LAST MONTHS: DEATH.
1797.
During the month of June of this year, Godwin made a pleasure trip into
Staffordshire with Basil Montague. The two friends went in a carriage,
staying over night at the houses of different acquaintances, and were
absent for a little more than a fortnight. Godwin, while away, made his
usual concise entries in his diary, but to his wife he wrote long and
detailed accounts of his travels. The guide-book style of his letters is
somewhat redeemed by occasional outbursts of tenderness, pleasant to read
as evidences that he could give Mary the demonstrations of affection
which to her were so indispensable. By his playful messages to little
Fanny and his interest in his unborn child, it can be seen that, despite
his bachelor habits, domestic life had become very dear to him. Fatigue
and social engagements could not make him forget his promise to bring the
former a mug. "Tell her" [that is, Fanny], he writes, "I have not
forgotten her little mug, and that I shall choose her a very pretty one."
And again, "Tell Fanny I have chosen a mug for her, and another for
Lucas. There is an F. on hers and an L. on his, shaped in an island of
flowers of green and orange-tawny alternately." He warns Mary to be
careful of herself, assuring her that he remembers at all times the
condition of her health, and wishes he could hear from moment to moment
how she feels. He and Montague, riding out early in the morning, recall
the important fact that it is the very hour at which "little Fanny is
going to plungity-plunge." When Mary's letters are accidentally detained
he is as worried and hurt as she would be under similar circumstances.
From Etruria he writes:--
"Another evening and no letter. This is scarcely kind. I reminded
you in time that it would be impossible to write to me after
Saturday, though it is not improbable you may not see me before the
Saturday following. What am I to think? How many possible accidents
will the anxiety of affection present to one's thoughts! Not
serious ones, I hope; in that case I trust I should have heard. But
headaches, but sickness of the heart, a general loathing of life
and of me. Do not give place to this worst of diseases! The least I
can think is that you recollect me with less tenderness and
impatience than I reflect on you. There is a general sadness in the
sky; the clouds are shutting around me and seem depressed with
moisture; everything turns the soul to melancholy. Guess what my
feelings are when the most soothing and consolatory thought that
occurs is a temporary remission and oblivion in your affections.
"I had scarcely finished the above when I received your letter
accompanying T. W.'s, which was delayed by an accident till after
the regular arrival of the post. I am not sorry to have put down my
feelings as they were."
But even his tenderness is regulated by his philosophy. The lover becomes
the philosopher quite unconsciously:--
"One of the pleasures I promised myself in my excursion," he writes
in another letter, "was to increase my value in your estimation,
and I am not disappointed. What we possess without intermission, we
inevitably hold light; it is a refinement in voluptuousness to
submit to voluntary privations. Separation is the image of death,
but it is death stripped of all that is most tremendous, and his
dart purged of its deadly venom. I always thought Saint Paul's
rule, that we should die daily, an exquisite Epicurean maxim. The
practice of it would give to life a double relish."
Imlay, too, had found absence a stimulus to love, but there was this
difference in what at first appears to be a similarity of opinion between
himself and Godwin: while the former sought it that he might not tire of
Mary, the latter hoped it would keep her from growing tired of him.
Mary's letters to her husband are full of the tender love which no woman
knew how to express as well as she did. They are not as passionate and
burning as those to Imlay, but they are sincerely and lovingly
affectionate, and reveal an ever increasing devotion and a calmer
happiness than that she had derived from her first union. Godwin,
fortunately, was able to appreciate them:--
"You cannot imagine," he tells her on the 10th of June, "how happy
your letter made me. No creature expresses, because no creature
feels, the tender affections so perfectly as you do; and, after all
one's philosophy, it must be confessed that the knowledge that
there is some one that takes an interest in one's happiness,
something like that which each man feels in his own, is extremely
gratifying. We love, as it were, to multiply the consciousness of
our existence, even at the hazard of what Montague described so
pathetically one night upon the New Road, of opening new avenues
for pain and misery to attack us."
The letter to which he refers is probably the following, written two
days after his departure:--
It was so kind and considerate in you to write sooner than I
expected, that I cannot help hoping you would be disappointed at
not receiving a greeting from me on your arrival at Etruria. If
your heart was in your mouth, as I felt, just now, at the sight of
your hand, you may kiss or shake hands with the letter, and imagine
with what affection it was written. If not, stand off, profane one!
I was not quite well the day after you left me; but it is past, and
I am well and tranquil, excepting the disturbance produced by
Master William's joy, who took it into his head to frisk a little
at being informed of your remembrance. I begin to love this little
creature, and to anticipate his birth as a fresh twist to a knot
which I do not wish to untie. Men are spoilt by frankness, I
believe, yet I must tell you that I love you better than I supposed
I did, when I promised to love you forever. And I will add what
will gratify your benevolence, if not your heart, that on the whole
I may be termed happy. You are a kind, affectionate creature, and I
feel it thrilling through my frame, giving and promising pleasure.
Fanny wants to know "what you are gone for," and endeavors to
pronounce Etruria. Poor papa is her word of kindness. She has been
turning your letter on all sides, and has promised to play with
Bobby till I have finished my answer.
I find you can write the kind of letter a friend ought to write,
and give an account of your movements. I hailed the sunshine and
moonlight, and travelled with you, scenting the fragrant gale.
Enable me still to be your company, and I will allow you to peep
over my shoulder, and see me under the shade of my green blind,
thinking of you, and all I am to hear and feel when you return. You
may read my heart, if you will.
I have no information to give in return for yours. Holcroft is to
dine with me on Saturday; so do not forget us when you drink your
solitary glass, for nobody drinks wine at Etruria, I take it. Tell
me what you think of Everina's situation and behavior, and treat
her with as much kindness as you can,--that is, a little more than
her manner will probably call forth,--and I will repay you.
I am not fatigued with solitude, yet I have not relished my
solitary dinner. A husband is a convenient part of the furniture of
a house, unless he be a clumsy fixture. I wish you, from my soul,
to be riveted in my heart; but I do not desire to have you always
at my elbow, although at this moment I should not care if you were.
Yours truly and tenderly,
MARY.
Fanny forgets not the mug.
Miss Pinkerton seems content. I was amused by a letter she wrote
home. She has more in her than comes out of her mouth. My dinner is
ready, and it is washing-day. I am putting everything in order for
your return. Adieu!
Once during this trip the peaceful intercourse between husband and wife
was interrupted. Godwin might philosophize to his heart's content about
the advantages of separation, but Mary could not be so sure of them.
Absence in Imlay's case had not in the end brought about very good
results; and as the days went by, Godwin's letters, at least so it seemed
to her, became more descriptive and statistical, and less tender and
affectionate. Interest in Dr. Parr and the Wedgwoods and the country
through which he was travelling overshadowed for the time being matters
of mere sentiment. With the memory of another correspondence from which
love had gradually disappeared, still fresh, she felt this change
bitterly, and reproached Godwin for it in very plain language:--
June 19, Monday, _almost 12 o'clock_.
One of the pleasures you tell me that you promised yourself from
your journey was the effect your absence might produce on me.
Certainly at first my affection was increased, or rather was more
alive. But now it is just the contrary. Your later letters might
have been addressed to anybody, and will serve to remind you where
you have been, though they resemble nothing less than mementos of
affection.
I wrote to you to Dr. Parr's; you take no notice of my letter.
Previous to your departure, I requested you not to torment me by
leaving the day of your return undecided. But whatever tenderness
you took away with you seems to have evaporated on the journey, and
new objects and the homage of vulgar minds restored you to your icy
philosophy.
You tell me that your journey could not take less than three days,
therefore, as you were to visit Dr. D.[arwin]. and Dr. P.[arr],
Saturday was the probable day. You saw neither, yet you have been a
week on the road. I did not wonder, but approved of your visit to
Mr. Bage. But a _show_ which you waited to see, and did not see,
appears to have been equally attractive. I am at a loss to guess
how you could have been from Saturday to Sunday night travelling
from Coventry to Cambridge. In short, your being so late to-night,
and the chance of your not coming, shows so little consideration,
that unless you suppose me to be a stick or a stone, you must have
forgot to think, as well as to feel, since you have been on the
wing. I am afraid to add what I feel. Good-night.
This misunderstanding, however, was not of long duration. The "little
rift" in their case never widened to make their life-music mute. Godwin
returned to London, his love in nowise diminished, and all ill-feeling
and doubts were completely effaced from Mary's mind. His shortcomings
were after all not due to any change in his affections, nor to the
slightest suspicion of satiety. By writing long letters with careful
description of everything he saw and did, he was treating Mary as he
would have desired to be treated himself. His "icy philosophy," which
made him so undemonstrative, was not altogether to her liking, but it was
incomparably better than the warmth of a man like Imlay, who was too
indifferent as to the individuality of the object of his demonstrations.
The uprightness of Godwin precluded all possibility of infidelity, and
once Mary's first disappointment at some new sign of his coldness was
over, her confidence in him was unabated. After this short interruption
to their semi-domestic life, they both resumed their old habits. Their
separate establishments were still kept up, their social amusements
continued, though Mary, because of the condition of her health, could not
now enter into them quite so freely, and the little notes again began to
pass between them. These were as amicable as they had ever been. In the
two following, the familiar friendly style of this curious correspondence
is not in the least impaired. The first is interesting in showing how far
she was from accepting her husband's opinion when her own reason was
opposed to it, and also in giving an idea of the esteem in which she was
held socially:--
June 25, 1797.
I know that you do not like me to go to Holcroft's. I think you
right in the principle, but a little wrong in the present
application.
When I lived alone, I always dined on a Sunday with company, in the
evening, if not at dinner, at St. P.[aul's with Johnson],
generally also of a Tuesday, and some other day at Fuseli's.
I like to see new faces as a study, and since my return from
Norway, or rather since I have accepted of invitations, I have
dined every third Sunday at Twiss's, nay, oftener, for they sent
for me when they had any extraordinary company. I was glad to go,
because my lodging was noisy of a Sunday, and Mr. S.'s house and
spirits were so altered, that my visits depressed him instead of
exhilarating me.
I am, then, you perceive, thrown out of my track, and have not
traced another. But so far from wishing to obtrude on yours, I had
written to Mrs. Jackson, and mentioned Sunday, and am now sorry
that I did not fix on to-day as one of the days for sitting for my
picture.
To Mr. Johnson I would go without ceremony, but it is not
convenient for me at present to make haphazard visits.
Should Carlisle chance to call on you this morning, send him to me,
but by himself, for he often has a companion with him, which would
defeat my purpose.
The second note is even more friendly:--
_Monday morning_, July 3, 1797.
Mrs. Reveley can have no doubt about to-day, so we are to stay at
home. I have a design upon you this evening to keep you quite to
myself--I hope nobody will call!--and make you read the play.
I was thinking of a favorite song of my poor friend Fanny's: "In a
vacant rainy day, you shall be wholly mine," etc.
Unless the weather prevents you from taking your accustomed walk,
call on me this morning, for I have something to say to you.
But a short period of happiness now remained to them. Mary expected to be
confined about the end of August, and she awaited that event with no
misgivings. She had been perfectly strong and well when Fanny was born.
She considered women's illness on such occasions due much more to
imaginative than to physical causes, and her health through the past few
months had been, save for one or two trifling ailments, uncommonly good.
There was really no reason for her to fear the consequences. Both she and
Godwin looked forward with pleasure to the arrival of their first son, as
they hoped the child would prove to be.
She was taken ill early on Wednesday morning, the 30th of August, and
sent at once for Mrs. Blenkinsop, matron and midwife to the Westminster
Lying-in Hospital. Godwin says that, "influenced by ideas of decorum,
which certainly ought to have no place, at least in cases of danger, she
determined to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of midwife." But
it seems much more in keeping with her character that the engagement of
Mrs. Blenkinsop was due, not so much to motives of decorum as to her
desire to uphold women in a sphere of action for which she believed them
eminently fitted. Godwin went as usual to his rooms in the Evesham
Buildings. Mary specially desired that he should not remain in the house,
and to reassure him that all was well, she wrote him several notes during
the course of the morning. These have no counterpart in the whole
literature of letters. They are, in their way, unique:
Aug. 30, 1797.
I have no doubt of seeing the animal to-day, but must wait for Mrs.
Blenkinsop to guess at the hour. I have sent for her. Pray send me
the newspaper. I wish I had a novel or some book of sheer
amusement to excite curiosity and while away the time. Have you
anything of the kind?
Aug. 30, 1797.
Mrs. Blenkinsop tells me that everything is in a fair way, and that
there is no fear of the event being put off till another day. Still
_at present_ she thinks I shall not immediately be freed from my
load. I am very well. Call before dinner-time, unless you receive
another message from me.
_Three o'clock_, Aug. 30, 1797.
Mrs. Blenkinsop tells me I am in the most natural state, and can
promise me a safe delivery, but that I must have a little patience.
Finally, that night at twenty minutes after eleven, the child--not the
William talked of for months, but a daughter, afterwards to be Mrs.
Shelley--was born. Godwin was now sitting in the parlor below, waiting
the, as he never doubted, happy end. But shortly after two o'clock he
received the alarming news that the patient was in some danger. He went
immediately and summoned Dr. Poignard, physician to the Westminster
Hospital, who hastened to the assistance of Mrs. Blenkinsop, and by eight
o'clock the next morning the peril was thought safely over. Mary having
expressed a wish to see Dr. Fordyce, who was her friend as well as a
prominent physician, Godwin sent for him, in spite of some objections to
his so doing on the part of Dr. Poignard. Dr. Fordyce was very well
satisfied with her condition, and later, in the afternoon, mentioned as a
proof of the propriety of employing midwives on such occasions, for which
practice he was a strong advocate, that Mrs. Godwin "had had a woman,
and was doing extremely well." For a day or two Godwin was so anxious
that he did not leave the house; but Mary's progress seemed thoroughly
satisfactory, and on Sunday he went with a friend to pay some visits,
going as far even as Kensington, and did not return until dinner-time.
His home-coming was a sad one. Mary had been much worse, and in her
increasing illness had worried because of his long absence. He did not
leave her again, for from this time until her death on the following
Sunday, the physicians could give him but the faintest shadow of a hope.
The week that intervened was long and suffering for the sick woman, and
heart-breaking for the watcher. Every possible effort was made to save
her; and if medical skill and the devotion of friends could have availed,
she must have lived. Dr. Fordyce and Dr. Clarke were in constant
attendance. Mr.--afterwards Sir--Anthony Carlisle, who had of his own
accord already called once or twice, was summoned professionally on
Wednesday evening, September 6, and remained by her side until all was
over. Godwin never left her room except to snatch a few moments of sleep
that he might be better able to attend to her slightest wants. His loving
care during these miserable days could not have been surpassed. Mary, had
she been the nurse, and he the patient, could not have been more tender
and devoted. But his curious want of sentiment, and the eminently
practical bent of his mind, manifested themselves even at this sad and
solemn time. Once when Mary was given an anodyne to quiet her wellnigh
unendurable pain, the relief that followed was so great that she
exclaimed to her husband, "Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven!" But, as Kegan
Paul says, "even at that moment Godwin declined to be entrapped into the
admission that heaven existed." His immediate reply was, "You mean, my
dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat easier."
Mrs. Fenwick and Miss Hayes, two good true friends, nursed her and took
charge of the sick-room. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montague, Mr. Marshal,
and Mr. Dyson established themselves in the lower part of the house that
they might be ready and on hand for any emergency. It is in the hour of
trouble that friendship receives its strongest test. Mary's friends, when
it came, were not found wanting.
"Nothing," Godwin says, "could exceed the equanimity, the patience, and
affectionateness of the poor sufferer. I entreated her to recover; I
dwelt with trembling fondness on every favorable circumstance; and, as
far as it was possible in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and
kind speeches, rewarded my affection." After the first night of her
illness she told him that she would have died during its agony had she
not been determined not to leave him. Throughout her sickness she was
considerate of those around her. Her ruling passion was strong in death.
When her attendants recommended her to sleep, she tried to obey, though
her disease made this almost impossible. She was gentle even in her
complaints. Expostulation and contradiction were peculiarly irritating to
her in her then nervous condition, but one night when a servant
heedlessly expostulated with her, all she said was, "Pray, pray do not
let her reason with me!" Religion was not once, to use Godwin's
expression, a torment to her. Her religious views had modified since the
days long past when she had sermonized so earnestly to George Blood. She
had never, however, despite Godwin's atheism, lost her belief in God nor
her reliance upon Him. But, at no time an adherent to mere form, she was
not disturbed in her last moments by a desire to conform to church
ceremonies. Religion was at this crisis, as it had always been, a source
of comfort and not of worry. She had invariably preferred virtue to vice,
and she was not now afraid of reaping the reward of her actions. The
probability of her approaching death did not occur to her until the last
two days, and then she was so enfeebled that she was not harassed by the
thought as she had been at first. On Saturday, the 9th, Godwin, who had
been warned by Mr. Carlisle that her hours were numbered, and who wished
to ascertain if she had any directions to leave, consulted her about the
future of the two children. The physician had particularly charged him
not to startle her, for she was too weak to bear any excitement. He
therefore spoke as if he wished to arrange for the time of her illness
and convalescence. But she understood his real motive. "I know what you
are thinking of," she told him. But she added that she had nothing to
communicate upon the subject. Her faith in him and in his wisdom was
entire. "He is the kindest, best man in the world," were among the very
last words she uttered before she lost consciousness. Her survival from
day to day seemed almost miraculous to the physicians who attended her.
Mr. Carlisle refused, until the very end, to lose all hope. "Perhaps one
in a million of persons in her state might possibly recover," he said.
But his hopes were vain. At six o'clock on Sunday morning, the 10th, he
was obliged to summon Godwin, who had retired for a few hours' sleep, to
his wife's bedside. At twenty minutes before eight the same morning, Mary
died.
A somewhat different version of Mary's last hours and of the immediate
cause of her death is given in some manuscript "Notes and Observations on
the Shelley Memorials," written by Mr. H. W. Reveley, son of the Mrs.
Reveley who was Godwin's great friend. His account is as follows:--
"When Mrs. Godwin was confined of her daughter, the late Mary
Shelley, she was very ill; and my mother, then Mrs. Reveley, was
constantly visiting her until her death, eight days after her
confinement. I was often there with my mother, and I saw Mrs.
Godwin the day before her death, when she was considered much
better and quite out of danger. Her death was occasioned by a
dreadful fright, in this manner. At the time of her confinement a
gentleman and lady lodged in the first floor, whether as visitors
or otherwise I cannot say, but that they were intruders in some way
I am certain. The husband was continually beating his wife, and at
last there was a violent contest between them, owing to his
endeavoring to throw his wife over the balcony into the street. Her
screams of course attracted a crowd in front of the house. Mrs.
Godwin heard the lady's shrieks and the shouts of the crowd that a
man was throwing his wife out of the window, and the next day Mrs.
Godwin died. What became of that miscreant and his wife I never
knew."
There may have been some foundation for this story. An ill-tempered
husband may have had lodgings in the same house; but it is extremely
doubtful that his ill-temper had so fatal an effect on Mary. Godwin
would certainly have recorded the fact had it been true, for his Memoir
gives the minutest details of his wife's illness. The very day on which
Mr. Reveley says Mary was out of danger was that on which Godwin was
asking her for final instructions about her children, so sure were the
physicians that her end was near. Mr. Reveley was very young at the time.
His observations were not written until he was quite an old man. It would
not be unlikely, then, that his memory played him false in this
particular.
Mary was thirty-eight years of age, in the full prime of her powers. Her
best work probably remained to be done, for her talents, like her beauty,
were late in maturing. Her style had already greatly improved since she
first began to write. Constant communication with Godwin would no doubt
have developed her intellect, and the calm created by her more happy
circumstances would have lessened her pessimistic tendencies. Moreover,
life, just as she lost it, promised to be brighter than it had ever been
before. Godwin's after career shows that he would not have proved
unworthy of her love. Domestic pleasures were dear to her as intellectual
pursuits. In her own house, surrounded by husband and children, she would
have been not only a great but a happy woman. It is at least a
satisfaction to know that her last year was content and peaceful. Few
have needed happiness more than she did, for to few has it been given to
suffer the hardships that fell to her share.
The very same day, Godwin himself wrote to announce his wife's death to
several of his friends. It was characteristic of the man to be systematic
even in his grief, which was sincere. He recorded in his diary the
details of each day during Mary's illness, and it was not until the last
that he shrank from coldly stating events to him so truly tragic. The
only dashes which occur in his diary follow the date of Sunday, Sept. 10,
1797. Kegan Paul says that his writing to his friends "was probably an
attempt to be stoical, but a real indulgence in the luxury of woe." To
Holcroft, who, he knew, could appreciate his sorrow, he said, "I firmly
believe that there does not exist her equal in the world. I know from
experience we were formed to make each other happy. I have not the least
expectation that I can now ever know happiness again." Mrs. Inchbald was
another to whom he at once sent the melancholy news. "I always thought
you used her ill, but I forgive you," he told her in his note. Now that
Mary was dead he felt the insult that had been shown her even more keenly
than at the time. His words roused all Mrs. Inchbald's ill-feeling, and,
with a singular want of consideration, she sent with her condolences an
elaborate explanation of her own conduct. Two or three more notes passed
between them. Godwin's plain-speaking--he told his correspondent very
clearly what he thought of her--is excusable. But her arguments in
self-justification and her want of respect for the dead are unpardonable.
Basil Montague, Mrs. Fenwick, and Miss Hayes continued their friendly
help, and wrote several of the necessary letters for him. The following
is from Miss Hayes to Mr. Hugh Skeys, the husband of Mary's friend. It is
valuable because written by one who was with her in her last moments:--
SIR,--Myself and Mrs. Fenwick were the only two female friends
that were with Mrs. Godwin during her last illness. Mrs. Fenwick
attended her from the beginning of her confinement with scarcely
any intermission. I was with her for the four last days of her
life, and though I have had but little experience in scenes of this
sort, yet I can confidently affirm that my imagination could never
have pictured to me a mind so tranquil, under affliction so great.
She was all kindness and attention, and cheerfully complied with
everything that was recommended to her by her friends. In many
instances she employed her mind with more sagacity on the subject
of her illness than any of the persons about her. Her whole soul
seemed to dwell with anxious fondness on her friends; and her
affections, which were at all times more alive than perhaps those
of any other human being, seemed to gather new disinterestedness
upon this trying occasion. The attachment and regret of those who
surrounded her appeared to increase every hour, and if her
principles are to be judged of by what I saw of her death, I should
say no principles could be more conducive to calmness and
consolation.
The rest of the letter is missing.
Mrs. Fenwick was intrusted with the duty of informing the
Wollstonecrafts, through Everina, of Mary's death. Her letter is as
interesting as that of Miss Hayes:--
Sept. 12, 1797.
I am a stranger to you, Miss Wollstonecraft, and at present greatly
enfeebled both in mind and body; but when Mr. Godwin desired that I
would inform you of the death of his most beloved and most
excellent wife, I was willing to undertake the task, because it is
some consolation to render him the slightest service, and because
my thoughts perpetually dwell upon her virtues and her loss. Mr.
Godwin himself cannot, upon this occasion, write to you.
Mrs. Godwin died on Sunday, September 10, about eight in the
morning. I was with her at the time of her delivery, and with very
little intermission until the moment of her death. Every skilful
effort that medical knowledge of the highest class could make was
exerted to save her. It is not possible to describe the unremitting
and devoted attentions of her husband. Nor is it easy to give you
an adequate idea of the affectionate zeal of many of her friends,
who were on the watch night and day to seize on an opportunity of
contributing towards her recovery, and to lessen her sufferings.
No woman was ever more happy in marriage than Mrs. Godwin. Who ever
endured more anguish than Mr. Godwin endures? Her description of
him, in the very last moments of her recollection was, "He is the
kindest, best man in the world."
I know of no consolations for myself, but in remembering how happy
she had lately been, and how much she was admired and almost
idolized by some of the most eminent and best of human beings.
The children are both well, the infant in particular. It is the
finest baby I ever saw. Wishing you peace and prosperity, I remain
your humble servant,
ELIZA FENWICK.
Mr. Godwin requests you will make Mrs. Bishop acquainted with the
particulars of this afflicting event. He tells me that Mrs. Godwin
entertained a sincere and earnest affection for Mrs. Bishop.
The funeral was arranged by Mr. Basil Montague and Mr. Marshal for
Friday, the 15th. All Godwin's and Mary's intimate acquaintances were
invited to be present. Among these was Mr. Tuthil, whose views were
identical with Godwin's. This invitation gave rise to another short
correspondence, unfortunate at such a time. Mr. Tuthil considered it
inconsistent with his principles, if not immoral, to take part in any
religious ceremonies; and Godwin, while he respected his scruples,
disapproved of his coldness, which made such a decision possible. But he
was the only one who refused to show this mark of respect to Mary's
memory. Godwin himself was too exhausted mentally and physically to
appear at the funeral. When Friday morning came he shut himself up in
Marshal's rooms and unburdened his heavy heart by writing to Mr.
Carlisle. At the same hour Mary Wollstonecraft was buried at old Saint
Pancras, the church where but a few short months before she had been
married. A monument was afterwards erected over her willow-shadowed
grave. It bore this inscription:--
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
AUTHOR OF
A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.
BORN XVII. APRIL, MDCCLIX.
DIED X. SEPTEMBER, MDCCXCVII.
Many years later, when Godwin's body lay by her side, the quiet old
churchyard was ruined by the building of the Metropolitan and Midland
Railways. But there were those living who loved their memory too dearly
to allow their graves to be so ruthlessly disturbed. The remains of both
were removed by Sir Percy Shelley to Bournemouth where his mother, Mary
Godwin Shelley, was already laid. "There," Kegan Paul writes, "on a sunny
bank sloping to the west, among the rose-wreathed crosses of many who
have died in more orthodox beliefs, lie those who at least might each of
them have said,--
'Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.'"
Mary Wollstonecraft's death was followed by exhaustive discussion not
only of her work but of her character. The result was, as Dr. Beloe
affirms, "not very honorable to her fair fame as a woman, whatever it
might be to her reputation as an author." The following passage written
at this time shows the estimation in which she was held by a number of
her contemporaries:--
"She was a woman of strong intellect and of ungovernable passions.
To the latter, when once she had given the reins, she seems to have
yielded on all occasions with little scruple, and as little
delicacy. She appears in the strongest sense a voluptuary and
sensualist, but without refinement. We compassionate her errors,
and respect her talents; but our compassion is lessened by the
mischievous tendency of her doctrines and example; and our respect
is certainly not extended or improved by her exclaiming against
prejudices of some of the most dangerous of which she was herself
perpetually the victim, by her praises of virtue, the sanctity of
which she habitually violated, and by her pretences to philosophy,
whose real mysteries she did not understand, and the dignity of
which, in various instances, she sullied and disgraced."
It was to silence such base calumnies that Godwin wrote his Memoirs. This
was undoubtedly the wisest way to answer Mary's critics. As he says of
Marguerite in "St. Leon," "The story of her life is the best record of
her virtues. Her defects, if defects she had, drew their pedigree from
rectitude of sentiment and perception, from the most generous
sensibility, from a heart pervaded and leavened with tenderness." That
truth is mighty above all things is shown by this story to have been her
creed. By it she regulated her feelings, her thoughts, and her deeds.
Whether her principles and conduct be applauded or condemned, she must
always be honored for her integrity of motive, her fearlessness of
action, and her faithful devotion to the cause of humanity. Like Heine,
she deserves to have a sword laid upon her grave, for she was a brave
soldier in the battle of freedom for mankind.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._
_Famous Women Series._
MRS. SIDDONS.
By NINA H. KENNARD.
One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
The latest contribution to the "Famous Women Series" gives the life
of Mrs. Siddons, carefully and appreciatively compiled by Nina H.
Kennard. Previous lives of Mrs. Siddons have failed to present the
many-sided character of the great tragic queen, representing her
more exclusively in her dramatic capacity. Mrs. Kennard presents
the main facts in the lives previously written by Campbell and
Boaden, as well as the portion of the great actress's history
appearing in Percy Fitzgerald's "Lives of the Kembles;" and beyond
any other biographer gives the more tender and domestic side of her
nature, particularly as shown in her hitherto unpublished letters.
The story of the early dramatic endeavors of the little Sarah
Kemble proves not the least interesting part of the narrative, and
it is with a distinct human interest that her varying progress is
followed until she gains the summit of popular favor and success.
The picture of her greatest public triumphs receives tender and
artistic touches in the view we are given of the idol of brilliant
and intellectual London sitting down with her husband and father to
a frugal home supper on retiring from the glare of the
footlights.--_Commonwealth._
We think the author shows good judgment in devoting comparatively
little space to criticism of Mrs. Siddons's dramatic methods, and
giving special attention to her personal traits and history. Hers
was an extremely interesting life, remarkable no less for its
private virtues than for its public triumphs. Her struggle to gain
the place her genius deserved was heroic in its persistence and
dignity. Her relations with the authors, wits, and notables of her
day give occasion for much entertaining and interesting anecdotical
literature. Herself free from humor, she was herself often the
occasion of fun in others. The stories of her tragic manner in
private life are many and ludicrous.... The book abounds in
anecdotes, bits of criticism, and pictures of the stage and of
society in a very interesting transitional period.--_Christian
Union._
A fitting addition to this so well and so favorably known series is
the life of the wonderful actress, Sarah Siddons, by Mrs. Nina
Kennard. To most of the present generation the great woman is only
a name, though she lived until 1831; but the present volume, with
its vivid account of her life, its struggles, triumphs, and closing
years, will give to such a picture that is most lifelike. A
particularly pleasant feature of the book is the way in which the
author quotes so copiously from Mrs. Siddons's correspondence.
These extracts from letters written to friends, and with no thought
of their ever appearing in print, give the most spontaneous
expressions of feeling on the part of the writer, as well as her
own account of many events of her life. They furnish, therefore,
better data upon which to base an opinion of her real personality
and character than anything else could possibly give. The volume is
interesting from beginning to end, and one rises from its perusal
with the warmest admiration for Sarah Siddons because of her great
genius, her real goodness, and her true womanliness, shown in the
relations of daughter, wife, and mother. Modern actresses, amateur
or professional, with avowed intentions of "elevating the stage,"
should study this noble woman's example; for in this direction she
accomplished more, probably, than any other one person has ever
done, and at greater odds.--_N. E. Journal of Education._
_Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the
publishers_,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
_Already published:_
GEORGE ELIOT. By Mathilde Blind.
EMILY BRONTE. By Miss Robinson.
GEORGE SAND. By Miss Thomas.
MARY LAMB. By Mrs. Gilchrist.
MARGARET FULLER. By Julia Ward Howe.
MARIA EDGEWORTH. By Miss Zimmern.
ELIZABETH FRY. By Mrs. E. R. Pitman.
THE COUNTESS OF ALBANY. By Vernon Lee.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. By Mrs. E. R. Pennell.
HARRIET MARTINEAU. By Mrs. F. Fenwick Miller.
RACHEL. By Mrs. Nina H. Kennard.
MADAME ROLAND. By Mathilde Blind.
SUSANNA WESLEY. By Eliza Clarke.
MARGARET OF ANGOULEME. By Miss Robinson.
MRS. SIDDONS. By Mrs. Nina H. Kennard.
MADAME DE STAEL. By Bella Duffy.
HANNAH MORE. By Charlotte M. Yonge.
ADELAIDE RISTORI. An Autobiography.
ELIZ. BARRETT BROWNING. By J. H. Ingram.
JANE AUSTEN. By Mrs. Charles Malden.
SAINT THERESA. By Mrs. Bradley Gilman.
{Transcriber's note:
A few obvious punctuation misprints have been corrected.
"formed beween them at that time" corrected to
"formed between them at that time".
"a new horse is inpected by a racer" corrected to
"a new horse is inspected by a racer".
"fond of ingenious subtilties;" no change made.
"sported with with impunity by the aristocracy" corrected to
"sported with impunity by the aristocracy".
"which wooes me to stray abroad" no change made.
"born March 3, 1756, at Wisbeach," no change made
(usual spelling is Wisbech).
}
End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Wollstonecraft, by Elizabeth Robins Pennell