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  The Love Letters
  OF
  Mary Wollstonecraft
  TO GILBERT IMLAY

  WITH A PREFATORY MEMOIR
  By Roger Ingpen

  _ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS_

  Philadelphia
  J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
  London: HUTCHINSON & CO.
  1908



  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN




MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S LETTERS




EDITED BY ROGER INGPEN

LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. A. CONSTABLE &
CO.

ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: A Collection of Verse Old and New.
HUTCHINSON & CO.

FORSTER'S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.)
HUTCHINSON & CO.

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.)
HUTCHINSON & CO.

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols.
PITMAN.




[Illustration: Mary Wollstonecraft

_From an engraving, after the painting by John Opie, R.A._]




PREFACE


I

Of Mary Wollstonecraft's ancestors little is known, except that they were
of Irish descent. Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraft, was the son of a
prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of Irish birth, from whom he
inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds. He married towards the middle of
the eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in
good position, of Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: Edward, Mary,
Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. Mary, the eldest daughter and second
child, was born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of Burns and Schiller,
and the last year of George II.'s reign. She passed her childhood, until
she was five years old, in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, but it is
doubtful whether she was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstonecraft
followed no profession in particular, although from time to time he
dabbled in a variety of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money.
He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an
ungovernable temper and a restless spirit that urged him to perpetual
changes of residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered most of his
fortune, he wandered to Essex, and then, among other places, in 1768 to
Beverley, in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at Laugharne in
Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired of this experiment and returned
once more to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality and
selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently compelled to defend her
mother from his acts of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting herself
bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. Wollstonecraft herself was far
from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant and a stern but incompetent
ruler of her household, she treated Mary as the scapegoat of the family.
Mary's early years therefore were far from being happy; what little
schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father's migratory habits.

In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts were once more in London,
Mary formed a friendship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her own age,
which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. There was
a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for Fanny contrived by
her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as her
father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow.

Mary's new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. She loved music,
sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting
letters. It was by comparing Fanny Blood's letters with her own, that Mary
first recognised how defective her education had been. She applied herself
therefore to the task of increasing her slender stock of
knowledge--hoping ultimately to become a governess. At length, at the age
of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old
lady, a Mrs. Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London tradesman. In spite of
many difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years,
leaving it only to attend the deathbed of her mother.

Mrs. Wollstonecraft's death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the
home. Mary went to live temporarily with the Bloods at Walham Green, and
assisted Mrs. Blood, who took in needle-work; Everina became for a short
time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a solicitor; and Eliza married a
Mr. Bishop.

Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that "all the Wollstonecraft sisters were
enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles,
sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied
insults. All had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the
nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution."
Mrs. Bishop's married life from the first was one of utter misery; they
were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently
exasperated her husband's worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the
scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were
afterwards described with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, "The
Wrongs of Women." It was plainly impossible for Mrs. Bishop to continue
to live with such a man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill,
Mary, with her characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon
after assisted her in her flight from her husband.

In the following year (1783) Mary set up a school at Islington with Fanny
Blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, Mrs.
Bishop and Everina. The school was afterwards moved to Newington Green,
where Mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day scholars. After
a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house; but
unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to
her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet.

While Mary was living at Newington Green, she was introduced to Dr.
Johnson, who, Godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and
attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. He desired her to
repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last
illness and death.

In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired her health by overwork, and signs
of consumption were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who was engaged in
business at Lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long admired
Fanny, and wanted to marry her. It was thought that the climate of
Portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more
on that account than on any other, to become his wife. She left England
in February 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. Mary's anxiety
for her friend's welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition,
she at once went off to Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only
in time to comfort Fanny in her dying moments. Mary was almost
broken-hearted at the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon
as short as possible, remaining only as long as was necessary for Mrs.
Skeys's funeral.

She returned to England to find that the school had greatly suffered by
neglect during her absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys's brother, George
Blood, she says: "The loss of Fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud
over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when I am bereft of
every other comfort? I have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and
where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?"

She thus realised that to continue her school was useless. But her
experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. She had
observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and
her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, "Thoughts on the
Education of Daughters," (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas,
a sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who
were desirous of going over to Ireland.

She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the October of 1787 she became
governess to the daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaelstown, with a
salary of forty pounds a year. Lady Kingsborough in Mary's opinion was "a
shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... She rouges, and in short is a fine
lady without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by
dogs...." Lady Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her
chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. She pampered her dogs, much to
the disgust of Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. What views
she had on education were narrow. She had been accustomed to submission
from her governess, but she learnt before long that Mary was not of a
tractable disposition. The children, at first unruly and defiant,
"literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing," soon
gave Mary their confidence, and before long their affection. One of her
pupils, Margaret King, afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the
warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady Mountcashel continued her
acquaintance with William Godwin after Mary's death, and later came across
Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won from the children the affection
that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 1788,
when she had been with Lady Kingsborough for about a year, she received
her dismissal. She had completed by this time the novel to which she gave
the name of "Mary," which is a tribute to the memory of her friend Fanny
Blood.


II

And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary Wollstonecraft had concluded her
career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to
literature. Her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had
written nothing to encourage her for such a venture. It was her fortune,
however, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, the humanitarian
publisher and bookseller of St. Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of
Priestley, Horne Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and other men of advanced
thought, and she met at his table many of the authors for whom he
published, and such eminent men of the day as William Blake, Fuseli, and
Tom Paine. Mr. Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends,
encouraged her in her literary plans. He was the publisher of her
"Thoughts on the Education of Daughters," and had recognised in that
little book so much promise, that when she sought his advice, he at once
offered to assist her with employment.

Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a house in George Street,
Blackfriars. She had brought to London the manuscript of her novel "Mary,"
and she set to work on a book for children entitled "Original Stories from
Real Life." Both of these books appeared before the year was out, the
latter with quaint plates by William Blake. Mary also occupied some of her
time with translations from the French, German, and even Dutch, one of
which was an abridged edition of Saltzmann's "Elements of Morality," for
which Blake also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, Johnson
engaged Mary as his literary adviser or "reader," and secured her services
in connexion with _The Analytical Review_, a periodical that he had
recently founded.

While she was at George Street she also wrote her "Vindication of the
Rights of Man" in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief satisfaction in
keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters
could always come when out of employment. She was never weary of assisting
them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them
situations. One of her first acts when she settled in London was to send
Everina Wollstonecraft to Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. Johnson,
who wrote a short account of Mary's life in London at this time, says she
often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his
advice, or unburden her troubles to him. Among the many duties she imposed
on herself was the charge of her father's affairs, which must indeed have
been a profitless undertaking.

The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft's labours while she was living
at Blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with
her name, "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman." This volume--now much
better known by its title than its contents--was dedicated to the astute
M. Talleyrand de Perigord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on account of
his authorship of a pamphlet on National Education. It is unnecessary to
attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal
book--modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both
of Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say that it is
really a plea for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not
only her own sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many of her
suggestions have long since been put to practical use, such as that of a
system of free national education, with equal advantages for boys and
girls. The book contains too much theory and is therefore to a great
extent obsolete. Mary Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that
recognises woman as the plaything of man; she pleads rather for a friendly
footing of equality between the sexes, besides claiming a new order of
things for women, in terms which are unusually frank. Such a book could
not fail to create a sensation, and it speedily made her notorious, not
only in this country, but on the Continent, where it was translated into
French. It was of course the outcome of the French Revolution; the whole
work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of that movement, but whereas
the French patriots demanded rights for men, she made the same demands
also for women.

It is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in France
had made a deep impression on Mary's mind--its influence is stamped on
every page of her book, and it was her desire to visit France with Mr.
Johnson and Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so
she went alone in the December of 1792, chiefly with the object of
perfecting her French. Godwin states, though apparently in error, that
Fuseli was the cause of her going to France, the acquaintance with the
painter having grown into something warmer than mere friendship. Fuseli,
however, had a wife and was happily married, so Mary "prudently resolved
to retire into another country, far remote from the object who had
unintentionally excited the tender passion in her breast."

She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on December
24 to her sister Everina: "The day after to-morrow I expect to see the
King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost afraid
to anticipate." On the day in question, the 26th, Louis XVI. appeared in
the Hall of the Convention to plead his cause through his advocate,
Desize, and on the same day she wrote that letter to Mr. Johnson which has
so often been quoted: "About nine o'clock this morning," she says, "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 anything 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 had triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis
XIV. before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his
victories so flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of
prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery...."

Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame Filiettaz, the daughter of
Madame Bregantz, in whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and Everina
Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary was now something of a
celebrity--"Authorship," she writes, "is a heavy weight for female
shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity"--and she carried with
her letters of introduction to several influential people in Paris. She
renewed her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate with Helen Maria
Williams (who is said to have once lived with Imlay), and visited, among
others, the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her intention to go to
Switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she
settled at Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. "Her
habitation here," says Godwin, "was a solitary house in the midst of a
garden, with no other habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man
who performed for her many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes
contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great
veneration for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some
grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the
greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had any person with her as a
visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed,
her historical and moral view of the French Revolution, into which she
incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her letters,
and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in
which they had been commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to
refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her host in
vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies
and murders that had been committed there."


[Illustration: From an engraving by Ridley, dated 1796, after a painting
by John Opie, R.A.

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale of the
late Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that it represents Mary
Wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the _Monthly
Mirror_ (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was
made. Mrs. Merritt made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul's
edition of the "Letters to Imlay."

_To face p. xvi_]


It is probable that in March 1793 Mary Wollstonecraft first saw Gilbert
Imlay. The meeting occurred at Mr. Christie's house, and her immediate
impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided
him. However, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and
later into love. Gilbert Imlay was born in New Jersey about 1755. He
served as a captain in the American army during the Revolutionary war, and
was the author of "A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of
North America," 1792, and a novel entitled "The Emigrants," 1793. In the
latter work, as an American, he proposes to "place a mirror to the view of
Englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were
once so lovely," and further "to prevent the sacrilege which the present
practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce." It is not known
whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of,
his connexion with Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in
business, probably in the timber trade with Sweden and Norway.

In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary sought no advice and took no
one into her confidence. She was evidently deeply in love with him, and
felt that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness
to their union. Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay episode,
states that "the origin of the connexion was about the middle of April
1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for about three months."
Imlay had no property whatever, and Mary had objected to marry him,
because she would not burden him with her own debts, or "involve him in
certain family embarrassments," for which she believed herself
responsible. She looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, "as of the
most inviolable nature." Then the French Government passed a decree that
all British subjects resident in France should go to prison until a
general declaration of peace. It therefore became expedient, not that a
marriage should take place, for that would necessitate Mary declaring her
nationality, but that she should take the name of Imlay, "which," says
Godwin, "from the nature of their connexion (formed on her part at least,
with no capricious or fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to
do, and obtain a certificate from the American Ambassador, as the wife of
a native of that country. Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought
proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to
Paris."

In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her sister Everina, dated from
Havre, March 10, 1794, she describes the climate of France as "uncommonly
fine," and praises the common people for their manners; but she is also
saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that "death and
misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... If any of
the many letters I have written have come to your hands or Eliza's, you
know that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most worthy
man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of feeling, a
soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met
with. Having been brought up in the interior parts of America, he is a
most natural, unaffected creature."

Mary has expressed in the "Rights of Woman" her ideal of the relations
between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic
happiness as she had cherished for some time. She had known much
unhappiness in the past. Godwin says: "She brought in the present
instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a
chosen friend. Let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart,
querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character
seemed to change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of
her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the
vivacity of a youthful mind. She was playful, full of confidence,
kindness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new
colour and smoothness. Her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing
with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day
to day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well
recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost
every one that beheld it." She had now met the man to whom she earnestly
believed she could surrender herself with entire devotion. Naturally of an
affectionate nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive
Irish spirit, as Godwin says, "she gave way to all the sensibilities of
her nature."

The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. Mary had
taken her step without much forethought. She attributed to Imlay
"uncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not detect his instability of
character. He certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both
before and after his attachment to Mary. He was not the man to be
satisfied with one woman as his life-companion. A typical American, he was
deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much
of his time as he represented. In the September after he set up house with
Mary, that is in '93, the year of the Terror, he left her in Paris while
he went to Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to
Havre Marat. It is awful to think what must have been the life of this
lonely stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain
hardly a reference to the events of the Revolution.

Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to Paris, and sickened with the
"growing cruelties of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 1794,
and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory
of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence
throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one.
In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus
of little Fanny:

"I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to
fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She
does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and
though I am sure she has her father's quick temper and feelings, her good
humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing."

In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had
subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of
their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing.
The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in
which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris.
Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she
expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of
business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had
cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay
put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an
end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest
forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress
belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at
first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second
consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished
house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when
she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take
her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt
of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was
at this time engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy
representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that
the journey would restore Mary's health and spirits. She therefore
consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a
document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and
describing her as "Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife," and concluding:
"Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved
friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely
and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and
affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay."

The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were
issued in 1796, as "Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her most
readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by
Godwin in his wife's posthumous works, and are given in the present
volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay
had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and
to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her
suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely
neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the
discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought
Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference
resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She
first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and
therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived
there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until
her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She
was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life
was saved.

Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last
sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when "he alighted
from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter
passed," she assured Godwin, "without producing in her any oppressive
emotion." Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from
Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to
be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor
interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not
known.

Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and
publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her
literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more
seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was
William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced
republicans of the time, the author of "Political Justice" and the novel
"Caleb Williams." They had met before, for the first time in November
1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the
naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although
they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became
friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him
extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of
the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb,
Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his
family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he
appears to the worst advantage--a kind of early Pecksniff--in his later
correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this
correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine
side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait
Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and
eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by
Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so
pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of
Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face
portrait of the philosopher--"he has large noble eyes, and a _nose_--oh,
most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the
effect of its downward elongation."

Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as "friendship melting into
love." They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty
doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his
theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family
happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning,
generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at
his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a
walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate
with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints
some of these; such as Godwin's:

"I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you
four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How
do you do?"

And Mary's: "Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I
wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I
shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie's; but should I not
find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give
Fanny butter with her pudding." This note is dated April 20, 1797, and
probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie.

On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional
clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed
bachelor habits.

Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at
Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being
witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered
diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a
mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent
to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly
for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs.
Reveley, two of Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announcement of
his marriage that they shed tears.

An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey's
letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, "Of all the
lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's countenance is the
best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat
similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display--an expression
indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but
still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of
one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I
ever saw."

Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life
was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to
Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband
and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most delightful
reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were.


[Illustration: From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie
(probably painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery.

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

This picture passed from Godwin's hands on his death to his grandson, Sir
Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his
widow, Lady Shelley. It was engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin's
memoir of his wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the _Lady's
Magazine_, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a
mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1802. Mrs. Merritt also made an
etching of the picture for Mr. Paul's edition of the "Letters to Imlay."

_To face p. xxvi_]


On August 30, Mary's child was born, not the William so much desired by
them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well
with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The
best medical advice was obtained, but after a week's illness, on Sunday
morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During
her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave
Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, "Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." But,
as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that moment Godwin declined to be
entrapped into the admission that heaven existed," and his instant reply
was: "You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat
easier." Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband's religious
doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one.

Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately
after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the "Memoirs" testify.
Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in
the presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was
laid beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is
said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin's daughter. In 1851, when
the Metropolitan and Midland Railways were constructed at St. Pancras,
the graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of Mary and William Godwin
were removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, to Bournemouth, where
they now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley.

In the year following Mary's death (1798) Godwin edited his wife's
"Posthumous Works," in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to
Imlay, and her incomplete novel "The Wrongs of Woman." His tribute to Mary
Godwin's memory was also published in 1798, under the title of "Memoirs of
the Author of _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_." Godwin's novel,
"St. Leon" came out in 1799; his tragedy "Antonio" was produced only to
fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by Mrs. Clairmont, a
widow. The Godwin household was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it
did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. Godwin's two children, Charles and
Claire Clairmont, and also of William, the only child born of her marriage
with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began a correspondence with Godwin, which
ultimately led to Mary Godwin's elopement with the poet. Poor Fanny Imlay,
or Godwin, as she was called after her mother's death, died at the age of
nineteen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life had been far from
happy in this strange household. She had grown to love Shelley, but his
choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her secret to
herself. One day she suddenly left home and travelled to Swansea, where
she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn where
she had taken a room, "her long brown hair about her face; a bottle of
laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: 'I have long
determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the
existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only
been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in
endeavouring to promote her welfare.' She had with her the little Genevan
watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley: and in her purse were a few
shillings."[1]

Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with Fanny in London,
wrote this stanza:

  "Her voice did quiver as we parted;
    Yet knew I not that heart was broken
  From whence it came, and I departed
    Heeding not the words then spoken.
  Misery--O Misery,
  This world is all too wide for thee!"


III

The vicissitudes to which Mary Wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during
her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. In her own day
recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in
terms not less ungentle than Horace Walpole's epithets, "a hyena in
petticoats" or "a philosophising serpent," posterity has proved hardly
more lenient to her. But the vigorous work of this "female patriot" has
saved her name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of
many men and women more talented than Mary Wollstonecraft. Reputed chiefly
as an unsexed being, who had written "A Vindication of the Rights of
Women," she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of
her sex; but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction
of the public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. Whether
right or wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing
forbidden subjects. It is true that she detected many social evils, and
suggested some excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was
not ripe for her book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer.
Moreover, her memoir by William Godwin, beautiful as it is in many
respects, exercised a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her
memory. The very fact that she became the wife of so notorious a man, was
sufficient reason to condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen.

For two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to
remove the stigma from her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan Paul, a
man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain
something like justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book on William
Godwin, published in 1876, the true story of Mary's life was told for the
first time. It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history
of an unhappy but brave and loyal woman, whose faults proceeded from
excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. Mary
Wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her
outlook on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her
imagination. She saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre
shadows--it was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce
some of her best writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the
defects of her worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul's memoir, Mary
Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an entirely different aspect, and many
there are who have come under the spell of her fascinating personality. It
is not, however, her message alone that now interests us, but the woman
herself, her desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her love.
Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint mists of the past, a
woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her books are no longer
read. But it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in this volume
are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other writers
have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love, but Mary
Wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the man
whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. It is
true that she was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had probably
assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but
something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had any
motive in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with Imlay.
She was far too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it
was only by a mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion.

_December 1907._




PORTRAITS


  MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (Photogravure)                _Frontispiece_

  MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, by Opie. From an engraving
                       by Ridley                    _facing p._ xvi

  MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, from the picture by Opie     _facing p._ xxvi




LETTERS TO GILBERT IMLAY




LETTER I

_Two o'Clock [Paris, June 1793]._


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,
    MARY.

I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.




LETTER II


  _Past Twelve o'Clock, Monday Night
  [Paris, Aug. 1793]._


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.

  MARY.

I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow.[2]--Yours--




LETTER III


_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Aug. 1793]._

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,

  MARY.




LETTER IV[3]


_Friday Morning [Paris, Sept. 1793]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER V


_Sunday Night [Paris, 1793]._

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

  MARY.

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 [Paris, Dec. 1793]._

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,
    MARY.




LETTER VII.


_Sunday Morning [Paris, Dec. 29, 1793]._

You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 _falle_ 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,
    MARY.




LETTER VIII


_Monday Night [Paris, Dec. 30, 1793]._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.
    MARY.




LETTER IX


_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Dec. 31, 1793]._

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 his
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,
    MARY.




LETTER X


_Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794]._

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.

  MARY.

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 London. 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 [Paris, Jan. 2, 1794]._

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
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![4]




LETTER XI


_Monday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._

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 entreat 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 Havre.
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

  MARY.




LETTER XII


_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]._

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 [Imlay]. 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 work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
yet most affectionate

  MARY.




LETTER XIII


_Thursday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._

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 [Imlay]; 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 Havre, 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
    MARY IMLAY.




LETTER XIV


_Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._

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 Havre, 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 Mary, 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
    MARY.

I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.




LETTER XV


_Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._

I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; 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
    MARY.




LETTER XVI


_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._

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, for I do not foresee any
impediment to my reaching Havre, 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
    MARY.




LETTER XVII


_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._

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
Havre my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my
body to do whatever I wished.

  Yours affectionately,
    MARY.




LETTER XVIII


_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._

We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] 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

  MARY.




LETTER XIX


_[Havre, March, 1794]._

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,
    MARY.




LETTER XX


_[Havre] Sunday, August 17 [1794]._

       *       *       *       *       *

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[6]--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,[7] 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,
    MARY.




LETTER XXI


_Havre, August 19 [1794] 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.

  MARY.




LETTER XXII


_Havre, August 20 [1794]._

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 (_epanchement de coeur_), 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,
    MARY.




LETTER XXIII[8]


_[Paris] September 22 [1794]._

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 _fete_, 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,

  MARY.




LETTER XXIV


_[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794]._

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.


_[Paris, 1794] 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 <DW64>s.

  Yours most affectionately,
    MARY.




LETTER XXV


_Paris, Sept. 28 [1794]._

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 Havre. ----, 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
    MARY.




LETTER XXVI


_[Paris] October 1 [1794]._

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 flap of the tail of the beast.

I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences 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
    MARY.




LETTER XXVII


_[Paris] October 26 [1794]._

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,
    MARY.

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


_[Paris] Dec. 26 [1794]._

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,
    MARY.




LETTER XXIX


_[Paris] December 28 [1794]._

       *       *       *       *       *

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,
    MARY.




LETTER XXX


_[Paris] December 29 [1794]._

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 Fanny, 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.

  MARY.




LETTER XXXI


_[Paris] December 30 [1794]._

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.

  MARY.[9]




LETTER XXXII


_[Paris] January 9 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER XXXIII


_[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER XXXIV


_[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795]._

From the purport of your last letters, I should 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_[10] 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!

  MARY.




LETTER XXXV


_[Paris] February 9 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER XXXVI


_[Paris] Feb. 10 [1795]._

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!

  MARY.

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


_[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]._

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 be
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


_[Havre] April 7 [1795]._

Here I am at Havre, 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
    MARY.




LETTER XXXIX


_Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795]._

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
    MARY.

I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread.




LETTER XL


  _[26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place]
  London, Friday, May 22 [1795]._

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,

  MARY.




LETTER XLI


_[May 27, 1795] 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,
    MARY.




LETTER XLII


  _[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Clock
  [May 27, 1795]._

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.--Imlay,--dear Imlay,--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

  MARY.

Fanny 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


_[Hull, May 28, 1795] Thursday._

A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. 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,
    MARY.




LETTER XLIV


_[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]._

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.


  _[Hull, June 13, 1795]
  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.[11]

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
    MARY.

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. Once more adieu!




LETTER XLV


_[Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795]._

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
Fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.

They took me in their carriage to Beverley, 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 overbalance 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
    MARY.




LETTER XLVI


_[Hull] June 15 [1795]._

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 Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one
from me, and believe me yours

  Sincerely
    MARY.

The wind still continues in the same quarter.




LETTER XLVII


_[Hull, June, 1795] 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

  MARY.




LETTER XLVIII


_[June 17, 1795] 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!

Fanny 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
    MARY.




LETTER XLIX


_[June 18, 1795] 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 headache--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 Imlay, 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
    MARY.




LETTER L


_[June 20, 1795] 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 Lisbon, 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 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
    MARY.




LETTER LI


_[Hull, June 21, 1795] 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
    MARY.

The child is well; I did not leave her on board.




LETTER LII


_[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795]._

I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land
at Arendall. 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
    MARY.




LETTER LIII


_[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER LIV


_[Sweden] July 1 [1795]._

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
    MARY.

Poor Fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth.




LETTER LV


_[Sweden] July 3 [1795]._

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


_[Sweden] July 4 [1795]._

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


_[Sweden] July 7 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER LVIII


_[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795]._

I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. 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 Stromstad. 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


_[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795]._

I am here in Tonsberg, 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!

  MARY.




LETTER LX


_[Tonsberg] July 30 [1795]._

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 Tonsberg; 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
    MARY IMLAY

I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to
yours.




LETTER LXI


_[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]._

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


_[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]._

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 anything of the heart of

  Yours truly
    MARY.




LETTER LXIII


_[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795]._

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
    MARY.




LETTER LXIV


_[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]._

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.

  MARY.




LETTER LXV


_[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795]._

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


_[Hamburg] September 25 [1795]._

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!

  MARY.




LETTER LXVII


_[Hamburg] September 27 [1795]._

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 temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at
his port.

  MARY.

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


_[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]._

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,
    MARY.




LETTER LXIX


_[London, Nov. 1795]._

I write to 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.

  MARY.




LETTER LXX


_[London, Nov. 1795] 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!

  MARY.




LETTER LXXI


_[London, Nov. 1795] 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.

  MARY.




LETTER LXXII


_[London, Nov. 1795] 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.

  MARY.

Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
distracted mind.




LETTER LXXIII


_[London, Nov. 1795] 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 to
----

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 have nothing to fear from my
desperation.

  Farewel.
    MARY.




LETTER LXXIV


_London, November 27 [1795]._

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!

  MARY.

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 LXXV


_London, December 8 [1795]._

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 [Sweden], 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.

  MARY.




LETTER LXXVI

_[London, Dec. 1795.]_

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.

Imlay, 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 LXXVII


_[London, Dec. 1795.]_

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.


_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._




Footnotes:

[1] Dowden's "Life of Shelley."

[2] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl,"
probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this
interview.--W. G.

[3] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.--W. G.

[4] 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.--W. G.

[5] Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre,
but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he
went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited
London on business.

[6] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.--W. G.

[7] She means, "the latter more than the former."--W. G.

[8] 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.--W. G.

[9] The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], 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.--W. G.

[10] This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] 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.--W. G.

[11] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide,
and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.--W. G.




Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

The word "an" was corrected to "am" on page 151.

The unmatched closing quotation mark on page 167 is presented as in the
original text.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Letters of Mary
Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay, by Mary Wollstonecraft and Roger Ingpen

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