my poor, dear Margaret[69-A].--With all a mother's fondness I could
transcribe a part of it--She says, every day her affection to me, and
dependence on heaven increase, &c.--I miss her innocent caresses--and
sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my
childless age--if I am to live to be old.--At any rate, I may hear of the
virtues I may not contemplate--and my reason may permit me to love a
female.--I now allude to ------. I have received another letter from her,
and her childish complaints vex me--indeed they do--As usual, good-night.
MARY.
If parents attended to their children, I would not have written the
stories; for, what are books--compared to conversations which affection
inforces!--
* * * * *
LETTER V.
My dear sir,
REMEMBER you are to settle _my account_, as I want to know how much I am
in your debt--but do not suppose that I feel any uneasiness on that
score. The generality of people in trade would not be much obliged to me
for a like civility, _but you were a man_ before you were a
bookseller--so I am your sincere friend,
MARY.
* * * * *
LETTER VI.
Friday Morning.
I AM sick with vexation--and wish I could knock my foolish head against
the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from
self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with myself,
and I will tell you the cause.--You may recollect that I did not mention
to you the circumstance of ------ having a fortune left to him; nor did a
hint of it drop from me when I conversed with my sister; because I knew
he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when his
character was aspersed, as I thought, unjustly, in the heat of
vindication I informed ****** that he was now independent; but, at the
same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B----; yet, last
Tuesday, he told him all--and the boy at B----'s gave Mrs. ------ an
account of it. As Mr. ------ knew he had only made a confident of me (I
blush to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this
morning came (not to reproach me, I wish he had!) but to point out the
injury I have done him.--Let what will be the consequence, I will
reimburse him, if I deny myself the necessaries of life--and even then my
folly will sting me.--Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at
this moment endure--that I, whose power of doing good is so limited,
should do harm, galls my very soul. ****** may laugh at these
qualms--but, supposing Mr. ------ to be unworthy, I am not the less to
blame. Surely it is hell to despise one's self!--I did not want this
additional vexation--at this time I have many that hang heavily on my
spirits. I shall not call on you this month--nor stir out.--My stomach
has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the
desk.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER VII.
AS I am become a reviewer, I think it right, in the way of business, to
consider the subject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as the
advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly shows. The Critical
appears to me to be a timid, mean production, and its success is a
reflection on the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who
ever gave it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice
of truth, when some man of abilities has had time to get fast hold of the
GREAT NOSE of the monster. Of course, local fame is generally a clamour,
and dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amusement,
though every article almost wants energy and a _cant_ of virtue and
liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to
established fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of
admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the sustenance of
the body by enfeebling the mind!
MARY.
* * * * *
LETTER VIII.
YOU made me very low-spirited last night, by your manner of talking.--You
are my only friend--the only person I am _intimate_ with.--I never had a
father, or a brother--you have been both to me, ever since I knew
you--yet I have sometimes been very petulant.--I have been thinking of
those instances of ill-humour and quickness, and they appeared like
crimes.
Yours sincerely
MARY.
* * * * *
LETTER IX.
Saturday Night.
I AM a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
suggestions of reason. Your note--I can scarcely tell why, hurt me--and
produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent
tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill--Heaven knows it was
more than fancy--After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the
morning I have grown delirious.--Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined
------ was thrown into great distress by his folly; and I, unable to
assist him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of
irritation--I suffered more than I can express--Society was
necessary--and might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I
blushed when I recollected how often I had teazed you with childish
complaints, and the reveries of a disordered imagination. I even
_imagined_ that I intruded on you, because you never called on me--though
you perceived that I was not well.--I have nourished a sickly kind of
delicacy, which gives me many unnecessary pangs.--I acknowledge that life
is but a jest--and often a frightful dream--yet catch myself every day
searching for something serious--and feel real misery from the
disappointment. I am a strange compound of weakness and resolution!
However, if I must suffer, I will endeavour to suffer in silence. There
is certainly a great defect in my mind--my wayward heart creates its own
misery--Why I am made thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form some idea
of the whole of my existence, I must be content to weep and dance like a
child--long for a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.
We must each of us wear a fool's cap; but mine, alas! has lost its bells,
and is grown so heavy, I find it intolerably troublesome.----Good-night!
I have been pursuing a number of strange thoughts since I began to write,
and have actually both wept and laughed immoderately--Surely I am a
fool--
MARY W.
* * * * *
LETTER X.
Monday Morning.
I REALLY want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that
language--and I will tell you the reason why.--While I live, I am
persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an independence, and
render myself useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind
with knowledge--The seed time is passing away. I see the necessity of
labouring now--and of that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary,
I am thankful that I have more than common incentives to pursue
knowledge, and draw my pleasures from the employments that are within my
reach. You perceive this is not a gloomy day--I feel at this moment
particularly grateful to you--without your humane and _delicate_
assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had to encounter--too
often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom I
wish to love!--Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a being
I respect.--Adieu!
MARY W.
* * * * *
LETTER XI.
I THOUGHT you _very_ unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares
and vexations--I will say what I allow myself to think--do me honour, as
they arise from my disinterestedness and _unbending_ principles; nor can
that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables
me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not
the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with
various sorrows--while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present
comfort.--Dr. Johnson's cares almost drove him mad--but, I suppose, you
would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that
wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have
done with insensible human wisdom,--"indifference cold in wisdom's
guise,"--and turn to the source of perfection--who perhaps never
disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a
practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am
ill--I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o'clock, only thinking of
getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties--The
struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a
disagreeable way.
Mr. ------ called on me just now--pray did you know his motive for
calling[82-A]?--I think him impertinently officious.--He had left the
house before it occurred to me in the strong light it does now, or I
should have told him so--My poverty makes me proud--I will not be
insulted by a superficial puppy.--His intimacy with Miss ------ gave him
a privilege, which he should not have assumed with me--a proposal might
be made to his cousin, a milliner's girl, which should not have been
mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am offended--and do not wish to see
him again!--When I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since
I cannot pull him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my
body--but it shall never bend to support that body--God of heaven, save
thy child from this living death!--I scarcely know what I write. My hand
trembles--I am very sick--sick at heart.----
MARY.
* * * * *
LETTER XII.
Tuesday Evening.
Sir,
WHEN you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment--your _officious_
message, which at first appeared to me a joke--looked so very like an
insult--I cannot forget it--To prevent then the necessity of forcing a
smile--when I chance to meet you--I take the earliest opportunity of
informing you of my real sentiments.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER XIII.
Wednesday, 3 o'clock.
Sir,
IT is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a
subject, that has already raised a tumult of _indignant_ emotions in my
bosom, which I was labouring to suppress when I received your letter. I
shall now _condescend_ to answer your epistle; but let me first tell you,
that, in my _unprotected_ situation, I make a point of never forgiving a
_deliberate insult_--and in that light I consider your late officious
conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters--I will then
tell you in plain terms, what I think. I have ever considered you in the
light of a _civil_ acquaintance--on the word friend I lay a peculiar
emphasis--and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and _cruel_, to step
forward to insult a woman, whose conduct and misfortunes demand respect.
If my friend, Mr. Johnson, had made the proposal--I should have been
severely hurt--have thought him unkind and unfeeling, but not
_impertinent_.--The privilege of intimacy you had no claim to--and should
have referred the man to myself--if you had not sufficient discernment to
quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and destitute.--Yet I have a spirit
that will never bend, or take indirect methods, to obtain the consequence
I despise; nay, if to support life it was necessary to act contrary to my
principles, the struggle would soon be over. I can bear any thing but my
own contempt.
In a few words, what I call an insult, is the bare supposition that I
could for a moment think of _prostituting_ my person for a maintenance;
for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who consider
right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local opinions
shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.
It is needless to say more--Only you must excuse me when I add, that I
wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so
grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary--if you were
inclined to make one--nor any further expostulations.--I again repeat, I
cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to
respect poverty, even where it gives lustre to a character--and I tell
you sir, I am POOR--yet can live without your benevolent exertions.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
* * * * *
LETTER XIV.
I SEND you _all_ the books I had to review except Dr. J--'s Sermons,
which I have begun. If you wish me to look over any more trash this
month--you must send it directly. I have been so low-spirited since I saw
you--I was quite glad, last night, to feel myself affected by some
passages in Dr. J--'s sermon on the death of his wife--I seemed
(suddenly) to _find_ my _soul_ again--It has been for some time I cannot
tell where. Send me the Speaker--and _Mary_, I want one--and I shall soon
want some paper--you may as well send it at the same time--for I am
trying to brace my nerves that I may be industrious.--I am afraid reason
is not a good bracer--for I have been reasoning a long time with my
untoward spirits--and yet my hand trembles.--I could finish a period very
_prettily_ now, by saying that it ought to be steady when I add that I am
yours sincerely,
MARY.
If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J--'s s---- on his
wife, be it known unto you--I _will_ not do it any other way--I felt some
pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the memory of a
man--who, spite of his faults, I have an affection for--I say _have_, for
I believe he is somewhere--_where_ my soul has been gadding perhaps;--but
_you_ do not live on conjectures.
* * * * *
LETTER XV.
MY dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am pleased with, now I see it
in one point of view--and, as I have made free with the author, I hope
you will not have often to say--what does this mean?
You forgot you were to make out my account--I am, of course, over head
and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes some
dislike to be obliged to those they respect.--On the contrary, when I
involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully
recollect that I have received unexpected kindness from you and a few
others.--So reason allows, what nature impels me to--for I cannot live
without loving my fellow-creatures--nor can I love them, without
discovering some virtue.
MARY.
* * * * *
LETTER XVI.
Paris, December 26, 1792.
I SHOULD immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have
thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with
blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to
prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not dare
to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was not
mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home
with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine o'clock
this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently along
(excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered the
stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the national
guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name.
The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements were all
shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an insulting
gesture.--For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to the
majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so
perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why,
but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes,
when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his
character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his
race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me,
entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most
flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity
overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images
that have filled my imagination all the day.--Nay, do not smile, but pity
me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes
glare through a glass-door opposite my chair and bloody hands shook at
me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear.--My apartments are
remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in
an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another.--I wish I had
even kept the cat with me!--I want to see something alive; death in so
many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy.--I am going to
bed--and, for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.
M. W.
FOOTNOTES:
[67-A] To Original Stories.
[69-A] Countess Mount Cashel.
[82-A] This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary
considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to
recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addressed
to the gentleman himself.
EXTRACT
OF THE
CAVE OF FANCY.
A TALE.
* * * * *
[_Begun to be written in the year 1787, but never completed_]
CAVE OF FANCY.
CHAP. I.
YE who expect constancy where every thing is changing, and peace in the
midst of tumult, attend to the voice of experience, and mark in time the
footsteps of disappointment, or life will be lost in desultory wishes,
and death arrive before the dawn of wisdom.
In a sequestered valley, surrounded by rocky mountains that intercepted
many of the passing clouds, though sunbeams variegated their ample sides,
lived a sage, to whom nature had unlocked her most hidden secrets. His
hollow eyes, sunk in their orbits, retired from the view of vulgar
objects, and turned inwards, overleaped the boundary prescribed to human
knowledge. Intense thinking during fourscore and ten years, had whitened
the scattered locks on his head, which, like the summit of the distant
mountain, appeared to be bound by an eternal frost.
On the sandy waste behind the mountains, the track of ferocious beasts
might be traced, and sometimes the mangled limbs which they left,
attracted a hovering flight of birds of prey. An extensive wood the sage
had forced to rear its head in a soil by no means congenial, and the firm
trunks of the trees seemed to frown with defiance on time; though the
spoils of innumerable summers covered the roots, which resembled fangs;
so closely did they cling to the unfriendly sand, where serpents hissed,
and snakes, rolling out their vast folds, inhaled the noxious vapours.
The ravens and owls who inhabited the solitude, gave also a thicker gloom
to the everlasting twilight, and the croaking of the former a monotony,
in unison with the gloom; whilst lions and tygers, shunning even this
faint semblance of day, sought the dark caverns, and at night, when they
shook off sleep, their roaring would make the whole valley resound,
confounded with the screechings of the bird of night.
One mountain rose sublime, towering above all, on the craggy sides of
which a few sea-weeds grew, washed by the ocean, that with tumultuous
roar rushed to assault, and even undermine, the huge barrier that stopped
its progress; and ever and anon a ponderous mass, loosened from the
cliff, to which it scarcely seemed to adhere, always threatening to fall,
fell into the flood, rebounding as it fell, and the sound was re-echoed
from rock to rock. Look where you would, all was without form, as if
nature, suddenly stopping her hand, had left chaos a retreat.
Close to the most remote side of it was the sage's abode. It was a rude
hut, formed of stumps of trees and matted twigs, to secure him from the
inclemency of the weather; only through small apertures crossed with
rushes, the wind entered in wild murmurs, modulated by these
obstructions. A clear spring broke out of the middle of the adjacent
rock, which, dropping slowly into a cavity it had hollowed, soon
overflowed, and then ran, struggling to free itself from the cumbrous
fragments, till, become a deep, silent stream, it escaped through reeds,
and roots of trees, whose blasted tops overhung and darkened the current.
One side of the hut was supported by the rock, and at midnight, when the
sage struck the inclosed part, it yawned wide, and admitted him into a
cavern in the very bowels of the earth, where never human foot before had
trod; and the various spirits, which inhabit the different regions of
nature, were here obedient to his potent word. The cavern had been formed
by the great inundation of waters, when the approach of a comet forced
them from their source; then, when the fountains of the great deep were
broken up, a stream rushed out of the centre of the earth, where the
spirits, who have lived on it, are confined to purify themselves from
the dross contracted in their first stage of existence; and it flowed in
black waves, for ever bubbling along the cave, the extent of which had
never been explored. From the sides and top, water distilled, and,
petrifying as it fell, took fantastic shapes, that soon divided it into
apartments, if so they might be called. In the foam, a wearied spirit
would sometimes rise, to catch the most distant glimpse of light, or
taste the vagrant breeze, which the yawning of the rock admitted, when
Sagestus, for that was the name of the hoary sage, entered. Some, who
were refined and almost cleared from vicious spots, he would allow to
leave, for a limited time, their dark prison-house; and, flying on the
winds across the bleak northern ocean, or rising in an exhalation till
they reached a sun-beam, they thus re-visited the haunts of men. These
were the guardian angels, who in soft whispers restrain the vicious, and
animate the wavering wretch who stands suspended between virtue and vice.
Sagestus had spent a night in the cavern, as he often did, and he left
the silent vestibule of the grave, just as the sun, emerging from the
ocean, dispersed the clouds, which were not half so dense as those he had
left. All that was human in him rejoiced at the sight of reviving life,
and he viewed with pleasure the mounting sap rising to expand the herbs,
which grew spontaneously in this wild--when, turning his eyes towards the
sea, he found that death had been at work during his absence, and
terrific marks of a furious storm still spread horror around. Though the
day was serene, and threw bright rays on eyes for ever shut, it dawned
not for the wretches who hung pendent on the craggy rocks, or were
stretched lifeless on the sand. Some, struggling, had dug themselves a
grave; others had resigned their breath before the impetuous surge
whirled them on shore. A few, in whom the vital spark was not so soon
dislodged, had clung to loose fragments; it was the grasp of death;
embracing the stone, they stiffened; and the head, no longer erect,
rested on the mass which the arms encircled. It felt not the agonizing
gripe, nor heard the sigh that broke the heart in twain.
Resting his chin on an oaken club, the sage looked on every side, to see
if he could discern any who yet breathed. He drew nearer, and thought he
saw, at the first glance, the unclosed eyes glare; but soon perceived
that they were a mere glassy substance, mute as the tongue; the jaws were
fallen, and, in some of the tangled locks, hands were clinched; nay, even
the nails had entered sharpened by despair. The blood flew rapidly to his
heart; it was flesh; he felt he was still a man, and the big tear paced
down his iron cheeks, whose muscles had not for a long time been relaxed
by such humane emotions. A moment he breathed quick, then heaved a sigh,
and his wonted calm returned with an unaccustomed glow of tenderness; for
the ways of heaven were not hid from him; he lifted up his eyes to the
common Father of nature, and all was as still in his bosom, as the smooth
deep, after having closed over the huge vessel from which the wretches
had fled.