished a voyage, and fifty miles by land, was worse than a thousand leagues by sea.

"She packed up her alls, and came to London—but did not meet honest Daniel. A common misfortune prevented her, and the poor are bound to suffer for the good of their country—he was pressed in the river—and never came on shore.

"Peggy was miserable in London, not knowing, as she said, 'the face of any living soul.' Besides, her imagination had been employed, anticipating a month or six weeks' happiness with her husband. Daniel was to have gone with her to Sadler's Wells, and Westminster Abbey, and to many sights, which he knew she never heard of in the country. Peggy too was thrifty, and how could she manage to put his plan in execution alone? He had acquaintance; but she did not know the very name of their places of abode. His letters were made up of—How do you does, and God bless yous,—information was reserved for the hour of meeting.

"She too had her portion of information, near at heart. Molly and Jacky were grown such little darlings, she was almost angry that daddy did not see their tricks. She had not half the pleasure she should have had from their prattle, could she have recounted to him each night the pretty speeches of the day. Some stories, however, were stored up—and Jacky could say papa with such a sweet voice, it must delight his heart. Yet when she came, and found no Daniel to greet her, when Jacky called papa, she wept, bidding 'God bless his innocent soul, that did not know what sorrow was.'—But more sorrow was in store for Peggy, innocent as she was.—Daniel was killed in the first engagement, and then the papa was agony, sounding to the heart.

"She had lived sparingly on his wages, while there was any hope of his return; but, that gone, she returned with a breaking heart to the country, to a little market town, nearly three miles from our village. She did not like to go to service, to be snubbed about, after being her own mistress. To put her children out to nurse was impossible: how far would her wages go? and to send them to her husband's parish, a distant one, was to lose her husband twice over.

"I had heard all from Mary, and made my uncle furnish a little cottage for her, to enable her to sell—so sacred was poor Daniel's advice, now he was dead and gone—a little fruit, toys and cakes. The minding of the shop did not require her whole time, nor even the keeping her children clean, and she loved to see them clean; so she took in washing, and altogether made a shift to earn bread for her children, still weeping for Daniel, when Jacky's arch looks made her think of his father.—It was pleasant to work for her children.—'Yes; from morning till night, could she have had a kiss from their father, God rest his soul! Yes; had it pleased Providence to have let him come back without a leg or an arm, it would have been the same thing to her—for she did not love him because he maintained them—no; she had hands of her own.'

"The country people were honest, and Peggy left her linen out to dry very late. A recruiting party, as she supposed, passing through, made free with a large wash; for it was all swept away, including her own and her children's little stock.

"This was a dreadful blow; two dozen of shirts, stocks and handkerchiefs. She gave the money which she had laid by for half a year's rent, and promised to pay two shillings a week till all was cleared; so she did not lose her employment. This two shillings a week, and the buying a few necessaries for the children, drove her so hard, that she had not a penny to pay her rent with, when a twelvemonth's became due.

"She was now with Mary, and had just told her tale, which Mary instantly repeated—it was intended for my ear. Many houses in this town, producing a borough-interest, were included in the estate purchased by Mr. Venables, and the attorney with whom my brother lived, was appointed his agent, to collect and raise the rents.

"He demanded Peggy's, and, in spite of her intreaties, her poor goods had been seized and sold. So that she had not, and what was worse her children, 'for she had known sorrow enough,' a bed to lie on. She knew that I was good-natured—right charitable, yet not liking to ask for more than needs must, she scorned to petition while people could any how be made to wait. But now, should she be turned out of doors, she must expect nothing less than to lose all her customers, and then she must beg or starve—and what would become of her children?—'had Daniel not been pressed—but God knows best—all this could not have happened.'

"I had two mattrasses on my bed; what did I want with two, when such a worthy creature must lie on the ground? My mother would be angry, but I could conceal it till my uncle came down; and then I would tell him all the whole truth, and if he absolved me, heaven would.

"I begged the house-maid to come up stairs with me (servants always feel for the distresses of poverty, and so would the rich if they knew what it was). She assisted me to tie up the mattrass; I discovering, at the same time, that one blanket would serve me till winter, could I persuade my sister, who slept with me, to keep my secret. She entering in the midst of the package, I gave her some new feathers, to silence her. We got the mattrass down the back stairs, unperceived, and I helped to carry it, taking with me all the money I had, and what I could borrow from my sister.

"When I got to the cottage, Peggy declared that she would not take what I had brought secretly; but, when, with all the eager eloquence inspired by a decided purpose, I grasped her hand with weeping eyes, assuring her that my uncle would screen me from blame, when he was once more in the country, describing, at the same time, what she would suffer in parting with her children, after keeping them so long from being thrown on the parish, she reluctantly consented.

"My project of usefulness ended not here; I determined to speak to the attorney; he frequently paid me compliments. His character did not intimidate me; but, imagining that Peggy must be mistaken, and that no man could turn a deaf ear to such a tale of complicated distress, I determined to walk to the town with Mary the next morning, and request him to wait for the rent, and keep my secret, till my uncle's return.

"My repose was sweet; and, waking with the first dawn of day, I bounded to Mary's cottage. What charms do not a light heart spread over nature! Every bird that twittered in a bush, every flower that enlivened the hedge, seemed placed there to awaken me to rapture—yes; to rapture. The present moment was full fraught with happiness; and on futurity I bestowed not a thought, excepting to anticipate my success with the attorney.

"This man of the world, with rosy face and simpering features, received me politely, nay kindly; listened with complacency to my remonstrances, though he scarcely heeded Mary's tears. I did not then suspect, that my eloquence was in my complexion, the blush of seventeen, or that, in a world where humanity to women is the characteristic of advancing civilization, the beauty of a young girl was so much more interesting than the distress of an old one. Pressing my hand, he promised to let Peggy remain in the house as long as I wished.—I more than returned the pressure—I was so grateful and so happy. Emboldened by my innocent warmth, he then kissed me—and I did not draw back—I took it for a kiss of charity.

"Gay as a lark, I went to dine at Mr. Venables'. I had previously obtained five shillings from my father, towards re-clothing the poor children of my care, and prevailed on my mother to take one of the girls into the house, whom I determined to teach to work and read.

"After dinner, when the younger part of the circle retired to the music room, I recounted with energy my tale; that is, I mentioned Peggy's distress, without hinting at the steps I had taken to relieve her. Miss Venables gave me half-a-crown; the heir five shillings; but George sat unmoved. I was cruelly distressed by the disappointment—I scarcely could remain on my chair; and, could I have got out of the room unperceived, I should have flown home, as if to run away from myself. After several vain attempts to rise, I leaned my head against the marble chimney-piece, and gazing on the evergreens that filled the fire-place, moralized on the vanity of human expectations; regardless of the company. I was roused by a gentle tap on my shoulder from behind Charlotte's chair. I turned my head, and George slid a guinea into my hand, putting his finger to his mouth, to enjoin me silence.

"What a revolution took place, not only in my train of thoughts, but feelings! I trembled with emotion—now, indeed, I was in love. Such delicacy too, to enhance his benevolence! I felt in my pocket every five minutes, only to feel the guinea; and its magic touch invested my hero with more than mortal beauty. My fancy had found a basis to erect its model of perfection on; and quickly went to work, with all the happy credulity of youth, to consider that heart as devoted to virtue, which had only obeyed a virtuous impulse. The bitter experience was yet to come, that has taught me how very distinct are the principles of virtue, from the casual feelings from which they germinate.

CHAP. VIII.

"I have perhaps dwelt too long on a circumstance, which is only of importance as it marks the progress of a deception that has been so fatal to my peace; and introduces to your notice a poor girl, whom, intending to serve, I led to ruin. Still it is probable that I was not entirely the victim of mistake; and that your father, gradually fashioned by the world, did not quickly become what I hesitate to call him—out of respect to my daughter.

"But, to hasten to the more busy scenes of my life. Mr. Venables and my mother died the same summer; and, wholly engrossed by my attention to her, I thought of little else. The neglect of her darling, my brother Robert, had a violent effect on her weakened mind; for, though boys may be reckoned the pillars of the house without doors, girls are often the only comfort within. They but too frequently waste their health and spirits attending a dying parent, who leaves them in comparative poverty. After closing, with filial piety, a father's eyes, they are chased from the paternal roof, to make room for the first-born, the son, who is to carry the empty family-name down to posterity; though, occupied with his own pleasures, he scarcely thought of discharging, in the decline of his parent's life, the debt contracted in his childhood. My mother's conduct led me to make these reflections. Great as was the fatigue I endured, and the affection my unceasing solicitude evinced, of which my mother seemed perfectly sensible, still, when my brother, whom I could hardly persuade to remain a quarter of an hour in her chamber, was with her alone, a short time before her death, she gave him a little hoard, which she had been some years accumulating.

"During my mother's illness, I was obliged to manage my father's temper, who, from the lingering nature of her malady, began to imagine that it was merely fancy. At this period, an artful kind of upper servant attracted my father's attention, and the neighbours made many remarks on the finery, not honestly got, exhibited at evening service. But I was too much occupied with my mother to observe any change in her dress or behaviour, or to listen to the whisper of scandal.

"I shall not dwell on the death-bed scene, lively as is the remembrance, or on the emotion produced by the last grasp of my mother's cold hand; when blessing me, she added, 'A little patience, and all will be over!' Ah! my child, how often have those words rung mournfully in my ears—and I have exclaimed—'A little more patience, and I too shall be at rest!'

"My father was violently affected by her death, recollected instances of his unkindness, and wept like a child.

"My mother had solemnly recommended my sisters to my care, and bid me be a mother to them. They, indeed, became more dear to me as they became more forlorn; for, during my mother's illness, I discovered the ruined state of my father's circumstances, and that he had only been able to keep up appearances, by the sums which he borrowed of my uncle.

"My father's grief, and consequent tenderness to his children, quickly abated, the house grew still more gloomy or riotous; and my refuge from care was again at Mr. Venables'; the young 'squire having taken his father's place, and allowing, for the present, his sister to preside at his table. George, though dissatisfied with his portion of the fortune, which had till lately been all in trade, visited the family as usual. He was now full of speculations in trade, and his brow became clouded by care. He seemed to relax in his attention to me, when the presence of my uncle gave a new turn to his behaviour. I was too unsuspecting, too disinterested, to trace these changes to their source.

My home every day became more and more disagreeable to me; my liberty was unnecessarily abridged, and my books, on the pretext that they made me idle, taken from me. My father's mistress was with child, and he, doating on her, allowed or overlooked her vulgar manner of tyrannizing over us. I was indignant, especially when I saw her endeavouring to attract, shall I say seduce? my younger brother. By allowing women but one way of rising in the world, the fostering the libertinism of men, society makes monsters of them, and then their ignoble vices are brought forward as a proof of inferiority of intellect.

The wearisomeness of my situation can scarcely be described. Though my life had not passed in the most even tenour with my mother, it was paradise to that I was destined to endure with my father's mistress, jealous of her illegitimate authority. My father's former occasional tenderness, in spite of his violence of temper, had been soothing to me; but now he only met me with reproofs or portentous frowns. The house-keeper, as she was now termed, was the vulgar despot of the family; and assuming the new character of a fine lady, she could never forgive the contempt which was sometimes visible in my countenance, when she uttered with pomposity her bad English, or affected to be well bred.

To my uncle I ventured to open my heart; and he, with his wonted benevolence, began to consider in what manner he could extricate me out of my present irksome situation. In spite of his own disappointment, or, most probably, actuated by the feelings that had been petrified, not cooled, in all their sanguine fervour, like a boiling torrent of lava suddenly dashing into the sea, he thought a marriage of mutual inclination (would envious stars permit it) the only chance for happiness in this disastrous world. George Venables had the reputation of being attentive to business, and my father's example gave great weight to this circumstance; for habits of order in business would, he conceived, extend to the regulation of the affections in domestic life. George seldom spoke in my uncle's company, except to utter a short, judicious question, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due deference to his superior judgment; so that my uncle seldom left his company without observing, that the young man had more in him than people supposed.

In this opinion he was not singular; yet, believe me, and I am not swayed by resentment, these speeches so justly poized, this silent deference, when the animal spirits of other young people were throwing off youthful ebullitions, were not the effect of thought or humility, but sheer barrenness of mind, and want of imagination. A colt of mettle will curvet and shew his paces. Yes; my dear girl, these prudent young men want all the fire necessary to ferment their faculties, and are characterized as wise, only because they are not foolish. It is true, that George was by no means so great a favourite of mine as during the first year of our acquaintance; still, as he often coincided in opinion with me, and echoed my sentiments; and having myself no other attachment, I heard with pleasure my uncle's proposal; but thought more of obtaining my freedom, than of my lover. But, when George, seemingly anxious for my happiness, pressed me to quit my present painful situation, my heart swelled with gratitude—I knew not that my uncle had promised him five thousand pounds.

Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I should have insisted on a thousand pounds being settled on each of my sisters; George would have contested; I should have seen his selfish soul; and—gracious God! have been spared the misery of discovering, when too late, that I was united to a heartless, unprincipled wretch. All my schemes of usefulness would not then have been blasted. The tenderness of my heart would not have heated my imagination with visions of the ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the sweet duty of a mother have been so cruelly interrupted.

But I must not suffer the fortitude I have so hardly acquired, to be undermined by unavailing regret. Let me hasten forward to describe the turbid stream in which I had to wade—but let me exultingly declare that it is passed—my soul holds fellowship with him no more. He cut the Gordian knot, which my principles, mistaken ones, respected; he dissolved the tie, the fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—and I should rejoice, conscious that my mind is freed, though confined in hell itself; the only place that even fancy can imagine more dreadful than my present abode.

These varying emotions will not allow me to proceed. I heave sigh after sigh; yet my heart is still oppressed. For what am I reserved? Why was I not born a man, or why was I born at all?

END OF VOL. I.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.

VOL. I.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

THE

WRONGS OF WOMAN:

OR,

MARIA.

A FRAGMENT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The public are here preſented with the laſt literary attempt of an author, whoſe fame has been uncommonly extenſive, and whoſe talents have probably been moſt admired, by the perſons by whom talents are eſtimated with the greateſt accuracy and diſcrimination. There are few, to whom her writings could in any caſe have given pleaſure, that would have wiſhed that this fragment ſhould have been ſuppreſſed, becauſe it is a fragment. There is a ſentiment, very dear to minds of taſte and imagination, that finds a melancholy delight in contemplating theſe unfiniſhed productions of genius, theſe ſketches of what, if they had been filled up in a manner adequate to the writer's conception, would perhaps have given a new impulſe to the manners of a world.

The purpoſe and ſtructure of the following work, had long formed a favourite ſubject of meditation with its author, and ſhe judged them capable of producing an important effect. The compoſition had been in progreſs for a period of twelve months. She was anxious to do juſtice to her conception, and recommenced and reviſed the manuſcript ſeveral different times. So much of it as is here given to the public, ſhe was far from conſidering as finiſhed, and, in a letter to a friend directly written on this ſubject, ſhe ſays, "I am perfectly aware that ſome of the incidents ought to be tranſpoſed, and heightened by more harmonious ſhading; and I wiſhed in ſome degree to avail myſelf of criticiſm, before I began to adjuſt my events into a ſtory, the outline of which I had ſketched in my mind[x-A]." The only friends to whom the author communicated her manuſcript, were Mr. Dyſon, the tranſlator of the Sorcerer, and the preſent editor; and it was impoſſible for the moſt inexperienced author to diſplay a ſtronger deſire of profiting by the cenſures and ſentiments that might be ſuggeſted[x-B].

In reviſing theſe ſheets for the preſs, it was neceſſary for the editor, in ſome places, to connect the more finiſhed parts with the pages of an older copy, and a line or two in addition ſometimes appeared requiſite for that purpoſe. Wherever ſuch a liberty has been taken, the additional phraſes will be found incloſed in brackets; it being the editor's moſt earneſt deſire, to intrude nothing of himſelf into the work, but to give to the public the words, as well as ideas, of the real author.

What follows in the enſuing pages, is not a preface regularly drawn out by the author, but merely hints for a preface, which, though never filled up in the manner the writer intended, appeared to be worth preſerving.

W. GODWIN.

AUTHOR's PREFACE.

The Wrongs of Woman, like the wrongs of the oppreſſed part of mankind, may be deemed neceſſary by their oppreſſors: but ſurely there are a few, who will dare to advance before the improvement of the age, and grant that my ſketches are not the abortion of a diſtempered fancy, or the ſtrong delineations of a wounded heart.

In writing this novel, I have rather endeavoured to pourtray paſſions than manners.

In many inſtances I could have made the incidents more dramatic, would I have ſacrificed my main object, the deſire of exhibiting the miſery and oppreſſion, peculiar to women, that ariſe out of the partial laws and cuſtoms of ſociety.

In the invention of the ſtory, this view reſtrained my fancy; and the hiſtory ought rather to be conſidered, as of woman, than of an individual.

The ſentiments I have embodied.

In many works of this ſpecies, the hero is allowed to be mortal, and to become wiſe and virtuous as well as happy, by a train of events and circumſtances. The heroines, on the contrary, are to be born immaculate; and to act like goddeſſes of wiſdom, juſt come forth highly finiſhed Minervas from the head of Jove.

[The following is an extract of a letter from the author to a friend, to whom ſhe communicated her manuſcript.]

For my part, I cannot ſuppoſe any ſituation more diſtreſſing, than for a woman of ſenſibility, with an improving mind, to be bound to ſuch a man as I have deſcribed for life; obliged to renounce all the humanizing affections, and to avoid cultivating her taſte, leſt her perception of grace and refinement of ſentiment, ſhould ſharpen to agony the pangs of diſappointment. Love, in which the imagination mingles its bewitching colouring, muſt be foſtered by delicacy. I ſhould deſpiſe, or rather call her an ordinary woman, who could endure ſuch a huſband as I have ſketched.

Theſe appear to me (matrimonial deſpotiſm of heart and conduct) to be the peculiar Wrongs of Woman, becauſe they degrade the mind. What are termed great miſfortunes, may more forcibly impreſs the mind of common readers; they have more of what may juſtly be termed ſtage-effect; but it is the delineation of finer ſenſations, which, in my opinion, conſtitutes the merit of our beſt novels. This is what I have in view; and to ſhow the wrongs of different claſſes of women, equally oppreſſive, though, from the difference of education, neceſſarily various.

FOOTNOTES:

[x-A] A more copious extract of this letter is ſubjoined to the author's preface.

[x-B] The part communicated conſiſted of the firſt fourteen chapters.

ERRATA.

Page 3, line 2, dele half.

P. 81 and 118, for brackets [—], read inverted commas " thus "

CONTENTS.

VOL. I. and II.

The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment: to which is added, the Firſt Book of a Series of Leſſons for Children.

VOL. III. and IV.

Letters and Miſcellaneous Pieces.

WRONGS

OF

WOMAN.

CHAP. I.

Abodes of horror have frequently been deſcribed, and caſtles, filled with ſpectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic ſpell of genius to harrow the ſoul, and abſorb the wondering mind. But, formed of ſuch ſtuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the manſion of deſpair, in one corner of which Maria ſat, endeavouring to recal her ſcattered thoughts!

Surpriſe, aſtoniſhment, that bordered on diſtraction, ſeemed to have ſuſpended her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen ſenſe of anguiſh, a whirlwind of rage and indignation rouſed her torpid pulſe. One recollection with frightful velocity following another, threatened to fire her brain, and make her a fit companion for the terrific inhabitants, whoſe groans and ſhrieks were no unſubſtantial ſounds of whiſtling winds, or ſtartled birds, modulated by a romantic fancy, which amuſe while they affright; but ſuch tones of miſery as carry a dreadful certainty directly to the heart. What effect muſt they then have produced on one, true to the touch of ſympathy, and tortured by maternal apprehenſion!

Her infant's image was continually floating on Maria's ſight, and the firſt ſmile of intelligence remembered, as none but a mother, an unhappy mother, can conceive. She heard her half ſpeaking cooing, and felt the little twinkling fingers on her burning boſom—a boſom burſting with the nutriment for which this cheriſhed child might now be pining in vain. From a ſtranger ſhe could indeed receive the maternal aliment, Maria was grieved at the thought—but who would watch her with a mother's tenderneſs, a mother's ſelf-denial?

The retreating ſhadows of former ſorrows ruſhed back in a gloomy train, and ſeemed to be pictured on the walls of her priſon, magnified by the ſtate of mind in which they were viewed—Still ſhe mourned for her child, lamented ſhe was a daughter, and anticipated the aggravated ills of life that her ſex rendered almoſt inevitable, even while dreading ſhe was no more. To think that ſhe was blotted out of exiſtence was agony, when the imagination had been long employed to expand her faculties; yet to ſuppoſe her turned adrift on an unknown ſea, was ſcarcely leſs afflicting.

After being two days the prey of impetuous, varying emotions, Maria began to reflect more calmly on her preſent ſituation, for ſhe had actually been rendered incapable of ſober reflection, by the diſcovery of the act of atrocity of which ſhe was the victim. She could not have imagined, that, in all the fermentation of civilized depravity, a ſimilar plot could have entered a human mind. She had been ſtunned by an unexpected blow; yet life, however joyleſs, was not to be indolently reſigned, or miſery endured without exertion, and proudly termed patience. She had hitherto meditated only to point the dart of anguiſh, and ſuppreſſed the heart heavings of indignant nature merely by the force of contempt. Now ſhe endeavoured to brace her mind to fortitude, and to aſk herſelf what was to be her employment in her dreary cell? Was it not to effect her eſcape, to fly to the ſuccour of her child, and to baffle the ſelfiſh ſchemes of her tyrant—her huſband?

Theſe thoughts rouſed her ſleeping ſpirit, and the ſelf-poſſeſſion returned, that ſeemed to have abandoned her in the infernal ſolitude into which ſhe had been precipitated. The firſt emotions of overwhelming impatience began to ſubſide, and reſentment gave place to tenderneſs, and more tranquil meditation; though anger once more ſtopt the calm current of reflection, when ſhe attempted to move her manacled arms. But this was an outrage that could only excite momentary feelings of ſcorn, which evaporated in a faint ſmile; for Maria was far from thinking a perſonal inſult the moſt difficult to endure with magnanimous indifference.

She approached the ſmall grated window of her chamber, and for a conſiderable time only regarded the blue expanſe; though it commanded a view of a deſolate garden, and of part of a huge pile of buildings, that, after having been ſuffered, for half a century, to fall to decay, had undergone ſome clumſy repairs, merely to render it habitable. The ivy had been torn off the turrets, and the ſtones not wanted to patch up the breaches of time, and exclude the warring elements, left in heaps in the diſordered court. Maria contemplated this ſcene ſhe knew not how long; or rather gazed on the walls, and pondered on her ſituation. To the maſter of this moſt horrid of priſons, ſhe had, ſoon after her entrance, raved of injuſtice, in accents that would have juſtified his treatment, had not a malignant ſmile, when ſhe appealed to his judgment, with a dreadful conviction ſtifled her remonſtrating complaints. By force, or openly, what could be done? But ſurely ſome expedient might occur to an active mind, without any other employment, and poſſeſſed of ſufficient reſolution to put the riſk of life into the balance with the chance of freedom.

A woman entered in the midſt of theſe reflections, with a firm, deliberate ſtep, ſtrongly marked features, and large black eyes, which ſhe fixed ſteadily on Maria's, as if ſhe deſigned to intimidate her, ſaying at the ſame time—"You had better ſit down and eat your dinner, than look at the clouds."

"I have no appetite," replied Maria, who had previouſly determined to ſpeak mildly, "why then ſhould I eat?"

"But, in ſpite of that, you muſt and ſhall eat ſomething. I have had many ladies under my care, who have reſolved to ſtarve themſelves; but, ſoon or late, they gave up their intent, as they recovered their ſenſes."

"Do you really think me mad?" aſked Maria, meeting the ſearching glance of her eye.

"Not juſt now. But what does that prove?—only that you muſt be the more carefully watched, for appearing at times ſo reaſonable. You have not touched a morſel ſince you entered the houſe."—Maria ſighed intelligibly.—"Could any thing but madneſs produce ſuch a diſguſt for food?"

"Yes, grief; you would not aſk the queſtion if you knew what it was." The attendant ſhook her head; and a ghaſtly ſmile of deſperate fortitude ſerved as a forcible reply, and made Maria pauſe, before ſhe added—"Yet I will take ſome refreſhment: I mean not to die.—No; I will preſerve my ſenſes; and convince even you, ſooner than you are aware of, that my intellects have never been diſturbed, though the exertion of them may have been ſuſpended by ſome infernal drug."

Doubt gathered ſtill thicker on the brow of her guard, as ſhe attempted to convict her of miſtake.

"Have patience!" exclaimed Maria, with a ſolemnity that inſpired awe. "My God! how have I been ſchooled into the practice!" A ſuffocation of voice betrayed the agonizing emotions ſhe was labouring to keep down; and conquering a qualm of diſguſt, ſhe calmly endeavoured to eat enough to prove her docility, perpetually turning to the ſuſpicious female, whoſe obſervation ſhe courted, while ſhe was making the bed and adjuſting the room.

"Come to me often," ſaid Maria, with a tone of perſuaſion, in conſequence of a vague plan that ſhe had haſtily adopted, when, after ſurveying this woman's form and features, ſhe felt convinced that ſhe had an underſtanding above the common ſtandard; "and believe me mad, till you are obliged to acknowledge the contrary." The woman was no fool, that is, ſhe was ſuperior to her claſs; nor had miſery quite petrified the life's-blood of humanity, to which reflections on our own miſfortunes only give a more orderly courſe. The manner, rather than the expoſtulations, of Maria made a ſlight ſuſpicion dart into her mind with correſponding ſympathy, which various other avocations, and the habit of baniſhing compunction, prevented her, for the preſent, from examining more minutely.

But when ſhe was told that no perſon, excepting the phyſician appointed by her family, was to be permitted to ſee the lady at the end of the gallery, ſhe opened her keen eyes ſtill wider, and uttered a—"hem!" before ſhe enquired—"Why?" She was briefly told, in reply, that the malady was hereditary, and the fits not occurring but at very long and irregular intervals, ſhe muſt be carefully watched; for the length of theſe lucid periods only rendered her more miſchievous, when any vexation or caprice brought on the paroxyſm of phrenſy.

Had her maſter truſted her, it is probable that neither pity nor curioſity would have made her ſwerve from the ſtraight line of her intereſt; for ſhe had ſuffered too much in her intercourſe with mankind, not to determine to look for ſupport, rather to humouring their paſſions, than courting their approbation by the integrity of her conduct. A deadly blight had met her at the very threſhold of exiſtence; and the wretchedneſs of her mother ſeemed a heavy weight faſtened on her innocent neck, to drag her down to perdition. She could not heroically determine to ſuccour an unfortunate; but, offended at the bare ſuppoſition that ſhe could be deceived with the ſame eaſe as a common ſervant, ſhe no longer curbed her curioſity; and, though ſhe never ſeriouſly fathomed her own intentions, ſhe would ſit, every moment ſhe could ſteal from obſervation, liſtening to the tale, which Maria was eager to relate with all the perſuaſive eloquence of grief.

It is ſo cheering to ſee a human face, even if little of the divinity of virtue beam in it, that Maria anxiouſly expected the return of the attendant, as of a gleam of light to break the gloom of idleneſs. Indulged ſorrow; ſhe perceived, muſt blunt or ſharpen the faculties to the two oppoſite extremes; producing ſtupidity, the moping melancholy of indolence; or the reſtleſs activity of a diſturbed imagination. She ſunk into one ſtate, after being fatigued by the other: till the want of occupation became even more painful than the actual preſſure or apprehenſion of ſorrow; and the confinement that froze her into a nook of exiſtence, with an unvaried proſpect before her, the moſt inſupportable of evils. The lamp of life ſeemed to be ſpending itſelf to chaſe the vapours of a dungeon which no art could diſſipate.—And to what purpoſe did ſhe rally all her energy?—Was not the world a vaſt priſon, and women born ſlaves?

Though ſhe failed immediately to rouſe a lively ſenſe of injuſtice in the mind of her guard, becauſe it had been ſophiſticated into miſanthropy, ſhe touched her heart. Jemima (ſhe had only a claim to a Chriſtian name, which had not procured her any Chriſtian privileges) could patiently hear of Maria's confinement on falſe pretences; ſhe had felt the cruſhing hand of power, hardened by the exerciſe of injuſtice, and ceaſed to wonder at the perverſions of the underſtanding, which ſyſtematize oppreſſion; but, when told that her child, only four months old, had been torn from her, even while ſhe was diſcharging the tendereſt maternal office, the woman awoke in a boſom long eſtranged from feminine emotions, and Jemima determined to alleviate all in her power, without hazarding the loſs of her place, the ſufferings of a wretched mother, apparently injured, and certainly unhappy. A ſenſe of right ſeems to reſult from the ſimpleſt act of reaſon, and to preſide over the faculties of the mind, like the maſter-ſenſe of feeling, to rectify the reſt; but (for the compariſon may be carried ſtill farther) how often is the exquiſite ſenſibility of both weakened or deſtroyed by the vulgar occupations, and ignoble pleaſures of life?

The preſerving her ſituation was, indeed, an important object to Jemima, who had been hunted from hole to hole, as if ſhe had been a beaſt of prey, or infected with a moral plague. The wages ſhe received, the greater part of which ſhe hoarded, as her only chance for independence, were much more conſiderable than ſhe could reckon on obtaining any where elſe, were it poſſible that ſhe, an outcaſt from ſociety, could be permitted to earn a ſubſiſtence in a reputable family. Hearing Maria perpetually complain of liſtleſſneſs, and the not being able to beguile grief by reſuming her cuſtomary purſuits, ſhe was eaſily prevailed on, by compaſſion, and that involuntary reſpect for abilities, which thoſe who poſſeſs them can never eradicate, to bring her ſome books and implements for writing. Maria's converſation had amuſed and intereſted her, and the natural conſequence was a deſire, ſcarcely obſerved by herſelf, of obtaining the eſteem of a perſon ſhe admired. The remembrance of better days was rendered more lively; and the ſentiments then acquired appearing leſs romantic than they had for a long period, a ſpark of hope rouſed her mind to new activity.

How grateful was her attention to Maria! Oppreſſed by a dead weight of exiſtence, or preyed on by the gnawing worm of diſcontent, with what eagerneſs did ſhe endeavour to ſhorten the long days, which left no traces behind! She ſeemed to be ſailing on the vaſt ocean of life, without ſeeing any land-mark to indicate the progreſs of time; to find employment was then to find variety, the animating principle of nature.

CHAP. II.

Earneſtly as Maria endeavoured to ſoothe, by reading, the anguiſh of her wounded mind, her thoughts would often wander from the ſubject ſhe was led to diſcuſs, and tears of maternal tenderneſs obſcured the reaſoning page. She deſcanted on "the ills which fleſh is heir to," with bitterneſs, when the recollection of her babe was revived by a tale of fictitious woe, that bore any reſemblance to her own; and her imagination was continually employed, to conjure up and embody the various phantoms of miſery, which folly and vice had let looſe on the world. The loſs of her babe was the tender ſtring; againſt other cruel remembrances ſhe laboured to ſteel her boſom; and even a ray of hope, in the midſt of her gloomy reveries, would ſometimes gleam on the dark horizon of futurity, while perſuading herſelf that ſhe ought to ceaſe to hope, ſince happineſs was no where to be found.—But of her child, debilitated by the grief with which its mother had been aſſailed before it ſaw the light, ſhe could not think without an impatient ſtruggle.

"I, alone, by my active tenderneſs, could have ſaved," ſhe would exclaim, "from an early blight, this ſweet bloſſom; and, cheriſhing it, I ſhould have had ſomething ſtill to love."

In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one had been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.

The books ſhe had obtained, were ſoon devoured, by one who had no other reſource to eſcape from ſorrow, and the feveriſh dreams of ideal wretchedneſs or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated ſenſibility. Writing was then the only alternative, and ſhe wrote ſome rhapſodies deſcriptive of the ſtate of her mind; but the events of her paſt life preſſing on her, ſhe reſolved circumſtantially to relate them, with the ſentiments that experience, and more matured reaſon, would naturally ſuggeſt. They might perhaps inſtruct her daughter, and ſhield her from the miſery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how to avoid.

This thought gave life to her diction, her ſoul flowed into it, and ſhe ſoon found the taſk of recollecting almoſt obliterated impreſſions very intereſting. She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and forgot her preſent in the retroſpect of ſorrows that had aſſumed an unalterable character.

Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never loſing ſight of her main object, Maria did not allow any opportunity to ſlip of winning on the affections of Jemima; for ſhe diſcovered in her a ſtrength of mind, that excited her eſteem, clouded as it was by the miſanthropy of deſpair.

An inſulated being, from the miſfortune of her birth, ſhe deſpiſed and preyed on the ſociety by which ſhe had been oppreſſed, and loved not her fellow-creatures, becauſe ſhe had never been beloved. No mother had ever fondled her, no father or brother had protected her from outrage; and the man who had plunged her into infamy, and deſerted her when ſhe ſtood in greateſt need of ſupport, deigned not to ſmooth with kindneſs the road to ruin. Thus degraded, was ſhe let looſe on the world; and virtue, never nurtured by affection, aſſumed the ſtern aſpect of ſelfiſh independence.

This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and dry remarks. Jemima indeed diſplayed a ſtrange mixture of intereſt and ſuſpicion; for ſhe would liſten to her with earneſtneſs, and then ſuddenly interrupt the converſation, as if afraid of reſigning, by giving way to her ſympathy, her dear-bought knowledge of the world.

Maria alluded to the poſſibility of an eſcape, and mentioned a compenſation, or reward; but the ſtyle in which ſhe was repulſed made her cautious, and determine not to renew the ſubject, till ſhe knew more of the character ſhe had to work on. Jemima's countenance, and dark hints, ſeemed to ſay, "You are an extraordinary woman; but let me conſider, this may only be one of your lucid intervals." Nay, the very energy of Maria's character, made her ſuſpect that the extraordinary animation ſhe perceived might be the effect of madneſs. "Should her huſband then ſubſtantiate his charge, and get poſſeſſion of her eſtate, from whence would come the promiſed annuity, or more deſired protection? Beſides, might not a woman, anxious to eſcape, conceal ſome of the circumſtances which made againſt her? Was truth to be expected from one who had been entrapped, kidnapped, in the moſt fraudulent manner?"

In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compaſſion and reſpect ſeemed to make her ſwerve; and ſhe ſtill reſolved not to be wrought on to do more than ſoften the rigour of confinement, till ſhe could advance on ſurer ground.

Maria was not permitted to walk in the garden; but ſometimes, from her window, ſhe turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which ſhe pined life away, on the poor wretches who ſtrayed along the walks, and contemplated the moſt terrific of ruins—that of a human ſoul. What is the view of the fallen column, the mouldering arch, of the moſt exquiſite workmanſhip, when compared with this living memento of the fragility, the inſtability, of reaſon, and the wild luxuriancy of noxious paſſions? Enthuſiaſm turned adrift, like ſome rich ſtream overflowing its banks, ruſhes forward with deſtructive velocity, inſpiring a ſublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—Theſe are the ravages over which humanity muſt ever mournfully ponder, with a degree of anguiſh not excited by crumbling marble, or cankering braſs, unfaithful to the truſt of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind, embodied with the happieſt art, we grieve moſt bitterly. The view of what has been done by man, produces a melancholy, yet aggrandizing, ſenſe of what remains to be achieved by human intellect; but a mental convulſion, which, like the devaſtation of an earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into confuſion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully aſk on what ground we ourſelves ſtand.

Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to breathe at large; for the frantic, thoſe who in a ſtrong imagination had loſt a ſenſe of woe, were cloſely confined. The playful tricks and miſchievous devices of their diſturbed fancy, that ſuddenly broke out, could not be guarded againſt, when they were permitted to enjoy any portion of freedom; for, ſo active was their imagination, that every new object which accidentally ſtruck their ſenſes, awoke to phrenzy their reſtleſs paſſions; as Maria learned from the burden of their inceſſant ravings.

Sometimes, with a ſtrict injunction of ſilence, Jemima would allow Maria, at the cloſe of evening, to ſtray along the narrow avenues that ſeparated the dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change of ſcene! Maria wiſhed to paſs the threſhold of her priſon, yet, when by chance ſhe met the eye of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its office, ſhe ſhrunk back with more horror and affright, than if ſhe had ſtumbled over a mangled corpſe. Her buſy fancy pictured the miſery of a fond heart, watching over a friend thus eſtranged, abſent, though preſent—over a poor wretch loſt to reaſon and the ſocial joys of exiſtence; and loſing all conſciouſneſs of miſery in its exceſs. What a taſk, to watch the light of reaſon quivering in the eye, or with agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by hope, only to feel deſpair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or voice, ſuddenly remembered, or pathetically implored, only to be immediately forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!

The heart-rending ſigh of melancholy ſunk into her ſoul; and when ſhe retired to reſt, the petrified figures ſhe had encountered, the only human forms ſhe was doomed to obſerve, haunting her dreams with tales of myſterious wrongs, made her wiſh to ſleep to dream no more.

Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the preſent moment appeared, they paſſed in ſuch an unvaried tenor, Maria was ſurpriſed to find that ſhe had already been ſix weeks buried alive, and yet had ſuch faint hopes of effecting her enlargement. She was, earneſtly as ſhe had ſought for employment, now angry with herſelf for having been amuſed by writing her narrative; and grieved to think that ſhe had for an inſtant thought of any thing, but contriving to eſcape.

Jemima had evidently pleaſure in her ſociety: ſtill, though ſhe often left her with a glow of kindneſs, ſhe returned with the ſame chilling air; and, when her heart appeared for a moment to open, ſome ſuggeſtion of reaſon forcibly cloſed it, before ſhe could give utterance to the confidence Maria's converſation inſpired.

Diſcouraged by theſe changes, Maria relapſed into deſpondency, when ſhe was cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a freſh parcel of books; aſſuring her, that ſhe had taken ſome pains to obtain them from one of the keepers, who attended a gentleman confined in the oppoſite corner of the gallery.

Maria took up the books with emotion. "They come," ſaid ſhe, "perhaps, from a wretch condemned, like me, to reaſon on the nature of madneſs, by having wrecked minds continually under his eye; and almoſt to wiſh himſelf—as I do—mad, to eſcape from the contemplation of it." Her heart throbbed with ſympathetic alarm; and ſhe turned over the leaves with awe, as if they had become ſacred from paſſing through the hands of an unfortunate being, oppreſſed by a ſimilar fate.

Dryden's Fables, Milton's Paradiſe Loſt, with ſeveral modern productions, compoſed the collection. It was a mine of treaſure. Some marginal notes, in Dryden's Fables, caught her attention: they were written with force and taſte; and, in one of the modern pamphlets, there was a fragment left, containing various obſervations on the preſent ſtate of ſociety and government, with a comparative view of the politics of Europe and America. Theſe remarks were written with a degree of generous warmth, when alluding to the enſlaved ſtate of the labouring majority, perfectly in uniſon with Maria's mode of thinking.

She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began to ſketch a character, congenial with her own, from theſe ſhadowy outlines.—"Was he mad?" She re-peruſed the marginal notes, and they ſeemed the production of an animated, but not of a diſturbed imagination. Confined to this ſpeculation, every time ſhe re-read them, ſome freſh refinement of ſentiment, or acuteneſs of thought impreſſed her, which ſhe was aſtoniſhed at herſelf for not having before obſerved.

What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who cannot live without loving, as poets love; and who feel the electric ſpark of genius, wherever it awakens ſentiment or grace. Maria had often thought, when diſciplining her wayward heart, "that to charm, was to be virtuous." "They who make me wiſh to appear the moſt amiable and good in their eyes, muſt poſſeſs in a degree," ſhe would exclaim, "the graces and virtues they call into action."

She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but, her attention ſtrayed from cold arguments on the nature of what ſhe felt, while ſhe was feeling, and ſhe ſnapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden's Guiſcard and Sigiſmunda.

Maria, in the courſe of the enſuing day, returned ſome of the books, with the hope of getting others—and more marginal notes. Thus ſhut out from human intercourſe, and compelled to view nothing but the priſon of vexed ſpirits, to meet a wretch in the ſame ſituation, was more ſurely to find a friend, than to imagine a countryman one, in a ſtrange land, where the human voice conveys no information to the eager ear.

"Did you ever ſee the unfortunate being to whom theſe books belong?" aſked Maria, when Jemima brought her ſupper. "Yes. He ſometimes walks out, between five and ſix, before the family is ſtirring, in the morning, with two keepers; but even then his hands are confined."

"What! is he ſo unruly?" enquired Maria, with an accent of diſappointment.

"No, not that I perceive," replied Jemima; "but he has an untamed look, a vehemence of eye, that excites apprehenſion. Were his hands free, he looks as if he could ſoon manage both his guards: yet he appears tranquil."

"If he be ſo ſtrong, he muſt be young," obſerved Maria.

"Three or four and thirty, I ſuppoſe; but there is no judging of a perſon in his ſituation."

"Are you ſure that he is mad?" interrupted Maria with eagerneſs. Jemima quitted the room, without replying.

"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, anſwering herſelf; "the man who could write thoſe obſervations was not diſordered in his intellects."

She ſat muſing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it ſeemed to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, ſhe thought, "Of what uſe could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjuſtly confined?—Could he aid me to eſcape, who is himſelf more cloſely watched?—Still I ſhould like to ſee him." She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o'clock, and ſtarting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet ſhe did not retire to warm herſelf and think in bed, till the ſound of the ſervants, moving about the houſe, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden that morning. She was aſhamed at feeling diſappointed; and began to reflect, as an excuſe to herſelf, on the little objects which attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active duties or purſuits.

At breakfaſt, Jemima enquired whether ſhe underſtood French? for, unleſs ſhe did, the ſtranger's ſtock of books was exhauſted. Maria replied in the affirmative; but forbore to aſk any more queſtions reſpecting the perſon to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new ſubject for contemplation, by deſcribing the perſon of a lovely maniac, juſt brought into an adjoining chamber. She was ſinging the pathetic ballad of old Rob                  with the moſt heart-melting falls and pauſes. Jemima had half-opened the door, when ſhe diſtinguiſhed her voice, and Maria ſtood cloſe to it, ſcarcely daring to reſpire, leſt a modulation ſhould eſcape her, ſo exquiſitely ſweet, ſo paſſionately wild. She began with ſympathy to pourtray to herſelf another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as it were, from the ſpray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and queſtions burſt from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, ſo horrid, that Maria ſhut the door, and, turning her eyes up to heaven, exclaimed—"Gracious God!"

Several minutes elapſed before Maria could enquire reſpecting the rumour of the houſe (for this poor wretch was obviouſly not confined without a cauſe); and then Jemima could only tell her, that it was ſaid, "ſhe had been married, againſt her inclination, to a rich old man, extremely jealous (no wonder, for ſhe was a charming creature); and that, in conſequence of his treatment, or ſomething which hung on her mind, ſhe had, during her firſt lying-in, loſt her ſenſes."

What a ſubject of meditation—even to the very confines of madneſs.

"Woman, fragile flower! why were you ſuffered to adorn a world expoſed to the inroad of ſuch ſtormy elements?" thought Maria, while the poor maniac's ſtrain was ſtill breathing on her ear, and ſinking into her very ſoul.

Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rouſſeau's Heloïſe; and ſhe ſat reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguiſh the light. One inſtance of her kindneſs was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own hour of retiring to reſt. She had read this work long ſince; but now it ſeemed to open a new world to her—the only one worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the reſtleſs rotation of thought, ſhe roſe and opened her window, juſt as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long ſilent ſhadows viſible. The air ſwept acroſs her face with a voluptuous freſhneſs that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the ſound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a ſtartled bird, alone broke the ſtillneſs of repoſing nature. Abſorbed by the ſublime ſenſibility which renders the conſciouſneſs of exiſtence felicity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal ſcent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the ſeaſon had changed ſince her confinement; yet life afforded no variety to ſolace an afflicted heart. She returned diſpirited to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to the window. She looked not for the unknown, ſtill how great was her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two attendants, as he turned into a ſide-path which led to the houſe! A confuſed recollection of having ſeen ſomebody who reſembled him, immediately occurred, to puzzle and torment her with endleſs conjectures. Five minutes ſooner, and ſhe ſhould have ſeen his face, and been out of ſuſpenſe—was ever any thing ſo unlucky! His ſteady, bold ſtep, and the whole air of his perſon, burſting as it were from a cloud, pleaſed her, and gave an outline to the imagination to ſketch the individual form ſhe wiſhed to recognize.

Feeling the diſappointment more ſeverely than ſhe was willing to believe, ſhe flew to Rouſſeau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a friend, could ſhe but find a way to intereſt him in her fate; ſtill the perſonification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover far ſuperior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the minutiæ of the coat and hat of the ſtranger. But if ſhe lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his form, ſhe richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux's ſentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he ſeemed to have an undoubted right, when ſhe read on the margin of an impaſſioned letter, written in the well-known hand—"Rouſſeau alone, the true Prometheus of ſentiment, poſſeſſed the fire of genius neceſſary to pourtray the paſſion, the truth of which goes ſo directly to the heart."

Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finiſhed Rouſſeau, and begun to tranſcribe ſome ſelected paſſages; unable to quit either the author or the window, before ſhe had a glimpſe of the countenance ſhe daily longed to ſee; and, when ſeen, it conveyed no diſtinct idea to her mind where ſhe had ſeen it before. He muſt have been a tranſient acquaintance; but to diſcover an acquaintance was fortunate, could ſhe contrive to attract his attention, and excite his ſympathy.

Every glance afforded colouring for the picture ſhe was delineating on her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the ſound of his voice reached her. Conviction flaſhed on her; ſhe had certainly, in a moment of diſtreſs, heard the ſame accents. They were manly, and characteriſtic of a noble mind; nay, even ſweet—or ſweet they ſeemed to her attentive ear.

She ſtarted back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a ſtrange coincidence of circumſtances inſpired, and wondering why ſhe thought ſo much of a ſtranger, obliged as ſhe had been by his timely interference; [for ſhe recollected, by degrees, all the circumſtances of their former meeting.] She found however that ſhe could think of nothing elſe; or, if ſhe thought of her daughter, it was to wiſh that ſhe had a father whom her mother could reſpect and love.

CHAP. III.

When peruſing the firſt parcel of books, Maria had, with her pencil, written in one of them a few exclamations, expreſſive of compaſſion and ſympathy, which ſhe ſcarcely remembered, till turning over the leaves of one of the volumes, lately brought to her, a ſlip of paper dropped out, which Jemima haſtily ſnatched up.

"Let me ſee it," demanded Maria impatiently, "You ſurely are not afraid of truſting me with the effuſions of a madman?" "I muſt conſider," replied Jemima; and withdrew, with the paper in her hand.

In a life of ſuch ſecluſion, the paſſions gain undue force; Maria therefore felt a great degree of reſentment and vexation, which ſhe had not time to ſubdue, before Jemima, returning, delivered the paper.

"Whoever you are, who partake of my fate, accept my ſincere commiſeration—I would have ſaid protection; but the privilege of man is denied me.

"My own ſituation forces a dreadful ſuſpicion on my mind—I may not always languiſh in vain for freedom—ſay are you—I cannot aſk the queſtion; yet I will remember you when my remembrance can be of any uſe. I will enquire, why you are ſo myſteriouſly detained—and I will have an anſwer.

"henry darnford."

By the moſt preſſing intreaties, Maria prevailed on Jemima to permit her to write a reply to this note. Another and another ſucceeded, in which explanations were not allowed relative to their preſent ſituation; but Maria, with ſufficient explicitneſs, alluded to a former obligation; and they inſenſibly entered on an interchange of ſentiments on the moſt important ſubjects. To write theſe letters was the buſineſs of the day, and to receive them the moment of ſunſhine. By ſome means, Darnford having diſcovered Maria's window, when ſhe next appeared at it, he made her, behind his keepers, a profound bow of reſpect and recognition.

Two or three weeks glided away in this kind of intercourſe, during which period Jemima, to whom Maria had given the neceſſary information reſpecting her family, had evidently gained ſome intelligence, which increaſed her deſire of pleaſing her charge, though ſhe could not yet determine to liberate her. Maria took advantage of this favourable charge, without too minutely enquiring into the cauſe; and ſuch was her eagerneſs to hold human converſe, and to ſee her former protector, ſtill a ſtranger to her, that ſhe inceſſantly requeſted her guard to gratify her more than curioſity.

Writing to Darnford, ſhe was led from the ſad objects before her, and frequently rendered inſenſible to the horrid noiſes around her, which previouſly had continually employed her feveriſh fancy. Thinking it ſelfiſh to dwell on her own ſufferings, when in the midſt of wretches, who had not only loſt all that endears life, but their very ſelves, her imagination was occupied with melancholy earneſtneſs to trace the mazes of miſery, through which ſo many wretches muſt have paſſed to this gloomy receptacle of diſjointed ſouls, to the grand ſource of human corruption. Often at midnight was ſhe waked by the diſmal ſhrieks of demoniac rage, or of excruciating deſpair, uttered in ſuch wild tones of indeſcribable anguiſh as proved the total abſence of reaſon, and rouſed phantoms of horror in her mind, far more terrific than all that dreaming ſuperſtition ever drew. Beſides, there was frequently ſomething ſo inconceivably pictureſque in the varying geſtures of unreſtrained paſſion, ſo irreſiſtibly comic in their ſallies, or ſo heart-piercingly pathetic in the little airs they would ſing, frequently burſting out after an awful ſilence, as to faſcinate the attention, and amuſe the fancy, while torturing the ſoul. It was the uproar of the paſſions which ſhe was compelled to obſerve; and to mark the lucid beam of reaſon, like a light trembling in a ſocket, or like the flaſh which divides the threatening clouds of angry heaven only to diſplay the horrors which darkneſs ſhrouded.

Jemima would labour to beguile the tedious evenings, by deſcribing the perſons and manners of the unfortunate beings, whoſe figures or voices awoke ſympathetic ſorrow in Maria's boſom; and the ſtories ſhe told were the more intereſting, for perpetually leaving room to conjecture ſomething extraordinary. Still Maria, accuſtomed to generalize her obſervations, was led to conclude from all ſhe heard, that it was a vulgar error to ſuppoſe that people of abilities were the moſt apt to loſe the command of reaſon. On the contrary, from moſt of the inſtances ſhe could inveſtigate, ſhe thought it reſulted, that the paſſions only appeared ſtrong and diſproportioned, becauſe the judgment was weak and unexerciſed; and that they gained ſtrength by the decay of reaſon, as the ſhadows lengthen during the ſun's decline.

Maria impatiently wiſhed to ſee her fellow-ſufferer; but Darnford was ſtill more earneſt to obtain an interview. Accuſtomed to ſubmit to every impulſe of paſſion, and never taught, like women, to reſtrain the moſt natural, and acquire, inſtead of the bewitching frankneſs of nature, a factitious propriety of behaviour, every deſire became a torrent that bore down all oppoſition.

His travelling trunk, which contained the books lent to Maria, had been ſent to him, and with a part of its contents he bribed his principal keeper; who, after receiving the moſt ſolemn promiſe that he would return to his apartment without attempting to explore any part of the houſe, conducted him, in the duſk of the evening, to Maria's room.

Jemima had apprized her charge of the viſit, and ſhe expected with trembling impatience, inſpired by a vague hope that he might again prove her deliverer, to ſee a man who had before reſcued her from oppreſſion. He entered with an animation of countenance, formed to captivate an enthuſiaſt; and, haſtily turned his eyes from her to the apartment, which he ſurveyed with apparent emotions of compaſſionate indignation. Sympathy illuminated his eye, and, taking her hand, he reſpectfully bowed on it, exclaiming—"This is extraordinary!—again to meet you, and in ſuch circumſtances!" Still, impreſſive as was the coincidence of events which brought them once more together, their full hearts did not overflow.—[54-A]

[And though, after this firſt viſit, they were permitted frequently to repeat their interviews, they were for ſome time employed in] a reſerved converſation, to which all the world might have liſtened; excepting, when diſcuſſing ſome literary ſubject, flaſhes of ſentiment, inforced by each relaxing feature, ſeemed to remind them that their minds were already acquainted.

[By degrees, Darnford entered into the particulars of his ſtory.] In a few words, he informed her that he had been a thoughtleſs, extravagant young man; yet, as he deſcribed his faults, they appeared to be the generous luxuriancy of a noble mind. Nothing like meanneſs tarniſhed the luſtre of his youth, nor had the worm of ſelfiſhneſs lurked in the unfolding bud, even while he had been the dupe of others. Yet he tardily acquired the experience neceſſary to guard him againſt future impoſition.

"I ſhall weary you," continued he, "by my egotiſm; and did not powerful emotions draw me to you,"—his eyes gliſtened as he ſpoke, and a trembling ſeemed to run through his manly frame,—"I would not waſte theſe precious moments in talking of myſelf.

"My father and mother were people of faſhion; married by their parents. He was fond of the turf, ſhe of the card-table. I, and two or three other children ſince dead, were kept at home till we became intolerable. My father and mother had a viſible diſlike to each other, continually diſplayed; the ſervants were of the depraved kind uſually found in the houſes of people of fortune. My brothers and parents all dying, I was left to the care of guardians, and ſent to Eton. I never knew the ſweets of domeſtic affection, but I felt the want of indulgence and frivolous reſpect at ſchool. I will not diſguſt you with a recital of the vices of my youth, which can ſcarcely be comprehended by female delicacy. I was taught to love by a creature I am aſhamed to mention; and the other women with whom I afterwards became intimate, were of a claſs of which you can have no knowledge. I formed my acquaintance with them at the theatres; and, when vivacity danced in their eyes, I was not eaſily diſguſted by the vulgarity which flowed from their lips. Having ſpent, a few years after I was of age, [the whole of] a conſiderable patrimony, excepting a few hundreds, I had no recourſe but to purchaſe a commiſſion in a new-raiſed regiment, deſtined to ſubjugate America. The regret I felt to renounce a life of pleaſure, was counter-balanced by the curioſity I had to ſee America, or rather to travel; [nor had any of thoſe circumſtances occurred to my youth, which might have been calculated] to bind my country to my heart. I ſhall not trouble you with the details of a military life. My blood was ſtill kept in motion; till, towards the cloſe of the conteſt, I was wounded and taken priſoner.

"Confined to my bed, or chair, by a lingering cure, my only refuge from the preying activity of my mind, was books, which I read with great avidity, profiting by the converſation of my hoſt, a man of ſound underſtanding. My political ſentiments now underwent a total change; and, dazzled by the hoſpitality of the Americans, I determined to take up my abode with freedom. I, therefore, with my uſual impetuoſity, ſold my commiſſion, and travelled into the interior parts of the country, to lay out my money to advantage. Added to this, I did not much like the puritanical manners of the large towns. Inequality of condition was there moſt diſguſtingly galling. The only pleaſure wealth afforded, was to make an oſtentatious diſplay of it; for the cultivation of the fine arts, or literature, had not introduced into the firſt circles that poliſh of manners which renders the rich ſo eſſentially ſuperior to the poor in Europe. Added to this, an influx of vices had been let in by the Revolution, and the moſt rigid principles of religion ſhaken to the centre, before the underſtanding could be gradually emancipated from the prejudices which led their anceſtors undauntedly to ſeek an inhoſpitable clime and unbroken ſoil. The reſolution, that led them, in purſuit of independence, to embark on rivers like ſeas, to ſearch for unknown ſhores, and to ſleep under the hovering miſts of endleſs foreſts, whoſe baleful damps agued their limbs, was now turned into commercial ſpeculations, till the national character exhibited a phenomenon in the hiſtory of the human mind—a head enthuſiaſtically enterpriſing, with cold ſelfiſhneſs of heart. And woman, lovely woman!—they charm every where—ſtill there is a degree of prudery, and a want of taſte and eaſe in the manners of the American women, that renders them, in ſpite of their roſes and lilies, far inferior to our European charmers. In the country, they have often a bewitching ſimplicity of character; but, in the cities, they have all the airs and ignorance of the ladies who give the tone to the circles of the large trading towns in England. They are fond of their ornaments, merely becauſe they are good, and not becauſe they embelliſh their perſons; and are more gratified to inſpire the women with jealouſy of theſe exterior advantages, than the men with love. All the frivolity which often (excuſe me, Madam) renders the ſociety of modeſt women ſo ſtupid in England, here ſeemed to throw ſtill more leaden fetters on their charms. Not being an adept in gallantry, I found that I could only keep myſelf awake in their company by making downright love to them.

"But, not to intrude on your patience, I retired to the track of land which I had purchaſed in the country, and my time paſſed pleaſantly enough while I cut down the trees, built my houſe, and planted my different crops. But winter and idleneſs came, and I longed for more elegant ſociety, to hear what was paſſing in the world, and to do ſomething better than vegetate with the animals that made a very conſiderable part of my houſehold. Conſequently, I determined to travel. Motion was a ſubſtitute for variety of objects; and, paſſing over immenſe tracks of country, I exhauſted my exuberant ſpirits, without obtaining much experience. I every where ſaw induſtry the fore-runner and not the conſequence, of luxury; but this country, every thing being on an ample ſcale, did not afford thoſe pictureſque views, which a certain degree of cultivation is neceſſary gradually to produce. The eye wandered without an object to fix upon over immeaſureable plains, and lakes that ſeemed repleniſhed by the ocean, whilſt eternal foreſts of ſmall cluſtering trees, obſtructed the circulation of air, and embarraſſed the path, without gratifying the eye of taſte. No cottage ſmiling in the waſte, no travellers hailed us, to give life to ſilent nature; or, if perchance we ſaw the print of a footſtep in our path, it was a dreadful warning to turn aſide; and the head ached as if aſſailed by the ſcalping knife. The Indians who hovered on the ſkirts of the European ſettlements had only learned of their neighbours to plunder, and they ſtole their guns from them to do it with more ſafety.

"From the woods and back ſettlements, I returned to the towns, and learned to eat and drink moſt valiantly; but without entering into commerce (and I deteſted commerce) I found I could not live there; and, growing heartily weary of the land of liberty and vulgar ariſtocracy, ſeated on her bags of dollars, I reſolved once more to viſit Europe. I wrote to a diſtant relation in England, with whom I had been educated, mentioning the veſſel in which I intended to ſail. Arriving in London, my ſenſes were intoxicated. I ran from ſtreet to ſtreet, from theatre to theatre, and the women of the town (again I muſt beg pardon for my habitual frankneſs) appeared to me like angels.

"A week was ſpent in this thoughtleſs manner, when, returning very late to the hotel in which I had lodged ever ſince my arrival, I was knocked down in a private ſtreet, and hurried, in a ſtate of inſenſibility, into a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my ſenſes to be treated like one who had loſt them. My keepers are deaf to my remonſtrances and enquiries, yet aſſure me that my confinement ſhall not laſt long. Still I cannot gueſs, though I weary myſelf with conjectures, why I am confined, or in what part of England this houſe is ſituated. I imagine ſometimes that I hear the ſea roar, and wiſhed myſelf again on the Atlantic, till I had a glimpſe of you[65-A]."

A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative, when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the "never ending, ſtill beginning," taſk of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice, and feeling them reverberate on her heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[54-A] The copy which had received the author's laſt corrections, breaks off in this place, and the pages which follow, to the end of Chap. IV, are printed from a copy in a leſs finiſhed ſtate.

[65-A] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former inſtance, appears to have been an after-thought of the author. This has occaſioned the omiſſion of any alluſion to that circumſtance in the preceding narration.

editor.

CHAP. IV.

Pity, and the forlorn ſeriouſneſs of adverſity, have both been conſidered as diſpoſitions favourable to love, while ſatirical writers have attributed the propenſity to the relaxing effect of idleneſs, what chance then had Maria of eſcaping, when pity, ſorrow, and ſolitude all conſpired to ſoften her mind, and nouriſh romantic wiſhes, and, from a natural progreſs, romantic expectations?

Maria was ſix-and-twenty. But, ſuch was the native ſoundneſs of her conſtitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character of her mind. Revolving thought, and exerciſed affections had baniſhed ſome of the playful graces of innocence, producing inſenſibly that irregularity of features which the ſtruggles of the underſtanding to trace or govern the ſtrong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint on the yielding maſs. Grief and care had mellowed, without obſcuring, the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulneſs which reſided on her brow did not take from the feminine ſoftneſs of her features; nay, ſuch was the ſenſibility which often mantled over it, that ſhe frequently appeared, like a large proportion of her ſex, only born to feel; and the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almoſt voluptuous figure, inſpired the idea of ſtrength of mind, rather than of body. There was a ſimplicity ſometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine ingenuouſneſs, that led people of common diſcernment to underrate her talents, and ſmile at the flights of her imagination. But thoſe who could not comprehend the delicacy of her ſentiments, were attached by her unfailing ſympathy, ſo that ſhe was very generally beloved by characters of very different deſcriptions; ſtill, ſhe was too much under the influence of an ardent imagination to adhere to common rules.

There are miſtakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the ſtrength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would demonſtrate its weakneſs, its incapacity to acquire a ſane judgment. The youths who are ſatiſfied with the ordinary pleaſures of life, and do not ſigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendſhip, will never arrive at great maturity of underſtanding; but if theſe reveries are cheriſhed, as is too frequently the caſe with women, when experience ought to have taught them in what human happineſs conſiſts, they become as uſeleſs as they are wretched. Beſides, their pains and pleaſures are ſo dependent on outward circumſtances, on the objects of their affections, that they ſeldom act from the impulſe of a nerved mind, able to chooſe its own purſuit.

Having had to ſtruggle inceſſantly with the vices of mankind, Maria's imagination found repoſe in pourtraying the poſſible virtues the world might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an informing ſoul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a hero's mind, and fate preſented a ſtatue in which ſhe might enſhrine them.

We mean not to trace the progreſs of this paſſion, or recount how often Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midſt of an intereſting converſation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and frequently ſeparated them on a falſe alarm, when they would have given worlds to remain a little longer together.

A magic lamp now ſeemed to be ſuſpended in Maria's priſon, and fairy landſcapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late ſo blank. Ruſhing from the depth of deſpair, on the ſeraph wing of hope, ſhe found herſelf happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.

To Darnford ſhe had not ſhown a decided affection; the fear of outrunning his, a ſure proof of love, made her often aſſume a coldneſs and indifference foreign from her character; and, even when giving way to the playful emotions of a heart juſt looſened from the frozen bond of grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expreſſing her ſenſibility, which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.

One evening, when Jemima left them, to liſten to the ſound of a diſtant footſtep, which ſeemed cautiouſly to approach, he ſeized Maria's hand—it was not withdrawn. They converſed with earneſtneſs of their ſituation; and, during the converſation, he once or twice gently drew her towards him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to touch the lips from which it iſſued; ſpirits of purity ſeemed to guard them, while all the enchanting graces of love ſported on her cheeks, and languiſhed in her eyes.

Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret, and, ſhe once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria ſtood near his chair, to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back with ſolemnity, he hung down his head abaſhed; but lifting his eyes timidly, they met her's; ſhe had determined, during that inſtant, and ſuffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour, reaſſured, a half-conſenting, half-reluctant kiſs, reluctant only from modeſty; and there was a ſacredneſs in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing face on his ſhoulder, that powerfully impreſſed him. Deſire was loſt in more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from inſult and ſorrow—to make her happy, ſeemed not only the firſt wiſh of his heart, but the moſt noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulſation, could he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which ſhe, for a moment, allowed herſelf to be preſſed to his boſom, the tear of rapturous ſympathy, mingled with a ſoft melancholy ſentiment of recollected diſappointment, ſaid—more of truth and faithfulneſs, than the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were ſilent—yet diſcourſed, how eloquently? till, after a moment's reflection, Maria drew her chair by the ſide of his, and, with a compoſed ſweetneſs of voice, and ſupernatural benignity of countenance, ſaid, "I muſt open my whole heart to you; you muſt be told who I am, why I am here, and why, telling you I am a wife, I bluſh not to"—the bluſh ſpoke the reſt.

Jemima was again at her elbow, and the reſtraint of her preſence did not prevent an animated converſation, in which love, ſly urchin, was ever at bo-peep.

So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradiſe bloomed around them; or they, by a powerful ſpell, had been tranſported into Armida's garden. Love, the grand enchanter, "lapt them in Elyſium," and every ſenſe was harmonized to joy and ſocial extacy. So animated, indeed, were their accents of tenderneſs, in diſcuſſing what, in other circumſtances, would have been common-place ſubjects, that Jemima felt, with ſurpriſe, a tear of pleaſure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away, half aſhamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cauſe, with all the eager ſolicitude of a happy being wiſhing to impart to all nature its overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the firſt tear that ſocial enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She ſeemed indeed to breathe more freely; the cloud of ſuſpicion cleared away from her brow; ſhe felt herſelf, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.

Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evaneſcent tints of hope foſtered by thee? A deſpondent gloom had long obſcured Maria's horizon—now the ſun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every proſpect was fair. Horror ſtill reigned in the darkened cells, ſuſpicion lurked in the paſſages, and whiſpered along the walls. The yells of men poſſeſſed, ſometimes made them pauſe, and wonder that they felt ſo happy, in a tomb of living death. They even chid themſelves for ſuch apparent inſenſibility; ſtill the world contained not three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the paſſage, was ſo ſoftened by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that ſhe voluntarily began an account of herſelf.

CHAP. V.

"My father," ſaid Jemima, "ſeduced my mother, a pretty girl, with whom he lived fellow-ſervant; and ſhe no ſooner perceived the natural, the dreaded conſequence, than the terrible conviction flaſhed on her—that ſhe was ruined. Honeſty, and a regard for her reputation, had been the only principles inculcated by her mother; and they had been ſo forcibly impreſſed, that ſhe feared ſhame, more than the poverty to which it would lead. Her inceſſant importunities to prevail upon my father to ſcreen her from reproach by marrying her, as he had promiſed in the fervour of ſeduction, eſtranged him from her ſo completely, that her very perſon became diſtaſteful to him; and he began to hate, as well as deſpiſe me, before I was born.

"My mother, grieved to the ſoul by his neglect, and unkind treatment, actually reſolved to famiſh herſelf; and injured her health by the attempt; though ſhe had not ſufficient reſolution to adhere to her project, or renounce it entirely. Death came not at her call; yet ſorrow, and the methods ſhe adopted to conceal her condition, ſtill doing the work of a houſe-maid, had ſuch an effect on her conſtitution, that ſhe died in the wretched garret, where her virtuous miſtreſs had forced her to take refuge in the very pangs of labour, though my father, after a ſlight reproof, was allowed to remain in his place—allowed by the mother of ſix children, who, ſcarcely permitting a footſtep to be heard, during her month's indulgence, felt no ſympathy for the poor wretch, denied every comfort required by her ſituation.

"The day my mother died, the ninth after my birth, I was conſigned to the care of the cheapeſt nurſe my father could find; who ſuckled her own child at the ſame time, and lodged as many more as ſhe could get, in two cellar-like apartments.

"Poverty, and the habit of ſeeing children die off her hands, had ſo hardened her heart, that the office of a mother did not awaken the tenderneſs of a woman; nor were the feminine careſſes which ſeem a part of the rearing of a child, ever beſtowed on me. The chicken has a wing to ſhelter under; but I had no boſom to neſtle in, no kindred warmth to foſter me. Left in dirt, to cry with cold and hunger till I was weary, and ſleep without ever being prepared by exerciſe, or lulled by kindneſs to reſt; could I be expected to become any thing but a weak and rickety babe? Still, in ſpite of neglect, I continued to exiſt, to learn to curſe exiſtence," her countenance grew ferocious as ſhe ſpoke, "and the treatment that rendered me miſerable, ſeemed to ſharpen my wits. Confined then in a damp hovel, to rock the cradle of the ſucceeding tribe, I looked like a little old woman, or a hag ſhrivelling into nothing. The furrows of reflection and care contracted the youthful cheek, and gave a ſort of ſupernatural wildneſs to the ever watchful eye. During this period, my father had married another fellow-ſervant, who loved him leſs, and knew better how to manage his paſſion, than my mother. She likewiſe proving with child, they agreed to keep a ſhop: my ſtep-mother, if, being an illegitimate offſpring, I may venture thus to characterize her, having obtained a ſum of a rich relation, for that purpoſe.

"Soon after her lying-in, ſhe prevailed on my father to take me home, to ſave the expence of maintaining me, and of hiring a girl to aſſiſt her in the care of the child. I was young, it was true, but appeared a knowing little thing, and might be made handy. Accordingly I was brought to her houſe; but not to a home—for a home I never knew. Of this child, a daughter, ſhe was extravagantly fond; and it was a part of my employment, to aſſiſt to ſpoil her, by humouring all her whims, and bearing all her caprices. Feeling her own conſequence, before ſhe could ſpeak, ſhe had learned the art of tormenting me, and if I ever dared to reſiſt, I received blows, laid on with no compunctious hand, or was ſent to bed dinnerleſs, as well as ſupperleſs. I ſaid that it was a part of my daily labour to attend this child, with the ſervility of a ſlave; ſtill it was but a part. I was ſent out in all ſeaſons, and from place to place, to carry burdens far above my ſtrength, without being allowed to draw near the fire, or ever being cheered by encouragement or kindneſs. No wonder then, treated like a creature of another ſpecies, that I began to envy, and at length to hate, the darling of the houſe. Yet, I perfectly remember, that it was the careſſes, and kind expreſſions of my ſtep-mother, which firſt excited my jealous diſcontent. Once, I cannot forget it, when ſhe was calling in vain her wayward child to kiſs her, I ran to her, ſaying, 'I will kiſs you, ma'am!' and how did my heart, which was in my mouth, ſink, what was my debaſement of ſoul, when puſhed away with—'I do not want you, pert thing!' Another day, when a new gown had excited the higheſt good humour, and ſhe uttered the appropriate dear, addreſſed unexpectedly to me, I thought I could never do enough to pleaſe her; I was all alacrity, and roſe proportionably in my own eſtimation.

"As her daughter grew up, ſhe was pampered with cakes and fruit, while I was, literally ſpeaking, fed with the refuſe of the table, with her leavings. A liquoriſh tooth is, I believe, common to children, and I uſed to ſteal any thing ſweet, that I could catch up with a chance of concealment. When detected, ſhe was not content to chaſtize me herſelf at the moment, but, on my father's return in the evening (he was a ſhopman), the principal diſcourſe was to recount my faults, and attribute them to the wicked diſpoſition which I had brought into the world with me, inherited from my mother. He did not fail to leave the marks of his reſentment on my body, and then ſolaced himſelf by playing with my ſiſter.—I could have murdered her at thoſe moments. To ſave myſelf from theſe unmerciful corrections, I reſorted to falſhood, and the untruths which I ſturdily maintained, were brought in judgment againſt me, to ſupport my tyrant's inhuman charge of my natural propenſity to vice. Seeing me treated with contempt, and always being fed and dreſſed better, my ſiſter conceived a contemptuous opinion of me, that proved an obſtacle to all affection; and my father, hearing continually of my faults, began to conſider me as a curſe entailed on him for his ſins: he was therefore eaſily prevailed on to bind me apprentice to one of my ſtep-mother's friends, who kept a ſlop-ſhop in Wapping. I was repreſented (as it was ſaid) in my true colours; but ſhe, 'warranted,' ſnapping her fingers, 'that ſhe ſhould break my ſpirit or heart.'

"My mother replied, with a whine, 'that if any body could make me better, it was ſuch a clever woman as herſelf; though, for her own part, ſhe had tried in vain; but good-nature was her fault.'

"I ſhudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to endure. Not only under the laſh of my taſk-miſtreſs, but the drudge of the maid, apprentices and children, I never had a taſte of human kindneſs to ſoften the rigour of perpetual labour. I had been introduced as an object of abhorrence into the family; as a creature of whom my ſtep-mother, though ſhe had been kind enough to let me live in the houſe with her own child, could make nothing. I was deſcribed as a wretch, whoſe noſe muſt be kept to the grinding ſtone—and it was held there with an iron graſp. It ſeemed indeed the privilege of their ſuperior nature to kick me about, like the dog or cat. If I were attentive, I was called fawning, if refractory, an obſtinate mule, and like a mule I received their cenſure on my loaded back. Often has my miſtreſs, for ſome inſtance of forgetfulneſs, thrown me from one ſide of the kitchen to the other, knocked my head againſt the wall, ſpit in my face, with various refinements on barbarity that I forbear to enumerate, though they were all acted over again by the ſervant, with additional inſults, to which the appellation of baſtard, was commonly added, with taunts or ſneers. But I will not attempt to give you an adequate idea of my ſituation, leſt you, who probably have never been drenched with the dregs of human miſery, ſhould think I exaggerate.

"I ſtole now, from abſolute neceſſity,—bread; yet whatever elſe was taken, which I had it not in my power to take, was aſcribed to me. I was the filching cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who muſt bear all; for if I endeavoured to exculpate myſelf, I was ſilenced, without any enquiries being made, with 'Hold your tongue, you never tell truth.' Even the very air I breathed was tainted with ſcorn; for I was ſent to the neighbouring ſhops with Glutton, Liar, or Thief, written on my forehead. This was, at firſt, the moſt bitter puniſhment; but ſullen pride, or a kind of ſtupid deſperation, made me, at length, almoſt regardleſs of the contempt, which had wrung from me ſo many ſolitary tears at the only moments when I was allowed to reſt.

"Thus was I the mark of cruelty till my ſixteenth year; and then I have only to point out a change of miſery; for a period I never knew. Allow me firſt to make one obſervation. Now I look back, I cannot help attributing the greater part of my miſery, to the miſfortune of having been thrown into the world without the grand ſupport of life—a mother's affection. I had no one to love me; or to make me reſpected, to enable me to acquire reſpect. I was an egg dropped on the ſand; a pauper by nature, ſhunted from family to family, who belonged to nobody—and nobody cared for me. I was deſpiſed from my birth, and denied the chance of obtaining a footing for myſelf in ſociety. Yes; I had not even the chance of being conſidered as a fellow-creature—yet all the people with whom I lived, brutalized as they were by the low cunning of trade, and the deſpicable ſhifts of poverty, were not without bowels, though they never yearned for me. I was, in fact, born a ſlave, and chained by infamy to ſlavery during the whole of exiſtence, without having any companions to alleviate it by ſympathy, or teach me how to riſe above it by their example. But, to reſume the thread of my tale—

"At ſixteen, I ſuddenly grew tall, and ſomething like comelineſs appeared on a Sunday, when I had time to waſh my face, and put on clean clothes. My maſter had once or twice caught hold of me in the paſſage; but I inſtinctively avoided his diſguſting careſſes. One day however, when the family were at a methodiſt meeting, he contrived to be alone in the houſe with me, and by blows—yes; blows and menaces, compelled me to ſubmit to his ferocious deſire; and, to avoid my miſtreſs's fury, I was obliged in future to comply, and ſkulk to my loft at his command, in ſpite of increaſing loathing.

"The anguiſh which was now pent up in my boſom, ſeemed to open a new world to me: I began to extend my thoughts beyond myſelf, and grieve for human miſery, till I diſcovered, with horror—ah! what horror!—that I was with child. I know not why I felt a mixed ſenſation of deſpair and tenderneſs, excepting that, ever called a baſtard, a baſtard appeared to me an object of the greateſt compaſſion in creation.

"I communicated this dreadful circumſtance to my maſter, who was almoſt equally alarmed at the intelligence; for he feared his wife, and public cenſure at the meeting. After ſome weeks of deliberation had elapſed, I in continual fear that my altered ſhape would be noticed, my maſter gave me a medicine in a phial, which he deſired me to take, telling me, without any circumlocution, for what purpoſe it was deſigned. I burſt into tears, I thought it was killing myſelf—yet was ſuch a ſelf as I worth preſerving? He curſed me for a fool, and left me to my own reflections. I could not reſolve to take this infernal potion; but I wrapped it up in an old gown, and hid it in a corner of my box.

"Nobody yet ſuſpected me, becauſe they had been accuſtomed to view me as a creature of another ſpecies. But the threatening ſtorm at laſt broke over my devoted head—never ſhall I forget it! One Sunday evening when I was left, as uſual, to take care of the houſe, my maſter came home intoxicated, and I became the prey of his brutal appetite. His extreme intoxication made him forget his cuſtomary caution, and my miſtreſs entered and found us in a ſituation that could not have been more hateful to her than me. Her huſband was 'pot-valiant,' he feared her not at the moment, nor had he then much reaſon, for ſhe inſtantly turned the whole force of her anger another way. She tore off my cap, ſcratched, kicked, and buffetted me, till ſhe had exhauſted her ſtrength, declaring, as ſhe reſted her arm, 'that I had wheedled her huſband from her.—But, could any thing better be expected from a wretch, whom ſhe had taken into her houſe out of pure charity?' What a torrent of abuſe ruſhed out? till, almoſt breathleſs, ſhe concluded with ſaying, 'that I was born a ſtrumpet; it ran in my blood, and nothing good could come to thoſe who harboured me.'

"My ſituation was, of courſe, diſcovered, and ſhe declared that I ſhould not ſtay another night under the ſame roof with an honeſt family. I was therefore puſhed out of doors, and my trumpery thrown after me, when it had been contemptuouſly examined in the paſſage, leſt I ſhould have ſtolen any thing.

"Behold me then in the ſtreet, utterly deſtitute! Whither could I creep for ſhelter? To my father's roof I had no claim, when not purſued by ſhame—now I ſhrunk back as from death, from my mother's cruel reproaches, my father's execrations. I could not endure to hear him curſe the day I was born, though life had been a curſe to me. Of death I thought, but with a confuſed emotion of terror, as I ſtood leaning my head on a poſt, and ſtarting at every footſtep, leſt it ſhould be my miſtreſs coming to tear my heart out. One of the boys of the ſhop paſſing by, heard my tale, and immediately repaired to his maſter, to give him a deſcription of my ſituation; and he touched the right key—the ſcandal it would give riſe to, if I were left to repeat my tale to every enquirer. This plea came home to his reaſon, who had been ſobered by his wife's rage, the fury of which fell on him when I was out of her reach, and he ſent the boy to me with half-a-guinea, deſiring him to conduct me to a houſe, where beggars, and other wretches, the refuſe of ſociety, nightly lodged.

"This night was ſpent in a ſtate of ſtupefaction, or deſperation. I deteſted mankind, and abhorred myſelf.

"In the morning I ventured out, to throw myſelf in my maſter's way, at his uſual hour of going abroad. I approached him, he 'damned me for a b——, declared I had diſturbed the peace of the family, and that he had ſworn to his wife, never to take any more notice of me.' He left me; but, inſtantly returning, he told me that he ſhould ſpeak to his friend, a pariſh-officer, to get a nurſe for the brat I laid to him; and adviſed me, if I wiſhed to keep out of the houſe of correction, not to make free with his name.

"I hurried back to my hole, and, rage giving place to deſpair, ſought for the potion that was to procure abortion, and ſwallowed it, with a wiſh that it might deſtroy me, at the ſame time that it ſtopped the ſenſations of new-born life, which I felt with indeſcribable emotion. My head turned round, my heart grew ſick, and in the horrors of approaching diſſolution, mental anguiſh was ſwallowed up. The effect of the medicine was violent, and I was confined to my bed ſeveral days; but, youth and a ſtrong conſtitution prevailing, I once more crawled out, to aſk myſelf the cruel queſtion, 'Whither I ſhould go?' I had but two ſhillings left in my pocket, the reſt had been expended, by a poor woman who ſlept in the ſame room, to pay for my lodging, and purchaſe the neceſſaries of which ſhe partook.

"With this wretch I went into the neighbouring ſtreets to beg, and my diſconſolate appearance drew a few pence from the idle, enabling me ſtill to command a bed; till, recovering from my illneſs, and taught to put on my rags to the beſt advantage, I was accoſted from different motives, and yielded to the deſire of the brutes I met, with the ſame deteſtation that I had felt for my ſtill more brutal maſter. I have ſince read in novels of the blandiſhments of ſeduction, but I had not even the pleaſure of being enticed into vice.

"I ſhall not," interrupted Jemima, "lead your imagination into all the ſcenes of wretchedneſs and depravity, which I was condemned to view; or mark the different ſtages of my debaſing miſery. Fate dragged me through the very kennels of ſociety; I was ſtill a ſlave, a baſtard, a common property. Become familiar with vice, for I wiſh to conceal nothing from you, I picked the pockets of the drunkards who abuſed me; and proved by my conduct, that I deſerved the epithets, with which they loaded me at moments when diſtruſt ought to ceaſe.

"Deteſting my nightly occupation, though valuing, if I may ſo uſe the word, my independence, which only conſiſted in chooſing the ſtreet in which I ſhould wander, or the roof, when I had money, in which I ſhould hide my head, I was ſome time before I could prevail on myſelf to accept of a place in a houſe of ill fame, to which a girl, with whom I had accidentally converſed in the ſtreet, had recommended me. I had been hunted almoſt into a a fever, by the watchmen of the quarter of the town I frequented; one, whom I had unwittingly offended, giving the word to the whole pack. You can ſcarcely conceive the tyranny exerciſed by theſe wretches: conſidering themſelves as the inſtruments of the very laws they violate, the pretext which ſteels their conſcience, hardens their heart. Not content with receiving from us, outlaws of ſociety (let other women talk of favours) a brutal gratification gratuitouſly as a privilege of office, they extort a tithe of proſtitution, and harraſs with threats the poor creatures whoſe occupation affords not the means to ſilence the growl of avarice. To eſcape from this perſecution, I once more entered into ſervitude.

"A life of comparative regularity reſtored my health; and—do not ſtart—my manners were improved, in a ſituation where vice ſought to render itſelf alluring, and taſte was cultivated to faſhion the perſon, if not to refine the mind. Beſides, the common civility of ſpeech, contraſted with the groſs vulgarity to which I had been accuſtomed, was ſomething like the poliſh of civilization. I was not ſhut out from all intercourſe of humanity. Still I was galled by the yoke of ſervice, and my miſtreſs often flying into violent fits of paſſion, made me dread a ſudden diſmiſſion, which I underſtood was always the caſe. I was therefore prevailed on, though I felt a horror of men, to accept the offer of a gentleman, rather in the decline of years, to keep his houſe, pleaſantly ſituated in a little village near Hampſtead.

"He was a man of great talents, and of brilliant wit; but, a worn-out votary of voluptuouſneſs, his deſires became faſtidious in proportion as they grew weak, and the native tenderneſs of his heart was undermined by a vitiated imagination. A thoughtleſs career of libertiniſm and ſocial enjoyment, had injured his health to ſuch a degree, that, whatever pleaſure his converſation afforded me (and my eſteem was enſured by proofs of the generous humanity of his diſpoſition), the being his miſtreſs was purchaſing it at a very dear rate. With ſuch a keen perception of the delicacies of ſentiment, with an imagination invigorated by the exerciſe of genius, how could he ſink into the groſſneſs of ſenſuality!

"But, to paſs over a ſubject which I recollect with pain, I muſt remark to you, as an anſwer to your often-repeated queſtion, 'Why my ſentiments and language were ſuperior to my ſtation?' that I now began to read, to beguile the tediouſneſs of ſolitude, and to gratify an inquiſitive, active mind. I had often, in my childhood, followed a ballad-ſinger, to hear the ſequel of a diſmal ſtory, though ſure of being ſeverely puniſhed for delaying to return with whatever I was ſent to purchaſe. I could juſt ſpell and put a ſentence together, and I liſtened to the various arguments, though often mingled with obſcenity, which occurred at the table where I was allowed to preſide: for a literary friend or two frequently came home with my maſter, to dine and paſs the night. Having loſt the privileged reſpect of my ſex, my preſence, inſtead of reſtraining, perhaps gave the reins to their tongues; ſtill I had the advantage of hearing diſcuſſions, from which, in the common courſe of life, women are excluded.

"You may eaſily imagine, that it was only by degrees that I could comprehend ſome of the ſubjects they inveſtigated, or acquire from their reaſoning what might be termed a moral ſenſe. But my fondneſs of reading increaſing, and my maſter occaſionally ſhutting himſelf up in this retreat, for weeks together, to write, I had many opportunities of improvement. At firſt, conſidering money I was right!" (exclaimed Jemima, altering her tone of voice) "as the only means, after my loſs of reputation, of obtaining reſpect, or even the toleration of humanity, I had not the leaſt ſcruple to ſecrete a part of the ſums intruſted to me, and to ſcreen myſelf from detection by a ſyſtem of falſhood. But, acquiring new principles, I began to have the ambition of returning to the reſpectable part of ſociety, and was weak enough to ſuppoſe it poſſible. The attention of my unaſſuming inſtructor, who, without being ignorant of his own powers, poſſeſſed great ſimplicity of manners, ſtrengthened the illuſion. Having ſometimes caught up hints for thought, from my untutored remarks, he often led me to diſcuſs the ſubjects he was treating, and would read to me his productions, previous to their publication, wiſhing to profit by the criticiſm of unſophiſticated feeling. The aim of his writings was to touch the ſimple ſprings of the heart; for he deſpiſed the would-be oracles, the ſelf-elected philoſophers, who fright away fancy, while ſifting each grain of thought to prove that ſlowneſs of comprehenſion is wiſdom.

"I ſhould have diſtinguiſhed this as a moment of ſunſhine, a happy period in my life, had not the repugnance the diſguſting libertiniſm of my protector inſpired, daily become more painful.—And, indeed, I ſoon did recollect it as ſuch with agony, when his ſudden death (for he had recourſe to the moſt exhilarating cordials to keep up the convivial tone of his ſpirits) again threw me into the deſert of human ſociety. Had he had any time for reflection, I am certain he would have left the little property in his power to me: but, attacked by the fatal apoplexy in town, his heir, a man of rigid morals, brought his wife with him to take poſſeſſion of the houſe and effects, before I was even informed of his death,—'to prevent,' as ſhe took care indirectly to tell me, 'ſuch a creature as ſhe ſuppoſed me to be, from purloining any of them, had I been apprized of the event in time.'

"The grief I felt at the ſudden ſhock the information gave me, which at firſt had nothing ſelfiſh in it, was treated with contempt, and I was ordered to pack up my clothes; and a few trinkets and books, given me by the generous deceaſed, were conteſted, while they piouſly hoped, with a reprobating ſhake of the head, 'that God would have mercy on his ſinful ſoul!' With ſome difficulty, I obtained my arrears of wages; but aſking—ſuch is the ſpirit-grinding conſequence of poverty and infamy—for a character for honeſty and economy, which God knows I merited, I was told by this—why muſt I call her woman?—'that it would go againſt her conſcience to recommend a kept miſtreſs.' Tears ſtarted in my eyes, burning tears; for there are ſituations in which a wretch is humbled by the contempt they are conſcious they do not deſerve.

"I returned to the metropolis; but the ſolitude of a poor lodging was inconceivably dreary, after the ſociety I had enjoyed. To be cut off from human converſe, now I had been taught to reliſh it, was to wander a ghoſt among the living. Beſides, I foreſaw, to aggravate the ſeverity of my fate, that my little pittance would ſoon melt away. I endeavoured to obtain needlework; but, not having been taught early, and my hands being rendered clumſy by hard work, I did not ſufficiently excel to be employed by the ready-made linen ſhops, when ſo many women, better qualified, were ſuing for it. The want of a character prevented my getting a place; for, irkſome as ſervitude would have been to me, I ſhould have made another trial, had it been feaſible. Not that I diſliked employment, but the inequality of condition to which I muſt have ſubmitted. I had acquired a taſte for literature, during the five years I had lived with a literary man, occaſionally converſing with men of the firſt abilities of the age; and now to deſcend to the loweſt vulgarity, was a degree of wretchedneſs not to be imagined unfelt. I had not, it is true, taſted the charms of affection, but I had been familiar with the graces of humanity.

"One of the gentlemen, whom I had frequently dined in company with, while I was treated like a companion, met me in the ſtreet, and enquired after my health. I ſeized the occaſion, and began to deſcribe my ſituation; but he was in haſte to join, at dinner, a ſelect party of choice ſpirits; therefore, without waiting to hear me, he impatiently put a guinea into my hand, ſaying, 'It was a pity ſuch a ſenſible woman ſhould be in diſtreſs—he wiſhed me well from his ſoul.'

"To another I wrote, ſtating my caſe, and requeſting advice. He was an advocate for unequivocal ſincerity; and had often, in my preſence, deſcanted on the evils which ariſe in ſociety from the deſpotiſm of rank and riches.

"In reply, I received a long eſſay on the energy of the human mind, with continual alluſions to his own force of character. He added, 'That the woman who could write ſuch a letter as I had ſent him, could never be in want of reſources, were ſhe to look into herſelf, and exert her powers; miſery was the conſequence of indolence, and, as to my being ſhut out from ſociety, it was the lot of man to ſubmit to certain privations.'

"How often have I heard," ſaid Jemima, interrupting her narrative, "in converſation, and read in books, that every perſon willing to work may find employment? It is the vague aſſertion, I believe, of inſenſible indolence, when it relates to men; but, with reſpect to women, I am ſure of its fallacy, unleſs they will ſubmit to the moſt menial bodily labour; and even to be employed at hard labour is out of the reach of many, whoſe reputation miſfortune or folly has tainted.

"How writers, profeſſing to be friends to freedom, and the improvement of morals, can aſſert that poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine."

"No more can I," interrupted Maria, "yet they even expatiate on the peculiar happineſs of indigence, though in what it can conſiſt, excepting in brutal reſt, when a man can barely earn a ſubſiſtence, I cannot imagine. The mind is neceſſarily impriſoned in its own little tenement; and, fully occupied by keeping it in repair, has not time to rove abroad for improvement. The book of knowledge is cloſely claſped, againſt thoſe who muſt fulfil their daily taſk of ſevere manual labour or die; and curioſity, rarely excited by thought or information, ſeldom moves on the ſtagnate lake of ignorance."

"As far as I have been able to obſerve," replied Jemima, "prejudices, caught up by chance, are obſtinately maintained by the poor, to the excluſion of improvement; they have not time to reaſon or reflect to any extent, or minds ſufficiently exerciſed to adopt the principles of action, which form perhaps the only baſis of contentment in every ſtation[114-A]."

"And independence," ſaid Darnford, "they are neceſſarily ſtrangers to, even the independence of deſpiſing their perſecutors. If the poor are happy, or can be happy, things are very well as they are. And I cannot conceive on what principle thoſe writers contend for a change of ſyſtem, who ſupport this opinion. The authors on the other ſide of the queſtion are much more conſiſtent, who grant the fact; yet, inſiſting that it is the lot of the majority to be oppreſſed in this life, kindly turn them over to another, to rectify the falſe weights and meaſures of this, as the only way to juſtify the diſpenſations of Providence. I have not," continued Darnford, "an opinion more firmly fixed by obſervation in my mind, than that, though riches may fail to produce proportionate happineſs, poverty moſt commonly excludes it, by ſhutting up all the avenues to improvement."

"And as for the affections," added Maria, with a ſigh, "how groſs, and even tormenting do they become, unleſs regulated by an improving mind! The culture of the heart ever, I believe, keeps pace with that of the mind. But pray go on," addreſſing Jemima, "though your narrative gives riſe to the moſt painful reflections on the preſent ſtate of ſociety."

"Not to trouble you," continued ſhe, "with a detailed deſcription of all the painful feelings of unavailing exertion, I have only to tell you, that at laſt I got recommended to waſh in a few families, who did me the favour to admit me into their houſes, without the moſt ſtrict enquiry, to waſh from one in the morning till eight at night, for eighteen or twenty-pence a day. On the happineſs to be enjoyed over a waſhing-tub I need not comment; yet you will allow me to obſerve, that this was a wretchedneſs of ſituation peculiar to my ſex. A man with half my induſtry, and, I may ſay, abilities, could have procured a decent livelihood, and diſcharged ſome of the duties which knit mankind together; whilſt I, who had acquired a taſte for the rational, nay, in honeſt pride let me aſſert it, the virtuous enjoyments of life, was caſt aſide as the filth of ſociety. Condemned to labour, like a machine, only to earn bread, and ſcarcely that, I became melancholy and deſperate.

"I have now to mention a circumſtance which fills me with remorſe, and fear it will entirely deprive me of your eſteem. A tradeſman became attached to me, and viſited me frequently,—and I at laſt obtained ſuch a power over him, that he offered to take me home to his houſe.—Conſider, dear madam, I was famiſhing: wonder not that I became a wolf!—The only reaſon for not taking me home immediately, was the having a girl in the houſe, with child by him—and this girl—I adviſed him—yes, I did! would I could forget it!—to turn out of doors: and one night he determined to follow my advice, Poor wretch! ſhe fell upon her knees, reminded him that he had promiſed to marry her, that her parents were honeſt!—What did it avail?—She was turned out.

"She approached her father's door, in the ſkirts of London,—liſtened at the ſhutters,—but could not knock. A watchman had obſerved her go and return ſeveral times—Poor wretch!—" The remorſe Jemima ſpoke of, ſeemed to be ſtinging her to the ſoul, as ſhe proceeded."

"She left it, and, approaching a tub where horſes were watered, ſhe ſat down in it, and, with deſperate reſolution, remained in that attitude—till reſolution was no longer neceſſary!

"I happened that morning to be going out to waſh, anticipating the moment when I ſhould eſcape from ſuch hard labour. I paſſed by, juſt as ſome men, going to work, drew out the ſtiff, cold corpſe—Let me not recal the horrid moment!—I recognized her pale viſage; I liſtened to the tale told by the ſpectators, and my heart did not burſt. I thought of my own ſtate, and wondered how I could be ſuch a monſter!—I worked hard; and, returning home, I was attacked by a fever. I ſuffered both in body and mind. I determined not to live with the wretch. But he did not try me; he left the neighbourhood. I once more returned to the waſh-tub.

"Still this ſtate, miſerable as it was, admitted of aggravation. Lifting one day a heavy load, a tub fell againſt my ſhin, and gave me great pain. I did not pay much attention to the hurt, till it became a ſerious wound; being obliged to work as uſual, or ſtarve. But, finding myſelf at length unable to ſtand for any time, I thought of getting into an hoſpital. Hoſpitals, it ſhould ſeem (for they are comfortleſs abodes for the ſick) were expreſſly endowed for the reception of the friendleſs; yet I, who had on that plea a right to aſſiſtance, wanted the recommendation of the rich and reſpectable, and was ſeveral weeks languiſhing for admittance; fees were demanded on entering; and, what was ſtill more unreaſonable, ſecurity for burying me, that expence not coming into the letter of the charity. A guinea was the ſtipulated ſum—I could as ſoon have raiſed a million; and I was afraid to apply to the pariſh for an order, leſt they ſhould have paſſed me, I knew not whither. The poor woman at whoſe houſe I lodged, compaſſionating my ſtate, got me into the hoſpital; and the family where I received the hurt, ſent me five ſhillings, three and ſix-pence of which I gave at my admittance—I know not for what.

"My leg grew quickly better; but I was diſmiſſed before my cure was completed, becauſe I could not afford to have my linen waſhed to appear decently, as the virago of a nurſe ſaid, when the gentlemen (the ſurgeons) came. I cannot give you an adequate idea of the wretchedneſs of an hoſpital; every thing is left to the care of people intent on gain. The attendants ſeem to have loſt all feeling of compaſſion in the buſtling diſcharge of their offices; death is ſo familiar to them, that they are not anxious to ward it off. Every thing appeared to be conducted for the accommodation of the medical men and their pupils, who came to make experiments on the poor, for the benefit of the rich. One of the phyſicians, I muſt not forget to mention, gave me half-a-crown, and ordered me ſome wine, when I was at the loweſt ebb. I thought of making my caſe known to the lady-like matron; but her forbidding countenance prevented me. She condeſcended to look on the patients, and make general enquiries, two or three times a week; but the nurſes knew the hour when the viſit of ceremony would commence, and every thing was as it ſhould be.

"After my diſmiſſion, I was more at a loſs than ever for a ſubſiſtence, and, not to weary you with a repetition of the ſame unavailing attempts, unable to ſtand at the waſhing-tub, I began to conſider the rich and poor as natural enemies, and became a thief from principle. I could not now ceaſe to reaſon, but I hated mankind. I deſpiſed myſelf, yet I juſtified my conduct. I was taken, tried, and condemned to ſix months' impriſonment in a houſe of correction. My ſoul recoils with horror from the remembrance of the inſults I had to endure, till, branded with ſhame, I was turned looſe in the ſtreet, pennyleſs. I wandered from ſtreet to ſtreet, till, exhauſted by hunger and fatigue, I ſunk down ſenſeleſs at a door, where I had vainly demanded a morſel of bread. I was ſent by the inhabitant to the work-houſe, to which he had ſurlily bid me go, ſaying, he 'paid enough in conſcience to the poor,' when, with parched tongue, I implored his charity. If thoſe well-meaning people who exclaim againſt beggars, were acquainted with the treatment the poor receive in many of theſe wretched aſylums, they would not ſtifle ſo eaſily involuntary ſympathy, by ſaying that they have all pariſhes to go to, or wonder that the poor dread to enter the gloomy walls. What are the common run of work-houſes, but priſons, in which many reſpectable old people, worn out by immoderate labour, ſink into the grave in ſorrow, to which they are carried like dogs!"

Alarmed by ſome indiſtinct noiſe, Jemima roſe haſtily to liſten, and Maria, turning to Darnford, ſaid, "I have indeed been ſhocked beyond expreſſion when I have met a pauper's funeral. A coffin carried on the ſhoulders of three or four ill-looking wretches, whom the imagination might eaſily convert into a band of aſſaſſins, haſtening to conceal the corpſe, and quarrelling about the prey on their way. I know it is of little conſequence how we are conſigned to the earth; but I am led by this brutal inſenſibility, to what even the animal creation appears forcibly to feel, to advert to the wretched, deſerted manner in which they died."

"True," rejoined Darnford, "and, till the rich will give more than a part of their wealth, till they will give time and attention to the wants of the diſtreſſed, never let them boaſt of charity. Let them open their hearts, and not their purſes, and employ their minds in the ſervice, if they are really actuated by humanity; or charitable inſtitutions will always be the prey of the loweſt order of knaves."

Jemima returning, ſeemed in haſte to finiſh her tale. "The overſeer farmed the poor of different pariſhes, and out of the bowels of poverty was wrung the money with which he purchaſed this dwelling, as a private receptacle for madneſs. He had been a keeper at a houſe of the ſame deſcription, and conceived that he could make money much more readily in his old occupation. He is a ſhrewd—ſhall I ſay it?—villain. He obſerved ſomething reſolute in my manner, and offered to take me with him, and inſtruct me how to treat the diſturbed minds he meant to intruſt to my care. The offer of forty pounds a year, and to quit a workhouſe, was not to be deſpiſed, though the condition of ſhutting my eyes and hardening my heart was annexed to it.

"I agreed to accompany him; and four years have I been attendant on many wretches, and"—ſhe lowered her voice,—"the witneſs of many enormities. In ſolitude my mind ſeemed to recover its force, and many of the ſentiments which I imbibed in the only tolerable period of my life, returned with their full force. Still what ſhould induce me to be the champion for ſuffering humanity?—Who ever riſked any thing for me?—Who ever acknowledged me to be a fellow-creature?"—

Maria took her hand, and Jemima, more overcome by kindneſs than ſhe had ever been by cruelty, haſtened out of the room to conceal her emotions.

Darnford ſoon after heard his ſummons, and, taking leave of him, Maria promiſed to gratify his curioſity, with reſpect to herſelf, the firſt opportunity.

FOOTNOTES:

[114-A] The copy which appears to have received the author's laſt corrections, ends at this place.

CHAP. VI.

Active as love was in the heart of Maria, the ſtory ſhe had juſt heard made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope cloſed, as if they had put forth too early, and the the happieſt day of her life was overcaſt by the moſt melancholy reflections. Thinking of Jemima's peculiar fate and her own, ſhe was led to conſider the oppreſſed ſtate of women, and to lament that ſhe had given birth to a daughter. Sleep fled from her eyelids, while ſhe dwelt on the wretchedneſs of unprotected infancy, till ſympathy with Jemima changed to agony, when it ſeemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very ſtate ſhe ſo forcibly deſcribed.

Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had rather been benumbed than killed, by the keen froſt ſhe had to brave at her entrance into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, ſurely would not be fruitleſs; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it would afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only ſubject of reflection; and ſhe watched impatiently for the dawn of day, with that determinate purpoſe which generally inſures ſucceſs.

At the uſual hour, Jemima brought her breakfaſt, and a tender note from Darnford. She ran her eye haſtily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded up the rapture a freſh aſſurance of affection, affection ſuch as ſhe wiſhed to inſpire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from its deſign. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfaſt, Maria alluded to the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to the excluſion of ſleep. She ſpoke with energy of Jemima's unmerited ſufferings, and of the fate of a number of deſerted females, placed within the ſweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impoſſible to eſcape. Perceiving the effect her converſation produced on the countenance of her guard, ſhe graſped the arm of Jemima with that irreſiſtible warmth which defies repulſe, exclaiming—"With your heart, and ſuch dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe of a mother's tenderneſs, a mother's care? In the name of God, aſſiſt me to ſnatch her from deſtruction! Let me but give her an education—let me but prepare her body and mind to encounter the ills which await her ſex, and I will teach her to conſider you as her ſecond mother, and herſelf as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me—obſerve me cloſely, and read my very ſoul; you merit a better fate;" ſhe held out her hand with a firm geſture of aſſurance; "and I will procure it for you, as a teſtimony of my eſteem, as well as of my gratitude."

Jemima had not power to reſiſt this perſuaſive torrent; and, owning that the houſe in which ſhe was confined, was ſituated on the banks of the Thames, only a few miles from London, and not on the ſea-coaſt, as Darnford had ſuppoſed, ſhe promiſed to invent ſome excuſe for her abſence, and go herſelf to trace the ſituation, and enquire concerning the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention to do ſomething more, but ſhe ſeemed unwilling to impart her deſign; and Maria, glad to have obtained the main point, thought it beſt to leave her to the workings of her own mind; convinced that ſhe had the power of intereſting her ſtill more in favour of herſelf and child, by a ſimple recital of facts.

In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow ſhe ſhould haſten to town before the family hour of riſing, and received all the information neceſſary, as a clue to her ſearch. The "Good night!" Maria uttered was peculiarly ſolemn and affectionate. Glad expectation ſparkled in her eye; and, for the firſt time ſince her detention, ſhe pronounced the name of her child with pleaſureable fondneſs; and, with all the garrulity of a nurſe, deſcribed her firſt ſmile when ſhe recognized her mother. Recollecting herſelf, a ſtill kinder "Adieu!" with a "God bleſs you!"—that ſeemed to include a maternal benediction, diſmiſſed Jemima.

The dreary ſolitude of the enſuing day, lengthened by impatiently dwelling on the ſame idea, was intolerably weariſome. She liſtened for the ſound of a particular clock, which ſome directions of the wind allowed her to hear diſtinctly. She marked the ſhadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening into darkneſs, her breath ſeemed oppreſſed while ſhe anxiouſly counted nine.—The laſt ſound was a ſtroke of deſpair on her heart; for ſhe expected every moment, without ſeeing Jemima, to have her light extinguiſhed by the ſavage female who ſupplied her place. She was even obliged to prepare for bed, reſtleſs as ſhe was, not to diſoblige her new attendant. She had been cautioned not to ſpeak too freely to her; but the caution was needleſs, her countenance would ſtill more emphatically have made her ſhrink back. Such was the ferocity of manner, conſpicuous in every word and geſture of this hag, that Maria was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promiſed to ſee her before her door was ſhut for the night, came not?—and, when the key turned in the lock, to conſign her to a night of ſuſpence, ſhe felt a degree of anguiſh which the circumſtances ſcarcely juſtified.

Continually on the watch, the ſhutting of a door, or the ſound of a footſtep, made her ſtart and tremble with apprehenſion, ſomething like what ſhe felt, when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, ſhe began to doubt whether ſhe were not ſurrounded by demons?

Fatigued by an endleſs rotation of thought and wild alarms, ſhe looked like a ſpectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; eſpecially as her eyes darted out of her head, to read in Jemima's countenance, almoſt as pallid, the intelligence ſhe dared not truſt her tongue to demand. Jemima put down the tea-things, and appeared very buſy in arranging the table. Maria took up a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly recovering her fortitude, and reſtraining the convulſive movement which agitated the muſcles of her mouth, ſhe ſaid, "Spare yourſelf the pain of preparing me for your information, I adjure you!—My child is dead!" Jemima ſolemnly anſwered, "Yes;" with a look expreſſive of compaſſion and angry emotions. "Leave me," added Maria, making a freſh effort to govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to conceal her anguiſh—"It is enough—I know that my babe is no more—I will hear the particulars when I am"—calmer, ſhe could not utter; and Jemima, without importuning her by idle attempts to conſole her, left the room.

Plunged in the deepeſt melancholy, ſhe would not admit Darnford's viſits; and ſuch is the force of early aſſociations even on ſtrong minds, that, for a while, ſhe indulged the ſuperſtitious notion that ſhe was juſtly puniſhed by the death of her child, for having for an inſtant ceaſed to regret her loſs. Two or three letters from Darnford, full of ſoothing, manly tenderneſs, only added poignancy to theſe accuſing emotions; yet the paſſionate ſtyle in which he expreſſed, what he termed the firſt and fondeſt wiſh of his heart, "that his affection might make her ſome amends for the cruelty and injuſtice ſhe had endured," inſpired a ſentiment of gratitude to heaven; and her eyes filled with delicious tears, when, at the concluſion of his letter, wiſhing to ſupply the place of her unworthy relations, whoſe want of principle he execrated, he aſſured her, calling her his deareſt girl, "that it ſhould henceforth be the buſineſs of his life to make her happy."

He begged, in a note ſent the following morning, to be permitted to ſee her, when his preſence would be no intruſion on her grief; and ſo earneſtly intreated to be allowed, according to promiſe, to beguile the tedious moments of abſence, by dwelling on the events of her paſt life, that ſhe ſent him the memoirs which had been written for her daughter, promiſing Jemima the peruſal as ſoon as he returned them.

CHAP. VII.

"Addreſſing theſe memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I ſhall ever have an opportunity of inſtructing you, many obſervations will probably flow from my heart, which only a mother—a mother ſchooled in miſery, could make.

"The tenderneſs of a father who knew the world, might be great; but could it equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion of the miſery, which the conſtitution of ſociety ſeems to have entailed on all her kind? It is, my child, my deareſt daughter, only ſuch a mother, who will dare to break through all reſtraint to provide for your happineſs—who will voluntarily brave cenſure herſelf, to ward off ſorrow from your boſom. From my narrative, my dear girl, you may gather the inſtruction, the counſel, which is meant rather to exerciſe than influence your mind.—Death may ſnatch me from you, before you can weigh my advice, or enter into my reaſoning: I would then, with fond anxiety, lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to ſave you from the vain regret of having, through irreſolution, let the ſpring-tide of exiſtence paſs away, unimproved, unenjoyed.—Gain experience—ah! gain it—while experience is worth having, and acquire ſufficient fortitude to purſue your own happineſs; it includes your utility, by a direct path. What is wiſdom too often, but the owl of the goddeſs, who ſits moping in a deſolated heart; around me ſhe ſhrieks, but I would invite all the gay warblers of ſpring to neſtle in your blooming boſom.—Had I not waſted years in deliberating, after I ceaſed to doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be uſeful and happy.—For my ſake, warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will not paſs through exiſtence without enjoying its genuine bleſſings, love and reſpect.

"Born in one of the moſt romantic parts of England, an enthuſiaſtic fondneſs for the varying charms of nature is the firſt ſentiment I recollect; or rather it was the firſt conſciouſneſs of pleaſure that employed and formed my imagination.

"My father had been a captain of a man of war; but, diſguſted with the ſervice, on account of the preferment of men whoſe chief merit was their family connections or borough intereſt, he retired into the country; and, not knowing what to do with himſelf—married. In his family, to regain his loſt conſequence, he determined to keep up the ſame paſſive obedience, as in the veſſels in which he had commanded. His orders were not to be diſputed; and the whole houſe was expected to fly, at the word of command, as if to man the ſhrouds, or mount aloft in an elemental ſtrife, big with life or death. He was to be inſtantaneouſly obeyed, eſpecially by my mother, whom he very benevolently married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation, when ſhe dared, in the ſlighteſt inſtance, to queſtion his abſolute authority. My eldeſt brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more reſpect by my father; and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the houſe. The repreſentative of my father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the darling of my mother, he did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such indeed was my mother's extravagant partiality, that, in compariſon with her affection for him, ſhe might be ſaid not to love the reſt of her children. Yet none of the children ſeemed to have ſo little affection for her. Extreme indulgence had rendered him ſo ſelfiſh, that he only thought of himſelf; and from tormenting inſects and animals, he became the deſpot of his brothers, and ſtill more of his ſiſters.

"It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which obſcured the morning of my life; continual reſtraint in the moſt trivial matters; unconditional ſubmiſſion to orders, which, as a mere child, I ſoon diſcovered to be unreaſonable, becauſe inconſiſtent and contradictory. Thus are we deſtined to experience a mixture of bitterneſs, with the recollection of our moſt innocent enjoyments.

"The circumſtances which, during my childhood, occurred to faſhion my mind, were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleaſure to revive the fading remembrance of new-born delight, than you, my child, could feel in the peruſal, I will not entice you to ſtray with me into the verdant meadow, to ſearch for the flowers that youthful hopes ſcatter in every path; though, as I write, I almoſt ſcent the freſh green of ſpring—of that ſpring which never returns!

"I had two ſiſters, and one brother, younger than myſelf; my brother Robert was two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his parents, and the torment of the reſt of the family. Such indeed is the force of prejudice, that what was called ſpirit and wit in him, was cruelly repreſſed as forwardneſs in me.

"My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from paying much attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a neighbouring heath, on which we bounded at pleaſure, volatilized the humours that improper food might have generated. And to enjoy open air and freedom, was paradiſe, after the unnatural reſtraint of our fire-ſide, where we were often obliged to ſit three or four hours together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out of humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boiſterous amuſement. I had however one advantage, an inſtructor, the brother of my father, who, intended for the church, had of courſe received a liberal education. But, becoming attached to a young lady of great beauty and large fortune, and acquiring in the world ſome opinions not conſonant with the profeſſion for which he was deſigned, he accepted, with the moſt ſanguine expectations of ſucceſs, the offer of a nobleman to accompany him to India, as his confidential ſecretary.

"A correſpondence was regularly kept up with the object of his affection; and the intricacies of buſineſs, peculiarly weariſome to a man of a romantic turn of mind, contributed, with a forced abſence, to increaſe his attachment. Every other paſſion was loſt in this maſter-one, and only ſerved to ſwell the torrent. Her relations, ſuch were his waking dreams, who had deſpiſed him, would court in their turn his alliance, and all the blandiſhments of taſte would grace the triumph of love.—While he baſked in the warm ſunſhine of love, friendſhip alſo promiſed to ſhed its dewy freſhneſs; for a friend, whom he loved next to his miſtreſs, was the confident, who forwarded the letters from one to the other, to elude the obſervation of prying relations. A friend falſe in ſimilar circumſtances, is, my deareſt girl, an old tale; yet, let not this example, or the frigid caution of cold-blooded moraliſts, make you endeavour to ſtifle hopes, which are the buds that naturally unfold themſelves during the ſpring of life! Whilſt your own heart is ſincere, always expect to meet one glowing with the ſame ſentiments; for to fly from pleaſure, is not to avoid pain!

"My uncle realized, by good luck, rather than management, a handſome fortune; and returning on the wings of love, loſt in the moſt enchanting reveries, to England, to ſhare it with his miſtreſs and his friend, he found them—united.

"There were ſome circumſtances, not neceſſary for me to recite, which aggravated the guilt of the friend beyond meaſure, and the deception, that had been carried on to the laſt moment, was ſo baſe, it produced the moſt violent effect on my uncle's health and ſpirits. His native country, the world! lately a garden of blooming ſweets, blaſted by treachery, ſeemed changed into a parched deſert, the abode of hiſſing ſerpents. Diſappointment rankled in his heart; and, brooding over his wrongs, he was attacked by a raging fever, followed by a derangement of mind, which only gave place to habitual melancholy, as he recovered more ſtrength of body.

"Declaring an intention never to marry, his relations were ever cluſtering about him, paying the groſſeſt adulation to a man, who, diſguſted with mankind, received them with ſcorn, or bitter ſarcaſms. Something in my countenance pleaſed him, when I began to prattle. Since his return, he appeared dead to affection; but I ſoon, by ſhowing him innocent fondneſs, became a favourite; and endeavouring to enlarge and ſtrengthen my mind, I grew dear to him in proportion as I imbibed his ſentiments. He had a forcible manner of ſpeaking, rendered more ſo by a certain impreſſive wildneſs of look and geſture, calculated to engage the attention of a young and ardent mind. It is not then ſurpriſing that I quickly adopted his opinions in preference, and reverenced him as one of a ſuperior order of beings. He inculcated, with great warmth, ſelf-reſpect, and a lofty conſciouſneſs of acting right, independent of the cenſure or applauſe of the world; nay, he almoſt taught me to brave, and even deſpiſe its cenſure, when convinced of the rectitude of my own intentions.

"Endeavouring to prove to me that nothing which deſerved the name of love or friendſhip, exiſted in the world, he drew ſuch animated pictures of his own feelings, rendered permanent by diſappointment, as imprinted the ſentiments ſtrongly on my heart, and animated my imagination. Theſe remarks are neceſſary to elucidate ſome peculiarities in my character, which by the world are indefinitely termed romantic.

"My uncle's increaſing affection led him to viſit me often. Still, unable to reſt in any place, he did not remain long in the country to ſoften domeſtic tyranny; but he brought me books, for which I had a paſſion, and they conſpired with his converſation, to make me form an ideal picture of life. I ſhall paſs over the tyranny of my father, much as I ſuffered from it; but it is neceſſary to notice, that it undermined my mother's health; and that her temper, continually irritated by domeſtic bickering, became intolerably peeviſh.

"My eldeſt brother was articled to a neighbouring attorney, the ſhrewdeſt, and, I may add, the moſt unprincipled man in that part of the country. As my brother generally came home every Saturday, to aſtoniſh my mother by exhibiting his attainments, he gradually aſſumed a right of directing the whole family, not excepting my father. He ſeemed to take a peculiar pleaſure in tormenting and humbling me; and if I ever ventured to complain of this treatment to either my father or mother, I was rudely rebuffed for preſuming to judge of the conduct of my eldeſt brother.

"About this period a merchant's family came to ſettle in our neighbourhood. A manſion-houſe in the village, lately purchaſed, had been preparing the whole ſpring, and the ſight of the coſtly furniture, ſent from London, had excited my mother's envy, and rouſed my father's pride. My ſenſations were very different, and all of a pleaſurable kind. I longed to ſee new characters, to break the tedious monotony of my life; and to find a friend, ſuch as fancy had pourtrayed. I cannot then deſcribe the emotion I felt, the Sunday they made their appearance at church. My eyes were rivetted on the pillar round which I expected firſt to catch a glimpſe of them, and darted forth to meet a ſervant who haſtily preceded a group of ladies, whoſe white robes and waving plumes, ſeemed to ſtream along the gloomy aiſle, diffuſing the light, by which I contemplated their figures.

"We viſited them in form; and I quickly ſelected the eldeſt daughter for my friend. The ſecond ſon, George, paid me particular attention, and finding his attainments and manners ſuperior to thoſe of the young men of the village, I began to imagine him ſuperior to the reſt of mankind. Had my home been more comfortable, or my previous acquaintance more numerous, I ſhould not probably have been ſo eager to open my heart to new affections.

"Mr. Venables, the merchant, had acquired a large fortune by unremitting attention to buſineſs; but his health declining rapidly, he was obliged to retire, before his ſon, George, had acquired ſufficient experience, to enable him to conduct their affairs on the ſame prudential plan, his father had invariably purſued. Indeed, he had laboured to throw off his authority, having deſpiſed his narrow plans and cautious ſpeculation. The eldeſt ſon could not be prevailed on to enter the firm; and, to oblige his wife, and have peace in the houſe, Mr. Venables had purchaſed a commiſſion for him in the guards.

"I am now alluding to circumſtances which came to my knowledge long after; but it is neceſſary, my deareſt child, that you ſhould know the character of your father, to prevent your deſpiſing your mother; the only parent inclined to diſcharge a parent's duty. In London, George had acquired habits of libertiniſm, which he carefully concealed from his father and his commercial connections. The maſk he wore, was ſo complete a covering of his real viſage, that the praiſe his father laviſhed on his conduct, and, poor miſtaken man! on his principles, contraſted with his brother's, rendered the notice he took of me peculiarly flattering. Without any fixed deſign, as I am now convinced, he continued to ſingle me out at the dance, preſs my hand at parting, and utter expreſſions of unmeaning paſſion, to which I gave a meaning naturally ſuggeſted by the romantic turn of my thoughts. His ſtay in the country was ſhort; his manners did not entirely pleaſe me; but, when he left us, the colouring of my picture became more vivid—Whither did not my imagination lead me? In ſhort, I fancied myſelf in love—in love with the diſintereſtedneſs, fortitude, generoſity, dignity, and humanity, with which I had inveſted the hero I dubbed. A circumſtance which ſoon after occurred, rendered all theſe virtues palpable. [The incident is perhaps worth relating on other accounts, and therefore I ſhall deſcribe it diſtinctly.]

"I had a great affection for my nurſe, old Mary, for whom I uſed often to work, to ſpare her eyes. Mary had a younger ſiſter, married to a ſailor, while ſhe was ſuckling me; for my mother only ſuckled my eldeſt brother, which might be the cauſe of her extraordinary partiality. Peggy, Mary's ſiſter, lived with her, till her huſband, becoming a mate in a Weſt-India trader, got a little before-hand in the world. He wrote to his wife from the firſt port in the Channel, after his moſt ſucceſſful voyage, to requeſt her to come to London to meet him; he even wiſhed her to determine on living there for the future, to ſave him the trouble of coming to her the moment he came on ſhore; and to turn a penny by keeping a green-ſtall. It was too much to ſet out on a journey the moment he had finiſhed a voyage, and fifty miles by land, was worſe than a thouſand leagues by ſea.

"She packed up her alls, and came to London—but did not meet honeſt Daniel. A common miſfortune prevented her, and the poor are bound to ſuffer for the good of their country—he was preſſed in the river—and never came on ſhore.

"Peggy was miſerable in London, not knowing, as ſhe ſaid, 'the face of any living ſoul.' Beſides, her imagination had been employed, anticipating a month or ſix weeks' happineſs with her huſband. Daniel was to have gone with her to Sadler's Wells, and Weſtminſter Abbey, and to many ſights, which he knew ſhe never heard of in the country. Peggy too was thrifty, and how could ſhe manage to put his plan in execution alone? He had acquaintance; but ſhe did not know the very name of their places of abode. His letters were made up of—How do you does, and God bleſs yous,—information was reſerved for the hour of meeting.

"She too had her portion of information, near at heart. Molly and Jacky were grown ſuch little darlings, ſhe was almoſt angry that daddy did not ſee their tricks. She had not half the pleaſure ſhe ſhould have had from their prattle, could ſhe have recounted to him each night the pretty ſpeeches of the day. Some ſtories, however, were ſtored up—and Jacky could ſay papa with ſuch a ſweet voice, it muſt delight his heart. Yet when ſhe came, and found no Daniel to greet her, when Jacky called papa, ſhe wept, bidding 'God bleſs his innocent ſoul, that did not know what ſorrow was.'—But more ſorrow was in ſtore for Peggy, innocent as ſhe was.—Daniel was killed in the firſt engagement, and then the papa was agony, ſounding to the heart.

"She had lived ſparingly on his wages, while there was any hope of his return; but, that gone, ſhe returned with a breaking heart to the country, to a little market town, nearly three miles from our village. She did not like to go to ſervice, to be ſnubbed about, after being her own miſtreſs. To put her children out to nurſe was impoſſible: how far would her wages go? and to ſend them to her huſband's pariſh, a diſtant one, was to loſe her huſband twice over.

"I had heard all from Mary, and made my uncle furniſh a little cottage for her, to enable her to ſell—ſo ſacred was poor Daniel's advice, now he was dead and gone—a little fruit, toys and cakes. The minding of the ſhop did not require her whole time, nor even the keeping her children clean, and ſhe loved to ſee them clean; ſo ſhe took in waſhing, and altogether made a ſhift to earn bread for her children, ſtill weeping for Daniel, when Jacky's arch looks made her think of his father.—It was pleaſant to work for her children.—'Yes; from morning till night, could ſhe have had a kiſs from their father, God reſt his ſoul! Yes; had it pleaſed Providence to have let him come back without a leg or an arm, it would have been the ſame thing to her—for ſhe did not love him becauſe he maintained them—no; ſhe had hands of her own.'

"The country people were honeſt, and Peggy left her linen out to dry very late. A recruiting party, as ſhe ſuppoſed, paſſing through, made free with a large waſh; for it was all ſwept away, including her own and her children's little ſtock.

"This was a dreadful blow; two dozen of ſhirts, ſtocks and handkerchiefs. She gave the money which ſhe had laid by for half a year's rent, and promiſed to pay two ſhillings a week till all was cleared; ſo ſhe did not loſe her employment. This two ſhillings a week, and the buying a few neceſſaries for the children, drove her ſo hard, that ſhe had not a penny to pay her rent with, when a twelvemonth's became due.

"She was now with Mary, and had juſt told her tale, which Mary inſtantly repeated—it was intended for my ear. Many houſes in this town, producing a borough-intereſt, were included in the eſtate purchaſed by Mr. Venables, and the attorney with whom my brother lived, was appointed his agent, to collect and raiſe the rents.

"He demanded Peggy's, and, in ſpite of her intreaties, her poor goods had been ſeized and ſold. So that ſhe had not, and what was worſe her children, 'for ſhe had known ſorrow enough,' a bed to lie on. She knew that I was good-natured—right charitable, yet not liking to aſk for more than needs muſt, ſhe ſcorned to petition while people could any how be made to wait. But now, ſhould ſhe be turned out of doors, ſhe muſt expect nothing leſs than to loſe all her cuſtomers, and then ſhe muſt beg or ſtarve—and what would become of her children?—'had Daniel not been preſſed—but God knows beſt—all this could not have happened.'

"I had two mattraſſes on my bed; what did I want with two, when ſuch a worthy creature muſt lie on the ground? My mother would be angry, but I could conceal it till my uncle came down; and then I would tell him all the whole truth, and if he abſolved me, heaven would.

"I begged the houſe-maid to come up ſtairs with me (ſervants always feel for the diſtreſſes of poverty, and ſo would the rich if they knew what it was). She aſſiſted me to tie up the mattraſs; I diſcovering, at the ſame time, that one blanket would ſerve me till winter, could I perſuade my ſiſter, who ſlept with me, to keep my ſecret. She entering in the midſt of the package, I gave her ſome new feathers, to ſilence her. We got the mattraſs down the back ſtairs, unperceived, and I helped to carry it, taking with me all the money I had, and what I could borrow from my ſiſter.

"When I got to the cottage, Peggy declared that ſhe would not take what I had brought ſecretly; but, when, with all the eager eloquence inſpired by a decided purpoſe, I graſped her hand with weeping eyes, aſſuring her that my uncle would ſcreen me from blame, when he was once more in the country, deſcribing, at the ſame time, what ſhe would ſuffer in parting with her children, after keeping them ſo long from being thrown on the pariſh, ſhe reluctantly conſented.

"My project of uſefulneſs ended not here; I determined to ſpeak to the attorney; he frequently paid me compliments. His character did not intimidate me; but, imagining that Peggy muſt be miſtaken, and that no man could turn a deaf ear to ſuch a tale of complicated diſtreſs, I determined to walk to the town with Mary the next morning, and requeſt him to wait for the rent, and keep my ſecret, till my uncle's return.

"My repoſe was ſweet; and, waking with the firſt dawn of day, I bounded to Mary's cottage. What charms do not a light heart ſpread over nature! Every bird that twittered in a buſh, every flower that enlivened the hedge, ſeemed placed there to awaken me to rapture—yes; to rapture. The preſent moment was full fraught with happineſs; and on futurity I beſtowed not a thought, excepting to anticipate my ſucceſs with the attorney.

"This man of the world, with roſy face and ſimpering features, received me politely, nay kindly; liſtened with complacency to my remonſtrances, though he ſcarcely heeded Mary's tears. I did not then ſuſpect, that my eloquence was in my complexion, the bluſh of ſeventeen, or that, in a world where humanity to women is the characteriſtic of advancing civilization, the beauty of a young girl was ſo much more intereſting than the diſtreſs of an old one. Preſſing my hand, he promiſed to let Peggy remain in the houſe as long as I wiſhed.—I more than returned the preſſure—I was ſo grateful and ſo happy. Emboldened by my innocent warmth, he then kiſſed me—and I did not draw back—I took it for a kiſs of charity.

"Gay as a lark, I went to dine at Mr. Venables'. I had previouſly obtained five ſhillings from my father, towards re-clothing the poor children of my care, and prevailed on my mother to take one of the girls into the houſe, whom I determined to teach to work and read.

"After dinner, when the younger part of the circle retired to the muſic room, I recounted with energy my tale; that is, I mentioned Peggy's diſtreſs, without hinting at the ſteps I had taken to relieve her. Miſs Venables gave me half-a-crown; the heir five ſhillings; but George ſat unmoved. I was cruelly diſtreſſed by the diſappointment—I ſcarcely could remain on my chair; and, could I have got out of the room unperceived, I ſhould have flown home, as if to run away from myſelf. After ſeveral vain attempts to riſe, I leaned my head againſt the marble chimney-piece, and gazing on the evergreens that filled the fire-place, moralized on the vanity of human expectations; regardleſs of the company. I was rouſed by a gentle tap on my ſhoulder from behind Charlotte's chair. I turned my head, and George ſlid a guinea into my hand, putting his finger to his mouth, to enjoin me ſilence.

"What a revolution took place, not only in my train of thoughts, but feelings! I trembled with emotion—now, indeed, I was in love. Such delicacy too, to enhance his benevolence! I felt in my pocket every five minutes, only to feel the guinea; and its magic touch inveſted my hero with more than mortal beauty. My fancy had found a baſis to erect its model of perfection on; and quickly went to work, with all the happy credulity of youth, to conſider that heart as devoted to virtue, which had only obeyed a virtuous impulſe. The bitter experience was yet to come, that has taught me how very diſtinct are the principles of virtue, from the caſual feelings from which they germinate.

CHAP. VIII.

"I have perhaps dwelt too long on a circumſtance, which is only of importance as it marks the progreſs of a deception that has been ſo fatal to my peace; and introduces to your notice a poor girl, whom, intending to ſerve, I led to ruin. Still it is probable that I was not entirely the victim of miſtake; and that your father, gradually faſhioned by the world, did not quickly become what I heſitate to call him—out of reſpect to my daughter.

"But, to haſten to the more buſy ſcenes of my life. Mr. Venables and my mother died the ſame ſummer; and, wholly engroſſed by my attention to her, I thought of little elſe. The neglect of her darling, my brother Robert, had a violent effect on her weakened mind; for, though boys may be reckoned the pillars of the houſe without doors, girls are often the only comfort within. They but too frequently waſte their health and ſpirits attending a dying parent, who leaves them in comparative poverty. After cloſing, with filial piety, a father's eyes, they are chaſed from the paternal roof, to make room for the firſt-born, the ſon, who is to carry the empty family-name down to poſterity; though, occupied with his own pleaſures, he ſcarcely thought of diſcharging, in the decline of his parent's life, the debt contracted in his childhood. My mother's conduct led me to make theſe reflections. Great as was the fatigue I endured, and the affection my unceaſing ſolicitude evinced, of which my mother ſeemed perfectly ſenſible, ſtill, when my brother, whom I could hardly perſuade to remain a quarter of an hour in her chamber, was with her alone, a ſhort time before her death, ſhe gave him a little hoard, which ſhe had been ſome years accumulating.

"During my mother's illneſs, I was obliged to manage my father's temper, who, from the lingering nature of her malady, began to imagine that it was merely fancy. At this period, an artful kind of upper ſervant attracted my father's attention, and the neighbours made many remarks on the finery, not honeſtly got, exhibited at evening ſervice. But I was too much occupied with my mother to obſerve any change in her dreſs or behaviour, or to liſten to the whiſper of ſcandal.

"I ſhall not dwell on the death-bed ſcene, lively as is the remembrance, or on the emotion produced by the laſt graſp of my mother's cold hand; when bleſſing me, ſhe added, 'A little patience, and all will be over!' Ah! my child, how often have thoſe words rung mournfully in my ears—and I have exclaimed—'A little more patience, and I too ſhall be at reſt!'

"My father was violently affected by her death, recollected inſtances of his unkindneſs, and wept like a child.

"My mother had ſolemnly recommended my ſiſters to my care, and bid me be a mother to them. They, indeed, became more dear to me as they became more forlorn; for, during my mother's illneſs, I diſcovered the ruined ſtate of my father's circumſtances, and that he had only been able to keep up appearances, by the ſums which he borrowed of my uncle.

"My father's grief, and conſequent tenderneſs to his children, quickly abated, the houſe grew ſtill more gloomy or riotous; and my refuge from care was again at Mr. Venables'; the young 'ſquire having taken his father's place, and allowing, for the preſent, his ſiſter to preſide at his table. George, though diſſatiſfied with his portion of the fortune, which had till lately been all in trade, viſited the family as uſual. He was now full of ſpeculations in trade, and his brow became clouded by care. He ſeemed to relax in his attention to me, when the preſence of my uncle gave a new turn to his behaviour. I was too unſuſpecting, too diſintereſted, to trace theſe changes to their ſource.

My home every day became more and more diſagreeable to me; my liberty was unneceſſarily abridged, and my books, on the pretext that they made me idle, taken from me. My father's miſtreſs was with child, and he, doating on her, allowed or overlooked her vulgar manner of tyrannizing over us. I was indignant, eſpecially when I ſaw her endeavouring to attract, ſhall I ſay ſeduce? my younger brother. By allowing women but one way of riſing in the world, the foſtering the libertiniſm of men, ſociety makes monſters of them, and then their ignoble vices are brought forward as a proof of inferiority of intellect.

The weariſomeneſs of my ſituation can ſcarcely be deſcribed. Though my life had not paſſed in the moſt even tenour with my mother, it was paradiſe to that I was deſtined to endure with my father's miſtreſs, jealous of her illegitimate authority. My father's former occaſional tenderneſs, in ſpite of his violence of temper, had been ſoothing to me; but now he only met me with reproofs or portentous frowns. The houſe-keeper, as ſhe was now termed, was the vulgar deſpot of the family; and aſſuming the new character of a fine lady, ſhe could never forgive the contempt which was ſometimes viſible in my countenance, when ſhe uttered with pompoſity her bad Engliſh, or affected to be well bred.

To my uncle I ventured to open my heart; and he, with his wonted benevolence, began to conſider in what manner he could extricate me out of my preſent irkſome ſituation. In ſpite of his own diſappointment, or, moſt probably, actuated by the feelings that had been petrified, not cooled, in all their ſanguine fervour, like a boiling torrent of lava ſuddenly daſhing into the ſea, he thought a marriage of mutual inclination (would envious ſtars permit it) the only chance for happineſs in this diſaſtrous world. George Venables had the reputation of being attentive to buſineſs, and my father's example gave great weight to this circumſtance; for habits of order in buſineſs would, he conceived, extend to the regulation of the affections in domeſtic life. George ſeldom ſpoke in my uncle's company, except to utter a ſhort, judicious queſtion, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due deference to his ſuperior judgment; ſo that my uncle ſeldom left his company without obſerving, that the young man had more in him than people ſuppoſed.

In this opinion he was not ſingular; yet, believe me, and I am not ſwayed by reſentment, theſe ſpeeches ſo juſtly poized, this ſilent deference, when the animal ſpirits of other young people were throwing off youthful ebullitions, were not the effect of thought or humility, but ſheer barrenneſs of mind, and want of imagination. A colt of mettle will curvet and ſhew his paces. Yes; my dear girl, theſe prudent young men want all the fire neceſſary to ferment their faculties, and are characterized as wiſe, only becauſe they are not fooliſh. It is true, that George was by no means ſo great a favourite of mine as during the firſt year of our acquaintance; ſtill, as he often coincided in opinion with me, and echoed my ſentiments; and having myſelf no other attachment, I heard with pleaſure my uncle's propoſal; but thought more of obtaining my freedom, than of my lover. But, when George, ſeemingly anxious for my happineſs, preſſed me to quit my preſent painful ſituation, my heart ſwelled with gratitude—I knew not that my uncle had promiſed him five thouſand pounds.

Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I ſhould have inſiſted on a thouſand pounds being ſettled on each of my ſiſters; George would have conteſted; I ſhould have ſeen his ſelfiſh ſoul; and—gracious God! have been ſpared the miſery of diſcovering, when too late, that I was united to a heartleſs, unprincipled wretch. All my ſchemes of uſefulneſs would not then have been blaſted. The tenderneſs of my heart would not have heated my imagination with viſions of the ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the ſweet duty of a mother have been ſo cruelly interrupted.

But I muſt not ſuffer the fortitude I have ſo hardly acquired, to be undermined by unavailing regret. Let me haſten forward to deſcribe the turbid ſtream in which I had to wade—but let me exultingly declare that it is paſſed—my ſoul holds fellowſhip with him no more. He cut the Gordian knot, which my principles, miſtaken ones, reſpected; he diſſolved the tie, the fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—and I ſhould rejoice, conſcious that my mind is freed, though confined in hell itſelf; the only place that even fancy can imagine more dreadful than my preſent abode.

Theſe varying emotions will not allow me to proceed. I heave ſigh after ſigh; yet my heart is ſtill oppreſſed. For what am I reſerved? Why was I not born a man, or why was I born at all?

END OF VOL. I.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.

VOL. II.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

THE

WRONGS OF WOMAN:

OR,

MARIA.

A FRAGMENT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

WRONGS

OF

WOMAN.

CHAP. IX.

"I Resume my pen to fly from thought. I was married; and we hastened to London. I had purposed taking one of my sisters with me; for a strong motive for marrying, was the desire of having a home at which I could receive them, now their own grew so uncomfortable, as not to deserve the cheering appellation. An objection was made to her accompanying me, that appeared plausible; and I reluctantly acquiesced. I was however willingly allowed to take with me Molly, poor Peggy's daughter. London and preferment, are ideas commonly associated in the country; and, as blooming as May, she bade adieu to Peggy with weeping eyes. I did not even feel hurt at the refusal in relation to my sister, till hearing what my uncle had done for me, I had the simplicity to request, speaking with warmth of their situation, that he would give them a thousand pounds a-piece, which seemed to me but justice. He asked me, giving me a kiss, 'If I had lost my senses?' I started back, as if I had found a wasp in a rose-bush. I expostulated. He sneered; and the demon of discord entered our paradise, to poison with his pestiferous breath every opening joy.

"I had sometimes observed defects in my husband's understanding; but, led astray by a prevailing opinion, that goodness of disposition is of the first importance in the relative situations of life, in proportion as I perceived the narrowness of his understanding, fancy enlarged the boundary of his heart. Fatal error! How quickly is the so much vaunted milkiness of nature turned into gall, by an intercourse with the world, if more generous juices do not sustain the vital source of virtue!

"One trait in my character was extreme credulity; but, when my eyes were once opened, I saw but too clearly all I had before overlooked. My husband was sunk in my esteem; still there are youthful emotions, which, for a while, fill up the chasm of love and friendship. Besides, it required some time to enable me to see his whole character in a just light, or rather to allow it to become fixed. While circumstances were ripening my faculties, and cultivating my taste, commerce and gross relaxations were shutting his against any possibility of improvement, till, by stifling every spark of virtue in himself, he began to imagine that it no where existed.

"Do not let me lead you astray, my child, I do not mean to assert, that any human being is entirely incapable of feeling the generous emotions, which are the foundation of every true principle of virtue; but they are frequently, I fear, so feeble, that, like the inflammable quality which more or less lurks in all bodies, they often lie for ever dormant; the circumstances never occurring, necessary to call them into action.

"I discovered however by chance, that, in consequence of some losses in trade, the natural effect of his gambling desire to start suddenly into riches, the five thousand pounds given me by my uncle, had been paid very opportunely. This discovery, strange as you may think the assertion, gave me pleasure; my husband's embarrassments endeared him to me. I was glad to find an excuse for his conduct to my sisters, and my mind became calmer.

"My uncle introduced me to some literary society; and the theatres were a never-failing source of amusement to me. My delighted eye followed Mrs. Siddons, when, with dignified delicacy, she played Calista; and I involuntarily repeated after her, in the same tone, and with a long-drawn sigh,

'Hearts like our's were pair'd—not match'd.'

"These were, at first, spontaneous emotions, though, becoming acquainted with men of wit and polished manners, I could not sometimes help regretting my early marriage; and that, in my haste to escape from a temporary dependence, and expand my newly fledged wings, in an unknown sky, I had been caught in a trap, and caged for life. Still the novelty of London, and the attentive fondness of my husband, for he had some personal regard for me, made several months glide away. Yet, not forgetting the situation of my sisters, who were still very young, I prevailed on my uncle to settle a thousand pounds on each; and to place them in a school near town, where I could frequently visit, as well as have them at home with me.

"I now tried to improve my husband's taste, but we had few subjects in common; indeed he soon appeared to have little relish for my society, unless he was hinting to me the use he could make of my uncle's wealth. When we had company, I was disgusted by an ostentatious display of riches, and I have often quitted the room, to avoid listening to exaggerated tales of money obtained by lucky hits.

"With all my attention and affectionate interest, I perceived that I could not become the friend or confident of my husband. Every thing I learned relative to his affairs I gathered up by accident; and I vainly endeavoured to establish, at our fire-side, that social converse, which often renders people of different characters dear to each other. Returning from the theatre, or any amusing party, I frequently began to relate what I had seen and highly relished; but with sullen taciturnity he soon silenced me. I seemed therefore gradually to lose, in his society, the soul, the energies of which had just been in action. To such a degree, in fact, did his cold, reserved manner affect me, that, after spending some days with him alone, I have imagined myself the most stupid creature in the world, till the abilities of some casual visitor convinced me that I had some dormant animation, and sentiments above the dust in which I had been groveling. The very countenance of my husband changed; his complexion became sallow, and all the charms of youth were vanishing with its vivacity.

"I give you one view of the subject; but these experiments and alterations took up the space of five years; during which period, I had most reluctantly extorted several sums from my uncle, to save my husband, to use his own words, from destruction. At first it was to prevent bills being noted, to the injury of his credit; then to bail him; and afterwards to prevent an execution from entering the house. I began at last to conclude, that he would have made more exertions of his own to extricate himself, had he not relied on mine, cruel as was the task he imposed on me; and I firmly determined that I would make use of no more pretexts.

"From the moment I pronounced this determination, indifference on his part was changed into rudeness, or something worse.

"He now seldom dined at home, and continually returned at a late hour, drunk, to bed. I retired to another apartment; I was glad, I own, to escape from his; for personal intimacy without affection, seemed, to me the most degrading, as well as the most painful state in which a woman of any taste, not to speak of the peculiar delicacy of fostered sensibility, could be placed. But my husband's fondness for women was of the grossest kind, and imagination was so wholly out of the question, as to render his indulgences of this sort entirely promiscuous, and of the most brutal nature. My health suffered, before my heart was entirely estranged by the loathsome information; could I then have returned to his sullied arms, but as a victim to the prejudices of mankind, who have made women the property of their husbands? I discovered even, by his conversation, when intoxicated, that his favourites were wantons of the lowest class, who could by their vulgar, indecent mirth, which he called nature, rouse his sluggish spirits. Meretricious ornaments and manners were necessary to attract his attention. He seldom looked twice at a modest woman, and sat silent in their company; and the charms of youth and beauty had not the slightest effect on his senses, unless the possessors were initiated in vice. His intimacy with profligate women, and his habits of thinking, gave him a contempt for female endowments; and he would repeat, when wine had loosed his tongue, most of the common-place sarcasms levelled at them, by men who do not allow them to have minds, because mind would be an impediment to gross enjoyment. Men who are inferior to their fellow men, are always most anxious to establish their superiority over women. But where are these reflections leading me?

"Women who have lost their husband's affection, are justly reproved for neglecting their persons, and not taking the same pains to keep, as to gain a heart; but who thinks of giving the same advice to men, though women are continually stigmatized for being attached to fops; and from the nature of their education, are more susceptible of disgust? Yet why a woman should be expected to endure a sloven, with more patience than a man, and magnanimously to govern herself, I cannot conceive; unless it be supposed arrogant in her to look for respect as well as a maintenance. It is not easy to be pleased, because, after promising to love, in different circumstances, we are told that it is our duty. I cannot, I am sure (though, when attending the sick, I never felt disgust) forget my own sensations, when rising with health and spirit, and after scenting the sweet morning, I have met my husband at the breakfast table. The active attention I had been giving to domestic regulations, which were generally settled before he rose, or a walk, gave a glow to my countenance, that contrasted with his squallid appearance. The squeamishness of stomach alone, produced by the last night's intemperance, which he took no pains to conceal, destroyed my appetite. I think I now see him lolling in an arm-chair, in a dirty powdering gown, soiled linen, ungartered stockings, and tangled hair, yawning and stretching himself. The newspaper was immediately called for, if not brought in on the tea-board, from which he would scarcely lift his eyes while I poured out the tea, excepting to ask for some brandy to put into it, or to declare that he could not eat. In answer to any question, in his best humour, it was a drawling 'What do you say, child?' But if I demanded money for the house expences, which I put off till the last moment, his customary reply, often prefaced with an oath, was, 'Do you think me, madam, made of money?'—The butcher, the baker, must wait; and, what was worse, I was often obliged to witness his surly dismission of tradesmen, who were in want of their money, and whom I sometimes paid with the presents my uncle gave me for my own use.

"At this juncture my father's mistress, by terrifying his conscience, prevailed on him to marry her; he was already become a methodist; and my brother, who now practised for himself, had discovered a flaw in the settlement made on my mother's children, which set it aside, and he allowed my father, whose distress made him submit to any thing, a tithe of his own, or rather our fortune.

"My sisters had left school, but were unable to endure home, which my father's wife rendered as disagreeable as possible, to get rid of girls whom she regarded as spies on her conduct. They were accomplished, yet you can (may you never be reduced to the same destitute state!) scarcely conceive the trouble I had to place them in the situation of governesses, the only one in which even a well-educated woman, with more than ordinary talents, can struggle for a subsistence; and even this is a dependence next to menial. Is it then surprising, that so many forlorn women, with human passions and feelings, take refuge in infamy? Alone in large mansions, I say alone, because they had no companions with whom they could converse on equal terms, or from whom they could expect the endearments of affection, they grew melancholy, and the sound of joy made them sad; and the youngest, having a more delicate frame, fell into a decline. It was with great difficulty that I, who now almost supported the house by loans from my uncle, could prevail on the master of it, to allow her a room to die in. I watched her sick bed for some months, and then closed her eyes, gentle spirit! for ever. She was pretty, with very engaging manners; yet had never an opportunity to marry, excepting to a very old man. She had abilities sufficient to have shone in any profession, had there been any professions for women, though she shrunk at the name of milliner or mantua-maker as degrading to a gentlewoman. I would not term this feeling false pride to any one but you, my child, whom I fondly hope to see (yes; I will indulge the hope for a moment!) possessed of that energy of character which gives dignity to any station; and with that clear, firm spirit that will enable you to choose a situation for yourself, or submit to be classed in the lowest, if it be the only one in which you can be the mistress of your own actions.

"Soon after the death of my sister, an incident occurred, to prove to me that the heart of a libertine is dead to natural affection; and to convince me, that the being who has appeared all tenderness, to gratify a selfish passion, is as regardless of the innocent fruit of it, as of the object, when the fit is over. I had casually observed an old, mean-looking woman, who called on my husband every two or three months to receive some money. One day entering the passage of his little counting-house, as she was going out, I heard her say, 'The child is very weak; she cannot live long, she will soon die out of your way, so you need not grudge her a little physic.'

"'So much the better,' he replied, 'and pray mind your own business, good woman.'

"I was struck by his unfeeling, inhuman tone of voice, and drew back, determined when the woman came again, to try to speak to her, not out of curiosity, I had heard enough, but with the hope of being useful to a poor, outcast girl.

"A month or two elapsed before I saw this woman again; and then she had a child in her hand that tottered along, scarcely able to sustain her own weight. They were going away, to return at the hour Mr. Venables was expected; he was now from home. I desired the woman to walk into the parlour. She hesitated, yet obeyed. I assured her that I should not mention to my husband (the word seemed to weigh on my respiration), that I had seen her, or his child. The woman stared at me with astonishment; and I turned my eyes on the squalid object [that accompanied her.] She could hardly support herself, her complexion was sallow, and her eyes inflamed, with an indescribable look of cunning, mixed with the wrinkles produced by the peevishness of pain.

"'Poor child!' I exclaimed. 'Ah! you may well say poor child,' replied the woman. 'I brought her here to see whether he would have the heart to look at her, and not get some advice. I do not know what they deserve who nursed her. Why, her legs bent under her like a bow when she came to me, and she has never been well since; but, if they were no better paid than I am, it is not to be wondered at, sure enough.'

"On further enquiry I was informed, that this miserable spectacle was the daughter of a servant, a country girl, who caught Mr. Venables' eye, and whom he seduced. On his marriage he sent her away, her situation being too visible. After her delivery, she was thrown on the town; and died in an hospital within the year. The babe was sent to a parish-nurse, and afterwards to this woman, who did not seem much better; but what was to be expected from such a close bargain? She was only paid three shillings a week for board and washing.

"The woman begged me to give her some old clothes for the child, assuring me, that she was almost afraid to ask master for money to buy even a pair of shoes.

"I grew sick at heart. And, fearing Mr. Venables might enter, and oblige me to express my abhorrence, I hastily enquired where she lived, promised to pay her two shillings a week more, and to call on her in a day or two; putting a trifle into her hand as a proof of my good intention.

"If the state of this child affected me, what were my feelings at a discovery I made respecting Peggy——?[22-A]

FOOTNOTES:

[22-A] The manuscript is imperfect here. An episode seems to have been intended, which was never committed to paper.

editor.

CHAP. X.

"My father's situation was now so distressing, that I prevailed on my uncle to accompany me to visit him; and to lend me his assistance, to prevent the whole property of the family from becoming the prey of my brother's rapacity; for, to extricate himself out of present difficulties, my father was totally regardless of futurity. I took down with me some presents for my step-mother; it did not require an effort for me to treat her with civility, or to forget the past.

"This was the first time I had visited my native village, since my marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to scenes, that whispered recollections of joy and hope most eloquently to my heart! The first scent of the wild flowers from the heath, thrilled through my veins, awakening every sense to pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my bosom; and—forgetting my husband—the nurtured visions of a romantic mind, bursting on me with all their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow, or knew care in the country; while a transient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy sky of despondency. The picturesque form of several favourite trees, and the porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were recognized with the gladsome playfulness of childish vivacity. I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky that it should be in motion, at the moment I passed by; and entering the dear green lane, which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active soul, which only served to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But, spying, as I advanced, the spire, peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the church-yard, and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I wandered through the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to do on a Saturday evening. I recollected with what fervour I addressed the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above my sorrows to the Father of nature. I pause—feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing; and (reminded, as I register my sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremendous solitude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe) I insensibly breathe soft, hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to sully with a sigh, a contentment so extatic.

"Having settled my father's affairs, and, by my exertions in his favour, made my brother my sworn foe, I returned to London. My husband's conduct was now changed; I had during my absence, received several affectionate, penitential letters from him; and he seemed on my arrival, to wish by his behaviour to prove his sincerity. I could not then conceive why he acted thus; and, when the suspicion darted into my head, that it might arise from observing my increasing influence with my uncle, I almost despised myself for imagining that such a degree of debasing selfishness could exist.

"He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and attentive; and, attacking my weak side, made a confession of his follies, and lamented the embarrassments in which I, who merited a far different fate, might be involved. He besought me to aid him with my counsel, praised my understanding, and appealed to the tenderness of my heart.

"This conduct only inspired me with compassion. I wished to be his friend; but love had spread his rosy pinions, and fled far, far away; and had not (like some exquisite perfumes, the fine spirit of which is continually mingling with the air) left a fragrance behind, to mark where he had shook his wings. My husband's renewed caresses then became hateful to me; his brutality was tolerable, compared to his distasteful fondness. Still, compassion, and the fear of insulting his supposed feelings, by a want of sympathy, made me dissemble, and do violence to my delicacy. What a task!

"Those who support a system of what I term false refinement, and will not allow great part of love in the female, as well as male breast, to spring in some respects involuntarily, may not admit that charms are as necessary to feed the passion, as virtues to convert the mellowing spirit into friendship. To such observers I have nothing to say, any more than to the moralists, who insist that women ought to, and can love their husbands, because it is their duty. To you, my child, I may add, with a heart tremblingly alive to your future conduct, some observations, dictated by my present feelings, on calmly reviewing this period of my life. When novelists or moralists praise as a virtue, a woman's coldness of constitution, and want of passion; and make her yield to the ardour of her lover out of sheer compassion, or to promote a frigid plan of future comfort, I am disgusted. They may be good women, in the ordinary acceptation of the phrase, and do no harm; but they appear to me not to have those 'finely fashioned nerves,' which render the senses exquisite. They may possess tenderness; but they want that fire of the imagination, which produces active sensibility, and positive virtue. How does the woman deserve to be characterized, who marries one man, with a heart and imagination devoted to another? Is she not an object of pity or contempt, when thus sacrilegiously violating the purity of her own feelings? Nay, it is as indelicate, when she is indifferent, unless she be constitutionally insensible; then indeed it is a mere affair of barter; and I have nothing to do with the secrets of trade. Yes; eagerly as I wish you to possess true rectitude of mind, and purity of affection, I must insist that a heartless conduct is the contrary of virtuous. Truth is the only basis of virtue; and we cannot, without depraving our minds, endeavour to please a lover or husband, but in proportion as he pleases us. Men, more effectually to enslave us, may inculcate this partial morality, and lose sight of virtue in subdividing it into the duties of particular stations; but let us not blush for nature without a cause!

"After these remarks, I am ashamed to own, that I was pregnant. The greatest sacrifice of my principles in my whole life, was the allowing my husband again to be familiar with my person, though to this cruel act of self-denial, when I wished the earth to open and swallow me, you owe your birth; and I the unutterable pleasure of being a mother. There was something of delicacy in my husband's bridal attentions; but now his tainted breath, pimpled face, and blood-shot eyes, were not more repugnant to my senses, than his gross manners, and loveless familiarity to my taste.

"A man would only be expected to maintain; yes, barely grant a subsistence, to a woman rendered odious by habitual intoxication; but who would expect him, or think it possible to love her? And unless 'youth, and genial years were flown,' it would be thought equally unreasonable to insist, [under penalty of] forfeiting almost every thing reckoned valuable in life, that he should not love another: whilst woman, weak in reason, impotent in will, is required to moralize, sentimentalize herself to stone, and pine her life away, labouring to reform her embruted mate. He may even spend in dissipation, and intemperance, the very intemperance which renders him so hateful, her property, and by stinting her expences, not permit her to beguile in society, a wearisome, joyless life; for over their mutual fortune she has no power, it must all pass through his hand. And if she be a mother, and in the present state of women, it is a great misfortune to be prevented from discharging the duties, and cultivating the affections of one, what has she not to endure?—But I have suffered the tenderness of one to lead me into reflections that I did not think of making, to interrupt my narrative—yet the full heart will overflow.

"Mr. Venables' embarrassments did not now endear him to me; still, anxious to befriend him, I endeavoured to prevail on him to retrench his expences; but he had always some plausible excuse to give, to justify his not following my advice. Humanity, compassion, and the interest produced by a habit of living together, made me try to relieve, and sympathize with him; but, when I recollected that I was bound to live with such a being for ever—my heart died within me; my desire of improvement became languid, and baleful, corroding melancholy took possession of my soul. Marriage had bastilled me for life. I discovered in myself a capacity for the enjoyment of the various pleasures existence affords; yet, fettered by the partial laws of society, this fair globe was to me an universal blank.

"When I exhorted my husband to economy, I referred to himself. I was obliged to practise the most rigid, or contract debts, which I had too much reason to fear would never be paid. I despised this paltry privilege of a wife, which can only be of use to the vicious or inconsiderate, and determined not to increase the torrent that was bearing him down. I was then ignorant of the extent of his fraudulent speculations, whom I was bound to honour and obey.

"A woman neglected by her husband, or whose manners form a striking contrast with his, will always have men on the watch to soothe and flatter her. Besides, the forlorn state of a neglected woman, not destitute of personal charms, is particularly interesting, and rouses that species of pity, which is so near akin, it easily slides into love. A man of feeling thinks not of seducing, he is himself seduced by all the noblest emotions of his soul. He figures to himself all the sacrifices a woman of sensibility must make, and every situation in which his imagination places her, touches his heart, and fires his passions. Longing to take to his bosom the shorn lamb, and bid the drooping buds of hope revive, benevolence changes into passion: and should he then discover that he is beloved, honour binds him fast, though foreseeing that he may afterwards be obliged to pay severe damages to the man, who never appeared to value his wife's society, till he found that there was a chance of his being indemnified for the loss of it.

"Such are the partial laws enacted by men; for, only to lay a stress on the dependent state of a woman in the grand question of the comforts arising from the possession of property, she is [even in this article] much more injured by the loss of the husband's affection, than he by that of his wife; yet where is she, condemned to the solitude of a deserted home, to look for a compensation from the woman, who seduces him from her? She cannot drive an unfaithful husband from his house, nor separate, or tear, his children from him, however culpable he may be; and he, still the master of his own fate, enjoys the smiles of a world, that would brand her with infamy, did she, seeking consolation, venture to retaliate.

"These remarks are not dictated by experience; but merely by the compassion I feel for many amiable women, the out-laws of the world. For myself, never encouraging any of the advances that were made to me, my lovers dropped off like the untimely shoots of spring. I did not even coquet with them; because I found, on examining myself, I could not coquet with a man without loving him a little; and I perceived that I should not be able to stop at the line of what are termed innocent freedoms, did I suffer any. My reserve was then the consequence of delicacy. Freedom of conduct has emancipated many women's minds; but my conduct has most rigidly been governed by my principles, till the improvement of my understanding has enabled me to discern the fallacy of prejudices at war with nature and reason.

"Shortly after the change I have mentioned in my husband's conduct, my uncle was compelled by his declining health, to seek the succour of a milder climate, and embark for Lisbon. He left his will in the hands of a friend, an eminent solicitor; he had previously questioned me relative to my situation and state of mind, and declared very freely, that he could place no reliance on the stability of my husband's professions. He had been deceived in the unfolding of his character; he now thought it fixed in a train of actions that would inevitably lead to ruin and disgrace.

"The evening before his departure, which we spent alone together, he folded me to his heart, uttering the endearing appellation of 'child.'—My more than father! why was I not permitted to perform the last duties of one, and smooth the pillow of death? He seemed by his manner to be convinced that he should never see me more; yet requested me, most earnestly, to come to him, should I be obliged to leave my husband. He had before expressed his sorrow at hearing of my pregnancy, having determined to prevail on me to accompany him, till I informed him of that circumstance. He expressed himself unfeignedly sorry that any new tie should bind me to a man whom he thought so incapable of estimating my value; such was the kind language of affection.

"I must repeat his own words; they made an indelible impression on my mind:

"'The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally speaking, can be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a woman, once married, ought to consider the engagement as indissoluble (especially if there be no children to reward her for sacrificing her feelings) in case her husband merits neither her love, nor esteem. Esteem will often supply the place of love; and prevent a woman from being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a sacrifice ought always to bear some proportion to the utility in view; and for a woman to live with a man, for whom she can cherish neither affection nor esteem, or even be of any use to him, excepting in the light of a house-keeper, is an abjectness of condition, the enduring of which no concurrence of circumstances can ever make a duty in the sight of God or just men. If indeed she submits to it merely to be maintained in idleness, she has no right to complain bitterly of her fate; or to act, as a person of independent character might, as if she had a title to disregard general rules.

"'But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance, and forfeit their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The situation of a woman separated from her husband, is undoubtedly very different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity, has shaken of a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment, is thought sufficient to secure his reputation from taint. And, should she have been inconsiderate, he will be celebrated for his generosity and forbearance. Such is the respect paid to the master-key of property! A woman, on the contrary, resigning what is termed her natural protector (though he never was so, but in name) is despised and shunned, for asserting the independence of mind distinctive of a rational being, and spurning at slavery.'

"During the remainder of the evening, my uncle's tenderness led him frequently to revert to the subject, and utter, with increasing warmth, sentiments to the same purport. At length it was necessary to say 'Farewell!'—and we parted—gracious God! to meet no more.

CHAP. XI.

"A gentleman of large fortune and of polished manners, had lately visited very frequently at our house, and treated me, if possible, with more respect than Mr. Venables paid him; my pregnancy was not yet visible, his society was a great relief to me, as I had for some time past, to avoid expence, confined myself very much at home. I ever disdained unnecessary, perhaps even prudent concealments; and my husband, with great ease, discovered the amount of my uncle's parting present. A copy of a writ was the stale pretext to extort it from me; and I had soon reason to believe that it was fabricated for the purpose. I acknowledge my folly in thus suffering myself to be continually imposed on. I had adhered to my resolution not to apply to my uncle, on the part of my husband, any more; yet, when I had received a sum sufficient to supply my own wants, and to enable me to pursue a plan I had in view, to settle my younger brother in a respectable employment, I allowed myself to be duped by Mr. Venables' shallow pretences, and hypocritical professions.

"Thus did he pillage me and my family, thus frustrate all my plans of usefulness. Yet this was the man I was bound to respect and esteem: as if respect and esteem depended on an arbitrary will of our own! But a wife being as much a man's property as his horse, or his ass, she has nothing she can call her own. He may use any means to get at what the law considers as his, the moment his wife is in possession of it, even to the forcing of a lock, as Mr. Venables did, to search for notes in my writing-desk—and all this is done with a show of equity, because, forsooth, he is responsible for her maintenance.

"The tender mother cannot lawfully snatch from the gripe of the gambling spendthrift, or beastly drunkard, unmindful of his offspring, the fortune which falls to her by chance; or (so flagrant is the injustice) what she earns by her own exertions. No; he can rob her with impunity, even to waste publicly on a courtezan; and the laws of her country—if women have a country—afford her no protection or redress from the oppressor, unless she have the plea of bodily fear; yet how many ways are there of goading the soul almost to madness, equally unmanly, though not so mean? When such laws were framed, should not impartial lawgivers have first decreed, in the style of a great assembly, who recognized the existence of an être suprême, to fix the national belief, that the husband should always be wiser and more virtuous than his wife, in order to entitle him, with a show of justice, to keep this idiot, or perpetual minor, for ever in bondage. But I must have done—on this subject, my indignation continually runs away with me.

"The company of the gentleman I have already mentioned, who had a general acquaintance with literature and subjects of taste, was grateful to me; my countenance brightened up as he approached, and I unaffectedly expressed the pleasure I felt. The amusement his conversation afforded me, made it easy to comply with my husband's request, to endeavour to render our house agreeable to him.

"His attentions became more pointed; but, as I was not of the number of women, whose virtue, as it is termed, immediately takes alarm, I endeavoured, rather by raillery than serious expostulation, to give a different turn to his conversation. He assumed a new mode of attack, and I was, for a while, the dupe of his pretended friendship.

"I had, merely in the style of badinage, boasted of my conquest, and repeated his lover-like compliments to my husband. But he begged me, for God's sake, not to affront his friend, or I should destroy all his projects, and be his ruin. Had I had more affection for my husband, I should have expressed my contempt of this time-serving politeness: now I imagined that I only felt pity; yet it would have puzzled a casuist to point out in what the exact difference consisted.

"This friend began now, in confidence, to discover to me the real state of my husband's affairs. 'Necessity,' said Mr. S——; why should I reveal his name? for he affected to palliate the conduct he could not excuse, 'had led him to take such steps, by accommodation bills, buying goods on credit, to sell them for ready money, and similar transactions, that his character in the commercial world was gone. He was considered,' he added, lowering his voice, 'on 'Change as a swindler.'

"I felt at that moment the first maternal pang. Aware of the evils my sex have to struggle with, I still wished, for my own consolation, to be the mother of a daughter; and I could not bear to think, that the sins of her father's entailed disgrace, should be added to the ills to which woman is heir.

"So completely was I deceived by these shows of friendship (nay, I believe, according to his interpretation, Mr. S— really was my friend) that I began to consult him respecting the best mode of retrieving my husband's character: it is the good name of a woman only that sets to rise no more. I knew not that he had been drawn into a whirlpool, out of which he had not the energy to attempt to escape. He seemed indeed destitute of the power of employing his faculties in any regular pursuit. His principles of action were so loose, and his mind so uncultivated, that every thing like order appeared to him in the shape of restraint; and, like men in the savage state, he required the strong stimulus of hope or fear, produced by wild speculations, in which the interests of others went for nothing, to keep his spirits awake. He one time possessed patriotism, but he knew not what it was to feel honest indignation; and pretended to be an advocate for liberty, when, with as little affection for the human race as for individuals, he thought of nothing but his own gratification. He was just such a citizen, as a father. The sums he adroitly obtained by a violation of the laws of his country, as well as those of humanity, he would allow a mistress to squander; though she was, with the same sang froid, consigned, as were his children, to poverty, when another proved more attractive.

"On various pretences, his friend continued to visit me; and, observing my want of money, he tried to induce me to accept of pecuniary aid; but this offer I absolutely rejected, though it was made with such delicacy, I could not be displeased.

"One day he came, as I thought accidentally, to dinner. My husband was very much engaged in business, and quitted the room soon after the cloth was removed. We conversed as usual, till confidential advice led again to love. I was extremely mortified. I had a sincere regard for him, and hoped that he had an equal friendship for me. I therefore began mildly to expostulate with him. This gentleness he mistook for coy encouragement; and he would not be diverted from the subject. Perceiving his mistake, I seriously asked him how, using such language to me, he could profess to be my husband's friend? A significant sneer excited my curiosity, and he, supposing this to be my only scruple, took a letter deliberately out of his pocket, saying, 'Your husband's honour is not inflexible. How could you, with your discernment, think it so? Why, he left the room this very day on purpose to give me an opportunity to explain myself; he thought me too timid—too tardy.'

"I snatched the letter with indescribable emotion. The purport of it was to invite him to dinner, and to ridicule his chivalrous respect for me. He assured him, 'that every woman had her price, and, with gross indecency, hinted, that he should be glad to have the duty of a husband taken off his hands. These he termed liberal sentiments. He advised him not to shock my romantic notions, but to attack my credulous generosity, and weak pity; and concluded with requesting him to lend him five hundred pounds for a month or six weeks.' I read this letter twice over; and the firm purpose it inspired, calmed the rising tumult of my soul. I rose deliberately, requested Mr. S—— to wait a moment, and instantly going into the counting-house, desired Mr. Venables to return with me to the dining-parlour.

"He laid down his pen, and entered with me, without observing any change in my countenance. I shut the door, and, giving him the letter, simply asked, 'whether he wrote it, or was it a forgery?'

"Nothing could equal his confusion. His friend's eye met his, and he muttered something about a joke—But I interrupted him—'It is sufficient—We part for ever.'

"I continued, with solemnity, 'I have borne with your tyranny and infidelities. I disdain to utter what I have borne with. I thought you unprincipled, but not so decidedly vicious. I formed a tie, in the sight of heaven—I have held it sacred; even when men, more conformable to my taste, have made me feel—I despise all subterfuge!—that I was not dead to love. Neglected by you, I have resolutely stifled the enticing emotions, and respected the plighted faith you outraged. And you dare now to insult me, by selling me to prostitution!—Yes—equally lost to delicacy and principle—you dared sacrilegiously to barter the honour of the mother of your child.'

"Then, turning to Mr. S——, I added, 'I call on you, Sir, to witness,' and I lifted my hands and eyes to heaven, 'that, as solemnly as I took his name, I now abjure it,' I pulled off my ring, and put it on the table; 'and that I mean immediately to quit his house, never to enter it more. I will provide for myself and child. I leave him as free as I am determined to be myself—he shall be answerable for no debts of mine.'

"Astonishment closed their lips, till Mr. Venables, gently pushing his friend, with a forced smile, out of the room, nature for a moment prevailed, and, appearing like himself, he turned round, burning with rage, to me: but there was no terror in the frown, excepting when contrasted with the malignant smile which preceded it. He bade me 'leave the house at my peril; told me he despised my threats; I had no resource; I could not swear the peace against him!—I was not afraid of my life!—he had never struck me!'

"He threw the letter in the fire, which I had incautiously left in his hands; and, quitting the room, locked the door on me.

"When left alone, I was a moment or two before I could recollect myself. One scene had succeeded another with such rapidity, I almost doubted whether I was reflecting on a real event. 'Was it possible? Was I, indeed, free?'—Yes; free I termed myself, when I decidedly perceived the conduct I ought to adopt. How had I panted for liberty—liberty, that I would have purchased at any price, but that of my own esteem! I rose, and shook myself; opened the window, and methought the air never smelled so sweet. The face of heaven grew fairer as I viewed it, and the clouds seemed to flit away obedient to my wishes, to give my soul room to expand. I was all soul, and (wild as it may appear) felt as if I could have dissolved in the soft balmy gale that kissed my cheek, or have glided below the horizon on the glowing, descending beams. A seraphic satisfaction animated, without agitating my spirits; and my imagination collected, in visions sublimely terrible, or soothingly beautiful, an immense variety of the endless images, which nature affords, and fancy combines, of the grand and fair. The lustre of these bright picturesque sketches faded with the setting sun; but I was still alive to the calm delight they had diffused through my heart.

"There may be advocates for matrimonial obedience, who, making a distinction between the duty of a wife and of a human being, may blame my conduct.—To them I write not—my feelings are not for them to analyze; and may you, my child, never be able to ascertain, by heart-rending experience, what your mother felt before the present emancipation of her mind!

"I began to write a letter to my father, after closing one to my uncle; not to ask advice, but to signify my determination; when I was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Venables. His manner was changed. His views on my uncle's fortune made him averse to my quitting his house, or he would, I am convinced, have been glad to have shaken off even the slight restraint my presence imposed on him; the restraint of showing me some respect. So far from having an affection for me, he really hated me, because he was convinced that I must despise him.

"He told me, that, 'As I now had had time to cool and reflect, he did not doubt but that my prudence, and nice sense of propriety, would lead me to overlook what was passed.'

"'Reflection,' I replied, 'had only confirmed my purpose, and no power on earth could divert me from it.'

"Endeavouring to assume a soothing voice and look, when he would willingly have tortured me, to force me to feel his power, his countenance had an infernal expression, when he desired me, 'Not to expose myself to the servants, by obliging him to confine me in my apartment; if then I would give my promise not to quit the house precipitately, I should be free—and—.' I declared, interrupting him, 'that I would promise nothing. I had no measures to keep with him—I was resolved, and would not condescend to subterfuge.'

"He muttered, 'that I should soon repent of these preposterous airs;' and, ordering tea to be carried into my little study, which had a communication with my bed-chamber, he once more locked the door upon me, and left me to my own meditations. I had passively followed him up stairs, not wishing to fatigue myself with unavailing exertion.

"Nothing calms the mind like a fixed purpose. I felt as if I had heaved a thousand weight from my heart; the atmosphere seemed lightened; and, if I execrated the institutions of society, which thus enable men to tyrannize over women, it was almost a disinterested sentiment. I disregarded present inconveniences, when my mind had done struggling with itself,—when reason and inclination had shaken hands and were at peace. I had no longer the cruel task before me, in endless perspective, aye, during the tedious for ever of life, of labouring to overcome my repugnance—of labouring to extinguish the hopes, the maybes of a lively imagination. Death I had hailed as my only chance for deliverance; but, while existence had still so many charms, and life promised happiness, I shrunk from the icy arms of an unknown tyrant, though far more inviting than those of the man, to whom I supposed myself bound without any other alternative; and was content to linger a little longer, waiting for I knew not what, rather than leave 'the warm precincts of the cheerful day,' and all the unenjoyed affection of my nature.

"My present situation gave a new turn to my reflection; and I wondered (now the film seemed to be withdrawn, that obscured the piercing sight of reason) how I could, previously to the deciding outrage, have considered myself as everlastingly united to vice and folly? 'Had an evil genius cast a spell at my birth; or a demon stalked out of chaos, to perplex my understanding, and enchain my will, with delusive prejudices?'

"I pursued this train of thinking; it led me out of myself, to expatiate on the misery peculiar to my sex. 'Are not,' I thought, 'the despots for ever stigmatized, who, in the wantonness of power, commanded even the most atrocious criminals to be chained to dead bodies? though surely those laws are much more inhuman, which forge adamantine fetters to bind minds together, that never can mingle in social communion! What indeed can equal the wretchedness of that state, in which there is no alternative, but to extinguish the affections, or encounter infamy?'

CHAP. XII.

"Towards midnight Mr. Venables entered my chamber; and, with calm audacity preparing to go to bed, he bade me make haste, 'for that was the best place for husbands and wives to end their differences. He had been drinking plentifully to aid his courage.

"I did not at first deign to reply. But perceiving that he affected to take my silence for consent, I told him that, 'If he would not go to another bed, or allow me, I should sit up in my study all night.' He attempted to pull me into the chamber, half joking. But I resisted; and, as he had determined not to give me any reason for saying that he used violence, after a few more efforts, he retired, cursing my obstinacy, to bed.

"I sat musing some time longer; then, throwing my cloak around me, prepared for sleep on a sopha. And, so fortunate seemed my deliverance, so sacred the pleasure of being thus wrapped up in myself, that I slept profoundly, and woke with a mind composed to encounter the struggles of the day. Mr. Venables did not wake till some hours after; and then he came to me half-dressed, yawning and stretching, with haggard eyes, as if he scarcely recollected what had passed the preceding evening. He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then, calling me a fool, asked 'How long I intended to continue this pretty farce? For his part, he was devilish sick of it; but this was the plague of marrying women who pretended to know something.'

"I made no other reply to this harangue, than to say, 'That he ought to be glad to get rid of a woman so unfit to be his companion—and that any change in my conduct would be mean dissimulation; for maturer reflection only gave the sacred seal of reason to my first resolution.'

"He looked as if he could have stamped with impatience, at being obliged to stifle his rage; but, conquering his anger (for weak people, whose passions seem the most ungovernable, restrain them with the greatest ease, when they have a sufficient motive), he exclaimed, 'Very pretty, upon my soul! very pretty, theatrical flourishes! Pray, fair Roxana, stoop from your altitudes, and remember that you are acting a part in real life.'

"He uttered this speech with a self-satisfied air, and went down stairs to dress.

"In about an hour he came to me again; and in the same tone said, 'That he came as my gentleman-usher to hand me down to breakfast.

"'Of the black rod?' asked I.

"This question, and the tone in which I asked it, a little disconcerted him. To say the truth, I now felt no resentment; my firm resolution to free myself from my ignoble thraldom, had absorbed the various emotions which, during six years, had racked my soul. The duty pointed out by my principles seemed clear; and not one tender feeling intruded to make me swerve: The dislike which my husband had inspired was strong; but it only led me to wish to avoid, to wish to let him drop out of my memory; there was no misery, no torture that I would not deliberately have chosen, rather than renew my lease of servitude.

"During the breakfast, he attempted to reason with me on the folly of romantic sentiments; for this was the indiscriminate epithet he gave to every mode of conduct or thinking superior to his own. He asserted, 'that all the world were governed by their own interest; those who pretended to be actuated by different motives, were only deeper knaves, or fools crazed by books, who took for gospel all the rodomantade nonsense written by men who knew nothing of the world. For his part, he thanked God, he was no hypocrite; and, if he stretched a point sometimes, it was always with an intention of paying every man his own.'

"He then artfully insinuated, 'that he daily expected a vessel to arrive, a successful speculation, that would make him easy for the present, and that he had several other schemes actually depending, that could not fail. He had no doubt of becoming rich in a few years, though he had been thrown back by some unlucky adventures at the setting out.'

"I mildly replied, 'That I wished he might not involve himself still deeper.'

"He had no notion that I was governed by a decision of judgment, not to be compared with a mere spurt of resentment. He knew not what it was to feel indignation against vice, and often boasted of his placable temper, and readiness to forgive injuries. True; for he only considered the being deceived, as an effort of skill he had not guarded against; and then, with a cant of candour, would observe, 'that he did not know how he might himself have been tempted to act in the same circumstances.' And, as his heart never opened to friendship, it never was wounded by disappointment. Every new acquaintance he protested, it is true, was 'the cleverest fellow in the world;' and he really thought so; till the novelty of his conversation or manners ceased to have any effect on his sluggish spirits. His respect for rank or fortune was more permanent, though he chanced to have no design of availing himself of the influence of either to promote his own views.

"After a prefatory conversation,—my blood (I thought it had been cooler) flushed over my whole countenance as he spoke—he alluded to my situation. He desired me to reflect—'and act like a prudent woman, as the best proof of my superior understanding; for he must own I had sense, did I know how to use it. I was not,' he laid a stress on his words, 'without my passions; and a husband was a convenient cloke.—He was liberal in his way of thinking; and why might not we, like many other married people, who were above vulgar prejudices, tacitly consent to let each other follow their own inclination?—He meant nothing more, in the letter I made the ground of complaint; and the pleasure which I seemed to take in Mr. S.'s company, led him to conclude, that he was not disagreeable to me.'

"A clerk brought in the letters of the day, and I, as I often did, while he was discussing subjects of business, went to the piano forte, and began to play a favourite air to restore myself, as it were, to nature, and drive the sophisticated sentiments I had just been obliged to listen to, out of my soul.

"They had excited sensations similar to those I have felt, in viewing the squalid inhabitants of some of the lanes and back streets of the metropolis, mortified at being compelled to consider them as my fellow-creatures, as if an ape had claimed kindred with me. Or, as when surrounded by a mephitical fog, I have wished to have a volley of cannon fired, to clear the incumbered atmosphere, and give me room to breathe and move.

"My spirits were all in arms, and I played a kind of extemporary prelude. The cadence was probably wild and impassioned, while, lost in thought, I made the sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.

"Pausing for a moment, I met Mr. Venables' eyes. He was observing me with an air of conceited satisfaction, as much as to say—'My last insinuation has done the business—she begins to know her own interest.' Then gathering up his letters, he said, 'That he hoped he should hear no more romantic stuff, well enough in a miss just come from boarding school;' and went, as was his custom, to the counting-house. I still continued playing; and, turning to a sprightly lesson, I executed it with uncommon vivacity. I heard footsteps approach the door, and was soon convinced that Mr. Venables was listening; the consciousness only gave more animation to my fingers. He went down into the kitchen, and the cook, probably by his desire, came to me, to know what I would please to order for dinner. Mr. Venables came into the parlour again, with apparent carelessness. I perceived that the cunning man was over-reaching himself; and I gave my directions as usual, and left the room.

"While I was making some alteration in my dress, Mr. Venables peeped in, and, begging my pardon for interrupting me, disappeared. I took up some work (I could not read), and two or three messages were sent to me, probably for no other purpose, but to enable Mr. Venables to ascertain what I was about.

"I listened whenever I heard the street-door open; at last I imagined I could distinguish Mr. Venables' step, going out. I laid aside my work; my heart palpitated; still I was afraid hastily to enquire; and I waited a long half hour, before I ventured to ask the boy whether his master was in the counting-house?

"Being answered in the negative, I bade him call me a coach, and collecting a few necessaries hastily together, with a little parcel of letters and papers which I had collected the preceding evening, I hurried into it, desiring the coachman to drive to a distant part of the town.

"I almost feared that the coach would break down before I got out of the street; and, when I turned the corner, I seemed to breathe a freer air. I was ready to imagine that I was rising above the thick atmosphere of earth; or I felt, as wearied souls might be supposed to feel on entering another state of existence.

"I stopped at one or two stands of coaches to elude pursuit, and then drove round the skirts of the town to seek for an obscure lodging, where I wished to remain concealed, till I could avail myself of my uncle's protection. I had resolved to assume my own name immediately, and openly to avow my determination, without any formal vindication, the moment I had found a home, in which I could rest free from the daily alarm of expecting to see Mr. Venables enter.

"I looked at several lodgings; but finding that I could not, without a reference to some acquaintance, who might inform my tyrant, get admittance into a decent apartment—men have not all this trouble—I thought of a woman whom I had assisted to furnish a little haberdasher's shop, and who I knew had a first floor to let.

"I went to her, and though I could not persuade her, that the quarrel between me and Mr. Venables would never be made up, still she agreed to conceal me for the present; yet assuring me at the same time, shaking her head, that, when a woman was once married, she must bear every thing. Her pale face, on which appeared a thousand haggard lines and delving wrinkles, produced by what is emphatically termed fretting, inforced her remark; and I had afterwards an opportunity of observing the treatment she had to endure, which grizzled her into patience. She toiled from morning till night; yet her husband would rob the till, and take away the money reserved for paying bills; and, returning home drunk, he would beat her if she chanced to offend him, though she had a child at the breast.

"These scenes awoke me at night; and, in the morning, I heard her, as usual, talk to her dear Johnny—he, forsooth, was her master; no slave in the West Indies had one more despotic; but fortunately she was of the true Russian breed of wives.

"My mind, during the few past days, seemed, as it were, disengaged from my body; but, now the struggle was over, I felt very forcibly the effect which perturbation of spirits produces on a woman in my situation.

"The apprehension of a miscarriage, obliged me to confine myself to my apartment near a fortnight; but I wrote to my uncle's friend for money, promising 'to call on him, and explain my situation, when I was well enough to go out; mean time I earnestly intreated him, not to mention my place of abode to any one, lest my husband—such the law considered him—should disturb the mind he could not conquer. I mentioned my intention of setting out for Lisbon, to claim my uncle's protection, the moment my health would permit.'

"The tranquillity however, which I was recovering, was soon interrupted. My landlady came up to me one day, with eyes swollen with weeping, unable to utter what she was commanded to say. She declared, 'That she was never so miserable in her life; that she must appear an ungrateful monster; and that she would readily go down on her knees to me, to intreat me to forgive her, as she had done to her husband to spare her the cruel task.' Sobs prevented her from proceeding, or answering my impatient enquiries, to know what she meant.

"When she became a little more composed, she took a newspaper out of her pocket, declaring, 'that her heart smote her, but what could she do?—she must obey her husband.' I snatched the paper from her. An advertisement quickly met my eye, purporting, that 'Maria Venables had, without any assignable cause, absconded from her husband; and any person harbouring her, was menaced with the utmost severity of the law.'

"Perfectly acquainted with Mr. Venables' meanness of soul, this step did not excite my surprise, and scarcely my contempt. Resentment in my breast, never survived love. I bade the poor woman, in a kind tone, wipe her eyes, and request her husband to come up, and speak to me himself.

"My manner awed him. He respected a lady, though not a woman; and began to mutter out an apology.

"'Mr. Venables was a rich gentleman; he wished to oblige me, but he had suffered enough by the law already, to tremble at the thought; besides, for certain, we should come together again, and then even I should not thank him for being accessary to keeping us asunder.—A husband and wife were, God knows, just as one,—and all would come round at last.' He uttered a drawling 'Hem!' and then with an arch look, added—'Master might have had his little frolics—but—Lord bless your heart!—men would be men while the world stands.'

"To argue with this privileged first-born of reason, I perceived, would be vain. I therefore only requested him to let me remain another day at his house, while I sought for a lodging; and not to inform Mr. Venables that I had ever been sheltered there.

"He consented, because he had not the courage to refuse a person for whom he had an habitual respect; but I heard the pent-up choler burst forth in curses, when he met his wife, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs, to know what effect my expostulations would have on him.

"Without wasting any time in the fruitless indulgence of vexation, I once more set out in search of an abode in which I could hide myself for a few weeks.

"Agreeing to pay an exorbitant price, I hired an apartment, without any reference being required relative to my character: indeed, a glance at my shape seemed to say, that my motive for concealment was sufficiently obvious. Thus was I obliged to shroud my head in infamy.

"To avoid all danger of detection—I use the appropriate word, my child, for I was hunted out like a felon—I determined to take possession of my new lodgings that very evening.

"I did not inform my landlady where I was going. I knew that she had a sincere affection for me, and would willingly have run any risk to show her gratitude; yet I was fully convinced, that a few kind words from Johnny would have found the woman in her, and her dear benefactress, as she termed me in an agony of tears, would have been sacrificed, to recompense her tyrant for condescending to treat her like an equal. He could be kind-hearted, as she expressed it, when he pleased. And this thawed sternness, contrasted with his habitual brutality, was the more acceptable, and could not be purchased at too dear a rate.

"The sight of the advertisement made me desirous of taking refuge with my uncle, let what would be the consequence; and I repaired in a hackney coach (afraid of meeting some person who might chance to know me, had I walked) to the chambers of my uncle's friend.

"He received me with great politeness (my uncle had already prepossessed him in my favour), and listened, with interest, to my explanation of the motives which had induced me to fly from home, and skulk in obscurity, with all the timidity of fear that ought only to be the companion of guilt. He lamented, with rather more gallantry than, in my situation, I thought delicate, that such a woman should be thrown away on a man insensible to the charms of beauty or grace. He seemed at a loss what to advise me to do, to evade my husband's search, without hastening to my uncle, whom, he hesitating said, I might not find alive. He uttered this intelligence with visible regret; requested me, at least, to wait for the arrival of the next packet; offered me what money I wanted, and promised to visit me.

"He kept his word; still no letter arrived to put an end to my painful state of suspense. I procured some books and music, to beguile the tedious solitary days.

'Come, ever smiling Liberty,
'And with thee bring thy jocund train:'

I sung—and sung till, saddened by the strain of joy, I bitterly lamented the fate that deprived me of all social pleasure. Comparative liberty indeed I had possessed myself of; but the jocund train lagged far behind!

CHAP. XIII.

"By watching my only visitor, my uncle's friend, or by some other means, Mr. Venables discovered my residence, and came to enquire for me. The maid-servant assured him there was no such person in the house. A bustle ensued—I caught the alarm—listened—distinguished his voice, and immediately locked the door. They suddenly grew still; and I waited near a quarter of an hour, before I heard him open the parlour door, and mount the stairs with the mistress of the house, who obsequiously declared that she knew nothing of me.

"Finding my door locked, she requested me to 'open it, and prepare to go home with my husband, poor gentleman! to whom I had already occasioned sufficient vexation.' I made no reply. Mr. Venables then, in an assumed tone of softness, intreated me, 'to consider what he suffered, and my own reputation, and get the better of childish resentment.' He ran on in the same strain, pretending to address me, but evidently adapting his discourse to the capacity of the landlady; who, at every pause, uttered an exclamation of pity; or 'Yes, to be sure—Very true, sir.'

"Sick of the farce, and perceiving that I could not avoid the hated interview, I opened the door, and he entered. Advancing with easy assurance to take my hand, I shrunk from his touch, with an involuntary start, as I should have done from a noisome reptile, with more disgust than terror. His conductress was retiring, to give us, as she said, an opportunity to accommodate matters. But I bade her come in, or I would go out; and curiosity impelled her to obey me.

"Mr. Venables began to expostulate; and this woman, proud of his confidence, to second him. But I calmly silenced her, in the midst of a vulgar harangue, and turning to him, asked, 'Why he vainly tormented me? declaring that no power on earth should force me back to his house.'

"After a long altercation, the particulars of which, it would be to no purpose to repeat, he left the room. Some time was spent in loud conversation in the parlour below, and I discovered that he had brought his friend, an attorney, with him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * *

*       *       The tumult on the landing place, brought out a gentleman, who had recently taken apartments in the house; he enquired why I was thus assailed[91-A]? The voluble attorney instantly repeated the trite tale. The stranger turned to me, observing, with the most soothing politeness and manly interest, that 'my countenance told a very different story.' He added, 'that I should not be insulted, or forced out of the house, by any body.'

"'Not by her husband?' asked the attorney.

"'No, sir, not by her husband.' Mr. Venables advanced towards him—But there was a decision in his attitude, that so well seconded that of his voice,

* * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * *

*       *       They left the house: at the same time protesting, that any one that should dare to protect me, should be prosecuted with the utmost rigour.

"They were scarcely out of the house, when my landlady came up to me again, and begged my pardon, in a very different tone. For, though Mr. Venables had bid her, at her peril, harbour me, he had not attended, I found, to her broad hints, to discharge the lodging. I instantly promised to pay her, and make her a present to compensate for my abrupt departure, if she would procure me another lodging, at a sufficient distance; and she, in return, repeating Mr. Venables' plausible tale, I raised her indignation, and excited her sympathy, by telling her briefly the truth.

"She expressed her commiseration with such honest warmth, that I felt soothed; for I have none of that fastidious sensitiveness, which a vulgar accent or gesture can alarm to the disregard of real kindness. I was ever glad to perceive in others the humane feelings I delighted to exercise; and the recollection of some ridiculous characteristic circumstances, which have occurred in a moment of emotion, has convulsed me with laughter, though at the instant I should have thought it sacrilegious to have smiled. Your improvement, my dearest girl, being ever present to me while I write, I note these feelings, because women, more accustomed to observe manners than actions, are too much alive to ridicule. So much so, that their boasted sensibility is often stifled by false delicacy. True sensibility, the sensibility which is the auxiliary of virtue, and the soul of genius, is in society so occupied with the feelings of others, as scarcely to regard its own sensations. With what reverence have I looked up at my uncle, the dear parent of my mind! when I have seen the sense of his own sufferings, of mind and body, absorbed in a desire to comfort those, whose misfortunes were comparatively trivial. He would have been ashamed of being as indulgent to himself, as he was to others. 'Genuine fortitude,' he would assert, 'consisted in governing our own emotions, and making allowance for the weaknesses in our friends, that we would not tolerate in ourselves.' But where is my fond regret leading me!

"'Women must be submissive,' said my landlady. 'Indeed what could most women do? Who had they to maintain them, but their husbands? Every woman, and especially a lady, could not go through rough and smooth, as she had done, to earn a little bread.'

"She was in a talking mood, and proceeded to inform me how she had been used in the world. 'She knew what it was to have a bad husband, or she did not know who should.' I perceived that she would be very much mortified, were I not to attend to her tale, and I did not attempt to interrupt her, though I wished her, as soon as possible, to go out in search of a new abode for me, where I could once more hide my head.

"She began by telling me, 'That she had saved a little money in service; and was over-persuaded (we must all be in love once in our lives) to marry a likely man, a footman in the family, not worth a groat. My plan,' she continued, 'was to take a house, and let out lodgings; and all went on well, till my husband got acquainted with an impudent slut, who chose to live on other people's means—and then all went to rack and ruin. He ran in debt to buy her fine clothes, such clothes as I never thought of wearing myself, and—would you believe it?—he signed an execution on my very goods, bought with the money I worked so hard to get; and they came and took my bed from under me, before I heard a word of the matter. Aye, madam, these are misfortunes that you gentlefolks know nothing of,—but sorrow is sorrow, let it come which way it will.

"'I sought for a service again—very hard, after having a house of my own!—but he used to follow me, and kick up such a riot when he was drunk, that I could not keep a place; nay, he even stole my clothes, and pawned them; and when I went to the pawnbroker's, and offered to take my oath that they were not bought with a farthing of his money, they said, 'It was all as one, my husband had a right to whatever I had.'

"'At last he listed for a soldier, and I took a house, making an agreement to pay for the furniture by degrees; and I almost starved myself, till I once more got before-hand in the world.

"'After an absence of six years (God forgive me! I thought he was dead) my husband returned; found me out, and came with such a penitent face, I forgave him, and clothed him from head to foot. But he had not been a week in the house, before some of his creditors arrested him; and, he selling my goods, I found myself once more reduced to beggary; for I was not as well able to work, go to bed late, and rise early, as when I quitted service; and then I thought it hard enough. He was soon tired of me, when there was nothing more to be had, and left me again.

"'I will not tell you how I was buffeted about, till, hearing for certain that he had died in an hospital abroad, I once more returned to my old occupation; but have not yet been able to get my head above water: so, madam, you must not be angry if I am afraid to run any risk, when I know so well, that women have always the worst of it, when law is to decide.'

"After uttering a few more complaints, I prevailed on my landlady to go out in quest of a lodging; and, to be more secure, I condescended to the mean shift of changing my name.

"But why should I dwell on similar incidents!—I was hunted, like an infected beast, from three different apartments, and should not have been allowed to rest in any, had not Mr. Venables, informed of my uncle's dangerous state of health, been inspired with the fear of hurrying me out of the world as I advanced in my pregnancy, by thus tormenting and obliging me to take sudden journeys to avoid him; and then his speculations on my uncle's fortune must prove abortive.

"One day, when he had pursued me to an inn, I fainted, hurrying from him; and, falling down, the sight of my blood alarmed him, and obtained a respite for me. It is strange that he should have retained any hope, after observing my unwavering determination; but, from the mildness of my behaviour, when I found all my endeavours to change his disposition unavailing, he formed an erroneous opinion of my character, imagining that, were we once more together, I should part with the money he could not legally force from me, with the same facility as formerly. My forbearance and occasional sympathy he had mistaken for weakness of character; and, because he perceived that I disliked resistance, he thought my indulgence and compassion mere selfishness, and never discovered that the fear of being unjust, or of unnecessarily wounding the feelings of another, was much more painful to me, than any thing I could have to endure myself. Perhaps it was pride which made me imagine, that I could bear what I dreaded to inflict; and that it was often easier to suffer, than to see the sufferings of others.

"I forgot to mention that, during this persecution, I received a letter from my uncle, informing me, 'that he only found relief from continual change of air; and that he intended to return when the spring was a little more advanced (it was now the middle of February), and then we would plan a journey to Italy, leaving the fogs and cares of England far behind.' He approved of my conduct, promised to adopt my child, and seemed to have no doubt of obliging Mr. Venables to hear reason. He wrote to his friend, by the same post, desiring him to call on Mr. Venables in his name; and, in consequence of the remonstrances he dictated, I was permitted to lie-in tranquilly.

"The two or three weeks previous, I had been allowed to rest in peace; but, so accustomed was I to pursuit and alarm, that I seldom closed my eyes without being haunted by Mr. Venables' image, who seemed to assume terrific or hateful forms to torment me, wherever I turned.—Sometimes a wild cat, a roaring bull, or hideous assassin, whom I vainly attempted to fly; at others he was a demon, hurrying me to the brink of a precipice, plunging me into dark waves, or horrid gulfs; and I woke, in violent fits of trembling anxiety, to assure myself that it was all a dream, and to endeavour to lure my waking thoughts to wander to the delightful Italian vales, I hoped soon to visit; or to picture some august ruins, where I reclined in fancy on a mouldering column, and escaped, in the contemplation of the heart-enlarging virtues of antiquity, from the turmoil of cares that had depressed all the daring purposes of my soul. But I was not long allowed to calm my mind by the exercise of my imagination; for the third day after your birth, my child, I was surprised by a visit from my elder brother; who came in the most abrupt manner, to inform me of the death of my uncle. He had left the greater part of his fortune to my child, appointing me its guardian; in short, every step was taken to enable me to be mistress of his fortune, without putting any part of it in Mr. Venables' power. My brother came to vent his rage on me, for having, as he expressed himself, 'deprived him, my uncle's eldest nephew, of his inheritance;' though my uncle's property, the fruit of his own exertion, being all in the funds, or on landed securities, there was not a shadow of justice in the charge.

"As I sincerely loved my uncle, this intelligence brought on a fever, which I struggled to conquer with all the energy of my mind; for, in my desolate state, I had it very much at heart to suckle you, my poor babe. You seemed my only tie to life, a cherub, to whom I wished to be a father, as well as a mother; and the double duty appeared to me to produce a proportionate increase of affection. But the pleasure I felt, while sustaining you, snatched from the wreck of hope, was cruelly damped by melancholy reflections on my widowed state—widowed by the death of my uncle. Of Mr. Venables I thought not, even when I thought of the felicity of loving your father, and how a mother's pleasure might be exalted, and her care softened by a husband's tenderness.—'Ought to be!' I exclaimed; and I endeavoured to drive away the tenderness that suffocated me; but my spirits were weak, and the unbidden tears would flow. 'Why was I,' I would ask thee, but thou didst not heed me,—'cut off from the participation of the sweetest pleasure of life?' I imagined with what extacy, after the pains of child-bed, I should have presented my little stranger, whom I had so long wished to view, to a respectable father, and with what maternal fondness I should have pressed them both to my heart!—Now I kissed her with less delight, though with the most endearing compassion, poor helpless one! when I perceived a slight resemblance of him, to whom she owed her existence; or, if any gesture reminded me of him, even in his best days, my heart heaved, and I pressed the innocent to my bosom, as if to purify it—yes, I blushed to think that its purity had been sullied, by allowing such a man to be its father.

"After my recovery, I began to think of taking a house in the country, or of making an excursion on the continent, to avoid Mr. Venables; and to open my heart to new pleasures and affection. The spring was melting into summer, and you, my little companion, began to smile—that smile made hope bud out afresh, assuring me the world was not a desert. Your gestures were ever present to my fancy; and I dwelt on the joy I should feel when you would begin to walk and lisp. Watching your wakening mind, and shielding from every rude blast my tender blossom, I recovered my spirits—I dreamed not of the frost—'the killing frost,' to which you were destined to be exposed.—But I lose all patience—and execrate the injustice of the world—folly! ignorance!—I should rather call it; but, shut up from a free circulation of thought, and always pondering on the same griefs, I writhe under the torturing apprehensions, which ought to excite only honest indignation, or active compassion; and would, could I view them as the natural consequence of things. But, born a woman—and born to suffer, in endeavouring to repress my own emotions, I feel more acutely the various ills my sex are fated to bear—I feel that the evils they are subject to endure, degrade them so far below their oppressors, as almost to justify their tyranny; leading at the same time superficial reasoners to term that weakness the cause, which is only the consequence of short-sighted despotism.

FOOTNOTES:

[91-A] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria, in an early stage of the history, is already stated (Chap. III.) to have been an after-thought of the author. This has probably caused the imperfectness of the manuscript in the above passage; though, at the same time, it must be acknowledged to be somewhat uncertain, whether Darnford is the stranger intended in this place. It appears from Chap. XVII. that an interference of a more decisive nature was designed to be attributed to him.

editor.

CHAP. XIV.

"As my mind grew calmer, the visions of Italy again returned with their former glow of colouring; and I resolved on quitting the kingdom for a time, in search of the cheerfulness, that naturally results from a change of scene, unless we carry the barbed arrow with us, and only see what we feel.

"During the period necessary to prepare for a long absence, I sent a supply to pay my father's debts, and settled my brothers in eligible situations; but my attention was not wholly engrossed by my family, though I do not think it necessary to enumerate the common exertions of humanity. The manner in which my uncle's property was settled, prevented me from making the addition to the fortune of my surviving sister, that I could have wished; but I had prevailed on him to bequeath her two thousand pounds, and she determined to marry a lover, to whom she had been some time attached. Had it not been for this engagement, I should have invited her to accompany me in my tour; and I might have escaped the pit, so artfully dug in my path, when I was the least aware of danger.

"I had thought of remaining in England, till I weaned my child; but this state of freedom was too peaceful to last, and I had soon reason to wish to hasten my departure. A friend of Mr. Venables, the same attorney who had accompanied him in several excursions to hunt me from my hiding places, waited on me to propose a reconciliation. On my refusal, he indirectly advised me to make over to my husband—for husband he would term him—the greater part of the property I had at command, menacing me with continual persecution unless I complied, and that, as a last resort, he would claim the child. I did not, though intimidated by the last insinuation, scruple to declare, that I would not allow him to squander the money left to me for far different purposes, but offered him five hundred pounds, if he would sign a bond not to torment me any more. My maternal anxiety made me thus appear to waver from my first determination, and probably suggested to him, or his diabolical agent, the infernal plot, which has succeeded but too well.

"The bond was executed; still I was impatient to leave England. Mischief hung in the air when we breathed the same; I wanted seas to divide us, and waters to roll between, till he had forgotten that I had the means of helping him through a new scheme. Disturbed by the late occurrences, I instantly prepared for my departure. My only delay was waiting for a maid-servant, who spoke French fluently, and had been warmly recommended to me. A valet I was advised to hire, when I fixed on my place of residence for any time.

"My God, with what a light heart did I set out for Dover!—It was not my country, but my cares, that I was leaving behind. My heart seemed to bound with the wheels, or rather appeared the centre on which they twirled. I clasped you to my bosom, exclaiming 'And you will be safe—quite safe—when—we are once on board the packet.—Would we were there!' I smiled at my idle fears, as the natural effect of continual alarm; and I scarcely owned to myself that I dreaded Mr. Venables's cunning, or was conscious of the horrid delight he would feel, at forming stratagem after stratagem to circumvent me. I was already in the snare—I never reached the packet—I never saw thee more.—I grow breathless. I have scarcely patience to write down the details. The maid—the plausible woman I had hired—put, doubtless, some stupifying potion in what I ate or drank, the morning I left town. All I know is, that she must have quitted the chaise, shameless wretch! and taken (from my breast) my babe with her. How could a creature in a female form see me caress thee, and steal thee from my arms! I must stop, stop to repress a mother's anguish; left, in bitterness of soul, I imprecate the wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort from me.

"How long I slept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the close of day, in a strange confusion of thought. I was probably roused to recollection by some one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate. Attempting to ask where I was, my voice died away, and I tried to raise it in vain, as I have done in a dream. I looked for my babe with affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap, while I had so strangely forgotten her; and, such was the vague intoxication, I can give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect when or where I last saw you; but I sighed, as if my heart wanted room to clear my head.

"The gates opened heavily, and the sullen sound of many locks and bolts drawn back, grated on my very soul, before I was appalled by the creeking of the dismal hinges, as they closed after me. The gloomy pile was before me, half in ruins; some of the aged trees of the avenue were cut down, and left to rot where they fell; and as we approached some mouldering steps, a monstrous dog darted forwards to the length of his chain, and barked and growled infernally.

"The door was opened slowly, and a murderous visage peeped out, with a lantern. 'Hush!' he uttered, in a threatning tone, and the affrighted animal stole back to his kennel. The door of the chaise flew back, the stranger put down the lantern, and clasped his dreadful arms around me. It was certainly the effect of the soporific draught, for, instead of exerting my strength, I sunk without motion, though not without sense, on his shoulder, my limbs refusing to obey my will. I was carried up the steps into a close-shut hall. A candle flaring in the socket, scarcely dispersed the darkness, though it displayed to me the ferocious countenance of the wretch who held me.

"He mounted a wide staircase. Large figures painted on the walls seemed to start on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a long gallery, a dismal shriek made me spring out of my conductor's arms, with I know not what mysterious emotion of terror; but I fell on the floor, unable to sustain myself.

"A strange-looking female started out of one of the recesses, and observed me with more curiosity than interest; till, sternly bid retire, she flitted back like a shadow. Other faces, strongly marked, or distorted, peeped through the half-opened doors, and I heard some incoherent sounds. I had no distinct idea where I could be—I looked on all sides, and almost doubted whether I was alive or dead.

"Thrown on a bed, I immediately sunk into insensibility again; and next day, gradually recovering the use of reason, I began, starting affrighted from the conviction, to discover where I was confined—I insisted on seeing the master of the mansion—I saw him—and perceived that I was buried alive.—

"Such, my child, are the events of thy mother's life to this dreadful moment—Should she ever escape from the fangs of her enemies, she will add the secrets of her prison-house—and—"

Some lines were here crossed out, and the memoirs broke off abruptly with the names of Jemima and Darnford.

APPENDIX.

[ADVERTISEMENT.

The performance, with a fragment of which the reader has now been presented, was designed to consist of three parts. The preceding sheets were considered as constituting one of those parts. Those persons who in the perusal of the chapters, already written and in some degree finished by the author, have felt their hearts awakened, and their curiosity excited as to the sequel of the story, will, of course, gladly accept even of the broken paragraphs and half-finished sentences, which have been found committed to paper, as materials for the remainder. The fastidious and cold-hearted critic may perhaps feel himself repelled by the incoherent form in which they are presented. But an inquisitive temper willingly accepts the most imperfect and mutilated information, where better is not to be had: and readers, who in any degree resemble the author in her quick apprehension of sentiment, and of the pleasures and pains of imagination, will, I believe, find gratification, in contemplating sketches, which were designed in a short time to have received the finishing touches of her genius; but which must now for ever remain a mark to record the triumphs of mortality, over schemes of usefulness, and projects of public interest.]

CHAP. XV.

Darnford returned the memoirs to Maria, with a most affectionate letter, in which he reasoned on "the absurdity of the laws respecting matrimony, which, till divorces could be more easily obtained, was," he declared, "the most insufferable bondage. Ties of this nature could not bind minds governed by superior principles; and such beings were privileged to act above the dictates of laws they had no voice in framing, if they had sufficient strength of mind to endure the natural consequence. In her case, to talk of duty, was a farce, excepting what was due to herself. Delicacy, as well as reason, forbade her ever to think of returning to her husband: was she then to restrain her charming sensibility through mere prejudice? These arguments were not absolutely impartial, for he disdained to conceal, that, when he appealed to her reason, he felt that he had some interest in her heart.—The conviction was not more transporting, than sacred—a thousand times a day, he asked himself how he had merited such happiness?—and as often he determined to purify the heart she deigned to inhabit—He intreated to be again admitted to her presence."

He was; and the tear which glistened in his eye, when he respectfully pressed her to his bosom, rendered him peculiarly dear to the unfortunate mother. Grief had stilled the transports of love, only to render their mutual tenderness more touching. In former interviews, Darnford had contrived, by a hundred little pretexts, to sit near her, to take her hand, or to meet her eyes—now it was all soothing affection, and esteem seemed to have rivalled love. He adverted to her narrative, and spoke with warmth of the oppression she had endured.—His eyes, glowing with a lambent flame, told her how much he wished to restore her to liberty and love; but he kissed her hand, as if it had been that of a saint; and spoke of the loss of her child, as if it had been his own.—What could have been more flattering to Maria?—Every instance of self-denial was registered in her heart, and she loved him, for loving her too well to give way to the transports of passion.

They met again and again; and Darnford declared, while passion suffused his cheeks, that he never before knew what it was to love.—

One morning Jemima informed Maria, that her master intended to wait on her, and speak to her without witnesses. He came, and brought a letter with him, pretending that he was ignorant of its contents, though he insisted on having it returned to him. It was from the attorney already mentioned, who informed her of the death of her child, and hinted, "that she could not now have a legitimate heir, and that, would she make over the half of her fortune during life, she should be conveyed to Dover, and permitted to pursue her plan of travelling."

Maria answered with warmth, "That she had no terms to make with the murderer of her babe, nor would she purchase liberty at the price of her own respect."

She began to expostulate with her jailor; but he sternly bade her "Be silent—he had not gone so far, not to go further."

Darnford came in the evening. Jemima was obliged to be absent, and she, as usual, locked the door on them, to prevent interruption or discovery.—The lovers were, at first, embarrassed; but fell insensibly into confidential discourse. Darnford represented, "that they might soon be parted," and wished her "to put it out of the power of fate to separate them."

As her husband she now received him, and he solemnly pledged himself as her protector—and eternal friend.—

There was one peculiarity in Maria's mind: she was more anxious not to deceive, than to guard against deception; and had rather trust without sufficient reason, than be for ever the prey of doubt. Besides, what are we, when the mind has, from reflection, a certain kind of elevation, which exalts the contemplation above the little concerns of prudence! We see what we wish, and make a world of our own—and, though reality may sometimes open a door to misery, yet the moments of happiness procured by the imagination, may, without a paradox, be reckoned among the solid comforts of life. Maria now, imagining that she had found a being of celestial mould—was happy,—nor was she deceived.—He was then plastic in her impassioned hand—and reflected all the sentiments which animated and warmed her.    —    —    —    —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

CHAP. XVI.

One morning confusion seemed to reign in the house, and Jemima came in terror, to inform Maria, "that her master had left it, with a determination, she was assured (and too many circumstances corroborated the opinion, to leave a doubt of its truth) of never returning. I am prepared then," said Jemima, "to accompany you in your flight."

Maria started up, her eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid that some one should fasten it on her for ever.

Jemima continued, "I have perhaps no right now to expect the performance of your promise; but on you it depends to reconcile me with the human race."

"But Darnford!"—exclaimed Maria, mournfully—sitting down again, and crossing her arms—"I have no child to go to, and liberty has lost its sweets."

"I am much mistaken, if Darnford is not the cause of my master's flight—his keepers assure me, that they have promised to confine him two days longer, and then he will be free—you cannot see him; but they will give a letter to him the moment he is free.—In that inform him where he may find you in London; fix on some hotel. Give me your clothes; I will send them out of the house with mine, and we will slip out at the garden-gate. Write your letter while I make these arrangements, but lose no time!"

In an agitation of spirit, not to be calmed, Maria began to write to Darnford. She called him by the sacred name of "husband," and bade him "hasten to her, to share her fortune, or she would return to him."—An hotel in the Adelphi was the place of rendezvous.

The letter was sealed and given in charge; and with light footsteps, yet terrified at the sound of them, she descended, scarcely breathing, and with an indistinct fear that she should never get out at the garden gate. Jemima went first.

A being, with a visage that would have suited one possessed by a devil, crossed the path, and seized Maria by the arm. Maria had no fear but of being detained—"Who are you? what are you?" for the form was scarcely human. "If you are made of flesh and blood," his ghastly eyes glared on her, "do not stop me!"

"Woman," interrupted a sepulchral voice, "what have I to do with thee?"—Still he grasped her hand, muttering a curse.

"No, no; you have nothing to do with me," she exclaimed, "this is a moment of life and death!"—

With supernatural force she broke from him, and, throwing her arms round Jemima, cried, "Save me!" The being, from whose grasp she had loosed herself, took up a stone as they opened the door, and with a kind of hellish sport threw it after them. They were out of his reach.

When Maria arrived in town, she drove to the hotel already fixed on. But she could not sit still—her child was ever before her; and all that had passed during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to the house in the suburbs, where, as she now discovered, her babe had been sent. The moment she entered, her heart grew sick; but she wondered not that it had proved its grave. She made the necessary enquiries, and the church-yard was pointed out, in which it rested under a turf. A little frock which the nurse's child wore (Maria had made it herself) caught her eye. The nurse was glad to sell it for half-a-guinea, and Maria hastened away with the relic, and, re-entering the hackney-coach which waited for her, gazed on it, till she reached her hotel.

She then waited on the attorney who had made her uncle's will, and explained to him her situation. He readily advanced her some of the money which still remained in his hands, and promised to take the whole of the case into consideration. Maria only wished to be permitted to remain in quiet—She found that several bills, apparently with her signature, had been presented to her agent, nor was she for a moment at a loss to guess by whom they had been forged; yet, equally averse to threaten or intreat, she requested her friend [the solicitor] to call on Mr. Venables. He was not to be found at home; but at length his agent, the attorney, offered a conditional promise to Maria, to leave her in peace, as long as she behaved with propriety, if she would give up the notes. Maria inconsiderately consented—Darnford was arrived, and she wished to be only alive to love; she wished to forget the anguish she felt whenever she thought of her child.

They took a ready furnished lodging together, for she was above disguise; Jemima insisting on being considered as her house-keeper, and to receive the customary stipend. On no other terms would she remain with her friend.

Darnford was indefatigable in tracing the mysterious circumstances of his confinement. The cause was simply, that a relation, a very distant one, to whom he was heir, had died intestate, leaving a considerable fortune. On the news of Darnford's arrival [in England, a person, intrusted with the management of the property, and who had the writings in his possession, determining, by one bold stroke, to strip Darnford of the succession,] had planned his confinement; and [as soon as he had taken the measures he judged most conducive to his object, this ruffian, together with his instrument,] the keeper of the private mad-house, left the kingdom. Darnford, who still pursued his enquiries, at last discovered that they had fixed their place of refuge at Paris.

Maria and he determined therefore, with the faithful Jemima, to visit that metropolis, and accordingly were preparing for the journey, when they were informed that Mr. Venables had commenced an action against Darnford for seduction and adultery. The indignation Maria felt cannot be explained; she repented of the forbearance she had exercised in giving up the notes. Darnford could not put off his journey, without risking the loss of his property: Maria therefore furnished him with money for his expedition; and determined to remain in London till the termination of this affair.

She visited some ladies with whom she had formerly been intimate, but was refused admittance; and at the opera, or Ranelagh, they could not recollect her. Among these ladies there were some, not her most intimate acquaintance, who were generally supposed to avail themselves of the cloke of marriage, to conceal a mode of conduct, that would for ever have damned their fame, had they been innocent, seduced girls. These particularly stood aloof.—Had she remained with her husband, practising insincerity, and neglecting her child to manage an intrigue, she would still have been visited and respected. If, instead of openly living with her lover, she could have condescended to call into play a thousand arts, which, degrading her own mind, might have allowed the people who were not deceived, to pretend to be so, she would have been caressed and treated like an honourable woman. "And Brutus[138-A] is an honourable man!" said Mark-Antony with equal sincerity.

With Darnford she did not taste uninterrupted felicity; there was a volatility in his manner which often distressed her; but love gladdened the scene; besides, he was the most tender, sympathizing creature in the world. A fondness for the sex often gives an appearance of humanity to the behaviour of men, who have small pretensions to the reality; and they seem to love others, when they are only pursuing their own gratification. Darnford appeared ever willing to avail himself of her taste and acquirements, while she endeavoured to profit by his decision of character, and to eradicate some of the romantic notions, which had taken root in her mind, while in adversity she had brooded over visions of unattainable bliss.

The real affections of life, when they are allowed to burst forth, are buds pregnant with joy and all the sweet emotions of the soul; yet they branch out with wild ease, unlike the artificial forms of felicity, sketched by an imagination painful alive. The substantial happiness, which enlarges and civilizes the mind, may be compared to the pleasure experienced in roving through nature at large, inhaling the sweet gale natural to the clime; while the reveries of a feverish imagination continually sport themselves in gardens full of aromatic shrubs, which cloy while they delight, and weaken the sense of pleasure they gratify. The heaven of fancy, below or beyond the stars, in this life, or in those ever-smiling regions surrounded by the unmarked ocean of futurity, have an insipid uniformity which palls. Poets have imagined scenes of bliss; but, fencing out sorrow, all the extatic emotions of the soul, and even its grandeur, seem to be equally excluded. We dose over the unruffled lake, and long to scale the rocks which fence the happy valley of contentment, though serpents hiss in the pathless desert, and danger lurks in the unexplored wiles. Maria found herself more indulgent as she was happier, and discovered virtues, in characters she had before disregarded, while chasing the phantoms of elegance and excellence, which sported in the meteors that exhale in the marshes of misfortune. The heart is often shut by romance against social pleasure; and, fostering a sickly sensibility, grows callous to the soft touches of humanity.

To part with Darnford was indeed cruel.—It was to feel most painfully alone; but she rejoiced to think, that she should spare him the care and perplexity of the suit, and meet him again, all his own. Marriage, as at present constituted, she considered as leading to immorality—yet, as the odium of society impedes usefulness, she wished to avow her affection to Darnford, by becoming his wife according to established rules; not to be confounded with women who act from very different motives, though her conduct would be just the same without the ceremony as with it, and her expectations from him not less firm. The being summoned to defend herself from a charge which she was determined to plead guilty to, was still galling, as it roused bitter reflections on the situation of women in society.

FOOTNOTES:

[138-A] The name in the manuscript is by mistake written Cæsar.

editor.

CHAP. XVII.

Such was her state of mind when the dogs of law were let loose on her. Maria took the task of conducting Darnford's defence upon herself. She instructed his counsel to plead guilty to the charge of adultery; but to deny that of seduction.

The counsel for the plaintiff opened the cause, by observing, "that his client had ever been an indulgent husband, and had borne with several defects of temper, while he had nothing criminal to lay to the charge of his wife. But that she left his house without assigning any cause. He could not assert that she was then acquainted with the defendant; yet, when he was once endeavouring to bring her back to her home, this man put the peace-officers to flight, and took her he knew not whither. After the birth of her child, her conduct was so strange, and a melancholy malady having afflicted one of the family, which delicacy forbade the dwelling on, it was necessary to confine her. By some means the defendant enabled her to make her escape, and they had lived together, in despite of all sense of order and decorum. The adultery was allowed, it was not necessary to bring any witnesses to prove it; but the seduction, though highly probable from the circumstances which he had the honour to state, could not be so clearly proved.—It was of the most atrocious kind, as decency was set at defiance, and respect for reputation, which shows internal compunction, utterly disregarded."

A strong sense of injustice had silenced every emotion, which a mixture of true and false delicacy might otherwise have excited in Maria's bosom. She only felt in earnest to insist on the privilege of her nature. The sarcasms of society, and the condemnation of a mistaken world, were nothing to her, compared with acting contrary to those feelings which were the foundation of her principles. [She therefore eagerly put herself forward, instead of desiring to be absent, on this memorable occasion.]

Convinced that the subterfuges of the law were disgraceful, she wrote a paper, which she expressly desired might be read in court:

"Married when scarcely able to distinguish the nature of the engagement, I yet submitted to the rigid laws which enslave women, and obeyed the man whom I could no longer love. Whether the duties of the state are reciprocal, I mean not to discuss; but I can prove repeated infidelities which I overlooked or pardoned. Witnesses are not wanting to establish these facts. I at present maintain the child of a maid servant, sworn to him, and born after our marriage. I am ready to allow, that education and circumstances lead men to think and act with less delicacy, than the preservation of order in society demands from women; but surely I may without assumption declare, that, though I could excuse the birth, I could not the desertion of this unfortunate babe:—and, while I despised the man, it was not easy to venerate the husband. With proper restrictions however, I revere the institution which fraternizes the world. I exclaim against the laws which throw the whole weight of the yoke on the weaker shoulders, and force women, when they claim protectorship as mothers, to sign a contract, which renders them dependent on the caprice of the tyrant, whom choice or necessity has appointed to reign over them. Various are the cases, in which a woman ought to separate herself from her husband; and mine, I may be allowed emphatically to insist, comes under the description of the most aggravated.

"I will not enlarge on those provocations which only the individual can estimate; but will bring forward such charges only, the truth of which is an insult upon humanity. In order to promote certain destructive speculations, Mr. Venables prevailed on me to borrow certain sums of a wealthy relation; and, when I refused further compliance, he thought of bartering my person; and not only allowed opportunities to, but urged, a friend from whom he borrowed money, to seduce me. On the discovery of this act of atrocity, I determined to leave him, and in the most decided manner, for ever. I consider all obligation as made void by his conduct; and hold, that schisms which proceed from want of principles, can never be healed.

"He received a fortune with me to the amount of five thousand pounds. On the death of my uncle, convinced that I could provide for my child, I destroyed the settlement of that fortune. I required none of my property to be returned to me, nor shall enumerate the sums extorted from me during six years that we lived together.

"After leaving, what the law considers as my home, I was hunted like a criminal from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and demanded no maintenance—yet, as the laws sanction such proceeding, and make women the property of their husbands, I forbear to animadvert. After the birth of my daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a very considerable property to myself and child, I was exposed to new persecution; and, because I had, before arriving at what is termed years of discretion, pledged my faith, I was treated by the world, as bound for ever to a man whose vices were notorious. Yet what are the vices generally known, to the various miseries that a woman may be subject to, which, though deeply felt, eating into the soul, elude description, and may be glossed over! A false morality is even established, which makes all the virtue of women consist in chastity, submission, and the forgiveness of injuries.

"I pardon my oppressor—bitterly as I lament the loss of my child, torn from me in the most violent manner. But nature revolts, and my soul sickens at the bare supposition, that it could ever be a duty to pretend affection, when a separation is necessary to prevent my feeling hourly aversion.

"To force me to give my fortune, I was imprisoned—yes; in a private mad-house.—There, in the heart of misery, I met the man charged with seducing me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever shall deem, myself free. The death of my babe dissolved the only tie which subsisted between me and my, what is termed, lawful husband.

"To this person, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myself, never considering myself as any more bound to transgress the laws of moral purity, because the will of my husband might be pleaded in my excuse, than to transgress those laws to which [the policy of artificial society has] annexed [positive] punishments.——While no command of a husband can prevent a woman from suffering for certain crimes, she must be allowed to consult her conscience, and regulate her conduct, in some degree, by her own sense of right. The respect I owe to myself, demanded my strict adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr. Venables in the light of a husband, nor could it forbid me from encouraging another. If I am unfortunately united to an unprincipled man, am I for ever to be shut out from fulfilling the duties of a wife and mother?—I wish my country to approve of my conduct; but, if laws exist, made by the strong to oppress the weak, I appeal to my own sense of justice, and declare that I will not live with the individual, who has violated every moral obligation which binds man to man.

"I protest equally against any charge being brought to criminate the man, whom I consider as my husband. I was six-and-twenty when I left Mr. Venables' roof; if ever I am to be supposed to arrive at an age to direct my own actions, I must by that time have arrived at it.—I acted with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford found me a forlorn and oppressed woman, and promised the protection women in the present state of society want.—But the man who now claims me—was he deprived of my society by this conduct? The question is an insult to common sense, considering where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables' door was indeed open to me—nay, threats and intreaties were used to induce me to return; but why? Was affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive into the recesses of the human heart—yet I presume to assert, [borne out as I am by a variety of circumstances,] that he was merely influenced by the most rapacious avarice.

"I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from molestation, the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware of the character of the man with whom I had to contend.—I appeal to the justice and humanity of the jury—a body of men, whose private judgment must be allowed to modify laws, that must be unjust, because definite rules can never apply to indefinite circumstances—and I deprecate punishment upon the man of my choice, freeing him, as I solemnly do, from the charge of seduction.]

"I did not put myself into a situation to justify a charge of adultery, till I had, from conviction, shaken off the fetters which bound me to Mr. Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to sully what is termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my husband, I never encouraged a lover; and preserved with scrupulous care, what is termed my honour, at the expence of my peace, till he, who should have been its guardian, laid traps to ensnare me. From that moment I believed myself, in the sight of heaven, free—and no power on earth shall force me to renounce my resolution."

The judge, in summing up the evidence, alluded to "the fallacy of letting women plead their feelings, as an excuse for the violation of the marriage-vow. For his part, he had always determined to oppose all innovation, and the new-fangled notions which incroached on the good old rules of conduct. We did not want French principles in public or private life—and, if women were allowed to plead their feelings, as an excuse or palliation of infidelity, it was opening a flood-gate for immorality. What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was her duty to love and obey the man chosen by her parents and relations, who were qualified by their experience to judge better for her, than she could for herself. As to the charges brought against the husband, they were vague, supported by no witnesses, excepting that of imprisonment in a private mad-house. The proofs of an insanity in the family, might render that however a prudent measure; and indeed the conduct of the lady did not appear that of a person of sane mind. Still such a mode of proceeding could not be justified, and might perhaps entitle the lady [in another court] to a sentence of separation from bed and board, during the joint lives of the parties; but he hoped that no Englishman would legalize adultery, by enabling the adulteress to enrich her seducer. Too many restrictions could not be thrown in the way of divorces, if we wished to maintain the sanctity of marriage; and, though they might bear a little hard on a few, very few individuals, it was evidently for the good of the whole."

CONCLUSION,

BY THE EDITOR.

Very few hints exist respecting the plan of the remainder of the work. I find only two detached sentences, and some scattered heads for the continuation of the story. I transcribe the whole.

I.

"Darnford's letters were affectionate; but circumstances occasioned delays, and the miscarriage of some letters rendered the reception of wished-for answers doubtful: his return was necessary to calm Maria's mind."

II.

"As Darnford had informed her that his business was settled, his delaying to return seemed extraordinary; but love to excess, excludes fear or suspicion."

The scattered heads for the continuation of the story, are as follow[159-A].

I.

"Trial for adultery—Maria defends herself—A separation from bed and board is the consequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford obtains a part of his property—Maria goes into the country."

II.

"A prosecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford sets out for France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Mysterious behaviour—Visit—Expectation—Discovery—Interview—Consequence."

III.

"Sued by her husband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed and board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her father—Is shunned—Returns to London—Expects to see her lover—The rack of expectation—Finds herself again with child—Delighted—A discovery—A visit—A miscarriage—Conclusion."

IV.

"Divorced by her husband—Her lover unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miscarriage—Suicide."

[The following passage appears in some respects to deviate from the preceding hints. It is superscribed]

"THE END.

"She swallowed the laudanum; her soul was calm—the tempest had subsided—and nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herself—to fly from the anguish she endured to escape from thought—from this hell of disappointment.

"Still her eyes closed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity followed another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied to assail her, and prevent her sinking into the sleep of death.—Her murdered child again appeared to her, mourning for the babe of which she was the tomb.—'And could it have a nobler?—Surely it is better to die with me, than to enter on life without a mother's care!—I cannot live!—but could I have deserted my child the moment it was born?—thrown it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to support it?'—She looked up: 'What have I not suffered!—may I find a father where I am going!'—Her head turned; a stupor ensued; a faintness—'Have a little patience,' said Maria, holding her swimming head (she thought of her mother), 'this cannot last long; and what is a little bodily pain to the pangs I have endured?'

"A new vision swam before her. Jemima seemed to enter—leading a little creature, that, with tottering footsteps, approached the bed. The voice of Jemima sounding as at a distance, called her—she tried to listen, to speak, to look!

"'Behold your child!' exclaimed Jemima. Maria started off the bed, and fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.

"When she was restored to life, Jemima addressed her with great solemnity: '——— led me to suspect, that your husband and brother had deceived you, and secreted the child. I would not torment you with doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a fatal moment) to search for the child!—I snatched her from misery—and (now she is alive again) would you leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have endured?'

"Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulsed with emotion; when the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered the word 'Mamma!' She caught her to her bosom, and burst into a passion of tears—then, resting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of killing it,—she put her hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were the agonizing struggle of her soul. She remained silent for five minutes, crossing her arms over her bosom, and reclining her head,—then exclaimed: 'The conflict is over!—I will live for my child!'"

A few readers perhaps, in looking over these hints, will wonder how it could have been practicable, without tediousness, or remitting in any degree the interest of the story, to have filled, from these slight sketches, a number of pages, more considerable than those which have been already presented. But, in reality, these hints, simple as they are, are pregnant with passion and distress. It is the refuge of barren authors only, to crowd their fictions with so great a number of events, as to suffer no one of them to sink into the reader's mind. It is the province of true genius to develop events, to discover their capabilities, to ascertain the different passions and sentiments with which they are fraught, and to diversify them with incidents, that give reality to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of taste, from which they can never be loosened. It was particularly the design of the author, in the present instance, to make her story subordinate to a great moral purpose, that "of exhibiting the misery and oppression, peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and customs of society.—This view restrained her fancy[166-A]." It was necessary for her, to place in a striking point of view, evils that are too frequently overlooked, and to drag into light those details of oppression, of which the grosser and more insensible part of mankind make little account.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[159-A] To understand these minutes, it is necessary the reader should consider each of them as setting out from the same point in the story, viz. the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.

[166-A] See author's preface.

LESSONS.

ADVERTISEMENT,

BY THE EDITOR.

The following pages will, I believe, be judged by every reader of taste to have been worth preserving, among the other testimonies the author left behind her, of her genius and the soundness of her understanding. To such readers I leave the task of comparing these lessons, with other works of the same nature previously published. It is obvious that the author has struck out a path of her own, and by no means intrenched upon the plans of her predecessors.

It may however excite surprise in some persons to find these papers annexed to the conclusion of a novel. All I have to offer on this subject, consists in the following considerations:

First, something is to be allowed for the difficulty of arranging the miscellaneous papers upon very different subjects, which will frequently constitute an author's posthumous works.

Secondly, the small portion they occupy in the present volume, will perhaps be accepted as an apology, by such good-natured readers (if any such there are), to whom the perusal of them shall be a matter of perfect indifference.

Thirdly, the circumstance which determined me in annexing them to the present work, was the slight association (in default of a strong one) between the affectionate and pathetic manner in which Maria Venables addresses her infant, in the Wrongs of Woman; and the agonising and painful sentiment with which the author originally bequeathed these papers, as a legacy for the benefit of her child.

LESSONS.

The first book of a series which I intended to have written for my unfortunate girl[175-A].

LESSON I.

Cat. Dog. Cow. Horse. Sheep. Pig. Bird. Fly.

Man. Boy. Girl. Child.

Head. Hair. Face. Nose. Mouth. Chin. Neck. Arms. Hand. Leg. Foot. Back. Breast.

House. Wall. Field. Street. Stone. Grass.

Bed. Chair. Door. Pot. Spoon. Knife. Fork. Plate. Cup. Box. Boy. Bell.

Tree. Leaf. Stick. Whip. Cart. Coach.

Frock. Hat. Coat. Shoes. Shift. Cap.

Bread. Milk. Tea. Meat. Drink. Cake.

LESSON II.

Come. Walk. Run. Go. Jump. Dance. Ride. Sit. Stand. Play. Hold. Shake. Speak. Sing. Cry. Laugh. Call. Fall.

Day. Night. Sun. Moon. Light. Dark. Sleep. Wake.

Wash. Dress. Kiss. Comb.

Fire. Hot. Burn. Wind. Rain. Cold.

Hurt. Tear. Break. Spill.

Book. See. Look.

Sweet. Good. Clean.

Gone. Lost. Hide. Keep. Give. Take.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

White. Black. Red. Blue. Green. Brown.

LESSON III.

STROKE the cat. Play with the Dog. Eat the bread. Drink the milk. Hold the cup. Lay down the knife.

Look at the fly. See the horse. Shut the door. Bring the chair. Ring the bell. Get your book.

Hide your face. Wipe your nose. Wash your hands. Dirty hands. Why do you cry? A clean mouth. Shake hands. I love you. Kiss me now. Good girl.

The bird sings. The fire burns. The cat jumps. The dog runs. The bird flies. The cow lies down. The man laughs. The child cries.

LESSON IV.

LET me comb your head. Ask Betty to wash your face. Go and see for some bread. Drink milk, if you are dry. Play on the floor with the ball. Do not touch the ink; you will black your hands.

What do you want to say to me? Speak slow, not so fast. Did you fall? You will not cry, not you; the baby cries. Will you walk in the fields?

LESSON V.

COME to me, my little girl. Are you tired of playing? Yes. Sit down and rest yourself, while I talk to you.

Have you seen the baby? Poor little thing. O here it comes. Look at him. How helpless he is. Four years ago you were as feeble as this very little boy.

See, he cannot hold up his head. He is forced to lie on his back, if his mamma do not turn him to the right or left side, he will soon begin to cry. He cries to tell her, that he is tired with lying on his back.

LESSON VI.

PERHAPS he is hungry. What shall we give him to eat? Poor fellow, he cannot eat. Look in his mouth, he has no teeth.

How did you do when you were a baby like him? You cannot tell. Do you want to know? Look then at the dog, with her pretty puppy. You could not help yourself as well as the puppy. You could only open your mouth, when you were lying, like William, on my knee. So I put you to my breast, and you sucked, as the puppy sucks now, for there was milk enough for you.

LESSON VII.

WHEN you were hungry, you began to cry, because you could not speak. You were seven months without teeth, always sucking. But after you got one, you began to gnaw a crust of bread. It was not long before another came pop. At ten months you had four pretty white teeth, and you used to bite me. Poor mamma! Still I did not cry, because I am not a child, but you hurt me very much. So I said to papa, it is time the little girl should eat. She is not naughty, yet she hurts me. I have given her a crust of bread, and I must look for some other milk.

The cow has got plenty, and her jumping calf eats grass very well. He has got more teeth than my little girl. Yes, says papa, and he tapped you on the cheek, you are old enough to learn to eat? Come to me, and I will teach you, my little dear, for you must not hurt poor mamma, who has given you her milk, when you could not take any thing else.

LESSON VIII.

YOU were then on the carpet, for you could not walk well. So when you were in a hurry, you used to run quick, quick, quick, on your hands and feet, like the dog.

Away you ran to papa, and putting both your arms round his leg, for your hands were not big enough, you looked up at him, and laughed. What did this laugh say, when you could not speak? Cannot you guess by what you now say to papa?—Ah! it was, Play with me, papa!—play with me!

Papa began to smile, and you knew that the smile was always—Yes. So you got a ball, and papa threw it along the floor—Roll—roll—roll; and you ran after it again—and again. How pleased you were. Look at William, he smiles; but you could laugh loud—Ha! ha! ha!—Papa laughed louder than the little girl, and rolled the ball still faster.

Then he put the ball on a chair, and you were forced to take hold of the back, and stand up to reach it. At last you reached too far, and down you fell: not indeed on your face, because you put out your hands. You were not much hurt; but the palms of your hands smarted with the pain, and you began to cry, like a little child.

It is only very little children who cry when they are hurt; and it is to tell their mamma, that something is the matter with them. Now you can come to me, and say, Mamma, I have hurt myself. Pray rub my hand: it smarts. Put something on it, to make it well. A piece of rag, to stop the blood. You are not afraid of a little blood—not you. You scratched your arm with a pin: it bled a little; but it did you no harm. See, the skin is grown over it again.

LESSON IX.

TAKE care not to put pins in your mouth, because they will stick in your throat, and give you pain. Oh! you cannot think what pain a pin would give you in your throat, should it remain there: but, if you by chance swallow it, I should be obliged to give you, every morning, something bitter to drink. You never tasted any thing so bitter! and you would grow very sick. I never put pins in my mouth; but I am older than you, and know how to take care of myself.

My mamma took care of me, when I was a little girl, like you. She bade me never put any thing in my mouth, without asking her what it was.

When you were a baby, with no more sense than William, you put every thing in your mouth to gnaw, to help your teeth to cut through the skin. Look at the puppy, how he bites that piece of wood. William presses his gums against my finger. Poor boy! he is so young, he does not know what he is doing. When you bite any thing, it is because you are hungry.

LESSON X.

SEE how much taller you are than William. In four years you have learned to eat, to walk, to talk. Why do you smile? You can do much more, you think: you can wash your hands and face. Very well. I should never kiss a dirty face. And you can comb your head with the pretty comb you always put by in your own drawer. To be sure, you do all this to be ready to take a walk with me. You would be obliged to stay at home, if you could not comb your own hair. Betty is busy getting the dinner ready, and only brushes William's hair, because he cannot do it for himself.

Betty is making an apple-pye. You love an apple-pye; but I do not bid you make one. Your hands are not strong enough to mix the butter and flour together; and you must not try to pare the apples, because you cannot manage a great knife.

Never touch the large knives: they are very sharp, and you might cut your finger to the bone. You are a little girl, and ought to have a little knife. When you are as tall as I am, you shall have a knife as large as mine; and when you are as strong as I am, and have learned to manage it, you will not hurt yourself.

You can trundle a hoop, you say; and jump over a stick. O, I forgot!—and march like the men in the red coats, when papa plays a pretty tune on the fiddle.

LESSON XI.

WHAT, you think that you shall soon be able to dress yourself entirely? I am glad of it: I have something else to do. You may go, and look for your frock in the drawer; but I will tie it, till you are stronger. Betty will tie it, when I am busy.

I button my gown myself: I do not want a maid to assist me, when I am dressing. But you have not yet got sense enough to do it properly, and must beg somebody to help you, till you are older.

Children grow older and wiser at the same time. William is not able to take a piece of meat, because he has not got the sense which would make him think that, without teeth, meat would do him harm. He cannot tell what is good for him.

The sense of children grows with them. You know much more than William, now you walk alone, and talk; but you do not know as much as the boys and girls you see playing yonder, who are half as tall again as you; and they do not know half as much as their fathers and mothers, who are men and women grown. Papa and I were children, like you; and men and women took care of us. I carry William, because he is too weak to walk. I lift you over a stile, and over the gutter, when you cannot jump over it.

You know already, that potatoes will not do you any harm: but I must pluck the fruit for you, till you are wise enough to know the ripe apples and pears. The hard ones would make you sick, and then you must take physic. You do not love physic: I do not love it any more than you. But I have more sense than you; therefore I take care not to eat unripe fruit, or any thing else that would make my stomach ache, or bring out ugly red spots on my face.

When I was a child, my mamma chose the fruit for me, to prevent my making myself sick. I was just like you; I used to ask for what I saw, without knowing whether it was good or bad. Now I have lived a long time, I know what is good; I do not want any body to tell me.

LESSON XII.

LOOK at those two dogs. The old one brings the ball to me in a moment; the young one does not know how. He must be taught.

I can cut your shift in a proper shape. You would not know how to begin. You would spoil it; but you will learn.

John digs in the garden, and knows when to put the seed in the ground. You cannot tell whether it should be in the winter or summer. Try to find it out. When do the trees put out their leaves? In the spring, you say, after the cold weather. Fruit would not grow ripe without very warm weather. Now I am sure you can guess why the summer is the season for fruit.

Papa knows that peas and beans are good for us to eat with our meat. You are glad when you see them; but if he did not think for you, and have the seed put in the ground, we should have no peas or beans.

LESSON XIII.

POOR child, she cannot do much for herself. When I let her do any thing for me, it is to please her: for I could do it better myself.

Oh! the poor puppy has tumbled off the stool. Run and stroak him. Put a little milk in a saucer to comfort him. You have more sense than he. You can pour the milk into the saucer without spilling it. He would cry for a day with hunger, without being able to get it. You are wiser than the dog, you must help him. The dog will love you for it, and run after you. I feed you and take care of you: you love me and follow me for it.

When the book fell down on your foot, it gave you great pain. The poor dog felt the same pain just now.

Take care not to hurt him when you play with him. And every morning leave a little milk in your bason for him. Do not forget to put the bason in a corner, lest somebody should fall over it.

When the snow covers the ground, save the crumbs of bread for the birds. In the summer they find feed enough, and do not want you to think about them.

I make broth for the poor man who is sick. A sick man is like a child, he cannot help himself.

LESSON X.

WHEN I caught cold some time ago, I had such a pain in my head, I could scarcely hold it up. Papa opened the door very softly, because he loves me. You love me, yet you made a noise. You had not the sense to know that it made my head worse, till papa told you.

Papa had a pain in the stomach, and he would not eat the fine cherries or grapes on the table. When I brought him a cup of camomile tea, he drank it without saying a word, or making an ugly face. He knows that I love him, and that I would not give him any thing to drink that has a bad taste, if it were not to do him good.

You asked me for some apples when your stomach ached; but I was not angry with you. If you had been as wise as papa, you would have said, I will not eat the apples to-day, I must take some camomile tea.

You say that you do not know how to think. Yes; you do a little. The other day papa was tired; he had been walking about all the morning. After dinner he fell asleep on the sopha. I did not bid you be quiet; but you thought of what papa said to you, when my head ached. This made you think that you ought not to make a noise, when papa was resting himself. So you came to me, and said to me, very softly, Pray reach me my ball, and I will go and play in the garden, till papa wakes.

You were going out; but thinking again, you came back to me on your tip-toes. Whisper——whisper. Pray mama, call me, when papa wakes; for I shall be afraid to open the door to see, lest I should disturb him.

Away you went.—Creep—creep—and shut the door as softly as I could have done myself.

That was thinking. When a child does wrong at first, she does not know any better. But, after she has been told that she must not disturb mama, when poor mama is unwell, she thinks herself, that she must not wake papa when he is tired.

Another day we will see if you can think about any thing else.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[175-A] This title which is indorsed on the back of the manuscript, I conclude to have been written in a period of desperation, in the month of October, 1795.

editor.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.

VOL. II.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

THE

WRONGS OF WOMAN:

OR,

MARIA.

A FRAGMENT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

WRONGS

OF

WOMAN.

CHAP. IX.

"I Reſume my pen to fly from thought. I was married; and we haſtened to London. I had purpoſed taking one of my ſiſters with me; for a ſtrong motive for marrying, was the deſire of having a home at which I could receive them, now their own grew ſo uncomfortable, as not to deſerve the cheering appellation. An objection was made to her accompanying me, that appeared plauſible; and I reluctantly acquieſced. I was however willingly allowed to take with me Molly, poor Peggy's daughter. London and preferment, are ideas commonly aſſociated in the country; and, as blooming as May, ſhe bade adieu to Peggy with weeping eyes. I did not even feel hurt at the refuſal in relation to my ſiſter, till hearing what my uncle had done for me, I had the ſimplicity to requeſt, ſpeaking with warmth of their ſituation, that he would give them a thouſand pounds a-piece, which ſeemed to me but juſtice. He aſked me, giving me a kiſs, 'If I had loſt my ſenſes?' I ſtarted back, as if I had found a waſp in a roſe-buſh. I expoſtulated. He ſneered; and the demon of diſcord entered our paradiſe, to poiſon with his peſtiferous breath every opening joy.

"I had ſometimes obſerved defects in my huſband's underſtanding; but, led aſtray by a prevailing opinion, that goodneſs of diſpoſition is of the firſt importance in the relative ſituations of life, in proportion as I perceived the narrowneſs of his underſtanding, fancy enlarged the boundary of his heart. Fatal error! How quickly is the ſo much vaunted milkineſs of nature turned into gall, by an intercourſe with the world, if more generous juices do not ſuſtain the vital ſource of virtue!

"One trait in my character was extreme credulity; but, when my eyes were once opened, I ſaw but too clearly all I had before overlooked. My huſband was ſunk in my eſteem; ſtill there are youthful emotions, which, for a while, fill up the chaſm of love and friendſhip. Beſides, it required ſome time to enable me to ſee his whole character in a juſt light, or rather to allow it to become fixed. While circumſtances were ripening my faculties, and cultivating my taſte, commerce and groſs relaxations were ſhutting his againſt any poſſibility of improvement, till, by ſtifling every ſpark of virtue in himſelf, he began to imagine that it no where exiſted.

"Do not let me lead you aſtray, my child, I do not mean to aſſert, that any human being is entirely incapable of feeling the generous emotions, which are the foundation of every true principle of virtue; but they are frequently, I fear, ſo feeble, that, like the inflammable quality which more or leſs lurks in all bodies, they often lie for ever dormant; the circumſtances never occurring, neceſſary to call them into action.

"I diſcovered however by chance, that, in conſequence of ſome loſſes in trade, the natural effect of his gambling deſire to ſtart ſuddenly into riches, the five thouſand pounds given me by my uncle, had been paid very opportunely. This diſcovery, ſtrange as you may think the aſſertion, gave me pleaſure; my huſband's embarraſſments endeared him to me. I was glad to find an excuſe for his conduct to my ſiſters, and my mind became calmer.

"My uncle introduced me to ſome literary ſociety; and the theatres were a never-failing ſource of amuſement to me. My delighted eye followed Mrs. Siddons, when, with dignified delicacy, ſhe played Caliſta; and I involuntarily repeated after her, in the ſame tone, and with a long-drawn ſigh,

'Hearts like our's were pair'd—not match'd.'

"Theſe were, at firſt, ſpontaneous emotions, though, becoming acquainted with men of wit and poliſhed manners, I could not ſometimes help regretting my early marriage; and that, in my haſte to eſcape from a temporary dependence, and expand my newly fledged wings, in an unknown ſky, I had been caught in a trap, and caged for life. Still the novelty of London, and the attentive fondneſs of my huſband, for he had ſome perſonal regard for me, made ſeveral months glide away. Yet, not forgetting the ſituation of my ſiſters, who were ſtill very young, I prevailed on my uncle to ſettle a thouſand pounds on each; and to place them in a ſchool near town, where I could frequently viſit, as well as have them at home with me.

"I now tried to improve my huſband's taſte, but we had few ſubjects in common; indeed he ſoon appeared to have little reliſh for my ſociety, unleſs he was hinting to me the uſe he could make of my uncle's wealth. When we had company, I was diſguſted by an oſtentatious diſplay of riches, and I have often quitted the room, to avoid liſtening to exaggerated tales of money obtained by lucky hits.

"With all my attention and affectionate intereſt, I perceived that I could not become the friend or confident of my huſband. Every thing I learned relative to his affairs I gathered up by accident; and I vainly endeavoured to eſtabliſh, at our fire-ſide, that ſocial converſe, which often renders people of different characters dear to each other. Returning from the theatre, or any amuſing party, I frequently began to relate what I had ſeen and highly reliſhed; but with ſullen taciturnity he ſoon ſilenced me. I ſeemed therefore gradually to loſe, in his ſociety, the ſoul, the energies of which had juſt been in action. To ſuch a degree, in fact, did his cold, reſerved manner affect me, that, after ſpending ſome days with him alone, I have imagined myſelf the moſt ſtupid creature in the world, till the abilities of ſome caſual viſitor convinced me that I had ſome dormant animation, and ſentiments above the duſt in which I had been groveling. The very countenance of my huſband changed; his complexion became ſallow, and all the charms of youth were vaniſhing with its vivacity.

"I give you one view of the ſubject; but theſe experiments and alterations took up the ſpace of five years; during which period, I had moſt reluctantly extorted ſeveral ſums from my uncle, to ſave my huſband, to uſe his own words, from deſtruction. At firſt it was to prevent bills being noted, to the injury of his credit; then to bail him; and afterwards to prevent an execution from entering the houſe. I began at laſt to conclude, that he would have made more exertions of his own to extricate himſelf, had he not relied on mine, cruel as was the taſk he impoſed on me; and I firmly determined that I would make uſe of no more pretexts.

"From the moment I pronounced this determination, indifference on his part was changed into rudeneſs, or ſomething worſe.

"He now ſeldom dined at home, and continually returned at a late hour, drunk, to bed. I retired to another apartment; I was glad, I own, to eſcape from his; for perſonal intimacy without affection, ſeemed, to me the moſt degrading, as well as the moſt painful ſtate in which a woman of any taſte, not to ſpeak of the peculiar delicacy of foſtered ſenſibility, could be placed. But my huſband's fondneſs for women was of the groſſeſt kind, and imagination was ſo wholly out of the queſtion, as to render his indulgences of this ſort entirely promiſcuous, and of the moſt brutal nature. My health ſuffered, before my heart was entirely eſtranged by the loathſome information; could I then have returned to his ſullied arms, but as a victim to the prejudices of mankind, who have made women the property of their huſbands? I diſcovered even, by his converſation, when intoxicated, that his favourites were wantons of the loweſt claſs, who could by their vulgar, indecent mirth, which he called nature, rouſe his ſluggiſh ſpirits. Meretricious ornaments and manners were neceſſary to attract his attention. He ſeldom looked twice at a modeſt woman, and ſat ſilent in their company; and the charms of youth and beauty had not the ſlighteſt effect on his ſenſes, unleſs the poſſeſſors were initiated in vice. His intimacy with profligate women, and his habits of thinking, gave him a contempt for female endowments; and he would repeat, when wine had looſed his tongue, moſt of the common-place ſarcaſms levelled at them, by men who do not allow them to have minds, becauſe mind would be an impediment to groſs enjoyment. Men who are inferior to their fellow men, are always moſt anxious to eſtabliſh their ſuperiority over women. But where are theſe reflections leading me?

"Women who have loſt their huſband's affection, are juſtly reproved for neglecting their perſons, and not taking the ſame pains to keep, as to gain a heart; but who thinks of giving the ſame advice to men, though women are continually ſtigmatized for being attached to fops; and from the nature of their education, are more ſuſceptible of diſguſt? Yet why a woman ſhould be expected to endure a ſloven, with more patience than a man, and magnanimouſly to govern herſelf, I cannot conceive; unleſs it be ſuppoſed arrogant in her to look for reſpect as well as a maintenance. It is not eaſy to be pleaſed, becauſe, after promiſing to love, in different circumſtances, we are told that it is our duty. I cannot, I am ſure (though, when attending the ſick, I never felt diſguſt) forget my own ſenſations, when riſing with health and ſpirit, and after ſcenting the ſweet morning, I have met my huſband at the breakfaſt table. The active attention I had been giving to domeſtic regulations, which were generally ſettled before he roſe, or a walk, gave a glow to my countenance, that contraſted with his ſquallid appearance. The ſqueamiſhneſs of ſtomach alone, produced by the laſt night's intemperance, which he took no pains to conceal, deſtroyed my appetite. I think I now ſee him lolling in an arm-chair, in a dirty powdering gown, ſoiled linen, ungartered ſtockings, and tangled hair, yawning and ſtretching himſelf. The newſpaper was immediately called for, if not brought in on the tea-board, from which he would ſcarcely lift his eyes while I poured out the tea, excepting to aſk for ſome brandy to put into it, or to declare that he could not eat. In anſwer to any queſtion, in his beſt humour, it was a drawling 'What do you ſay, child?' But if I demanded money for the houſe expences, which I put off till the laſt moment, his cuſtomary reply, often prefaced with an oath, was, 'Do you think me, madam, made of money?'—The butcher, the baker, muſt wait; and, what was worſe, I was often obliged to witneſs his ſurly diſmiſſion of tradeſmen, who were in want of their money, and whom I ſometimes paid with the preſents my uncle gave me for my own uſe.

"At this juncture my father's miſtreſs, by terrifying his conſcience, prevailed on him to marry her; he was already become a methodiſt; and my brother, who now practiſed for himſelf, had diſcovered a flaw in the ſettlement made on my mother's children, which ſet it aſide, and he allowed my father, whoſe diſtreſs made him ſubmit to any thing, a tithe of his own, or rather our fortune.

"My ſiſters had left ſchool, but were unable to endure home, which my father's wife rendered as diſagreeable as poſſible, to get rid of girls whom ſhe regarded as ſpies on her conduct. They were accompliſhed, yet you can (may you never be reduced to the ſame deſtitute ſtate!) ſcarcely conceive the trouble I had to place them in the ſituation of governeſſes, the only one in which even a well-educated woman, with more than ordinary talents, can ſtruggle for a ſubſiſtence; and even this is a dependence next to menial. Is it then ſurpriſing, that ſo many forlorn women, with human paſſions and feelings, take refuge in infamy? Alone in large manſions, I ſay alone, becauſe they had no companions with whom they could converſe on equal terms, or from whom they could expect the endearments of affection, they grew melancholy, and the ſound of joy made them ſad; and the youngeſt, having a more delicate frame, fell into a decline. It was with great difficulty that I, who now almoſt ſupported the houſe by loans from my uncle, could prevail on the maſter of it, to allow her a room to die in. I watched her ſick bed for ſome months, and then cloſed her eyes, gentle ſpirit! for ever. She was pretty, with very engaging manners; yet had never an opportunity to marry, excepting to a very old man. She had abilities ſufficient to have ſhone in any profeſſion, had there been any profeſſions for women, though ſhe ſhrunk at the name of milliner or mantua-maker as degrading to a gentlewoman. I would not term this feeling falſe pride to any one but you, my child, whom I fondly hope to ſee (yes; I will indulge the hope for a moment!) poſſeſſed of that energy of character which gives dignity to any ſtation; and with that clear, firm ſpirit that will enable you to chooſe a ſituation for yourſelf, or ſubmit to be claſſed in the loweſt, if it be the only one in which you can be the miſtreſs of your own actions.

"Soon after the death of my ſiſter, an incident occurred, to prove to me that the heart of a libertine is dead to natural affection; and to convince me, that the being who has appeared all tenderneſs, to gratify a ſelfiſh paſſion, is as regardleſs of the innocent fruit of it, as of the object, when the fit is over. I had caſually obſerved an old, mean-looking woman, who called on my huſband every two or three months to receive ſome money. One day entering the paſſage of his little counting-houſe, as ſhe was going out, I heard her ſay, 'The child is very weak; ſhe cannot live long, ſhe will ſoon die out of your way, ſo you need not grudge her a little phyſic.'

"'So much the better,' he replied, 'and pray mind your own buſineſs, good woman.'

"I was ſtruck by his unfeeling, inhuman tone of voice, and drew back, determined when the woman came again, to try to ſpeak to her, not out of curioſity, I had heard enough, but with the hope of being uſeful to a poor, outcaſt girl.

"A month or two elapſed before I ſaw this woman again; and then ſhe had a child in her hand that tottered along, ſcarcely able to ſuſtain her own weight. They were going away, to return at the hour Mr. Venables was expected; he was now from home. I deſired the woman to walk into the parlour. She heſitated, yet obeyed. I aſſured her that I ſhould not mention to my huſband (the word ſeemed to weigh on my reſpiration), that I had ſeen her, or his child. The woman ſtared at me with aſtoniſhment; and I turned my eyes on the ſqualid object [that accompanied her.] She could hardly ſupport herſelf, her complexion was ſallow, and her eyes inflamed, with an indeſcribable look of cunning, mixed with the wrinkles produced by the peeviſhneſs of pain.

"'Poor child!' I exclaimed. 'Ah! you may well ſay poor child,' replied the woman. 'I brought her here to ſee whether he would have the heart to look at her, and not get ſome advice. I do not know what they deſerve who nurſed her. Why, her legs bent under her like a bow when ſhe came to me, and ſhe has never been well ſince; but, if they were no better paid than I am, it is not to be wondered at, ſure enough.'

"On further enquiry I was informed, that this miſerable ſpectacle was the daughter of a ſervant, a country girl, who caught Mr. Venables' eye, and whom he ſeduced. On his marriage he ſent her away, her ſituation being too viſible. After her delivery, ſhe was thrown on the town; and died in an hoſpital within the year. The babe was ſent to a pariſh-nurſe, and afterwards to this woman, who did not ſeem much better; but what was to be expected from ſuch a cloſe bargain? She was only paid three ſhillings a week for board and waſhing.

"The woman begged me to give her ſome old clothes for the child, aſſuring me, that ſhe was almoſt afraid to aſk maſter for money to buy even a pair of ſhoes.

"I grew ſick at heart. And, fearing Mr. Venables might enter, and oblige me to expreſs my abhorrence, I haſtily enquired where ſhe lived, promiſed to pay her two ſhillings a week more, and to call on her in a day or two; putting a trifle into her hand as a proof of my good intention.

"If the ſtate of this child affected me, what were my feelings at a diſcovery I made reſpecting Peggy——?[22-A]

FOOTNOTES:

[22-A] The manuſcript is imperfect here. An epiſode ſeems to have been intended, which was never committed to paper.

editor.

CHAP. X.

"My father's ſituation was now ſo diſtreſſing, that I prevailed on my uncle to accompany me to viſit him; and to lend me his aſſiſtance, to prevent the whole property of the family from becoming the prey of my brother's rapacity; for, to extricate himſelf out of preſent difficulties, my father was totally regardleſs of futurity. I took down with me ſome preſents for my ſtep-mother; it did not require an effort for me to treat her with civility, or to forget the paſt.

"This was the firſt time I had viſited my native village, ſince my marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the buſy world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to ſcenes, that whiſpered recollections of joy and hope moſt eloquently to my heart! The firſt ſcent of the wild flowers from the heath, thrilled through my veins, awakening every ſenſe to pleaſure. The icy hand of deſpair ſeemed to be removed from my boſom; and—forgetting my huſband—the nurtured viſions of a romantic mind, burſting on me with all their original wildneſs and gay exuberance, were again hailed as ſweet realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt ſorrow, or knew care in the country; while a tranſient rainbow ſtole athwart the cloudy ſky of deſpondency. The pictureſque form of ſeveral favourite trees, and the porches of rude cottages, with their ſmiling hedges, were recognized with the gladſome playfulneſs of childiſh vivacity. I could have kiſſed the chickens that pecked on the common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that ſported on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky that it ſhould be in motion, at the moment I paſſed by; and entering the dear green lane, which led directly to the village, the ſound of the well-known rookery gave that ſentimental tinge to the varying ſenſations of my active ſoul, which only ſerved to heighten the luſtre of the luxuriant ſcenery. But, ſpying, as I advanced, the ſpire, peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that compoſed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the church-yard, and tears of affection, ſuch was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I wandered through the church in fancy, as I uſed ſometimes to do on a Saturday evening. I recollected with what fervour I addreſſed the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above my ſorrows to the Father of nature. I pauſe—feeling forcibly all the emotions I am deſcribing; and (reminded, as I regiſter my ſorrows, of the ſublime calm I have felt, when in ſome tremendous ſolitude, my ſoul reſted on itſelf, and ſeemed to fill the univerſe) I inſenſibly breathe ſoft, huſhing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to ſully with a ſigh, a contentment ſo extatic.

"Having ſettled my father's affairs, and, by my exertions in his favour, made my brother my ſworn foe, I returned to London. My huſband's conduct was now changed; I had during my abſence, received ſeveral affectionate, penitential letters from him; and he ſeemed on my arrival, to wiſh by his behaviour to prove his ſincerity. I could not then conceive why he acted thus; and, when the ſuſpicion darted into my head, that it might ariſe from obſerving my increaſing influence with my uncle, I almoſt deſpiſed myſelf for imagining that ſuch a degree of debaſing ſelfiſhneſs could exiſt.

"He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and attentive; and, attacking my weak ſide, made a confeſſion of his follies, and lamented the embarraſſments in which I, who merited a far different fate, might be involved. He beſought me to aid him with my counſel, praiſed my underſtanding, and appealed to the tenderneſs of my heart.

"This conduct only inſpired me with compaſſion. I wiſhed to be his friend; but love had ſpread his roſy pinions, and fled far, far away; and had not (like ſome exquiſite perfumes, the fine ſpirit of which is continually mingling with the air) left a fragrance behind, to mark where he had ſhook his wings. My huſband's renewed careſſes then became hateful to me; his brutality was tolerable, compared to his diſtaſteful fondneſs. Still, compaſſion, and the fear of inſulting his ſuppoſed feelings, by a want of ſympathy, made me diſſemble, and do violence to my delicacy. What a taſk!

"Thoſe who ſupport a ſyſtem of what I term falſe refinement, and will not allow great part of love in the female, as well as male breaſt, to ſpring in ſome reſpects involuntarily, may not admit that charms are as neceſſary to feed the paſſion, as virtues to convert the mellowing ſpirit into friendſhip. To ſuch obſervers I have nothing to ſay, any more than to the moraliſts, who inſiſt that women ought to, and can love their huſbands, becauſe it is their duty. To you, my child, I may add, with a heart tremblingly alive to your future conduct, ſome obſervations, dictated by my preſent feelings, on calmly reviewing this period of my life. When noveliſts or moraliſts praiſe as a virtue, a woman's coldneſs of conſtitution, and want of paſſion; and make her yield to the ardour of her lover out of ſheer compaſſion, or to promote a frigid plan of future comfort, I am diſguſted. They may be good women, in the ordinary acceptation of the phraſe, and do no harm; but they appear to me not to have thoſe 'finely faſhioned nerves,' which render the ſenſes exquiſite. They may poſſeſs tenderneſs; but they want that fire of the imagination, which produces active ſenſibility, and poſitive virtue. How does the woman deſerve to be characterized, who marries one man, with a heart and imagination devoted to another? Is ſhe not an object of pity or contempt, when thus ſacrilegiouſly violating the purity of her own feelings? Nay, it is as indelicate, when ſhe is indifferent, unleſs ſhe be conſtitutionally inſenſible; then indeed it is a mere affair of barter; and I have nothing to do with the ſecrets of trade. Yes; eagerly as I wiſh you to poſſeſs true rectitude of mind, and purity of affection, I muſt inſiſt that a heartleſs conduct is the contrary of virtuous. Truth is the only baſis of virtue; and we cannot, without depraving our minds, endeavour to pleaſe a lover or huſband, but in proportion as he pleaſes us. Men, more effectually to enſlave us, may inculcate this partial morality, and loſe ſight of virtue in ſubdividing it into the duties of particular ſtations; but let us not bluſh for nature without a cauſe!

"After theſe remarks, I am aſhamed to own, that I was pregnant. The greateſt ſacrifice of my principles in my whole life, was the allowing my huſband again to be familiar with my perſon, though to this cruel act of ſelf-denial, when I wiſhed the earth to open and ſwallow me, you owe your birth; and I the unutterable pleaſure of being a mother. There was ſomething of delicacy in my huſband's bridal attentions; but now his tainted breath, pimpled face, and blood-ſhot eyes, were not more repugnant to my ſenſes, than his groſs manners, and loveleſs familiarity to my taſte.

"A man would only be expected to maintain; yes, barely grant a ſubſiſtence, to a woman rendered odious by habitual intoxication; but who would expect him, or think it poſſible to love her? And unleſs 'youth, and genial years were flown,' it would be thought equally unreaſonable to inſiſt, [under penalty of] forfeiting almoſt every thing reckoned valuable in life, that he ſhould not love another: whilſt woman, weak in reaſon, impotent in will, is required to moralize, ſentimentalize herſelf to ſtone, and pine her life away, labouring to reform her embruted mate. He may even ſpend in diſſipation, and intemperance, the very intemperance which renders him ſo hateful, her property, and by ſtinting her expences, not permit her to beguile in ſociety, a weariſome, joyleſs life; for over their mutual fortune ſhe has no power, it muſt all paſs through his hand. And if ſhe be a mother, and in the preſent ſtate of women, it is a great miſfortune to be prevented from diſcharging the duties, and cultivating the affections of one, what has ſhe not to endure?—But I have ſuffered the tenderneſs of one to lead me into reflections that I did not think of making, to interrupt my narrative—yet the full heart will overflow.

"Mr. Venables' embarraſſments did not now endear him to me; ſtill, anxious to befriend him, I endeavoured to prevail on him to retrench his expences; but he had always ſome plauſible excuſe to give, to juſtify his not following my advice. Humanity, compaſſion, and the intereſt produced by a habit of living together, made me try to relieve, and ſympathize with him; but, when I recollected that I was bound to live with ſuch a being for ever—my heart died within me; my deſire of improvement became languid, and baleful, corroding melancholy took poſſeſſion of my ſoul. Marriage had baſtilled me for life. I diſcovered in myſelf a capacity for the enjoyment of the various pleaſures exiſtence affords; yet, fettered by the partial laws of ſociety, this fair globe was to me an univerſal blank.

"When I exhorted my huſband to economy, I referred to himſelf. I was obliged to practiſe the moſt rigid, or contract debts, which I had too much reaſon to fear would never be paid. I deſpiſed this paltry privilege of a wife, which can only be of uſe to the vicious or inconſiderate, and determined not to increaſe the torrent that was bearing him down. I was then ignorant of the extent of his fraudulent ſpeculations, whom I was bound to honour and obey.

"A woman neglected by her huſband, or whoſe manners form a ſtriking contraſt with his, will always have men on the watch to ſoothe and flatter her. Beſides, the forlorn ſtate of a neglected woman, not deſtitute of perſonal charms, is particularly intereſting, and rouſes that ſpecies of pity, which is ſo near akin, it eaſily ſlides into love. A man of feeling thinks not of ſeducing, he is himſelf ſeduced by all the nobleſt emotions of his ſoul. He figures to himſelf all the ſacrifices a woman of ſenſibility muſt make, and every ſituation in which his imagination places her, touches his heart, and fires his paſſions. Longing to take to his boſom the ſhorn lamb, and bid the drooping buds of hope revive, benevolence changes into paſſion: and ſhould he then diſcover that he is beloved, honour binds him faſt, though foreſeeing that he may afterwards be obliged to pay ſevere damages to the man, who never appeared to value his wife's ſociety, till he found that there was a chance of his being indemnified for the loſs of it.

"Such are the partial laws enacted by men; for, only to lay a ſtreſs on the dependent ſtate of a woman in the grand queſtion of the comforts ariſing from the poſſeſſion of property, ſhe is [even in this article] much more injured by the loſs of the huſband's affection, than he by that of his wife; yet where is ſhe, condemned to the ſolitude of a deſerted home, to look for a compenſation from the woman, who ſeduces him from her? She cannot drive an unfaithful huſband from his houſe, nor ſeparate, or tear, his children from him, however culpable he may be; and he, ſtill the maſter of his own fate, enjoys the ſmiles of a world, that would brand her with infamy, did ſhe, ſeeking conſolation, venture to retaliate.

"Theſe remarks are not dictated by experience; but merely by the compaſſion I feel for many amiable women, the out-laws of the world. For myſelf, never encouraging any of the advances that were made to me, my lovers dropped off like the untimely ſhoots of ſpring. I did not even coquet with them; becauſe I found, on examining myſelf, I could not coquet with a man without loving him a little; and I perceived that I ſhould not be able to ſtop at the line of what are termed innocent freedoms, did I ſuffer any. My reſerve was then the conſequence of delicacy. Freedom of conduct has emancipated many women's minds; but my conduct has moſt rigidly been governed by my principles, till the improvement of my underſtanding has enabled me to diſcern the fallacy of prejudices at war with nature and reaſon.

"Shortly after the change I have mentioned in my huſband's conduct, my uncle was compelled by his declining health, to ſeek the ſuccour of a milder climate, and embark for Liſbon. He left his will in the hands of a friend, an eminent ſolicitor; he had previouſly queſtioned me relative to my ſituation and ſtate of mind, and declared very freely, that he could place no reliance on the ſtability of my huſband's profeſſions. He had been deceived in the unfolding of his character; he now thought it fixed in a train of actions that would inevitably lead to ruin and diſgrace.

"The evening before his departure, which we ſpent alone together, he folded me to his heart, uttering the endearing appellation of 'child.'—My more than father! why was I not permitted to perform the laſt duties of one, and ſmooth the pillow of death? He ſeemed by his manner to be convinced that he ſhould never ſee me more; yet requeſted me, moſt earneſtly, to come to him, ſhould I be obliged to leave my huſband. He had before expreſſed his ſorrow at hearing of my pregnancy, having determined to prevail on me to accompany him, till I informed him of that circumſtance. He expreſſed himſelf unfeignedly ſorry that any new tie ſhould bind me to a man whom he thought ſo incapable of eſtimating my value; ſuch was the kind language of affection.

"I muſt repeat his own words; they made an indelible impreſſion on my mind:

"'The marriage ſtate is certainly that in which women, generally ſpeaking, can be moſt uſeful; but I am far from thinking that a woman, once married, ought to conſider the engagement as indiſſoluble (eſpecially if there be no children to reward her for ſacrificing her feelings) in caſe her huſband merits neither her love, nor eſteem. Eſteem will often ſupply the place of love; and prevent a woman from being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a ſacrifice ought always to bear ſome proportion to the utility in view; and for a woman to live with a man, for whom ſhe can cheriſh neither affection nor eſteem, or even be of any uſe to him, excepting in the light of a houſe-keeper, is an abjectneſs of condition, the enduring of which no concurrence of circumſtances can ever make a duty in the ſight of God or juſt men. If indeed ſhe ſubmits to it merely to be maintained in idleneſs, ſhe has no right to complain bitterly of her fate; or to act, as a perſon of independent character might, as if ſhe had a title to diſregard general rules.

"'But the miſfortune is, that many women only ſubmit in appearance, and forfeit their own reſpect to ſecure their reputation in the world. The ſituation of a woman ſeparated from her huſband, is undoubtedly very different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity, has ſhaken of a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment, is thought ſufficient to ſecure his reputation from taint. And, ſhould ſhe have been inconſiderate, he will be celebrated for his generoſity and forbearance. Such is the reſpect paid to the maſter-key of property! A woman, on the contrary, reſigning what is termed her natural protector (though he never was ſo, but in name) is deſpiſed and ſhunned, for aſſerting the independence of mind diſtinctive of a rational being, and ſpurning at ſlavery.'

"During the remainder of the evening, my uncle's tenderneſs led him frequently to revert to the ſubject, and utter, with increaſing warmth, ſentiments to the ſame purport. At length it was neceſſary to ſay 'Farewell!'—and we parted—gracious God! to meet no more.

CHAP. XI.

"A gentleman of large fortune and of poliſhed manners, had lately viſited very frequently at our houſe, and treated me, if poſſible, with more reſpect than Mr. Venables paid him; my pregnancy was not yet viſible, his ſociety was a great relief to me, as I had for ſome time paſt, to avoid expence, confined myſelf very much at home. I ever diſdained unneceſſary, perhaps even prudent concealments; and my huſband, with great eaſe, diſcovered the amount of my uncle's parting preſent. A copy of a writ was the ſtale pretext to extort it from me; and I had ſoon reaſon to believe that it was fabricated for the purpoſe. I acknowledge my folly in thus ſuffering myſelf to be continually impoſed on. I had adhered to my reſolution not to apply to my uncle, on the part of my huſband, any more; yet, when I had received a ſum ſufficient to ſupply my own wants, and to enable me to purſue a plan I had in view, to ſettle my younger brother in a reſpectable employment, I allowed myſelf to be duped by Mr. Venables' ſhallow pretences, and hypocritical profeſſions.

"Thus did he pillage me and my family, thus fruſtrate all my plans of uſefulneſs. Yet this was the man I was bound to reſpect and eſteem: as if reſpect and eſteem depended on an arbitrary will of our own! But a wife being as much a man's property as his horſe, or his aſs, ſhe has nothing ſhe can call her own. He may uſe any means to get at what the law conſiders as his, the moment his wife is in poſſeſſion of it, even to the forcing of a lock, as Mr. Venables did, to ſearch for notes in my writing-deſk—and all this is done with a ſhow of equity, becauſe, forſooth, he is reſponſible for her maintenance.

"The tender mother cannot lawfully ſnatch from the gripe of the gambling ſpendthrift, or beaſtly drunkard, unmindful of his offſpring, the fortune which falls to her by chance; or (ſo flagrant is the injuſtice) what ſhe earns by her own exertions. No; he can rob her with impunity, even to waſte publicly on a courtezan; and the laws of her country—if women have a country—afford her no protection or redreſs from the oppreſſor, unleſs ſhe have the plea of bodily fear; yet how many ways are there of goading the ſoul almoſt to madneſs, equally unmanly, though not ſo mean? When ſuch laws were framed, ſhould not impartial lawgivers have firſt decreed, in the ſtyle of a great aſſembly, who recognized the exiſtence of an être ſuprême, to fix the national belief, that the huſband ſhould always be wiſer and more virtuous than his wife, in order to entitle him, with a ſhow of juſtice, to keep this idiot, or perpetual minor, for ever in bondage. But I muſt have done—on this ſubject, my indignation continually runs away with me.

"The company of the gentleman I have already mentioned, who had a general acquaintance with literature and ſubjects of taſte, was grateful to me; my countenance brightened up as he approached, and I unaffectedly expreſſed the pleaſure I felt. The amuſement his converſation afforded me, made it eaſy to comply with my huſband's requeſt, to endeavour to render our houſe agreeable to him.

"His attentions became more pointed; but, as I was not of the number of women, whoſe virtue, as it is termed, immediately takes alarm, I endeavoured, rather by raillery than ſerious expoſtulation, to give a different turn to his converſation. He aſſumed a new mode of attack, and I was, for a while, the dupe of his pretended friendſhip.

"I had, merely in the ſtyle of badinage, boaſted of my conqueſt, and repeated his lover-like compliments to my huſband. But he begged me, for God's ſake, not to affront his friend, or I ſhould deſtroy all his projects, and be his ruin. Had I had more affection for my huſband, I ſhould have expreſſed my contempt of this time-ſerving politeneſs: now I imagined that I only felt pity; yet it would have puzzled a caſuiſt to point out in what the exact difference conſiſted.

"This friend began now, in confidence, to diſcover to me the real ſtate of my huſband's affairs. 'Neceſſity,' ſaid Mr. S——; why ſhould I reveal his name? for he affected to palliate the conduct he could not excuſe, 'had led him to take ſuch ſteps, by accommodation bills, buying goods on credit, to ſell them for ready money, and ſimilar tranſactions, that his character in the commercial world was gone. He was conſidered,' he added, lowering his voice, 'on 'Change as a ſwindler.'

"I felt at that moment the firſt maternal pang. Aware of the evils my ſex have to ſtruggle with, I ſtill wiſhed, for my own conſolation, to be the mother of a daughter; and I could not bear to think, that the ſins of her father's entailed diſgrace, ſhould be added to the ills to which woman is heir.

"So completely was I deceived by theſe ſhows of friendſhip (nay, I believe, according to his interpretation, Mr. S— really was my friend) that I began to conſult him reſpecting the beſt mode of retrieving my huſband's character: it is the good name of a woman only that ſets to riſe no more. I knew not that he had been drawn into a whirlpool, out of which he had not the energy to attempt to eſcape. He ſeemed indeed deſtitute of the power of employing his faculties in any regular purſuit. His principles of action were ſo looſe, and his mind ſo uncultivated, that every thing like order appeared to him in the ſhape of reſtraint; and, like men in the ſavage ſtate, he required the ſtrong ſtimulus of hope or fear, produced by wild ſpeculations, in which the intereſts of others went for nothing, to keep his ſpirits awake. He one time poſſeſſed patriotiſm, but he knew not what it was to feel honeſt indignation; and pretended to be an advocate for liberty, when, with as little affection for the human race as for individuals, he thought of nothing but his own gratification. He was juſt ſuch a citizen, as a father. The ſums he adroitly obtained by a violation of the laws of his country, as well as thoſe of humanity, he would allow a miſtreſs to ſquander; though ſhe was, with the ſame ſang froid, conſigned, as were his children, to poverty, when another proved more attractive.

"On various pretences, his friend continued to viſit me; and, obſerving my want of money, he tried to induce me to accept of pecuniary aid; but this offer I abſolutely rejected, though it was made with ſuch delicacy, I could not be diſpleaſed.

"One day he came, as I thought accidentally, to dinner. My huſband was very much engaged in buſineſs, and quitted the room ſoon after the cloth was removed. We converſed as uſual, till confidential advice led again to love. I was extremely mortified. I had a ſincere regard for him, and hoped that he had an equal friendſhip for me. I therefore began mildly to expoſtulate with him. This gentleneſs he miſtook for coy encouragement; and he would not be diverted from the ſubject. Perceiving his miſtake, I ſeriouſly aſked him how, uſing ſuch language to me, he could profeſs to be my huſband's friend? A ſignificant ſneer excited my curioſity, and he, ſuppoſing this to be my only ſcruple, took a letter deliberately out of his pocket, ſaying, 'Your huſband's honour is not inflexible. How could you, with your diſcernment, think it ſo? Why, he left the room this very day on purpoſe to give me an opportunity to explain myſelf; he thought me too timid—too tardy.'

"I ſnatched the letter with indeſcribable emotion. The purport of it was to invite him to dinner, and to ridicule his chivalrous reſpect for me. He aſſured him, 'that every woman had her price, and, with groſs indecency, hinted, that he ſhould be glad to have the duty of a huſband taken off his hands. Theſe he termed liberal ſentiments. He adviſed him not to ſhock my romantic notions, but to attack my credulous generoſity, and weak pity; and concluded with requeſting him to lend him five hundred pounds for a month or ſix weeks.' I read this letter twice over; and the firm purpoſe it inſpired, calmed the riſing tumult of my ſoul. I roſe deliberately, requeſted Mr. S—— to wait a moment, and inſtantly going into the counting-houſe, deſired Mr. Venables to return with me to the dining-parlour.

"He laid down his pen, and entered with me, without obſerving any change in my countenance. I ſhut the door, and, giving him the letter, ſimply aſked, 'whether he wrote it, or was it a forgery?'

"Nothing could equal his confuſion. His friend's eye met his, and he muttered ſomething about a joke—But I interrupted him—'It is ſufficient—We part for ever.'

"I continued, with ſolemnity, 'I have borne with your tyranny and infidelities. I diſdain to utter what I have borne with. I thought you unprincipled, but not ſo decidedly vicious. I formed a tie, in the ſight of heaven—I have held it ſacred; even when men, more conformable to my taſte, have made me feel—I deſpiſe all ſubterfuge!—that I was not dead to love. Neglected by you, I have reſolutely ſtifled the enticing emotions, and reſpected the plighted faith you outraged. And you dare now to inſult me, by ſelling me to proſtitution!—Yes—equally loſt to delicacy and principle—you dared ſacrilegiouſly to barter the honour of the mother of your child.'

"Then, turning to Mr. S——, I added, 'I call on you, Sir, to witneſs,' and I lifted my hands and eyes to heaven, 'that, as ſolemnly as I took his name, I now abjure it,' I pulled off my ring, and put it on the table; 'and that I mean immediately to quit his houſe, never to enter it more. I will provide for myſelf and child. I leave him as free as I am determined to be myſelf—he ſhall be anſwerable for no debts of mine.'

"Aſtoniſhment cloſed their lips, till Mr. Venables, gently puſhing his friend, with a forced ſmile, out of the room, nature for a moment prevailed, and, appearing like himſelf, he turned round, burning with rage, to me: but there was no terror in the frown, excepting when contraſted with the malignant ſmile which preceded it. He bade me 'leave the houſe at my peril; told me he deſpiſed my threats; I had no reſource; I could not ſwear the peace againſt him!—I was not afraid of my life!—he had never ſtruck me!'

"He threw the letter in the fire, which I had incautiouſly left in his hands; and, quitting the room, locked the door on me.

"When left alone, I was a moment or two before I could recollect myſelf. One ſcene had ſucceeded another with ſuch rapidity, I almoſt doubted whether I was reflecting on a real event. 'Was it poſſible? Was I, indeed, free?'—Yes; free I termed myſelf, when I decidedly perceived the conduct I ought to adopt. How had I panted for liberty—liberty, that I would have purchaſed at any price, but that of my own eſteem! I roſe, and ſhook myſelf; opened the window, and methought the air never ſmelled ſo ſweet. The face of heaven grew fairer as I viewed it, and the clouds ſeemed to flit away obedient to my wiſhes, to give my ſoul room to expand. I was all ſoul, and (wild as it may appear) felt as if I could have diſſolved in the ſoft balmy gale that kiſſed my cheek, or have glided below the horizon on the glowing, deſcending beams. A ſeraphic ſatiſfaction animated, without agitating my ſpirits; and my imagination collected, in viſions ſublimely terrible, or ſoothingly beautiful, an immenſe variety of the endleſs images, which nature affords, and fancy combines, of the grand and fair. The luſtre of theſe bright pictureſque ſketches faded with the ſetting ſun; but I was ſtill alive to the calm delight they had diffuſed through my heart.

"There may be advocates for matrimonial obedience, who, making a diſtinction between the duty of a wife and of a human being, may blame my conduct.—To them I write not—my feelings are not for them to analyze; and may you, my child, never be able to aſcertain, by heart-rending experience, what your mother felt before the preſent emancipation of her mind!

"I began to write a letter to my father, after cloſing one to my uncle; not to aſk advice, but to ſignify my determination; when I was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Venables. His manner was changed. His views on my uncle's fortune made him averſe to my quitting his houſe, or he would, I am convinced, have been glad to have ſhaken off even the ſlight reſtraint my preſence impoſed on him; the reſtraint of ſhowing me ſome reſpect. So far from having an affection for me, he really hated me, becauſe he was convinced that I muſt deſpiſe him.

"He told me, that, 'As I now had had time to cool and reflect, he did not doubt but that my prudence, and nice ſenſe of propriety, would lead me to overlook what was paſſed.'

"'Reflection,' I replied, 'had only confirmed my purpoſe, and no power on earth could divert me from it.'

"Endeavouring to aſſume a ſoothing voice and look, when he would willingly have tortured me, to force me to feel his power, his countenance had an infernal expreſſion, when he deſired me, 'Not to expoſe myſelf to the ſervants, by obliging him to confine me in my apartment; if then I would give my promiſe not to quit the houſe precipitately, I ſhould be free—and—.' I declared, interrupting him, 'that I would promiſe nothing. I had no meaſures to keep with him—I was reſolved, and would not condeſcend to ſubterfuge.'

"He muttered, 'that I ſhould ſoon repent of theſe prepoſterous airs;' and, ordering tea to be carried into my little ſtudy, which had a communication with my bed-chamber, he once more locked the door upon me, and left me to my own meditations. I had paſſively followed him up ſtairs, not wiſhing to fatigue myſelf with unavailing exertion.

"Nothing calms the mind like a fixed purpoſe. I felt as if I had heaved a thouſand weight from my heart; the atmoſphere ſeemed lightened; and, if I execrated the inſtitutions of ſociety, which thus enable men to tyrannize over women, it was almoſt a diſintereſted ſentiment. I diſregarded preſent inconveniences, when my mind had done ſtruggling with itſelf,—when reaſon and inclination had ſhaken hands and were at peace. I had no longer the cruel taſk before me, in endleſs perſpective, aye, during the tedious for ever of life, of labouring to overcome my repugnance—of labouring to extinguiſh the hopes, the maybes of a lively imagination. Death I had hailed as my only chance for deliverance; but, while exiſtence had ſtill ſo many charms, and life promiſed happineſs, I ſhrunk from the icy arms of an unknown tyrant, though far more inviting than thoſe of the man, to whom I ſuppoſed myſelf bound without any other alternative; and was content to linger a little longer, waiting for I knew not what, rather than leave 'the warm precincts of the cheerful day,' and all the unenjoyed affection of my nature.

"My preſent ſituation gave a new turn to my reflection; and I wondered (now the film ſeemed to be withdrawn, that obſcured the piercing ſight of reaſon) how I could, previouſly to the deciding outrage, have conſidered myſelf as everlaſtingly united to vice and folly? 'Had an evil genius caſt a ſpell at my birth; or a demon ſtalked out of chaos, to perplex my underſtanding, and enchain my will, with deluſive prejudices?'

"I purſued this train of thinking; it led me out of myſelf, to expatiate on the miſery peculiar to my ſex. 'Are not,' I thought, 'the deſpots for ever ſtigmatized, who, in the wantonneſs of power, commanded even the moſt atrocious criminals to be chained to dead bodies? though ſurely thoſe laws are much more inhuman, which forge adamantine fetters to bind minds together, that never can mingle in ſocial communion! What indeed can equal the wretchedneſs of that ſtate, in which there is no alternative, but to extinguiſh the affections, or encounter infamy?'

CHAP. XII.

"Towards midnight Mr. Venables entered my chamber; and, with calm audacity preparing to go to bed, he bade me make haſte, 'for that was the beſt place for huſbands and wives to end their differences. He had been drinking plentifully to aid his courage.

"I did not at firſt deign to reply. But perceiving that he affected to take my ſilence for conſent, I told him that, 'If he would not go to another bed, or allow me, I ſhould ſit up in my ſtudy all night.' He attempted to pull me into the chamber, half joking. But I reſiſted; and, as he had determined not to give me any reaſon for ſaying that he uſed violence, after a few more efforts, he retired, curſing my obſtinacy, to bed.

"I ſat muſing ſome time longer; then, throwing my cloak around me, prepared for ſleep on a ſopha. And, ſo fortunate ſeemed my deliverance, ſo ſacred the pleaſure of being thus wrapped up in myſelf, that I ſlept profoundly, and woke with a mind compoſed to encounter the ſtruggles of the day. Mr. Venables did not wake till ſome hours after; and then he came to me half-dreſſed, yawning and ſtretching, with haggard eyes, as if he ſcarcely recollected what had paſſed the preceding evening. He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then, calling me a fool, aſked 'How long I intended to continue this pretty farce? For his part, he was deviliſh ſick of it; but this was the plague of marrying women who pretended to know ſomething.'

"I made no other reply to this harangue, than to ſay, 'That he ought to be glad to get rid of a woman ſo unfit to be his companion—and that any change in my conduct would be mean diſſimulation; for maturer reflection only gave the ſacred ſeal of reaſon to my firſt reſolution.'

"He looked as if he could have ſtamped with impatience, at being obliged to ſtifle his rage; but, conquering his anger (for weak people, whoſe paſſions ſeem the moſt ungovernable, reſtrain them with the greateſt eaſe, when they have a ſufficient motive), he exclaimed, 'Very pretty, upon my ſoul! very pretty, theatrical flouriſhes! Pray, fair Roxana, ſtoop from your altitudes, and remember that you are acting a part in real life.'

"He uttered this ſpeech with a ſelf-ſatiſfied air, and went down ſtairs to dreſs.

"In about an hour he came to me again; and in the ſame tone ſaid, 'That he came as my gentleman-uſher to hand me down to breakfaſt.

"'Of the black rod?' aſked I.

"This queſtion, and the tone in which I aſked it, a little diſconcerted him. To ſay the truth, I now felt no reſentment; my firm reſolution to free myſelf from my ignoble thraldom, had abſorbed the various emotions which, during ſix years, had racked my ſoul. The duty pointed out by my principles ſeemed clear; and not one tender feeling intruded to make me ſwerve: The diſlike which my huſband had inſpired was ſtrong; but it only led me to wiſh to avoid, to wiſh to let him drop out of my memory; there was no miſery, no torture that I would not deliberately have choſen, rather than renew my leaſe of ſervitude.

"During the breakfaſt, he attempted to reaſon with me on the folly of romantic ſentiments; for this was the indiſcriminate epithet he gave to every mode of conduct or thinking ſuperior to his own. He aſſerted, 'that all the world were governed by their own intereſt; thoſe who pretended to be actuated by different motives, were only deeper knaves, or fools crazed by books, who took for goſpel all the rodomantade nonſenſe written by men who knew nothing of the world. For his part, he thanked God, he was no hypocrite; and, if he ſtretched a point ſometimes, it was always with an intention of paying every man his own.'

"He then artfully inſinuated, 'that he daily expected a veſſel to arrive, a ſucceſſful ſpeculation, that would make him eaſy for the preſent, and that he had ſeveral other ſchemes actually depending, that could not fail. He had no doubt of becoming rich in a few years, though he had been thrown back by ſome unlucky adventures at the ſetting out.'

"I mildly replied, 'That I wiſhed he might not involve himſelf ſtill deeper.'

"He had no notion that I was governed by a deciſion of judgment, not to be compared with a mere ſpurt of reſentment. He knew not what it was to feel indignation againſt vice, and often boaſted of his placable temper, and readineſs to forgive injuries. True; for he only conſidered the being deceived, as an effort of ſkill he had not guarded againſt; and then, with a cant of candour, would obſerve, 'that he did not know how he might himſelf have been tempted to act in the ſame circumſtances.' And, as his heart never opened to friendſhip, it never was wounded by diſappointment. Every new acquaintance he proteſted, it is true, was 'the clevereſt fellow in the world;' and he really thought ſo; till the novelty of his converſation or manners ceaſed to have any effect on his ſluggiſh ſpirits. His reſpect for rank or fortune was more permanent, though he chanced to have no deſign of availing himſelf of the influence of either to promote his own views.

"After a prefatory converſation,—my blood (I thought it had been cooler) fluſhed over my whole countenance as he ſpoke—he alluded to my ſituation. He deſired me to reflect—'and act like a prudent woman, as the beſt proof of my ſuperior underſtanding; for he muſt own I had ſenſe, did I know how to uſe it. I was not,' he laid a ſtreſs on his words, 'without my paſſions; and a huſband was a convenient cloke.—He was liberal in his way of thinking; and why might not we, like many other married people, who were above vulgar prejudices, tacitly conſent to let each other follow their own inclination?—He meant nothing more, in the letter I made the ground of complaint; and the pleaſure which I ſeemed to take in Mr. S.'s company, led him to conclude, that he was not diſagreeable to me.'

"A clerk brought in the letters of the day, and I, as I often did, while he was diſcuſſing ſubjects of buſineſs, went to the piano forte, and began to play a favourite air to reſtore myſelf, as it were, to nature, and drive the ſophiſticated ſentiments I had juſt been obliged to liſten to, out of my ſoul.

"They had excited ſenſations ſimilar to thoſe I have felt, in viewing the ſqualid inhabitants of ſome of the lanes and back ſtreets of the metropolis, mortified at being compelled to conſider them as my fellow-creatures, as if an ape had claimed kindred with me. Or, as when ſurrounded by a mephitical fog, I have wiſhed to have a volley of cannon fired, to clear the incumbered atmoſphere, and give me room to breathe and move.

"My ſpirits were all in arms, and I played a kind of extemporary prelude. The cadence was probably wild and impaſſioned, while, loſt in thought, I made the ſounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.

"Pauſing for a moment, I met Mr. Venables' eyes. He was obſerving me with an air of conceited ſatiſfaction, as much as to ſay—'My laſt inſinuation has done the buſineſs—ſhe begins to know her own intereſt.' Then gathering up his letters, he ſaid, 'That he hoped he ſhould hear no more romantic ſtuff, well enough in a miſs juſt come from boarding ſchool;' and went, as was his cuſtom, to the counting-houſe. I ſtill continued playing; and, turning to a ſprightly leſſon, I executed it with uncommon vivacity. I heard footſteps approach the door, and was ſoon convinced that Mr. Venables was liſtening; the conſciouſneſs only gave more animation to my fingers. He went down into the kitchen, and the cook, probably by his deſire, came to me, to know what I would pleaſe to order for dinner. Mr. Venables came into the parlour again, with apparent careleſſneſs. I perceived that the cunning man was over-reaching himſelf; and I gave my directions as uſual, and left the room.

"While I was making ſome alteration in my dreſs, Mr. Venables peeped in, and, begging my pardon for interrupting me, diſappeared. I took up ſome work (I could not read), and two or three meſſages were ſent to me, probably for no other purpoſe, but to enable Mr. Venables to aſcertain what I was about.

"I liſtened whenever I heard the ſtreet-door open; at laſt I imagined I could diſtinguiſh Mr. Venables' ſtep, going out. I laid aſide my work; my heart palpitated; ſtill I was afraid haſtily to enquire; and I waited a long half hour, before I ventured to aſk the boy whether his maſter was in the counting-houſe?

"Being anſwered in the negative, I bade him call me a coach, and collecting a few neceſſaries haſtily together, with a little parcel of letters and papers which I had collected the preceding evening, I hurried into it, deſiring the coachman to drive to a diſtant part of the town.

"I almoſt feared that the coach would break down before I got out of the ſtreet; and, when I turned the corner, I ſeemed to breathe a freer air. I was ready to imagine that I was riſing above the thick atmoſphere of earth; or I felt, as wearied ſouls might be ſuppoſed to feel on entering another ſtate of exiſtence.

"I ſtopped at one or two ſtands of coaches to elude purſuit, and then drove round the ſkirts of the town to ſeek for an obſcure lodging, where I wiſhed to remain concealed, till I could avail myſelf of my uncle's protection. I had reſolved to aſſume my own name immediately, and openly to avow my determination, without any formal vindication, the moment I had found a home, in which I could reſt free from the daily alarm of expecting to ſee Mr. Venables enter.

"I looked at ſeveral lodgings; but finding that I could not, without a reference to ſome acquaintance, who might inform my tyrant, get admittance into a decent apartment—men have not all this trouble—I thought of a woman whom I had aſſiſted to furniſh a little haberdaſher's ſhop, and who I knew had a firſt floor to let.

"I went to her, and though I could not perſuade her, that the quarrel between me and Mr. Venables would never be made up, ſtill ſhe agreed to conceal me for the preſent; yet aſſuring me at the ſame time, ſhaking her head, that, when a woman was once married, ſhe muſt bear every thing. Her pale face, on which appeared a thouſand haggard lines and delving wrinkles, produced by what is emphatically termed fretting, inforced her remark; and I had afterwards an opportunity of obſerving the treatment ſhe had to endure, which grizzled her into patience. She toiled from morning till night; yet her huſband would rob the till, and take away the money reſerved for paying bills; and, returning home drunk, he would beat her if ſhe chanced to offend him, though ſhe had a child at the breaſt.

"Theſe ſcenes awoke me at night; and, in the morning, I heard her, as uſual, talk to her dear Johnny—he, forſooth, was her maſter; no ſlave in the Weſt Indies had one more deſpotic; but fortunately ſhe was of the true Ruſſian breed of wives.

"My mind, during the few paſt days, ſeemed, as it were, diſengaged from my body; but, now the ſtruggle was over, I felt very forcibly the effect which perturbation of ſpirits produces on a woman in my ſituation.

"The apprehenſion of a miſcarriage, obliged me to confine myſelf to my apartment near a fortnight; but I wrote to my uncle's friend for money, promiſing 'to call on him, and explain my ſituation, when I was well enough to go out; mean time I earneſtly intreated him, not to mention my place of abode to any one, leſt my huſband—ſuch the law conſidered him—ſhould diſturb the mind he could not conquer. I mentioned my intention of ſetting out for Liſbon, to claim my uncle's protection, the moment my health would permit.'

"The tranquillity however, which I was recovering, was ſoon interrupted. My landlady came up to me one day, with eyes ſwollen with weeping, unable to utter what ſhe was commanded to ſay. She declared, 'That ſhe was never ſo miſerable in her life; that ſhe muſt appear an ungrateful monſter; and that ſhe would readily go down on her knees to me, to intreat me to forgive her, as ſhe had done to her huſband to ſpare her the cruel taſk.' Sobs prevented her from proceeding, or anſwering my impatient enquiries, to know what ſhe meant.

"When ſhe became a little more compoſed, ſhe took a newſpaper out of her pocket, declaring, 'that her heart ſmote her, but what could ſhe do?—ſhe muſt obey her huſband.' I ſnatched the paper from her. An advertiſement quickly met my eye, purporting, that 'Maria Venables had, without any aſſignable cauſe, abſconded from her huſband; and any perſon harbouring her, was menaced with the utmoſt ſeverity of the law.'

"Perfectly acquainted with Mr. Venables' meanneſs of ſoul, this ſtep did not excite my ſurpriſe, and ſcarcely my contempt. Reſentment in my breaſt, never ſurvived love. I bade the poor woman, in a kind tone, wipe her eyes, and requeſt her huſband to come up, and ſpeak to me himſelf.

"My manner awed him. He reſpected a lady, though not a woman; and began to mutter out an apology.

"'Mr. Venables was a rich gentleman; he wiſhed to oblige me, but he had ſuffered enough by the law already, to tremble at the thought; beſides, for certain, we ſhould come together again, and then even I ſhould not thank him for being acceſſary to keeping us aſunder.—A huſband and wife were, God knows, juſt as one,—and all would come round at laſt.' He uttered a drawling 'Hem!' and then with an arch look, added—'Maſter might have had his little frolics—but—Lord bleſs your heart!—men would be men while the world ſtands.'

"To argue with this privileged firſt-born of reaſon, I perceived, would be vain. I therefore only requeſted him to let me remain another day at his houſe, while I ſought for a lodging; and not to inform Mr. Venables that I had ever been ſheltered there.

"He conſented, becauſe he had not the courage to refuſe a perſon for whom he had an habitual reſpect; but I heard the pent-up choler burſt forth in curſes, when he met his wife, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of the ſtairs, to know what effect my expoſtulations would have on him.

"Without waſting any time in the fruitleſs indulgence of vexation, I once more ſet out in ſearch of an abode in which I could hide myſelf for a few weeks.

"Agreeing to pay an exorbitant price, I hired an apartment, without any reference being required relative to my character: indeed, a glance at my ſhape ſeemed to ſay, that my motive for concealment was ſufficiently obvious. Thus was I obliged to ſhroud my head in infamy.

"To avoid all danger of detection—I uſe the appropriate word, my child, for I was hunted out like a felon—I determined to take poſſeſſion of my new lodgings that very evening.

"I did not inform my landlady where I was going. I knew that ſhe had a ſincere affection for me, and would willingly have run any riſk to ſhow her gratitude; yet I was fully convinced, that a few kind words from Johnny would have found the woman in her, and her dear benefactreſs, as ſhe termed me in an agony of tears, would have been ſacrificed, to recompenſe her tyrant for condeſcending to treat her like an equal. He could be kind-hearted, as ſhe expreſſed it, when he pleaſed. And this thawed ſternneſs, contraſted with his habitual brutality, was the more acceptable, and could not be purchaſed at too dear a rate.

"The ſight of the advertiſement made me deſirous of taking refuge with my uncle, let what would be the conſequence; and I repaired in a hackney coach (afraid of meeting ſome perſon who might chance to know me, had I walked) to the chambers of my uncle's friend.

"He received me with great politeneſs (my uncle had already prepoſſeſſed him in my favour), and liſtened, with intereſt, to my explanation of the motives which had induced me to fly from home, and ſkulk in obſcurity, with all the timidity of fear that ought only to be the companion of guilt. He lamented, with rather more gallantry than, in my ſituation, I thought delicate, that ſuch a woman ſhould be thrown away on a man inſenſible to the charms of beauty or grace. He ſeemed at a loſs what to adviſe me to do, to evade my huſband's ſearch, without haſtening to my uncle, whom, he heſitating ſaid, I might not find alive. He uttered this intelligence with viſible regret; requeſted me, at leaſt, to wait for the arrival of the next packet; offered me what money I wanted, and promiſed to viſit me.

"He kept his word; ſtill no letter arrived to put an end to my painful ſtate of ſuſpenſe. I procured ſome books and muſic, to beguile the tedious ſolitary days.

'Come, ever ſmiling Liberty,
'And with thee bring thy jocund train:'

I ſung—and ſung till, ſaddened by the ſtrain of joy, I bitterly lamented the fate that deprived me of all ſocial pleaſure. Comparative liberty indeed I had poſſeſſed myſelf of; but the jocund train lagged far behind!

CHAP. XIII.

"By watching my only viſitor, my uncle's friend, or by ſome other means, Mr. Venables diſcovered my reſidence, and came to enquire for me. The maid-ſervant aſſured him there was no ſuch perſon in the houſe. A buſtle enſued—I caught the alarm—liſtened—diſtinguiſhed his voice, and immediately locked the door. They ſuddenly grew ſtill; and I waited near a quarter of an hour, before I heard him open the parlour door, and mount the ſtairs with the miſtreſs of the houſe, who obſequiouſly declared that ſhe knew nothing of me.

"Finding my door locked, ſhe requeſted me to 'open it, and prepare to go home with my huſband, poor gentleman! to whom I had already occaſioned ſufficient vexation.' I made no reply. Mr. Venables then, in an aſſumed tone of ſoftneſs, intreated me, 'to conſider what he ſuffered, and my own reputation, and get the better of childiſh reſentment.' He ran on in the ſame ſtrain, pretending to addreſs me, but evidently adapting his diſcourſe to the capacity of the landlady; who, at every pauſe, uttered an exclamation of pity; or 'Yes, to be ſure—Very true, ſir.'

"Sick of the farce, and perceiving that I could not avoid the hated interview, I opened the door, and he entered. Advancing with eaſy aſſurance to take my hand, I ſhrunk from his touch, with an involuntary ſtart, as I ſhould have done from a noiſome reptile, with more diſguſt than terror. His conductreſs was retiring, to give us, as ſhe ſaid, an opportunity to accommodate matters. But I bade her come in, or I would go out; and curioſity impelled her to obey me.

"Mr. Venables began to expoſtulate; and this woman, proud of his confidence, to ſecond him. But I calmly ſilenced her, in the midſt of a vulgar harangue, and turning to him, aſked, 'Why he vainly tormented me? declaring that no power on earth ſhould force me back to his houſe.'

"After a long altercation, the particulars of which, it would be to no purpoſe to repeat, he left the room. Some time was ſpent in loud converſation in the parlour below, and I diſcovered that he had brought his friend, an attorney, with him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

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*       *       The tumult on the landing place, brought out a gentleman, who had recently taken apartments in the houſe; he enquired why I was thus aſſailed[91-A]? The voluble attorney inſtantly repeated the trite tale. The ſtranger turned to me, obſerving, with the moſt ſoothing politeneſs and manly intereſt, that 'my countenance told a very different ſtory.' He added, 'that I ſhould not be inſulted, or forced out of the houſe, by any body.'

"'Not by her huſband?' aſked the attorney.

"'No, ſir, not by her huſband.' Mr. Venables advanced towards him—But there was a deciſion in his attitude, that ſo well ſeconded that of his voice,

* * * * * * * * * * * *

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*       *       They left the houſe: at the ſame time proteſting, that any one that ſhould dare to protect me, ſhould be proſecuted with the utmoſt rigour.

"They were ſcarcely out of the houſe, when my landlady came up to me again, and begged my pardon, in a very different tone. For, though Mr. Venables had bid her, at her peril, harbour me, he had not attended, I found, to her broad hints, to diſcharge the lodging. I inſtantly promiſed to pay her, and make her a preſent to compenſate for my abrupt departure, if ſhe would procure me another lodging, at a ſufficient diſtance; and ſhe, in return, repeating Mr. Venables' plauſible tale, I raiſed her indignation, and excited her ſympathy, by telling her briefly the truth.

"She expreſſed her commiſeration with ſuch honeſt warmth, that I felt ſoothed; for I have none of that faſtidious ſenſitiveneſs, which a vulgar accent or geſture can alarm to the diſregard of real kindneſs. I was ever glad to perceive in others the humane feelings I delighted to exerciſe; and the recollection of ſome ridiculous characteriſtic circumſtances, which have occurred in a moment of emotion, has convulſed me with laughter, though at the inſtant I ſhould have thought it ſacrilegious to have ſmiled. Your improvement, my deareſt girl, being ever preſent to me while I write, I note theſe feelings, becauſe women, more accuſtomed to obſerve manners than actions, are too much alive to ridicule. So much ſo, that their boaſted ſenſibility is often ſtifled by falſe delicacy. True ſenſibility, the ſenſibility which is the auxiliary of virtue, and the ſoul of genius, is in ſociety ſo occupied with the feelings of others, as ſcarcely to regard its own ſenſations. With what reverence have I looked up at my uncle, the dear parent of my mind! when I have ſeen the ſenſe of his own ſufferings, of mind and body, abſorbed in a deſire to comfort thoſe, whoſe miſfortunes were comparatively trivial. He would have been aſhamed of being as indulgent to himſelf, as he was to others. 'Genuine fortitude,' he would aſſert, 'conſiſted in governing our own emotions, and making allowance for the weakneſſes in our friends, that we would not tolerate in ourſelves.' But where is my fond regret leading me!

"'Women muſt be ſubmiſſive,' ſaid my landlady. 'Indeed what could moſt women do? Who had they to maintain them, but their huſbands? Every woman, and eſpecially a lady, could not go through rough and ſmooth, as ſhe had done, to earn a little bread.'

"She was in a talking mood, and proceeded to inform me how ſhe had been uſed in the world. 'She knew what it was to have a bad huſband, or ſhe did not know who ſhould.' I perceived that ſhe would be very much mortified, were I not to attend to her tale, and I did not attempt to interrupt her, though I wiſhed her, as ſoon as poſſible, to go out in ſearch of a new abode for me, where I could once more hide my head.

"She began by telling me, 'That ſhe had ſaved a little money in ſervice; and was over-perſuaded (we muſt all be in love once in our lives) to marry a likely man, a footman in the family, not worth a groat. My plan,' ſhe continued, 'was to take a houſe, and let out lodgings; and all went on well, till my huſband got acquainted with an impudent ſlut, who choſe to live on other people's means—and then all went to rack and ruin. He ran in debt to buy her fine clothes, ſuch clothes as I never thought of wearing myſelf, and—would you believe it?—he ſigned an execution on my very goods, bought with the money I worked ſo hard to get; and they came and took my bed from under me, before I heard a word of the matter. Aye, madam, theſe are miſfortunes that you gentlefolks know nothing of,—but ſorrow is ſorrow, let it come which way it will.

"'I ſought for a ſervice again—very hard, after having a houſe of my own!—but he uſed to follow me, and kick up ſuch a riot when he was drunk, that I could not keep a place; nay, he even ſtole my clothes, and pawned them; and when I went to the pawnbroker's, and offered to take my oath that they were not bought with a farthing of his money, they ſaid, 'It was all as one, my huſband had a right to whatever I had.'

"'At laſt he liſted for a ſoldier, and I took a houſe, making an agreement to pay for the furniture by degrees; and I almoſt ſtarved myſelf, till I once more got before-hand in the world.

"'After an abſence of ſix years (God forgive me! I thought he was dead) my huſband returned; found me out, and came with ſuch a penitent face, I forgave him, and clothed him from head to foot. But he had not been a week in the houſe, before ſome of his creditors arreſted him; and, he ſelling my goods, I found myſelf once more reduced to beggary; for I was not as well able to work, go to bed late, and riſe early, as when I quitted ſervice; and then I thought it hard enough. He was ſoon tired of me, when there was nothing more to be had, and left me again.

"'I will not tell you how I was buffeted about, till, hearing for certain that he had died in an hoſpital abroad, I once more returned to my old occupation; but have not yet been able to get my head above water: ſo, madam, you muſt not be angry if I am afraid to run any riſk, when I know ſo well, that women have always the worſt of it, when law is to decide.'

"After uttering a few more complaints, I prevailed on my landlady to go out in queſt of a lodging; and, to be more ſecure, I condeſcended to the mean ſhift of changing my name.

"But why ſhould I dwell on ſimilar incidents!—I was hunted, like an infected beaſt, from three different apartments, and ſhould not have been allowed to reſt in any, had not Mr. Venables, informed of my uncle's dangerous ſtate of health, been inſpired with the fear of hurrying me out of the world as I advanced in my pregnancy, by thus tormenting and obliging me to take ſudden journeys to avoid him; and then his ſpeculations on my uncle's fortune muſt prove abortive.

"One day, when he had purſued me to an inn, I fainted, hurrying from him; and, falling down, the ſight of my blood alarmed him, and obtained a reſpite for me. It is ſtrange that he ſhould have retained any hope, after obſerving my unwavering determination; but, from the mildneſs of my behaviour, when I found all my endeavours to change his diſpoſition unavailing, he formed an erroneous opinion of my character, imagining that, were we once more together, I ſhould part with the money he could not legally force from me, with the ſame facility as formerly. My forbearance and occaſional ſympathy he had miſtaken for weakneſs of character; and, becauſe he perceived that I diſliked reſiſtance, he thought my indulgence and compaſſion mere ſelfiſhneſs, and never diſcovered that the fear of being unjuſt, or of unneceſſarily wounding the feelings of another, was much more painful to me, than any thing I could have to endure myſelf. Perhaps it was pride which made me imagine, that I could bear what I dreaded to inflict; and that it was often eaſier to ſuffer, than to ſee the ſufferings of others.

"I forgot to mention that, during this perſecution, I received a letter from my uncle, informing me, 'that he only found relief from continual change of air; and that he intended to return when the ſpring was a little more advanced (it was now the middle of February), and then we would plan a journey to Italy, leaving the fogs and cares of England far behind.' He approved of my conduct, promiſed to adopt my child, and ſeemed to have no doubt of obliging Mr. Venables to hear reaſon. He wrote to his friend, by the ſame poſt, deſiring him to call on Mr. Venables in his name; and, in conſequence of the remonſtrances he dictated, I was permitted to lie-in tranquilly.

"The two or three weeks previous, I had been allowed to reſt in peace; but, ſo accuſtomed was I to purſuit and alarm, that I ſeldom cloſed my eyes without being haunted by Mr. Venables' image, who ſeemed to aſſume terrific or hateful forms to torment me, wherever I turned.—Sometimes a wild cat, a roaring bull, or hideous aſſaſſin, whom I vainly attempted to fly; at others he was a demon, hurrying me to the brink of a precipice, plunging me into dark waves, or horrid gulfs; and I woke, in violent fits of trembling anxiety, to aſſure myſelf that it was all a dream, and to endeavour to lure my waking thoughts to wander to the delightful Italian vales, I hoped ſoon to viſit; or to picture ſome auguſt ruins, where I reclined in fancy on a mouldering column, and eſcaped, in the contemplation of the heart-enlarging virtues of antiquity, from the turmoil of cares that had depreſſed all the daring purpoſes of my ſoul. But I was not long allowed to calm my mind by the exerciſe of my imagination; for the third day after your birth, my child, I was ſurpriſed by a viſit from my elder brother; who came in the moſt abrupt manner, to inform me of the death of my uncle. He had left the greater part of his fortune to my child, appointing me its guardian; in ſhort, every ſtep was taken to enable me to be miſtreſs of his fortune, without putting any part of it in Mr. Venables' power. My brother came to vent his rage on me, for having, as he expreſſed himſelf, 'deprived him, my uncle's eldeſt nephew, of his inheritance;' though my uncle's property, the fruit of his own exertion, being all in the funds, or on landed ſecurities, there was not a ſhadow of juſtice in the charge.

"As I ſincerely loved my uncle, this intelligence brought on a fever, which I ſtruggled to conquer with all the energy of my mind; for, in my deſolate ſtate, I had it very much at heart to ſuckle you, my poor babe. You ſeemed my only tie to life, a cherub, to whom I wiſhed to be a father, as well as a mother; and the double duty appeared to me to produce a proportionate increaſe of affection. But the pleaſure I felt, while ſuſtaining you, ſnatched from the wreck of hope, was cruelly damped by melancholy reflections on my widowed ſtate—widowed by the death of my uncle. Of Mr. Venables I thought not, even when I thought of the felicity of loving your father, and how a mother's pleaſure might be exalted, and her care ſoftened by a huſband's tenderneſs.—'Ought to be!' I exclaimed; and I endeavoured to drive away the tenderneſs that ſuffocated me; but my ſpirits were weak, and the unbidden tears would flow. 'Why was I,' I would aſk thee, but thou didſt not heed me,—'cut off from the participation of the ſweeteſt pleaſure of life?' I imagined with what extacy, after the pains of child-bed, I ſhould have preſented my little ſtranger, whom I had ſo long wiſhed to view, to a reſpectable father, and with what maternal fondneſs I ſhould have preſſed them both to my heart!—Now I kiſſed her with leſs delight, though with the moſt endearing compaſſion, poor helpleſs one! when I perceived a ſlight reſemblance of him, to whom ſhe owed her exiſtence; or, if any geſture reminded me of him, even in his beſt days, my heart heaved, and I preſſed the innocent to my boſom, as if to purify it—yes, I bluſhed to think that its purity had been ſullied, by allowing ſuch a man to be its father.

"After my recovery, I began to think of taking a houſe in the country, or of making an excurſion on the continent, to avoid Mr. Venables; and to open my heart to new pleaſures and affection. The ſpring was melting into ſummer, and you, my little companion, began to ſmile—that ſmile made hope bud out afreſh, aſſuring me the world was not a deſert. Your geſtures were ever preſent to my fancy; and I dwelt on the joy I ſhould feel when you would begin to walk and liſp. Watching your wakening mind, and ſhielding from every rude blaſt my tender bloſſom, I recovered my ſpirits—I dreamed not of the froſt—'the killing froſt,' to which you were deſtined to be expoſed.—But I loſe all patience—and execrate the injuſtice of the world—folly! ignorance!—I ſhould rather call it; but, ſhut up from a free circulation of thought, and always pondering on the ſame griefs, I writhe under the torturing apprehenſions, which ought to excite only honeſt indignation, or active compaſſion; and would, could I view them as the natural conſequence of things. But, born a woman—and born to ſuffer, in endeavouring to repreſs my own emotions, I feel more acutely the various ills my ſex are fated to bear—I feel that the evils they are ſubject to endure, degrade them ſo far below their oppreſſors, as almoſt to juſtify their tyranny; leading at the ſame time ſuperficial reaſoners to term that weakneſs the cauſe, which is only the conſequence of ſhort-ſighted deſpotiſm.

FOOTNOTES:

[91-A] The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria, in an early ſtage of the hiſtory, is already ſtated (Chap. III.) to have been an after-thought of the author. This has probably cauſed the imperfectneſs of the manuſcript in the above paſſage; though, at the ſame time, it muſt be acknowledged to be ſomewhat uncertain, whether Darnford is the ſtranger intended in this place. It appears from Chap. XVII. that an interference of a more deciſive nature was deſigned to be attributed to him.

editor.

CHAP. XIV.

"As my mind grew calmer, the viſions of Italy again returned with their former glow of colouring; and I reſolved on quitting the kingdom for a time, in ſearch of the cheerfulneſs, that naturally reſults from a change of ſcene, unleſs we carry the barbed arrow with us, and only ſee what we feel.

"During the period neceſſary to prepare for a long abſence, I ſent a ſupply to pay my father's debts, and ſettled my brothers in eligible ſituations; but my attention was not wholly engroſſed by my family, though I do not think it neceſſary to enumerate the common exertions of humanity. The manner in which my uncle's property was ſettled, prevented me from making the addition to the fortune of my ſurviving ſiſter, that I could have wiſhed; but I had prevailed on him to bequeath her two thouſand pounds, and ſhe determined to marry a lover, to whom ſhe had been ſome time attached. Had it not been for this engagement, I ſhould have invited her to accompany me in my tour; and I might have eſcaped the pit, ſo artfully dug in my path, when I was the leaſt aware of danger.

"I had thought of remaining in England, till I weaned my child; but this ſtate of freedom was too peaceful to laſt, and I had ſoon reaſon to wiſh to haſten my departure. A friend of Mr. Venables, the ſame attorney who had accompanied him in ſeveral excurſions to hunt me from my hiding places, waited on me to propoſe a reconciliation. On my refuſal, he indirectly adviſed me to make over to my huſband—for huſband he would term him—the greater part of the property I had at command, menacing me with continual perſecution unleſs I complied, and that, as a laſt reſort, he would claim the child. I did not, though intimidated by the laſt inſinuation, ſcruple to declare, that I would not allow him to ſquander the money left to me for far different purpoſes, but offered him five hundred pounds, if he would ſign a bond not to torment me any more. My maternal anxiety made me thus appear to waver from my firſt determination, and probably ſuggeſted to him, or his diabolical agent, the infernal plot, which has ſucceeded but too well.

"The bond was executed; ſtill I was impatient to leave England. Miſchief hung in the air when we breathed the ſame; I wanted ſeas to divide us, and waters to roll between, till he had forgotten that I had the means of helping him through a new ſcheme. Diſturbed by the late occurrences, I inſtantly prepared for my departure. My only delay was waiting for a maid-ſervant, who ſpoke French fluently, and had been warmly recommended to me. A valet I was adviſed to hire, when I fixed on my place of reſidence for any time.

"My God, with what a light heart did I ſet out for Dover!—It was not my country, but my cares, that I was leaving behind. My heart ſeemed to bound with the wheels, or rather appeared the centre on which they twirled. I claſped you to my boſom, exclaiming 'And you will be ſafe—quite ſafe—when—we are once on board the packet.—Would we were there!' I ſmiled at my idle fears, as the natural effect of continual alarm; and I ſcarcely owned to myſelf that I dreaded Mr. Venables's cunning, or was conſcious of the horrid delight he would feel, at forming ſtratagem after ſtratagem to circumvent me. I was already in the ſnare—I never reached the packet—I never ſaw thee more.—I grow breathleſs. I have ſcarcely patience to write down the details. The maid—the plauſible woman I had hired—put, doubtleſs, ſome ſtupifying potion in what I ate or drank, the morning I left town. All I know is, that ſhe muſt have quitted the chaiſe, ſhameleſs wretch! and taken (from my breaſt) my babe with her. How could a creature in a female form ſee me careſs thee, and ſteal thee from my arms! I muſt ſtop, ſtop to repreſs a mother's anguiſh; left, in bitterneſs of ſoul, I imprecate the wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort from me.

"How long I ſlept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the cloſe of day, in a ſtrange confuſion of thought. I was probably rouſed to recollection by ſome one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate. Attempting to aſk where I was, my voice died away, and I tried to raiſe it in vain, as I have done in a dream. I looked for my babe with affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap, while I had ſo ſtrangely forgotten her; and, ſuch was the vague intoxication, I can give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect when or where I laſt ſaw you; but I ſighed, as if my heart wanted room to clear my head.

"The gates opened heavily, and the ſullen ſound of many locks and bolts drawn back, grated on my very ſoul, before I was appalled by the creeking of the diſmal hinges, as they cloſed after me. The gloomy pile was before me, half in ruins; ſome of the aged trees of the avenue were cut down, and left to rot where they fell; and as we approached ſome mouldering ſteps, a monſtrous dog darted forwards to the length of his chain, and barked and growled infernally.

"The door was opened ſlowly, and a murderous viſage peeped out, with a lantern. 'Huſh!' he uttered, in a threatning tone, and the affrighted animal ſtole back to his kennel. The door of the chaiſe flew back, the ſtranger put down the lantern, and claſped his dreadful arms around me. It was certainly the effect of the ſoporific draught, for, inſtead of exerting my ſtrength, I ſunk without motion, though not without ſenſe, on his ſhoulder, my limbs refuſing to obey my will. I was carried up the ſteps into a cloſe-ſhut hall. A candle flaring in the ſocket, ſcarcely diſperſed the darkneſs, though it diſplayed to me the ferocious countenance of the wretch who held me.

"He mounted a wide ſtaircaſe. Large figures painted on the walls ſeemed to ſtart on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a long gallery, a diſmal ſhriek made me ſpring out of my conductor's arms, with I know not what myſterious emotion of terror; but I fell on the floor, unable to ſuſtain myſelf.

"A ſtrange-looking female ſtarted out of one of the receſſes, and obſerved me with more curioſity than intereſt; till, ſternly bid retire, ſhe flitted back like a ſhadow. Other faces, ſtrongly marked, or diſtorted, peeped through the half-opened doors, and I heard ſome incoherent ſounds. I had no diſtinct idea where I could be—I looked on all ſides, and almoſt doubted whether I was alive or dead.

"Thrown on a bed, I immediately ſunk into inſenſibility again; and next day, gradually recovering the uſe of reaſon, I began, ſtarting affrighted from the conviction, to diſcover where I was confined—I inſiſted on ſeeing the maſter of the manſion—I ſaw him—and perceived that I was buried alive.—

"Such, my child, are the events of thy mother's life to this dreadful moment—Should ſhe ever eſcape from the fangs of her enemies, ſhe will add the ſecrets of her priſon-houſe—and—"

Some lines were here croſſed out, and the memoirs broke off abruptly with the names of Jemima and Darnford.

APPENDIX.

[ADVERTISEMENT.

The performance, with a fragment of which the reader has now been preſented, was deſigned to conſiſt of three parts. The preceding ſheets were conſidered as conſtituting one of thoſe parts. Thoſe perſons who in the peruſal of the chapters, already written and in ſome degree finiſhed by the author, have felt their hearts awakened, and their curioſity excited as to the ſequel of the ſtory, will, of courſe, gladly accept even of the broken paragraphs and half-finiſhed ſentences, which have been found committed to paper, as materials for the remainder. The faſtidious and cold-hearted critic may perhaps feel himſelf repelled by the incoherent form in which they are preſented. But an inquiſitive temper willingly accepts the moſt imperfect and mutilated information, where better is not to be had: and readers, who in any degree reſemble the author in her quick apprehenſion of ſentiment, and of the pleaſures and pains of imagination, will, I believe, find gratification, in contemplating ſketches, which were deſigned in a ſhort time to have received the finiſhing touches of her genius; but which muſt now for ever remain a mark to record the triumphs of mortality, over ſchemes of uſefulneſs, and projects of public intereſt.]

CHAP. XV.

Darnford returned the memoirs to Maria, with a moſt affectionate letter, in which he reaſoned on "the abſurdity of the laws reſpecting matrimony, which, till divorces could be more eaſily obtained, was," he declared, "the moſt inſufferable bondage. Ties of this nature could not bind minds governed by ſuperior principles; and ſuch beings were privileged to act above the dictates of laws they had no voice in framing, if they had ſufficient ſtrength of mind to endure the natural conſequence. In her caſe, to talk of duty, was a farce, excepting what was due to herſelf. Delicacy, as well as reaſon, forbade her ever to think of returning to her huſband: was ſhe then to reſtrain her charming ſenſibility through mere prejudice? Theſe arguments were not abſolutely impartial, for he diſdained to conceal, that, when he appealed to her reaſon, he felt that he had ſome intereſt in her heart.—The conviction was not more tranſporting, than ſacred—a thouſand times a day, he aſked himſelf how he had merited ſuch happineſs?—and as often he determined to purify the heart ſhe deigned to inhabit—He intreated to be again admitted to her preſence."

He was; and the tear which gliſtened in his eye, when he reſpectfully preſſed her to his boſom, rendered him peculiarly dear to the unfortunate mother. Grief had ſtilled the tranſports of love, only to render their mutual tenderneſs more touching. In former interviews, Darnford had contrived, by a hundred little pretexts, to ſit near her, to take her hand, or to meet her eyes—now it was all ſoothing affection, and eſteem ſeemed to have rivalled love. He adverted to her narrative, and ſpoke with warmth of the oppreſſion ſhe had endured.—His eyes, glowing with a lambent flame, told her how much he wiſhed to reſtore her to liberty and love; but he kiſſed her hand, as if it had been that of a ſaint; and ſpoke of the loſs of her child, as if it had been his own.—What could have been more flattering to Maria?—Every inſtance of ſelf-denial was regiſtered in her heart, and ſhe loved him, for loving her too well to give way to the tranſports of paſſion.

They met again and again; and Darnford declared, while paſſion ſuffuſed his cheeks, that he never before knew what it was to love.—

One morning Jemima informed Maria, that her maſter intended to wait on her, and ſpeak to her without witneſſes. He came, and brought a letter with him, pretending that he was ignorant of its contents, though he inſiſted on having it returned to him. It was from the attorney already mentioned, who informed her of the death of her child, and hinted, "that ſhe could not now have a legitimate heir, and that, would ſhe make over the half of her fortune during life, ſhe ſhould be conveyed to Dover, and permitted to purſue her plan of travelling."

Maria anſwered with warmth, "That ſhe had no terms to make with the murderer of her babe, nor would ſhe purchaſe liberty at the price of her own reſpect."

She began to expoſtulate with her jailor; but he ſternly bade her "Be ſilent—he had not gone ſo far, not to go further."

Darnford came in the evening. Jemima was obliged to be abſent, and ſhe, as uſual, locked the door on them, to prevent interruption or diſcovery.—The lovers were, at firſt, embarraſſed; but fell inſenſibly into confidential diſcourſe. Darnford repreſented, "that they might ſoon be parted," and wiſhed her "to put it out of the power of fate to ſeparate them."

As her huſband ſhe now received him, and he ſolemnly pledged himſelf as her protector—and eternal friend.—

There was one peculiarity in Maria's mind: ſhe was more anxious not to deceive, than to guard againſt deception; and had rather truſt without ſufficient reaſon, than be for ever the prey of doubt. Beſides, what are we, when the mind has, from reflection, a certain kind of elevation, which exalts the contemplation above the little concerns of prudence! We ſee what we wiſh, and make a world of our own—and, though reality may ſometimes open a door to miſery, yet the moments of happineſs procured by the imagination, may, without a paradox, be reckoned among the ſolid comforts of life. Maria now, imagining that ſhe had found a being of celeſtial mould—was happy,—nor was ſhe deceived.—He was then plaſtic in her impaſſioned hand—and reflected all the ſentiments which animated and warmed her.    —    —    —    —

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— — — — — — — — — — —

CHAP. XVI.

One morning confuſion ſeemed to reign in the houſe, and Jemima came in terror, to inform Maria, "that her maſter had left it, with a determination, ſhe was aſſured (and too many circumſtances corroborated the opinion, to leave a doubt of its truth) of never returning. I am prepared then," ſaid Jemima, "to accompany you in your flight."

Maria ſtarted up, her eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid that ſome one ſhould faſten it on her for ever.

Jemima continued, "I have perhaps no right now to expect the performance of your promiſe; but on you it depends to reconcile me with the human race."

"But Darnford!"—exclaimed Maria, mournfully—ſitting down again, and croſſing her arms—"I have no child to go to, and liberty has loſt its ſweets."

"I am much miſtaken, if Darnford is not the cauſe of my maſter's flight—his keepers aſſure me, that they have promiſed to confine him two days longer, and then he will be free—you cannot ſee him; but they will give a letter to him the moment he is free.—In that inform him where he may find you in London; fix on ſome hotel. Give me your clothes; I will ſend them out of the houſe with mine, and we will ſlip out at the garden-gate. Write your letter while I make theſe arrangements, but loſe no time!"

In an agitation of ſpirit, not to be calmed, Maria began to write to Darnford. She called him by the ſacred name of "huſband," and bade him "haſten to her, to ſhare her fortune, or ſhe would return to him."—An hotel in the Adelphi was the place of rendezvous.

The letter was ſealed and given in charge; and with light footſteps, yet terrified at the ſound of them, ſhe deſcended, ſcarcely breathing, and with an indiſtinct fear that ſhe ſhould never get out at the garden gate. Jemima went firſt.

A being, with a viſage that would have ſuited one poſſeſſed by a devil, croſſed the path, and ſeized Maria by the arm. Maria had no fear but of being detained—"Who are you? what are you?" for the form was ſcarcely human. "If you are made of fleſh and blood," his ghaſtly eyes glared on her, "do not ſtop me!"

"Woman," interrupted a ſepulchral voice, "what have I to do with thee?"—Still he graſped her hand, muttering a curſe.

"No, no; you have nothing to do with me," ſhe exclaimed, "this is a moment of life and death!"—

With ſupernatural force ſhe broke from him, and, throwing her arms round Jemima, cried, "Save me!" The being, from whoſe graſp ſhe had looſed herſelf, took up a ſtone as they opened the door, and with a kind of helliſh ſport threw it after them. They were out of his reach.

When Maria arrived in town, ſhe drove to the hotel already fixed on. But ſhe could not ſit ſtill—her child was ever before her; and all that had paſſed during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to the houſe in the ſuburbs, where, as ſhe now diſcovered, her babe had been ſent. The moment ſhe entered, her heart grew ſick; but ſhe wondered not that it had proved its grave. She made the neceſſary enquiries, and the church-yard was pointed out, in which it reſted under a turf. A little frock which the nurſe's child wore (Maria had made it herſelf) caught her eye. The nurſe was glad to ſell it for half-a-guinea, and Maria haſtened away with the relic, and, re-entering the hackney-coach which waited for her, gazed on it, till ſhe reached her hotel.

She then waited on the attorney who had made her uncle's will, and explained to him her ſituation. He readily advanced her ſome of the money which ſtill remained in his hands, and promiſed to take the whole of the caſe into conſideration. Maria only wiſhed to be permitted to remain in quiet—She found that ſeveral bills, apparently with her ſignature, had been preſented to her agent, nor was ſhe for a moment at a loſs to gueſs by whom they had been forged; yet, equally averſe to threaten or intreat, ſhe requeſted her friend [the ſolicitor] to call on Mr. Venables. He was not to be found at home; but at length his agent, the attorney, offered a conditional promiſe to Maria, to leave her in peace, as long as ſhe behaved with propriety, if ſhe would give up the notes. Maria inconſiderately conſented—Darnford was arrived, and ſhe wiſhed to be only alive to love; ſhe wiſhed to forget the anguiſh ſhe felt whenever ſhe thought of her child.

They took a ready furniſhed lodging together, for ſhe was above diſguiſe; Jemima inſiſting on being conſidered as her houſe-keeper, and to receive the cuſtomary ſtipend. On no other terms would ſhe remain with her friend.

Darnford was indefatigable in tracing the myſterious circumſtances of his confinement. The cauſe was ſimply, that a relation, a very diſtant one, to whom he was heir, had died inteſtate, leaving a conſiderable fortune. On the news of Darnford's arrival [in England, a perſon, intruſted with the management of the property, and who had the writings in his poſſeſſion, determining, by one bold ſtroke, to ſtrip Darnford of the ſucceſſion,] had planned his confinement; and [as ſoon as he had taken the meaſures he judged moſt conducive to his object, this ruffian, together with his inſtrument,] the keeper of the private mad-houſe, left the kingdom. Darnford, who ſtill purſued his enquiries, at laſt diſcovered that they had fixed their place of refuge at Paris.

Maria and he determined therefore, with the faithful Jemima, to viſit that metropolis, and accordingly were preparing for the journey, when they were informed that Mr. Venables had commenced an action againſt Darnford for ſeduction and adultery. The indignation Maria felt cannot be explained; ſhe repented of the forbearance ſhe had exerciſed in giving up the notes. Darnford could not put off his journey, without riſking the loſs of his property: Maria therefore furniſhed him with money for his expedition; and determined to remain in London till the termination of this affair.

She viſited ſome ladies with whom ſhe had formerly been intimate, but was refuſed admittance; and at the opera, or Ranelagh, they could not recollect her. Among theſe ladies there were ſome, not her moſt intimate acquaintance, who were generally ſuppoſed to avail themſelves of the cloke of marriage, to conceal a mode of conduct, that would for ever have damned their fame, had they been innocent, ſeduced girls. Theſe particularly ſtood aloof.—Had ſhe remained with her huſband, practiſing inſincerity, and neglecting her child to manage an intrigue, ſhe would ſtill have been viſited and reſpected. If, inſtead of openly living with her lover, ſhe could have condeſcended to call into play a thouſand arts, which, degrading her own mind, might have allowed the people who were not deceived, to pretend to be ſo, ſhe would have been careſſed and treated like an honourable woman. "And Brutus[138-A] is an honourable man!" ſaid Mark-Antony with equal ſincerity.

With Darnford ſhe did not taſte uninterrupted felicity; there was a volatility in his manner which often diſtreſſed her; but love gladdened the ſcene; beſides, he was the moſt tender, ſympathizing creature in the world. A fondneſs for the ſex often gives an appearance of humanity to the behaviour of men, who have ſmall pretenſions to the reality; and they ſeem to love others, when they are only purſuing their own gratification. Darnford appeared ever willing to avail himſelf of her taſte and acquirements, while ſhe endeavoured to profit by his deciſion of character, and to eradicate ſome of the romantic notions, which had taken root in her mind, while in adverſity ſhe had brooded over viſions of unattainable bliſs.

The real affections of life, when they are allowed to burſt forth, are buds pregnant with joy and all the ſweet emotions of the ſoul; yet they branch out with wild eaſe, unlike the artificial forms of felicity, ſketched by an imagination painful alive. The ſubſtantial happineſs, which enlarges and civilizes the mind, may be compared to the pleaſure experienced in roving through nature at large, inhaling the ſweet gale natural to the clime; while the reveries of a feveriſh imagination continually ſport themſelves in gardens full of aromatic ſhrubs, which cloy while they delight, and weaken the ſenſe of pleaſure they gratify. The heaven of fancy, below or beyond the ſtars, in this life, or in thoſe ever-ſmiling regions ſurrounded by the unmarked ocean of futurity, have an inſipid uniformity which palls. Poets have imagined ſcenes of bliſs; but, fencing out ſorrow, all the extatic emotions of the ſoul, and even its grandeur, ſeem to be equally excluded. We doſe over the unruffled lake, and long to ſcale the rocks which fence the happy valley of contentment, though ſerpents hiſs in the pathleſs deſert, and danger lurks in the unexplored wiles. Maria found herſelf more indulgent as ſhe was happier, and diſcovered virtues, in characters ſhe had before diſregarded, while chaſing the phantoms of elegance and excellence, which ſported in the meteors that exhale in the marſhes of miſfortune. The heart is often ſhut by romance againſt ſocial pleaſure; and, foſtering a ſickly ſenſibility, grows callous to the ſoft touches of humanity.

To part with Darnford was indeed cruel.—It was to feel moſt painfully alone; but ſhe rejoiced to think, that ſhe ſhould ſpare him the care and perplexity of the ſuit, and meet him again, all his own. Marriage, as at preſent conſtituted, ſhe conſidered as leading to immorality—yet, as the odium of ſociety impedes uſefulneſs, ſhe wiſhed to avow her affection to Darnford, by becoming his wife according to eſtabliſhed rules; not to be confounded with women who act from very different motives, though her conduct would be juſt the ſame without the ceremony as with it, and her expectations from him not leſs firm. The being ſummoned to defend herſelf from a charge which ſhe was determined to plead guilty to, was ſtill galling, as it rouſed bitter reflections on the ſituation of women in ſociety.

FOOTNOTES:

[138-A] The name in the manuſcript is by miſtake written Cæſar.

editor.

CHAP. XVII.

Such was her ſtate of mind when the dogs of law were let looſe on her. Maria took the taſk of conducting Darnford's defence upon herſelf. She inſtructed his counſel to plead guilty to the charge of adultery; but to deny that of ſeduction.

The counſel for the plaintiff opened the cauſe, by obſerving, "that his client had ever been an indulgent huſband, and had borne with ſeveral defects of temper, while he had nothing criminal to lay to the charge of his wife. But that ſhe left his houſe without aſſigning any cauſe. He could not aſſert that ſhe was then acquainted with the defendant; yet, when he was once endeavouring to bring her back to her home, this man put the peace-officers to flight, and took her he knew not whither. After the birth of her child, her conduct was ſo ſtrange, and a melancholy malady having afflicted one of the family, which delicacy forbade the dwelling on, it was neceſſary to confine her. By ſome means the defendant enabled her to make her eſcape, and they had lived together, in deſpite of all ſenſe of order and decorum. The adultery was allowed, it was not neceſſary to bring any witneſſes to prove it; but the ſeduction, though highly probable from the circumſtances which he had the honour to ſtate, could not be ſo clearly proved.—It was of the moſt atrocious kind, as decency was ſet at defiance, and reſpect for reputation, which ſhows internal compunction, utterly diſregarded."

A ſtrong ſenſe of injuſtice had ſilenced every emotion, which a mixture of true and falſe delicacy might otherwiſe have excited in Maria's boſom. She only felt in earneſt to inſiſt on the privilege of her nature. The ſarcaſms of ſociety, and the condemnation of a miſtaken world, were nothing to her, compared with acting contrary to thoſe feelings which were the foundation of her principles. [She therefore eagerly put herſelf forward, inſtead of deſiring to be abſent, on this memorable occaſion.]

Convinced that the ſubterfuges of the law were diſgraceful, ſhe wrote a paper, which ſhe expreſſly deſired might be read in court:

"Married when ſcarcely able to diſtinguiſh the nature of the engagement, I yet ſubmitted to the rigid laws which enſlave women, and obeyed the man whom I could no longer love. Whether the duties of the ſtate are reciprocal, I mean not to diſcuſs; but I can prove repeated infidelities which I overlooked or pardoned. Witneſſes are not wanting to eſtabliſh theſe facts. I at preſent maintain the child of a maid ſervant, ſworn to him, and born after our marriage. I am ready to allow, that education and circumſtances lead men to think and act with leſs delicacy, than the preſervation of order in ſociety demands from women; but ſurely I may without aſſumption declare, that, though I could excuſe the birth, I could not the deſertion of this unfortunate babe:—and, while I deſpiſed the man, it was not eaſy to venerate the huſband. With proper reſtrictions however, I revere the inſtitution which fraternizes the world. I exclaim againſt the laws which throw the whole weight of the yoke on the weaker ſhoulders, and force women, when they claim protectorſhip as mothers, to ſign a contract, which renders them dependent on the caprice of the tyrant, whom choice or neceſſity has appointed to reign over them. Various are the caſes, in which a woman ought to ſeparate herſelf from her huſband; and mine, I may be allowed emphatically to inſiſt, comes under the deſcription of the moſt aggravated.

"I will not enlarge on thoſe provocations which only the individual can eſtimate; but will bring forward ſuch charges only, the truth of which is an inſult upon humanity. In order to promote certain deſtructive ſpeculations, Mr. Venables prevailed on me to borrow certain ſums of a wealthy relation; and, when I refuſed further compliance, he thought of bartering my perſon; and not only allowed opportunities to, but urged, a friend from whom he borrowed money, to ſeduce me. On the diſcovery of this act of atrocity, I determined to leave him, and in the moſt decided manner, for ever. I conſider all obligation as made void by his conduct; and hold, that ſchiſms which proceed from want of principles, can never be healed.

"He received a fortune with me to the amount of five thouſand pounds. On the death of my uncle, convinced that I could provide for my child, I deſtroyed the ſettlement of that fortune. I required none of my property to be returned to me, nor ſhall enumerate the ſums extorted from me during ſix years that we lived together.

"After leaving, what the law conſiders as my home, I was hunted like a criminal from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and demanded no maintenance—yet, as the laws ſanction ſuch proceeding, and make women the property of their huſbands, I forbear to animadvert. After the birth of my daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a very conſiderable property to myſelf and child, I was expoſed to new perſecution; and, becauſe I had, before arriving at what is termed years of diſcretion, pledged my faith, I was treated by the world, as bound for ever to a man whoſe vices were notorious. Yet what are the vices generally known, to the various miſeries that a woman may be ſubject to, which, though deeply felt, eating into the ſoul, elude deſcription, and may be gloſſed over! A falſe morality is even eſtabliſhed, which makes all the virtue of women conſiſt in chaſtity, ſubmiſſion, and the forgiveneſs of injuries.

"I pardon my oppreſſor—bitterly as I lament the loſs of my child, torn from me in the moſt violent manner. But nature revolts, and my ſoul ſickens at the bare ſuppoſition, that it could ever be a duty to pretend affection, when a ſeparation is neceſſary to prevent my feeling hourly averſion.

"To force me to give my fortune, I was impriſoned—yes; in a private mad-houſe.—There, in the heart of miſery, I met the man charged with ſeducing me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever ſhall deem, myſelf free. The death of my babe diſſolved the only tie which ſubſiſted between me and my, what is termed, lawful huſband.

"To this perſon, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myſelf, never conſidering myſelf as any more bound to tranſgreſs the laws of moral purity, becauſe the will of my huſband might be pleaded in my excuſe, than to tranſgreſs thoſe laws to which [the policy of artificial ſociety has] annexed [poſitive] puniſhments.——While no command of a huſband can prevent a woman from ſuffering for certain crimes, ſhe muſt be allowed to conſult her conſcience, and regulate her conduct, in ſome degree, by her own ſenſe of right. The reſpect I owe to myſelf, demanded my ſtrict adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr. Venables in the light of a huſband, nor could it forbid me from encouraging another. If I am unfortunately united to an unprincipled man, am I for ever to be ſhut out from fulfilling the duties of a wife and mother?—I wiſh my country to approve of my conduct; but, if laws exiſt, made by the ſtrong to oppreſs the weak, I appeal to my own ſenſe of juſtice, and declare that I will not live with the individual, who has violated every moral obligation which binds man to man.

"I proteſt equally againſt any charge being brought to criminate the man, whom I conſider as my huſband. I was ſix-and-twenty when I left Mr. Venables' roof; if ever I am to be ſuppoſed to arrive at an age to direct my own actions, I muſt by that time have arrived at it.—I acted with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford found me a forlorn and oppreſſed woman, and promiſed the protection women in the preſent ſtate of ſociety want.—But the man who now claims me—was he deprived of my ſociety by this conduct? The queſtion is an inſult to common ſenſe, conſidering where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables' door was indeed open to me—nay, threats and intreaties were uſed to induce me to return; but why? Was affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive into the receſſes of the human heart—yet I preſume to aſſert, [borne out as I am by a variety of circumſtances,] that he was merely influenced by the moſt rapacious avarice.

"I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from moleſtation, the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware of the character of the man with whom I had to contend.—I appeal to the juſtice and humanity of the jury—a body of men, whoſe private judgment muſt be allowed to modify laws, that muſt be unjuſt, becauſe definite rules can never apply to indefinite circumſtances—and I deprecate puniſhment upon the man of my choice, freeing him, as I ſolemnly do, from the charge of ſeduction.]

"I did not put myſelf into a ſituation to juſtify a charge of adultery, till I had, from conviction, ſhaken off the fetters which bound me to Mr. Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to ſully what is termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my huſband, I never encouraged a lover; and preſerved with ſcrupulous care, what is termed my honour, at the expence of my peace, till he, who ſhould have been its guardian, laid traps to enſnare me. From that moment I believed myſelf, in the ſight of heaven, free—and no power on earth ſhall force me to renounce my reſolution."

The judge, in ſumming up the evidence, alluded to "the fallacy of letting women plead their feelings, as an excuſe for the violation of the marriage-vow. For his part, he had always determined to oppoſe all innovation, and the new-fangled notions which incroached on the good old rules of conduct. We did not want French principles in public or private life—and, if women were allowed to plead their feelings, as an excuſe or palliation of infidelity, it was opening a flood-gate for immorality. What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was her duty to love and obey the man choſen by her parents and relations, who were qualified by their experience to judge better for her, than ſhe could for herſelf. As to the charges brought againſt the huſband, they were vague, ſupported by no witneſſes, excepting that of impriſonment in a private mad-houſe. The proofs of an inſanity in the family, might render that however a prudent meaſure; and indeed the conduct of the lady did not appear that of a perſon of ſane mind. Still ſuch a mode of proceeding could not be juſtified, and might perhaps entitle the lady [in another court] to a ſentence of ſeparation from bed and board, during the joint lives of the parties; but he hoped that no Engliſhman would legalize adultery, by enabling the adultereſs to enrich her ſeducer. Too many reſtrictions could not be thrown in the way of divorces, if we wiſhed to maintain the ſanctity of marriage; and, though they might bear a little hard on a few, very few individuals, it was evidently for the good of the whole."

CONCLUSION,

BY THE EDITOR.

Very few hints exiſt reſpecting the plan of the remainder of the work. I find only two detached ſentences, and ſome ſcattered heads for the continuation of the ſtory. I tranſcribe the whole.

I.

"Darnford's letters were affectionate; but circumſtances occaſioned delays, and the miſcarriage of ſome letters rendered the reception of wiſhed-for anſwers doubtful: his return was neceſſary to calm Maria's mind."

II.

"As Darnford had informed her that his buſineſs was ſettled, his delaying to return ſeemed extraordinary; but love to exceſs, excludes fear or ſuſpicion."

The ſcattered heads for the continuation of the ſtory, are as follow[159-A].

I.

"Trial for adultery—Maria defends herſelf—A ſeparation from bed and board is the conſequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford obtains a part of his property—Maria goes into the country."

II.

"A proſecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford ſets out for France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Myſterious behaviour—Viſit—Expectation—Diſcovery—Interview—Conſequence."

III.

"Sued by her huſband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed and board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her father—Is ſhunned—Returns to London—Expects to ſee her lover—The rack of expectation—Finds herſelf again with child—Delighted—A diſcovery—A viſit—A miſcarriage—Concluſion."

IV.

"Divorced by her huſband—Her lover unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miſcarriage—Suicide."

[The following paſſage appears in ſome reſpects to deviate from the preceding hints. It is ſuperſcribed]

"THE END.

"She ſwallowed the laudanum; her ſoul was calm—the tempeſt had ſubſided—and nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herſelf—to fly from the anguiſh ſhe endured to eſcape from thought—from this hell of diſappointment.

"Still her eyes cloſed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity followed another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied to aſſail her, and prevent her ſinking into the ſleep of death.—Her murdered child again appeared to her, mourning for the babe of which ſhe was the tomb.—'And could it have a nobler?—Surely it is better to die with me, than to enter on life without a mother's care!—I cannot live!—but could I have deſerted my child the moment it was born?—thrown it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to ſupport it?'—She looked up: 'What have I not ſuffered!—may I find a father where I am going!'—Her head turned; a ſtupor enſued; a faintneſs—'Have a little patience,' ſaid Maria, holding her ſwimming head (ſhe thought of her mother), 'this cannot laſt long; and what is a little bodily pain to the pangs I have endured?'

"A new viſion ſwam before her. Jemima ſeemed to enter—leading a little creature, that, with tottering footſteps, approached the bed. The voice of Jemima ſounding as at a diſtance, called her—ſhe tried to liſten, to ſpeak, to look!

"'Behold your child!' exclaimed Jemima. Maria ſtarted off the bed, and fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.

"When ſhe was reſtored to life, Jemima addreſſed her with great ſolemnity: '——— led me to ſuſpect, that your huſband and brother had deceived you, and ſecreted the child. I would not torment you with doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a fatal moment) to ſearch for the child!—I ſnatched her from miſery—and (now ſhe is alive again) would you leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have endured?'

"Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulſed with emotion; when the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered the word 'Mamma!' She caught her to her boſom, and burſt into a paſſion of tears—then, reſting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of killing it,—ſhe put her hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were the agonizing ſtruggle of her ſoul. She remained ſilent for five minutes, croſſing her arms over her boſom, and reclining her head,—then exclaimed: 'The conflict is over!—I will live for my child!'"

A few readers perhaps, in looking over theſe hints, will wonder how it could have been practicable, without tediouſneſs, or remitting in any degree the intereſt of the ſtory, to have filled, from theſe ſlight ſketches, a number of pages, more conſiderable than thoſe which have been already preſented. But, in reality, theſe hints, ſimple as they are, are pregnant with paſſion and diſtreſs. It is the refuge of barren authors only, to crowd their fictions with ſo great a number of events, as to ſuffer no one of them to ſink into the reader's mind. It is the province of true genius to develop events, to diſcover their capabilities, to aſcertain the different paſſions and ſentiments with which they are fraught, and to diverſify them with incidents, that give reality to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of taſte, from which they can never be looſened. It was particularly the deſign of the author, in the preſent inſtance, to make her ſtory ſubordinate to a great moral purpoſe, that "of exhibiting the miſery and oppreſſion, peculiar to women, that ariſe out of the partial laws and cuſtoms of ſociety.—This view reſtrained her fancy[166-A]." It was neceſſary for her, to place in a ſtriking point of view, evils that are too frequently overlooked, and to drag into light thoſe details of oppreſſion, of which the groſſer and more inſenſible part of mankind make little account.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[159-A] To underſtand theſe minutes, it is neceſſary the reader ſhould conſider each of them as ſetting out from the ſame point in the ſtory, viz. the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.

[166-A] See author's preface.

LESSONS.

ADVERTISEMENT,

BY THE EDITOR.

The following pages will, I believe, be judged by every reader of taſte to have been worth preſerving, among the other teſtimonies the author left behind her, of her genius and the ſoundneſs of her underſtanding. To ſuch readers I leave the taſk of comparing theſe leſſons, with other works of the ſame nature previouſly publiſhed. It is obvious that the author has ſtruck out a path of her own, and by no means intrenched upon the plans of her predeceſſors.

It may however excite ſurpriſe in ſome perſons to find theſe papers annexed to the concluſion of a novel. All I have to offer on this ſubject, conſiſts in the following conſiderations:

Firſt, ſomething is to be allowed for the difficulty of arranging the miſcellaneous papers upon very different ſubjects, which will frequently conſtitute an author's poſthumous works.

Secondly, the ſmall portion they occupy in the preſent volume, will perhaps be accepted as an apology, by ſuch good-natured readers (if any ſuch there are), to whom the peruſal of them ſhall be a matter of perfect indifference.

Thirdly, the circumſtance which determined me in annexing them to the preſent work, was the ſlight aſſociation (in default of a ſtrong one) between the affectionate and pathetic manner in which Maria Venables addreſſes her infant, in the Wrongs of Woman; and the agoniſing and painful ſentiment with which the author originally bequeathed theſe papers, as a legacy for the benefit of her child.

LESSONS.

The firſt book of a ſeries which I intended to have written for my unfortunate girl[175-A].

LESSON I.

Cat. Dog. Cow. Horſe. Sheep. Pig. Bird. Fly.

Man. Boy. Girl. Child.

Head. Hair. Face. Noſe. Mouth. Chin. Neck. Arms. Hand. Leg. Foot. Back. Breaſt.

Houſe. Wall. Field. Street. Stone. Graſs.

Bed. Chair. Door. Pot. Spoon. Knife. Fork. Plate. Cup. Box. Boy. Bell.

Tree. Leaf. Stick. Whip. Cart. Coach.

Frock. Hat. Coat. Shoes. Shift. Cap.

Bread. Milk. Tea. Meat. Drink. Cake.

LESSON II.

Come. Walk. Run. Go. Jump. Dance. Ride. Sit. Stand. Play. Hold. Shake. Speak. Sing. Cry. Laugh. Call. Fall.

Day. Night. Sun. Moon. Light. Dark. Sleep. Wake.

Waſh. Dreſs. Kiſs. Comb.

Fire. Hot. Burn. Wind. Rain. Cold.

Hurt. Tear. Break. Spill.

Book. See. Look.

Sweet. Good. Clean.

Gone. Loſt. Hide. Keep. Give. Take.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

White. Black. Red. Blue. Green. Brown.

LESSON III.

STROKE the cat. Play with the Dog. Eat the bread. Drink the milk. Hold the cup. Lay down the knife.

Look at the fly. See the horſe. Shut the door. Bring the chair. Ring the bell. Get your book.

Hide your face. Wipe your noſe. Waſh your hands. Dirty hands. Why do you cry? A clean mouth. Shake hands. I love you. Kiſs me now. Good girl.

The bird ſings. The fire burns. The cat jumps. The dog runs. The bird flies. The cow lies down. The man laughs. The child cries.

LESSON IV.

LET me comb your head. Aſk Betty to waſh your face. Go and ſee for ſome bread. Drink milk, if you are dry. Play on the floor with the ball. Do not touch the ink; you will black your hands.

What do you want to ſay to me? Speak ſlow, not ſo faſt. Did you fall? You will not cry, not you; the baby cries. Will you walk in the fields?

LESSON V.

COME to me, my little girl. Are you tired of playing? Yes. Sit down and reſt yourſelf, while I talk to you.

Have you ſeen the baby? Poor little thing. O here it comes. Look at him. How helpleſs he is. Four years ago you were as feeble as this very little boy.

See, he cannot hold up his head. He is forced to lie on his back, if his mamma do not turn him to the right or left ſide, he will ſoon begin to cry. He cries to tell her, that he is tired with lying on his back.

LESSON VI.

PERHAPS he is hungry. What ſhall we give him to eat? Poor fellow, he cannot eat. Look in his mouth, he has no teeth.

How did you do when you were a baby like him? You cannot tell. Do you want to know? Look then at the dog, with her pretty puppy. You could not help yourſelf as well as the puppy. You could only open your mouth, when you were lying, like William, on my knee. So I put you to my breaſt, and you ſucked, as the puppy ſucks now, for there was milk enough for you.

LESSON VII.

WHEN you were hungry, you began to cry, becauſe you could not ſpeak. You were ſeven months without teeth, always ſucking. But after you got one, you began to gnaw a cruſt of bread. It was not long before another came pop. At ten months you had four pretty white teeth, and you uſed to bite me. Poor mamma! Still I did not cry, becauſe I am not a child, but you hurt me very much. So I ſaid to papa, it is time the little girl ſhould eat. She is not naughty, yet ſhe hurts me. I have given her a cruſt of bread, and I muſt look for ſome other milk.

The cow has got plenty, and her jumping calf eats graſs very well. He has got more teeth than my little girl. Yes, ſays papa, and he tapped you on the cheek, you are old enough to learn to eat? Come to me, and I will teach you, my little dear, for you muſt not hurt poor mamma, who has given you her milk, when you could not take any thing elſe.

LESSON VIII.

YOU were then on the carpet, for you could not walk well. So when you were in a hurry, you uſed to run quick, quick, quick, on your hands and feet, like the dog.

Away you ran to papa, and putting both your arms round his leg, for your hands were not big enough, you looked up at him, and laughed. What did this laugh ſay, when you could not ſpeak? Cannot you gueſs by what you now ſay to papa?—Ah! it was, Play with me, papa!—play with me!

Papa began to ſmile, and you knew that the ſmile was always—Yes. So you got a ball, and papa threw it along the floor—Roll—roll—roll; and you ran after it again—and again. How pleaſed you were. Look at William, he ſmiles; but you could laugh loud—Ha! ha! ha!—Papa laughed louder than the little girl, and rolled the ball ſtill faſter.

Then he put the ball on a chair, and you were forced to take hold of the back, and ſtand up to reach it. At laſt you reached too far, and down you fell: not indeed on your face, becauſe you put out your hands. You were not much hurt; but the palms of your hands ſmarted with the pain, and you began to cry, like a little child.

It is only very little children who cry when they are hurt; and it is to tell their mamma, that ſomething is the matter with them. Now you can come to me, and ſay, Mamma, I have hurt myſelf. Pray rub my hand: it ſmarts. Put ſomething on it, to make it well. A piece of rag, to ſtop the blood. You are not afraid of a little blood—not you. You ſcratched your arm with a pin: it bled a little; but it did you no harm. See, the ſkin is grown over it again.

LESSON IX.

TAKE care not to put pins in your mouth, becauſe they will ſtick in your throat, and give you pain. Oh! you cannot think what pain a pin would give you in your throat, ſhould it remain there: but, if you by chance ſwallow it, I ſhould be obliged to give you, every morning, ſomething bitter to drink. You never taſted any thing ſo bitter! and you would grow very ſick. I never put pins in my mouth; but I am older than you, and know how to take care of myſelf.

My mamma took care of me, when I was a little girl, like you. She bade me never put any thing in my mouth, without aſking her what it was.

When you were a baby, with no more ſenſe than William, you put every thing in your mouth to gnaw, to help your teeth to cut through the ſkin. Look at the puppy, how he bites that piece of wood. William preſſes his gums againſt my finger. Poor boy! he is ſo young, he does not know what he is doing. When you bite any thing, it is becauſe you are hungry.

LESSON X.

SEE how much taller you are than William. In four years you have learned to eat, to walk, to talk. Why do you ſmile? You can do much more, you think: you can waſh your hands and face. Very well. I ſhould never kiſs a dirty face. And you can comb your head with the pretty comb you always put by in your own drawer. To be ſure, you do all this to be ready to take a walk with me. You would be obliged to ſtay at home, if you could not comb your own hair. Betty is buſy getting the dinner ready, and only bruſhes William's hair, becauſe he cannot do it for himſelf.

Betty is making an apple-pye. You love an apple-pye; but I do not bid you make one. Your hands are not ſtrong enough to mix the butter and flour together; and you muſt not try to pare the apples, becauſe you cannot manage a great knife.

Never touch the large knives: they are very ſharp, and you might cut your finger to the bone. You are a little girl, and ought to have a little knife. When you are as tall as I am, you ſhall have a knife as large as mine; and when you are as ſtrong as I am, and have learned to manage it, you will not hurt yourſelf.

You can trundle a hoop, you ſay; and jump over a ſtick. O, I forgot!—and march like the men in the red coats, when papa plays a pretty tune on the fiddle.

LESSON XI.

WHAT, you think that you ſhall ſoon be able to dreſs yourſelf entirely? I am glad of it: I have ſomething elſe to do. You may go, and look for your frock in the drawer; but I will tie it, till you are ſtronger. Betty will tie it, when I am buſy.

I button my gown myſelf: I do not want a maid to aſſiſt me, when I am dreſſing. But you have not yet got ſenſe enough to do it properly, and muſt beg ſomebody to help you, till you are older.

Children grow older and wiſer at the ſame time. William is not able to take a piece of meat, becauſe he has not got the ſenſe which would make him think that, without teeth, meat would do him harm. He cannot tell what is good for him.

The ſenſe of children grows with them. You know much more than William, now you walk alone, and talk; but you do not know as much as the boys and girls you ſee playing yonder, who are half as tall again as you; and they do not know half as much as their fathers and mothers, who are men and women grown. Papa and I were children, like you; and men and women took care of us. I carry William, becauſe he is too weak to walk. I lift you over a ſtile, and over the gutter, when you cannot jump over it.

You know already, that potatoes will not do you any harm: but I muſt pluck the fruit for you, till you are wiſe enough to know the ripe apples and pears. The hard ones would make you ſick, and then you muſt take phyſic. You do not love phyſic: I do not love it any more than you. But I have more ſenſe than you; therefore I take care not to eat unripe fruit, or any thing elſe that would make my ſtomach ache, or bring out ugly red ſpots on my face.

When I was a child, my mamma choſe the fruit for me, to prevent my making myſelf ſick. I was juſt like you; I uſed to aſk for what I ſaw, without knowing whether it was good or bad. Now I have lived a long time, I know what is good; I do not want any body to tell me.

LESSON XII.

LOOK at thoſe two dogs. The old one brings the ball to me in a moment; the young one does not know how. He muſt be taught.

I can cut your ſhift in a proper ſhape. You would not know how to begin. You would ſpoil it; but you will learn.

John digs in the garden, and knows when to put the ſeed in the ground. You cannot tell whether it ſhould be in the winter or ſummer. Try to find it out. When do the trees put out their leaves? In the ſpring, you ſay, after the cold weather. Fruit would not grow ripe without very warm weather. Now I am ſure you can gueſs why the ſummer is the ſeaſon for fruit.

Papa knows that peas and beans are good for us to eat with our meat. You are glad when you ſee them; but if he did not think for you, and have the ſeed put in the ground, we ſhould have no peas or beans.

LESSON XIII.

POOR child, ſhe cannot do much for herſelf. When I let her do any thing for me, it is to pleaſe her: for I could do it better myſelf.

Oh! the poor puppy has tumbled off the ſtool. Run and ſtroak him. Put a little milk in a ſaucer to comfort him. You have more ſenſe than he. You can pour the milk into the ſaucer without ſpilling it. He would cry for a day with hunger, without being able to get it. You are wiſer than the dog, you muſt help him. The dog will love you for it, and run after you. I feed you and take care of you: you love me and follow me for it.

When the book fell down on your foot, it gave you great pain. The poor dog felt the ſame pain juſt now.

Take care not to hurt him when you play with him. And every morning leave a little milk in your baſon for him. Do not forget to put the baſon in a corner, leſt ſomebody ſhould fall over it.

When the ſnow covers the ground, ſave the crumbs of bread for the birds. In the ſummer they find feed enough, and do not want you to think about them.

I make broth for the poor man who is ſick. A ſick man is like a child, he cannot help himſelf.

LESSON X.

WHEN I caught cold ſome time ago, I had ſuch a pain in my head, I could ſcarcely hold it up. Papa opened the door very ſoftly, becauſe he loves me. You love me, yet you made a noiſe. You had not the ſenſe to know that it made my head worſe, till papa told you.

Papa had a pain in the ſtomach, and he would not eat the fine cherries or grapes on the table. When I brought him a cup of camomile tea, he drank it without ſaying a word, or making an ugly face. He knows that I love him, and that I would not give him any thing to drink that has a bad taſte, if it were not to do him good.

You aſked me for ſome apples when your ſtomach ached; but I was not angry with you. If you had been as wiſe as papa, you would have ſaid, I will not eat the apples to-day, I muſt take ſome camomile tea.

You ſay that you do not know how to think. Yes; you do a little. The other day papa was tired; he had been walking about all the morning. After dinner he fell aſleep on the ſopha. I did not bid you be quiet; but you thought of what papa ſaid to you, when my head ached. This made you think that you ought not to make a noiſe, when papa was reſting himſelf. So you came to me, and ſaid to me, very ſoftly, Pray reach me my ball, and I will go and play in the garden, till papa wakes.

You were going out; but thinking again, you came back to me on your tip-toes. Whiſper——whiſper. Pray mama, call me, when papa wakes; for I ſhall be afraid to open the door to ſee, leſt I ſhould diſturb him.

Away you went.—Creep—creep—and ſhut the door as ſoftly as I could have done myſelf.

That was thinking. When a child does wrong at firſt, ſhe does not know any better. But, after ſhe has been told that ſhe muſt not diſturb mama, when poor mama is unwell, ſhe thinks herſelf, that ſhe muſt not wake papa when he is tired.

Another day we will ſee if you can think about any thing elſe.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[175-A] This title which is indorſed on the back of the manuſcript, I conclude to have been written in a period of deſperation, in the month of October, 1795.

editor.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

LETTERS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated romance of Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very different cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of affording pleasure, will receive no delight from the present publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best qualified to decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted to have the superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the passion it essays to describe.

To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just monument to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and interesting specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the Present Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, safely be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April last, and is the only piece in this collection which has previously found its way to the press.

LETTERS.

LETTER I

Two o'Clock.

My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early hour, with the Miss ——s, the only day they intend to pass here. I shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately of her.

Yours, truly,                

* * * *

I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.

LETTER II

Past Twelve o'Clock, Monday night.

[August.]       

I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my love, good-night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ——'s eye. You can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish me with that dignified tenderness, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you pain—Yes, I will be good, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, I cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne.

But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.

* * * *

I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow[4-A].—Yours—

LETTER III

Wednesday Morning.

You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever since I came to Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I like to see your eyes praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that, during such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.

Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of duty—you must be glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the shade of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was talking with Madame ——, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so highly respect principle.——

Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—Far from it—and, if I had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I could have made something of his——it was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my pale cheeks.

I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——'s to meet him. ——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I am to spend the day with ——.

I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I immediately want, to take with me.—On Friday then I shall expect you to dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately

* * * *

LETTER IV[7-A].

Friday Morning [September.]

A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at not finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ——. I have since seen him, and he tells me that he has settled the business.

So much for business!—May I venture to talk a little longer about less weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love, my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by their presence—I was going to say caresses—and why should I not? I have found out that I have more mind than you, in one respect; because I can, without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same object, much longer than you can.—The way to my senses is through my heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours.

With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a woman piquante, a soft word for desirable; and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life.

I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you go.—This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almost "crazed by care," as well as "crossed in hapless love," and bear with me a little longer!—When we are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours, with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.

Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear, if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by becoming happier.

* * * *

LETTER V

Sunday Night.

I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.

Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.

Are you very busy?

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe you will.—

Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you! Take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate

* * * *

I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the kindest good-night I can utter.

LETTER VI

Friday Morning.

I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy first letter, the very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There is a full, true, and particular account.—

Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.—There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions always give grace to the actions.

Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it divides—I must pause a moment.

Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

LETTER VII

Sunday Morning [December 29.]

You seem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray sir! when do you think of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that you will make a power of money to indemnify me for your absence.

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Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.

I long to see Mrs. ———; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will only suffer an exclamation—"The creature!" or a kind look, to escape me, when I pass the slippers—which I could not remove from my salle door, though they are not the handsomest of their kind.

Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be purchased. God bless you.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER VIII

Monday Night [December 30.]

My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me several, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ——— was for me. Mr. ———'s letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me.

A melancholy letter from my sister ——— has also harrassed my mind—that from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for    —    —

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There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.—I think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, and a desire to please the——where shall I find a word to express the relationship which subsists between us?—Shall I ask the little twitcher?—But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I have been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to write, and my heart has leaped at the thought!—You see how I chat to you.

I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, for the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I wanted one.

Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I love.

There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER IX

Tuesday Morning [December 31.]

Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my spirits:—and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of this same sensibility.—Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days browned by care!

The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my stockings.

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER X

Wednesday Night [January 1.]

As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not feel?

I hate commerce. How differently must ———'s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. "I am fallen," as Milton said, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!

Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," where "things rank and vile" flourish best.

If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off—nobody knows where.

* * * *

Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——s, simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ———, and ———, nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care!—Yet I wish to avoid ———'s coarse jokes.

Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A man is a tyrant!

You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing away with some honest fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour with you, to be pleased with the world.

Thursday Morning.

I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it.—I do not want to be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you[27-A]!

LETTER XI

Monday Night.

I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with shame for my folly.—I would hide it in your bosom, if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I intreat you.—Do not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had no confidence in me——

It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter.

Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask as many questions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into playfulness.

Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not an angry word—I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come back—and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you the next.

——— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so.

God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my support.—Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did writing it, and you will make happy, your

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LETTER XII

Wednesday Morning.

I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.

One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with coldness.

I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickness of your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate

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LETTER XIII

Thursday Night.

I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to receive another cold one.—Burn it also, my ——; yet do not forget that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart.

I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading continually the fatal consequence of my folly.—But, should you think it right to remain at H—, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be strong again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind. The girl is come to warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good night! and write a line or two in the morning.

Morning.

I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.

I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system.

Yours truly                

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LETTER XIV

Saturday Morning.

The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at H—, I might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded over—Let us now be friends!

I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your journey.

What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if you have not set your heart on this round number.

I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not much.—The two Mrs. ———s have been very anxious and tender.

Yours truly                

* * * *

I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

LETTER XV

Sunday Morning.

I wrote to you yesterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, after having talked of illness and apprehensions.

I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood into my head) so lightsome, that I think it will not go badly with me.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.

I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your eye.

I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of poverty.

Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.

Yours sincerely                

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LETTER XVI

Tuesday Morning.

I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday with Mr. ———, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall be to see you. I have just got my passport, so I do not foresee any impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we parted.

You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully round my heart, than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the thought, that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish to be supported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But, knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more in the same house with you.—God bless you!

Yours truly                

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LETTER XVII

Wednesday Morning.

I only send this as an avant-coureur, without jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more properly speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am afraid to say never.

Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has never left you.

I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to H— my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever I wished.

Yours affectionately                

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LETTER XVIII

H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.

We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.

But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take care of yourself—and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate

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LETTER XIX

DO not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I was to inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of business.—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got you by the fire-side, with the gigot smoking on the board, to lard your poor bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me so blind?—I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; for I am

Yours most affectionately                

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LETTER XX

Sunday, August 17.

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I have promised ——— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be sure[47-A]—whom I cannot help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my imagination.

I have called on Mrs. ———. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her piquante.—But Monsieur her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the foreground of the picture.

The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce from top to toe—so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the pendule—A nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the sombre day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to tantalize us.

But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me let the square-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain my pen.

I have been writing on, expecting poor ——— to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.

Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a gigot every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the father[50-A], when they produce the suffusion I admire.—In spite of icy age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid—

Yours                

* * * *

LETTER XXI

H—, August 19, Tuesday.

I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ——— came in, and some other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary your affection is to my happiness.—Still I do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness should arise as much from love, which is always rather a selfish passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by seeking your own.—For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of cherishing a tenderness for your person.

I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our little girl was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a sense of duty, than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.

You too have somehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do not however suppose that I am melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.

I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation) with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.

* * * *

LETTER XXII

H—, August 20.

I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had chastised ——— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly know how you would express your contempt.

Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of a degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you, as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.

Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in managing my happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart, which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and cherished.——You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that overflowing (épanchement de cœur), which becoming almost childish, appears a weakness only to the weak.

But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a number of mistresses.—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather flattered his vanity than his senses.

Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to close it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.—

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER XXIII[58-A].

September 22.

I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.

Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music—yesterday, at the fête, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.

Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap? There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window, regarding the waving corn!

Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.

If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for I am yours truly

* * * *

LETTER XXIV

Evening, Sept. 23.

I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my bosom, she looked so like you (entre nous, your best looks, for I do not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and wife being one—for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited.

Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days past.

Morning.

Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him to see her.

I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business. Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and truth, and this liberty of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.

I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——'s. I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you adieu.

I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could wish for.

I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring —— with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your letters—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you say of the negroes.

Yours most affectionately,        

* * * *

LETTER XXV

Paris, Sept. 28.

I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.

I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at best a most helpless creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother's fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of sensibility and observation. The other day by B——'s child, a fine one, she looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.

I slept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be alluded to.

Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother.

I have received, for you, letters from ————. I want to hear how that affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his folly or knavery.

Your own                

* * * *

LETTER XXVI

October 1.

It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. Tant mieux! you will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.

After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same side as my reason, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where else.

My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart.

I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the press will produce a great effect here—the cry of blood will not be vain!—Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last slap of the tail of the beast.

I have had several trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I shall not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child.

I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.

—— is still here: he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting.—If his wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save him.

Yours most truly and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XXVII

October 26.

My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has now the advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.

I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also made some new acquaintance. I have almost charmed a judge of the tribunal, R——, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has humanity, if not beaucoup d'esprit. But let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the Marseillaise, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the violin.

What do you say to this threat?—why, entre nous, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially said to be "in a good humour, when he is pleased." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again; or to make exertions which injure your constitution.

Yours most truly and tenderly        

* * * *

P.S. "You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.

LETTER XXVIII

Dec. 26.

I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now see your letter—and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, husband, father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted my dreams.

My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of "dalliance;" but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

Yours                

* * * *

LETTER XXIX

December 28.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me.

———, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet, we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing to live.

Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection out of the heart?

I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to forward it with ———'s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what he has doubtless recommended most warmly.

Stay, my friend, whilst it is absolutely necessary.—I will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the settling the present objects permit.—I do not consent to your taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes ——— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.—Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture.

My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs—She wants you to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing her, and yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER XXX

December 29.

Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as ——— has just informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I take advantage of it to inclose you

— — — — — — — — — — —

How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this wearisome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?—I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.

This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which ——— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to you?—If he can persuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.

Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, about the age of my ———, a fine little creature. They are still but contriving to live——earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but just above poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate mother—fatigued even by her attention.—However she has an affectionate husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure.

I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to "live in the present moment."—If you do—stay, for God's sake; but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.

Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort me.

* * * *

LETTER XXXI

December 30.

Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ———'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude—and, entre nous, I am determined to try to earn some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little girl and I will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.

The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.

I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former is necessary, to give life to the other—and such a degree of respect do I think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end of all my hopes of happiness—I could not forgive it, if I would.

I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.

You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. ——— has taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed my spirits—You have always known my opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long separated.—If certain things are more necessary to you than me—search for them—Say but one word, and you shall never hear of me more.—If not—for God's sake, let us struggle with poverty—with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain, and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence.

* * * *[91-A]

LETTER XXXII

January 9.

I just now received one of your hasty notes; for business so entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.

Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can give.—Why have you so soon dissolved the charm?

I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ———'s never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and roots out affection from the heart.

I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the spirits.

Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said, "despair is a freeman," we will go and seek our fortune together.

This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object.—If your feelings were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary prospects of future advantage.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIII

Jan. 15.

I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have seen a superscription written by you.—Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.

Well, now for business—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come soon to tell us that you do.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIV

Jan. 30.

From the purport of your last letters, I would suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it for ever—yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers by your absence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest I should have uttered unseasonable truths.

My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The secondary pleasures of life," you say, "are very necessary to my comfort:" it may be so; but I have ever considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the resolution necessary to bear the common[100-A] evils of life; I should answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid them, cost what it would——

Adieu!

* * * *

LETTER XXXV

February 9.

The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got, were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the superscriptions excited.

I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.

You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.—God preserve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!

But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this.

I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of every charm.

You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour.—Indeed, I scarcely understand you.—You request me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.

When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.—I would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of trouble on which you are entering.—I have certain principles of action: I know what I look for to found my happiness on.—It is not money.—With you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is, less will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for my child, and she does not want more at present.—I have two or three plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service.—I wanted the support of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I complained of ——'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he would have dragged you into his schemes.

I cannot write.—I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was written.—You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment.—Do not insult me by saying, that "our being together is paramount to every other consideration!" Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.

Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.

* * * *

LETTER XXXVI

Feb. 10.

You talk of "permanent views and future comfort"—not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I shall take one more, to pay my servant's wages, &c. and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.

—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.

When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but, in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but checked my pen.

As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!

* * * *

This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——

LETTER XXXVII

Feb. 19.

When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take any pains to recover my health.

As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine been harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my bosom.

What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!

Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.

In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or affectionate emotions.—With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.

Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.—Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you must guess why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have sacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be silent for ever.——

LETTER XXXVIII

April 7.

Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual.

I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.—I have indeed been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.—Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart!—But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.

Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I weaned her, about ten days ago.—I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.—It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.—It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw over my shoulder.—I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!

I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity for your coming to me.—Pray inform Mr. ———, that I have his little friend with me.—My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, as you. God bless you!

Yours truly,                

* * * *

LETTER XXXIX

Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.

Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.—I shall drive to ———'s hotel, where ——— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope you will take care to be there to receive us.

I have brought with me Mr. ——'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my share.—But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to meet soon?—What does your heart say!

Yours truly                

* * * *

I have weaned my ———, and she is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL

London, Friday, May 22.

I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which made ——— request to see me to-day, to converse about a matter of great importance. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as distressing, as the two former had been.

I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.—We have had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject never be revived!

It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of being happy.—Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my irritable nerves——

My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the question; for, alas! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what will render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.

I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours,

* * * *

LETTER XLI

Wednesday.

I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.

God bless you!

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

LETTER XLII

—, Wednesday, Two o'Clock.

We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night—and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.

I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to allow me to write with composure.—*****,—dear *****, —am I always to be tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest contented in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.

I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely and affectionately

* * * *

——— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.——Adieu!

LETTER XLIII

Thursday.

A lady has just sent to offer to take me to ———. I have then only a moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give information

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this painful string—God bless you!

Yours truly,                

* * * *

LETTER XLIV

Friday, June 12.

I have just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.

The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites, must have variety to banish ennui, because the imagination never lends its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions, over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and child-begeters, certainly have no idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me:—I consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to their senses.

Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.—I would fain rest there!

Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.

Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, without agony, think of your bosom's being continually contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment.

Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something-like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term "the zest of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!

The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.

The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to depart.

Saturday Morning.

Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown on you[133-A].

I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am engaged.

My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a true, unsophisticated heart.

Yours most truly                

* * * *

If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——'s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great civilities, will send them after me.

Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will draw us more closely together. One more adieu!

LETTER XLV

Sunday, June 14.

I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.

Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor ——— was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.

They took me in their carriage to ———, and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not please me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.

The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of mind.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of being free, does not over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the moment after, despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!

Yours sincerely and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XLVI

June 15.

I want to know how you have settled with respect to ———. In short, be very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher value on my heart.

Receive a kiss from ———, I was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours

Sincerely                

* * * *

The wind still continues in the same quarter.

LETTER XLVII

Tuesday Morning.

The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.

My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why——The quitting England seems to be a fresh parting.—Surely you will not forget me.—A thousand weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here, bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties.

The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.—It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment,—having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.—Well, let it come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours

* * * *

LETTER XLVIII

Wednesday Morning.

I was hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles.

You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long.

The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.

What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and feelings?—Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.—Will you not endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I saying?—Rather forget me, if you can—if other gratifications are dearer to you.—How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? What a world is this!—They only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial enjoyments.—Adieu!

——— begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.—I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

LETTER XLIX

Thursday.

Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind.—It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going forward.—I have a violent head-ache—yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because ——— is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at anchor.

These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart.—To tell you the truth, I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits—from despair.—I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of countenance.

I will not, my dear ———, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort—and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you—when we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean not to have seas between us—it is more than I can support.

The pilot is hurrying me—God bless you.

In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—"When the mind's free, the body's delicate;"—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.

Yours most truly                

* * * *

LETTER L

Saturday.

This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart.

How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness—and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of sunbeams!—Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to frown—or rather mourn with me.—Every thing is cold—cold as my expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these North east chillers, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger there.

I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk—after which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the the sense of, by every exertion in my power.

Poor ——— still continues sick, and ——— grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.

I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER LI

Sunday Morning.

The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had a troublesome sail—and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed.

I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate—you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But why do I foolishly continue to look for them?

Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt.—God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in every sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

The child is well; I did not leave her on board.

LETTER LII

June 27, Saturday.

I arrived in ——— this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at ——. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.

What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon—nor mention the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.—This morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses—the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.

Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged me—and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere stables—I must nevertheless go to bed. For God's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well and yet you see I cannot die.

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

LETTER LIII

June 29.

I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ———'s illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any serious consequences.

——— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ———. The inns here are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.

My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.

* * * *

LETTER LIV

July 1.

I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and, when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual struggles—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together, or I will be entirely independent.

My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision—You know however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?

Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should imagine, be at ——— before the close of August; and, after you settle your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?

God bless you!

Yours truly                

* * * *

Poor ——— has suffered during the journey with her teeth.

LETTER LV

July 3.

There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.

Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.

I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature.—On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, "that the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.

What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.

My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love, in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.

Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul—almost rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.

I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.

I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark.

Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.—I will listen to delicacy, or pride.

LETTER LVI

July 4.

I hope to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.

Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks—and I have seen a physical life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth.

With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!—Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ———'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ———'s children, and makes friends for herself.

Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?—why are you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.

LETTER LVII

July 7.

I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at ——— was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.

I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to silence the usual expressions of sorrow—Believe me, there is such a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.

Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.

The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a negative.—My brain seems on fire, I must go into the air.

* * * *

LETTER LVIII

July 14.

I am now on my journey to ———. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,—I asked myself how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?

Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the winds to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!

All is not right somewhere!—When you first knew me, I was not thus lost. I could still confide—for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first object. Strange want of judgment!

I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.—I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple basis of all rectitude.—However I did not intend to argue—Your not writing is cruel—and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.

Poor ——— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some accident—But it would have injured the child this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.

I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you please—there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply.

LETTER LIX

July 18.

I am here in ——, separated from my child—and here I must remain a month at least, or I might as well never have come.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I have begun ———— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.—I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it sooner.

I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!

* * * *

LETTER LX

July 30.

I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart!—My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has afforded me pleasure,—and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.

I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life—There are wounds that can never be healed—but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing.

When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set me free.

Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with these subjects.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ——; yet I never was so much in the air.—I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe, and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The child, ——— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.

Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.

Yours most affectionately            

* * * *    * * * * *

I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to yours.

LETTER LXI

August 5.

Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.—I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long—long time past.—(I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)—Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection—I am afraid not without a passion—and I feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs—my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes overlook delicacy—the same tenderness will in future restrain me. God bless you!

LETTER LXII

August 7.

Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the rocks.

This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on something—and soon;—we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched—when we were together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip from me. I cannot live with you—I ought not—if you form another attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to me—if I am to have no other—and only know me as her support.—I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you—if we are only to correspond.—No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.—You must determine—examine yourself—But, for God's sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty!—I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain.

Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions, yet I scarcely know what new form of misery I have to dread.

I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the heart of

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER LXIII

August 9.

Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my affection.——

My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.—I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate.

Yours sincerely                

* * * *

LETTER LXIV

August 26.

I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.

I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so termed.—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.—Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion—a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free—I will not torment, when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, that you will try to cherish tenderness for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I shall not remain at ——, living expensively. But be not alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.

Adieu! I am agitated—my whole frame is convulsed—my lips tremble, as if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.

God bless you.

* * * *

LETTER LXV

September 6.

I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and repose on the idea that I am happy.

Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and the lively sympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleasure and I have shaken hands.

I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality.

I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting place to look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks, I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle—and, when I am conscious that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus abandoned?"

You say now    —    —    —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more explicitly—and determine on some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this suspense—Decide—Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.    —    —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out what you mean to say—You write, I suppose, at Mr. ——'s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse when you mention, the child.—Adieu!

LETTER LXVI

September 25.

I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ———. In that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed it, I hear of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ——— remained a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the same—and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu!

* * * *

END VOL. III.

FOOTNOTES:

[4-A] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.

editor.

[7-A] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.

[27-A] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person to whom they were addressed.

[47-A] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a considerable time.

[50-A] She means, "the latter more than the former."

editor.

[58-A] This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.

[91-A] The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon him.

[100-A] This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation.

editor.

[133-A] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

LETTERS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The following Letters may poſſibly be found to contain the fineſt examples of the language of ſentiment and paſſion ever preſented to the world. They bear a ſtriking reſemblance to the celebrated romance of Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very different caſt. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of affording pleaſure, will receive no delight from the preſent publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of thoſe beſt qualified to decide upon the compariſon, theſe Letters will be admitted to have the ſuperiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the offſpring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the paſſion it eſſays to deſcribe.

To the ſeries of letters conſtituting the principal article in theſe two volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found diſcreditable to the talents of the author. The ſlight fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it ſeems to have ſome value, as preſenting to us with vividneſs the intention of the writer on this important ſubject. The publication of a few ſelect Letters to Mr. Johnſon, appeared to be at once a juſt monument to the ſincerity of his friendſhip, and a valuable and intereſting ſpecimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the Preſent Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, ſafely be left to ſpeak for themſelves. The Eſſay on Poetry and our Reliſh for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April laſt, and is the only piece in this collection which has previouſly found its way to the preſs.

LETTERS.

LETTER I

Two o'Clock.

My dear love, after making my arrangements for our ſnug dinner to-day, I have been taken by ſtorm, and obliged to promiſe to dine, at an early hour, with the Miſs ——s, the only day they intend to paſs here. I ſhall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-ſide when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately of her.

Yours, truly,                

* * * *

I am ſitting down to dinner; ſo do not ſend an anſwer.

LETTER II

Paſt Twelve o'Clock, Monday night.

[Auguſt.]       

I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wiſhing thee, my love, good-night! before I go to reſt, with more tenderneſs than I can to-morrow, when writing a haſty line or two under Colonel ——'s eye. You can ſcarcely imagine with what pleaſure I anticipate the day, when we are to begin almoſt to live together; and you would ſmile to hear how many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart has found peace in your boſom.—Cheriſh me with that dignified tenderneſs, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep under a quickneſs of feeling, that has ſometimes given you pain—Yes, I will be good, that I may deſerve to be happy; and whilſt you love me, I cannot again fall into the miſerable ſtate, which rendered life a burthen almoſt too heavy to be borne.

But, good-night!—God bleſs you! Sterne ſays, that is equal to a kiſs—yet I would rather give you the kiſs into the bargain, glowing with gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, becauſe it ſignifies ſomething habitual; and we are ſoon to meet, to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.

* * * *

I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow[4-A].—Yours—

LETTER III

Wedneſday Morning.

You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now ſay good, did you know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever ſince I came to Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, becauſe I like to ſee your eyes praiſe me; and, Milton inſinuates, that, during ſuch recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.

Yet, I ſhall not (let me tell you before theſe people enter, to force me to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiſs of duty—you muſt be glad to ſee me—becauſe you are glad—or I will make love to the ſhade of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilſt I was talking with Madame ——, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have ſufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, ſentiment, though I ſo highly reſpect principle.——

Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—Far from it—and, if I had not begun to form a new theory reſpecting men, I ſhould, in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I could have made ſomething of his——it was compoſed of ſuch materials—Huſh! here they come—and love flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little bruſh of his wing on my pale cheeks.

I hope to ſee Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——'s to meet him. ——, and ſome others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I am to ſpend the day with ——.

I ſhall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no matter, becauſe I muſt take a carriage, I have ſo many books, that I immediately want, to take with me.—On Friday then I ſhall expect you to dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is ſo long ſince I have ſeen you, you will not be ſcolded by yours affectionately

* * * *

LETTER IV[7-A].

Friday Morning [September.]

A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previouſly announced, called here yeſterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he ſeemed diſappointed at not finding you at home, I ſent him to Mr. ——. I have ſince ſeen him, and he tells me that he has ſettled the buſineſs.

So much for buſineſs!—May I venture to talk a little longer about leſs weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the road this comfortleſs weather; for, when I am abſent from thoſe I love, my imagination is as lively, as if my ſenſes had never been gratified by their preſence—I was going to ſay careſſes—and why ſhould I not? I have found out that I have more mind than you, in one reſpect; becauſe I can, without any violent effort of reaſon, find food for love in the ſame object, much longer than you can.—The way to my ſenſes is through my heart; but, forgive me! I think there is ſometimes a ſhorter cut to yours.

With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very ſufficient daſh of folly is neceſſary to render a woman piquante, a ſoft word for deſirable; and, beyond theſe caſual ebullitions of ſympathy, few look for enjoyment by foſtering a paſſion in their hearts. One reaſon, in ſhort, why I wiſh my whole ſex to become wiſer, is, that the fooliſh ones may not, by their pretty folly, rob thoſe whoſe ſenſibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roſes that afford them ſome ſolace in the thorny road of life.

I do not know how I fell into theſe reflections, excepting one thought produced it—that theſe continual ſeparations were neceſſary to warm your affection.—Of late, we are always ſeparating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you go.—This joke wears the ſallow caſt of thought; for, though I began to write cheerfully, ſome melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilſt a glow of tenderneſs at my heart whiſpers that you are one of the beſt creatures in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almoſt "crazed by care," as well as "croſſed in hapleſs love," and bear with me a little longer!—When we are ſettled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to reſt on yours, with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.

Take care of yourſelf—and write ſoon to your own girl (you may add dear, if you pleaſe) who ſincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by becoming happier.

* * * *

LETTER V

Sunday Night.

I have juſt received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed tranquilly without ſaying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my mind is ſerene, and my heart affectionate.

Ever ſince you laſt ſaw me inclined to faint, I have felt ſome gentle twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nouriſhing a creature who will ſoon be ſenſible of my care.—This thought has not only produced an overflowing of tenderneſs to you, but made me very attentive to calm my mind and take exerciſe, leſt I ſhould deſtroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual intereſt, you know. Yeſterday—do not ſmile!—finding that I had hurt myſelf by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I ſat down in an agony, till I felt thoſe ſaid twitches again.

Are you very buſy?

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

So you may reckon on its being finiſhed ſoon, though not before you come home, unleſs you are detained longer than I now allow myſelf to believe you will.—

Be that as it may, write to me, my beſt love, and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expreſſions of kindneſs will again beguile the time, as ſweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me alſo over and over again, that your happineſs (and you deſerve to be happy!) is cloſely connected with mine, and I will try to diſſipate, as they riſe, the fumes of former diſcontent, that have too often clouded the ſunſhine, which you have endeavoured to diffuſe through my mind. God bleſs you! Take care of yourſelf, and remember with tenderneſs your affectionate

* * * *

I am going to reſt very happy, and you have made me ſo.—This is the kindeſt good-night I can utter.

LETTER VI

Friday Morning.

I am glad to find that other people can be unreaſonable, as well as myſelf—for be it known to thee, that I anſwered thy firſt letter, the very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldſt not receive it before Wedneſday, becauſe it was not ſent off till the next day.—There is a full, true, and particular account.—

Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of ſtupidity, and likewiſe of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the ſame thing, when the temper is governed by a ſquare and compaſs.—There is nothing pictureſque in this ſtraight-lined equality, and the paſſions always give grace to the actions.

Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face, though I cannot be ſeriouſly diſpleaſed with the exertion which increaſes my eſteem, or rather is what I ſhould have expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honeſt countenance before me—Pop—relaxed by tenderneſs; a little—little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes gliſtening with ſympathy.—Thy lips then feel ſofter than ſoft—and I reſt my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not left the hue of love out of the picture—the roſy glow; and fancy has ſpread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilſt a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus alive to happineſs, did not give more warmth to the ſentiment it divides—I muſt pauſe a moment.

Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when abſent, than preſent; nay, I think that you muſt love me, for, in the ſincerity of my heart let me ſay it, I believe I deſerve your tenderneſs, becauſe I am true, and have a degree of ſenſibility that you can ſee and reliſh.

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

LETTER VII

Sunday Morning [December 29.]

You ſeem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray ſir! when do you think of coming home? or, to write very conſiderately, when will buſineſs permit you? I ſhall expect (as the country people ſay in England) that you will make a power of money to indemnify me for your abſence.

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Well! but, my love, to the old ſtory—am I to ſee you this week, or this month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I would not aſk Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.

I long to ſee Mrs. ———; not to hear from you, ſo do not give yourſelf airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for not informing me whether ſhe had brought one with her or not.—On this ſcore I will cork up ſome of the kind things that were ready to drop from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addreſſing you; or, will only ſuffer an exclamation—"The creature!" or a kind look, to eſcape me, when I paſs the ſlippers—which I could not remove from my ſalle door, though they are not the handſomeſt of their kind.

Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be purchaſed. God bleſs you.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER VIII

Monday Night [December 30.]

My beſt love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, depreſſed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me ſeveral, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ——— was for me. Mr. ———'s letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviouſly makes the beſt of them, has vexed me.

A melancholy letter from my ſiſter ——— has alſo harraſſed my mind—that from my brother would have given me ſincere pleaſure; but for    —    —

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There is a ſpirit of independence in his letter, that will pleaſe you; and you ſhall ſee it, when we are once more over the fire together.—I think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when your heart not only gives a luſtre to your eye, but a dance of playfulneſs, that he would meet with a glow half made up of baſhfulneſs, and a deſire to pleaſe the——where ſhall I find a word to expreſs the relationſhip which ſubſiſts between us?—Shall I aſk the little twitcher?—But I have dropt half the ſentence that was to tell you how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his ſiſter. I have been fancying myſelf ſitting between you, ever ſince I began to write, and my heart has leaped at the thought!—You ſee how I chat to you.

I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, for the poſt came in much later than uſual. It was a cordial to me—and I wanted one.

Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a kind of ſeparation, if you did not love thoſe I love.

There was ſo much conſiderate tenderneſs in your epiſtle to-night, that, if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER IX

Tueſday Morning [December 31.]

Though I have juſt ſent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, becauſe trifles of this ſort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my ſpirits:—and you, with all your ſtruggles to be manly, have ſome of this ſame ſenſibility.—Do not bid it begone, for I love to ſee it ſtriving to maſter your features; beſides, theſe kind of ſympathies are the life of affection: and why, in cultivating our underſtandings, ſhould we try to dry up theſe ſprings of pleaſure, which guſh out to give a freſhneſs to days browned by care!

The books ſent to me are ſuch as we may read together; ſo I ſhall not look into them till you return; when you ſhall read, whilſt I mend my ſtockings.

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER X

Wedneſday Night [January 1.]

As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I am hurt; and why ſhould I, by concealing it, affect the heroiſm I do not feel?

I hate commerce. How differently muſt ———'s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are neceſſary: I am weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and clemency which ſeemed to be dawning a few days ago, diſappear again. "I am fallen," as Milton ſaid, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe will be in a ſtate of convulſion, during half a century at leaſt. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great ſtone up a hill; for, before a perſon can find a reſting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!

Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the ſtrain. My head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," where "things rank and vile" flouriſh beſt.

If you do not return ſoon—or, which is no ſuch mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your ſlippers out at window, and be off—nobody knows where.

* * * *

Finding that I was obſerved, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——s, ſimply that I was with child: and let them ſtare! and ———, and ———, nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care!—Yet I wiſh to avoid ———'s coarſe jokes.

Conſidering the care and anxiety a woman muſt have about a child before it comes into the world, it ſeems to me, by a natural right, to belong to her. When men get immerſed in the world, they ſeem to loſe all ſenſations, excepting thoſe neceſſary to continue or produce life!—Are theſe the privileges of reaſon? Amongſt the feathered race, whilſt the hen keeps the young warm, her mate ſtays by to cheer her; but it is ſufficient for man to condeſcend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A man is a tyrant!

You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing away with ſome honeſt fellows in L—n. The caſual exerciſe of ſocial ſympathy would not be ſufficient for me—I ſhould not think ſuch an heartleſs life worth preſerving.—It is neceſſary to be in good-humour with you, to be pleaſed with the world.

Thurſday Morning.

I was very low-ſpirited laſt night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes abſence eaſy to you.—And, why ſhould I mince the the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it.—I do not want to be loved like a goddeſs; but I wiſh to be neceſſary to you. God bleſs you[27-A]!

LETTER XI

Monday Night.

I have juſt received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with ſhame for my folly.—I would hide it in your boſom, if you would again open it to me, and neſtle cloſely till you bade my fluttering heart be ſtill, by ſaying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing with tears, and in the humbleſt attitude, I intreat you.—Do not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very wretched, ſince the night I was ſo cruelly hurt by thinking that you had no confidence in me——

It is time for me to grow more reaſonable, a few more of theſe caprices of ſenſibility would deſtroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indiſpoſed for a few days paſt, and the notion that I was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and tender, now I feel it alive, made me worſe. My bowels have been dreadfully diſordered, and every thing I ate or drank diſagreed with my ſtomach; ſtill I feel intimations of its exiſtence, though they have been fainter.

Do you think that the creature goes regularly to ſleep? I am ready to aſk as many queſtions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already ſmiling through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen ſpirits are melting into playfulneſs.

Write the moment you receive this. I ſhall count the minutes. But drop not an angry word—I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deſerve a ſcolding (it does not admit of a queſtion, I grant), wait till you come back—and then, if you are angry one day, I ſhall be ſure of ſeeing you the next.

——— did not write to you, I ſuppoſe, becauſe he talked of going to H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it was ſome words that he incautiouſly let fall, which rendered me ſo.

God bleſs you, my love; do not ſhut your heart againſt a return of tenderneſs; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my ſupport.—Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did writing it, and you will make happy, your

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LETTER XII

Wedneſday Morning.

I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are ſeparated. Yeſterday, my love, I could not open your letter for ſome time; and, though it was not half as ſevere as I merited, it threw me into ſuch a fit of trembling, as ſeriouſly alarmed me. I did not, as you may ſuppoſe, care for a little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days paſt, returned with freſh force. This morning I am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that ſorrow has almoſt made a child of me, and that I want to be ſoothed to peace.

One thing you miſtake in my character, and imagine that to be coldneſs which is juſt the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the perſon moſt dear to me, I muſt let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderneſs would be uppermoſt, or ſtifle them altogether; and it appears to me almoſt a duty to ſtifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with coldneſs.

I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickneſs of your feelings—and let me, in the ſincerity of my heart, aſſure you, there is nothing I would not ſuffer to make you happy. My own happineſs wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reaſon is not clouded, I look forward to a rational proſpect of as much felicity as the earth affords—with a little daſh of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we meet again, as you have ſometimes greeted, your humbled, yet moſt affectionate

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LETTER XIII

Thurſday Night.

I have been wiſhing the time away, my kind love, unable to reſt till I knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, when your tender epiſtle of Tueſday gave ſuch exquiſite pleaſure to your poor ſick girl, her heart ſmote her to think that you were ſtill to receive another cold one.—Burn it alſo, my ——; yet do not forget that even thoſe letters were full of love; and I ſhall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart.

I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, becauſe I have been ſeriouſly alarmed and angry with myſelf, dreading continually the fatal conſequence of my folly.—But, ſhould you think it right to remain at H—, I ſhall find ſome opportunity, in the courſe of a fortnight, or leſs perhaps, to come to you, and before then I ſhall be ſtrong again.—Yet do not be uneaſy! I am really better, and never took ſuch care of myſelf, as I have done ſince you reſtored my peace of mind. The girl is come to warm my bed—ſo I will tenderly ſay, good night! and write a line or two in the morning.

Morning.

I wiſh you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your abſence ſhall not prevent me. I have ſtayed at home too much; though, when I was ſo dreadfully out of ſpirits, I was careleſs of every thing.

I will now ſally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before I ſo inconſiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my whole ſyſtem.

Yours truly                

* * * *    * * * * *

LETTER XIV

Saturday Morning.

The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, will ſerve as an anſwer to your explanatory one. I cannot but reſpect your motives and conduct. I always reſpected them; and was only hurt, by what ſeemed to me a want of confidence, and conſequently affection.—I thought alſo, that if you were obliged to ſtay three months at H—, I might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what ſignifies what I brooded over—Let us now be friends!

I ſhall probably receive a letter from you to-day, ſealing my pardon—and I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at leaſt, till I ſee you again. Act as circumſtances direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will haſten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or loſt ſight of) the object of your journey.

What a picture have you ſketched of our fire-ſide! Yes, my love, my fancy was inſtantly at work, and I found my head on your ſhoulder, whilſt my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your knees. I did not abſolutely determine that there ſhould be ſix—if you have not ſet your heart on this round number.

I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to viſit her ſince the firſt day ſhe came to Paris. I wiſh indeed to be out in the air as much as I can; for the exerciſe I have taken theſe two or three days paſt, has been of ſuch ſervice to me, that I hope ſhortly to tell you, that I am quite well. I have ſcarcely ſlept before laſt night, and then not much.—The two Mrs. ———s have been very anxious and tender.

Yours truly                

* * * *

I need not deſire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

LETTER XV

Sunday Morning.

I wrote to you yeſterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is ſtill detained (for his paſſport was forgotten at the office yeſterday) I am not willing to let ſo many days elapſe without your hearing from me, after having talked of illneſs and apprehenſions.

I cannot boaſt of being quite recovered, yet I am (I muſt uſe my Yorkſhire phraſe; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expreſſions of childhood into my head) ſo lightſome, that I think it will not go badly with me.—And nothing ſhall be wanting on my part, I aſſure you; for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderneſs that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.

I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of yeſterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the fever that has tormented me, I ſhall talk no more of illneſs. I have promiſed the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cheriſh it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, ſince I could not hug either it or you to my breaſt, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your eye.

I have been ſeriouſly vexed, to find that, whilſt you were harraſſed by impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional uneaſineſs.—If you can make any of your plans anſwer—it is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient; but, ſhould they fail, we will ſtruggle cheerfully together—drawn cloſer by the pinching blaſts of poverty.

Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for I not only like them for being longer, but becauſe more heart ſteals into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.

Yours ſincerely                

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LETTER XVI

Tueſday Morning.

I ſeize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to ſet out on Thurſday with Mr. ———, and hope to tell you ſoon (on your lips) how glad I ſhall be to ſee you. I have juſt got my paſſport, ſo I do not foreſee any impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in ſpite of care, to ſmile me to ſleep—for I have not caught much reſt ſince we parted.

You have, by your tenderneſs and worth, twiſted yourſelf more artfully round my heart, than I ſuppoſed poſſible.—Let me indulge the thought, that I have thrown out ſome tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wiſh to be ſupported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But, knowing that I am not a paraſite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of affection, that every pulſe replies to, when I think of being once more in the ſame houſe with you.—God bleſs you!

Yours truly                

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LETTER XVII

Wedneſday Morning.

I only ſend this as an avant-coureur, without jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you receive it. I ſhall find you well, and compoſed, I am ſure; or, more properly ſpeaking, cheerful.—What is the reaſon that my ſpirits are not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your temper is even, though I have promiſed myſelf, in order to obtain my own forgiveneſs, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am afraid to ſay never.

Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in perſon! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long ſince, or rather has never left you.

I am well, and have no apprehenſion that I ſhall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to H— my ſpirits will not ſink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever I wiſhed.

Yours affectionately                

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LETTER XVIII

H—, Thurſday Morning, March 12.

We are ſuch creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot ſay I was ſorry, childiſhly ſo, for your going, when I knew that you were to ſtay ſuch a ſhort time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not ſleep.—I turned to your ſide of the bed, and tried to make the moſt of the comfort of the pillow, which you uſed to tell me I was churliſh about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheleſs my walk before breakfaſt, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am, wiſhing you a finer day, and ſeeing you peep over my ſhoulder, as I write, with one of your kindeſt looks—when your eyes gliſten, and a ſuffuſion creeps over your relaxing features.

But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bleſs you! Take care of yourſelf—and ſometimes fold to your heart your affectionate

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LETTER XIX

DO not call me ſtupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I was to incloſe.—This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of buſineſs.—You know, you ſay, they will not chime together.—I had got you by the fire-ſide, with the gigot ſmoking on the board, to lard your poor bare ribs—and behold, I cloſed my letter without taking the paper up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me ſo blind?—I give you leave to anſwer the queſtion, if you will not ſcold; for I am

Yours moſt affectionately                

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LETTER XX

Sunday, Auguſt 17.

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I have promiſed ——— to go with him to his country-houſe, where he is now permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be ſure[47-A]—whom I cannot help kiſſing with more fondneſs, ſince you left us. I think I ſhall enjoy the fine proſpect, and that it will rather enliven, than ſatiate my imagination.

I have called on Mrs. ———. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a daſh of the eaſy French coquetry, which renders her piquante.—But Monſieur her huſband, whom nature never dreamed of caſting in either the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the foreground of the picture.

The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the houſe ſmelt of commerce from top to toe—ſo that his abortive attempt to diſplay taſte, only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the pendule—A nymph was offering up her vows before a ſmoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (ſaving your preſence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces, that ſtreak with the roſy beams of infant fancy the ſombre day of life—whilſt the imagination, not allowing us to ſee things as they are, enables us to catch a haſty draught of the running ſtream of delight, the thirſt for which ſeems to be given only to tantalize us.

But I am philoſophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me ſevere, and bid me let the ſquare-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of the ſocial ſprites (and there are not a few of different deſcriptions, who ſport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to reſtrain my pen.

I have been writing on, expecting poor ——— to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of buſineſs; and, as this is the idea that moſt naturally aſſociates with your image, I wonder I ſtumbled on any other.

Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is ſcarcely worth having, even with a gigot every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the ſentiments in your heart, which may be termed romantic, becauſe, the offſpring of the ſenſes and the imagination, they reſemble the mother more than the father[50-A], when they produce the ſuffuſion I admire.—In ſpite of icy age, I hope ſtill to ſee it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be ſtupidly uſeful to the ſtupid—

Yours                

* * * *

LETTER XXI

H—, Auguſt 19, Tueſday.

I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you yeſterday, therefore was diſappointed, though I imputed your ſilence to the right cauſe. I intended anſwering your kind letter immediately, that you might have felt the pleaſure it gave me; but ——— came in, and ſome other things interrupted me; ſo that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving a ſweet ſcent behind, I have only to tell you, what is ſufficiently obvious, that the earneſt deſire I have ſhown to keep my place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a ſure proof how neceſſary your affection is to my happineſs.—Still I do not think it falſe delicacy, or fooliſh pride, to wiſh that your attention to my happineſs ſhould ariſe as much from love, which is always rather a ſelfiſh paſſion, as reaſon—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by ſeeking your own.—For, whatever pleaſure it may give me to diſcover your generoſity of ſoul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the very quality I moſt admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand my affection; but, unleſs the attachment appears to me clearly mutual, I ſhall labour only to eſteem your character, inſtead of cheriſhing a tenderneſs for your perſon.

I write in a hurry, becauſe the little one, who has been ſleeping a long time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am ſad, I lament that all my affections grow on me, till they become too ſtrong for my peace, though they all afford me ſnatches of exquiſite enjoyment—This for our little girl was at firſt very reaſonable—more the effect of reaſon, a ſenſe of duty, than feeling—now, ſhe has got into my heart and imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.

You too have ſomehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve for myſelf, tears ruſhed into my eyes.—Do not however ſuppoſe that I am melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.

I will not mix any comments on the incloſed (it rouſed my indignation) with the effuſion of tenderneſs, with which I aſſure you, that you are the friend of my boſom, and the prop of my heart.

* * * *

LETTER XXII

H—, Auguſt 20.

I want to know what ſteps you have taken reſpecting ——. Knavery always rouſes my indignation—I ſhould be gratified to hear that the law had chaſtiſed ——— ſeverely; but I do not wiſh you to ſee him, becauſe the buſineſs does not now admit of peaceful diſcuſſion, and I do not exactly know how you would expreſs your contempt.

Pray aſk ſome queſtions about Tallien—I am ſtill pleaſed with the dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cauſe of humanity, he made uſe of a degree of addreſs, which I admire—and mean to point out to you, as one of the few inſtances of addreſs which do credit to the abilities of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openneſs of heart, which is the true baſis of both public and private friendſhip.

Do not ſuppoſe that I mean to allude to a little reſerve of temper in you, of which I have ſometimes complained! You have been uſed to a cunning woman, and you almoſt look for cunning—Nay, in managing my happineſs, you now and then wounded my ſenſibility, concealing yourſelf, till honeſt ſympathy, giving you to me without diſguiſe, lets me look into a heart, which my half-broken one wiſhes to creep into, to be revived and cheriſhed.——You have frankneſs of heart, but not often exactly that overflowing (épanchement de cœur), which becoming almoſt childiſh, appears a weakneſs only to the weak.

But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewiſe whether, as a member declared in the convention, Robeſpierre really maintained a number of miſtreſſes.—Should it prove ſo, I ſuſpect that they rather flattered his vanity than his ſenſes.

Here is a chatting, deſultory epiſtle! But do not ſuppoſe that I mean to cloſe it without mentioning the little damſel—who has been almoſt ſpringing out of my arm—ſhe certainly looks very like you—but I do not love her the leſs for that, whether I am angry or pleaſed with you.—

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER XXIII[58-A].

September 22.

I have juſt written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely write, becauſe I know I ſhould be diſappointed at ſeeing any one who had left you, if you did not ſend a letter, were it ever ſo ſhort, to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.

Beſides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to look at a ſcarlet waiſtcoat, and hear loud muſic—yeſterday, at the fête, ſhe enjoyed the two latter; but, to honour J. J. Rouſſeau, I intend to give her a ſaſh, the firſt ſhe has ever had round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.

Well, this you will ſay is trifling—ſhall I talk about alum or ſoap? There is nothing pictureſque in your preſent purſuits; my imagination then rather chuſes to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to ſee you coming to meet me, and my baſket of grapes.—With what pleaſure do I recollect your looks and words, when I have been ſitting on the window, regarding the waving corn!

Believe me, ſage ſir, you have not ſufficient reſpect for the imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of ſentiment, the great diſtinction of our nature, the only purifier of the paſſions—animals have a portion of reaſon, and equal, if not more exquiſite, ſenſes; but no trace of imagination, or her offſpring taſte, appears in any of their actions. The impulſe of the ſenſes, paſſions, if you will, and the concluſions of reaſon, draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, ſtolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all thoſe fine ſympathies that lead to rapture, rendering men ſocial by expanding their hearts, inſtead of leaving them leiſure to calculate how many comforts ſociety affords.

If you call theſe obſervations romantic, a phraſe in this place which would be tantamount to nonſenſical, I ſhall be apt to retort, that you are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back your barrier-face, or you ſhall have nothing to ſay to my barrier-girl; and I ſhall fly from you, to cheriſh the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for I am yours truly

* * * *

LETTER XXIV

Evening, Sept. 23.

I have been playing and laughing with the little girl ſo long, that I cannot take up my pen to addreſs you without emotion. Preſſing her to my boſom, ſhe looked ſo like you (entre nous, your beſt looks, for I do not admire your commercial face) every nerve ſeemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began to think that there was ſomething in the aſſertion of man and wife being one—for you ſeemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the ſympathetic tears you excited.

Have I any thing more to ſay to you? No; not for the preſent—the reſt is all flown away; and, indulging tenderneſs for you, I cannot now complain of ſome people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days paſt.

Morning.

Yeſterday B—— ſent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the ſame opinion of his underſtanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderneſs and real delicacy of feeling with reſpect to women, than are commonly to be met with. His manner too of ſpeaking of his little girl, about the age of mine, intereſted me. I gave him a letter for my ſiſter, and requeſted him to ſee her.

I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I ſuppoſe will write about buſineſs. Public affairs I do not deſcant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and truth, and this liberty of the preſs will overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.

I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of reſtleſſneſs at night, which ariſes, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I ſink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I ſuppoſe, that I am now writing with ſomebody in the room with me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——'s. I will then kiſs the girl for you, and bid you adieu.

I deſired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you ſhould not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for ſhe is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I ſhould think, as you could wiſh for.

I was going to tell you of two or three things which diſpleaſe me here; but they are not of ſufficient conſequence to interrupt pleaſing ſenſations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring —— with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German tranſlation of your letters—ſhe deſires me to give her love to you, on account of what you ſay of the negroes.

Yours moſt affectionately,        

* * * *

LETTER XXV

Paris, Sept. 28.

I have written to you three or four letters; but different cauſes have prevented my ſending them by the perſons who promiſed to take or forward them. The incloſed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have ſet out on your return, I incloſe it to you, and ſhall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to whom I alſo gave a letter.

I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I ſhall not harraſs you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that ariſe from peculiar circumſtances.—I have had ſo many little plagues here, that I have almoſt lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at beſt a moſt helpleſs creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than uſe to me, ſo that I ſtill continue to be almoſt a ſlave to the child.—She indeed rewards me, for ſhe is a ſweet little creature; for, ſetting aſide a mother's fondneſs (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent ſmiles ſinking into my heart), ſhe has an aſtoniſhing degree of ſenſibility and obſervation. The other day by B——'s child, a fine one, ſhe looked like a little ſprite.—She is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will ſwear.

I ſlept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you preſſed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with ſenſations that are almoſt too ſacred to be alluded to.

Adieu, my love! Take care of yourſelf, if you wiſh to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother.

I have received, for you, letters from ————. I want to hear how that affair finiſhes, though I do not know whether I have moſt contempt for his folly or knavery.

Your own                

* * * *

LETTER XXVI

October 1.

It is a heartleſs taſk to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week paſt; and three others, which were written in a low-ſpirited ſtrain, a little querulous or ſo, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. Tant mieux! you will ſay, and I will not ſay nay; for I ſhould be ſorry that the contents of a letter, when you are ſo far away, ſhould damp the pleaſure that the ſight of it would afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I juſt now ſtumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your laſt abſence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the abſence is ſo long, ought to bring only tears of tenderneſs, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.

After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be ſo immerſed in buſineſs, as during the laſt three or four months paſt—for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impreſſions are left on the mind.—Theſe impreſſions were much more lively, ſoon after you went away, than at preſent—for a thouſand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the ſame ſide as my reaſon, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almoſt impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will ſeek it no where elſe.

My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and ſhe often has a kiſs, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart.

I have been interrupted—and muſt ſend off my letter. The liberty of the preſs will produce a great effect here—the cry of blood will not be vain!—Some more monſters will periſh—and the Jacobins are conquered.—Yet I almoſt fear the laſt ſlap of the tail of the beaſt.

I have had ſeveral trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I ſhall not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am ſending —— back; her pregnancy rendered her uſeleſs. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child.

I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.

—— is ſtill here: he is a loſt man.—He really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiſcriminate hoſpitality and ſocial feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that deſtroys his health, as well as renders his perſon diſguſting.—If his wife had more ſenſe, or delicacy, ſhe might reſtrain him: as it is, nothing will ſave him.

Yours moſt truly and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XXVII

October 26.

My dear love, I began to wiſh ſo earneſtly to hear from you, that the ſight of your letters occaſioned ſuch pleaſurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aſide till the little girl and I were alone together; and this ſaid little girl, our darling, is become a moſt intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite ſo convenient. I once told you, that the ſenſations before ſhe was born, and when ſhe is ſucking, were pleaſant; but they do not deſerve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when ſhe ſtops to ſmile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the ſtreet, or after a ſhort abſence. She has now the advantage of having two good nurſes, and I am at preſent able to diſcharge my duty to her, without being the ſlave of it.

I have therefore employed and amuſed myſelf ſince I got rid of ——, and am making a progreſs in the language amongſt other things. I have alſo made ſome new acquaintance. I have almoſt charmed a judge of the tribunal, R——, who, though I ſhould not have thought it poſſible, has humanity, if not beaucoup d'eſprit. But let me tell you, if you do not make haſte back, I ſhall be half in love with the author of the Marſeillaiſe, who is a handſome man, a little too broad-faced or ſo, and plays ſweetly on the violin.

What do you ſay to this threat?—why, entre nous, I like to give way to a ſprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleaſed with you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially ſaid to be "in a good humour, when he is pleaſed." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but I ſhall not allow you to love the new-comer beſt.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and ſeeks happineſs with you; yet do not imagine that I childiſhly wiſh you to come back, before you have arranged things in ſuch a manner, that it will not be neceſſary for you to leave us ſoon again; or to make exertions which injure your conſtitution.

Yours moſt truly and tenderly        

* * * *

P.S. "You would oblige me by delivering the incloſed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an anſwer.—It is for a perſon uncomfortably ſituated.

LETTER XXVIII

Dec. 26.

I have been, my love, for ſome days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to aſſume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that many veſſels had been driven on ſhore during the late gale.—Well, I now ſee your letter—and find that you are ſafe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been ſo unavailing.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be ſure that you are ſafe—and not ſeparated from me by a ſea that muſt be paſſed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my ſometimes dreading that fate has not done perſecuting me? Come to me, my deareſt friend, huſband, father of my child!—All theſe fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is deſirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence eſcapes us—without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to ſome of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted acroſs my mind for ſome days paſt, and haunted my dreams.

My little darling is indeed a ſweet child; and I am ſorry that you are not here, to ſee her little mind unfold itſelf. You talk of "dalliance;" but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his miſtreſs, than ſhe is to me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the moſt deſpotic power over her. She is all vivacity or ſoftneſs—yes; I love her more than I thought I ſhould. When I have been hurt at your ſtay, I have embraced her as my only comfort—when pleaſed with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilſt I am kiſſing her for reſembling you. But there would be no end to theſe details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

Yours                

* * * *

LETTER XXIX

December 28.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do, my love, indeed ſincerely ſympathize with you in all your diſappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affection, I only lament other diſappointments, becauſe I am ſorry that you ſhould thus exert yourſelf in vain, and that you are kept from me.

———, I know, urges you to ſtay, and is continually branching out into new projects, becauſe he has the idle deſire to amaſs a large fortune, rather an immenſe one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet, we will diſcuſs this ſubject—You will liſten to reaſon, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to purſue ſome ſober plan, which may demand more time, and ſtill enable you to arrive at the ſame end. It appears to me abſurd to waſte life in preparing to live.

Would it not now be poſſible to arrange your buſineſs in ſuch a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my ſhare ſince your departure? Is it not poſſible to enter into buſineſs, as an employment neceſſary to keep the faculties awake, and (to ſink a little in the expreſſions) the pot boiling, without ſuffering what muſt ever be conſidered as a ſecondary object, to engroſs the mind, and drive ſentiment and affection out of the heart?

I am in a hurry to give this letter to the perſon who has promiſed to forward it with ———'s. I wiſh then to counteract, in ſome meaſure, what he has doubtleſs recommended moſt warmly.

Stay, my friend, whilſt it is abſolutely neceſſary.—I will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unleſs you come the moment the ſettling the preſent objects permit.—I do not conſent to your taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reaſon, (for this immoderate deſire of wealth, which makes ——— ſo eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to ſee you—and, being at peace with you, I ſhall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.—Having ſuffered ſo much in life, do not be ſurpriſed if I ſometimes, when left to myſelf, grow gloomy, and ſuppoſe that it was all a dream, and that my happineſs is not to laſt. I ſay happineſs, becauſe remembrance retrenches all the dark ſhades of the picture.

My little one begins to ſhow her teeth, and uſe her legs—She wants you to bear your part in the nurſing buſineſs, for I am fatigued with dancing her, and yet ſhe is not ſatiſfied—ſhe wants you to thank her mother for taking ſuch care of her, as you only can.

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER XXX

December 29.

Though I ſuppoſe you have later intelligence, yet, as ——— has juſt informed me that he has an opportunity of ſending immediately to you, I take advantage of it to incloſe you

— — — — — — — — — — —

How I hate this crooked buſineſs! This intercourſe with the world, which obliges one to ſee the worſt ſide of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had firſt in view, when you entered into this weariſome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, ſucceſſful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not ſufficient to avoid poverty?—I am contented to do my part; and, even here, ſufficient to eſcape from wretchedneſs is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project alſo—and, if you do not ſoon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourſelves; we will not accept any of your cold kindneſs—your diſtant civilities—no; not we.

This is but half jeſting, for I am really tormented by the deſire which ——— manifeſts to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to you?—If he can perſuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wiſhes do not make you throw aſide theſe eternal projects, I am above uſing any arguments, though reaſon as well as affection ſeems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.

Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have heard me ſpeak. Her firſt child died in the month; but ſhe has another, about the age of my ———, a fine little creature. They are ſtill but contriving to live——earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but juſt above poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate mother—fatigued even by her attention.—However ſhe has an affectionate huſband in her turn, to render her care light, and to ſhare her pleaſure.

I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderneſs for my little girl, I grow ſad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to obſerve with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—Theſe appear to me to be true pleaſures—and ſtill you ſuffer them to eſcape you, in ſearch of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to "live in the preſent moment."—If you do—ſtay, for God's ſake; but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to ſee you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow ſick at heart.

Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I muſt take my darling to my boſom to comfort me.

* * * *

LETTER XXXI

December 30.

Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occaſion, that one out of three of my epiſtles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ———'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the neceſſity of your ſtaying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude—and, entre nous, I am determined to try to earn ſome money here myſelf, in order to convince you that, if you chuſe to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourſelf—for the little girl and I will live without your aſſiſtance, unleſs you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it ſo—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.

The common run of men have ſuch an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and proſtitute their perſons, following perhaps a guſt of inebriation, they ſuppoſe the wife, ſlave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the ſultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiſcuous amours during his abſence.

I conſider fidelity and conſtancy as two diſtinct things; yet the former is neceſſary, to give life to the other—and ſuch a degree of reſpect do I think due to myſelf, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end of all my hopes of happineſs—I could not forgive it, if I would.

I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you know that I think them ſyſtematic tyrants, and that it is the rareſt thing in the world, to meet with a man with ſufficient delicacy of feeling to govern deſire. When I am thus ſad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am ſorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever ſown with thorns.

You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the ſtrongeſt proof of affection I can give, to dread to loſe you. ——— has taken ſuch pains to convince me that you muſt and ought to ſtay, that it has inconceivably depreſſed my ſpirits—You have always known my opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long ſeparated.—If certain things are more neceſſary to you than me—ſearch for them—Say but one word, and you ſhall never hear of me more.—If not—for God's ſake, let us ſtruggle with poverty—with any evil, but theſe continual inquietudes of buſineſs, which I have been told were to laſt but a few months, though every day the end appears more diſtant! This is the firſt letter in this ſtrain that I have determined to forward to you; the reſt lie by, becauſe I was unwilling to give you pain, and I ſhould not now write, if I did not think that there would be no concluſion to the ſchemes, which demand, as I am told, your preſence.

* * * *[91-A]

LETTER XXXII

January 9.

I juſt now received one of your haſty notes; for buſineſs ſo entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or ſufficient command of thought, to write letters. Beware! you ſeem to be got into a whirl of projects and ſchemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not abſorb your happineſs, will infallibly deſtroy mine.

Fatigued during my youth by the moſt arduous ſtruggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myſelf uſeful, not merely pleaſure, for which I had the moſt lively taſte, I mean the ſimple pleaſures that flow from paſſion and affection, eſcaped me, but the moſt melancholy views of life were impreſſed by a diſappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed ſome time to glide away, winged with the delight which only ſpontaneous enjoyment can give.—Why have you ſo ſoon diſſolved the charm?

I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ———'s never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmneſs—but you are miſtaken—I have ſtill ſufficient firmneſs to purſue my principle of action. The preſent miſery, I cannot find a ſofter word to do juſtice to my feelings, appears to me unneceſſary—and therefore I have not firmneſs to ſupport it as you may think I ought. I ſhould have been content, and ſtill wiſh, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but theſe continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debaſes the mind, and roots out affection from the heart.

I do not mean to complain of ſubordinate inconveniences——yet I will ſimply obſerve, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the arrangements required by the preſent circumſtances, to procure the neceſſaries of life. In order to have them, a ſervant, for that purpoſe only, is indiſpenſible—The want of wood, has made me catch the moſt violent cold I ever had; and my head is ſo diſturbed by continual coughing, that I am unable to write without ſtopping frequently to recollect myſelf.—This however is one of the common evils which muſt be borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the ſpirits.

Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too ſoon for her to begin to divide ſorrow!—And as one has well ſaid, "deſpair is a freeman," we will go and ſeek our fortune together.

This is not a caprice of the moment—for your abſence has given new weight to ſome concluſions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you left me.—I do not chuſe to be a ſecondary object.—If your feelings were in uniſon with mine, you would not ſacrifice ſo much to viſionary proſpects of future advantage.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIII

Jan. 15.

I was juſt going to begin my letter with the fag end of a ſong, which would only have told you, what I may as well ſay ſimply, that it is pleaſant to forgive thoſe we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can ſcarcely conceive the effect ſome of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of ſuſpenſe, I have ſeen a ſuperſcription written by you.—Promiſing myſelf pleaſure, and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the perſon who brought it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen haſty lines, that have damped all the riſing affection of my ſoul.

Well, now for buſineſs—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the buſineſs. I gave her a cruſt to aſſiſt the cutting of her teeth; and now ſhe has two, ſhe makes good uſe of them to gnaw a cruſt, biſcuit, &c. You would laugh to ſee her; ſhe is juſt like a little ſquirrel; ſhe will guard a cruſt for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for ſome time, dart on it with an aim as ſure as a bird of prey—nothing can equal her life and ſpirits. I ſuffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come ſoon to tell us that you do.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIV

Jan. 30.

From the purport of your laſt letters, I would ſuppoſe that this will ſcarcely reach you; and I have already written ſo many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleaſant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the ſame ground again. If you have received them, and are ſtill detained by new projects, it is uſeleſs for me to ſay any more on the ſubject. I have done with it for ever—yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary intereſt ſuffers by your abſence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have ſometimes burſt out. I therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to ſtay at home, leſt I ſhould have uttered unſeaſonable truths.

My child is well, and the ſpring will perhaps reſtore me to myſelf.—I have endured many inconveniences this winter, which ſhould I be aſhamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The ſecondary pleaſures of life," you ſay, "are very neceſſary to my comfort:" it may be ſo; but I have ever conſidered them as ſecondary. If therefore you accuſe me of wanting the reſolution neceſſary to bear the common[100-A] evils of life; I ſhould anſwer, that I have not faſhioned my mind to ſuſtain them, becauſe I would avoid them, coſt what it would——

Adieu!

* * * *

LETTER XXXV

February 9.

The melancholy preſentiment has for ſome time hung on my ſpirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to ſome other letters, which I ſuppoſe have miſcarried; for moſt of thoſe I have got, were only a few haſty lines, calculated to wound the tenderneſs the ſight of the ſuperſcriptions excited.

I mean not however to complain; yet ſo many feelings are ſtruggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almoſt burſting with anguiſh, that I find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.

You left me indiſpoſed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the moſt fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the laſt two months, have reduced me to a ſtate of weakneſs I never before experienced. Thoſe who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about ſuckling my child too long.—God preſerve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!

But I am wandering from my ſubject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this.

I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the ſad conſolation of knowing that I deſerved a better fate. My ſoul is weary—I am ſick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I would ceaſe to care about a life, which is now ſtripped of every charm.

You ſee how ſtupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant ſimply to tell you, that I conſider your requeſting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour.—Indeed, I ſcarcely underſtand you.—You requeſt me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.

When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.—I would ſhare poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the ſea of trouble on which you are entering.—I have certain principles of action: I know what I look for to found my happineſs on.—It is not money.—With you I wiſhed for ſufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is, leſs will do.—I can ſtill exert myſelf to obtain the neceſſaries of life for my child, and ſhe does not want more at preſent.—I have two or three plans in my head to earn our ſubſiſtence; for do not ſuppoſe that, neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would ſooner ſubmit to menial ſervice.—I wanted the ſupport of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I complained of ——'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he would have dragged you into his ſchemes.

I cannot write.—I incloſe a fragment of a letter, written ſoon after your departure, and another which tenderneſs made me keep back when it was written.—You will ſee then the ſentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment.—Do not inſult me by ſaying, that "our being together is paramount to every other conſideration!" Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.

Perhaps this is the laſt letter you will ever receive from me.

* * * *

LETTER XXXVI

Feb. 10.

You talk of "permanent views and future comfort"—not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the laſt winter have finiſhed the buſineſs, and my heart is not only broken, but my conſtitution deſtroyed. I conceive myſelf in a galloping conſumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold ſacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the ſame age, and they may be brought up together, as I wiſh her to be brought up. I ſhall write more fully on the ſubject. To facilitate this, I ſhall give up my preſent lodgings, and go into the ſame houſe. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I ſhall take one more, to pay my ſervant's wages, &c. and then I ſhall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I ſhall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.

—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yeſterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to ſtay. I had provoked it, it is true, by ſome aſperities againſt commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.

When you firſt entered into theſe plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thouſand pounds. It was ſufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourſelf, and that a certain ſituation in life is more neceſſary to you than you imagined—more neceſſary than an uncorrupted heart—For a year or two, you may procure yourſelf what you call pleaſure; eating, drinking, and women; but, in the ſolitude of declining life, I ſhall be remembered with regret—I was going to ſay with remorſe, but checked my pen.

As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your reputation will not ſuffer. I ſhall never have a confident: I am content with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a ſearcher of hearts, mine will not be deſpiſed. Reading what you have written relative to the deſertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be ſo different, till I recollected, that the ſentiments of paſſion, and the reſolves of reaſon, are very diſtinct. As to my ſiſters, as you are ſo continually hurried with buſineſs, you need not write to them—I ſhall, when my mind is calmer. God bleſs you! Adieu!

* * * *

This has been ſuch a period of barbarity and miſery, I ought not to complain of having my ſhare. I wiſh one moment that I had never heard of the cruelties that have been practiſed here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had ſuffered enough in life, not to be curſed with a fondneſs, that burns up the vital ſtream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were ſo, that I could forget my miſery—ſo that my head or heart would be ſtill.——

LETTER XXXVII

Feb. 19.

When I firſt received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt ſo hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickeſt effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the ſadder I grow. Society fatigues me inexpreſſibly—So much ſo, that finding fault with every one, I have only reaſon enough, to diſcover that the fault is in myſelf. My child alone intereſts me, and, but for her, I ſhould not take any pains to recover my health.

As it is, I ſhall wean her, and try if by that ſtep (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only ſolace) I can get rid of my cough. Phyſicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has ſuckled for ſome months. They lay a ſtreſs alſo on the neceſſity of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine been harraſſed! But whilſt the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not ſuffered to viſit them too rudely," I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off ſorrow or care from my boſom.

What ſacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not reſpect!—But I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not underſtand you. You ſay that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and I know that it will be neceſſary—nay, is. I cannot explain myſelf; but if you have not loſt your memory, you will eaſily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of ſeparations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely loſt all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almoſt amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!

Why is it ſo neceſſary that I ſhould return?—brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed ſome plans of uſefulneſs that have now vaniſhed with my hopes of happineſs.

In the bitterneſs of my heart, I could complain with reaſon, that I am left here dependent on a man, whoſe avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every ſentiment connected with ſocial or affectionate emotions.—With a brutal inſenſibility, he cannot help diſplaying the pleaſure your determination to ſtay gives him, in ſpite of the effect it is viſible it has had on me.

Till I can earn money, I ſhall endeavour to borrow ſome, for I want to avoid aſking him continually for the ſum neceſſary to maintain me.—Do not miſtake me, I have never been refuſed.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the houſe to aſk for it, and come away without ſpeaking——you muſt gueſs why—Beſides, I wiſh to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have ſacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be ſilent for ever.——

LETTER XXXVIII

April 7.

Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you, that you may expect me in the courſe of three or four days; for I ſhall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally ariſes from ſenſibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderneſs which glows in my boſom, without trembling, till I ſee, by your eyes, that it is mutual.

I ſit, loſt in thought, looking at the ſea—and tears ruſh into my eyes, when I find that I am cheriſhing any fond expectations.—I have indeed been ſo unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire freſh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.—Enough of this—lie ſtill, fooliſh heart!—But for the little girl, I could almoſt wiſh that it ſhould ceaſe to beat, to be no more alive to the anguiſh of diſappointment.

Sweet little creature! I deprived myſelf of my only pleaſure, when I weaned her, about ten days ago.—I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.—It was neceſſary it ſhould be done ſoon, and I did not wiſh to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.—It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it beſt to throw this inquietude with the reſt, into the ſack that I would fain throw over my ſhoulder.—I wiſhed to endure it alone, in ſhort—Yet, after ſending her to ſleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to ſleep in my boſom!

I ſuppoſe I ſhall find you, when I arrive, for I do not ſee any neceſſity for your coming to me.—Pray inform Mr. ———, that I have his little friend with me.—My wiſhing to oblige him, made me put myſelf to ſome inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irkſome to me, who have not quite as much philoſophy, I would not for the world ſay indifference, as you. God bleſs you!

Yours truly,                

* * * *

LETTER XXXIX

Brighthelmſtone, Saturday, April 11.

Here we are, my love, and mean to ſet out early in the morning; and, if I can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.—I ſhall drive to ———'s hotel, where ——— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope you will take care to be there to receive us.

I have brought with me Mr. ——'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my ſhare.—But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to meet ſoon?—What does your heart ſay!

Yours truly                

* * * *

I have weaned my ———, and ſhe is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL

London, Friday, May 22.

I have juſt received your affectionate letter, and am diſtreſſed to think that I have added to your embarraſſments at this troubleſome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be neceſſary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I ſuppoſe it was ſomething relative to the circumſtance you have mentioned, which made ——— requeſt to ſee me to-day, to converſe about a matter of great importance. Be that as it may, his letter (ſuch is the ſtate of my ſpirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the laſt night as diſtreſſing, as the two former had been.

I have laboured to calm my mind ſince you left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling ſo different from the reſignation of deſpair!—I am however no longer angry with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments which convince the reaſon, whilſt they carry death to the heart.—We have had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future proſpect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.—Let the ſubject never be revived!

It ſeems to me that I have not only loſt the hope, but the power of being happy.—Every emotion is now ſharpened by anguiſh.—My ſoul has been ſhook, and my tone of feelings deſtroyed.—I have gone out—and ſought for diſſipation, if not amuſement, merely to fatigue ſtill more, I find, my irritable nerves——

My friend—my dear friend—examine yourſelf well—I am out of the queſtion; for, alas! I am nothing—and diſcover what you wiſh to do—what will render you moſt comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you deſire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once aſcertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.

I ſhall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to aſſume a cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid converſations, which only tend to harraſs your feelings, becauſe I am moſt affectionately yours,

* * * *

LETTER XLI

Wedneſday.

I incloſe you the letter, which you deſired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wiſh you a good morning—not becauſe I am angry, or have nothing to ſay; but to keep down a wounded ſpirit.—I ſhall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a ſtrong conviction ſeems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically aſſures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.

God bleſs you!

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

LETTER XLII

—, Wedneſday, Two o'Clock.

We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not reſt quiet with any body but me, during the night—and now we are here in a comfortleſs, damp room, in a ſort of a tomb-like houſe. This however I ſhall quickly remedy, for, when I have finiſhed this letter, (which I muſt do immediately, becauſe the poſt goes out early), I ſhall ſally forth, and enquire about a veſſel and an inn.

I will not diſtreſs you by talking of the depreſſion of my ſpirits, or the ſtruggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to allow me to write with compoſure.—*****,—dear *****, —am I always to be toſſed about thus?—ſhall I never find an aſylum to reſt contented in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a new world—cold and ſtrange!—every other day? Why do you not attach thoſe tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing elſe is only humanity, electrified by ſympathy.

I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours ſincerely and affectionately

* * * *

——— is playing near me in high ſpirits. She was ſo pleaſed with the noiſe of the mail-horn, ſhe has been continually imitating it.——Adieu!

LETTER XLIII

Thurſday.

A lady has juſt ſent to offer to take me to ———. I have then only a moment to exclaim againſt the vague manner in which people give information

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared with the ſinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this painful ſtring—God bleſs you!

Yours truly,                

* * * *

LETTER XLIV

Friday, June 12.

I have juſt received yours dated the 9th, which I ſuppoſe was a miſtake, for it could ſcarcely have loitered ſo long on the road. The general obſervations which apply to the ſtate of your own mind, appear to me juſt, as far as they go; and I ſhall always conſider it as one of the moſt ſerious miſfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before ſatiety had rendered your ſenſes ſo faſtidious, as almoſt to cloſe up every tender avenue of ſentiment and affection that leads to your ſympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuoſity of inferior feelings, you have ſought in vulgar exceſſes, for that gratification which only the heart can beſtow.

The common run of men, I know, with ſtrong health and groſs appetites, muſt have variety to baniſh ennui, becauſe the imagination never lends its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according reaſon.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquiſite pleaſure, which ariſes from a uniſon of affection and deſire, when the whole ſoul and ſenſes are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; theſe are emotions, over which ſatiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even diſappointment cannot diſenchant; but they do not exiſt without ſelf-denial. Theſe emotions, more or leſs ſtrong, appear to me to be the diſtinctive characteriſtic of genius, the foundation of taſte, and of that exquiſite reliſh for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and child-begeters, certainly have no idea. You will ſmile at an obſervation that has juſt occurred to me:—I conſider thoſe minds as the moſt ſtrong and original, whoſe imagination acts as the ſtimulus to their ſenſes.

Well! you will aſk, what is the reſult of all this reaſoning? Why I cannot help thinking that it is poſſible for you, having great ſtrength of mind, to return to nature, and regain a ſanity of conſtitution, and purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.—I would fain reſt there!

Yet, convinced more than ever of the ſincerity and tenderneſs of my attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live has revived, are not ſufficiently ſtrong to diſſipate the cloud, that deſpair has ſpread over futurity. I have looked at the ſea, and at my child, hardly daring to own to myſelf the ſecret wiſh, that it might become our tomb; and that the heart, ſtill ſo alive to anguiſh, might there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thouſand complicated ſentiments preſs for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obſcure my ſight.

Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting happier than the laſt? Will you endeavour to reſtrain your caprices, in order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked ſentiments that nature intended ſhould expand your heart? I cannot indeed, without agony, think of your boſom's being continually contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhauſt my eyes, when I recollect why my child and I are forced to ſtray from the aſylum, in which, after ſo many ſtorms, I had hoped to reſt, ſmiling at angry fate.—Theſe are not common ſorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the ſhafts of diſappointment.

Examine now yourſelf, and aſcertain whether you can live in ſomething-like a ſettled ſtile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; conſider whether you find it neceſſary to ſacrifice me to what you term "the zeſt of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!

The train of thoughts which the writing of this epiſtle awoke, makes me ſo wretched, that I muſt take a walk, to rouſe and calm my mind. But firſt, let me tell you, that, if you really wiſh to promote my happineſs, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourſelf. You have great mental energy; and your judgment ſeems to me ſo juſt, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in diſcuſſing one ſubject.

The poſt does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I cannot yet ſay when the veſſel will ſail in which I have determined to depart.

Saturday Morning.

Your ſecond letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, in ſuppoſing that I did not mention you with reſpect; though, without my being conſcious of it, ſome ſparks of reſentment may have animated the gloom of deſpair—Yes; with leſs affection, I ſhould have been more reſpectful. However the regard which I have for you, is ſo unequivocal to myſelf, I imagine that it muſt be ſufficiently obvious to every body elſe. Beſides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ——, and that I deſtroyed from delicacy before you ſaw them, becauſe it was only written (of courſe warmly in your praiſe) to prevent any odium being thrown on you[133-A].

I am harraſſed by your embarraſſments, and ſhall certainly uſe all my efforts, to make the buſineſs terminate to your ſatiſfaction in which I am engaged.

My friend—my deareſt friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the moſt ſacred principles of my ſoul, and the yearns of—yes, I will ſay it—a true, unſophiſticated heart.

Yours moſt truly                

* * * *

If the wind be fair, the captain talks of ſailing on Monday; but I am afraid I ſhall be detained ſome days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want this ſupport) till you are ſure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any ſhould arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——'s friend, I promiſe you) from whom I have received great civilities, will ſend them after me.

Do write by every occaſion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; and, ſtill more, to be convinced that you are not ſeparating yourſelf from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourſelves?—I ſhall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will draw us more cloſely together. One more adieu!

LETTER XLV

Sunday, June 14.

I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wiſh you would not fail to write to me for a little time, becauſe I am not quite well—Whether I have any good ſleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling—and, in ſpite of all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues me, in which I ſeek for ſolace or amuſement.

Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a phyſician of this place; it was fortunate, for I ſhould otherwiſe have had ſome difficulty to obtain the neceſſary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather intereſting man.—They have behaved to me with great hoſpitality; and poor ——— was never ſo happy in her life, as amongſt their young brood.

They took me in their carriage to ———, and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have aſtoniſhed you.—The town did not pleaſe me quite ſo well as formerly—It appeared ſo diminutive; and, when I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the ſame houſes ever ſince I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilſt I was running over a world of ſorrow, ſnatching at pleaſure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at preſent am, is much improved; but it is aſtoniſhing what ſtrides ariſtocracy and fanaticiſm have made, ſince I reſided in this country.

The wind does not appear inclined to change, ſo I am ſtill forced to linger—When do you think that you ſhall be able to ſet out for France? I do not entirely like the aſpect of your affairs, and ſtill leſs your connections on either ſide of the water. Often do I ſigh, when I think of your entanglements in buſineſs, and your extreme reſtleſſneſs of mind.—Even now I am almoſt afraid to aſk you, whether the pleaſure of being free, does not over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me neceſſary to you—or why ſhould we meet again?—but, the moment after, deſpair damps my riſing ſpirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderneſs, which ought to ſoften the cares of life.——God bleſs you!

Yours ſincerely and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XLVI

June 15.

I want to know how you have ſettled with reſpect to ———. In ſhort, be very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The laſt time we were ſeparated, was a ſeparation indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuouſly, let the moſt affectionate interchange of ſentiments fill up the aching void of diſappointment. I almoſt dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet ſhould the moſt unlucky turn ſend you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a treaſure, I ſhould not much mind having to ſtruggle with the world again. Accuſe me not of pride—yet ſometimes, when nature has opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not ſet a higher value on my heart.

Receive a kiſs from ———, I was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours

Sincerely                

* * * *

The wind ſtill continues in the ſame quarter.

LETTER XLVII

Tueſday Morning.

The captain has juſt ſent to inform me, that I muſt be on board in the courſe of a few hours.—I wiſhed to have ſtayed till to-morrow. It would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you—Should one arrive, it will be ſent after me.

My ſpirits are agitated, I ſcarcely know why——The quitting England ſeems to be a freſh parting.—Surely you will not forget me.—A thouſand weak forebodings aſſault my ſoul, and the ſtate of my health renders me ſenſible to every thing. It is ſurpriſing that in London, in a continual conflict of mind, I was ſtill growing better—whilſt here, bowed down by the deſpotic hand of fate, forced into reſignation by deſpair, I ſeem to be fading away—periſhing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties.

The child is perfectly well. My hand ſeems unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this inexpreſſible ſadneſs has taken poſſeſſion of me.—It is not a preſentiment of ill. Yet, having been ſo perpetually the ſport of diſappointment,—having a heart that has been as it were a mark for miſery, I dread to meet wretchedneſs in ſome new ſhape.—Well, let it come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have ſo little to hope for! God bleſs you—I am moſt affectionately and ſincerely yours

* * * *

LETTER XLVIII

Wedneſday Morning.

I was hurried on board yeſterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midſt of miſts and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles.

You will ſcarcely ſuppoſe that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was even ſo—for I wiſhed to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with ſo much hoſpitality and kindneſs. They will probably ſend me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long.

The veſſel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other paſſengers, I have the cabin to myſelf, which is pleaſant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile wearineſs; but I ſeem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of ſuſpence in writing ſome effuſions, than in reading.

What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you anſwer theſe queſtions. My dear friend, my heart ſinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to ſtruggle continually with my affections and feelings?—Ah! why are thoſe affections and feelings the ſource of ſo much miſery, when they ſeem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my uſefulneſs! But I muſt not dwell on this ſubject.—Will you not endeavour to cheriſh all the affection you can for me? What am I ſaying?—Rather forget me, if you can—if other gratifications are dearer to you.—How is every remembrance of mine embittered by diſappointment? What a world is this!—They only ſeem happy, who never look beyond ſenſual or artificial enjoyments.—Adieu!

——— begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.—I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

LETTER XLIX

Thurſday.

Here I am ſtill—and I have juſt received your letter of Monday by the pilot, who promiſed to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind.—It is indeed weariſome to be thus toſſed about without going forward.—I have a violent head-ache—yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, becauſe ——— is unable to do any thing, ſhe is rendered ſo ſick by the motion of the ſhip, as we ride at anchor.

Theſe are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguiſh of mind—compared with the ſinking of a broken heart.—To tell you the truth, I never ſuffered in my life ſo much from depreſſion of ſpirits—from deſpair.—I do not ſleep—or, if I cloſe my eyes, it is to have the moſt terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different caſts of countenance.

I will not, my dear ———, torment you by dwelling on my ſufferings—and will uſe all my efforts to calm my mind, inſtead of deadening it—at preſent it is moſt painfully active. I find I am not equal to theſe continual ſtruggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me ſome comfort—and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you—when we meet again—ſurely we are to meet!—it muſt be to part no more. I mean not to have ſeas between us—it is more than I can ſupport.

The pilot is hurrying me—God bleſs you.

In ſpite of the commodiouſneſs of the veſſel, every thing here would diſguſt my ſenſes, had I nothing elſe to think of—"When the mind's free, the body's delicate;"—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.

Yours moſt truly                

* * * *

LETTER L

Saturday.

This is the fifth dreary day I have been impriſoned by the wind, with every outward object to diſguſt the ſenſes, and unable to baniſh the remembrances that ſadden my heart.

How am I altered by diſappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the elaſticity of my mind was ſufficient to ward off wearineſs—and the imagination ſtill could dip her bruſh in the rainbow of fancy, and ſketch futurity in ſmiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in ſearch of ſunbeams!—Will any ever warm this deſolated heart? All nature ſeems to frown—or rather mourn with me.—Every thing is cold—cold as my expectations! Before I left the ſhore, tormented, as I now am, by theſe North eaſt chillers, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious Heaven! at leaſt, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that ſtill warms this agitated boſom—compelling life to linger there.

I am now going on ſhore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to ſeek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk—after which I hope to ſleep—for, confined here, ſurrounded by diſagreeable ſmells, I have loſt the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almoſt drives me to the brink of madneſs—only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feveriſh ſlumbers I ſometimes fall into, the miſery I am labouring to blunt the the ſenſe of, by every exertion in my power.

Poor ——— ſtill continues ſick, and ——— grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.

I hope this will be the laſt letter I ſhall write from England to you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER LI

Sunday Morning.

The captain laſt night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to paſs to-day. We had a troubleſome ſail—and now I muſt hurry on board again, for the wind has changed.

I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one haphazard, it would have been kind and conſiderate—you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. Theſe are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of ſervice—But why do I fooliſhly continue to look for them?

Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendſhip is very cold—you ſee I am hurt.—God bleſs you! I may perhaps be, ſome time or other, independent in every ſenſe of the word—Ah! there is but one ſenſe of it of conſequence. I will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

The child is well; I did not leave her on board.

LETTER LII

June 27, Saturday.

I arrived in ——— this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at ——. I have now but a moment, before the poſt goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without conſiderable difficulty, for we were ſet aſhore in a boat above twenty miles below.

What I ſuffered in the veſſel I will not now deſcant upon—nor mention the pleaſure I received from the ſight of the rocky coaſt.—This morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to tranſport us to this place, I fell, without any previous warning, ſenſeleſs on the rocks—and how I eſcaped with life I can ſcarcely gueſs. I was in a ſtupour for a quarter of an hour; the ſuffuſion of blood at laſt reſtored me to my ſenſes—the contuſion is great, and my brain confuſed. The child is well.

Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has ſufficiently deranged me—and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere ſtables—I muſt nevertheleſs go to bed. For God's ſake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well and yet you ſee I cannot die.

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

LETTER LIII

June 29.

I wrote to you by the laſt poſt, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ſhip-board, owing to ———'s illneſs, and the roughneſs of the weather—I likewiſe mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I ſtill feel, though I do not think it will have any ſerious conſequences.

——— will go with me, if I find it neceſſary to go to ———. The inns here are ſo bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his houſe. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all ſides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuſe me, from which I cannot eſcape.

My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of ſorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again toſſed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," appears to me all the buſtle into which I ſee people here ſo eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my boſom that never ſleeps.

* * * *

LETTER LIV

July 1.

I labour in vain to calm my mind—my ſoul has been overwhelmed by ſorrow and diſappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot laſt long. It is you who muſt determine with reſpect to futurity—and, when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we muſt either reſolve to live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear theſe continual ſtruggles—But I wiſh you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and, if you perceive the leaſt chance of being happier without me than with me, or if your inclination leans capriciouſly to that ſide, do not diſſemble; but tell me frankly that you will never ſee me more. I will then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we muſt either live together, or I will be entirely independent.

My heart is ſo oppreſſed, I cannot write with preciſion—You know however that what I ſo imperfectly expreſs, are not the crude ſentiments of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the conſolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tendereſt friendſhip is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of ſatiſfaction that heartleſs affections cannot beſtow?

Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Baſle?—I ſhall, I ſhould imagine, be at ——— before the cloſe of Auguſt; and, after you ſettle your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?

God bleſs you!

Yours truly                

* * * *

Poor ——— has ſuffered during the journey with her teeth.

LETTER LV

July 3.

There was a gloomineſs diffuſed through your laſt letter, the impreſſion of which ſtill reſts on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myſelf it has long ſince given place to your uſual cheerfulneſs.

Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderneſs as I aſſure you) there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than diſturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my ſorrows in my own boſom; and you ſhall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.

I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cheriſh this affection without fear, becauſe it muſt be a long time before it can become bitterneſs of ſoul.—She is an intereſting creature.—On ſhip-board, how often as I gazed at the ſea, have I longed to bury my troubled boſom in the leſs troubled deep; aſſerting with Brutus, "that the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but the ſight of her—her playful ſmiles, which ſeemed to cling and twine round my heart—could have ſtopped me.

What peculiar miſery has fallen to my ſhare! To act up to my principles, I have laid the ſtricteſt reſtraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to ſully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and ſtarted with affright from every ſenſation, (I allude to ——) that ſtealing with balmy ſweetneſs into my ſoul, led me to ſcent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.

My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love, in ſome minds, is an affair of ſentiment, ariſing from the ſame delicacy of perception (or taſte) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to the charms of thoſe evaneſcent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they muſt be felt, they cannot be deſcribed.

Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myſelf lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming at tranquillity, I have almoſt deſtroyed all the energy of my ſoul—almoſt rooted out what renders it eſtimable—Yes, I have damped that enthuſiaſm of character, which converts the groſſeſt materials into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aſpire above common enjoyment. Deſpair, ſince the birth of my child, has rendered me ſtupid—ſoul and body ſeemed to be fading away before the withering touch of diſappointment.

I am now endeavouring to recover myſelf—and ſuch is the elaſticity of my conſtitution, and the purity of the atmoſphere here, that health unſought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.

I have the ſincereſt eſteem and affection for you—but the deſire of regaining peace, (do you underſtand me?) has made me forget the reſpect due to my own emotions—ſacred emotions, that are the ſure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy—and ſhall enjoy, for nothing can extinguiſh the heavenly ſpark.

Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promiſe you. I bluſh when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound myſelf with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.—I will liſten to delicacy, or pride.

LETTER LVI

July 4.

I hope to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My deareſt friend! I cannot tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance ſtings me to the ſoul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of character, that have given ſuch a cruel ſtab to my peace.

Still however I am more alive, than you have ſeen me for a long, long time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing ſtupour that, for the laſt year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of my reaſon—for, in ſpite of ſadneſs (and ſurely I have had my ſhare), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I ſleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really ſurpriſes me.—The roſy fingers of health already ſtreak my cheeks—and I have ſeen a phyſical life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that reſembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth.

With what a cruel ſigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!—Reaſon, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ———'s pleaſures; ſhe plays all day in the garden with ———'s children, and makes friends for herſelf.

Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more ſentiment?—why are you a creature of ſuch ſympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickneſs of your ſenſes, hardens your heart? It is my miſfortune, that my imagination is perpetually ſhading your defects, and lending you charms, whilſt the groſſneſs of your ſenſes makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the ſenſibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bleſs you! Adieu.

LETTER LVII

July 7.

I could not help feeling extremely mortified laſt poſt, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at ——— was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.

I ſhall not however complain—There are miſfortunes ſo great, as to ſilence the uſual expreſſions of ſorrow—Believe me, there is ſuch a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whoſe very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cheriſh by reflection ſome paſſion, cannot reſt ſatiſfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myſelf, and launched into all the diſſipation poſſible here, only to feel keener anguiſh, when alone with my child.

Still, could any thing pleaſe me—had not diſappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, theſe fine evenings, would intereſt me.—My God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful ſenſations?—But it cannot—it ſhall not laſt long.

The poſt is again arrived; I have ſent to ſeek for letters, only to be wounded to the ſoul by a negative.—My brain ſeems on fire, I muſt go into the air.

* * * *

LETTER LVIII

July 14.

I am now on my journey to ———. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I ſhould—and, whilſt at night I imagined every inſtant that I heard the half-formed ſounds of her voice,—I aſked myſelf how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpleſs?

Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the winds to the ſhorn lamb!" but how can I expect that ſhe will be ſhielded, when my naked boſom has had to brave continually the pitileſs ſtorm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of diſappointed affection, and the horror ariſing from a diſcovery of a breach of confidence, that ſnaps every ſocial tie!

All is not right ſomewhere!—When you firſt knew me, I was not thus loſt. I could ſtill confide—for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilſt my happineſs, you tell me, was your firſt object. Strange want of judgment!

I will not complain; but, from the ſoundneſs of your underſtanding, I am convinced, if you give yourſelf leave to reflect, you will alſo feel, that your conduct to me, ſo far from being generous, has not been juſt.—I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the ſimple baſis of all rectitude.—However I did not intend to argue—Your not writing is cruel—and my reaſon is perhaps diſturbed by conſtant wretchedneſs.

Poor ——— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderneſs; for my fainting, or rather convulſion, when I landed, and my ſudden changes of countenance ſince, have alarmed her ſo much, that ſhe is perpetually afraid of ſome accident—But it would have injured the child this warm ſeaſon, as ſhe is cutting her teeth.

I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you pleaſe—there is nothing I fear or care for! When I ſee whether I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply.

LETTER LIX

July 18.

I am here in ——, ſeparated from my child—and here I muſt remain a month at leaſt, or I might as well never have come.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I have begun ———— which will, I hope, diſcharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.—I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it ſooner.

I ſhall make no further comments on your ſilence. God bleſs you!

* * * *

LETTER LX

July 30.

I have juſt received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you muſt have received ſeveral from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your ſilence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have ſuffered, God knows, ſince I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of ſickneſs of heart!—My mind however is at preſent painfully active, and the ſympathy I feel almoſt riſes to agony. But this is not a ſubject of complaint, it has afforded me pleaſure,—and reflected pleaſure is all I have to hope for—if a ſpark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn boſom.

I will try to write with a degree of compoſure. I wiſh for us to live together, becauſe I want you to acquire an habitual tenderneſs for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that ſhe ſhould only be protected by your ſenſe of duty. Next to preſerving her, my moſt earneſt wiſh is not to diſturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life—There are wounds that can never be healed—but they may be allowed to feſter in ſilence without wincing.

When we meet again, you ſhall be convinced that I have more reſolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am deſtined always to be diſappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguiſh I cannot diſſipate; and the tightened cord of life or reaſon will at laſt ſnap, and ſet me free.

Yes; I ſhall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliſs its feelings anticipate—and I cannot even perſuade myſelf, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and ſentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with theſe ſubjects.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I have been ſeriouſly employed in this way ſince I came to ——; yet I never was ſo much in the air.—I walk, I ride on horſeback—row, bathe, and even ſleep in the fields; my health is conſequently improved. The child, ——— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.

Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myſelf, I could wiſh you to return to me, poor, with the ſimplicity of character, part of which you ſeem lately to have loſt, that firſt attached to you.

Yours moſt affectionately            

* * * *    * * * * *

I have been ſubſcribing other letters—ſo I mechanically did the ſame to yours.

LETTER LXI

Auguſt 5.

Employment and exerciſe have been of great ſervice to me; and I have entirely recovered the ſtrength and activity I loſt during the time of my nurſing. I have ſeldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguiſh, is calmer—yet ſtill the ſame.—I have, it is true, enjoyed ſome tranquillity, and more happineſs here, than for a long—long time paſt.—(I ſay happineſs, for I can give no other appellation to the exquiſite delight this wild country and fine ſummer have afforded me.)—Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is ſo conſtituted, I cannot live without ſome particular affection—I am afraid not without a paſſion—and I feel the want of it more in ſociety, than in ſolitude—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs—my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand ſtops—you may then depend on my reſolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguiſh in my own boſom—tenderneſs, rather than paſſion, has made me ſometimes overlook delicacy—the ſame tenderneſs will in future reſtrain me. God bleſs you!

LETTER LXII

Auguſt 7.

Air, exerciſe, and bathing, have reſtored me to health, braced my muſcles, and covered my ribs, even whilſt I have recovered my former activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have ſnatched ſome moments of exquiſite delight, wandering through the woods, and reſting on the rocks.

This ſtate of ſuſpenſe, my friend, is intolerable; we muſt determine on ſomething—and ſoon;—we muſt meet ſhortly, or part for ever. I am ſenſible that I acted fooliſhly—but I was wretched—when we were together—Expecting too much, I let the pleaſure I might have caught, ſlip from me. I cannot live with you—I ought not—if you form another attachment. But I promiſe you, mine ſhall not be intruded on you. Little reaſon have I to expect a ſhadow of happineſs, after the cruel diſappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child ſeems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wiſh you to ſacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it ſhall be my object—if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection muſt not be divided. She muſt be a comfort to me—if I am to have no other—and only know me as her ſupport.—I feel that I cannot endure the anguiſh of correſponding with you—if we are only to correſpond.—No; if you ſeek for happineſs elſewhere, my letters ſhall not interrupt your repoſe. I will be dead to you. I cannot expreſs to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal ſeparation.—You muſt determine—examine yourſelf—But, for God's ſake! ſpare me the anxiety of uncertainty!—I may ſink under the trial; but I will not complain.

Adieu! If I had any thing more to ſay to you, it is all flown, and abſorbed by the moſt tormenting apprehenſions, yet I ſcarcely know what new form of miſery I have to dread.

I ought to beg your pardon for having ſometimes written peeviſhly; but you will impute it to affection, if you underſtand any thing of the heart of

Yours truly                

* * * *

LETTER LXIII

Auguſt 9.

Five of your letters have been ſent after me from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was written in a ſtyle which I may have merited, but did not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to aſſure you that you ſhall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am diſguſted with myſelf for having ſo long importuned you with my affection.——

My child is very well. We ſhall ſoon meet, to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.—I ſhall wait with ſome degree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate.

Yours ſincerely                

* * * *

LETTER LXIV

Auguſt 26.

I arrived here laſt night, and with the moſt exquiſite delight, once more preſſed my babe to my heart. We ſhall part no more. You perhaps cannot conceive the pleaſure it gave me, to ſee her run about, and play alone. Her increaſing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promiſed her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future ſhall make me forget it. I will alſo exert myſelf to obtain an independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.

I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated conſtitution. As for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment ſo termed.—

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not deſcribe the effect yours have on me. I received three this morning, the laſt dated the 7th of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.—Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world, and foſtered ſentiments that you do not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compaſſion—a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exiſt: I will never remind you. Something emphatical whiſpers me to put an end to theſe ſtruggles. Be free—I will not torment, when I cannot pleaſe. I can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inſeparable, that you will try to cheriſh tenderneſs for me. Do no violence to yourſelf! When we are ſeparated, our intereſt, ſince you give ſo much weight to pecuniary conſiderations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and ſupport I need not, whilſt my faculties are undiſturbed. I had a diſlike to living in England; but painful feelings muſt give way to ſuperior conſiderations. I may not be able to acquire the ſum neceſſary to maintain my child and ſelf elſewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I ſhall not remain at ——, living expenſively. But be not alarmed! I ſhall not force myſelf on you any more.

Adieu! I am agitated—my whole frame is convulſed—my lips tremble, as if ſhook by cold, though fire ſeems to be circulating in my veins.

God bleſs you.

* * * *

LETTER LXV

September 6.

I received juſt now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter laſt night, into which imperceptibly ſlipt ſome of my bitterneſs of ſoul. I will copy the part relative to buſineſs. I am not ſufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and repoſe on the idea that I am happy.

Gracious God! It is impoſſible for me to ſtifle ſomething like reſentment, when I receive freſh proofs of your indifference. What I have ſuffered this laſt year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy ſubſtitute for wiſdom, inſenſibility—and the lively ſympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleaſure and I have ſhaken hands.

I ſee here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converſe with people immerſed in trade and ſenſuality.

I am weary of travelling—yet ſeem to have no home—no reſting place to look to.—I am ſtrangely caſt off.—How often, paſſing through the rocks, I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature—I have never met with one, ſofter than the ſtone that I would fain take for my laſt pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a deluſion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle—and, when I am conſcious that I have fulfilled the duties of my ſtation, almoſt to a forgetfulneſs of myſelf, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus abandoned?"

You ſay now    —    —    —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do not underſtand you. It is neceſſary for you to write more explicitly—and determine on ſome mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this ſuſpenſe—Decide—Do you fear to ſtrike another blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I ſhall not write to you again, till I receive an anſwer to this. I muſt compoſe my tortured ſoul, before I write on indifferent ſubjects.    —    —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is diſturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out what you mean to ſay—You write, I ſuppoſe, at Mr. ——'s after dinner, when your head is not the cleareſt—and as for your heart, if you have one, I ſee nothing like the dictates of affection, unleſs a glimpſe when you mention, the child.—Adieu!

LETTER LXVI

September 25.

I have juſt finiſhed a letter, to be given in charge to captain ———. In that I complained of your ſilence, and expreſſed my ſurpriſe that three mails ſhould have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I cloſed it, I hear of another, and ſtill no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this ſilence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ——— remained a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the ſame—and quickly. Do not leave me in ſuſpenſe. I have not deſerved this of you. I cannot write, my mind is ſo diſtreſſed. Adieu!

* * * *

END VOL. III.

FOOTNOTES:

[4-A] The child is in a ſubſequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a ſuppoſition that ſhe owed her exiſtence to this interview.

editor.

[7-A] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a ſeparation of ſeveral months; the date, Paris.

[27-A] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a ſimilar ſtrain to the preceding, appear to have been deſtroyed by the perſon to whom they were addreſſed.

[47-A] The child ſpoken of in ſome preceding letters, had now been born a conſiderable time.

[50-A] She means, "the latter more than the former."

editor.

[58-A] This is the firſt of a ſeries of letters written during a ſeparation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever ſucceeded. They were ſent from Paris, and bear the addreſs of London.

[91-A] The perſon to whom the letters are addreſſed, was about this time at Ramſgate, on his return, as he profeſſed, to Paris, when he was recalled, as it ſhould ſeem, to London, by the further preſſure of buſineſs now accumulated upon him.

[100-A] This probably alludes to ſome expreſſion of the perſon to whom the letters are addreſſed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter writer was diſpoſed to beſtow a different appellation.

editor.

[133-A] This paſſage refers to letters written under a purpoſe of ſuicide, and not intended to be opened till after the cataſtrophe.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. IV.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

LETTERS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

ERRATA.

Page 10, line 8, for I write you, read I write to you.

—— 20, — 9, read bring them to ——.

—— 146, — 2 from the bottom, after over, insert a comma.

CONTENTS.

| Page
Letters | 1
Letter on the Present Character of the French Nation | 39
Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants | 55
Letters to Mr. Johnson | 61
Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale | 99
On Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature | 159
Hints | 179

LETTERS.

LETTER LXVII

September 27.

When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.

By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine, from ———, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your shoulders.

I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you decide.

The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I submit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for a momentary gratification.

I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, till I see or hear from you.

Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be like the last, to write to Mr. ——— to procure me an obscure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.

Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry shall enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to such society as she will like—and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at his port.

* * * *

I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to go to. Captain ——— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see you, though it be for the last time.

LETTER LXVIII

Sunday, October 4.

I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ———; but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.

You say, I must decide for myself.—I had decided, that it was most for the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.

From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed some new attachment.—If it be so, let me earnestly request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle about a mere form.

I am labouring to write with calmness—but the extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses me.—On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation.—Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.

I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.

Do not keep me in suspense.—I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life—but life will have an end!

Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ———. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER LXIX

I write you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——, section de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.

Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.

Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I forced from her—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived together.

I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.

God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.

* * * *

LETTER LXX

Sunday Morning.

I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.

You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long since.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.

It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity—It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.

Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.

I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you again.—Adieu!

God bless you!

* * * *

LETTER LXXI

Monday Morning.

I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness.—You are now perfectly free.—God bless you.

* * * *

LETTER LXXIII

Saturday Night.

I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.—You ask "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.—

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finished.—It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

* * * *

Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.

LETTER LXXIV

Thursday Afternoon.

Mr. ——— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, I have to request you to let ——— bring them onto ———.

I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business.—And, whatever I may think, and feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child.—I only mean by this to say, that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.

Farewel.        

* * * *

LETTER LXXV

London, November 27.

The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.—I had thrown the letters aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.

My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my sufferings.

In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to conceal in total solitude.—My life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.

But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, "that I shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But is it not possible that passion clouds your reason, as much as it does mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the expectations you have excited?

My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you now seem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.

I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am miserable!

It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my social feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that existence is a burthen without it.

I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.—God bless you!

* * * *

I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.——You seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled. Do you judge coolly, and I trust you will not continue to call those capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a father!—If your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!

Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ———'s conduct—I am convinced you will not always justify your own.

Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle require such sacrifices?

LETTER LXXVI

London, December 8.

Having just been informed that ——— is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain that my last, by Dover has reached you.

Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.

That I have not been used well I must ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.

I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.—Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are sacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.

The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it seems to me, when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.—You will feel something like remorse, for having lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present conduct. You do, you must, respect me—and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem.

You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared up by time.

You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.—I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleasure.

Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I thought your property in jeopardy.—When I went to ————, I requested you, if you could conveniently, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not discharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendship—or generosity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for you.—God bless you.

* * * *

LETTER LXXVII

As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!

I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.

You tell me "that I torment you."—Why do I?——Because you cannot estrange your heart entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on my side. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."—It was not.—When your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with these words, "Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."

With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourself.

————, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.—You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.

In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every thing to your generosity—but, for God's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!—Let me see you once more!—

LETTER LXXVIII

You must do as you please with respect to the child.—I could wish that it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finished.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no consequence.—I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.

I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.

That there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped—for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.

The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come.—Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.

It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.

I part with you in peace.

LETTER

ON THE

PRESENT CHARACTER

OF THE

FRENCH NATION.

LETTER

Introductory to a Series of Letters on the Present Character of the French Nation.

Paris, February 15, 1793.

        My dear friend,

It is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind, to guard as carefully the remembrance of the first impression made by a nation, as by a countenance; because we imperceptibly lose sight of the national character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then useless or presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered Paris, the striking contrast of riches and poverty, elegance and slovenliness, urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and saddened my soul; and these impressions are still the foundation of my remarks on the manners, which flatter the senses, more than they interest the heart, and yet excite more interest than esteem.

The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all sides they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they trifle their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how to wish them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me like motes in a sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English head, searching for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of pleasure, the volatile sweets of the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true, rises from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation of spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burthen of life, which reason too often weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder to the other.

Investigating the modification of the passion, as I would analyze the elements that give a form to dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to their source the causes which have combined to render this nation the most polished, in a physical sense, and probably the most superficial in the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or so effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of sensuality?

The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of, when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey. Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and, giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances which have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light on the history of man, and on the present important subjects of discussion.

I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the government rendered less venal. Still it is not just to dwell on the misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the standing evils of the old system. I am grieved—sorely grieved—when I think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through which the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear, and I hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of providence, sweeping in such various directions the besom of destruction over the sons of men.

Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on by misery. But now, the perspective of the golden age, fading before the attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and, losing thus in part my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the first glance seems to be levelled against the existence of God! I am not become an Atheist, I assure you, by residing at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the passions are justly poized, we become harmless, and in the same proportion useless.

The wants of reason are very few; and, were we to consider dispassionately the real value of most things, we should probably rest satisfied with the simple gratification of our physical necessities, and be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently, only that wanton, the Imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside every obstacle merely to catch a disappointment.

The desire also of being useful to others, is continually damped by experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in some measure their own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle with care, to make some people ungrateful, and others idle?

You will call these melancholy effusions, and guess that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all the bustling folly of childhood, without the innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too severe in my strictures. It may be so; and I am aware that the good effects of the revolution will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of Epicurus has long been at work to root out the simple emotions of the heart, which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government fostered, is it surprising that simplicity of manners, and singleness of heart, rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so passing sweet?

Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have shot, I sometimes ask, with a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners which has hitherto been maintained unsullied only by the keen air of poverty, when, emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity are become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe, that little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which seems every where to be shoving aside the point of honour of the noblesse. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect muddied water to become clear before it has had time to stand; yet, even for the moment, it is the most terrific of all sights, to see men vicious without warmth—to see the order that should be the superscription of virtue, cultivated to give security to crimes which only thoughtlessness could palliate. Disorder is, in fact, the very essence of vice, though with the wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions often kindly mix to soften their atrocity. Thus humanity, generosity, and even self-denial, sometimes render a character grand, and even useful, when hurried away by lawless passions; but what can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himself alone, and considering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleasure, never forgets that honesty is the best policy? Keeping ever within the pale of the law, he crushes his thousands with impunity; but it is with that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a significant vulgarism, a villain in grain. The very excess of his depravation preserves him, whilst the more respectable beast of prey, who prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a snare.

You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government, yet it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every thing whispers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I see that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to corrupt the new. For the same pride of office, the same desire of power are still visible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to obscurity after having but just acquired a relish for distinction, each hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with these new titles, endeavours to make hay while the sun shines; and every petty municipal officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, stalks like a cock on a dunghil.

I shall now conclude this desultory letter; which however will enable you to foresee that I shall treat more of morals than manners.

Yours ———                

FRAGMENT

OF

LETTERS

ON THE

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

CONTENTS.

Introductory Letter.

Letter II. Management of the Mother during pregnancy: bathing.

Letter III. Lying-in.

Letter IV. The first month: diet: clothing.

Letter V. The three following months.

Letter VI. The remainder of the first year.

Letter VII. The second year, &c: conclusion.

LETTERS

ON THE

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

LETTER I

I ought to apologize 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 show 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 error 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 them that the lower imperceptibly gains improvement. Custom, produced by reason in one, may safely be the effect of imitation in the other.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

LETTERS

TO

Mr. JOHNSON,

BOOKSELLER,

IN

St. PAUL's CHURCH-YARD.

LETTERS

TO

Mr. JOHNSON.

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.

        My dear sir,

Since I saw you, I have, literally speaking, enjoyed solitude. My sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone, by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and pleasure grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I caught tranquillity while I surveyed them—my mind was still, though active. Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile.—I found an old French bible here, and amused myself with comparing it with our English translation; then I would listen to the falling leaves, or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them—At other times, the singing of a robin, or the noise of a water-mill, engaged my attention—partial attention—, for I was, at the same time perhaps discussing some knotty point, or straying from this tiny world to new systems. After these excursions, I returned to the family meals, told the children stories (they think me vastly agreeable), and my sister was amused.—Well, will you allow me to call this way of passing my days pleasant?

I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, lest my sister should try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am determined!—Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do, any thing of consequence, that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In the course of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some experience, and felt many severe disappointments—and what is the amount? I long for a little peace and independence! Every obligation we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of grovelling!

I am, sir, yours, &c.    

mary wollstonecraft.

LETTER III

Market Harborough, Sept. 20.

        My dear sir,

You left me with three opulent tradesmen; their conversation was not calculated to beguile the way, when the sable curtain concealed the beauties of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade—and shrunk away, without wishing to grow rich; even the novelty of the subjects did not render them pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in all their different forms—I was not surprised by any glimpse of the sublime, or beautiful—though one of them imagined I would be a useful partner in a good firm. I was very much fatigued, and have scarcely recovered myself. I do not expect to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful emotions are complicated with the reflections they give rise to.

I do not intend to enter on the old topic, yet hope to hear from you—and am yours, &c.

mary wollstonecraft.

LETTER IV

Friday Night.

        My dear sir,

Though your remarks are generally judicious—I cannot now concur with you, I mean with respect to the preface[67-A], and have not altered it. I hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule only extends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious parents who may peruse my book, will not feel themselves hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is said in a book intended for children.

I return you the Italian MS.—but do not hastily imagine that I am indolent. I would not spare any labour to do my duty—and, after the most laborious day, that single thought would solace me more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the MS. well. If it was not a MS, I should not be so easily intimidated; but the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first setting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot do well—and I should lose time in the vain attempt.

I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret[69-A].—With all a mother's fondness I could transcribe a part of it—She says, every day her affection to me, and dependence on heaven increase, &c.—I miss her innocent caresses—and sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my childless age—if I am to live to be old.—At any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not contemplate—and my reason may permit me to love a female.—I now allude to ———. I have received another letter from her, and her childish complaints vex me—indeed they do—As usual, good-night.

mary.

If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the stories; for, what are books—compared to conversations which affection inforces!—

LETTER V

        My dear sir,

Remember you are to settle my account, as I want to know how much I am in your debt—but do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that score. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me for a like civility, but you were a man before you were a bookseller—so I am your sincere friend,

mary.

LETTER VI

Friday Morning.

I am sick with vexation—and wish I could knock my foolish head against the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with myself, and I will tell you the cause.—You may recollect that I did not mention to you the circumstance of ——— having a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it drop from me when I conversed with my sister; because I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when his character was aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, last Tuesday, he told him all—and the boy at B——'s gave Mrs. ——— an account of it. As Mr. ——— knew he had only made a confident of me (I blush to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning came (not to reproach me, I wish he had!) but to point out the injury I have done him.—Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse him, if I deny myself the necessaries of life—and even then my folly will sting me.—Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at this moment endure—that I, whose power of doing good is so limited, should do harm, galls my very soul. ****** may laugh at these qualms—but, supposing Mr. ——— to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame. Surely it is hell to despise one's self!—I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this month—nor stir out.—My stomach has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.

mary wollstonecraft.

LETTER VII

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 shows. The Critical appears to me 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 recollected 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 is grown so heavy, I find it intolerably troublesome.——Good-night! 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—

mary w.

LETTER X

Monday Morning.

I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that language—and I will tell you the reason why.—While I live, I am persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an independence, and render myself useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind with knowledge—The seed time is passing away. I see the necessity of labouring now—and of that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary, I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw my pleasures from the employments that are within my reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly grateful to you—without your humane and delicate assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had to encounter—too often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom I wish to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a being I respect.—Adieu!

mary w.

LETTER XI

I thought you very unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares and vexations—I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as they arise from my disinterestedness and unbending principles; nor can that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present comfort.—Dr. Johnson's cares almost drove him mad—but, I suppose, you would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have done with insensible human wisdom,—"indifference cold in wisdom's guise,"—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o'clock, only thinking of getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—The struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a disagreeable way.

Mr. ——— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for calling[82-A]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house before it occurred to me in the strong light it does now, or I should have told him so—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a superficial puppy.—His intimacy with Miss ——— gave him a privilege, which he should not have assumed with me—a proposal might be made to his cousin, a milliner's girl, which should not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wish to see him again!—When I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body—but it shall never bend to support that body—God of heaven, save thy child from this living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very sick—sick at heart.——

mary.

LETTER XII

Tuesday Evening.

        Sir,

When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—your officious message, which at first appeared to me a joke—looked so very like an insult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the necessity of forcing a smile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earliest opportunity of informing you of my real sentiments.

mary wollstonecraft.

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.

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 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 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.

LETTER XVI

Paris, December 26, 1792.

I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not dare to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was not mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine o'clock this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an insulting gesture.—For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images that have filled my imagination all the day.—Nay, do not smile, but pity me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes glare through a glass-door opposite my chair and bloody hands shook at me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear.—My apartments are remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another.—I wish I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to see something alive; death in so many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy.—I am going to bed—and, for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.

m. w.

FOOTNOTES:

[67-A] To Original Stories.

[69-A] Countess Mount Cashel.

[82-A] This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.

EXTRACT

OF THE

CAVE OF FANCY.

A TALE.

[Begun to be written in the year 1787, but never completed]

CAVE OF FANCY.

CHAP. I.

Ye who expect constancy where every thing is changing, and peace in the midst of tumult, attend to the voice of experience, and mark in time the footsteps of disappointment, or life will be lost in desultory wishes, and death arrive before the dawn of wisdom.

In a sequestered valley, surrounded by rocky mountains that intercepted many of the passing clouds, though sunbeams variegated their ample sides, lived a sage, to whom nature had unlocked her most hidden secrets. His hollow eyes, sunk in their orbits, retired from the view of vulgar objects, and turned inwards, overleaped the boundary prescribed to human knowledge. Intense thinking during fourscore and ten years, had whitened the scattered locks on his head, which, like the summit of the distant mountain, appeared to be bound by an eternal frost.

On the sandy waste behind the mountains, the track of ferocious beasts might be traced, and sometimes the mangled limbs which they left, attracted a hovering flight of birds of prey. An extensive wood the sage had forced to rear its head in a soil by no means congenial, and the firm trunks of the trees seemed to frown with defiance on time; though the spoils of innumerable summers covered the roots, which resembled fangs; so closely did they cling to the unfriendly sand, where serpents hissed, and snakes, rolling out their vast folds, inhaled the noxious vapours. The ravens and owls who inhabited the solitude, gave also a thicker gloom to the everlasting twilight, and the croaking of the former a monotony, in unison with the gloom; whilst lions and tygers, shunning even this faint semblance of day, sought the dark caverns, and at night, when they shook off sleep, their roaring would make the whole valley resound, confounded with the screechings of the bird of night.

One mountain rose sublime, towering above all, on the craggy sides of which a few sea-weeds grew, washed by the ocean, that with tumultuous roar rushed to assault, and even undermine, the huge barrier that stopped its progress; and ever and anon a ponderous mass, loosened from the cliff, to which it scarcely seemed to adhere, always threatening to fall, fell into the flood, rebounding as it fell, and the sound was re-echoed from rock to rock. Look where you would, all was without form, as if nature, suddenly stopping her hand, had left chaos a retreat.

Close to the most remote side of it was the sage's abode. It was a rude hut, formed of stumps of trees and matted twigs, to secure him from the inclemency of the weather; only through small apertures crossed with rushes, the wind entered in wild murmurs, modulated by these obstructions. A clear spring broke out of the middle of the adjacent rock, which, dropping slowly into a cavity it had hollowed, soon overflowed, and then ran, struggling to free itself from the cumbrous fragments, till, become a deep, silent stream, it escaped through reeds, and roots of trees, whose blasted tops overhung and darkened the current.

One side of the hut was supported by the rock, and at midnight, when the sage struck the inclosed part, it yawned wide, and admitted him into a cavern in the very bowels of the earth, where never human foot before had trod; and the various spirits, which inhabit the different regions of nature, were here obedient to his potent word. The cavern had been formed by the great inundation of waters, when the approach of a comet forced them from their source; then, when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, a stream rushed out of the centre of the earth, where the spirits, who have lived on it, are confined to purify themselves from the dross contracted in their first stage of existence; and it flowed in black waves, for ever bubbling along the cave, the extent of which had never been explored. From the sides and top, water distilled, and, petrifying as it fell, took fantastic shapes, that soon divided it into apartments, if so they might be called. In the foam, a wearied spirit would sometimes rise, to catch the most distant glimpse of light, or taste the vagrant breeze, which the yawning of the rock admitted, when Sagestus, for that was the name of the hoary sage, entered. Some, who were refined and almost cleared from vicious spots, he would allow to leave, for a limited time, their dark prison-house; and, flying on the winds across the bleak northern ocean, or rising in an exhalation till they reached a sun-beam, they thus re-visited the haunts of men. These were the guardian angels, who in soft whispers restrain the vicious, and animate the wavering wretch who stands suspended between virtue and vice.

Sagestus had spent a night in the cavern, as he often did, and he left the silent vestibule of the grave, just as the sun, emerging from the ocean, dispersed the clouds, which were not half so dense as those he had left. All that was human in him rejoiced at the sight of reviving life, and he viewed with pleasure the mounting sap rising to expand the herbs, which grew spontaneously in this wild—when, turning his eyes towards the sea, he found that death had been at work during his absence, and terrific marks of a furious storm still spread horror around. Though the day was serene, and threw bright rays on eyes for ever shut, it dawned not for the wretches who hung pendent on the craggy rocks, or were stretched lifeless on the sand. Some, struggling, had dug themselves a grave; others had resigned their breath before the impetuous surge whirled them on shore. A few, in whom the vital spark was not so soon dislodged, had clung to loose fragments; it was the grasp of death; embracing the stone, they stiffened; and the head, no longer erect, rested on the mass which the arms encircled. It felt not the agonizing gripe, nor heard the sigh that broke the heart in twain.

Resting his chin on an oaken club, the sage looked on every side, to see if he could discern any who yet breathed. He drew nearer, and thought he saw, at the first glance, the unclosed eyes glare; but soon perceived that they were a mere glassy substance, mute as the tongue; the jaws were fallen, and, in some of the tangled locks, hands were clinched; nay, even the nails had entered sharpened by despair. The blood flew rapidly to his heart; it was flesh; he felt he was still a man, and the big tear paced down his iron cheeks, whose muscles had not for a long time been relaxed by such humane emotions. A moment he breathed quick, then heaved a sigh, and his wonted calm returned with an unaccustomed glow of tenderness; for the ways of heaven were not hid from him; he lifted up his eyes to the common Father of nature, and all was as still in his bosom, as the smooth deep, after having closed over the huge vessel from which the wretches had fled.

Turning round a part of the rock that jutted out, meditating on the ways of Providence, a weak infantine voice reached his ears; it was lisping out the name of mother. He looked, and beheld a blooming child leaning over, and kissing with eager fondness, lips that were insensible to the warm pressure. Starting at the sight of the sage, she fixed her eyes on him, "Wake her, ah! wake her," she cried, "or the sea will catch us." Again he felt compassion, for he saw that the mother slept the sleep of death. He stretched out his hand, and, smoothing his brow, invited her to approach; but she still intreated him to wake her mother, whom she continued to call, with an impatient tremulous voice. To detach her from the body by persuasion would not have been very easy. Sagestus had a quicker method to effect his purpose; he took out a box which contained a soporific powder, and as soon as the fumes reached her brain, the powers of life were suspended.

He carried her directly to his hut, and left her sleeping profoundly on his rushy couch.

CHAP. II.

Again Sagestus approached the dead, to view them with a more scrutinizing eye. He was perfectly acquainted with the construction of the human body, knew the traces that virtue or vice leaves on the whole frame; they were now indelibly fixed by death; nay more, he knew by the shape of the solid structure, how far the spirit could range, and saw the barrier beyond which it could not pass: the mazes of fancy he explored, measured the stretch of thought, and, weighing all in an even balance, could tell whom nature had stamped an hero, a poet, or philosopher.

By their appearance, at a transient glance, he knew that the vessel must have contained many passengers, and that some of them were above the vulgar, with respect to fortune and education; he then walked leisurely among the dead, and narrowly observed their pallid features.

His eye first rested on a form in which proportion reigned, and, stroking back the hair, a spacious forehead met his view; warm fancy had revelled there, and her airy dance had left vestiges, scarcely visible to a mortal eye. Some perpendicular lines pointed out that melancholy had predominated in his constitution; yet the straggling hairs of his eye-brows showed that anger had often shook his frame; indeed, the four temperatures, like the four elements, had resided in this little world, and produced harmony. The whole visage was bony, and an energetic frown had knit the flexible skin of his brow; the kingdom within had been extensive; and the wild creations of fancy had there "a local habitation and a name." So exquisite was his sensibility, so quick his comprehension, that he perceived various combinations in an instant; he caught truth as she darted towards him, saw all her fair proportion at a glance, and the flash of his eye spoke the quick senses which conveyed intelligence to his mind; the sensorium indeed was capacious, and the sage imagined he saw the lucid beam, sparkling with love or ambition, in characters of fire, which a graceful curve of the upper eyelid shaded. The lips were a little deranged by contempt; and a mixture of vanity and self-complacency formed a few irregular lines round them. The chin had suffered from sensuality, yet there were still great marks of vigour in it, as if advanced with stern dignity. The hand accustomed to command, and even tyrannize, was unnerved; but its appearance convinced Sagestus, that he had oftener wielded a thought than a weapon; and that he had silenced, by irresistible conviction, the superficial disputant, and the being, who doubted because he had not strength to believe, who, wavering between different borrowed opinions, first caught at one straw, then at another, unable to settle into any consistency of character. After gazing a few moments, Sagestus turned away exclaiming, How are the stately oaks torn up by a tempest, and the bow unstrung, that could force the arrow beyond the ken of the eye!

What a different face next met his view! The forehead was short, yet well set together; the nose small, but a little turned up at the end; and a draw-down at the sides of his mouth, proved that he had been a humourist, who minded the main chance, and could joke with his acquaintance, while he eagerly devoured a dainty which he was not to pay for. His lips shut like a box whose hinges had often been mended; and the muscles, which display the soft emotion of the heart on the cheeks, were grown quite rigid, so that, the vessels that should have moistened them not having much communication with the grand source of passions, the fine volatile fluid had evaporated, and they became mere dry fibres, which might be pulled by any misfortune that threatened himself, but were not sufficiently elastic to be moved by the miseries of others. His joints were inserted compactly, and with celerity they had performed all the animal functions, without any of the grace which results from the imagination mixing with the senses.

A huge form was stretched near him, that exhibited marks of overgrown infancy; every part was relaxed; all appeared imperfect. Yet, some undulating lines on the puffed-out cheeks, displayed signs of timid, servile good nature; and the skin of the forehead had been so often drawn up by wonder, that the few hairs of the eyebrows were fixed in a sharp arch, whilst an ample chin rested in lobes of flesh on his protuberant breast.

By his side was a body that had scarcely ever much life in it—sympathy seemed to have drawn them together—every feature and limb was round and fleshy, and, if a kind of brutal cunning had not marked the face, it might have been mistaken for an automaton, so unmixed was the phlegmatic fluid. The vital spark was buried deep in a soft mass of matter, resembling the pith in young elder, which, when found, is so equivocal, that it only appears a moister part of the same body.

Another part of the beach was covered with sailors, whose bodies exhibited marks of strength and brutal courage.—Their characters were all different, though of the same class; Sagestus did not stay to discriminate them, satisfied with a rough sketch. He saw indolence roused by a love of humour, or rather bodily fun; sensuality and prodigality with a vein of generosity running through it; a contempt of danger with gross superstition; supine senses, only to be kept alive by noisy, tumultuous pleasures, or that kind of novelty which borders on absurdity: this formed the common outline, and the rest were rather dabs than shades.

Sagestus paused, and remembered it had been said by an earthly wit, that "many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desart air." How little, he exclaimed, did that poet know of the ways of heaven! And yet, in this respect, they are direct; the hands before me, were designed to pull a rope, knock down a sheep, or perform the servile offices of life; no "mute, inglorious poet" rests amongst them, and he who is superior to his fellow, does not rise above mediocrity. The genius that sprouts from a dunghil soon shakes off the heterogenous mass; those only grovel, who have not power to fly.

He turned his step towards the mother of the orphan: another female was at some distance; and a man who, by his garb, might have been the husband, or brother, of the former, was not far off.

Him the sage surveyed with an attentive eye, and bowed with respect to the inanimate clay, that lately had been the dwelling of a most benevolent spirit. The head was square, though the features were not very prominent; but there was a great harmony in every part, and the turn of the nostrils and lips evinced, that the soul must have had taste, to which they had served as organs. Penetration and judgment were seated on the brows that overhung the eye. Fixed as it was, Sagestus quickly discerned the expression it must have had; dark and pensive, rather from slowness of comprehension than melancholy, it seemed to absorb the light of knowledge, to drink it in ray by ray; nay, a new one was not allowed to enter his head till the last was arranged: an opinion was thus cautiously received, and maturely weighed, before it was added to the general stock. As nature led him to mount from a part to the whole, he was most conversant with the beautiful, and rarely comprehended the sublime; yet, said Sagestus, with a softened tone, he was all heart, full of forbearance, and desirous to please every fellow-creature; but from a nobler motive than a love of admiration; the fumes of vanity never mounted to cloud his brain, or tarnish his beneficence. The fluid in which those placid eyes swam, is now congealed; how often has tenderness given them the finest water! Some torn parts of the child's dress hung round his arm, which led the sage to conclude, that he had saved the child; every line in his face confirmed the conjecture; benevolence indeed strung the nerves that naturally were not very firm; it was the great knot that tied together the scattered qualities, and gave the distinct stamp to the character.

The female whom he next approached, and supposed to be an attendant on the other, was below the middle size, and her legs were so disproportionably short, that, when she moved, she must have waddled along; her elbows were drawn in to touch her long taper, waist, and the air of her whole body was an affectation of gentility. Death could not alter the rigid hang of her limbs, or efface the simper that had stretched her mouth; the lips were thin, as if nature intended she should mince her words; her nose was small, and sharp at the end; and the forehead, unmarked by eyebrows, was wrinkled by the discontent that had sunk her cheeks, on which Sagestus still discerned faint traces of tenderness; and fierce good-nature, he perceived had sometimes animated the little spark of an eye that anger had oftener lighted. The same thought occurred to him that the sight of the sailors had suggested, Men and women are all in their proper places—this female was intended to fold up linen and nurse the sick.

Anxious to observe the mother of his charge, he turned to the lily that had been so rudely snapped, and, carefully observing it, traced every fine line to its source. There was a delicacy in her form, so truly feminine, that an involuntary desire to cherish such a being, made the sage again feel the almost forgotten sensations of his nature. On observing her more closely, he discovered that her natural delicacy had been increased by an improper education, to a degree that took away all vigour from her faculties. And its baneful influence had had such an effect on her mind, that few traces of the exertions of it appeared on her face, though the fine finish of her features, and particularly the form of the forehead, convinced the sage that her understanding might have risen considerably above mediocrity, had the wheels ever been put in motion; but, clogged by prejudices, they never turned quite round, and, whenever she considered a subject, she stopped before she came to a conclusion. Assuming a mask of propriety, she had banished nature; yet its tendency was only to be diverted, not stifled. Some lines, which took from the symmetry of the mouth, not very obvious to a superficial observer, struck Sagestus, and they appeared to him characters of indolent obstinacy. Not having courage to form an opinion of her own, she adhered, with blind partiality, to those she adopted, which she received in the lump, and, as they always remained unopened, of course she only saw the even gloss on the outside. Vestiges of anger were visible on her brow, and the sage concluded, that she had often been offended with, and indeed would scarcely make any allowance for, those who did not coincide with her in opinion, as things always appear self-evident that have never been examined; yet her very weakness gave a charming timidity to her countenance; goodness and tenderness pervaded every lineament, and melted in her dark blue eyes. The compassion that wanted activity, was sincere, though it only embellished her face, or produced casual acts of charity when a moderate alms could relieve present distress. Unacquainted with life, fictitious, unnatural distress drew the tears that were not shed for real misery. In its own shape, human wretchedness excites a little disgust in the mind that has indulged sickly refinement. Perhaps the sage gave way to a little conjecture in drawing the last conclusion; but his conjectures generally arose from distinct ideas, and a dawn of light allowed him to see a great way farther than common mortals.

He was now convinced that the orphan was not very unfortunate in having lost such a mother. The parent that inspires fond affection without respect, is seldom an useful one; and they only are respectable, who consider right and wrong abstracted from local forms and accidental modifications.

Determined to adopt the child, he named it after himself, Sagesta, and retired to the hut where the innocent slept, to think of the best method of educating this child, whom the angry deep had spared.

[The last branch of the education of Sagesta, consisted of a variety of characters and stories presented to her in the Cave of Fancy, of which the following is a specimen.]

CHAP.

A form now approached that particularly struck and interested Sagesta. The sage, observing what passed in her mind, bade her ever trust to the first impression. In life, he continued, try to remember the effect the first appearance of a stranger has on your mind; and, in proportion to your sensibility, you may decide on the character. Intelligence glances from eyes that have the same pursuits, and a benevolent heart soon traces the marks of benevolence on the countenance of an unknown fellow-creature; and not only the countenance, but the gestures, the voice, loudly speak truth to the unprejudiced mind.

Whenever a stranger advances towards you with a tripping step, receives you with broad smiles, and a profusion of compliments, and yet you find yourself embarrassed and unable to return the salutation with equal cordiality, be assured that such a person is affected, and endeavours to maintain a very good character in the eyes of the world, without really practising the social virtues which dress the face in looks of unfeigned complacency. Kindred minds are drawn to each other by expressions which elude description; and, like the calm breeze that plays on a smooth lake, they are rather felt than seen. Beware of a man who always appears in good humour; a selfish design too frequently lurks in the smiles the heart never curved; or there is an affectation of candour that destroys all strength of character, by blending truth and falshood into an unmeaning mass. The mouth, in fact, seems to be the feature where you may trace every kind of dissimulation, from the simper of vanity, to the fixed smile of the designing villain. Perhaps, the modulations of the voice will still more quickly give a key to the character than even the turns of the mouth, or the words that issue from it; often do the tones of unpractised dissemblers give the lie to their assertions. Many people never speak in an unnatural voice, but when they are insincere: the phrases not corresponding with the dictates of the heart, have nothing to keep them in tune. In the course of an argument however, you may easily discover whether vanity or conviction stimulates the disputant, though his inflated countenance may be turned from you, and you may not see the gestures which mark self-sufficiency. He stopped, and the spirit began.

I have wandered through the cave; and, as soon as I have taught you a useful lesson, I shall take my flight where my tears will cease to flow, and where mine eyes will no more be shocked with the sight of guilt and sorrow. Before many moons have changed, thou wilt enter, O mortal! into that world I have lately left. Listen to my warning voice, and trust not too much to the goodness which I perceive resides in thy breast. Let it be reined in by principles, lest thy very virtue sharpen the sting of remorse, which as naturally follows disorder in the moral world, as pain attends on intemperance in the physical. But my history will afford you more instruction than mere advice. Sagestus concurred in opinion with her, observing that the senses of children should be the first object of improvement; then their passions worked on; and judgment the fruit, must be the acquirement of the being itself, when out of leading-strings. The spirit bowed assent, and, without any further prelude, entered on her history.

My mother was a most respectable character, but she was yoked to a man whose follies and vices made her ever feel the weight of her chains. The first sensation I recollect, was pity; for I have seen her weep over me and the rest of her babes, lamenting that the extravagance of a father would throw us destitute on the world. But, though my father was extravagant, and seldom thought of any thing but his own pleasures, our education was not neglected. In solitude, this employment was my mother's only solace; and my father's pride made him procure us masters; nay, sometimes he was so gratified by our improvement, that he would embrace us with tenderness, and intreat my mother to forgive him, with marks of real contrition. But the affection his penitence gave rise to, only served to expose her to continual disappointments, and keep hope alive merely to torment her. After a violent debauch he would let his beard grow, and the sadness that reigned in the house I shall never forget; he was ashamed to meet even the eyes of his children. This is so contrary to the nature of things, it gave me exquisite pain; I used, at those times, to show him extreme respect. I could not bear to see my parent humble himself before me. However neither his constitution, nor fortune could long bear the constant waste. He had, I have observed, a childish affection for his children, which was displayed in caresses that gratified him for the moment, yet never restrained the headlong fury of his appetites; his momentary repentance wrung his heart, without influencing his conduct; and he died, leaving an encumbered wreck of a good estate.

As we had always lived in splendid poverty, rather than in affluence, the shock was not so great; and my mother repressed her anguish, and concealed some circumstances, that she might not shed a destructive mildew over the gaiety of youth.

So fondly did I doat on this dear parent, that she engrossed all my tenderness; her sorrows had knit me firmly to her, and my chief care was to give her proofs of affection. The gallantry that afforded my companions, the few young people my mother forced me to mix with, so much pleasure, I despised; I wished more to be loved than admired, for I could love. I adored virtue; and my imagination, chasing a chimerical object, overlooked the common pleasures of life; they were not sufficient for my happiness. A latent fire made me burn to rise superior to my contemporaries in wisdom and virtue; and tears of joy and emulation filled my eyes when I read an account of a great action—I felt admiration, not astonishment.

My mother had two particular friends, who endeavoured to settle her affairs; one was a middle-aged man, a merchant; the human breast never enshrined a more benevolent heart. His manners were rather rough, and he bluntly spoke his thoughts without observing the pain it gave; yet he possessed extreme tenderness, as far as his discernment went. Men do not make sufficient distinction, said she, digressing from her story to address Sagestus, between tenderness and sensibility.

To give the shortest definition of sensibility, replied the sage, I should say that it is the result of acute senses, finely fashioned nerves, which vibrate at the slightest touch, and convey such clear intelligence to the brain, that it does not require to be arranged by the judgment. Such persons instantly enter into the characters of others, and instinctively discern what will give pain to every human being; their own feelings are so varied that they seem to contain in themselves, not only all the passions of the species, but their various modifications. Exquisite pain and pleasure is their portion; nature wears for them a different aspect than is displayed to common mortals. One moment it is a paradise; all is beautiful: a cloud arises, an emotion receives a sudden damp; darkness invades the sky, and the world is an unweeded garden;—but go on with your narrative, said Sagestus, recollecting himself.

She proceeded. The man I am describing was humanity itself; but frequently he did not understand me; many of my feelings were not to be analyzed by his common sense. His friendships, for he had many friends, gave him pleasure unmixed with pain; his religion was coldly reasonable, because he wanted fancy, and he did not feel the necessity of finding, or creating, a perfect object, to answer the one engraved on his heart: the sketch there was faint. He went with the stream, and rather caught a character from the society he lived in, than spread one around him. In my mind many opinions were graven with a pen of brass, which he thought chimerical: but time could not erase them, and I now recognize them as the seeds of eternal happiness: they will soon expand in those realms where I shall enjoy the bliss adapted to my nature; this is all we need ask of the Supreme Being; happiness must follow the completion of his designs. He however could live quietly, without giving a preponderancy to many important opinions that continually obtruded on my mind; not having an enthusiastic affection for his fellow creatures, he did them good, without suffering from their follies. He was particularly attached to me, and I felt for him all the affection of a daughter; often, when he had been interesting himself to promote my welfare, have I lamented that he was not my father; lamented that the vices of mine had dried up one source of pure affection.

The other friend I have already alluded to, was of a very different character; greatness of mind, and those combinations of feeling which are so difficult to describe, raised him above the throng, that bustle their hour out, lie down to sleep, and are forgotten. But I shall soon see him, she exclaimed, as much superior to his former self, as he then rose in my eyes above his fellow creatures! As she spoke, a glow of delight animated each feature; her countenance appeared transparent; and she silently anticipated the happiness she should enjoy, when she entered those mansions, where death-divided friends should meet, to part no more; where human weakness could not damp their bliss, or poison the cup of joy that, on earth, drops from the lips as soon as tasted, or, if some daring mortal snatches a hasty draught, what was sweet to the taste becomes a root of bitterness.

He was unfortunate, had many cares to struggle with, and I marked on his cheeks traces of the same sorrows that sunk my own. He was unhappy I say, and perhaps pity might first have awoke my tenderness; for, early in life, an artful woman worked on his compassionate soul, and he united his fate to a being made up of such jarring elements, that he was still alone. The discovery did not extinguish that propensity to love, a high sense of virtue fed. I saw him sick and unhappy, without a friend to sooth the hours languor made heavy; often did I sit a long winter's evening by his side, railing at the swift wings of time, and terming my love, humanity.

Two years passed in this manner, silently rooting my affection; and it might have continued calm, if a fever had not brought him to the very verge of the grave. Though still deceived, I was miserable that the customs of the world did not allow me to watch by him; when sleep forsook his pillow, my wearied eyes were not closed, and my anxious spirit hovered round his bed. I saw him, before he had recovered his strength; and, when his hand touched mine, life almost retired, or flew to meet the touch. The first look found a ready way to my heart, and thrilled through every vein. We were left alone, and insensibly began to talk of the immortality of the soul; I declared that I could not live without this conviction. In the ardour of conversation he pressed my hand to his heart; it rested there a moment, and my emotions gave weight to my opinion, for the affection we felt was not of a perishable nature.—A silence ensued, I know not how long; he then threw my hand from him, as if it had been a serpent; formally complained of the weather, and adverted to twenty other uninteresting subjects. Vain efforts! Our hearts had already spoken to each other.

Feebly did I afterwards combat an affection, which seemed twisted in every fibre of my heart. The world stood still when I thought of him; it moved heavily at best, with one whose very constitution seemed to mark her out for misery. But I will not dwell on the passion I too fondly nursed. One only refuge had I on earth; I could not resolutely desolate the scene my fancy flew to, when worldly cares, when a knowledge of mankind, which my circumstances forced on me, rendered every other insipid. I was afraid of the unmarked vacuity of common life; yet, though I supinely indulged myself in fairy-land, when I ought to have been more actively employed, virtue was still the first mover of my actions; she dressed my love in such enchanting colours, and spread the net I could never break. Our corresponding feelings confounded our very souls; and in many conversations we almost intuitively discerned each other's sentiments; the heart opened itself, not chilled by reserve, nor afraid of misconstruction. But, if virtue inspired love, love gave new energy to virtue, and absorbed every selfish passion. Never did even a wish escape me, that my lover should not fulfil the hard duties which fate had imposed on him. I only dissembled with him in one particular; I endeavoured to soften his wife's too conspicuous follies, and extenuated her failings in an indirect manner. To this I was prompted by a loftiness of spirit; I should have broken the band of life, had I ceased to respect myself. But I will hasten to an important change in my circumstances.

My mother, who had concealed the real state of her affairs from me, was now impelled to make me her confident, that I might assist to discharge her mighty debt of gratitude. The merchant, my more than father, had privately assisted her: but a fatal civil-war reduced his large property to a bare competency; and an inflammation in his eyes, that arose from a cold he had caught at a wreck, which he watched during a stormy night to keep off the lawless colliers, almost deprived him of sight. His life had been spent in society, and he scarcely knew how to fill the void; for his spirit would not allow him to mix with his former equals as an humble companion; he who had been treated with uncommon respect, could not brook their insulting pity. From the resource of solitude, reading, the complaint in his eyes cut him off, and he became our constant visitor.

Actuated by the sincerest affection, I used to read to him, and he mistook my tenderness for love. How could I undeceive him, when every circumstance frowned on him! Too soon I found that I was his only comfort; I, who rejected his hand when fortune smiled, could not now second her blow; and, in a moment of enthusiastic gratitude and tender compassion, I offered him my hand.—It was received with pleasure; transport was not made for his soul; nor did he discover that nature had separated us, by making me alive to such different sensations. My mother was to live with us, and I dwelt on this circumstance to banish cruel recollections, when the bent bow returned to its former state.

With a bursting heart and a firm voice, I named the day when I was to seal my promise. It came, in spite of my regret; I had been previously preparing myself for the awful ceremony, and answered the solemn question with a resolute tone, that would silence the dictates of my heart; it was a forced, unvaried one; had nature modulated it, my secret would have escaped. My active spirit was painfully on the watch to repress every tender emotion. The joy in my venerable parent's countenance, the tenderness of my husband, as he conducted me home, for I really had a sincere affection for him, the gratulations of my mind, when I thought that this sacrifice was heroic, all tended to deceive me; but the joy of victory over the resigned, pallid look of my lover, haunted my imagination, and fixed itself in the centre of my brain.—Still I imagined, that his spirit was near me, that he only felt sorrow for my loss, and without complaint resigned me to my duty.

I was left alone a moment; my two elbows rested on a table to support my chin. Ten thousand thoughts darted with astonishing velocity through my mind. My eyes were dry; I was on the brink of madness. At this moment a strange association was made by my imagination; I thought of Gallileo, who when he left the inquisition, looked upwards, and cried out, "Yet it moves." A shower of tears, like the refreshing drops of heaven, relieved my parched sockets; they fell disregarded on the table; and, stamping with my foot, in an agony I exclaimed, "Yet I love." My husband entered before I had calmed these tumultuous emotions, and tenderly took my hand. I snatched it from him; grief and surprise were marked on his countenance; I hastily stretched it out again. My heart smote me, and I removed the transient mist by an unfeigned endeavour to please him.

A few months after, my mind grew calmer; and, if a treacherous imagination, if feelings many accidents revived, sometimes plunged me into melancholy, I often repeated with steady conviction, that virtue was not an empty name, and that, in following the dictates of duty, I had not bidden adieu to content.

In the course of a few years, the dear object of my fondest affection, said farewel, in dying accents. Thus left alone, my grief became dear; and I did not feel solitary, because I thought I might, without a crime, indulge a passion, that grew more ardent than ever when my imagination only presented him to my view, and restored my former activity of soul which the late calm had rendered torpid. I seemed to find myself again, to find the eccentric warmth that gave me identity of character. Reason had governed my conduct, but could not change my nature; this voluptuous sorrow was superior to every gratification of sense, and death more firmly united our hearts.

Alive to every human affection, I smoothed my mothers passage to eternity, and so often gave my husband sincere proofs of affection, he never supposed that I was actuated by a more fervent attachment. My melancholy, my uneven spirits, he attributed to my extreme sensibility, and loved me the better for possessing qualities he could not comprehend.

At the close of a summer's day, some years after, I wandered with careless steps over a pathless common; various anxieties had rendered the hours which the sun had enlightened heavy; sober evening came on; I wished to still "my mind, and woo lone quiet in her silent walk." The scene accorded with my feelings; it was wild and grand; and the spreading twilight had almost confounded the distant sea with the barren, blue hills that melted from my sight. I sat down on a rising ground; the rays of the departing sun illumined the horizon, but so indistinctly, that I anticipated their total extinction. The death of Nature led me to a still more interesting subject, that came home to my bosom, the death of him I loved. A village-bell was tolling; I listened, and thought of the moment when I heard his interrupted breath, and felt the agonizing fear, that the same sound would never more reach my ears, and that the intelligence glanced from my eyes, would no more be felt. The spoiler had seized his prey; the sun was fled, what was this world to me! I wandered to another, where death and darkness could not enter; I pursued the sun beyond the mountains, and the soul escaped from this vale of tears. My reflections were tinged with melancholy, but they were sublime.—I grasped a mighty whole, and smiled on the king of terrors; the tie which bound me to my friends he could not break; the same mysterious knot united me to the source of all goodness and happiness. I had seen the divinity reflected in a face I loved; I had read immortal characters displayed on a human countenance, and forgot myself whilst I gazed. I could not think of immortality, without recollecting the ecstacy I felt, when my heart first whispered to me that I was beloved; and again did I feel the sacred tie of mutual affection; fervently I prayed to the father of mercies; and rejoiced that he could see every turn of a heart, whose movements I could not perfectly understand. My passion seemed a pledge of immortality; I did not wish to hide it from the all-searching eye of heaven. Where indeed could I go from his presence? and, whilst it was dear to me, though darkness might reign during the night of life, joy would come when I awoke to life everlasting.

I now turned my step towards home, when the appearance of a girl, who stood weeping on the common, attracted my attention. I accosted her, and soon heard her simple tale; that her father was gone to sea, and her mother sick in bed. I followed her to their little dwelling, and relieved the sick wretch. I then again sought my own abode; but death did not now haunt my fancy. Contriving to give the poor creature I had left more effectual relief, I reached my own garden-gate very weary, and rested on it.—Recollecting the turns of my mind during the walk, I exclaimed, Surely life may thus be enlivened by active benevolence, and the sleep of death, like that I am now disposed to fall into, may be sweet!

My life was now unmarked by any extraordinary change, and a few days ago I entered this cavern; for through it every mortal must pass; and here I have discovered, that I neglected many opportunities of being useful, whilst I fostered a devouring flame. Remorse has not reached me, because I firmly adhered to my principles, and I have also discovered that I saw through a false medium. Worthy as the mortal was I adored, I should not long have loved him with the ardour I did, had fate united us, and broken the delusion the imagination so artfully wove. His virtues, as they now do, would have extorted my esteem; but he who formed the human soul, only can fill it, and the chief happiness of an immortal being must arise from the same source as its existence. Earthly love leads to heavenly, and prepares us for a more exalted state; if it does not change its nature, and destroy itself, by trampling on the virtue, that constitutes its essence, and allies us to the Deity.

ON

POETRY,

AND

OUR RELISH FOR THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.

ON

POETRY, &c.

A taste for rural scenes, in the present state of society, appears to be very often an artificial sentiment, rather inspired by poetry and romances, than a real perception of the beauties of nature. But, as it is reckoned a proof of refined taste to praise the calm pleasures which the country affords, the theme is never exhausted. Yet it may be made a question, whether this romantic kind of declamation, has much effect on the conduct of those, who leave, for a season, the crowded cities in which they were bred.

I have been led to these reflections, by observing, when I have resided for any length of time in the country, how few people seem to contemplate nature with their own eyes. I have "brushed the dew away" in the morning; but, pacing over the printless grass, I have wondered that, in such delightful situations, the sun was allowed to rise in solitary majesty, whilst my eyes alone hailed its beautifying beams. The webs of the evening have still been spread across the hedged path, unless some labouring man, trudging to work, disturbed the fairy structure; yet, in spite of this supineness, when I joined the social circle, every tongue rang changes on the pleasures of the country.

Having frequently had occasion to make the same observation, I was led to endeavour, in one of my solitary rambles, to trace the cause, and likewise to enquire why the poetry written in the infancy of society, is most natural: which, strictly speaking (for natural is a very indefinite expression) is merely to say, that it is the transcript of immediate sensations, in all their native wildness and simplicity, when fancy, awakened by the sight of interesting objects, was most actively at work. At such moments, sensibility quickly furnishes similes, and the sublimated spirits combine images, which rising spontaneously, it is not necessary coldly to ransack the understanding or memory, till the laborious efforts of judgment exclude present sensations, and damp the fire of enthusiasm.

The effusions of a vigorous mind, will ever tell us how far the understanding has been enlarged by thought, and stored with knowledge. The richness of the soil even appears on the surface; and the result of profound thinking, often mixing, with playful grace, in the reveries of the poet, smoothly incorporates with the ebullitions of animal spirits, when the finely fashioned nerve vibrates acutely with rapture, or when, relaxed by soft melancholy, a pleasing languor prompts the long-drawn sigh, and feeds the slowly falling tear.

The poet, the man of strong feelings, gives us only an image of his mind, when he was actually alone, conversing with himself, and marking the impression which nature had made on his own heart.—If, at this sacred moment, the idea of some departed friend, some tender recollection when the soul was most alive to tenderness, intruded unawares into his thoughts, the sorrow which it produced is artlessly, yet poetically expressed—and who can avoid sympathizing?

Love to man leads to devotion—grand and sublime images strike the imagination—God is seen in every floating cloud, and comes from the misty mountain to receive the noblest homage of an intelligent creature—praise. How solemn is the moment, when all affections and remembrances fade before the sublime admiration which the wisdom and goodness of God inspires, when he is worshipped in a temple not made with hands, and the world seems to contain only the mind that formed, and the mind that contemplates it! These are not the weak responses of ceremonial devotion; nor, to express them, would the poet need another poet's aid: his heart burns within him, and he speaks the language of truth and nature with resistless energy.

Inequalities, of course, are observable in his effusions; and a less vigorous fancy, with more taste, would have produced more elegance and uniformity; but, as passages are softened or expunged during the cooler moments of reflection, the understanding is gratified at the expence of those involuntary sensations, which, like the beauteous tints of an evening sky, are so evanescent, that they melt into new forms before they can be analyzed. For however eloquently we may boast of our reason, man must often be delighted he cannot tell why, or his blunt feelings are not made to relish the beauties which nature, poetry, or any of the imitative arts, afford.

The imagery of the ancients seems naturally to have been borrowed from surrounding objects and their mythology. When a hero is to be transported from one place to another, across pathless wastes, is any vehicle so natural, as one of the fleecy clouds on which the poet has often gazed, scarcely conscious that he wished to make it his chariot? Again, when nature seems to present obstacles to his progress at almost every step, when the tangled forest and steep mountain stand as barriers, to pass over which the mind longs for supernatural aid; an interposing deity, who walks on the waves, and rules the storm, severely felt in the first attempts to cultivate a country, will receive from the impassioned fancy "a local habitation and a name."

It would be a philosophical enquiry, and throw some light on the history of the human mind, to trace, as far as our information will allow us to trace, the spontaneous feelings and ideas which have produced the images that now frequently appear unnatural, because they are remote; and disgusting, because they have been servilely copied by poets, whose habits of thinking, and views of nature must have been different; for, though the understanding seldom disturbs the current of our present feelings, without dissipating the gay clouds which fancy has been embracing, yet it silently gives the colour to the whole tenour of them, and the dream is over, when truth is grossly violated, or images introduced, selected from books, and not from local manners or popular prejudices.

In a more advanced state of civilization, a poet is rather the creature of art, than of nature. The books that he reads in his youth, become a hot-bed in which artificial fruits are produced, beautiful to the common eye, though they want the true hue and flavour. His images do not arise from sensations; they are copies; and, like the works of the painters who copy ancient statues when they draw men and women of their own times, we acknowledge that the features are fine, and the proportions just; yet they are men of stone; insipid figures, that never convey to the mind the idea of a portrait taken from life, where the soul gives spirit and homogeneity to the whole. The silken wings of fancy are shrivelled by rules; and a desire of attaining elegance of diction, occasions an attention to words, incompatible with sublime, impassioned thoughts.

A boy of abilities, who has been taught the structure of verse at school, and been roused by emulation to compose rhymes whilst he was reading works of genius, may, by practice, produce pretty verses, and even become what is often termed an elegant poet: yet his readers, without knowing what to find fault with, do not find themselves warmly interested. In the works of the poets who fasten on their affections, they see grosser faults, and the very images which shock their taste in the modern; still they do not appear as puerile or extrinsic in one as the other.—Why?—because they did not appear so to the author.

It may sound paradoxical, after observing that those productions want vigour, that are merely the work of imitation, in which the understanding has violently directed, if not extinguished, the blaze of fancy, to assert, that, though genius be only another word for exquisite sensibility, the first observers of nature, the true poets, exercised their understanding much more than their imitators. But they exercised it to discriminate things, whilst their followers were busy to borrow sentiments and arrange words.

Boys who have received a classical education, load their memory with words, and the correspondent ideas are perhaps never distinctly comprehended. As a proof of this assertion, I must observe, that I have known many young people who could write tolerably smooth verses, and string epithets prettily together, when their prose themes showed the barrenness of their minds, and how superficial the cultivation must have been, which their understanding had received.

Dr. Johnson, I know, has given a definition of genius, which would overturn my reasoning, if I were to admit it.—He imagines, that a strong mind, accidentally led to some particular study in which it excels, is a genius.—Not to stop to investigate the causes which produced this happy strength of mind, experience seems to prove, that those minds have appeared most vigorous, that have pursued a study, after nature had discovered a bent; for it would be absurd to suppose, that a slight impression made on the weak faculties of a boy, is the fiat of fate, and not to be effaced by any succeeding impression, or unexpected difficulty. Dr. Johnson in fact, appears sometimes to be of the same opinion (how consistently I shall not now enquire), especially when he observes, "that Thomson looked on nature with the eye which she only gives to a poet."

But, though it should be allowed that books may produce some poets, I fear they will never be the poets who charm our cares to sleep, or extort admiration. They may diffuse taste, and polish the language; but I am inclined to conclude that they will seldom rouse the passions, or amend the heart.

And, to return to the first subject of discussion, the reason why most people are more interested by a scene described by a poet, than by a view of nature, probably arises from the want of a lively imagination. The poet contracts the prospect, and, selecting the most picturesque part in his camera, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the most forcible emotions in the poet's heart; the reader consequently feels the enlivened description, though he was not able to receive a first impression from the operations of his own mind.

Besides, it may be further observed, that gross minds are only to be moved by forcible representations. To rouse the thoughtless, objects must be presented, calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the unsubstantial, picturesque forms which a contemplative man gazes on, and often follows with ardour till he is mocked by a glimpse of unattainable excellence, appear to them the light vapours of a dreaming enthusiast, who gives up the substance for the shadow. It is not within that they seek amusement; their eyes are seldom turned on themselves; consequently their emotions, though sometimes fervid, are always transient, and the nicer perceptions which distinguish the man of genuine taste, are not felt, or make such a slight impression as scarcely to excite any pleasurable sensations. Is it surprising then that they are often overlooked, even by those who are delighted by the same images concentrated by the poet?

But even this numerous class is exceeded, by witlings, who, anxious to appear to have wit and taste, do not allow their understandings or feelings any liberty; for, instead of cultivating their faculties and reflecting on their operations, they are busy collecting prejudices; and are predetermined to admire what the suffrage of time announces as excellent, not to store up a fund of amusement for themselves, but to enable them to talk.

These hints will assist the reader to trace some of the causes why the beauties of nature are not forcibly felt, when civilization, or rather luxury, has made considerable advances—those calm sensations are not sufficiently lively to serve as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even to the moderate pursuer of artificial pleasures. In the present state of society, the understanding must bring back the feelings to nature, or the sensibility must have such native strength, as rather to be whetted than destroyed by the strong exercises of passion.

That the most valuable things are liable to the greatest perversion, is however as trite as true:—for the same sensibility, or quickness of senses, which makes a man relish the tranquil scenes of nature, when sensation, rather than reason, imparts delight, frequently makes a libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the sensual tumult of love a little refined by sentiment, to the calm pleasures of affectionate friendship, in whose sober satisfactions, reason, mixing her tranquillizing convictions, whispers, that content, not happiness, is the reward of virtue in this world.

HINTS.

[Chiefly designed to have been incorporated
in the Second Part of the Vindication
of the Rights of Woman.]

HINTS.

1.

Indolence is the source of nervous complaints, and a whole host of cares. This devil might say that his name was legion.

2.

It should be one of the employments of women of fortune, to visit hospitals, and superintend the conduct of inferiors.

3.

It is generally supposed, that the imagination of women is particularly active, and leads them astray. Why then do we seek by education only to exercise their imagination and feeling, till the understanding, grown rigid by disuse, is unable to exercise itself—and the superfluous nourishment the imagination and feeling have received, renders the former romantic, and the latter weak?

4.

Few men have risen to any great eminence in learning, who have not received something like a regular education. Why are women expected to surmount difficulties that men are not equal to?

5.

Nothing can be more absurd than the ridicule of the critic, that the heroine of his mock-tragedy was in love with the very man whom she ought least to have loved; he could not have given a better reason. How can passion gain strength any other way? In Otaheite, love cannot be known, where the obstacles to irritate an indiscriminate appetite, and sublimate the simple sensations of desire till they mount to passion, are never known. There a man or woman cannot love the very person they ought not to have loved—nor does jealousy ever fan the flame.

6.

It has frequently been observed, that, when women have an object in view, they pursue it with more steadiness than men, particularly love. This is not a compliment. Passion pursues with more heat than reason, and with most ardour during the absence of reason.

7.

Men are more subject to the physical love than women. The confined education of women makes them more subject to jealousy.

8.

Simplicity seems, in general, the consequence of ignorance, as I have observed in the characters of women and sailors—the being confined to one track of impressions.

9.

I know of no other way of preserving the chastity of mankind, than that of rendering women rather objects of love than desire. The difference is great. Yet, while women are encouraged to ornament their persons at the expence of their minds, while indolence renders them helpless and lascivious (for what other name can be given to the common intercourse between the sexes?) they will be, generally speaking, only objects of desire; and, to such women, men cannot be constant. Men, accustomed only to have their senses moved, merely seek for a selfish gratification in the society of women, and their sexual instinct, being neither supported by the understanding nor the heart, must be excited by variety.

10.

We ought to respect old opinions; though prejudices, blindly adopted, lead to error, and preclude all exercise of the reason.

The emulation which often makes a boy mischievous, is a generous spur; and the old remark, that unlucky, turbulent boys, make the wisest and best men, is true, spite of Mr. Knox's arguments. It has been observed, that the most adventurous horses, when tamed or domesticated, are the most mild and tractable.

11.

The children who start up suddenly at twelve or fourteen, and fall into decays, in consequence, as it is termed, of outgrowing their strength, are in general, I believe, those children, who have been bred up with mistaken tenderness, and not allowed to sport and take exercise in the open air. This is analogous to plants: for it is found that they run up sickly, long stalks, when confined.

12.

Children should be taught to feel deference, not to practise submission.

13.

It is always a proof of false refinement, when a fastidious taste overpowers sympathy.

14.

Lust appears to be the most natural companion of wild ambition; and love of human praise, of that dominion erected by cunning.

15.

"Genius decays as judgment increases." Of course, those who have the least genius, have the earliest appearance of wisdom.

16.

A knowledge of the fine arts, is seldom subservient to the promotion of either religion or virtue. Elegance is often indecency; witness our prints.

17.

There does not appear to be any evil in the world, but what is necessary. The doctrine of rewards and punishments, not considered as a means of reformation, appears to me an infamous libel on divine goodness.

18.

Whether virtue is founded on reason or revelation, virtue is wisdom, and vice is folly. Why are positive punishments?

19.

Few can walk alone. The staff of Christianity is the necessary support of human weakness. But an acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with just sentiments on the attributes, would be sufficient, without a voice from heaven, to lead some to virtue, but not the mob.

20.

I only expect the natural reward of virtue, whatever it may be. I rely not on a positive reward.

The justice of God can be vindicated by a belief in a future state—but a continuation of being vindicates it as clearly, as the positive system of rewards and punishments—by evil educing good for the individual, and not for an imaginary whole. The happiness of the whole must arise from the happiness of the constituent parts, or this world is not a state of trial, but a school.

21.

The vices acquired by Augustus to retain his power, must have tainted his soul, and prevented that increase of happiness a good man expects in the next stage of existence. This was a natural punishment.

22.

The lover is ever most deeply enamoured, when it is with he knows not what—and the devotion of a mystic has a rude Gothic grandeur in it, which the respectful adoration of a philosopher will never reach. I may be thought fanciful; but it has continually occurred to me, that, though, I allow, reason in this world is the mother of wisdom—yet some flights of the imagination seem to reach what wisdom cannot teach—and, while they delude us here, afford a glorious hope, if not a foretaste, of what we may expect hereafter. He that created us, did not mean to mark us with ideal images of grandeur, the baseless fabric of a vision—No—that perfection we follow with hopeless ardour when the whisperings of reason are heard, may be found, when not incompatible with our state, in the round of eternity. Perfection indeed must, even then, be a comparative idea—but the wisdom, the happiness of a superior state, has been supposed to be intuitive, and the happiest effusions of human genius have seemed like inspiration—the deductions of reason destroy sublimity.

23.

I am more and more convinced, that poetry is the first effervescence of the imagination, and the forerunner of civilization.

24.

When the Arabs had no trace of literature or science, they composed beautiful verses on the subjects of love and war. The flights of the imagination, and the laboured deductions of reason, appear almost incompatible.

25.

Poetry certainly flourishes most in the first rude state of society. The passions speak most eloquently, when they are not shackled by reason. The sublime expression, which has been so often quoted, [Genesis, ch. 1, ver. 3.] is perhaps a barbarous flight; or rather the grand conception of an uncultivated mind; for it is contrary to nature and experience, to suppose that this account is founded on facts—It is doubtless a sublime allegory. But a cultivated mind would not thus have described the creation—for, arguing from analogy, it appears that creation must have been a comprehensive plan, and that the Supreme Being always uses second causes, slowly and silently to fulfil his purpose. This is, in reality, a more sublime view of that power which wisdom supports: but it is not the sublimity that would strike the impassioned mind, in which the imagination took place of intellect. Tell a being, whose affections and passions have been more exercised than his reason, that God said, Let there be light! and there was light; and he would prostrate himself before the Being who could thus call things out of nothing, as if they were: but a man in whom reason had taken place of passion, would not adore, till wisdom was conspicuous as well as power, for his admiration must be founded on principle.

26.

Individuality is ever conspicuous in those enthusiastic flights of fancy, in which reason is left behind, without being lost sight of.

27.

The mind has been too often brought to the test of enquiries which only reach to matter—put into the crucible, though the magnetic and electric fluid escapes from the experimental philosopher.

28.

Mr. Kant has observed, that the understanding is sublime, the imagination beautiful—yet it is evident, that poets, and men who undoubtedly possess the liveliest imagination, are most touched by the sublime, while men who have cold, enquiring minds, have not this exquisite feeling in any great degree, and indeed seem to lose it as they cultivate their reason.

29.

The Grecian buildings are graceful—they fill the mind with all those pleasing emotions, which elegance and beauty never fail to excite in a cultivated mind—utility and grace strike us in unison—the mind is satisfied—things appear just what they ought to be: a calm satisfaction is felt, but the imagination has nothing to do—no obscurity darkens the gloom—like reasonable content, we can say why we are pleased—and this kind of pleasure may be lasting, but it is never great.

30.

When we say that a person is an original, it is only to say in other words that he thinks. "The less a man has cultivated his rational faculties, the more powerful is the principle of imitation, over his actions, and his habits of thinking. Most women, of course, are more influenced by the behaviour, the fashions, and the opinions of those with whom they associate, than men." (Smellie.)

When we read a book which supports our favourite opinions, how eagerly do we suck in the doctrines, and suffer our minds placidly to reflect the images which illustrate the tenets we have embraced? We indolently or quietly acquiesce in the conclusion, and our spirit animates and connects the various subjects. But, on the contrary, when we peruse a skilful writer, who does not coincide in opinion with us, how is the mind on the watch to detect fallacy? And this coolness often prevents our being carried away by a stream of eloquence, which the prejudiced mind terms declamation—a pomp of words.—We never allow ourselves to be warmed; and, after contending with the writer, are more confirmed in our own opinion, as much perhaps from a spirit of contradiction as from reason.—Such is the strength of man!

31.

It is the individual manner of seeing and feeling, pourtrayed by a strong imagination in bold images that have struck the senses, which creates all the charms of poetry. A great reader is always quoting the description of another's emotions; a strong imagination delights to paint its own. A writer of genius makes us feel; an inferior author reason.

32.

Some principle prior to self-love must have existed: the feeling which produced the pleasure, must have existed before the experience.

THE END.

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

OF THE

AUTHOR

OF A

VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. IV.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.

LETTERS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

ERRATA.

Page 10, line 8, for I write you, read I write to you.

—— 20, — 9, read bring them to ——.

—— 146, — 2 from the bottom, after over, inſert a comma.

CONTENTS.

| Page
Letters | 1
Letter on the Preſent Character of the French Nation | 39
Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants | 55
Letters to Mr. Johnſon | 61
Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale | 99
On Poetry and our Reliſh for the Beauties of Nature | 159
Hints | 179

LETTERS.

LETTER LXVII

September 27.

When you receive this, I ſhall either have landed, or be hovering on the Britiſh coaſt—your letter of the 18th decided me.

By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my queſtions extraordinary and unneceſſary, I cannot determine.—You deſire me to decide—I had decided. You muſt have had long ago two letters of mine, from ———, to the ſame purport, to conſider.—In theſe, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a diſtracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to ſay?—The negative was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promiſe of meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I ſhould demand a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harſhneſs, coldneſs I am accuſtomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderneſs of humanity, much leſs of friendſhip.—I only ſee a deſire to heave a load off your ſhoulders.

I am above diſputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you decide.

The tremendous power who formed this heart, muſt have foreſeen that, in a world in which ſelf-intereſt, in various ſhapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of eſcaping miſery.—To the fiat of fate I ſubmit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no cauſe to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having expected a degree of permanent happineſs, when you only ſought for a momentary gratification.

I am ſtrangely deficient in ſagacity.—Uniting myſelf to you, your tenderneſs ſeemed to make me amends for all my former miſfortunes.—On this tenderneſs and affection with what confidence did I reſt!—but I leaned on a ſpear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a faithful friend, to purſue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been ſtamped on my ſoul by ſorrow, I can ſcarcely believe it poſſible. It depends at preſent on you, whether you will ſee me or not.—I ſhall take no ſtep, till I ſee or hear from you.

Preparing myſelf for the worſt—I have determined, if your next letter be like the laſt, to write to Mr. ——— to procure me an obſcure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few months to obtain the ſum neceſſary to take me to France—from you I will not receive any more.—I am not yet ſufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.

Some people, whom my unhappineſs has intereſted, though they know not the extent of it, will aſſiſt me to attain the object I have in view, the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a ſum, which my induſtry ſhall enable me to pay at my leiſure, to purchaſe a ſmall eſtate for my girl.—The aſſiſtance I ſhall find neceſſary to complete her education, I can get at an eaſy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to ſuch ſociety as ſhe will like—and thus, ſecuring for her all the chance for happineſs, which depends on me, I ſhall die in peace, perſuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my graſp. No poor tempeſt-toſſed mariner ever more earneſtly longed to arrive at his port.

* * * *

I ſhall not come up in the veſſel all the way, becauſe I have no place to go to. Captain ——— will inform you where I am. It is needleſs to add, that I am not in a ſtate of mind to bear ſuſpenſe—and that I wiſh to ſee you, though it be for the laſt time.

LETTER LXVIII

Sunday, October 4.

I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of laſt month, had determined me to ſet out with captain ———; but, as we ſailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.

You ſay, I muſt decide for myſelf.—I had decided, that it was moſt for the intereſt of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, ſome years hence, when the tumult of buſineſs was over, to repoſe in the ſociety of an affectionate friend, and mark the progreſs of our intereſting child, whilſt endeavouring to be of uſe in the circle you at laſt reſolved to reſt in; for you cannot run about for ever.

From the tenour of your laſt letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed ſome new attachment.—If it be ſo, let me earneſtly requeſt you to ſee me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendſhip you profeſs for me. I will then decide, ſince you boggle about a mere form.

I am labouring to write with calmneſs—but the extreme anguiſh I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conſcious that the friend whom I moſt wiſh to ſee, will feel a diſagreeable ſenſation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the deſcription of common miſery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of ſorrow—and the playfulneſs of my child diſtreſſes me.—On her account, I wiſhed to remain a few days here, comfortleſs as is my ſituation.—Beſides, I did not wiſh to ſurpriſe you. You have told me, that you would make any ſacrifice to promote my happineſs—and, even in your laſt unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell me, that you wiſh it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.

I now moſt earneſtly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the poſt. Direct your letter to be left at the poſt-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wedneſday morning.

Do not keep me in ſuſpenſe.—I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is caſt!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raiſe my depreſſed ſpirits, or calm my trembling heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propenſity to affection which has been the torment of my life—but life will have an end!

Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ———. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.

Yours affectionately                

* * * *

LETTER LXIX

I write you now on my knees; imploring you to ſend my child and the maid with ——, to Paris, to be conſigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——, ſection de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.

Let the maid have all my clothes, without diſtinction.

Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confeſſion which I forced from her—a little ſooner or later is of no conſequence. Nothing but my extreme ſtupidity could have rendered me blind ſo long. Yet, whilſt you aſſured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might ſtill have lived together.

I ſhall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs ſleep with me! Soon, very ſoon ſhall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

I would encounter a thouſand deaths, rather than a night like the laſt. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a ſtate of chaos; yet I am ſerene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be inſulted by an endeavour to recal my hated exiſtence. But I ſhall plunge into the Thames where there is the leaſt chance of my being ſnatched from the death I ſeek.

God bleſs you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your ſenſibility ever awake, remorſe will find its way to your heart; and, in the midſt of buſineſs and ſenſual pleaſure, I ſhall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.

* * * *

LETTER LXX

Sunday Morning.

I have only to lament, that, when the bitterneſs of death was paſt, I was inhumanly brought back to life and miſery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by diſappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmeſt acts of reaſon. In this reſpect, I am only accountable to myſelf. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumſtances that I ſhould be diſhonoured.

You ſay, "that you know not how to extricate ourſelves out of the wretchedneſs into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long ſince.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.

It appears to me, that you lay much more ſtreſs on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to diſcover what ſentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your viſiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have any friendſhip for me.—But ſince your new attachment is the only thing ſacred in your eyes, I am ſilent—Be happy! My complaints ſhall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am miſtaken in ſuppoſing that even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity—It is happy for yourſelf, that you poſſeſs this quality in the higheſt degree.

Your continually aſſerting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary aſſiſtance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not ſuch vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I ſhould not ſhrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I ſay, that I ſhall conſider any direct or indirect attempt to ſupply my neceſſities, as an inſult which I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderneſs for your own reputation, than for me. Do not miſtake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much leſs, becauſe certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, reſpect for yourſelf will make you take care of the child.

I write with difficulty—probably I ſhall never write to you again.—Adieu!

God bleſs you!

* * * *

LETTER LXXI

Monday Morning.

I am compelled at laſt to ſay that you treat me ungenerouſly. I agree with you, that

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the taſk of writing—and explanations are not neceſſary.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

My child may have to bluſh for her mother's want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but ſhe ſhall not deſpiſe me for meanneſs.—You are now perfectly free.—God bleſs you.

* * * *

LETTER LXXIII

Saturday Night.

I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderneſs to me.—You aſk "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me ſo, muſt want a heart to eſtimate my feelings by.—I chuſe then to be the organ of my own ſentiments.

I muſt tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary aſſiſtance—and, conſidering your going to the new houſe, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will ſooner periſh than receive any thing from you—and I ſay this at the moment when I am diſappointed in my firſt attempt to obtain a temporary ſupply. But this even pleaſes me; an accumulation of diſappointments and miſfortunes ſeems to ſuit the habit of my mind.—

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myſelf where it will not be neceſſary for you to talk—of courſe, not to think of me. But let me ſee, written by yourſelf—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finiſhed.—It is an inſult to me to ſuppoſe, that I can be reconciled, or recover my ſpirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the ſame thing to you.

* * * *

Even your ſeeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to ſooth my diſtracted mind.

LETTER LXXIV

Thurſday Afternoon.

Mr. ——— having forgot to deſire you to ſend the things of mine which were left at the houſe, I have to requeſt you to let ——— bring them onto ———.

I ſhall go this evening to the lodging; ſo you need not be reſtrained from coming here to tranſact your buſineſs.—And, whatever I may think, and feel—you need not fear that I ſhall publicly complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been moſt ungenerouſly treated: but, wiſhing now only to hide myſelf, I ſhall be ſilent as the grave in which I long to forget myſelf. I ſhall protect and provide for my child.—I only mean by this to ſay, that you having nothing to fear from my deſperation.

Farewel.        

* * * *

LETTER LXXV

London, November 27.

The letter, without an addreſs, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till juſt now.—I had thrown the letters aſide—I did not wiſh to look over a regiſter of ſorrow.

My not having ſeen it, will account for my having written to you with anger—under the impreſſion your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my ſufferings.

In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me ſo unfeeling," has almoſt overturned my reaſon; my mind is injured—I ſcarcely know where I am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for ſome cruel recollections never quit me, baniſhing almoſt every other) I labour to conceal in total ſolitude.—My life therefore is but an exerciſe of fortitude, continually on the ſtretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.

But I meant to reaſon with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, "that I ſhall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, ſome time hence." But is it not poſſible that paſſion clouds your reaſon, as much as it does mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether thoſe principles are ſo "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be juſt to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have foſtered, and the expectations you have excited?

My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you now ſeem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will ſee my pale face—and ſometimes the tears of anguiſh will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.

I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious arguments; but my head is confuſed.—Right or wrong, I am miſerable!

It ſeems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the ſtricteſt principles of juſtice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my ſocial feelings, and delicacy of ſentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole ſoul, only to diſcover that I had no chance of a return—and that exiſtence is a burthen without it.

I do not perfectly underſtand you.—If, by the offer of your friendſhip, you ſtill only mean pecuniary ſupport—I muſt again reject it.—Trifling are the ills of poverty in the ſcale of my miſfortunes.—God bleſs you!

* * * *

I have been treated ungenerouſly—if I underſtand what is generoſity.——You ſeem to me only to have been anxious to ſhake me off—regardleſs whether you daſhed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled. Do you judge coolly, and I truſt you will not continue to call thoſe capricious feelings "the moſt refined," which would undermine not only the moſt ſacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no ſuch thing as a father!—If your theory of morals is the moſt "exalted," it is certainly the moſt eaſy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to pleaſe ourſelves for the moment, let others ſuffer what they will!

Excuſe me for again tormenting you, my heart thirſts for juſtice from you—and whilſt I recollect that you approved Miſs ———'s conduct—I am convinced you will not always juſtify your own.

Beware of the deceptions of paſſion! It will not always baniſh from your mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condeſcended to ſubterfuge to gloſs over the conduct you could not excuſe.—Do truth and principle require ſuch ſacrifices?

LETTER LXXVI

London, December 8.

Having juſt been informed that ——— is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miſs a ſure opportunity of writing, becauſe I am not certain that my laſt, by Dover has reached you.

Reſentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wiſhed to tell you ſo, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.

That I have not been uſed well I muſt ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguiſh I do at preſent—for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot reſtrain my tears.

I am ſtunned!—Your late conduct ſtill appears to me a frightful dream.—Ah! aſk yourſelf if you have not condeſcended to employ a little addreſs, I could almoſt ſay cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are ſacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.

The expectation (I have too fondly nouriſhed it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it ſeems to me, when I am more ſad than uſual, that I ſhall never ſee you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.—You will feel ſomething like remorſe, for having lived only for yourſelf—and ſacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortleſs old age, you will remember that you had one diſintereſted friend, whoſe heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come—and you will not be ſatiſfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all ſuperior to your preſent conduct. You do, you muſt, reſpect me—and you will be ſorry to forfeit my eſteem.

You know beſt whether I am ſtill preſerving the remembrance of an imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am obliged to leave ſome doubts that involuntarily preſs on me, to be cleared up by time.

You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.—I ſhall ſtill be able to ſupport my child, though I am diſappointed in ſome other plans of uſefulneſs, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleaſure.

Whilſt I was with you, I reſtrained my natural generoſity, becauſe I thought your property in jeopardy.—When I went to ————, I requeſted you, if you could conveniently, not to forget my father, ſiſters, and ſome other people, whom I was intereſted about.—Money was laviſhed away, yet not only my requeſts were neglected, but ſome trifling debts were not diſcharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendſhip—or generoſity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourſelf? Still I have an affection for you.—God bleſs you.

* * * *

LETTER LXXVII

As the parting from you for ever is the moſt ſerious event of my life, I will once expoſtulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!

I know the ſoundneſs of your underſtanding—and know that it is impoſſible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.

You tell me "that I torment you."—Why do I?——Becauſe you cannot eſtrange your heart entirely from me—and you feel that juſtice is on my ſide. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."—It was not.—When your coolneſs has hurt me, with what tenderneſs have you endeavoured to remove the impreſſion!—and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneaſineſs was occaſioned by the effect of a worn-out conſtitution—and you concluded your letter with theſe words, "Buſineſs alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."

With theſe aſſurances, is it extraordinary that I ſhould believe what I wiſhed? I might—and did think that you had a ſtruggle with old propenſities; but I ſtill thought that I and virtue ſhould at laſt prevail. I ſtill thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourſelf.

————, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.—You could reſtore me to life and hope, and the ſatiſfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.

In tearing myſelf from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of paſſion, you cannot deſpiſe.—I would owe every thing to your generoſity—but, for God's ſake, keep me no longer in ſuſpenſe!—Let me ſee you once more!—

LETTER LXXVIII

You muſt do as you pleaſe with reſpect to the child.—I could wiſh that it might be done ſoon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finiſhed.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendſhip, I diſdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reaſon to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no conſequence.—I am glad you are ſatiſfied with your own conduct.

I now ſolemnly aſſure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.

That there is "ſophiſtry" on one ſide or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a queſtion of words. Yet your underſtanding or mine muſt be ſtrangely warped—for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the ſenſations which lead you to follow an ancle or ſtep, be the ſacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have ſtood the brunt of your ſarcaſms.

The ſentiment in me is ſtill ſacred. If there be any part of me that will ſurvive the ſenſe of my miſfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The impetuoſity of your ſenſes, may have led you to term mere animal deſire, the ſource of principle; and it may give zeſt to ſome years to come.—Whether you will always think ſo, I ſhall never know.

It is ſtrange that, in ſpite of all you do, ſomething like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.

I part with you in peace.

LETTER

ON THE

PRESENT CHARACTER

OF THE

FRENCH NATION.

LETTER

Introductory to a Series of Letters on the Preſent Character of the French Nation.

Paris, February 15, 1793.

        My dear friend,

It is neceſſary perhaps for an obſerver of mankind, to guard as carefully the remembrance of the firſt impreſſion made by a nation, as by a countenance; becauſe we imperceptibly loſe ſight of the national character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then uſeleſs or preſumptuous to note, that, when I firſt entered Paris, the ſtriking contraſt of riches and poverty, elegance and ſlovenlineſs, urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and ſaddened my ſoul; and theſe impreſſions are ſtill the foundation of my remarks on the manners, which flatter the ſenſes, more than they intereſt the heart, and yet excite more intereſt than eſteem.

The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they are always ſipping the ſparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving ſatiety in the bottom for thoſe who venture to drink deep. On all ſides they trip along, buoyed up by animal ſpirits, and ſeemingly ſo void of care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that they alone underſtand the full import of the term leiſure; and they trifle their time away with ſuch an air of contentment, I know not how to wiſh them wiſer at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me like motes in a ſunbeam, enjoying the paſſing ray; whilſt an Engliſh head, ſearching for more ſolid happineſs, loſes, in the analyſis of pleaſure, the volatile ſweets of the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true, riſes from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation of ſpirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burthen of life, which reaſon too often weighs, merely to ſhift from one ſhoulder to the other.

Inveſtigating the modification of the paſſion, as I would analyze the elements that give a form to dead matter, I ſhall attempt to trace to their ſource the cauſes which have combined to render this nation the moſt poliſhed, in a phyſical ſenſe, and probably the moſt ſuperficial in the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various ſtreams that diſembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature is abſorbed. For every thing has conſpired to make the French the moſt ſenſual people in the world; and what can render the heart ſo hard, or ſo effectually ſtifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of ſenſuality?

The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me then make a previous obſervation, which I beg you not to loſe ſight of, when I ſpeak rather harſhly of a land flowing with milk and honey. Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would decry; for are we not all of the ſame ſtock? But I wiſh calmly to conſider the ſtage of civilization in which I find the French, and, giving a ſketch of their character, and unfolding the circumſtances which have produced its identity, I ſhall endeavour to throw ſome light on the hiſtory of man, and on the preſent important ſubjects of diſcuſſion.

I would I could firſt inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I ſaw the fair form of Liberty ſlowly riſing, and Virtue expanding her wings to ſhelter all her children! I ſhould then hear the account of the barbarities that have rent the boſom of France patiently, and bleſs the firm hand that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the ariſtocracy of birth is levelled with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the government rendered leſs venal. Still it is not juſt to dwell on the miſery produced by the preſent ſtruggle, without adverting to the ſtanding evils of the old ſyſtem. I am grieved—ſorely grieved—when I think of the blood that has ſtained the cauſe of freedom at Paris; but I alſo hear the ſame live ſtream cry aloud from the highways, through which the retreating armies paſſed with famine and death in their rear, and I hide my face with awe before the inſcrutable ways of providence, ſweeping in ſuch various directions the beſom of deſtruction over the ſons of men.

Before I came to France, I cheriſhed, you know, an opinion, that ſtrong virtues might exiſt with the poliſhed manners produced by the progreſs of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the courſe of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on by miſery. But now, the perſpective of the golden age, fading before the attentive eye of obſervation, almoſt eludes my ſight; and, loſing thus in part my theory of a more perfect ſtate, ſtart not, my friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the firſt glance ſeems to be levelled againſt the exiſtence of God! I am not become an Atheiſt, I aſſure you, by reſiding at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the paſſions are juſtly poized, we become harmleſs, and in the ſame proportion uſeleſs.

The wants of reaſon are very few; and, were we to conſider diſpaſſionately the real value of moſt things, we ſhould probably reſt ſatiſfied with the ſimple gratification of our phyſical neceſſities, and be content with negative goodneſs: for it is frequently, only that wanton, the Imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and makes us run over a rough road, puſhing aſide every obſtacle merely to catch a diſappointment.

The deſire alſo of being uſeful to others, is continually damped by experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in ſome meaſure their own reward, who would endure miſery, or ſtruggle with care, to make ſome people ungrateful, and others idle?

You will call theſe melancholy effuſions, and gueſs that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all the buſtling folly of childhood, without the innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too ſevere in my ſtrictures. It may be ſo; and I am aware that the good effects of the revolution will be laſt felt at Paris; where ſurely the ſoul of Epicurus has long been at work to root out the ſimple emotions of the heart, which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by the ſelfiſh enjoyments of the ſenſes, which the government foſtered, is it ſurpriſing that ſimplicity of manners, and ſingleneſs of heart, rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, ſo paſſing ſweet?

Seeing how deep the fibres of miſchief have ſhot, I ſometimes aſk, with a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners which has hitherto been maintained unſullied only by the keen air of poverty, when, emaſculated by pleaſure, the luxuries of proſperity are become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning on Europe, though I muſt heſitatingly obſerve, that little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which ſeems every where to be ſhoving aſide the point of honour of the nobleſſe. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect muddied water to become clear before it has had time to ſtand; yet, even for the moment, it is the moſt terrific of all ſights, to ſee men vicious without warmth—to ſee the order that ſhould be the ſuperſcription of virtue, cultivated to give ſecurity to crimes which only thoughtleſſneſs could palliate. Diſorder is, in fact, the very eſſence of vice, though with the wild wiſhes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions often kindly mix to ſoften their atrocity. Thus humanity, generoſity, and even ſelf-denial, ſometimes render a character grand, and even uſeful, when hurried away by lawleſs paſſions; but what can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himſelf alone, and conſidering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleaſure, never forgets that honeſty is the beſt policy? Keeping ever within the pale of the law, he cruſhes his thouſands with impunity; but it is with that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a ſignificant vulgariſm, a villain in grain. The very exceſs of his depravation preſerves him, whilſt the more reſpectable beaſt of prey, who prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a ſnare.

You may think it too ſoon to form an opinion of the future government, yet it is impoſſible to avoid hazarding ſome conjectures, when every thing whiſpers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I ſee that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old ſyſtem to corrupt the new. For the ſame pride of office, the ſame deſire of power are ſtill viſible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to obſcurity after having but juſt acquired a reliſh for diſtinction, each hero, or philoſopher, for all are dubbed with theſe new titles, endeavours to make hay while the ſun ſhines; and every petty municipal officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, ſtalks like a cock on a dunghil.

I ſhall now conclude this deſultory letter; which however will enable you to foreſee that I ſhall treat more of morals than manners.

Yours ———                

FRAGMENT

OF

LETTERS

ON THE

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

CONTENTS.

Introductory Letter.

Letter II. Management of the Mother during pregnancy: bathing.

Letter III. Lying-in.

Letter IV. The firſt month: diet: clothing.

Letter V. The three following months.

Letter VI. The remainder of the firſt year.

Letter VII. The ſecond year, &c: concluſion.

LETTERS

ON THE

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

LETTER I

I ought to apologize 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 ſhow 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 error 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 them that the lower imperceptibly gains improvement. Cuſtom, produced by reaſon in one, may ſafely be the effect of imitation in the other.

— — — — — — — — — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

LETTERS

TO

Mr. JOHNSON,

BOOKSELLER,

IN

St. PAUL's CHURCH-YARD.

LETTERS

TO

Mr. JOHNSON.

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.

        My dear ſir,

Since I ſaw you, I have, literally ſpeaking, enjoyed ſolitude. My ſiſter could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone, by the ſide of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and pleaſure grounds: the proſpects were of ſuch a placid kind, I caught tranquillity while I ſurveyed them—my mind was ſtill, though active. Were I to give you an account how I have ſpent my time, you would ſmile.—I found an old French bible here, and amuſed myſelf with comparing it with our Engliſh tranſlation; then I would liſten to the falling leaves, or obſerve the various tints the autumn gave to them—At other times, the ſinging of a robin, or the noiſe of a water-mill, engaged my attention—partial attention—, for I was, at the ſame time perhaps diſcuſſing ſome knotty point, or ſtraying from this tiny world to new ſyſtems. After theſe excurſions, I returned to the family meals, told the children ſtories (they think me vaſtly agreeable), and my ſiſter was amuſed.—Well, will you allow me to call this way of paſſing my days pleaſant?

I was juſt going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to ſay all I have to add to this epiſtle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, leſt my ſiſter ſhould try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am determined!—Your ſex generally laugh at female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet reſolved to do, any thing of conſequence, that I did not adhere reſolutely to it, till I had accompliſhed my purpoſe, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In the courſe of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered ſome experience, and felt many ſevere diſappointments—and what is the amount? I long for a little peace and independence! Every obligation we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new ſhackle, takes from our native freedom, and debaſes the mind, makes us mere earthworms—I am not fond of grovelling!

I am, ſir, yours, &c.    

mary wollſtonecraft.

LETTER III

Market Harborough, Sept. 20.

        My dear ſir,

You left me with three opulent tradeſmen; their converſation was not calculated to beguile the way, when the ſable curtain concealed the beauties of nature. I liſtened to the tricks of trade—and ſhrunk away, without wiſhing to grow rich; even the novelty of the ſubjects did not render them pleaſing; fond as I am of tracing the paſſions in all their different forms—I was not ſurpriſed by any glimpſe of the ſublime, or beautiful—though one of them imagined I would be a uſeful partner in a good firm. I was very much fatigued, and have ſcarcely recovered myſelf. I do not expect to enjoy the ſame tranquil pleaſures Henley afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful emotions are complicated with the reflections they give riſe to.

I do not intend to enter on the old topic, yet hope to hear from you—and am yours, &c.

mary wollſtonecraft.

LETTER IV

Friday Night.

        My dear ſir,

Though your remarks are generally judicious—I cannot now concur with you, I mean with reſpect to the preface[67-A], and have not altered it. I hate the uſual ſmooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule only extends to the majority—and, believe me, the few judicious parents who may peruſe my book, will not feel themſelves hurt—and the weak are too vain to mind what is ſaid in a book intended for children.

I return you the Italian MS.—but do not haſtily imagine that I am indolent. I would not ſpare any labour to do my duty—and, after the moſt laborious day, that ſingle thought would ſolace me more than any pleaſures the ſenſes could enjoy. I find I could not tranſlate the MS. well. If it was not a MS, I ſhould not be ſo eaſily intimidated; but the hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a ſtumbling-block at the firſt ſetting out.—I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot do well—and I ſhould loſe time in the vain attempt.

I had, the other day, the ſatiſfaction of again receiving a letter from my poor, dear Margaret[69-A].—With all a mother's fondneſs I could tranſcribe a part of it—She ſays, every day her affection to me, and dependence on heaven increaſe, &c.—I miſs her innocent careſſes—and ſometimes indulge a pleaſing hope, that ſhe may be allowed to cheer my childleſs age—if I am to live to be old.—At any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not contemplate—and my reaſon may permit me to love a female.—I now allude to ———. I have received another letter from her, and her childiſh complaints vex me—indeed they do—As uſual, good-night.

mary.

If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the ſtories; for, what are books—compared to converſations which affection inforces!—

LETTER V

        My dear ſir,

Remember you are to ſettle my account, as I want to know how much I am in your debt—but do not ſuppoſe that I feel any uneaſineſs on that ſcore. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me for a like civility, but you were a man before you were a bookſeller—ſo I am your ſincere friend,

mary.

LETTER VI

Friday Morning.

I am ſick with vexation—and wiſh I could knock my fooliſh head againſt the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel leſs anguiſh from ſelf-reproach! To ſay the truth, I was never more diſpleaſed with myſelf, and I will tell you the cauſe.—You may recollect that I did not mention to you the circumſtance of ——— having a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it drop from me when I converſed with my ſiſter; becauſe I knew he had a ſufficient motive for concealing it. Laſt Sunday, when his character was aſperſed, as I thought, unjuſtly, in the heat of vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the ſame time, deſired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet, laſt Tueſday, he told him all—and the boy at B——'s gave Mrs. ——— an account of it. As Mr. ——— knew he had only made a confident of me (I bluſh to think of it!) he gueſſed the channel of intelligence, and this morning came (not to reproach me, I wiſh he had!) but to point out the injury I have done him.—Let what will be the conſequence, I will reimburſe him, if I deny myſelf the neceſſaries of life—and even then my folly will ſting me.—Perhaps you can ſcarcely conceive the miſery I at this moment endure—that I, whoſe power of doing good is ſo limited, ſhould do harm, galls my very ſoul. ****** may laugh at theſe qualms—but, ſuppoſing Mr. ——— to be unworthy, I am not the leſs to blame. Surely it is hell to deſpiſe one's ſelf!—I did not want this additional vexation—at this time I have many that hang heavily on my ſpirits. I ſhall not call on you this month—nor ſtir out.—My ſtomach has been ſo ſuddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the deſk.

mary wollſtonecraft.

LETTER VII

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 ſhows. The Critical appears to me 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 recollected 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 is grown ſo heavy, I find it intolerably troubleſome.——Good-night! 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—

mary w.

LETTER X

Monday Morning.

I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that language—and I will tell you the reaſon why.—While I live, I am perſuaded, I muſt exert my underſtanding to procure an independence, and render myſelf uſeful. To make the taſk eaſier, I ought to ſtore my mind with knowledge—The ſeed time is paſſing away. I ſee the neceſſity of labouring now—and of that neceſſity I do not complain; on the contrary, I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to purſue knowledge, and draw my pleaſures from the employments that are within my reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day—I feel at this moment particularly grateful to you—without your humane and delicate aſſiſtance, how many obſtacles ſhould I not have had to encounter—too often ſhould I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom I wiſh to love!—Allow me to love you, my dear ſir, and call friend a being I reſpect.—Adieu!

mary w.

LETTER XI

I thought you very unkind, nay, very unfeeling, laſt night. My cares and vexations—I will ſay what I allow myſelf to think—do me honour, as they ariſe from my diſintereſtedneſs and unbending principles; nor can that mode of conduct be a reflection on my underſtanding, which enables me to bear miſery, rather than ſelfiſhly live for myſelf alone. I am not the only character deſerving of reſpect, that has had to ſtruggle with various ſorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and preſent comfort.—Dr. Johnſon's cares almoſt drove him mad—but, I ſuppoſe, you would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that wiſe men ſtriving againſt the ſtream, can yet be in good humour. I have done with inſenſible human wiſdom,—"indifference cold in wiſdom's guiſe,"—and turn to the ſource of perfection—who perhaps never diſregarded an almoſt broken heart, eſpecially when a reſpect, a practical reſpect, for virtue, ſharpened the wounds of adverſity. I am ill—I ſtayed in bed this morning till eleven o'clock, only thinking of getting money to extricate myſelf out of ſome of my difficulties—The ſtruggle is now over. I will condeſcend to try to obtain ſome in a diſagreeable way.

Mr. ——— called on me juſt now—pray did you know his motive for calling[82-A]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the houſe before it occurred to me in the ſtrong light it does now, or I ſhould have told him ſo—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be inſulted by a ſuperficial puppy.—His intimacy with Miſs ——— gave him a privilege, which he ſhould not have aſſumed with me—a propoſal might be made to his couſin, a milliner's girl, which ſhould not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wiſh to ſee him again!—When I meet him at your houſe, I ſhall leave the room, ſince I cannot pull him by the noſe. I can force my ſpirit to leave my body—but it ſhall never bend to ſupport that body—God of heaven, ſave thy child from this living death!—I ſcarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very ſick—ſick at heart.——

mary.

LETTER XII

Tueſday Evening.

        Sir,

When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment—your officious meſſage, which at firſt appeared to me a joke—looked ſo very like an inſult—I cannot forget it—To prevent then the neceſſity of forcing a ſmile—when I chance to meet you—I take the earlieſt opportunity of informing you of my real ſentiments.

mary wollſtonecraft.

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.

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 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 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.

LETTER XVI

Paris, December 26, 1792.

I ſhould immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not wiſhed to wait till I could tell you that this day was not ſtained with blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to prevent a tumult, made me ſuppoſe that the dogs of faction would not dare to bark, much leſs to bite, however true to their ſcent; and I was not miſtaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home with compoſed countenances, ſhouldering their arms. About nine o'clock this morning, the king paſſed by my window, moving ſilently along (excepting now and then a few ſtrokes on the drum, which rendered the ſtillneſs more awful) through empty ſtreets, ſurrounded by the national guards, who, cluſtering round the carriage, ſeemed to deſerve their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the caſements were all ſhut, not a voice was heard, nor did I ſee any thing like an inſulting geſture.—For the firſt time ſince I entered France, I bowed to the majeſty of the people, and reſpected the propriety of behaviour ſo perfectly in uniſon with my own feelings. I can ſcarcely tell you why, but an aſſociation of ideas made the tears flow inſenſibly from my eyes, when I ſaw Louis ſitting, with more dignity than I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where ſo many of his race have triumphed. My fancy inſtantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories moſt flattering to his pride, only to ſee the ſunſhine of proſperity overſhadowed by the ſublime gloom of miſery. I have been alone ever ſince; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot diſmiſs the lively images that have filled my imagination all the day.—Nay, do not ſmile, but pity me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have ſeen eyes glare through a glaſs-door oppoſite my chair and bloody hands ſhook at me. Not the diſtant ſound of a footſtep can I hear.—My apartments are remote from thoſe of the ſervants, the only perſons who ſleep with me in an immenſe hotel, one folding door opening after another.—I wiſh I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to ſee ſomething alive; death in ſo many frightful ſhapes has taken hold of my fancy.—I am going to bed—and, for the firſt time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.

m. w.

FOOTNOTES:

[67-A] To Original Stories.

[69-A] Counteſs Mount Caſhel.

[82-A] This alludes to a fooliſh propoſal of marriage for mercenary conſiderations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addreſſed to the gentleman himſelf.

EXTRACT

OF THE

CAVE OF FANCY.

A TALE.

[Begun to be written in the year 1787, but never completed]

CAVE OF FANCY.

CHAP. I.

Ye who expect conſtancy where every thing is changing, and peace in the midſt of tumult, attend to the voice of experience, and mark in time the footſteps of diſappointment, or life will be loſt in deſultory wiſhes, and death arrive before the dawn of wiſdom.

In a ſequeſtered valley, ſurrounded by rocky mountains that intercepted many of the paſſing clouds, though ſunbeams variegated their ample ſides, lived a ſage, to whom nature had unlocked her moſt hidden ſecrets. His hollow eyes, ſunk in their orbits, retired from the view of vulgar objects, and turned inwards, overleaped the boundary preſcribed to human knowledge. Intenſe thinking during fourſcore and ten years, had whitened the ſcattered locks on his head, which, like the ſummit of the diſtant mountain, appeared to be bound by an eternal froſt.

On the ſandy waſte behind the mountains, the track of ferocious beaſts might be traced, and ſometimes the mangled limbs which they left, attracted a hovering flight of birds of prey. An extenſive wood the ſage had forced to rear its head in a ſoil by no means congenial, and the firm trunks of the trees ſeemed to frown with defiance on time; though the ſpoils of innumerable ſummers covered the roots, which reſembled fangs; ſo cloſely did they cling to the unfriendly ſand, where ſerpents hiſſed, and ſnakes, rolling out their vaſt folds, inhaled the noxious vapours. The ravens and owls who inhabited the ſolitude, gave alſo a thicker gloom to the everlaſting twilight, and the croaking of the former a monotony, in uniſon with the gloom; whilſt lions and tygers, ſhunning even this faint ſemblance of day, ſought the dark caverns, and at night, when they ſhook off ſleep, their roaring would make the whole valley reſound, confounded with the ſcreechings of the bird of night.

One mountain roſe ſublime, towering above all, on the craggy ſides of which a few ſea-weeds grew, waſhed by the ocean, that with tumultuous roar ruſhed to aſſault, and even undermine, the huge barrier that ſtopped its progreſs; and ever and anon a ponderous maſs, looſened from the cliff, to which it ſcarcely ſeemed to adhere, always threatening to fall, fell into the flood, rebounding as it fell, and the ſound was re-echoed from rock to rock. Look where you would, all was without form, as if nature, ſuddenly ſtopping her hand, had left chaos a retreat.

Cloſe to the moſt remote ſide of it was the ſage's abode. It was a rude hut, formed of ſtumps of trees and matted twigs, to ſecure him from the inclemency of the weather; only through ſmall apertures croſſed with ruſhes, the wind entered in wild murmurs, modulated by theſe obſtructions. A clear ſpring broke out of the middle of the adjacent rock, which, dropping ſlowly into a cavity it had hollowed, ſoon overflowed, and then ran, ſtruggling to free itſelf from the cumbrous fragments, till, become a deep, ſilent ſtream, it eſcaped through reeds, and roots of trees, whoſe blaſted tops overhung and darkened the current.

One ſide of the hut was ſupported by the rock, and at midnight, when the ſage ſtruck the incloſed part, it yawned wide, and admitted him into a cavern in the very bowels of the earth, where never human foot before had trod; and the various ſpirits, which inhabit the different regions of nature, were here obedient to his potent word. The cavern had been formed by the great inundation of waters, when the approach of a comet forced them from their ſource; then, when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, a ſtream ruſhed out of the centre of the earth, where the ſpirits, who have lived on it, are confined to purify themſelves from the droſs contracted in their firſt ſtage of exiſtence; and it flowed in black waves, for ever bubbling along the cave, the extent of which had never been explored. From the ſides and top, water diſtilled, and, petrifying as it fell, took fantaſtic ſhapes, that ſoon divided it into apartments, if ſo they might be called. In the foam, a wearied ſpirit would ſometimes riſe, to catch the moſt diſtant glimpſe of light, or taſte the vagrant breeze, which the yawning of the rock admitted, when Sageſtus, for that was the name of the hoary ſage, entered. Some, who were refined and almoſt cleared from vicious ſpots, he would allow to leave, for a limited time, their dark priſon-houſe; and, flying on the winds acroſs the bleak northern ocean, or riſing in an exhalation till they reached a ſun-beam, they thus re-viſited the haunts of men. Theſe were the guardian angels, who in ſoft whiſpers reſtrain the vicious, and animate the wavering wretch who ſtands ſuſpended between virtue and vice.

Sageſtus had ſpent a night in the cavern, as he often did, and he left the ſilent veſtibule of the grave, juſt as the ſun, emerging from the ocean, diſperſed the clouds, which were not half ſo denſe as thoſe he had left. All that was human in him rejoiced at the ſight of reviving life, and he viewed with pleaſure the mounting ſap riſing to expand the herbs, which grew ſpontaneouſly in this wild—when, turning his eyes towards the ſea, he found that death had been at work during his abſence, and terrific marks of a furious ſtorm ſtill ſpread horror around. Though the day was ſerene, and threw bright rays on eyes for ever ſhut, it dawned not for the wretches who hung pendent on the craggy rocks, or were ſtretched lifeleſs on the ſand. Some, ſtruggling, had dug themſelves a grave; others had reſigned their breath before the impetuous ſurge whirled them on ſhore. A few, in whom the vital ſpark was not ſo ſoon diſlodged, had clung to looſe fragments; it was the graſp of death; embracing the ſtone, they ſtiffened; and the head, no longer erect, reſted on the maſs which the arms encircled. It felt not the agonizing gripe, nor heard the ſigh that broke the heart in twain.

Reſting his chin on an oaken club, the ſage looked on every ſide, to ſee if he could diſcern any who yet breathed. He drew nearer, and thought he ſaw, at the firſt glance, the uncloſed eyes glare; but ſoon perceived that they were a mere glaſſy ſubſtance, mute as the tongue; the jaws were fallen, and, in ſome of the tangled locks, hands were clinched; nay, even the nails had entered ſharpened by deſpair. The blood flew rapidly to his heart; it was fleſh; he felt he was ſtill a man, and the big tear paced down his iron cheeks, whoſe muſcles had not for a long time been relaxed by ſuch humane emotions. A moment he breathed quick, then heaved a ſigh, and his wonted calm returned with an unaccuſtomed glow of tenderneſs; for the ways of heaven were not hid from him; he lifted up his eyes to the common Father of nature, and all was as ſtill in his boſom, as the ſmooth deep, after having cloſed over the huge veſſel from which the wretches had fled.

Turning round a part of the rock that jutted out, meditating on the ways of Providence, a weak infantine voice reached his ears; it was liſping out the name of mother. He looked, and beheld a blooming child leaning over, and kiſſing with eager fondneſs, lips that were inſenſible to the warm preſſure. Starting at the ſight of the ſage, ſhe fixed her eyes on him, "Wake her, ah! wake her," ſhe cried, "or the ſea will catch us." Again he felt compaſſion, for he ſaw that the mother ſlept the ſleep of death. He ſtretched out his hand, and, ſmoothing his brow, invited her to approach; but ſhe ſtill intreated him to wake her mother, whom ſhe continued to call, with an impatient tremulous voice. To detach her from the body by perſuaſion would not have been very eaſy. Sageſtus had a quicker method to effect his purpoſe; he took out a box which contained a ſoporific powder, and as ſoon as the fumes reached her brain, the powers of life were ſuſpended.

He carried her directly to his hut, and left her ſleeping profoundly on his ruſhy couch.

CHAP. II.

Again Sageſtus approached the dead, to view them with a more ſcrutinizing eye. He was perfectly acquainted with the conſtruction of the human body, knew the traces that virtue or vice leaves on the whole frame; they were now indelibly fixed by death; nay more, he knew by the ſhape of the ſolid ſtructure, how far the ſpirit could range, and ſaw the barrier beyond which it could not paſs: the mazes of fancy he explored, meaſured the ſtretch of thought, and, weighing all in an even balance, could tell whom nature had ſtamped an hero, a poet, or philoſopher.

By their appearance, at a tranſient glance, he knew that the veſſel muſt have contained many paſſengers, and that ſome of them were above the vulgar, with reſpect to fortune and education; he then walked leiſurely among the dead, and narrowly obſerved their pallid features.

His eye firſt reſted on a form in which proportion reigned, and, ſtroking back the hair, a ſpacious forehead met his view; warm fancy had revelled there, and her airy dance had left veſtiges, ſcarcely viſible to a mortal eye. Some perpendicular lines pointed out that melancholy had predominated in his conſtitution; yet the ſtraggling hairs of his eye-brows ſhowed that anger had often ſhook his frame; indeed, the four temperatures, like the four elements, had reſided in this little world, and produced harmony. The whole viſage was bony, and an energetic frown had knit the flexible ſkin of his brow; the kingdom within had been extenſive; and the wild creations of fancy had there "a local habitation and a name." So exquiſite was his ſenſibility, ſo quick his comprehenſion, that he perceived various combinations in an inſtant; he caught truth as ſhe darted towards him, ſaw all her fair proportion at a glance, and the flaſh of his eye ſpoke the quick ſenſes which conveyed intelligence to his mind; the ſenſorium indeed was capacious, and the ſage imagined he ſaw the lucid beam, ſparkling with love or ambition, in characters of fire, which a graceful curve of the upper eyelid ſhaded. The lips were a little deranged by contempt; and a mixture of vanity and ſelf-complacency formed a few irregular lines round them. The chin had ſuffered from ſenſuality, yet there were ſtill great marks of vigour in it, as if advanced with ſtern dignity. The hand accuſtomed to command, and even tyrannize, was unnerved; but its appearance convinced Sageſtus, that he had oftener wielded a thought than a weapon; and that he had ſilenced, by irreſiſtible conviction, the ſuperficial diſputant, and the being, who doubted becauſe he had not ſtrength to believe, who, wavering between different borrowed opinions, firſt caught at one ſtraw, then at another, unable to ſettle into any conſiſtency of character. After gazing a few moments, Sageſtus turned away exclaiming, How are the ſtately oaks torn up by a tempeſt, and the bow unſtrung, that could force the arrow beyond the ken of the eye!

What a different face next met his view! The forehead was ſhort, yet well ſet together; the noſe ſmall, but a little turned up at the end; and a draw-down at the ſides of his mouth, proved that he had been a humouriſt, who minded the main chance, and could joke with his acquaintance, while he eagerly devoured a dainty which he was not to pay for. His lips ſhut like a box whoſe hinges had often been mended; and the muſcles, which diſplay the ſoft emotion of the heart on the cheeks, were grown quite rigid, ſo that, the veſſels that ſhould have moiſtened them not having much communication with the grand ſource of paſſions, the fine volatile fluid had evaporated, and they became mere dry fibres, which might be pulled by any miſfortune that threatened himſelf, but were not ſufficiently elaſtic to be moved by the miſeries of others. His joints were inſerted compactly, and with celerity they had performed all the animal functions, without any of the grace which reſults from the imagination mixing with the ſenſes.

A huge form was ſtretched near him, that exhibited marks of overgrown infancy; every part was relaxed; all appeared imperfect. Yet, ſome undulating lines on the puffed-out cheeks, diſplayed ſigns of timid, ſervile good nature; and the ſkin of the forehead had been ſo often drawn up by wonder, that the few hairs of the eyebrows were fixed in a ſharp arch, whilſt an ample chin reſted in lobes of fleſh on his protuberant breaſt.

By his ſide was a body that had ſcarcely ever much life in it—ſympathy ſeemed to have drawn them together—every feature and limb was round and fleſhy, and, if a kind of brutal cunning had not marked the face, it might have been miſtaken for an automaton, ſo unmixed was the phlegmatic fluid. The vital ſpark was buried deep in a ſoft maſs of matter, reſembling the pith in young elder, which, when found, is ſo equivocal, that it only appears a moiſter part of the ſame body.

Another part of the beach was covered with ſailors, whoſe bodies exhibited marks of ſtrength and brutal courage.—Their characters were all different, though of the ſame claſs; Sageſtus did not ſtay to diſcriminate them, ſatiſfied with a rough ſketch. He ſaw indolence rouſed by a love of humour, or rather bodily fun; ſenſuality and prodigality with a vein of generoſity running through it; a contempt of danger with groſs ſuperſtition; ſupine ſenſes, only to be kept alive by noiſy, tumultuous pleaſures, or that kind of novelty which borders on abſurdity: this formed the common outline, and the reſt were rather dabs than ſhades.

Sageſtus pauſed, and remembered it had been ſaid by an earthly wit, that "many a flower is born to bluſh unſeen, and waſte its ſweetneſs on the deſart air." How little, he exclaimed, did that poet know of the ways of heaven! And yet, in this reſpect, they are direct; the hands before me, were deſigned to pull a rope, knock down a ſheep, or perform the ſervile offices of life; no "mute, inglorious poet" reſts amongſt them, and he who is ſuperior to his fellow, does not riſe above mediocrity. The genius that ſprouts from a dunghil ſoon ſhakes off the heterogenous maſs; thoſe only grovel, who have not power to fly.

He turned his ſtep towards the mother of the orphan: another female was at ſome diſtance; and a man who, by his garb, might have been the huſband, or brother, of the former, was not far off.

Him the ſage ſurveyed with an attentive eye, and bowed with reſpect to the inanimate clay, that lately had been the dwelling of a moſt benevolent ſpirit. The head was ſquare, though the features were not very prominent; but there was a great harmony in every part, and the turn of the noſtrils and lips evinced, that the ſoul muſt have had taſte, to which they had ſerved as organs. Penetration and judgment were ſeated on the brows that overhung the eye. Fixed as it was, Sageſtus quickly diſcerned the expreſſion it muſt have had; dark and penſive, rather from ſlowneſs of comprehenſion than melancholy, it ſeemed to abſorb the light of knowledge, to drink it in ray by ray; nay, a new one was not allowed to enter his head till the laſt was arranged: an opinion was thus cautiouſly received, and maturely weighed, before it was added to the general ſtock. As nature led him to mount from a part to the whole, he was moſt converſant with the beautiful, and rarely comprehended the ſublime; yet, ſaid Sageſtus, with a ſoftened tone, he was all heart, full of forbearance, and deſirous to pleaſe every fellow-creature; but from a nobler motive than a love of admiration; the fumes of vanity never mounted to cloud his brain, or tarniſh his beneficence. The fluid in which thoſe placid eyes ſwam, is now congealed; how often has tenderneſs given them the fineſt water! Some torn parts of the child's dreſs hung round his arm, which led the ſage to conclude, that he had ſaved the child; every line in his face confirmed the conjecture; benevolence indeed ſtrung the nerves that naturally were not very firm; it was the great knot that tied together the ſcattered qualities, and gave the diſtinct ſtamp to the character.

The female whom he next approached, and ſuppoſed to be an attendant on the other, was below the middle ſize, and her legs were ſo diſproportionably ſhort, that, when ſhe moved, ſhe muſt have waddled along; her elbows were drawn in to touch her long taper, waiſt, and the air of her whole body was an affectation of gentility. Death could not alter the rigid hang of her limbs, or efface the ſimper that had ſtretched her mouth; the lips were thin, as if nature intended ſhe ſhould mince her words; her noſe was ſmall, and ſharp at the end; and the forehead, unmarked by eyebrows, was wrinkled by the diſcontent that had ſunk her cheeks, on which Sageſtus ſtill diſcerned faint traces of tenderneſs; and fierce good-nature, he perceived had ſometimes animated the little ſpark of an eye that anger had oftener lighted. The ſame thought occurred to him that the ſight of the ſailors had ſuggeſted, Men and women are all in their proper places—this female was intended to fold up linen and nurſe the ſick.

Anxious to obſerve the mother of his charge, he turned to the lily that had been ſo rudely ſnapped, and, carefully obſerving it, traced every fine line to its ſource. There was a delicacy in her form, ſo truly feminine, that an involuntary deſire to cheriſh ſuch a being, made the ſage again feel the almoſt forgotten ſenſations of his nature. On obſerving her more cloſely, he diſcovered that her natural delicacy had been increaſed by an improper education, to a degree that took away all vigour from her faculties. And its baneful influence had had ſuch an effect on her mind, that few traces of the exertions of it appeared on her face, though the fine finiſh of her features, and particularly the form of the forehead, convinced the ſage that her underſtanding might have riſen conſiderably above mediocrity, had the wheels ever been put in motion; but, clogged by prejudices, they never turned quite round, and, whenever ſhe conſidered a ſubject, ſhe ſtopped before ſhe came to a concluſion. Aſſuming a maſk of propriety, ſhe had baniſhed nature; yet its tendency was only to be diverted, not ſtifled. Some lines, which took from the ſymmetry of the mouth, not very obvious to a ſuperficial obſerver, ſtruck Sageſtus, and they appeared to him characters of indolent obſtinacy. Not having courage to form an opinion of her own, ſhe adhered, with blind partiality, to thoſe ſhe adopted, which ſhe received in the lump, and, as they always remained unopened, of courſe ſhe only ſaw the even gloſs on the outſide. Veſtiges of anger were viſible on her brow, and the ſage concluded, that ſhe had often been offended with, and indeed would ſcarcely make any allowance for, thoſe who did not coincide with her in opinion, as things always appear ſelf-evident that have never been examined; yet her very weakneſs gave a charming timidity to her countenance; goodneſs and tenderneſs pervaded every lineament, and melted in her dark blue eyes. The compaſſion that wanted activity, was ſincere, though it only embelliſhed her face, or produced caſual acts of charity when a moderate alms could relieve preſent diſtreſs. Unacquainted with life, fictitious, unnatural diſtreſs drew the tears that were not ſhed for real miſery. In its own ſhape, human wretchedneſs excites a little diſguſt in the mind that has indulged ſickly refinement. Perhaps the ſage gave way to a little conjecture in drawing the laſt concluſion; but his conjectures generally aroſe from diſtinct ideas, and a dawn of light allowed him to ſee a great way farther than common mortals.

He was now convinced that the orphan was not very unfortunate in having loſt ſuch a mother. The parent that inſpires fond affection without reſpect, is ſeldom an uſeful one; and they only are reſpectable, who conſider right and wrong abſtracted from local forms and accidental modifications.

Determined to adopt the child, he named it after himſelf, Sageſta, and retired to the hut where the innocent ſlept, to think of the beſt method of educating this child, whom the angry deep had ſpared.

[The laſt branch of the education of Sageſta, conſiſted of a variety of characters and ſtories preſented to her in the Cave of Fancy, of which the following is a ſpecimen.]

CHAP.

A form now approached that particularly ſtruck and intereſted Sageſta. The ſage, obſerving what paſſed in her mind, bade her ever truſt to the firſt impreſſion. In life, he continued, try to remember the effect the firſt appearance of a ſtranger has on your mind; and, in proportion to your ſenſibility, you may decide on the character. Intelligence glances from eyes that have the ſame purſuits, and a benevolent heart ſoon traces the marks of benevolence on the countenance of an unknown fellow-creature; and not only the countenance, but the geſtures, the voice, loudly ſpeak truth to the unprejudiced mind.

Whenever a ſtranger advances towards you with a tripping ſtep, receives you with broad ſmiles, and a profuſion of compliments, and yet you find yourſelf embarraſſed and unable to return the ſalutation with equal cordiality, be aſſured that ſuch a perſon is affected, and endeavours to maintain a very good character in the eyes of the world, without really practiſing the ſocial virtues which dreſs the face in looks of unfeigned complacency. Kindred minds are drawn to each other by expreſſions which elude deſcription; and, like the calm breeze that plays on a ſmooth lake, they are rather felt than ſeen. Beware of a man who always appears in good humour; a ſelfiſh deſign too frequently lurks in the ſmiles the heart never curved; or there is an affectation of candour that deſtroys all ſtrength of character, by blending truth and falſhood into an unmeaning maſs. The mouth, in fact, ſeems to be the feature where you may trace every kind of diſſimulation, from the ſimper of vanity, to the fixed ſmile of the deſigning villain. Perhaps, the modulations of the voice will ſtill more quickly give a key to the character than even the turns of the mouth, or the words that iſſue from it; often do the tones of unpractiſed diſſemblers give the lie to their aſſertions. Many people never ſpeak in an unnatural voice, but when they are inſincere: the phraſes not correſponding with the dictates of the heart, have nothing to keep them in tune. In the courſe of an argument however, you may eaſily diſcover whether vanity or conviction ſtimulates the diſputant, though his inflated countenance may be turned from you, and you may not ſee the geſtures which mark ſelf-ſufficiency. He ſtopped, and the ſpirit began.

I have wandered through the cave; and, as ſoon as I have taught you a uſeful leſſon, I ſhall take my flight where my tears will ceaſe to flow, and where mine eyes will no more be ſhocked with the ſight of guilt and ſorrow. Before many moons have changed, thou wilt enter, O mortal! into that world I have lately left. Liſten to my warning voice, and truſt not too much to the goodneſs which I perceive reſides in thy breaſt. Let it be reined in by principles, leſt thy very virtue ſharpen the ſting of remorſe, which as naturally follows diſorder in the moral world, as pain attends on intemperance in the phyſical. But my hiſtory will afford you more inſtruction than mere advice. Sageſtus concurred in opinion with her, obſerving that the ſenſes of children ſhould be the firſt object of improvement; then their paſſions worked on; and judgment the fruit, muſt be the acquirement of the being itſelf, when out of leading-ſtrings. The ſpirit bowed aſſent, and, without any further prelude, entered on her hiſtory.

My mother was a moſt reſpectable character, but ſhe was yoked to a man whoſe follies and vices made her ever feel the weight of her chains. The firſt ſenſation I recollect, was pity; for I have ſeen her weep over me and the reſt of her babes, lamenting that the extravagance of a father would throw us deſtitute on the world. But, though my father was extravagant, and ſeldom thought of any thing but his own pleaſures, our education was not neglected. In ſolitude, this employment was my mother's only ſolace; and my father's pride made him procure us maſters; nay, ſometimes he was ſo gratified by our improvement, that he would embrace us with tenderneſs, and intreat my mother to forgive him, with marks of real contrition. But the affection his penitence gave riſe to, only ſerved to expoſe her to continual diſappointments, and keep hope alive merely to torment her. After a violent debauch he would let his beard grow, and the ſadneſs that reigned in the houſe I ſhall never forget; he was aſhamed to meet even the eyes of his children. This is ſo contrary to the nature of things, it gave me exquiſite pain; I uſed, at thoſe times, to ſhow him extreme reſpect. I could not bear to ſee my parent humble himſelf before me. However neither his conſtitution, nor fortune could long bear the conſtant waſte. He had, I have obſerved, a childiſh affection for his children, which was diſplayed in careſſes that gratified him for the moment, yet never reſtrained the headlong fury of his appetites; his momentary repentance wrung his heart, without influencing his conduct; and he died, leaving an encumbered wreck of a good eſtate.

As we had always lived in ſplendid poverty, rather than in affluence, the ſhock was not ſo great; and my mother repreſſed her anguiſh, and concealed ſome circumſtances, that ſhe might not ſhed a deſtructive mildew over the gaiety of youth.

So fondly did I doat on this dear parent, that ſhe engroſſed all my tenderneſs; her ſorrows had knit me firmly to her, and my chief care was to give her proofs of affection. The gallantry that afforded my companions, the few young people my mother forced me to mix with, ſo much pleaſure, I deſpiſed; I wiſhed more to be loved than admired, for I could love. I adored virtue; and my imagination, chaſing a chimerical object, overlooked the common pleaſures of life; they were not ſufficient for my happineſs. A latent fire made me burn to riſe ſuperior to my contemporaries in wiſdom and virtue; and tears of joy and emulation filled my eyes when I read an account of a great action—I felt admiration, not aſtoniſhment.

My mother had two particular friends, who endeavoured to ſettle her affairs; one was a middle-aged man, a merchant; the human breaſt never enſhrined a more benevolent heart. His manners were rather rough, and he bluntly ſpoke his thoughts without obſerving the pain it gave; yet he poſſeſſed extreme tenderneſs, as far as his diſcernment went. Men do not make ſufficient diſtinction, ſaid ſhe, digreſſing from her ſtory to addreſs Sageſtus, between tenderneſs and ſenſibility.

To give the ſhorteſt definition of ſenſibility, replied the ſage, I ſhould ſay that it is the reſult of acute ſenſes, finely faſhioned nerves, which vibrate at the ſlighteſt touch, and convey ſuch clear intelligence to the brain, that it does not require to be arranged by the judgment. Such perſons inſtantly enter into the characters of others, and inſtinctively diſcern what will give pain to every human being; their own feelings are ſo varied that they ſeem to contain in themſelves, not only all the paſſions of the ſpecies, but their various modifications. Exquiſite pain and pleaſure is their portion; nature wears for them a different aſpect than is diſplayed to common mortals. One moment it is a paradiſe; all is beautiful: a cloud ariſes, an emotion receives a ſudden damp; darkneſs invades the ſky, and the world is an unweeded garden;—but go on with your narrative, ſaid Sageſtus, recollecting himſelf.

She proceeded. The man I am deſcribing was humanity itſelf; but frequently he did not underſtand me; many of my feelings were not to be analyzed by his common ſenſe. His friendſhips, for he had many friends, gave him pleaſure unmixed with pain; his religion was coldly reaſonable, becauſe he wanted fancy, and he did not feel the neceſſity of finding, or creating, a perfect object, to anſwer the one engraved on his heart: the ſketch there was faint. He went with the ſtream, and rather caught a character from the ſociety he lived in, than ſpread one around him. In my mind many opinions were graven with a pen of braſs, which he thought chimerical: but time could not eraſe them, and I now recognize them as the ſeeds of eternal happineſs: they will ſoon expand in thoſe realms where I ſhall enjoy the bliſs adapted to my nature; this is all we need aſk of the Supreme Being; happineſs muſt follow the completion of his deſigns. He however could live quietly, without giving a preponderancy to many important opinions that continually obtruded on my mind; not having an enthuſiaſtic affection for his fellow creatures, he did them good, without ſuffering from their follies. He was particularly attached to me, and I felt for him all the affection of a daughter; often, when he had been intereſting himſelf to promote my welfare, have I lamented that he was not my father; lamented that the vices of mine had dried up one ſource of pure affection.

The other friend I have already alluded to, was of a very different character; greatneſs of mind, and thoſe combinations of feeling which are ſo difficult to deſcribe, raiſed him above the throng, that buſtle their hour out, lie down to ſleep, and are forgotten. But I ſhall ſoon ſee him, ſhe exclaimed, as much ſuperior to his former ſelf, as he then roſe in my eyes above his fellow creatures! As ſhe ſpoke, a glow of delight animated each feature; her countenance appeared tranſparent; and ſhe ſilently anticipated the happineſs ſhe ſhould enjoy, when ſhe entered thoſe manſions, where death-divided friends ſhould meet, to part no more; where human weakneſs could not damp their bliſs, or poiſon the cup of joy that, on earth, drops from the lips as ſoon as taſted, or, if ſome daring mortal ſnatches a haſty draught, what was ſweet to the taſte becomes a root of bitterneſs.

He was unfortunate, had many cares to ſtruggle with, and I marked on his cheeks traces of the ſame ſorrows that ſunk my own. He was unhappy I ſay, and perhaps pity might firſt have awoke my tenderneſs; for, early in life, an artful woman worked on his compaſſionate ſoul, and he united his fate to a being made up of ſuch jarring elements, that he was ſtill alone. The diſcovery did not extinguiſh that propenſity to love, a high ſenſe of virtue fed. I ſaw him ſick and unhappy, without a friend to ſooth the hours languor made heavy; often did I ſit a long winter's evening by his ſide, railing at the ſwift wings of time, and terming my love, humanity.

Two years paſſed in this manner, ſilently rooting my affection; and it might have continued calm, if a fever had not brought him to the very verge of the grave. Though ſtill deceived, I was miſerable that the cuſtoms of the world did not allow me to watch by him; when ſleep forſook his pillow, my wearied eyes were not cloſed, and my anxious ſpirit hovered round his bed. I ſaw him, before he had recovered his ſtrength; and, when his hand touched mine, life almoſt retired, or flew to meet the touch. The firſt look found a ready way to my heart, and thrilled through every vein. We were left alone, and inſenſibly began to talk of the immortality of the ſoul; I declared that I could not live without this conviction. In the ardour of converſation he preſſed my hand to his heart; it reſted there a moment, and my emotions gave weight to my opinion, for the affection we felt was not of a periſhable nature.—A ſilence enſued, I know not how long; he then threw my hand from him, as if it had been a ſerpent; formally complained of the weather, and adverted to twenty other unintereſting ſubjects. Vain efforts! Our hearts had already ſpoken to each other.

Feebly did I afterwards combat an affection, which ſeemed twiſted in every fibre of my heart. The world ſtood ſtill when I thought of him; it moved heavily at beſt, with one whoſe very conſtitution ſeemed to mark her out for miſery. But I will not dwell on the paſſion I too fondly nurſed. One only refuge had I on earth; I could not reſolutely deſolate the ſcene my fancy flew to, when worldly cares, when a knowledge of mankind, which my circumſtances forced on me, rendered every other inſipid. I was afraid of the unmarked vacuity of common life; yet, though I ſupinely indulged myſelf in fairy-land, when I ought to have been more actively employed, virtue was ſtill the firſt mover of my actions; ſhe dreſſed my love in ſuch enchanting colours, and ſpread the net I could never break. Our correſponding feelings confounded our very ſouls; and in many converſations we almoſt intuitively diſcerned each other's ſentiments; the heart opened itſelf, not chilled by reſerve, nor afraid of miſconſtruction. But, if virtue inſpired love, love gave new energy to virtue, and abſorbed every ſelfiſh paſſion. Never did even a wiſh eſcape me, that my lover ſhould not fulfil the hard duties which fate had impoſed on him. I only diſſembled with him in one particular; I endeavoured to ſoften his wife's too conſpicuous follies, and extenuated her failings in an indirect manner. To this I was prompted by a loftineſs of ſpirit; I ſhould have broken the band of life, had I ceaſed to reſpect myſelf. But I will haſten to an important change in my circumſtances.

My mother, who had concealed the real ſtate of her affairs from me, was now impelled to make me her confident, that I might aſſiſt to diſcharge her mighty debt of gratitude. The merchant, my more than father, had privately aſſiſted her: but a fatal civil-war reduced his large property to a bare competency; and an inflammation in his eyes, that aroſe from a cold he had caught at a wreck, which he watched during a ſtormy night to keep off the lawleſs colliers, almoſt deprived him of ſight. His life had been ſpent in ſociety, and he ſcarcely knew how to fill the void; for his ſpirit would not allow him to mix with his former equals as an humble companion; he who had been treated with uncommon reſpect, could not brook their inſulting pity. From the reſource of ſolitude, reading, the complaint in his eyes cut him off, and he became our conſtant viſitor.

Actuated by the ſincereſt affection, I uſed to read to him, and he miſtook my tenderneſs for love. How could I undeceive him, when every circumſtance frowned on him! Too ſoon I found that I was his only comfort; I, who rejected his hand when fortune ſmiled, could not now ſecond her blow; and, in a moment of enthuſiaſtic gratitude and tender compaſſion, I offered him my hand.—It was received with pleaſure; tranſport was not made for his ſoul; nor did he diſcover that nature had ſeparated us, by making me alive to ſuch different ſenſations. My mother was to live with us, and I dwelt on this circumſtance to baniſh cruel recollections, when the bent bow returned to its former ſtate.

With a burſting heart and a firm voice, I named the day when I was to ſeal my promiſe. It came, in ſpite of my regret; I had been previouſly preparing myſelf for the awful ceremony, and anſwered the ſolemn queſtion with a reſolute tone, that would ſilence the dictates of my heart; it was a forced, unvaried one; had nature modulated it, my ſecret would have eſcaped. My active ſpirit was painfully on the watch to repreſs every tender emotion. The joy in my venerable parent's countenance, the tenderneſs of my huſband, as he conducted me home, for I really had a ſincere affection for him, the gratulations of my mind, when I thought that this ſacrifice was heroic, all tended to deceive me; but the joy of victory over the reſigned, pallid look of my lover, haunted my imagination, and fixed itſelf in the centre of my brain.—Still I imagined, that his ſpirit was near me, that he only felt ſorrow for my loſs, and without complaint reſigned me to my duty.

I was left alone a moment; my two elbows reſted on a table to ſupport my chin. Ten thouſand thoughts darted with aſtoniſhing velocity through my mind. My eyes were dry; I was on the brink of madneſs. At this moment a ſtrange aſſociation was made by my imagination; I thought of Gallileo, who when he left the inquiſition, looked upwards, and cried out, "Yet it moves." A ſhower of tears, like the refreſhing drops of heaven, relieved my parched ſockets; they fell diſregarded on the table; and, ſtamping with my foot, in an agony I exclaimed, "Yet I love." My huſband entered before I had calmed theſe tumultuous emotions, and tenderly took my hand. I ſnatched it from him; grief and ſurpriſe were marked on his countenance; I haſtily ſtretched it out again. My heart ſmote me, and I removed the tranſient miſt by an unfeigned endeavour to pleaſe him.

A few months after, my mind grew calmer; and, if a treacherous imagination, if feelings many accidents revived, ſometimes plunged me into melancholy, I often repeated with ſteady conviction, that virtue was not an empty name, and that, in following the dictates of duty, I had not bidden adieu to content.

In the courſe of a few years, the dear object of my fondeſt affection, ſaid farewel, in dying accents. Thus left alone, my grief became dear; and I did not feel ſolitary, becauſe I thought I might, without a crime, indulge a paſſion, that grew more ardent than ever when my imagination only preſented him to my view, and reſtored my former activity of ſoul which the late calm had rendered torpid. I ſeemed to find myſelf again, to find the eccentric warmth that gave me identity of character. Reaſon had governed my conduct, but could not change my nature; this voluptuous ſorrow was ſuperior to every gratification of ſenſe, and death more firmly united our hearts.

Alive to every human affection, I ſmoothed my mothers paſſage to eternity, and ſo often gave my huſband ſincere proofs of affection, he never ſuppoſed that I was actuated by a more fervent attachment. My melancholy, my uneven ſpirits, he attributed to my extreme ſenſibility, and loved me the better for poſſeſſing qualities he could not comprehend.

At the cloſe of a ſummer's day, ſome years after, I wandered with careleſs ſteps over a pathleſs common; various anxieties had rendered the hours which the ſun had enlightened heavy; ſober evening came on; I wiſhed to ſtill "my mind, and woo lone quiet in her ſilent walk." The ſcene accorded with my feelings; it was wild and grand; and the ſpreading twilight had almoſt confounded the diſtant ſea with the barren, blue hills that melted from my ſight. I ſat down on a riſing ground; the rays of the departing ſun illumined the horizon, but ſo indiſtinctly, that I anticipated their total extinction. The death of Nature led me to a ſtill more intereſting ſubject, that came home to my boſom, the death of him I loved. A village-bell was tolling; I liſtened, and thought of the moment when I heard his interrupted breath, and felt the agonizing fear, that the ſame ſound would never more reach my ears, and that the intelligence glanced from my eyes, would no more be felt. The ſpoiler had ſeized his prey; the ſun was fled, what was this world to me! I wandered to another, where death and darkneſs could not enter; I purſued the ſun beyond the mountains, and the ſoul eſcaped from this vale of tears. My reflections were tinged with melancholy, but they were ſublime.—I graſped a mighty whole, and ſmiled on the king of terrors; the tie which bound me to my friends he could not break; the ſame myſterious knot united me to the ſource of all goodneſs and happineſs. I had ſeen the divinity reflected in a face I loved; I had read immortal characters diſplayed on a human countenance, and forgot myſelf whilſt I gazed. I could not think of immortality, without recollecting the ecſtacy I felt, when my heart firſt whiſpered to me that I was beloved; and again did I feel the ſacred tie of mutual affection; fervently I prayed to the father of mercies; and rejoiced that he could ſee every turn of a heart, whoſe movements I could not perfectly underſtand. My paſſion ſeemed a pledge of immortality; I did not wiſh to hide it from the all-ſearching eye of heaven. Where indeed could I go from his preſence? and, whilſt it was dear to me, though darkneſs might reign during the night of life, joy would come when I awoke to life everlaſting.

I now turned my ſtep towards home, when the appearance of a girl, who ſtood weeping on the common, attracted my attention. I accoſted her, and ſoon heard her ſimple tale; that her father was gone to ſea, and her mother ſick in bed. I followed her to their little dwelling, and relieved the ſick wretch. I then again ſought my own abode; but death did not now haunt my fancy. Contriving to give the poor creature I had left more effectual relief, I reached my own garden-gate very weary, and reſted on it.—Recollecting the turns of my mind during the walk, I exclaimed, Surely life may thus be enlivened by active benevolence, and the ſleep of death, like that I am now diſpoſed to fall into, may be ſweet!

My life was now unmarked by any extraordinary change, and a few days ago I entered this cavern; for through it every mortal muſt paſs; and here I have diſcovered, that I neglected many opportunities of being uſeful, whilſt I foſtered a devouring flame. Remorſe has not reached me, becauſe I firmly adhered to my principles, and I have alſo diſcovered that I ſaw through a falſe medium. Worthy as the mortal was I adored, I ſhould not long have loved him with the ardour I did, had fate united us, and broken the deluſion the imagination ſo artfully wove. His virtues, as they now do, would have extorted my eſteem; but he who formed the human ſoul, only can fill it, and the chief happineſs of an immortal being muſt ariſe from the ſame ſource as its exiſtence. Earthly love leads to heavenly, and prepares us for a more exalted ſtate; if it does not change its nature, and deſtroy itſelf, by trampling on the virtue, that conſtitutes its eſſence, and allies us to the Deity.

ON

POETRY,

AND

OUR RELISH FOR THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.

ON

POETRY, &c.

A taſte for rural ſcenes, in the preſent ſtate of ſociety, appears to be very often an artificial ſentiment, rather inſpired by poetry and romances, than a real perception of the beauties of nature. But, as it is reckoned a proof of refined taſte to praiſe the calm pleaſures which the country affords, the theme is never exhauſted. Yet it may be made a queſtion, whether this romantic kind of declamation, has much effect on the conduct of thoſe, who leave, for a ſeaſon, the crowded cities in which they were bred.

I have been led to theſe reflections, by obſerving, when I have reſided for any length of time in the country, how few people ſeem to contemplate nature with their own eyes. I have "bruſhed the dew away" in the morning; but, pacing over the printleſs graſs, I have wondered that, in ſuch delightful ſituations, the ſun was allowed to riſe in ſolitary majeſty, whilſt my eyes alone hailed its beautifying beams. The webs of the evening have ſtill been ſpread acroſs the hedged path, unleſs ſome labouring man, trudging to work, diſturbed the fairy ſtructure; yet, in ſpite of this ſupineneſs, when I joined the ſocial circle, every tongue rang changes on the pleaſures of the country.

Having frequently had occaſion to make the ſame obſervation, I was led to endeavour, in one of my ſolitary rambles, to trace the cauſe, and likewiſe to enquire why the poetry written in the infancy of ſociety, is moſt natural: which, ſtrictly ſpeaking (for natural is a very indefinite expreſſion) is merely to ſay, that it is the tranſcript of immediate ſenſations, in all their native wildneſs and ſimplicity, when fancy, awakened by the ſight of intereſting objects, was moſt actively at work. At ſuch moments, ſenſibility quickly furniſhes ſimiles, and the ſublimated ſpirits combine images, which riſing ſpontaneouſly, it is not neceſſary coldly to ranſack the underſtanding or memory, till the laborious efforts of judgment exclude preſent ſenſations, and damp the fire of enthuſiaſm.

The effuſions of a vigorous mind, will ever tell us how far the underſtanding has been enlarged by thought, and ſtored with knowledge. The richneſs of the ſoil even appears on the ſurface; and the reſult of profound thinking, often mixing, with playful grace, in the reveries of the poet, ſmoothly incorporates with the ebullitions of animal ſpirits, when the finely faſhioned nerve vibrates acutely with rapture, or when, relaxed by ſoft melancholy, a pleaſing languor prompts the long-drawn ſigh, and feeds the ſlowly falling tear.

The poet, the man of ſtrong feelings, gives us only an image of his mind, when he was actually alone, converſing with himſelf, and marking the impreſſion which nature had made on his own heart.—If, at this ſacred moment, the idea of ſome departed friend, ſome tender recollection when the ſoul was moſt alive to tenderneſs, intruded unawares into his thoughts, the ſorrow which it produced is artleſſly, yet poetically expreſſed—and who can avoid ſympathizing?

Love to man leads to devotion—grand and ſublime images ſtrike the imagination—God is ſeen in every floating cloud, and comes from the miſty mountain to receive the nobleſt homage of an intelligent creature—praiſe. How ſolemn is the moment, when all affections and remembrances fade before the ſublime admiration which the wiſdom and goodneſs of God inſpires, when he is worſhipped in a temple not made with hands, and the world ſeems to contain only the mind that formed, and the mind that contemplates it! Theſe are not the weak reſponſes of ceremonial devotion; nor, to expreſs them, would the poet need another poet's aid: his heart burns within him, and he ſpeaks the language of truth and nature with reſiſtleſs energy.

Inequalities, of courſe, are obſervable in his effuſions; and a leſs vigorous fancy, with more taſte, would have produced more elegance and uniformity; but, as paſſages are ſoftened or expunged during the cooler moments of reflection, the underſtanding is gratified at the expence of thoſe involuntary ſenſations, which, like the beauteous tints of an evening ſky, are ſo evaneſcent, that they melt into new forms before they can be analyzed. For however eloquently we may boaſt of our reaſon, man muſt often be delighted he cannot tell why, or his blunt feelings are not made to reliſh the beauties which nature, poetry, or any of the imitative arts, afford.

The imagery of the ancients ſeems naturally to have been borrowed from ſurrounding objects and their mythology. When a hero is to be tranſported from one place to another, acroſs pathleſs waſtes, is any vehicle ſo natural, as one of the fleecy clouds on which the poet has often gazed, ſcarcely conſcious that he wiſhed to make it his chariot? Again, when nature ſeems to preſent obſtacles to his progreſs at almoſt every ſtep, when the tangled foreſt and ſteep mountain ſtand as barriers, to paſs over which the mind longs for ſupernatural aid; an interpoſing deity, who walks on the waves, and rules the ſtorm, ſeverely felt in the firſt attempts to cultivate a country, will receive from the impaſſioned fancy "a local habitation and a name."

It would be a philoſophical enquiry, and throw ſome light on the hiſtory of the human mind, to trace, as far as our information will allow us to trace, the ſpontaneous feelings and ideas which have produced the images that now frequently appear unnatural, becauſe they are remote; and diſguſting, becauſe they have been ſervilely copied by poets, whoſe habits of thinking, and views of nature muſt have been different; for, though the underſtanding ſeldom diſturbs the current of our preſent feelings, without diſſipating the gay clouds which fancy has been embracing, yet it ſilently gives the colour to the whole tenour of them, and the dream is over, when truth is groſſly violated, or images introduced, ſelected from books, and not from local manners or popular prejudices.

In a more advanced ſtate of civilization, a poet is rather the creature of art, than of nature. The books that he reads in his youth, become a hot-bed in which artificial fruits are produced, beautiful to the common eye, though they want the true hue and flavour. His images do not ariſe from ſenſations; they are copies; and, like the works of the painters who copy ancient ſtatues when they draw men and women of their own times, we acknowledge that the features are fine, and the proportions juſt; yet they are men of ſtone; inſipid figures, that never convey to the mind the idea of a portrait taken from life, where the ſoul gives ſpirit and homogeneity to the whole. The ſilken wings of fancy are ſhrivelled by rules; and a deſire of attaining elegance of diction, occaſions an attention to words, incompatible with ſublime, impaſſioned thoughts.

A boy of abilities, who has been taught the ſtructure of verſe at ſchool, and been rouſed by emulation to compoſe rhymes whilſt he was reading works of genius, may, by practice, produce pretty verſes, and even become what is often termed an elegant poet: yet his readers, without knowing what to find fault with, do not find themſelves warmly intereſted. In the works of the poets who faſten on their affections, they ſee groſſer faults, and the very images which ſhock their taſte in the modern; ſtill they do not appear as puerile or extrinſic in one as the other.—Why?—becauſe they did not appear ſo to the author.

It may ſound paradoxical, after obſerving that thoſe productions want vigour, that are merely the work of imitation, in which the underſtanding has violently directed, if not extinguiſhed, the blaze of fancy, to aſſert, that, though genius be only another word for exquiſite ſenſibility, the firſt obſervers of nature, the true poets, exerciſed their underſtanding much more than their imitators. But they exerciſed it to diſcriminate things, whilſt their followers were buſy to borrow ſentiments and arrange words.

Boys who have received a claſſical education, load their memory with words, and the correſpondent ideas are perhaps never diſtinctly comprehended. As a proof of this aſſertion, I muſt obſerve, that I have known many young people who could write tolerably ſmooth verſes, and ſtring epithets prettily together, when their proſe themes ſhowed the barrenneſs of their minds, and how ſuperficial the cultivation muſt have been, which their underſtanding had received.

Dr. Johnſon, I know, has given a definition of genius, which would overturn my reaſoning, if I were to admit it.—He imagines, that a ſtrong mind, accidentally led to ſome particular ſtudy in which it excels, is a genius.—Not to ſtop to inveſtigate the cauſes which produced this happy ſtrength of mind, experience ſeems to prove, that thoſe minds have appeared moſt vigorous, that have purſued a ſtudy, after nature had diſcovered a bent; for it would be abſurd to ſuppoſe, that a ſlight impreſſion made on the weak faculties of a boy, is the fiat of fate, and not to be effaced by any ſucceeding impreſſion, or unexpected difficulty. Dr. Johnſon in fact, appears ſometimes to be of the ſame opinion (how conſiſtently I ſhall not now enquire), eſpecially when he obſerves, "that Thomſon looked on nature with the eye which ſhe only gives to a poet."

But, though it ſhould be allowed that books may produce ſome poets, I fear they will never be the poets who charm our cares to ſleep, or extort admiration. They may diffuſe taſte, and poliſh the language; but I am inclined to conclude that they will ſeldom rouſe the paſſions, or amend the heart.

And, to return to the firſt ſubject of diſcuſſion, the reaſon why moſt people are more intereſted by a ſcene deſcribed by a poet, than by a view of nature, probably ariſes from the want of a lively imagination. The poet contracts the proſpect, and, ſelecting the moſt pictureſque part in his camera, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the moſt forcible emotions in the poet's heart; the reader conſequently feels the enlivened deſcription, though he was not able to receive a firſt impreſſion from the operations of his own mind.

Beſides, it may be further obſerved, that groſs minds are only to be moved by forcible repreſentations. To rouſe the thoughtleſs, objects muſt be preſented, calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the unſubſtantial, pictureſque forms which a contemplative man gazes on, and often follows with ardour till he is mocked by a glimpſe of unattainable excellence, appear to them the light vapours of a dreaming enthuſiaſt, who gives up the ſubſtance for the ſhadow. It is not within that they ſeek amuſement; their eyes are ſeldom turned on themſelves; conſequently their emotions, though ſometimes fervid, are always tranſient, and the nicer perceptions which diſtinguiſh the man of genuine taſte, are not felt, or make ſuch a ſlight impreſſion as ſcarcely to excite any pleaſurable ſenſations. Is it ſurpriſing then that they are often overlooked, even by thoſe who are delighted by the ſame images concentrated by the poet?

But even this numerous claſs is exceeded, by witlings, who, anxious to appear to have wit and taſte, do not allow their underſtandings or feelings any liberty; for, inſtead of cultivating their faculties and reflecting on their operations, they are buſy collecting prejudices; and are predetermined to admire what the ſuffrage of time announces as excellent, not to ſtore up a fund of amuſement for themſelves, but to enable them to talk.

Theſe hints will aſſiſt the reader to trace ſome of the cauſes why the beauties of nature are not forcibly felt, when civilization, or rather luxury, has made conſiderable advances—thoſe calm ſenſations are not ſufficiently lively to ſerve as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even to the moderate purſuer of artificial pleaſures. In the preſent ſtate of ſociety, the underſtanding muſt bring back the feelings to nature, or the ſenſibility muſt have ſuch native ſtrength, as rather to be whetted than deſtroyed by the ſtrong exerciſes of paſſion.

That the moſt valuable things are liable to the greateſt perverſion, is however as trite as true:—for the ſame ſenſibility, or quickneſs of ſenſes, which makes a man reliſh the tranquil ſcenes of nature, when ſenſation, rather than reaſon, imparts delight, frequently makes a libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the ſenſual tumult of love a little refined by ſentiment, to the calm pleaſures of affectionate friendſhip, in whoſe ſober ſatiſfactions, reaſon, mixing her tranquillizing convictions, whiſpers, that content, not happineſs, is the reward of virtue in this world.

HINTS.

[Chiefly deſigned to have been incorporated
in the Second Part of the Vindication
of the Rights of Woman.]

HINTS.

1.

Indolence is the ſource of nervous complaints, and a whole hoſt of cares. This devil might ſay that his name was legion.

2.

It ſhould be one of the employments of women of fortune, to viſit hoſpitals, and ſuperintend the conduct of inferiors.

3.

It is generally ſuppoſed, that the imagination of women is particularly active, and leads them aſtray. Why then do we ſeek by education only to exerciſe their imagination and feeling, till the underſtanding, grown rigid by diſuſe, is unable to exerciſe itſelf—and the ſuperfluous nouriſhment the imagination and feeling have received, renders the former romantic, and the latter weak?

4.

Few men have riſen to any great eminence in learning, who have not received ſomething like a regular education. Why are women expected to ſurmount difficulties that men are not equal to?

5.

Nothing can be more abſurd than the ridicule of the critic, that the heroine of his mock-tragedy was in love with the very man whom ſhe ought leaſt to have loved; he could not have given a better reaſon. How can paſſion gain ſtrength any other way? In Otaheite, love cannot be known, where the obſtacles to irritate an indiſcriminate appetite, and ſublimate the ſimple ſenſations of deſire till they mount to paſſion, are never known. There a man or woman cannot love the very perſon they ought not to have loved—nor does jealouſy ever fan the flame.

6.

It has frequently been obſerved, that, when women have an object in view, they purſue it with more ſteadineſs than men, particularly love. This is not a compliment. Paſſion purſues with more heat than reaſon, and with moſt ardour during the abſence of reaſon.

7.

Men are more ſubject to the phyſical love than women. The confined education of women makes them more ſubject to jealouſy.

8.

Simplicity ſeems, in general, the conſequence of ignorance, as I have obſerved in the characters of women and ſailors—the being confined to one track of impreſſions.

9.

I know of no other way of preſerving the chaſtity of mankind, than that of rendering women rather objects of love than deſire. The difference is great. Yet, while women are encouraged to ornament their perſons at the expence of their minds, while indolence renders them helpleſs and laſcivious (for what other name can be given to the common intercourſe between the ſexes?) they will be, generally ſpeaking, only objects of deſire; and, to ſuch women, men cannot be conſtant. Men, accuſtomed only to have their ſenſes moved, merely ſeek for a ſelfiſh gratification in the ſociety of women, and their ſexual inſtinct, being neither ſupported by the underſtanding nor the heart, muſt be excited by variety.

10.

We ought to reſpect old opinions; though prejudices, blindly adopted, lead to error, and preclude all exerciſe of the reaſon.

The emulation which often makes a boy miſchievous, is a generous ſpur; and the old remark, that unlucky, turbulent boys, make the wiſeſt and beſt men, is true, ſpite of Mr. Knox's arguments. It has been obſerved, that the moſt adventurous horſes, when tamed or domeſticated, are the moſt mild and tractable.

11.

The children who ſtart up ſuddenly at twelve or fourteen, and fall into decays, in conſequence, as it is termed, of outgrowing their ſtrength, are in general, I believe, thoſe children, who have been bred up with miſtaken tenderneſs, and not allowed to ſport and take exerciſe in the open air. This is analogous to plants: for it is found that they run up ſickly, long ſtalks, when confined.

12.

Children ſhould be taught to feel deference, not to practiſe ſubmiſſion.

13.

It is always a proof of falſe refinement, when a faſtidious taſte overpowers ſympathy.

14.

Luſt appears to be the moſt natural companion of wild ambition; and love of human praiſe, of that dominion erected by cunning.

15.

"Genius decays as judgment increaſes." Of courſe, thoſe who have the leaſt genius, have the earlieſt appearance of wiſdom.

16.

A knowledge of the fine arts, is ſeldom ſubſervient to the promotion of either religion or virtue. Elegance is often indecency; witneſs our prints.

17.

There does not appear to be any evil in the world, but what is neceſſary. The doctrine of rewards and puniſhments, not conſidered as a means of reformation, appears to me an infamous libel on divine goodneſs.

18.

Whether virtue is founded on reaſon or revelation, virtue is wiſdom, and vice is folly. Why are poſitive puniſhments?

19.

Few can walk alone. The ſtaff of Chriſtianity is the neceſſary ſupport of human weakneſs. But an acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with juſt ſentiments on the attributes, would be ſufficient, without a voice from heaven, to lead ſome to virtue, but not the mob.

20.

I only expect the natural reward of virtue, whatever it may be. I rely not on a poſitive reward.

The juſtice of God can be vindicated by a belief in a future ſtate—but a continuation of being vindicates it as clearly, as the poſitive ſyſtem of rewards and puniſhments—by evil educing good for the individual, and not for an imaginary whole. The happineſs of the whole muſt ariſe from the happineſs of the conſtituent parts, or this world is not a ſtate of trial, but a ſchool.

21.

The vices acquired by Auguſtus to retain his power, muſt have tainted his ſoul, and prevented that increaſe of happineſs a good man expects in the next ſtage of exiſtence. This was a natural puniſhment.

22.

The lover is ever moſt deeply enamoured, when it is with he knows not what—and the devotion of a myſtic has a rude Gothic grandeur in it, which the reſpectful adoration of a philoſopher will never reach. I may be thought fanciful; but it has continually occurred to me, that, though, I allow, reaſon in this world is the mother of wiſdom—yet ſome flights of the imagination ſeem to reach what wiſdom cannot teach—and, while they delude us here, afford a glorious hope, if not a foretaſte, of what we may expect hereafter. He that created us, did not mean to mark us with ideal images of grandeur, the baſeleſs fabric of a viſion—No—that perfection we follow with hopeleſs ardour when the whiſperings of reaſon are heard, may be found, when not incompatible with our ſtate, in the round of eternity. Perfection indeed muſt, even then, be a comparative idea—but the wiſdom, the happineſs of a ſuperior ſtate, has been ſuppoſed to be intuitive, and the happieſt effuſions of human genius have ſeemed like inſpiration—the deductions of reaſon deſtroy ſublimity.

23.

I am more and more convinced, that poetry is the firſt efferveſcence of the imagination, and the forerunner of civilization.

24.

When the Arabs had no trace of literature or ſcience, they compoſed beautiful verſes on the ſubjects of love and war. The flights of the imagination, and the laboured deductions of reaſon, appear almoſt incompatible.

25.

Poetry certainly flouriſhes moſt in the firſt rude ſtate of ſociety. The paſſions ſpeak moſt eloquently, when they are not ſhackled by reaſon. The ſublime expreſſion, which has been ſo often quoted, [Geneſis, ch. 1, ver. 3.] is perhaps a barbarous flight; or rather the grand conception of an uncultivated mind; for it is contrary to nature and experience, to ſuppoſe that this account is founded on facts—It is doubtleſs a ſublime allegory. But a cultivated mind would not thus have deſcribed the creation—for, arguing from analogy, it appears that creation muſt have been a comprehenſive plan, and that the Supreme Being always uſes ſecond cauſes, ſlowly and ſilently to fulfil his purpoſe. This is, in reality, a more ſublime view of that power which wiſdom ſupports: but it is not the ſublimity that would ſtrike the impaſſioned mind, in which the imagination took place of intellect. Tell a being, whoſe affections and paſſions have been more exerciſed than his reaſon, that God ſaid, Let there be light! and there was light; and he would proſtrate himſelf before the Being who could thus call things out of nothing, as if they were: but a man in whom reaſon had taken place of paſſion, would not adore, till wiſdom was conſpicuous as well as power, for his admiration muſt be founded on principle.

26.

Individuality is ever conſpicuous in thoſe enthuſiaſtic flights of fancy, in which reaſon is left behind, without being loſt ſight of.

27.

The mind has been too often brought to the teſt of enquiries which only reach to matter—put into the crucible, though the magnetic and electric fluid eſcapes from the experimental philoſopher.

28.

Mr. Kant has obſerved, that the underſtanding is ſublime, the imagination beautiful—yet it is evident, that poets, and men who undoubtedly poſſeſs the livelieſt imagination, are moſt touched by the ſublime, while men who have cold, enquiring minds, have not this exquiſite feeling in any great degree, and indeed ſeem to loſe it as they cultivate their reaſon.

29.

The Grecian buildings are graceful—they fill the mind with all thoſe pleaſing emotions, which elegance and beauty never fail to excite in a cultivated mind—utility and grace ſtrike us in uniſon—the mind is ſatiſfied—things appear juſt what they ought to be: a calm ſatiſfaction is felt, but the imagination has nothing to do—no obſcurity darkens the gloom—like reaſonable content, we can ſay why we are pleaſed—and this kind of pleaſure may be laſting, but it is never great.

30.

When we ſay that a perſon is an original, it is only to ſay in other words that he thinks. "The leſs a man has cultivated his rational faculties, the more powerful is the principle of imitation, over his actions, and his habits of thinking. Moſt women, of courſe, are more influenced by the behaviour, the faſhions, and the opinions of thoſe with whom they aſſociate, than men." (Smellie.)

When we read a book which ſupports our favourite opinions, how eagerly do we ſuck in the doctrines, and ſuffer our minds placidly to reflect the images which illuſtrate the tenets we have embraced? We indolently or quietly acquieſce in the concluſion, and our ſpirit animates and connects the various ſubjects. But, on the contrary, when we peruſe a ſkilful writer, who does not coincide in opinion with us, how is the mind on the watch to detect fallacy? And this coolneſs often prevents our being carried away by a ſtream of eloquence, which the prejudiced mind terms declamation—a pomp of words.—We never allow ourſelves to be warmed; and, after contending with the writer, are more confirmed in our own opinion, as much perhaps from a ſpirit of contradiction as from reaſon.—Such is the ſtrength of man!

31.

It is the individual manner of ſeeing and feeling, pourtrayed by a ſtrong imagination in bold images that have ſtruck the ſenſes, which creates all the charms of poetry. A great reader is always quoting the deſcription of another's emotions; a ſtrong imagination delights to paint its own. A writer of genius makes us feel; an inferior author reaſon.

32.

Some principle prior to ſelf-love muſt have exiſted: the feeling which produced the pleaſure, muſt have exiſted before the experience.

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