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!
* * * *
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 LXXVI.
London, December 8.
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 --------, 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.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LXXVII.
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.
--------, 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 LXXVIII.
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.
* * * * *
LETTER
ON THE
PRESENT CHARACTER
OF THE
FRENCH NATION.
LETTER
_Introductory to a Series of Letters on the Present Character of the
French Nation._
Paris, February 15, 1793.
My dear friend,
IT is necessary perhaps for an observer of mankind, to guard as carefully
the remembrance of the first impression made by a nation, as by a
countenance; because we imperceptibly lose sight of the national
character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then
useless or presumptuous to note, that, when I first entered Paris, the
striking contrast of riches and poverty, elegance and slovenliness,
urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and saddened my soul; and
these impressions are still the foundation of my remarks on the manners,
which flatter the senses, more than they interest the heart, and yet
excite more interest than esteem.
The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous,
and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they
are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving
satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all sides
they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of
care, that often, when I am walking on the _Boulevards_, it occurs to me,
that they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they
trifle their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how to
wish them wiser at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me like
motes in a sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English head,
searching for more solid happiness, loses, in the analysis of pleasure,
the volatile sweets of the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true,
rises from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation of
spirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burthen of life, which
reason too often weighs, merely to shift from one shoulder to the other.
Investigating the modification of the passion, as I would analyze the
elements that give a form to dead matter, I shall attempt to trace to
their source the causes which have combined to render this nation the
most polished, in a physical sense, and probably the most superficial in
the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that
disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature
is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most
sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or so
effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of sensuality?
The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me
then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey.
Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would
decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to
consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and,
giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances which
have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light on the
history of man, and on the present important subjects of discussion.
I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and
follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair
form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter
all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that
have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that
lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled
with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the
government rendered less venal. Still it is not just to dwell on the
misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the
standing evils of the old system. I am grieved--sorely grieved--when I
think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I
also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through which
the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear, and I
hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of providence, sweeping
in such various directions the besom of destruction over the sons of men.
Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong
virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress
of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course of
improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on
by misery. But now, the perspective of the golden age, fading before the
attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and, losing thus in
part my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my friend, if I bring
forward an opinion, which at the first glance seems to be levelled
against the existence of God! I am not become an Atheist, I assure you,
by residing at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you will,
evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the passions are
justly poized, we become harmless, and in the same proportion useless.
The wants of reason are very few; and, were we to consider
dispassionately the real value of most things, we should probably rest
satisfied with the simple gratification of our physical necessities, and
be content with negative goodness: for it is frequently, only that
wanton, the Imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward,
and makes us run over a rough road, pushing aside every obstacle merely
to catch a disappointment.
The desire also of being useful to others, is continually damped by
experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in some measure
their own reward, who would endure misery, or struggle with care, to make
some people ungrateful, and others idle?
You will call these melancholy effusions, and guess that, fatigued by
the vivacity, which has all the bustling folly of childhood, without the
innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too severe in my
strictures. It may be so; and I am aware that the good effects of the
revolution will be last felt at Paris; where surely the soul of Epicurus
has long been at work to root out the simple emotions of the heart,
which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by
the selfish enjoyments of the senses, which the government fostered, is
it surprising that simplicity of manners, and singleness of heart, rarely
appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, so passing sweet?
Seeing how deep the fibres of mischief have shot, I sometimes ask, with a
doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners
which has hitherto been maintained unsullied only by the keen air of
poverty, when, emasculated by pleasure, the luxuries of prosperity are
become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer
day is dawning on Europe, though I must hesitatingly observe, that little
is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which seems every
where to be shoving aside _the point of honour_ of the _noblesse_. I can
look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect muddied water to
become clear before it has had time to stand; yet, even for the moment,
it is the most terrific of all sights, to see men vicious without
warmth--to see the order that should be the superscription of virtue,
cultivated to give security to crimes which only thoughtlessness could
palliate. Disorder is, in fact, the very essence of vice, though with the
wild wishes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions often kindly mix to soften
their atrocity. Thus humanity, generosity, and even self-denial,
sometimes render a character grand, and even useful, when hurried away by
lawless passions; but what can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator
who lives for himself alone, and considering his fellow-creatures merely
as machines of pleasure, never forgets that honesty is the best policy?
Keeping ever within the pale of the law, he crushes his thousands with
impunity; but it is with that degree of management, which makes him, to
borrow a significant vulgarism, a villain _in grain_. The very excess of
his depravation preserves him, whilst the more respectable beast of prey,
who prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach,
falls into a snare.
You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government,
yet it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when every
thing whispers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I
see that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to
corrupt the new. For the same pride of office, the same desire of power
are still visible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to
obscurity after having but just acquired a relish for distinction, each
hero, or philosopher, for all are dubbed with these new titles,
endeavours to make hay while the sun shines; and every petty municipal
officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, stalks like a
cock on a dunghil.
I shall now conclude this desultory letter; which however will enable you
to foresee that I shall treat more of morals than manners.
Yours ------
* * * * *
FRAGMENT
OF
LETTERS
ON THE
MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.
CONTENTS.
Introductory Letter.
LETTER II. Management of the Mother during pregnancy: bathing.
LETTER III. Lying-in.
LETTER IV. The first month: diet: clothing.
LETTER V. The three following months.
LETTER VI. The remainder of the first year.
LETTER VII. The second year, &c: conclusion.
LETTERS ON THE MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.
* * * * *
LETTER I.
I OUGHT to apologize for not having written to you on the subject you
mentioned; but, to tell you the truth, it grew upon me: and, instead of
an answer, I have begun a series of letters on the management of children
in their infancy. Replying then to your question, I have the public in
my thoughts, and shall endeavour to show what modes appear to me
necessary, to render the infancy of children more healthy and happy. I
have long thought, that the cause which renders children as hard to rear
as the most fragile plant, is our deviation from simplicity. I know that
some able physicians have recommended the method I have pursued, and I
mean to point out the good effects I have observed in practice. I am
aware that many matrons will exclaim against me, and dwell on the number
of children they have brought up, as their mothers did before them,
without troubling themselves with new-fangled notions; yet, though, in my
uncle Toby's words, they should attempt to silence me, by "wishing I had
seen their large" families, I must suppose, while a third part of the
human species, according to the most accurate calculation, die during
their infancy, just at the threshold of life, that there is some error in
the modes adopted by mothers and nurses, which counteracts their own
endeavours. I may be mistaken in some particulars; for general rules,
founded on the soundest reason, demand individual modification; but, if I
can persuade any of the rising generation to exercise their reason on
this head, I am content. My advice will probably be found most useful to
mothers in the middle class; and it is from them that the lower
imperceptibly gains improvement. Custom, produced by reason in one, may
safely be the effect of imitation in the other.-- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
LETTERS
TO
Mr. JOHNSON,
_BOOKSELLER_,
IN
ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.
LETTERS
TO
Mr. JOHNSON.
* * * * *
LETTER I.
Dublin, April 14, [1787.]
Dear sir,
I AM still an invalid--and begin to believe that I ought never to expect
to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body--and, when I endeavour to be
useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost
entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their
future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my
endeavours to improve them.--I feel all a mother's fears for the swarm of
little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having
power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life, when
it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the
pleasures I relish?--I allude to rational conversations, and domestic
affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land,
tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be
contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for
sorrow--and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to
hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER II.
Henley, Thursday, Sept 13.
My dear sir,
SINCE I saw you, I have, literally speaking, _enjoyed_ solitude. My
sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone,
by the side of the Thames, and in the neighbouring beautiful fields and
pleasure grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I _caught_
tranquillity while I surveyed them--my mind was _still_, though active.
Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would
smile.--I found an old French bible here, and amused myself with
comparing it with our English translation; then I would listen to the
falling leaves, or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them--At
other times, the singing of a robin, or the noise of a water-mill,
engaged my attention--partial attention--, for I was, at the same time
perhaps discussing some knotty point, or straying from this _tiny_ world
to new systems. After these excursions, I returned to the family meals,
told the children stories (they think me _vastly_ agreeable), and my
sister was amused.--Well, will you allow me to call this way of passing
my days pleasant?
I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say
all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation
for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and, lest my sister should
try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I
am determined!--Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but
let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do, any thing of consequence,
that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my
purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In
the course of near nine-and-twenty years, I have gathered some
experience, and felt many _severe_ disappointments--and what is the
amount? I long for a little peace and _independence_! Every obligation we
receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our native
freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms--I am not fond of
grovelling!
I am, sir, yours, &c.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER III.
Market Harborough, Sept. 20.
My dear sir,
YOU left me with three opulent tradesmen; their conversation was not
calculated to beguile the way, when the sable curtain concealed the
beauties of nature. I listened to the tricks of trade--and shrunk away,
without wishing to grow rich; even the novelty of the subjects did not
render them pleasing; fond as I am of tracing the passions in all their
different forms--I was not surprised by any glimpse of the sublime, or
beautiful--though one of them imagined I would be a useful partner in a
good _firm_. I was very much fatigued, and have scarcely recovered
myself. I do not expect to enjoy the same tranquil pleasures Henley
afforded: I meet with new objects to employ my mind; but many painful
emotions are complicated with the reflections they give rise to.
I do not intend to enter on the _old_ topic, yet hope to hear from
you--and am yours, &c.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER IV.
Friday Night.
My dear sir,
THOUGH your remarks are generally judicious--I cannot _now_ concur with
you, I mean with respect to the preface[67-A], and have not altered it.
I hate the usual smooth way of exhibiting proud humility. A general rule
_only_ extends to the majority--and, believe me, the few judicious
parents who may peruse my book, will not feel themselves hurt--and the
weak are too vain to mind what is said in a book intended for children.
I return you the Italian MS.--but do not hastily imagine that I am
indolent. I would not spare any labour to do my duty--and, after the most
laborious day, that single thought would solace me more than any
pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the MS.
well. If it was not a MS, I should not be so easily intimidated; but the
hand, and errors in orthography, or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block
at the first setting out.--I cannot bear to do any thing I cannot do
well--and I should lose time in the vain attempt.