something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am
sensible that I acted foolishly--but I was wretched--when we were
together--Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
slip from me. I cannot live with you--I ought not--if you form another
attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel
disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to
depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a
chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I
can provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part
to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort
to me--if I am to have no other--and only know me as her support.--I feel
that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are
only to correspond.--No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters
shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express
to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--You
must determine--examine yourself--But, for God's sake! spare me the
anxiety of uncertainty!--I may sink under the trial; but I will not
complain.
Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and
absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions, yet I scarcely know what
new form of misery I have to dread.
I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but
you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the heart
of
Yours truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXIII.
August 9.
FIVE of your letters have been sent after me from ----. One, dated the
14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did
not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to
assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am
disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my
affection.----
My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope--I
mean, I and my girl.--I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am
informed how your affairs terminate.
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXIV.
August 26.
I ARRIVED here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more
pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot
conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone.
Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have
promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future
shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an
independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.
I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and
even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As
for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the
calm contentment so termed.--
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect
yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th
of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they
produced.--Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have
lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not
comprehend--or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be,
merely an object of compassion--a clog, however light, to teize you.
Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical
whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free--I will not
torment, when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not
continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, _that you will try
to cherish tenderness_ for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are
separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary
considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without
affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed.
I had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way
to superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum
necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go
to Switzerland. I shall not remain at ----, living expensively. But be
not alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.
Adieu! I am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if
shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.
God bless you.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXV.
September 6.
I RECEIVED just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter
last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul.
I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to
imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of
life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose
on the idea that I am happy.
Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like
resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I
have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that
happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies
which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--They
are the agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and I have shaken hands.
I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people
immersed in trade and sensuality.
I am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting place to
look to.--I am strangely cast off.--How often, passing through the rocks,
I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them,
and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the
affections of my nature--I have never met with one, softer than the stone
that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it
was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound
together by affection or principle--and, when I am conscious that I have
fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself,
I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus
abandoned?"
You say now -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more
explicitly--and determine on some mode of conduct.--I cannot endure this
suspense--Decide--Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together,
or eternally part!--I shall not write to you again, till I receive an
answer to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on
indifferent subjects. -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is
disturbed.--But this you ought to pardon--for it is with difficulty
frequently that I make out what you mean to say--You write, I suppose, at
Mr. ----'s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest--and as for
your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of
affection, unless a glimpse when you mention, the child.--Adieu!
* * * * *
LETTER LXVI.
September 25.
I HAVE just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ------.
In that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that
three mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I
closed it, I hear of another, and still no letter.--I am labouring to
write calmly--this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ------
remained a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England.
What have I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you
do the same--and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not
deserved this of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu!
* * * *
END VOL. III.
FOOTNOTES:
[4-A] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl,"
probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this
interview.
EDITOR.
[7-A] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.
[27-A] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in
a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the
person to whom they were addressed.
[47-A] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
considerable time.
[50-A] She means, "the latter more than the former."
EDITOR.
[58-A] This is the first of a series of letters written during a
separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded.
They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.
[91-A] The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time
at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was
recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of
business now accumulated upon him.
[100-A] This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom
the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things
upon which the letter writer was disposed to bestow a different
appellation.
EDITOR.
[133-A] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of
suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
POSTHUMOUS WORKS
OF THE
AUTHOR
OF A
VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
* * * * *
VOL. IV.
* * * * *
_LONDON:_
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S
CHURCH-YARD; AND G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1798.
LETTERS
AND
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
* * * * *
VOL. II.
CONTENTS.
Page
Letters 1
Letter on the Present Character of the French Nation 39
Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants 55
Letters to Mr. Johnson 61
Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale 99
On Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature 159
Hints 179
ERRATA.
Page 10, line 8, _for_ I write you, _read_ I write to you.
---- 20, -- 9, _read_ bring them to ----.
---- 146, -- 2 from the bottom, after over, insert a comma.
LETTERS.
* * * * *
LETTER LXVII.
September 27.
WHEN you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
British coast--your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.--You desire me to
decide--I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
from ------, to the same purport, to consider.--In these, God knows!
there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind
were but too faithfully pourtrayed!--What more then had I to say?--The
negative was to come from you.--You had perpetually recurred to your
promise of meeting me in the autumn--Was it extraordinary that I should
demand a yes, or no?--Your letter is written with extreme harshness,
coldness I am accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness
of humanity, much less of friendship.--I only see a desire to heave a
load off your shoulders.
I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you
decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a
world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile,
I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I
am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you
have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for
you--for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only
sought for a momentary gratification.
I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your
tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On
this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I
leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off
a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly
are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped
on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at
present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step,
till I see or hear from you.
Preparing myself for the worst--I have determined, if your next letter be
like the last, to write to Mr. ------to procure me an obscure lodging,
and not to inform any body of my arrival.--There I will endeavour in a
few months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France--from you I
will not receive any more.--I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend
on your beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not
the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the
independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go
a great way in France--and I will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_
enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my
girl.--The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I
can get at an easy rate at Paris--I can introduce her to such society as
she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness,
which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity
which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my
grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to
arrive at his port.
* * * *
I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to
go to. Captain ------ will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that I wish to see
you, though it be for the last time.
* * * * *
LETTER LXVIII.
Sunday, October 4.
I WROTE to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th
of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ------; but, as
we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet
received it.
You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for
the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I
expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be
glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose
in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our
interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at
last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that
you have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly
request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof
I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide,
since you boggle about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at
landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious
that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable
sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the
description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming
flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her
account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my
situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me,
that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in
your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and
my child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the
return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and
tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I
can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human
being: my die is cast!--I have fortitude enough to determine to do my
duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling
heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up
by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my
life--but life will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
will find me at ------. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me
where.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXIX.
I WRITE you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid
with ----, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ----, rue
----, section de ----. Should they be removed, ---- can give their
direction.
Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.
Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I
forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet,
whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might
still have lived together.
I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let
my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you
receive this, my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.
Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene.
I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be
insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge
into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from
the death I seek.
God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me
endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall
appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXX.
Sunday Morning.
I HAVE only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was
inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is
not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a
frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this
respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed
reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.
You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the
wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long
since.--But I forbear to comment.----If I am condemned to live longer, it
is a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on
principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would
have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you
have any friendship for me.--But since your new attachment is the only
thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall
never more damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that
even my death could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call
magnanimity--It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in
the highest degree.
Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to
contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance),
appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar
comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone,
you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not
shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any
direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I
have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own
reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value
money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do
much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am
dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you
again.--Adieu!
God bless you!
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXXI.
Monday Morning.
I AM compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree
with you, that-- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy.
I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary.--
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may
lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly
free.--God bless you.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXXIII.
Saturday Night.
I HAVE been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be
dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or
tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my
feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually
offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new
house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I
will sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the
moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary
supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and
misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.--
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be
necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other
medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose,
that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing
of me, it will be the same thing to you.
* * * *
Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
distracted mind.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXIV.
Thursday Afternoon.
MR. ------ having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which
were left at the house, I have to request you to let ------ bring them
onto ------.
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained
from coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think,
and feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I
have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most
ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be
silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and
provide for my child.--I only mean by this to say, that you having
nothing to fear from my desperation.
Farewel.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXXV.
London, November 27.
THE letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters
aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with
anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for
me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
expect much attention to my sufferings.
In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has
almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I
am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel
recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of
fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this
tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, "that
I shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But
is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does
mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so
"exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?
In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but
that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have
fostered, and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.--I know you are not what you
now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may
never be comforted by the change.--Even at Paris, my image will haunt
you.--You will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will
drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your
_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--Right or wrong, I am
miserable!
It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest
principles of justice and truth.--Yet, how wretched have my social
feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--I have loved with my
whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return--and that
existence is a burthen without it.