to eat, to walk, to talk. Why do you smile? You can do much more, you
think: you can wash your hands and face. Very well. I should never kiss a
dirty face. And you can comb your head with the pretty comb you always
put by in your own drawer. To be sure, you do all this to be ready to
take a walk with me. You would be obliged to stay at home, if you could
not comb your own hair. Betty is busy getting the dinner ready, and only
brushes William's hair, because he cannot do it for himself.
Betty is making an apple-pye. You love an apple-pye; but I do not bid you
make one. Your hands are not strong enough to mix the butter and flour
together; and you must not try to pare the apples, because you cannot
manage a great knife.
Never touch the large knives: they are very sharp, and you might cut your
finger to the bone. You are a little girl, and ought to have a little
knife. When you are as tall as I am, you shall have a knife as large as
mine; and when you are as strong as I am, and have learned to manage it,
you will not hurt yourself.
You can trundle a hoop, you say; and jump over a stick. O, I forgot!--and
march like the men in the red coats, when papa plays a pretty tune on the
fiddle.
LESSON XI.
WHAT, you think that you shall soon be able to dress yourself entirely? I
am glad of it: I have something else to do. You may go, and look for your
frock in the drawer; but I will tie it, till you are stronger. Betty will
tie it, when I am busy.
I button my gown myself: I do not want a maid to assist me, when I am
dressing. But you have not yet got sense enough to do it properly, and
must beg somebody to help you, till you are older.
Children grow older and wiser at the same time. William is not able to
take a piece of meat, because he has not got the sense which would make
him think that, without teeth, meat would do him harm. He cannot tell
what is good for him.
The sense of children grows with them. You know much more than William,
now you walk alone, and talk; but you do not know as much as the boys and
girls you see playing yonder, who are half as tall again as you; and they
do not know half as much as their fathers and mothers, who are men and
women grown. Papa and I were children, like you; and men and women took
care of us. I carry William, because he is too weak to walk. I lift you
over a stile, and over the gutter, when you cannot jump over it.
You know already, that potatoes will not do you any harm: but I must
pluck the fruit for you, till you are wise enough to know the ripe apples
and pears. The hard ones would make you sick, and then you must take
physic. You do not love physic: I do not love it any more than you. But I
have more sense than you; therefore I take care not to eat unripe fruit,
or any thing else that would make my stomach ache, or bring out ugly red
spots on my face.
When I was a child, my mamma chose the fruit for me, to prevent my making
myself sick. I was just like you; I used to ask for what I saw, without
knowing whether it was good or bad. Now I have lived a long time, I know
what is good; I do not want any body to tell me.
LESSON XII.
LOOK at those two dogs. The old one brings the ball to me in a moment;
the young one does not know how. He must be taught.
I can cut your shift in a proper shape. You would not know how to begin.
You would spoil it; but you will learn.
John digs in the garden, and knows when to put the seed in the ground.
You cannot tell whether it should be in the winter or summer. Try to find
it out. When do the trees put out their leaves? In the spring, you say,
after the cold weather. Fruit would not grow ripe without very warm
weather. Now I am sure you can guess why the summer is the season for
fruit.
Papa knows that peas and beans are good for us to eat with our meat. You
are glad when you see them; but if he did not think for you, and have the
seed put in the ground, we should have no peas or beans.
LESSON XIII.
POOR child, she cannot do much for herself. When I let her do any thing
for me, it is to please her: for I could do it better myself.
Oh! the poor puppy has tumbled off the stool. Run and stroak him. Put a
little milk in a saucer to comfort him. You have more sense than he. You
can pour the milk into the saucer without spilling it. He would cry for a
day with hunger, without being able to get it. You are wiser than the
dog, you must help him. The dog will love you for it, and run after you.
I feed you and take care of you: you love me and follow me for it.
When the book fell down on your foot, it gave you great pain. The poor
dog felt the same pain just now.
Take care not to hurt him when you play with him. And every morning leave
a little milk in your bason for him. Do not forget to put the bason in a
corner, lest somebody should fall over it.
When the snow covers the ground, save the crumbs of bread for the birds.
In the summer they find feed enough, and do not want you to think about
them.
I make broth for the poor man who is sick. A sick man is like a child, he
cannot help himself.
LESSON X.
WHEN I caught cold some time ago, I had such a pain in my head, I could
scarcely hold it up. Papa opened the door very softly, because he loves
me. You love me, yet you made a noise. You had not the sense to know that
it made my head worse, till papa told you.
Papa had a pain in the stomach, and he would not eat the fine cherries or
grapes on the table. When I brought him a cup of camomile tea, he drank
it without saying a word, or making an ugly face. He knows that I love
him, and that I would not give him any thing to drink that has a bad
taste, if it were not to do him good.
You asked me for some apples when your stomach ached; but I was not angry
with you. If you had been as wise as papa, you would have said, I will
not eat the apples to-day, I must take some camomile tea.
You say that you do not know how to think. Yes; you do a little. The
other day papa was tired; he had been walking about all the morning.
After dinner he fell asleep on the sopha. I did not bid you be quiet; but
you thought of what papa said to you, when my head ached. This made you
think that you ought not to make a noise, when papa was resting himself.
So you came to me, and said to me, very softly, Pray reach me my ball,
and I will go and play in the garden, till papa wakes.
You were going out; but thinking again, you came back to me on your
tip-toes. Whisper----whisper. Pray mama, call me, when papa wakes; for I
shall be afraid to open the door to see, lest I should disturb him.
Away you went.--Creep--creep--and shut the door as softly as I could have
done myself.
That was thinking. When a child does wrong at first, she does not know
any better. But, after she has been told that she must not disturb mama,
when poor mama is unwell, she thinks herself, that she must not wake papa
when he is tired.
Another day we will see if you can think about any thing else.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[175-A] This title which is indorsed on the back of the manuscript, I
conclude to have been written in a period of desperation, in the month of
October, 1795.
EDITOR.
POSTHUMOUS WORKS
OF THE
AUTHOR
OF A
VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
* * * * *
VOL. III.
* * * * *
_LONDON:_
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.
LETTERS
AND
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
PREFACE.
THE following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest
examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the
world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated romance of
Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very different
cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of affording
pleasure, will receive no delight from the present publication. The
editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best qualified to
decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted to have the
superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the offspring of a
glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the passion it essays to
describe.
To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two
volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be
found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of
Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it
seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the
intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a
few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just monument
to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and interesting
specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the Present Character
of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale, and the
Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, safely
be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on Poetry and our Relish for
the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April last,
and is the only piece in this collection which has previously found its
way to the press.
LETTERS.
LETTER I.
Two o'Clock.
MY dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I
have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early
hour, with the Miss ----s, the _only_ day they intend to pass here. I
shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my
fire-side when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor
Joan?--whom you will find better, and till then think very
affectionately of her.
Yours, truly,
* * * *
I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.
* * * * *
LETTER II.
Past Twelve o'Clock, Monday night.
[August.]
I OBEY an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my
love, good-night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can
to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ----'s eye. You
can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we
are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how
many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my
heart has found peace in your bosom.--Cherish me with that dignified
tenderness, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will
try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you
pain--Yes, I will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst
you love me, I cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered
life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne.
But, good-night!--God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a
kiss--yet I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with
gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection,
because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try
whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.
* * * *
I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock
to-morrow[4-A].--Yours--
* * * * *
LETTER III.
Wednesday Morning.
YOU have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you
know how very attentive I have been to the ---- ever since I came to
Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I
like to see your eyes praise me; and, Milton insinuates, that, during
such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when
the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.
Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me
to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY--you _must_
be glad to see me--because you are glad--or I will make love to the
_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was
talking with Madame ----, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have
sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so
highly respect principle.----
Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles--Far from it--and,
if I had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the
vanity of my heart, have _imagined_ that _I_ could have made something of
his----it was composed of such materials--Hush! here they come--and love
flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing
on my pale cheeks.
I hope to see Dr. ---- this morning; I am going to Mr. ----'s to meet
him. ----, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and
to-morrow I am to spend the day with ----.
I shall probably not be able to return to ---- to-morrow; but it is no
matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I
immediately want, to take with me.--On Friday then I shall expect you to
dine with me--and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long
since I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER IV[7-A].
Friday Morning [September.]
A MAN, whom a letter from Mr. ----previously announced, called here
yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at
not finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ----. I have since seen him,
and he tells me that he has settled the business.
So much for business!--May I venture to talk a little longer about less
weighty affairs?--How are you?--I have been following you all along the
road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love,
my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by
their presence--I was going to say caresses--and why should I not? I have
found out that I have more mind than you, in one respect; because I can,
without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same
object, much longer than you can.--The way to my senses is through my
heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to
yours.
With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is
necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable; and,
beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by
fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my
whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their
pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the
few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life.
I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought
produced it--that these continual separations were necessary to warm your
affection.--Of late, we are always separating.--Crack!--crack!--and away
you go.--This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began
to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my
eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers
that you are one of the best creatures in the world.--Pardon then the
vagaries of a mind, that has been almost "crazed by care," as well as
"crossed in hapless love," and bear with me a _little_ longer!--When we
are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and
my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion
that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours,
with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.
Take care of yourself--and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear,
if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of
it, by becoming happier.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER V.
Sunday Night.
I HAVE just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed
tranquilly without saying a few words in reply--merely to tell you, that
my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.
Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle
twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
who will soon be sensible of my care.--This thought has not only produced
an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm
my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we
are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday--do not
smile!--finding that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large
log of wood, I sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches
again.
Are you very busy?
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come
home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
you will.--
Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be
patient--kindly--and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the
time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.--Tell me also over and over
again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely
connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes
of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you
have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you! Take care of
yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate
* * * *
I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.--This is the
kindest good-night I can utter.
* * * * *
LETTER VI.
Friday Morning.
I AM glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as
myself--for be it known to thee, that I answered thy _first_ letter, the
very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it
before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.--There
is a full, true, and particular account.--
Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of
stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the
same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.--There
is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions
always give grace to the actions.
Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy
money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have
expected from thy character.--No; I have thy honest countenance before
me--Pop--relaxed by tenderness; a little--little wounded by my whims; and
thy eyes glistening with sympathy.--Thy lips then feel softer than
soft--and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.--I have not
left the hue of love out of the picture--the rosy glow; and fancy has
spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst
a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus
alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it
divides--I must pause a moment.
Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?--I do not know
why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than
present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my
heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am
true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER VII.
Sunday Morning [December 29.]
YOU seem to have taken up your abode at H----. Pray sir! when do you
think of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business
permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that
you will make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
Well! but, my love, to the old story--am I to see you this week, or this
month?--I do not know what you are about--for, as you did not tell me, I
would not ask Mr. ----, who is generally pretty communicative.
I long to see Mrs. ------; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself
airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ----. And I am half angry with you for
not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.--On this
score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from
my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will
only suffer an exclamation--"The creature!" or a kind look, to escape me,
when I pass the slippers--which I could not remove from my _salle_ door,
though they are not the handsomest of their kind.
Be not too anxious to get money!--for nothing worth having is to be
purchased. God bless you.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER VIII.
Monday Night [December 30.]
MY best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart,
depressed by the letters I received by ----, for he brought me several,
and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ------ was for me. Mr. ------'s
letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his
own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me.
A melancholy letter from my sister ------ has also harrassed my
mind--that from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you;
and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.--I
think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender
looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance
of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of
bashfulness, and a desire to please the----where shall I find a word to
express the relationship which subsists between us?--Shall I ask the
little twitcher?--But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you
how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I have
been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to write,
and my heart has leaped at the thought!--You see how I chat to you.
I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it,
for the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me--and I
wanted one.
Mr. ---- tells me that he has written again and again.--Love him a
little!--It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I
love.
There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that,
if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how
very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER IX.
Tuesday Morning [December 31.]
THOUGH I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain ---- offers to take
one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because
trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my
spirits:--and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of this
same sensibility.--Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to
master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of
affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to
dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to
days browned by care!
The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not
look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my
stockings.
Yours truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER X.
Wednesday Night [January 1.]
AS I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to
complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I
am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not
feel?
I hate commerce. How differently must ------'s head and heart be
organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am
weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The
"peace" and clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear
again. "I am fallen," as Milton said, "on evil days;" for I really
believe that Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a
century at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling
a great stone up a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place,
imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be
done over anew!
Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My
head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded
garden," where "things rank and vile" flourish best.
If you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of
it--I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--nobody knows
where.
* * * *
Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ----s,
simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ------, and ------,
nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care!--Yet I wish to avoid
------'s coarse jokes.