LETTER XI.

I thought you _very_ unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares

and vexations, I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as

they arise from disinterestedness and _unbending_ principles; nor can

that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables

me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not

the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with

various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present

comfort.—Dr. Johnson’s cares almost drove him mad—but I suppose, you

would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that

wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have

done with insensible human wisdom,—“indifference cold in wisdom’s

guise,”—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never

disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a

practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am

ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o’clock, only thinking of

getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—the

struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a

disagreeable way.

Mr. —— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for

calling[14]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house

before it occured to me in the strong light it does now, or I should

have told him so.—My poverty makes me proud—I will not be insulted by a

superficial puppy—His intimacy with Miss —— gave him a privilege, which

he should not have assumed with me—a proposal might be made to his

cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me.

Pray tell him that I am offended—and do not wish to see him again——When

I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull

him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body—but it shall

never bend to support that body—God of heaven, save thy child from this

living death!—I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles—I am very

sick—sick at heart.—

Memoirs and Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, Vol. 1 · 第 128 / 143 题