CHAP. I.
1759-1775.

CHAP. II.
1775-1783.

BUT a connection more memorable originated about this time, between Mary and a perſon of her own ſex, for whom ſhe contracted a friendſhip ſo fervent, as for years to have conſtituted the ruling paſſion of her mind. The name of this perſon was Frances Blood; ſhe was two years older than Mary. Her reſidence was at that time at Newington Butts, a village near the [20] ſouthern extremity of the metropolis; and the original inſtrument for bringing theſe two friends acquainted, was Mrs. Clare, wife of the gentleman already mentioned, who was on a footing of conſiderable intimacy with both par⯑ties. The acquaintance of Fanny, like that of Mr. Clare, contributed to ripen the immature talents of Mary.

The ſituation in which Mary was introduced to her, bore a reſemblance to the firſt interview of Werter with Charlotte. She was conducted to the door of a ſmall houſe, but furniſhed with peculiar neatneſs and propriety. The firſt object that caught her ſight, was a young woman of a ſlender and elegant form, and eighteen years of age, buſily employed in feeding and managing ſome children, born of the ſame parents, but conſiderably inferior [21] to her in age. The impreſſion Mary received from this ſpectacle was inde⯑lible; and, before the interview was concluded, ſhe had taken, in her heart, the vows of an eternal friendſhip.

Fanny was a young woman of extra⯑ordinary accompliſhments. She ſung and played with taſte. She drew with exquiſite fidelity and neatneſs; and, by the employment of this talent, for ſome time maintained her father, mother, and family, but ultimately ruined her health by her extraordinary exer⯑tions. She read and wrote with conſi⯑derable application; and the ſame ideas of minute and delicate propriety fol⯑lowed her in theſe, as in her other occupations.

Mary, a wild, but animated and aſpiring girl of ſixteen, contemplated Fanny, in the firſt inſtance, with ſenti⯑ments [22] of inferiority and reverence, Though they were much together, yet, the diſtance of their habitation being conſiderable, they ſupplied the want of more frequent interviews by an aſſi⯑duous correſpondence. Mary found Fanny's letters better ſpelt and better indited than her own, and felt herſelf abaſhed. She had hitherto paid but a ſuperficial attention to literature. She had read, to gratify the ardour of an inextinguiſhable thirſt of knowledge; but ſhe had not thought of writing as an art. Her ambition to excel was now awakened, and ſhe applied her⯑ſelf with paſſion and earneſtneſs. Fanny undertook to be her inſtructor; and, ſo far as related to accuracy and method, her leſſons were given with conſide⯑rable ſkill.

[23] It has already been mentioned that, in the ſpring of the year 1776, Mr. Wollſtonecraft quitted his ſituation at Hoxton, and returned to his former agricultural purſuits. The ſituation upon which he now fixed was in Wales, a circumſtance that was felt as a ſevere blow to Mary's darling ſpirit of friendſhip. The principal acquaint⯑ance of the Wollſtonecrafts in this re⯑tirement, was the family of a Mr. Allen, two of whoſe daughters are ſince married to the two elder ſons of the celebrated Engliſh potter, Joſiah Wedgwood.

Wales however was Mr. Wollſtone⯑craft's reſidence for little more than a year. He returned to the neighbour⯑hood of London; and Mary, whoſe ſpirit of independence was unalterable, had influence enough to determine his [24] choice in favour of the village of Wal⯑worth, that ſhe might be near her choſen friend. It was probably before this, that ſhe has once or twice ſtarted the idea of quitting her parental roof, and providing for herſelf. But ſhe was prevailed upon to reſign this idea, and conditions were ſtipulated with her, relative to her having an apart⯑ment in the houſe that ſhould be ex⯑cluſively her own, and her commanding the other requiſites of ſtudy. She did not however think herſelf fairly treated in theſe inſtances, and either the con⯑ditions abovementioned, or ſome others, were not obſerved in the ſequel, with the fidelity ſhe expected. In one caſe, ſhe had procured an eligible ſituation, and every thing was ſettled reſpecting her removal to it, when the intreaties and tears of her mother led her to ſur⯑render [25] her own inclinations, and aban⯑don the engagement.

Theſe however were only temporary delays. Her propenſities continued the ſame, and the motives by which ſhe was inſtigated were unabated. In the year 1778, ſhe being nineteen years of age, a propoſal was made to her of living as a companion with a Mrs. Dawſon of Bath, a widow lady, with one ſon already adult. Upon en⯑quiry ſhe found that Mrs. Dawſon was a woman of great peculiarity of tem⯑per, that ſhe had had a variety of com⯑panions in ſucceſſion, and that no one had found it practicable to continue with her. Mary was not diſcouraged by this information, and accepted the ſituation, with a reſolution that ſhe would effect in this reſpect, what none of her predeceſſors had been able to [26] do. In the ſequel ſhe had reaſon to conſider the account ſhe had received as ſufficiently accurate, but ſhe did not relax in her endeavours. By method, conſtancy and firmneſs, ſhe found the means of making her ſituation tole⯑rable; and Mrs. Dawſon would occa⯑ſionally confeſs, that Mary was the only perſon that had lived with her in that ſituation, in her treatment of whom ſhe had felt herſelf under any reſtraint.

With Mrs. Dawſon ſhe continued to reſide for two years, and only left her, ſummoned by the melancholy circum⯑ſtance of her mother's rapidly declining health. True to the calls of humanity, Mary felt in this intelligence an irre⯑ſiſtible motive, and eagerly returned to the paternal roof, which ſhe had before reſolutely quitted. The reſidence of her father at this time, was at Enfield [27] near London. He had, I believe, given up agriculture from the time of his quitting Wales, it appearing that he now made it leſs a ſource of profit than loſs, and being thought adviſable that he ſhould rather live upon the intereſt of his property already in poſſeſſion.

The illneſs of Mrs. Wollſtonecraft was lingering, but hopeleſs. Mary was aſſiduous in her attendance upon her mother. At firſt, every attention was received with acknowledgments and gratitude; but, as the attentions grew habitual, and the health of the mother more and more wretched, they were rather exacted, than received. Nothing would be taken by the unfor⯑tunate patient, but from the hands of Mary; reſt was denied night or day, and by the time nature was exhauſted [28] in the parent, the daughter was quali⯑fied to aſſume her place, and become in turn herſelf a patient. The laſt words her mother ever uttered were, "A little patience, and all will be over!" and theſe words are repeatedly refer⯑red to by Mary in the courſe of her writings.

Upon the death of Mrs. Wollſtone⯑craft, Mary bid a final adieu to the roof of her father. According to my memorandums, I find her next the in⯑mate of Fanny at Walham-Green, near the village of Fulham. Upon what plan they now lived together I am un⯑able to aſcertain; certainly not that of Mary's becoming in any degree an ad⯑ditional burthen upon the induſtry of her friend. Thus ſituated, their inti⯑macy ripened; they approached more nearly to a footing of equality; and [29] their attachment became more rooted and active.

Mary was ever ready at the call of diſtreſs, and, in particular, during her whole life was eager and active to pro⯑mote the welfare of every member of her family. In 1780 ſhe attended the death-bed of her mother; in 1782 ſhe was ſummoned by a not leſs melan⯑choly occaſion, to attend her ſiſter Eliza, married to a Mr. Biſhop, who, ſubſequently to a dangerous lying-in, remained for ſome months in a very af⯑flicting ſituation. Mary continued with her ſiſter without intermiſſion, to her perfect recovery.

CHAP. III.
1783-1785.

MARY was now arrived at the twen⯑ty-fourth year of her age. Her project, five years before, had been perſonal independence; it was now uſefulneſs. In the ſolitude of attendance on her ſiſter's illneſs, and during the ſubſe⯑quent convaleſcence, ſhe had had lei⯑ſure to ruminate upon purpoſes of this ſort. Her expanded mind led her to ſeek ſomething more arduous than the mere removal of perſonal vexations; [31] and the ſenſibility of her heart would not ſuffer her to reſt in ſolitary gratifi⯑cations. The derangement of her fa⯑ther's affairs daily became more and more glaring; and a ſmall independent proviſion made for herſelf and her [...]iſters, appears to have been ſacrificed [...] the wreck. For ten years, from 1782 [...] 1792, ſhe may be ſaid to have been, [...] a great degree, the victim of a deſire [...] promote the benefit of others. She did not foreſee the ſevere diſappoint⯑ment with which an excluſive purpoſe of this ſort is pregnant; ſhe was inex⯑perienced enough to lay a ſtreſs upon [...] conſequent gratitude of thoſe ſhe [...]enefited; and ſhe did not ſufficiently [...]onſider that, in proportion as we [...]volve ourſelves in the intereſts and [...]ociety of others, we acquire a more [...]xquiſite ſenſe of their defects, and are [32] tormented with their untractableneſs and folly.

The project upon which ſhe now determined, was no other than that of a day-ſchool, to be ſuperintended by Fanny Blood, herſelf, and her two ſiſters.

They accordingly opened one in the year 1783, at the village of Iſlington but in the courſe of a few months re⯑moved it to Newington Green. Her [...] Mary formed ſome acquaintances who influenced the future events of her life. The firſt of theſe in her own eſtimation was Dr. Richard Price, well known [...] his political and mathematical calcu⯑lations, and univerſally eſteemed [...] thoſe who knew him, for the ſimplicit [...] of his manners, and the ardour of [...] benevolence. The regard conceive [...] by theſe two perſons for each other [33] was mutual, and partook of a ſpirit of the pureſt attachment. Mary had been bred in the principles of the church of England, but her eſteem for this vene⯑rable preacher led her occaſionally to attend upon his public inſtructions. Her religion was, in reality, little allied to any ſyſtem of forms; and, as ſhe has often told me, was founded rather in taſte, than in the niceties of polemical diſcuſſion. Her mind conſtitutionally attached itſelf to the ſublime and the amiable. She found an inexpreſſible delight in the beauties of nature, and in the ſplendid reveries of the imagi⯑nation. But nature itſelf, ſhe thought, would be no better than a vaſt blank, if the mind of the obſerver did not ſupply it with an animating ſoul. When ſhe walked amidſt the wonders of nature, ſhe was accuſtomed to converſe [34] with her God. To her mind he was pictured as not leſs amiable, generous and kind, than great, wiſe and exalted In fact, ſhe had received few leſſons of religion in her youth, and her religion was almoſt entirely of her own crea⯑tion. But ſhe was not on that account the leſs attached to it, or the leſs ſcru⯑pulous in diſcharging what ſhe conſi⯑dered as its duties. She could not recollect the time when ſhe had be⯑lieved the doctrine of future puniſh⯑ments. The tenets of her ſyſtem were the growth of her own mora [...] taſte, and her religion therefore had always been a gratification, never a terror, to her. She expected a future ſtate; but ſhe would not allow her ideas of that future ſtate to be modified, by the notions of judgment and retri⯑bution. From this ſketch, it is ſuffi⯑ciently [35] evident, that the pleaſure ſhe took in an occaſional attendance upon the ſermons of Dr. Price, was not ac⯑companied with a ſuperſtitious ad⯑herence to his doctrines. The fact is, that, as far down as the year 1787, ſhe regularly frequented public worſhip, for the moſt part according to the forms of the church of England. After that period her attendance became leſs conſtant, and in no long time was wholly diſcontinued. I believe it may be admitted as a maxim, that no per⯑ſon of a well furniſhed mind, that has ſhaken off the implicit ſubjection of youth, and is not the zealous partizan of a ſect, can bring himſelf to conform to the public and regular routine of ſermons and prayers.

Another of the friends ſhe acquired at this period, was Mrs. Burgh, widow [36] of the author of the Political Diſquiſi⯑tions, a woman univerſally well ſpoken of for the warmth and purity of her benevolence. Mary, whenever ſhe had occaſion to allude to her, to the laſt period of her life, paid the tribute due to her virtues. The only remaining friend neceſſary to be enumerated in this place, is the rev. John Hewlet, now maſter of a boarding-ſchool at Shacklewel near Hackney, whom I ſhall have occaſion to mention here⯑after.

I have already ſaid that Fanny's health had been materially injured by her inceſſant labours for the mainte⯑nance of her family. She had alſo ſuf⯑fered a diſappointment, which preyed upon her mind. To theſe different ſources of ill health ſhe became gradu⯑ally a victim; and at length diſcovered [37] all the ſymptoms of a pulmonary con⯑ſumption. By the medical men that attended her, ſhe was adviſed to try the effects of a ſouthern climate; and, about the beginning of the year 1785, ſailed for Liſbon.

The firſt feeling with which Mary had contemplated her friend, was a ſentiment of inferiority and reverence; but that, from the operation of a ten years' acquaintance, was conſiderably changed. Fanny had originally been far before her in literary attainments; this diſparity no longer exiſted. In whatever degree Mary might endea⯑vour to free herſelf from the deluſions of ſelf-eſteem, this period of obſerva⯑tion upon her own mind and that of her friend, could not paſs, without her perceiving that there were ſome eſſen⯑tial characteriſtics of genius, which ſhe [36] [...] [37] [...] [38] poſſeſſed, and in which her friend was deficient. The principal of theſe was a firmneſs of mind, an unconquerable greatneſs of ſoul, by which, after a ſhort internal ſtruggle, ſhe was accuſ⯑tomed to riſe above difficulties and ſuffering. Whatever Mary undertook, ſhe perhaps in all inſtances accom⯑pliſhed; and, to her lofty ſpirit, ſcarcely any thing ſhe deſired, appeared hard to perform. Fanny, on the contrary, was a woman of a timid and irreſolute na⯑ture, accuſtomed to yield to difficulties, and probably priding herſelf in this morbid ſoftneſs of her temper. One inſtance that I have heard Mary relate of this ſort, was, that, at a certain time, Fanny, diſſatisfied with her domeſtic ſituation, expreſſed an earneſt deſire to have a home of her own. Mary, who felt nothing more preſſing than to re⯑lieve [39] the inconveniences of her friend, determined to accompliſh this object for her. It coſt her infinite exertions; but at length ſhe was able to announce to Fanny that a houſe was prepared, and that ſhe was on the ſpot to receive her. The anſwer which Fanny re⯑turned to the letter of her friend, con⯑ſiſted almoſt wholly of an enumeration of objections to the quitting her family, which ſhe had not thought of before, but which now appeared to her of con⯑ſiderable weight.

The judgment which experience had taught Mary to form of the mind of her friend, determined her in the advice ſhe gave, at the period to which I have brought down the ſtory. Fanny was recommended to ſeek a ſofter climate, but ſhe had no funds to defray the ex⯑pence of ſuch an undertaking. At this [40] time Mr. Hugh Skeys of Dublin, but then reſident in the kingdom of Portu⯑gal, paid his addreſſes to her. The ſtate of her health Mary conſidered as ſuch as ſcarcely to afford the ſhadow of a hope; it was not therefore a time at which it was moſt obvious to think of marriage. She conceived however that nothing ſhould be omitted, which might alleviate, if it could not cure; and accordingly urged her ſpeedy ac⯑ceptance of the propoſal. Fanny ac⯑cordingly made the voyage to Liſbon; and the marriage took place on the twenty-fourth of February 1785.

The change of climate and ſituation was productive of little benefit; and the life of Fanny was only prolonged by a period of pregnancy, which ſoon de⯑clared itſelf. Mary, in the mean time, was impreſſed with the idea that her [41] friend would die in this diſtant country; and, ſhocked with the recollection of her ſeparation from the circle of her friends, determined to paſs over to Liſbon to attend her. This reſolution was treated by her acquaintance as in the utmoſt degree viſionary; but ſhe was not to be diverted from her point. She had not money to defray her ex⯑pences: ſhe muſt quit for a long time the ſchool, the very exiſtence of which probably depended upon her exer⯑tions.

No perſon was ever better formed for the buſineſs of education; if it be not a ſort of abſurdity to ſpeak of a perſon as formed for an inferior object, who is in poſſeſſion of talents, in the fulleſt degree adequate to ſomething on a more important and comprehenſive ſcale. Mary had a quickneſs of tem⯑per, [42] not apt to take offence with inad⯑vertencies, but which led her to ima⯑gine that ſhe ſaw the mind of the perſon with whom ſhe had any tranſ⯑action, and to refer the principle of her approbation or diſpleaſure to the cordiality or injuſtice of their ſenti⯑ments. She was occaſionally ſevere and imperious in her reſentments; and, when ſhe ſtrongly diſapproved, was apt to expreſs her cenſure in terms that gave a very humiliating ſenſation to the perſon againſt whom it was di⯑rected. Her diſpleaſure however never aſſumed its ſevereſt form, but when it was barbed by diſappointment. Where ſhe expected little, ſhe was not very rigid in her cenſure of error.

But, to whatever the defects of her temper might amount, they were never exerciſed upon her inferiors in ſtation [43] or age. She ſcorned to make uſe of an ungenerous advantage, or to wound the defenceleſs. To her ſervants there never was a miſtreſs more conſiderate or more kind. With children ſhe was the mirror of patience. Perhaps, in all her extenſive experience upon the ſubject of education, ſhe never be⯑trayed one ſymptom of iraſcibility. Her heart was the ſeat of every benevolent feeling; and accordingly, in all her intercourſe with children, it was kind⯑neſs and ſympathy alone that prompted her conduct. Sympathy, when it mounts to a certain height, inevitably begets affection in the perſon towards whom it is exerciſed; and I have heard her ſay, that ſhe never was concerned in the education of one child, who was not perſonally attached to her, and earneſtly concerned not to incur her [44] diſpleaſure. Another eminent advan⯑tage ſhe poſſeſſed in the buſineſs of education, was that ſhe was little trou⯑bled with ſcepticiſm and uncertainty. She ſaw, as it were by intuition, the path which her mind determined to purſue, and had a firm confidence in her own power to effect what ſhe de⯑ſired. Yet, with all this, ſhe had ſcarcely a tincture of obſtinacy. She carefully watched ſymptoms as they roſe, and the ſucceſs of her experi⯑ments; and governed herſelf accord⯑ingly. While I thus enumerate her more than maternal qualities, it is im⯑poſſible not to feel a pang at the recol⯑lection of her orphan children!

Though her friends earneſtly diſ⯑ſuaded her from the journey to Liſbon, ſhe found among them a willing⯑neſs [45] to facilitate the execution of her project, when it was once fixed. Mrs. Burgh in particular, ſupplied her with money, which however ſhe always con⯑ceived came from Dr. Price. This loan, I have reaſon to believe, was faithfully repaid.

It was during her reſidence at New⯑ington Green, that ſhe was introduced to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnſon, who was at that time conſidered as in ſome ſort the father of Engliſh litera⯑ture. The doctor treated her with particular kindneſs and attention, had a long converſation with her, and de⯑ſired her to repeat her viſit often. This ſhe firmly purpoſed to do; but the news of his laſt illneſs, and then of his death, intervened to prevent her mak⯑ing a ſecond viſit.

[46] Her reſidence in Liſbon was not long. She arrived but a ſhort time before her friend was prematurely de⯑livered, and the event was fatal to both mother and child. Frances Blood, hitherto the choſen object of Mary's attachment, died on the twenty-ninth of November 1785.

It is thus that ſhe ſpeaks of her in her Letters from Norway, written ten years after her deceaſe. "When a warm heart has received ſtrong impreſſions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become ſentiments; and the imagination ren⯑ders even tranſient ſenſations perma⯑nent, by fondly retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, re⯑collect views I have ſeen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve, which I ſhall never [47] more meet. The grave has cloſed over a dear friend, the friend of my youth; ſtill ſhe is preſent with me, and I hear her ſoft voice warbling as I ſtray over the heath."

CHAP. IV.
1785-1787.

No doubt the voyage to Liſbon tended conſiderably to enlarge the underſtanding of Mary. She was ad⯑mitted into the beſt company the Engliſh factory afforded. She made many profound obſervations on the character of the natives, and the bale⯑ful effects of ſuperſtition. The ob⯑ſequies of Fanny, which it was neceſ⯑ſary to perform by ſtealth and in dark⯑neſs, [49] tended to invigorate theſe obſer⯑vations in her mind.

She ſailed upon her voyage home about the twentieth of December. On this occaſion a circumſtance occurred, that deſerves to be record⯑ed. While they were on their paſ⯑ſage, they fell in with a French veſ⯑ſel, in great diſtreſs, and in daily expec⯑tation of foundering at ſea, at the ſame time that it was almoſt deſtitute of proviſions. The Frenchman hailed them, and intreated the Engliſh cap⯑tain, in conſideration of his melancholy ſituation, to take him and his crew on board. The Engliſhman repreſented in reply, that his ſtock of proviſions was by no means adequate to ſuch an additional number of mouths, and ab⯑ſolutely refuſed compliance. Mary, ſhocked at his apparent inſenſibility, took up the cauſe of the ſufferers, and [50] threatened the captain to have him called to a ſevere account, when he arrived in England. She finally pre⯑vailed, and had the ſatisfaction to re⯑flect, that the perſons in queſtion poſſibly owed their lives to her inter⯑poſition.

When ſhe arrived in England, ſhe ſound that her ſchool had ſuffered con⯑ſiderably in her abſence. It can be little reproach to any one, to ſay that they were found incapable of ſupply⯑ing her place. She not only excelled in the management of the children, but had alſo the talent of being attentive and obliging to the parents, without degrading herſelf.

The period at which I am now ar⯑rived is important, as conducting to the firſt ſtep of her literary carreer. Mr. Hewlet had frequently mentioned [51] literature to Mary as a certain ſource of pecuniary produce, and had urged her to make trial of the truth of his judgment. At this time ſhe was de⯑ſirous of aſſiſting the father and mother of Fanny in an object they had in view, the tranſporting themſelves to Ireland; and, as uſual, what ſhe deſired in a pecuniary view, ſhe was ready to take on herſelf to effect. For this purpoſe ſhe wrote a duodecimo pamphlet of one hundred and ſixty pages, entitled, Thoughts on the Education of Daugh⯑ters. Mr. Hewlet obtained from the bookſeller, Mr. Johnſon in St. Paul's Church Yard, ten guineas for the [...]py-right of this manuſcript, which [...] immediately applied to the object for the ſake of which the pamphlet was written.

[52] Every thing urged Mary to put an end to the affair of the ſchool. She was diſſatisfied with the different ap⯑pearance it preſented upon her return, from the ſtate in which ſhe left it. Experience impreſſed upon her a rooted averſion to that ſort of cohabi⯑tation with her ſiſters, which the pro⯑ject of the ſchool impoſed. Cohabi⯑tation is a point of delicate experi⯑ment, and is, in a majority of inſtances, pregnant with ill-humour and unhap⯑pineſs. The activity and ardent ſpirit of adventure which characterized Mary, were not felt in an equal degree by her ſiſters, ſo that a diſproportionate ſhare of every burthen attendant upon the ſituation, fell to her lot. On the other hand, they could ſcarcely per⯑haps be perfectly eaſy, in obſerving the ſuperior degree of deference and court⯑ſhip, [53] which her merit extorted from almoſt every one that knew her. Her kindneſs for them was not diminiſhed, but ſhe reſolved that the mode of its exertion in future ſhould be different, tending to their benefit, without in⯑trenching upon her own liberty.

Thus circumſtanced, a propoſal was made her, ſuch as, regarding only the ſituations through which ſhe had lately paſſed, is uſually termed advan⯑tageous. This was, to accept the office of governeſs to the daughters of lord viſcount Kingſborough, eldeſt ſon to the earl of Kingſton of the kingdom of Ireland. The terms held out to her were ſuch as ſhe determined to accept, at the ſame time reſolving to retain the ſituation only for a ſhort time. Inde⯑pendence was the object after which ſhe thirſted, and ſhe was fixed to try [54] whether it might not be found in lite⯑rary occupation. She was deſirous however firſt to accumulate a ſmall ſum of money, which ſhould enable her to conſider at leiſure the different lite⯑rary engagements that might offer, and provide in ſome degree for the even⯑tual deficiency of her earlieſt attempts.

The ſituation in the family of lord Kingſborough, was offered to her through the medium of the rev. Mr. Prior, at that time one of the under maſters of Eton ſchool. She ſpent ſome time at the houſe of this gentle⯑man, immediately after her giving up the ſchool at Newington Green. Here ſhe had an opportunity of making an accurate obſervation upon the man⯑ners and conduct of that celebrated ſeminary, and the ideas ſhe retained of it were by no means favourable. By [55] all that ſhe ſaw, ſhe was confirmed in a very favourite opinion of her's, in be⯑half of day-ſchools, where, as ſhe ex⯑preſſed it, "children have the opportu⯑nity of converſing with children, without interfering with domeſtic affections, the foundation of virtue."

Though her reſidence in the family of lord Kingſborough continued ſcarcely more than twelve months, ſhe left be⯑hind her, with them and their connec⯑tions, a very advantageous impreſſion. The governeſſes the young ladies had hitherto had, were only a ſpecies of upper ſervants, controlled in every thing by the mother; Mary inſiſted upon the unbounded exerciſe of her own diſcretion. When the young ladies heard of their governeſs coming from England, they heard in imagina⯑tion of a new enemy, and declared [56] their reſolution to guard themſelves accordingly. Mary however ſpeedily ſucceeded in gaining their confidence, and the friendſhip that ſoon grew up between her and Margaret King, now counteſs Mount Caſhel, the eldeſt daughter, was in an uncommon degree cordial and affectionate. Mary always ſpoke of this young lady in terms of the trueſt applauſe, both in relation to the eminence of her intellectual pow⯑ers, and the ingenuous amiableneſs of her diſpoſition. Lady Kingſborough, from the beſt motives, had impoſed upon her daughters a variety of prohi⯑bitions, both as to the books they ſhould read, and in many other reſpects. Theſe prohibitions had their uſual ef⯑fects; inordinate deſire for the things forbidden, and clandeſtine indulgence▪ Mary immediately reſtored the chil⯑dren [57] to their liberty, and undertook to govern them by their affections only. The conſequence was, that their indul⯑gences were moderate, and they were uneaſy under any indulgence that had not the ſanction of their governeſs. The ſalutary effects of the new ſyſtem of education were ſpeedily viſible; and lady Kingſborough ſoon felt no other uneaſineſs, than leſt the children ſhould love their governeſs better than their mother.

Mary made many friends in Ireland, among the perſons who viſited lord Kingſborough's houſe, for ſhe always appeared there with the air of an equal, and not of a dependent. I have heard her mention the ludicrous diſ⯑treſs of a woman of quality, whoſe name I have forgotten, that, in a large company, ſingled out Mary, and en⯑tered [58] into a long converſation with her. After the converſation was over, ſhe enquired whom ſhe had been talk⯑ing with, and found, to her utter morti⯑fication and diſmay, that it was Miſs King's governeſs.

One of the perſons among her Iriſh acquaintance, whom Mary was accuſ⯑tomed to ſpeak of with the higheſt reſpect, was Mr. George Ogle, member of parliament for the county of Wex⯑ford. She held his talents in very high eſtimation; ſhe was ſtrongly pre⯑poſſeſſed in favour of the goodneſs of his heart; and ſhe always ſpoke of him as the moſt perfect gentleman ſhe had ever known. She felt the regret of a diſappointed friend, at the part he has lately taken in the politics of Ireland.

Lord Kingſborough's family paſſed the ſummer of the year 1787 at Briſtol [59] Hot-Wells, and had formed the project of proceeding from thence to the con⯑tinent, a tour in which Mary purpoſed to accompany them. The plan how⯑ever was ultimately given up, and Mary in conſequence cloſed her con⯑nection with them, earlier than ſhe otherwiſe had purpoſed to do.

At Briſtol Hot-Wells ſhe compoſed the little book which bears the title of Mary, a Fiction. A conſiderable part of this ſtory conſiſts, with certain modi⯑fications, of the incidents of her own friendſhip with Fanny. All the events that do not relate to that ſubject are fictitious.

This little work, if Mary had never produced any thing elſe, would ſerve, with perſons of true taſte and ſenſibi⯑lity, to eſtabliſh the eminence of her genius. The ſtory is nothing. He [60] that looks into the book only for inci⯑dent, will probably lay it down with diſguſt. But the feelings are of the trueſt and moſt exquiſite claſs; every circumſtance is adorned with that ſpecies of imagination, which enliſts itſelf under the banners of delicacy and ſentiment. A work of ſentiment, as it is called, is too often another name for a work of affectation. He that ſhould imagine that the ſentiments of this book are affected, would indeed be entitled to our profoundeſt commi⯑ſeration.

CHAP. V.
1787-1790.

BEING now determined to enter upon her literary plan, Mary came immediately from Briſtol to the metro⯑polis. Her conduct under this circum⯑ſtance was ſuch as to do credit both to her own heart, and that of Mr. John⯑ſon, her publiſher, between whom and herſelf there now commenced an inti⯑mate friendſhip. She had ſeen him [62] upon occaſion of publiſhing her Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, and ſhe addreſſed two or three letters to him during her reſi⯑dence in Ireland. Upon her arrival in London in Auguſt 1787, ſhe went im⯑mediately to his houſe, and frankly explained to him her purpoſe, at the ſame time requeſting his advice and aſſiſtance as to its execution. After a ſhort converſation, Mr. Johnſon invited her to make his houſe her home, till ſhe ſhould have ſuited herſelf with a fixed reſidence. She accordingly re⯑ſided at this time two or three weeks under his roof. At the ſame period ſhe paid a viſit or two of ſimilar dura⯑tion to ſome friends, at no great diſ⯑tance from the metropolis.

At Michaelmas 1787, ſhe entered upon a houſe in George ſtreet, on the [63] Surry ſide of Black Friar's Bridge, which Mr. Johnſon had provided for her during her excurſion into the country. The three years immediately enſuing, may be ſaid, in the ordinary accep⯑tation of the term, to have been the moſt active period of her life. She brought with her to this habitation, the novel of Mary, which had not yet been ſent to the preſs, and the commence⯑ment of a ſort of oriental tale, entitled, the Cave of Fancy, which ſhe thought proper afterwards to lay aſide unfiniſh⯑ed. I am told that at this period ſhe appeared under great dejection of ſpi⯑rits, and filled with melancholy regret for the loſs of her youthful friend. A period of two years had elapſed ſince the death of that friend; but it was poſſibly the compoſition of the fiction of Mary, that renewed her ſorrows in [64] their original force. Soon after enter⯑ing upon her new habitation, ſhe pro⯑duced a little work, entitled, Original Stories from Real Life, intended for the uſe of children. At the commence⯑ment of her literary carreer, ſhe is ſaid to have conceived a vehement averſion to the being regarded, by her ordinary acquaintance, in the character of an author, and to have employed ſome precautions to prevent its occurrence.

The employment which the book⯑ſeller ſuggeſted to her, as the eaſieſt and moſt certain ſource of pecuniary income, of courſe, was tranſlation. With this view ſhe improved herſelf in her French, with which ſhe had previ⯑ouſly but a ſlight acquaintance, and ac⯑quired the Italian and German lan⯑guages. The greater part of her lite⯑rary engagements at this time, were [65] ſuch as were preſented to her by Mr. Johnſon. She new-modelled and abridged a work, tranſlated from the Dutch, entitled, Young Grandiſon: ſhe began a tranſlation from the French, of a book, called, the New Robinſon; but in this undertaking, ſhe was, I believe, anticipated by another tranſ⯑lator: and ſhe compiled a ſeries of ex⯑tracts in verſe and proſe, upon the model of Dr. Enfield's Speaker, which bears the title of the Female Reader; but which, from a cauſe not worth mentioning, has hitherto been printed with a different name in the title-page.

About the middle of the year 1788, Mr. Johnſon inſtituted the Analytical Review, in which Mary took a conſi⯑derable ſhare. She alſo tranſlated Necker on the Importance of Religious Opi⯑nions; made an abridgment of Lavater's [66] Phyſiognomy, from the French, which has never been publiſhed; and com⯑preſſed Salzmann's Elements of Mora⯑lity, a German production, into a pub⯑lication in three volumes duodecimo. The tranſlation of Salzmann produced a correſpondence between Mary and the author; and he afterwards repaid the obligation to her in kind, by a German tranſlation of the Rights of Woman. Such were her principal li⯑terary occupations, from the autumn of 1787, to the autumn of 1790.

It perhaps deſerves to be remarked that this ſort of miſcellaneous literary employment, ſeems, for the time at leaſt, rather to damp and contract, than to enlarge and invigorate, the genius. The writer is accuſtomed to ſee his performances anſwer the mere mercantile purpoſe of the day, and [67] confounded with thoſe of perſons to whom he is ſecretly conſcious of a ſuperiority. No neighbour mind ſerves as a mirror to reflect the generous confidence he felt within himſelf; and perhaps the man never yet exiſted, who could maintain his enthuſiaſm to its full vigour, in the midſt of this kind of ſolitarineſs. He is touched with the torpedo of mediocrity. I believe that nothing which Mary produced during this period, is marked with thoſe daring flights, which exhibit themſelves in the little fiction ſhe com⯑poſed juſt before its commencement. Among effuſions of a nobler caſt, I find occaſionally interſperſed ſome of that homily-language, which, to ſpeak from my own feelings, is calculated to damp the moral courage, it was intended to [68] awaken. This is probably to be aſ⯑ſigned to the cauſes above deſcribed.

I have already ſaid that one of the purpoſes which Mary had conceived, a few years before, as neceſſary to give a reliſh to the otherwiſe inſipid, or em⯑bittered, draught of human life, was uſefulneſs. On this ſide, the period of her exiſtence of which I am now treat⯑ing, is more brilliant, than in a literary view. She determined to apply as great a part as poſſible of the produce of her preſent employments, to the aſ⯑ſiſtance of her friends and of the diſ⯑treſſed; and, for this purpoſe, laid down to herſelf rules of the moſt rigid economy. She began with endeavour⯑ing to promote the intereſt of her ſiſ⯑ters. She conceived that there was no ſituation in which ſhe could place them, at once ſo reſpectable and agree⯑able, [69] as that of governeſſes in private families. She determined therefore in the firſt place, to endeavour to qualify them for ſuch an undertaking. Her younger ſiſter ſhe ſent to Paris, where ſhe remained near two years. The elder ſhe placed in a ſchool near Lon⯑don, firſt as a parlour-boarder, and af⯑terwards as a teacher. Her brother James, who had already been at ſea, ſhe firſt took into her houſe, and next ſent to Woolwich for inſtruction, to qualify him for a reſpectable ſituation in the royal navy, where he was ſho [...] ⯑ly after made a lieutenant. Charles, who was her favourite brother, had been articled to the eldeſt, an attorney in the Minories; but, not being ſatis⯑fied with his ſituation, ſhe removed him; and in ſome time after, having firſt placed him with a farmer for in⯑ſtruction, [70] ſhe fitted him out for Ame⯑rica, where his ſpeculations, founded upon the baſis ſhe had provided, are ſaid to have been extremely proſper⯑ous. The reaſon ſo much of this pa⯑rental ſort of care fell upon her, was, that her father had by this time con⯑ſiderably embarraſſed his circumſtances. His affairs having grown too complex for himſelf to diſentangle, he had in⯑truſted them to the management of a near relation; but Mary, not being ſatisfied with the conduct of the buſi⯑neſs, took them into her own hands. The exertions ſhe made, and the ſtrug⯑gle into which ſhe entered however, in this inſtance, were ultimately fruit⯑leſs. To the day of her death her fa⯑ther was almoſt wholly ſupported by funds which ſhe ſupplied to him. In addition to her exertions for her own [93] family, ſhe took a young girl of about ſeven years of age under her protec⯑tion and care, the niece of Mrs. John Hunter, and of the preſent Mrs. Skeys, for whoſe mother, then lately dead, ſhe had entertained a ſincere friend⯑ſhip.

The period, from the end of the year 1787 to the end of the year 1790, though conſumed in labours of little eclat, ſerved ſtill further to eſtabliſh her in a friendly connec⯑tion from which ſhe derived many pleaſures. Mr. Johnſon, the bookſeller, contracted a great perſonal regard for her, which reſembled in many reſpects that of a parent. As ſhe frequented his houſe, ſhe of courſe became ac⯑quainted with his gueſts. Among theſe may be mentioned as perſons poſſeſſing her eſteem, Mr. Bonnycaſtle, [72] the mathematician, the late Mr. George Anderſon, accountant to the board of control, Dr. George Fordyce, and Mr. Fuſeli, the celebrated painter. Between both of the two latter and herſelf, there exiſted ſentiments of ge⯑nuine affection and friendſhip.

CHAP. VI.
1790-1792.

HITHERTO the literary carreer of Mary, had for the moſt part, been ſilent; and had been productive of income to herſelf, without apparently leading to the wreath of fame. From this time ſhe was deſtined to attract the notice of the public, and perhaps no female writer ever obtained ſo great a degree of celebrity throughout Europe.

It cannot be doubted that, while, [74] for three years of literary employment, ſhe "held the noiſeleſs tenor of her way," her mind was inſenſibly advanc⯑ing towards a vigorous maturity. The uninterrupted habit of compoſition gave a freedom and firmneſs to the expreſ⯑ſion of her ſentiments. The ſociety ſhe frequented, nouriſhed her under⯑ſtanding, and enlarged her mind. The French revolution, while it gave a fun⯑damental ſhock to the human intellect through every region of the globe, did not fail to produce a conſpicuous ef⯑fect in the progreſs of Mary's reflec⯑tions. The prejudices of her early years ſuffered a vehement concuſ⯑ſion. Her reſpect for eſtabliſhments was undermined. At this period oc⯑curred a miſunderſtanding upon pub⯑lic grounds, with one of her early friends, whoſe attachment to muſty [75] creeds and exploded abſurdities, had been increaſed, by the operation of thoſe very circumſtances, by which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the race of independence.

The event, immediately introductory to the rank which from this time ſhe held in the liſts of literature, was the publication of Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France. This book, after having been long promiſed to the world, finally made its appearance on the firſt of November 1790; and Mary, full of ſentiments of liberty, and impreſſed with a warm intereſt in the ſtruggle that was now going on, ſeiz⯑ed her pen in the firſt burſt of indig⯑nation, an emotion of which ſhe was ſtrongly ſuſceptible. She was in the habit of compoſing with rapidity, and her anſwer, which was the firſt of the [76] numerous ones that appeared, obtain⯑ed extraordinary notice. Marked as it is with the vehemence and impetu⯑ouſneſs of its eloquence, it is certainly chargeable with a too contemptuous and intemperate treatment of the great man againſt whom its attack is direct⯑ed. But this circumſtance was not injurious to the ſucceſs of the publi⯑cation. Burke had been warmly loved by the moſt liberal and enlightened friends of freedom, and they were pro⯑portionably inflamed and diſguſted by the fury of his aſſault, upon what they deemed to be its ſacred cauſe.

Short as was the time in which Mary compoſed her Anſwer to Burke's Reflections, there was one anecdote ſhe told me concerning it, which ſeems worth recording in this place. It was ſent to the preſs, as is [77] the general practice when the early publication of a piece is deemed a matter of importance, before the com⯑poſition was finiſhed. When Mary had arrived at about the middle of her work, ſhe was ſeized with a tempo⯑rary fit of torpor and indolence, and began to repent of her undertaking. In this ſtate of mind, ſhe called, one evening, as ſhe was in the practice of doing, upon her publiſher, for the pur⯑poſe of relieving herſelf by an hour or two's converſation. Here, the ha⯑bitual ingenuouſneſs of her nature, led her to deſcribe what had juſt paſt in her thoughts. Mr. Johnſon imme⯑diately, in a kind and friendly way, intreated her not to put any conſtraint upon her inclination, and to give her⯑ſelf no uneaſineſs about the ſheets al⯑ready printed, which he would cheer⯑fully [78] throw aſide, if it would contri⯑bute to her happineſs. Mary had wanted ſtimulus. She had not ex⯑pected to be encouraged, in what ſhe well knew to be an unreaſonable ac⯑ceſs of idleneſs. Her friend's ſo rea⯑dily falling in with her ill-humour, and ſeeming to expect that ſhe would lay aſide her undertaking, piqued her pride. She immediately went home; and proceeded to the end of her work, with no other interruptions but what were abſolutely indiſpenſible.

It is probable that the applauſe which attended her Anſwer to Burke, elevated the tone of her mind. She had always felt much confidence in her own powers; but it cannot be doubt⯑ed, that the actual perception of a ſimilar feeling reſpecting us in a mul⯑titude of others, muſt increaſe the [79] confidence, and ſtimulate the adven⯑ture of any human being. Mary ac⯑cordingly proceeded, in a ſhort time after, to the compoſition of her moſt celebrated production, the Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Never did any author enter into a cauſe, with a more ardent deſire to be found, not a flouriſhing and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion. She conſidered herſelf as ſtanding forth in defence of one half of the human ſpecies, labouring under a yoke which, through all the records of time, had degraded them from the ſtation of rational beings, and almoſt ſunk them to the level of the brutes. She ſaw indeed, that they were often attempt⯑ed to be held in ſilken fetters, and bribed into the love of ſlavery; but the diſguiſe and the treachery ſerved [78] [...] [79] [...] [80] only the more fully to confirm her op⯑poſition. She regarded her ſex, in the language of Caliſta, as ‘"In every ſtate of life the ſlaves of men:"’ the rich as alternately under the deſpo⯑tiſm of a father, a brother, and a huſband; and the middling and the poorer claſſes ſhut out from the acqui⯑ſition of bread with independence, when they are not ſhut out from the very means of an induſtrious ſubſiſt⯑ence. Such were the views ſhe en⯑tertained of the ſubject; and ſuch the feelings with which ſhe warmed her mind.

The work is certainly a very bold and original production. The ſtrength and firmneſs with which the author repels the opinions of Rouſſeau, Dr. Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, re⯑ſpecting [81] the condition of women, cannot but make a ſtrong impreſſion upon every ingenuous reader. The public at large formed very different opinions reſpecting the character of the performance. Many of the ſen⯑timents are undoubtedly of a rather maſculine deſcription. The ſpirited and deciſive way in which the author explodes the ſyſtem of gallantry, and the ſpecies of homage with which the ſex is uſually treated, ſhocked the ma⯑jority. Novelty produced a ſentiment in their mind, which they miſtook for a ſenſe of injuſtice. The pretty, ſoft creatures that are ſo often to be found in the female ſex, and that claſs of men who believe they could not exiſt without ſuch pretty, ſoft creatures to reſort to, were in arms againſt the au⯑thor of ſo heretical and blaſphemous [82] a doctrine. There are alſo, it muſt be conſeſſed, occaſional paſſages of a ſtern and rugged feature, incompati⯑ble with the true ſtamina of the wri⯑ter's character. But, if they did not belong to her fixed and permanent character, they belonged to her cha⯑racter pro tempore; and what ſhe thought, ſhe ſcorned to qualify.

Yet, along with this rigid, and ſome⯑what amazonian temper, which cha⯑racteriſed ſome parts of the book, it is impoſſible not to remark a luxu⯑riance of imagination, and a trembling delicacy of ſentiment, which would have done honour to a poet, burſting with all the viſions of an Armida and a Dido.

The contradiction, to the public ap⯑prehenſion, was equally great, as to the perſon of the author, as it was when they conſidered the temper of [83] the book. In the champion of her ſex, who was deſcribed as endeavour⯑ing to inveſt them with all the rights of man, thoſe whom curioſity prompt⯑ed to ſeek the occaſion of beholding her, expected to find a ſturdy, muſcu⯑lar, raw-boned virago; and they were not a little ſurpriſed, when, inſtead of all this, they found a woman, lovely in her perſon, and, in the beſt and moſt engaging ſenſe, feminine in her man⯑ners.

The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is undoubtedly a very unequal performance, and eminently deficient in method and arrangement. When tried by the hoary and long-eſtabliſhed laws of literary compoſition, it can ſcarcely maintain its claim to be placed in the firſt claſs of human pro⯑ductions. But when we conſider the [84] importance of its doctrines, and the eminence of genius it diſplays, it ſeems not very improbable that it will be read as long as the Engliſh language endures. The publication of this book forms an epocha in the ſubject to which it belongs; and Mary Woll⯑ſtonecraft will perhaps hereafter be found to have performed more ſubſtan⯑tial ſervice for the cauſe of her ſex, than all the other writers, male or fe⯑male, that ever felt themſelves animat⯑ed in the behalf of oppreſſed and in⯑jured beauty.

The cenſure of the liberal critic as to the defects of this performance, will be changed into aſtoniſhment, when I tell him, that a work of this in⯑eſtimable moment, was begun, carried on, and finiſhed in the ſtate in which [85] it now appears, in a period of no more than ſix weeks.

It is neceſſary here that I ſhould re⯑ſume the ſubject of the friendſhip that ſubſiſted between Mary and Mr. Fu⯑ſeli, which proved the ſource of the moſt memorable events in her ſubſe⯑quent hiſtory. He is a native of the republic of Switzerland, but has ſpent the principal part of his life in the iſland of Great-Britain. The emi⯑nence of his genius can ſcarcely be diſputed; it has indeed received the teſtimony which is the leaſt to be ſuſ⯑pected, that of ſome of the moſt con⯑ſiderable of his contemporary artiſts. He has one of the moſt ſtriking cha⯑racteriſtics of genius, a daring, as well as perſevering, ſpirit of adventure. The work in which he is at preſent engaged, a ſeries of pictures for the [86] illuſtration of Milton, upon a very large ſcale, and produced ſolely upon the incitement of his own mind, is a proof of this, if indeed his whole life had not ſufficiently proved it.

Mr. Fuſeli is one of Mr. Johnſon's oldeſt friends, and was at this time in the habit of viſiting him two or three times a week. Mary, one of whoſe ſtrongeſt characteriſtics was the exqui⯑ſite ſenſations of pleaſure ſhe felt from the aſſociations of viſible objects, had hitherto never been acquainted, or ne⯑ver intimately acquainted, with an eminent painter. The being thus in⯑troduced therefore to the ſociety of Mr. Fuſeli, was a high gratification to her; while he found in Mary, a perſon perhaps more ſuſceptible of the emo⯑tions painting is calculated to excite, than any other with whom he ever [87] converſed. Painting, and ſubjects cloſely connected with painting, were their al⯑moſt conſtant topics of converſation; and they found them inexhauſtible. It can⯑not be doubted, but that this was a ſpe⯑cies of exerciſe very conducive to the improvement of Mary's mind.

Nothing human however is unmix⯑ed. If Mary derived improvement from Mr. Fuſeli, ſhe may alſo be ſuſ⯑pected of having caught the infection of ſome of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuſeli was ardently attached to literature; but the demands of his profeſſion have prevented him from keeping up that extenſive and indiſ⯑criminate acquaintance with it, that belles-lettres ſcholars frequently poſ⯑ſeſs. Of conſequence, the favourites of his [...] years remain his only fa⯑vouri [...] [...] is with Mr. Fuſeli the [88] abſtract and depoſit of every human perfection. Milton, Shakeſpear, and Richardſon, have alſo engaged much of his attention. The neareſt rival of Ho⯑mer, I believe, if Homer can have a ri⯑val, is Jean Jacques Rouſſeau. A young man embraces entire the opinions of a favourite writer, and Mr. Fuſeli has not had leiſure to bring the opinions of his youth to a reviſion. Smitten with Rouſſeau's conception of the perfectneſs of the ſavage ſtate, and the eſſential abortiveneſs of all civili⯑zation, Mr. Fuſeli looks at all our lit⯑tle attempts at improvement, with a ſpirit that borders perhaps too much upon contempt and indifference. One of his favourite poſitions is the divi⯑nity of genius. This is a power that comes complete at once from the hands of the Creator of all things, and the firſt eſſays of a man of real [89] genius are ſuch, in all their grand and moſt important features, as no ſubſe⯑quent aſſiduity can amend. Add to this, that Mr. Fuſeli is ſomewhat of a cauſtic turn of mind, with much wit, and a diſpoſition to ſearch, in every thing new or modern, for occaſions of cenſure. I believe Mary came ſome⯑thing more a cynic out of the ſchool of Mr. Fuſeli, than ſhe went into it.

But the principal circumſtance that relates to the intercourſe of Mary, and this celebrated artiſt, remains to be told. She ſaw Mr. Fuſeli frequent⯑ly; he amuſed, delighted and inſtruct⯑ed her. As a painter, it was impoſſi⯑ble ſhe ſhould not wiſh to ſee his works, and conſequently to frequent his houſe. She viſited him; her viſits were returned. Notwithſtanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not [90] of a temper to live upon terms of ſo much intimacy with a man of merit and genius, without loving him. The delight ſhe enjoyed in his ſociety, ſhe transferred by aſſociation to his perſon. What ſhe experienced in this reſpect, was no doubt heightened, by the ſtate of celibacy and reſtraint in which ſhe had hitherto lived, and to which the rules of poliſhed ſociety condemn an unmarried woman. She conceived a perſonal and ardent af⯑fection for him. Mr. Fuſeli was a married man, and his wife the ac⯑quaintance of Mary. She readily perceived the reſtrictions which this circumſtance ſeemed to impoſe upon her; but ſhe made light of any diffi⯑culty that might ariſe out of them. Not that ſhe was inſenſible to the va⯑lue of domeſtic endearments between [91] perſons of an oppoſite ſex, but that the ſcorned to ſuppoſe, that ſhe could feel a ſtruggle, in conforming to the laws ſhe ſhould lay down to her con⯑duct.

There cannot perhaps be a proper⯑er place than the preſent, to ſtate her principles upon this ſubject, ſuch at leaſt as they were when I knew her beſt. She ſet a great value on a mu⯑tual affection between perſons of an oppoſite ſex. She regarded it as the principal ſolace of human life. It was her maxim, "that the imagination ſhould awaken the ſenſes, and not the ſenſes the imagination." In other words, that whatever related to the gratification of the ſenſes, ought to ariſe, in a human being of a pure mind, only as the conſequence of an indivi⯑dual affection. She regarded the man⯑ners [92] and habits of the majority of our ſex in that reſpect, with ſtrong diſap⯑probation. She conceived that true virtue would preſcribe the moſt entire celibacy, excluſively of affection, and the moſt perfect fidelity to that affec⯑tion when it exiſted.—There is no rea⯑ſon to doubt that, if Mr. Fuſeli had been diſengaged at the period of their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her choice. As it was, ſhe conceived it both practicable and eli⯑gible, to cultivate a diſtinguiſhing af⯑fection for him, and to foſter it by the endearments of perſonal intercourſe and a reciprocation of kindneſs, with⯑out departing in the ſmalleſt degree from the rules ſhe preſcribed to herſelf.

In September 1791, ſhe removed from the houſe ſhe occupied in George-ſtreet, to a large and commodious [93] apartment in Store ſtreet, Bedford⯑ſquare. She began to think that ſhe had been too rigid, in the laws of fru⯑gality and ſelf-denial with which ſhe ſet out in her literary career; and now added to the neatneſs and cleanlineſs which ſhe had always ſcrupulouſly ob⯑ſerved, a certain degree of elegance, and thoſe temperate indulgences in furniture and accommodation, from which a ſound and uncorrupted taſte never fails to derive pleaſure.

It was in the month of November in the ſame year (1791), that the writer of this narrative was firſt in company with the perſon to whom it relates. He dined with her at a friend's, together with Mr. Tho⯑mas Paine and one or two other perſons. The invitation was of his own ſeeking, his object being to ſee [94] the author of the Rights of Man, with whom he had never before converſed

The interview was not fortunate Mary and myſelf parted, mutually diſpleaſed with each other. I had no read her Rights of Woman. I had barely looked into her Anſwer to Burke and been diſpleaſed, as literary men are apt to be, with a few offences againſt grammar and other minute points of compoſition. I had there⯑fore little curioſity to ſee Mrs. Woll⯑ſtonecraft, and a very great curioſity to ſee Thomas Paine. Paine, in his ge⯑neral habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in occaſionally ſome ſhrewd and ſtriking remarks; the converſation lay principally between me and Mary. I, of conſequence, heard her, very frequently when I wiſh⯑ed to hear Paine.

[95] We touched on a conſiderable va⯑riety of topics, and particularly on the characters and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been obſerved, had acquired, in a very blameable degree, the practice of ſee⯑ing every thing on the gloomy ſide, and beſtowing cenſure with a plentiful hand, where circumſtances were in any reſpect doubtful. I, on the con⯑trary, had a ſtrong propenſity, to fa⯑vourable conſtruction, and particularly, where I found unequivocal marks of genius, ſtrongly to incline to the ſup⯑poſition of generous and manly virtue. We ventilated in this way the charac⯑ters of Voltaire and others, who have obtained from ſome individuals an ar⯑dent admiration, while the greater number have treated them with ex⯑treme moral ſeverity. Mary was at [96] laſt provoked to tell me, that praiſe laviſhed in the way that I laviſhed it could do no credit either to the com⯑mended or the commender. We diſ⯑cuſſed ſome queſtions on the ſubject of religion, in which her opinions ap⯑proached much nearer to the received ones, than mine. As the converſation proceeded, I became diſſatisfied with the tone of my own ſhare in it. We touched upon all topics, without treat⯑ing forcibly and connectedly upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the juſ⯑tice, in giving an account of the con⯑verſation to a party in which I ſupped, though I was not ſparing of my blame, to yield her the praiſe of a perſon of active and independent thinking. On her ſide, ſhe did me no part of what perhaps I conſidered as juſtice.

We met two or three times in the [97] courſe of the following year, but made a very ſmall degree of progreſs towards a cordial acquaintance.

In the cloſe of the year 1792, Mary went over to France, where ſhe con⯑tinued to reſide for upwards of two years. One of her principal induce⯑ments to this ſtep, related, I believe, to Mr. Fuſeli. She had, at firſt, conſider⯑ed it as reaſonable and judicious, to cultivate what I may be permitted to call, a Platonic affection for him; but ſhe did not, in the ſequel, find all the ſatisfaction in this plan, which ſhe had originally expected from it. It was in vain that ſhe enjoyed much pleaſure in his ſociety, and that ſhe enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent imagination was continually conjuring up pictures of the happineſs ſhe ſhould have found, if fortune had favoured their more in⯑timate [98] union. She felt herſelf former for domeſtic affection, and all thoſe tender charities, which men of ſenſibi⯑lity have conſtantly treated as the dear⯑eſt band of human ſociety. Genera [...] converſation and ſociety could not ſa⯑tisfy her. She felt herſelf alone, as were, in the great maſs of her ſpecies and ſhe repined when ſhe reflected that the beſt years of her life were ſpe [...] in this comfortleſs ſolitude. Theſe ide [...] made the cordial intercourſe of [...] Fuſeli, which had at firſt been one [...] her greateſt pleaſures, a ſource of pe [...] ⯑petual torment to her. She conceiv [...] it neceſſary to ſnap the chain of [...] aſſociation in her mind; and, for [...] purpoſe, determined to ſeek a new [...] ⯑mate, and mingle in different ſcenes.

It is ſingular, that during her re [...] ⯑dence in Store ſtreet, which laſted [...] [99] than twelve months, ſhe produced no⯑thing, except a few articles in the Ana⯑lytical Review. Her literary medita⯑tions were chiefly employed upon the Sequel to the Rights of Woman; but ſhe has ſcarcely left behind her a ſingle paper, that can, with any certainty, be aſſigned to have had this deſtination.

CHAP. VII.
1792-1795.

THE original plan of Mary, re⯑ſpecting her reſidence in France, had no preciſe limits in the article of du⯑ration; the ſingle purpoſe ſhe had in view being that of an endeavour to heal her diſtempered mind. She did not proceed ſo far as even to diſcharge her lodging in London; and, to ſome friends who ſaw her immediately before her departure, ſhe ſpoke merely of an ab⯑ſence of ſix weeks.

[101] It is not to be wondered at, that her excurſion did not originally ſeem to produce the effects ſhe had expected from it. She was in a land of ſtrangers; ſhe had no acquaintance; ſhe had even to acquire the power of receiving and communicating ideas with facility in the language of the country. Her firſt reſidence was in a ſpacious manſion to which ſhe had been invited, but the maſter of which (monſieur Fillietaz) was abſent at the time of her arrival. At firſt therefore ſhe found herſelf ſurrounded only with ſervants. The gloomineſs of her mind communicated its own colour to the objects ſhe ſaw; and in this temper ſhe began a ſeries of Letters on the Preſent Character of the French Nation, one of which ſhe for⯑warded to her publiſher, and which ap⯑pears in the collection of her poſthumous [102] works. This performance ſhe ſoon after diſcontinued; and it is, as ſhe juſtly remarks, tinged with the ſatur⯑nine temper which at that time per⯑vaded her mind.

Mary carried with her introductions to ſeveral agreeable families in Paris. She renewed her acquaintance with Paine. There alſo ſubſiſted a very ſin⯑cere friendſhip between her and Helen Maria Williams, author of a collection of poems of uncommon merit, who at that time reſided in Paris. Another perſon, whom Mary always ſpoke of in terms-of ardent commendation, both for the excellence of his diſpoſition, and the force of his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I believe, a Swede. It is almoſt unneceſſary to mention, that ſhe was perſonally ac⯑quainted [103] with the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.

But the houſe that, I believe, ſhe principally frequented at this time, was that of Mr. Thomas Chriſtie, a perſon whoſe purſuits were mercantile, and who had written a volume on the French revolution. With Mrs. Chriſtie her acquaintance was more intimate than with the huſband.

It was about four months after her arrival at Paris in December 1792, that ſhe entered into that ſpecies of connection, for which her heart ſecretly panted, and which had the effect of diffuſing an immediate tranquillity and cheerfulneſs over her manners. The perſon with whom it was formed (for it would be an idle piece of delicacy, to attempt to ſuppreſs a name, which is known to every one whom the reputa⯑tion [104] of Mary has reached, was Mr. Gil⯑bert Imlay, native of the United States of North America

The place at which ſhe firſt ſaw Mr. Imlay was at the houſe of Mr. Chriſ⯑tie; and it perhaps deſerves to be no⯑ticed, that the emotions he then excit⯑ed in her mind, were, I am told, thoſe of diſlike, and that, for ſome time, ſhe ſhunned all occaſions of meeting him. This ſentiment however ſpeedily gave place to one of greater kindneſs.

Previouſly to the partiality ſhe con⯑ceived for him, ſhe had determined upon a journey to Switzerland, induc⯑ed chiefly by motives of economy. But ſhe had ſome difficulty in procur⯑ing a paſſport; and it was probably the intercourſe that now originated be⯑tween her and Mr. Imlay, that chang⯑ed her purpoſe, and led her to prefer [105] a lodging at Neuilly, a village three miles from Paris. Her habitation here was a ſolitary houſe in the midſt of a garden, with no other inhabitants than herſelf and the gardener, an old man, who performed for her many of the offices of a domeſtic, and would ſometimes contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration for his gueſt, and would ſet before her, when alone, ſome grapes of a particularly fine ſort, which ſhe could not without the great⯑eſt difficulty obtain, when ſhe had any perſon with her as a viſitor. Here it was that ſhe conceived, and for the moſt part executed, her Hiſtorical and Moral View of the French Revolution ^*, into which, as ſhe obſerves, are incor⯑porated moſt of the obſervations ſhe [106] had collected for her Letters, and which was written with more ſobriety and cheerfulneſs than the tone in which they had been commenced. In the evening ſhe was accuſtomed to refreſh herſelf by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her old hoſt in vain endeavoured to diſſuade her, by re⯑counting divers horrible robberies and murders that had been committed there.

The commencement of the attach⯑ment Mary now formed, had neither confident nor adviſer. She always con⯑ceived it to be a groſs breach of deli⯑cacy to have any confidant in a matter of this ſacred nature, an affair of the heart. The origin of the connection was about the middle of April 1793, and it was carried on in a private man⯑ner for four months. At the expira⯑tion of that period a circumſtance oc⯑curred [107] that induced her to declare it. The French convention, exaſperated at the conduct of the Britiſh govern⯑ment, particularly in the affair of Tou⯑lon, formed a decree againſt the citi⯑zens of this country, by one article of which the Engliſh, reſident in France, were ordered into priſon till the period of a general peace. Mary had object⯑ed to a marriage with Mr. Imlay, who, at the time their connection was form⯑ed, had no property whatever; becauſe ſhe would not involve him in certain family embarraſſments to which ſhe conceived herſelf expoſed, or make him anſwerable for the pecuniary de⯑mands that exiſted againſt her. She however conſidered their engagement as of the moſt ſacred nature; and they had mutually formed the plan of emi⯑grating to America, as ſoon as they [108] ſhould have realized a ſum, enabling them to do it in the mode they deſired. The decree however that I have juſt mentioned, made it neceſſary, not that a marriage ſhould actually take place, but that Mary ſhould take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature of their connection, ſhe conceived herſelf en⯑titled to do and obtain a certificate from the American ambaſſador, as the wife of a native of that country.

Their engagement being thus avow⯑ed, they thought proper to reſide un⯑der the ſame roof, and for that purpoſe removed to Paris.

Mary was now arrived at the ſitua⯑tion, which, for two or three preceding years, her reaſon had pointed out to her as affording the moſt ſubſtantial proſpect of happineſs. She had been toſſed and agitated by the waves of [109] misfortune. Her childhood, as ſhe of⯑ten ſaid, had known few of the en⯑dearments, which conſtitute the princi⯑pal happineſs of childhood. The tem⯑per of her father had early given to her mind a ſevere caſt of thought, and ſubſtituted the inflexibility of reſiſtance for the confidence of affection. The cheerfulneſs of her entrance upon wo⯑manhood, had been darkened, by an attendance upon the death-bed of her mother, and the ſtill more afflicting calamity of her eldeſt ſiſter. Her exer⯑tions to create a joint independence for her ſiſters and herſelf, had been at⯑tended, neither with the ſucceſs, nor the pleaſure, ſhe had hoped from them. Her firſt youthful paſſion, her friendſhip for Fanny, had encountered many diſ⯑appointments, and, in fine, a melan⯑choly and premature cataſtrophe. Soon [110] after theſe accumulated mortifications, ſhe was engaged in a conteſt with a near relation, whom ſhe regarded as unprincipled, reſpecting the wreck of her father's fortune. In this affair ſhe ſuffered the double pain, which ariſes from moral indignation, and diſappoint⯑ed benevolence. Her exertions to aſſiſt almoſt every member of her family, were great and unremitted. Finally, when ſhe indulged a romantic affection for Mr. Fuſeli, and fondly imagined that ſhe ſhould find in it the ſolace of her cares, ſhe perceived too late, that, by continually impreſſing on her mind fruitleſs images of unreſerved affection and domeſtic felicity, it only ſerved to give new pungency to the ſenſibility that was deſtroying her.

Some perſons may be inclined to ob⯑ſerve, that the evils here enumerated, [111] are not among the heavieſt in the cata⯑logue of human calamities. But evils take their rank, more from the temper of the mind that ſuffers them, than from their abſtract nature. Upon a man of a hard and inſenſible diſpoſi⯑tion, the ſhafts of misfortune often fall pointleſs and impotent. There are per⯑ſons, by no means hard and inſenſible, who, from an elaſtic and ſanguine turn of mind, are continually prompt⯑ed to look on the fair ſide of things, and, having ſuffered one fall, immedi⯑ately riſe again, to purſue their courſe, with the ſame eagerneſs, the ſame hope, and the ſame gaiety, as before. On the other hand, we not unfrequent⯑ly meet with perſons, endowed with the moſt exquiſite and delicious ſenſi⯑bility, whoſe minds ſeem almoſt of too fine a texture to encounter the viciſſi⯑tudes [112] of human affairs, to whom pleaſure is tranſport, and diſappointment is agony indeſcribable. This character is finely pourtrayed by the author of the Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in this reſpect a female Werter.

She brought then, in the preſent in⯑ſtance, a wounded and ſick heart, to take refuge in the boſom of a choſen friend. Let it not however be ima⯑gined, that ſhe brought a heart, que⯑rulous, and ruined in its taſte for plea⯑ſure. No; her whole character ſeem⯑ed to change with a change of fortune. Her ſorrows, the depreſſion of her ſpirits, were forgotten, and ſhe aſſumed all the ſimplicity and the vivacity of a youthful mind. She was like a ſerpent upon a rock, that caſts its ſlough, and appears again with the brilliancy, the ſleekneſs, and the elaſtic activity of its [113] happieſt age. She was playful, full of confidence, kindneſs and ſympathy. Her eyes aſſumed new luſtre, and her cheeks new colour and ſmoothneſs. Her voice became chearful; her temper overflow⯑ing with univerſal kindneſs; and that ſmile of bewitching tenderneſs from day to day illuminated her counte⯑nance, which all who knew her will ſo well recollect, and which won, both heart and ſoul, the affection of almoſt every one that beheld it.

Mary now repoſed herſelf upon a perſon, of whoſe honour and princi⯑ples ſhe had the moſt exalted idea. She nouriſhed an individual affection, which ſhe ſaw no neceſſity of ſubject⯑ing to reſtraint; and a heart like her's was not formed to nouriſh affection by halves. Her conception of Mr. Im⯑lay's "tenderneſs and worth, had [114] twiſted him cloſely round her heart;" and ſhe "indulged the thought, that ſhe had thrown out ſome tendrils, to cling to the elm by which ſhe wiſhed to be ſupported." This was "talking a new language to her; but, con⯑ſcious that ſhe was not a paraſite-plant," ſhe was willing to encourage and foſter the luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence was entire; her love was unbounded. Now, for the firſt time in her life, ſhe gave a looſe to all the ſenſibilities of her nature.

Soon after the time I am now ſpeak⯑ing of, her attachment to Mr. Imlay gained a new link, by finding reaſon to ſuppoſe herſelf with child.

Their eſtabliſhment at Paris, was however broken up almoſt as ſoon as formed, by the circumſtance of Mr. Imlay's entering into buſineſs, urged, [115] as he ſaid, by the proſpect of a family, and this being a favourable criſis in French affairs for commercial ſpecula⯑tions. The purſuits in which he was engaged, led him in the month of Sep⯑tember to Havre de Grace, then called Havre Marat, probably to ſuperintend the ſhipping of goods, in which he was jointly engaged with ſome other per⯑ſon or perſons. Mary remained in the capital.

The ſolitude in which ſhe was now left, proved an unexpected trial. Domeſtic affections conſtituted the ob⯑ject upon which her heart was fixed; and ſhe early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr. Imlay "did not attach thoſe tender emotions round the idea of home," which, every time they re⯑curred, dimmed her eyes with moiſ⯑ture. She had expected his return [116] from week to week, and from month to month; but a ſucceſſion of buſineſs ſtill continued to detain him at Havre. At the ſame time the ſanguinary cha⯑racter which the government of France began every day more deciſively to aſ⯑ſume, contributed to baniſh tranquil⯑lity from the firſt months of her preg⯑nancy. Before ſhe left Neuilly, ſhe happened one day to enter Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis Quinze), when an execution, attended with ſome peculiar aggravations, had juſt taken place, and the blood of the guillotine appeared freſh upon the pavement. The emotions of her foul burſt forth in indignant exclamations, while a prudent byſtander warned her of her danger, and intreated her to haſten and hide her diſcontents. She deſcribed to me, more than once, the [117] anguiſh ſhe felt at hearing of the death of Briſſot, Vergniaud, and the twenty deputies, as one of the moſt intolera⯑ble ſenſations ſhe had ever experi⯑enced.

Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually poſtponed, ſhe determined, in January 1794, to join him at Havre. One motive that influenced her, though, I believe, by no means the principal, was the growing cruelties of Robeſpierre, and the deſire ſhe felt to be in any other place, rather than the devoted city, in the midſt of which they were perpetrated.

From January to September, Mr. Imlay and Mary lived together, with great harmony, at Havre, where the child, with which ſhe was pregnant, was born, on the fourteenth of May, and named Frances, in remembrance of [118] the dear friend of her youth, whoſe image could never be eraſed from her memory.

In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure from Havre for the port of London. As this ſtep was ſaid to be neceſſary in the way of buſineſs, he endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre, and once more take up her abode at Paris. Robeſpierre was now no more, and, of conſequence, the only objection ſhe had to reſiding in the ca⯑pital, was removed. Mr. Imlay was already in London, before ſhe under⯑took her journey, and it proved the moſt fatiguing journey ſhe ever made; the carriage, in which ſhe travelled, being overturned no leſs than four times between Havre and Paris.

This abſence, like that of the pre⯑ceding year in which Mr. Imlay had [119] removed to Havre, was repreſented as an abſence that was to have a ſhort duration. In two months he was once again to join her at Paris. It proved however the prelude to an eternal ſe⯑paration. The agonies of ſuch a ſepa⯑ration, or rather deſertion, great as Mary would have found them upon every ſuppoſition, were vaſtly increaſed, by the lingering method in which it was effected, and the ambiguity that, for a long time, hung upon it. This circumſtance produced the effect, of holding her mind, by force, as it were, to the moſt painful of all ſubjects, and not ſuffering her to derive the juſt ad⯑vantage from the energy and elaſticity of her character.

The procraſtination of which I am ſpeaking was however productive of one advantage. It put off the evil [120] day. She did not ſuſpect the calami⯑ties that awaited her, till the cloſe of the year. She gained an additional three months of comparative happineſs. But ſhe purchaſed it at a very dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever ſuffer⯑ed greater miſery, than dyed the whole year 1795, in the life of this incom⯑parable woman. It was waſted in that ſort of deſpair, to the ſenſe of which the mind is continually awaken⯑ed, by a glimmering of fondly cheriſh⯑ed, expiring hope.

Why did ſhe thus obſtinately cling to an ill-ſtarred, unhappy paſſion? Be⯑cauſe it is of the very eſſence of affec⯑tion, to ſeek to perpetuate itſelf. He does not love, who can reſign this che⯑riſhed ſentiment, without ſuffering ſome of the ſharpeſt ſtruggles that our nature is capable of enduring. Add [121] to this, Mary had fixed her heart upon this choſen friend; and one of the laſt impreſſions a worthy mind can ſubmit to receive, is that of the worthleſſneſs of the perſon upon whom it has fixed all its eſteem. Mary had ſtruggled to entertain a favourable opinion of hu⯑man nature; ſhe had unweariedly ſought for a kindred mind, in whoſe integrity and fidelity to take up her reſt. Mr. Imlay undertook to prove, in his letters written immediately after their complete ſeparation, that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to the ſtricteſt rectitude; but undoubt⯑edly Mary was of a different opinion. Whatever the reader may decide in this reſpect, there is one ſentiment that, I believe, he will unheſitatingly admit: that of pity for the miſtake of the man, who, being in poſſeſſion of [122] ſuch a friendſhip and attachment as thoſe of Mary, could hold them at a trivial price, and, "like the baſe In⯑dian, throw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe.^*"

CHAP. VIII.
1795, 1796.

IN April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requeſted to do ſo by Mr. Imlay, who even ſent a ſer⯑vant to Paris to wait upon her in the journey, before ſhe could complete the neceſſary arrangements for her depar⯑ture. But, notwithſtanding theſe fa⯑vourable appearances, ſhe came to Eng⯑land with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the uncertainties and anguiſh ſhe had endured, to truſt to the ſuggeſ⯑tions of hope.

[124] The gloomy forebodings of he mind, were but too faithfully verified Mr. Imlay had already formed another connection; as it is ſaid, with a young actreſs from a ſtrolling company of players. His attentions therefore to Mary were formal and conſtrained, and ſhe probably had but little of his ſoci⯑ety. This alteration could not eſcape her penetrating glance. He aſcribed it to preſſure of buſineſs, and ſome pe⯑cuniary embarraſſments which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little conſequence to Mary what was the cauſe. She ſaw, but too well, though ſhe ſtrove not to ſee, that his affections were loſt to her for ever.

It is impoſſible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification than Mary paſſed, for about ſeven weeks, from the ſixteenth of April to the [125] ſixth of June, in a furniſhed houſe that Mr. Imlay had provided for her. She had come over to England, a country for which ſhe, at this time, ex⯑preſſed "a repugnance, that almoſt amounted to horror," in ſearch of hap⯑pineſs. She feared that that happineſs had altogether eſcaped her; but ſhe was encouraged by the eagerneſs and impatience which Mr. Imlay at length ſeemed to manifeſt for her arrival. When ſhe ſaw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was ſhe capable of forming to herſelf, of the overflowing kindneſs of a meeting, after an interval of ſo much anguiſh and apprehenſion! A thouſand images of this ſort were preſent to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on ſuch oc⯑caſions, for reſerve and reproach to en⯑deavour to curb in the emotions of an [126] affectionate heart. But the hopes ſhe nouriſhed were ſpeedily blaſted. He reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarraſſed. Diſcuſſions ("explana⯑tions" they were called) followed; cruel explanations, that only added to the anguiſh of a heart already over⯑whelmed in grief! They had ſmall pre⯑tenſions indeed to explicitneſs; but they ſufficiently told, that the caſe ad⯑mitted not of remedy.

Mary was incapable of ſuſtaining her equanimity in this preſſing emer⯑gency. "Love, dear, deluſive love! as ſhe expreſſed herſelf to a friend ſome time afterwards, rigorous rea⯑ſon had forced her to reſign; and now her rational proſpects were blaſted, juſt as ſhe had learned to be contented with rational enjoyments." Thus ſituated, life became an intolerable burthen. [127] While ſhe was abſent from Mr. Imlay, ſhe could talk of purpoſes of ſeparation and independence. But, now that they were in the ſame houſe, ſhe could not withhold herſelf from endeavours to revive their mutual cordiality; and un⯑ſucceſsful endeavours continually add⯑ed fuel to the fire that deſtroyed her. She formed a deſperate purpoſe to die.

This part of the ſtory of Mary is in⯑volved in conſiderable obſcurity. I only know, that Mr. Imlay became ac⯑quainted with her purpoſe, at a mo⯑ment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and that his feelings were rouſed by the intelli⯑gence. It was perhaps owing to his activity and repreſentations, that her life was, at this time, ſaved. She de⯑termined to continue to exiſt. Actu⯑ated by this purpoſe, ſhe took a reſolu⯑tion, [128] worthy both of the ſtrength and affectionateneſs of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a queſtion of conſider⯑able difficulty, reſpecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It ſeemed to re⯑quire the preſence of ſome very judici⯑ous agent, to conduct the buſineſs to its deſired termination. Mary deter⯑mined to make the voyage, and take the buſineſs into her own hands. Such a voyage ſeemed the moſt deſireable thing to recruit her health, and, if poſ⯑ſible, her ſpirits, in the preſent criſis. It was alſo gratifying to her feelings, to be employed in promoting the inte⯑reſt of a man, from whom ſhe had ex⯑perienced ſuch ſevere unkindneſs, but to whom ſhe ardently deſired to be re⯑conciled. The moment of deſperation I have mentioned, occurred in the cloſe of May, and, in about a week after, [129] ſhe ſet out upon this new expedition.

The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of tra⯑vels that ſo irreſiſtibly ſeizes on the heart, never, in any other inſtance, found its way from the preſs. The occaſional harſhneſs and ruggedneſs of character, that diverſify her Vindication of the Rights of Woman, here totally diſappear. If ever there was a book calculated to make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book. She ſpeaks of her ſorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and diſſolves us in tenderneſs, at the ſame time that ſhe diſplays a genius which commands all our admiration. Afflic⯑tion had tempered her heart to a ſoftneſs almoſt more than human; and the gentleneſs of her ſpirit ſeems pre⯑ciſely [130] to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.

Thus ſoftened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and ſenſibi⯑lity, with all, and more than all, "that youthful poets fancy, when they love," ſhe returned to England, and, if he had ſo pleaſed, to the arms of her former lover. Her return was haſtened by the ambiguity, to her apprehenſion, of Mr. Imlay's conduct. He had pro⯑miſed to meet her upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to paſs ſome time in Switzerland. The ſtyle however of his letters to her during her tour, was not ſuch as to inſpire confidence; and ſhe wrote to him very urgently, to ex⯑plain himſelf, relative to the footing upon which they were hereafter to ſtand to each other. In his anſwer, [131] which reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her queſtions as "extraordi⯑nary and unneceſſary," and deſired her to be at the pains to decide for herſelf. Feeling herſelf unable to accept this as an explanation, ſhe inſtantly determined to ſail for London by the very firſt op⯑portunity, that ſhe might thus bring to a termination the ſuſpence that prey⯑ed upon her ſoul.

It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of Oc⯑tober, that ſhe attained the certainty ſhe ſought. Mr. Imlay procured her a lodging. But the neglect ſhe experi⯑enced from him after ſhe entered it, flaſhed conviction upon her, in ſpite of his aſſeverations. She made further en⯑quiries, and at length was informed by a ſervant, of the real ſtate of the caſe. Under the immediate ſhock which the [132] painful certainty gave her, her firſt im⯑pulſe was to repair to him at the ready furniſhed houſe he had provided for [...] new miſtreſs. What was the particu⯑lar nature of their conference I aM unable to relate. It is ſufficient to ſay that the wretchedneſs of the night which ſucceeded this fatal diſcovery, impreſſ⯑ed her with the feeling, that ſhe would ſooner ſuffer a thouſand deaths, than paſs another of equal miſery.

The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a ſort of deſperate ſerenity. She re⯑ſolved to plunge herſelf in the Thames; and, not being ſatisfied with any ſpot nearer to London, ſhe took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her firſt thought had led her to Batterſea-bridge, but ſhe found it too public. It was night when ſhe arrived at Putney, and by [133] that time had begun to rain with great violence. The rain ſuggeſted to her the idea of walking up and down the bridge, till her clothes were tho⯑roughly drenched and heavy with the wet, which ſhe did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She then leaped from the top of the bridge, but ſtill ſeemed to find a diffi⯑culty in ſinking, which ſhe endeavour⯑ed to counteract by preſſing her clothes cloſely round her. After ſome time ſhe became inſenſible; but ſhe always ſpoke of the pain ſhe underwent as ſuch, that, though ſhe could afterwards have determined upon almoſt any other ſpecies of voluntary death, it would have been impoſſible for her to reſolve upon encountering the ſame ſenſations again. I am doubtful, whether this is to be aſcribed to the mere nature of ſuffoca⯑tion, [134] or was not rather owing to the preternatural action of a deſperate ſpirit.

After having been for a conſiderable time inſenſible, ſhe was recovered by the exertions of thoſe by whom the body was found. She had ſought, with cool and deliberate firmneſs, to put a period to her exiſtence, and yet ſhe lived to have every proſpect of a long poſſeſſion of enjoyment and happineſs. It is perhaps not an unfrequent caſe with ſuicides, that we find reaſon to ſuppoſe, if they had ſurvived their gloomy purpoſe, that they would, at a ſubſequent period, have been conſider⯑ably happy. It ariſes indeed, in ſome meaſure, out of the very nature of a ſpirit of ſelf-deſtruction; which im⯑plies a degree of anguiſh, that the con⯑ſiſtution of the human mind will not [135] ſuffer to remain long undiminiſhed. This is a ſerious reflection, Probably no man would deſtroy himſelf from an impatience of preſent pain, if he felt a moral certainty that there were years of enjoyment ſtill in reſerve for him. It is perhaps a futile attempt, to think of reaſoning with a man in that ſtate of mind which precedes ſuicide. Moral reaſoning is nothing but the awaken⯑ing of certain feelings; and the feel⯑ing by which he is actuated, is too ſtrong to leave us much chance of im⯑preſſing him with other feelings, that ſhould have force enough to counter⯑balance it. But, if the proſpect of fu⯑ture tranquillity and pleaſure cannot be expected to have much weight with a man under an immediate purpoſe of ſuicide, it is ſo much the more to be wiſhed, that men would impreſs their [136] minds, in their ſober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered ha⯑bitual, ſeems to promiſe to act as a ſuc⯑ceſsful antidote in a paroxyſm of deſ⯑peration.

The preſent ſituation of Mary, of neceſſity produced ſome further inter⯑courſe between her and Mr. Imlay. He ſent a phyſician to her; and Mrs. Chriſtie, at his deſire, prevailed on her to remove to her houſe in Finſbury⯑ſquare. In the mean time Mr. Imlay aſſured her that his preſent was merely a caſual, ſenſual connection; and, of courſe, foſtered in her mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him. With what⯑ever intention the idea was ſuggeſted, it was certainly calculated to increaſe the agitation of her mind. In one reſpect however it produced an effect [137] unlike that which might moſt obviouſly have been looked for. It rouſed within her the characteriſtic energy of mind, which ſhe ſeemed partially to have for⯑gotten. She ſaw the neceſſity of bring⯑ing the affair to a point, and not ſuffer⯑ing months and years to roll on in un⯑certainty and ſuſpence. This idea in⯑ſpired her with an extraordinary reſo⯑lution. The language ſhe employed, was, in effect, as follows: "If we are ever to live together again, it muſt be now. We meet now, or we part for ever. You ſay, You cannot abruptly break off the connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character, to wait the uncertain iſſue of that connection. I am de⯑termined to come to a deciſion. I conſent then, for the preſent, to live with you, and the woman to whom [138] you have aſſociated yourſelf. I think it important that you ſhould learn ha⯑bitually to feel for your child the affec⯑tion of a father. But, if you reject this propoſal, here we end. You are now free. We will correſpond no more. We will have no intercourſe of any kind. I will be to you as a perſon that is dead."

The propoſal ſhe made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at firſt accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a houſe he was upon the point of hiring, that ſhe might judge whether it was calculated to pleaſe her. Upon ſecond thoughts however he retracted his conceſſion.

In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at preſent connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary [139] had, previouſly to this, fixed herſelf in a lodging in Finſbury-place, where, for ſome time, ſhe ſaw ſcarcely any one but Mrs. Chriſtie, for the ſake of whoſe neighbourhood ſhe had choſen this ſituation; "exiſting," as ſhe expreſſed it, "in a living tomb, and her life but an exerciſe of fortitude, continually on the ſtretch."

Thus circumſtanced, it was unavoid⯑able for her thoughts to brood upon a paſſion, which all that ſhe had ſuffered had not yet been able to extinguiſh. Accordingly, as ſoon as Mr. Imlay re⯑turned to England, ſhe could not re⯑ſtrain herſelf from making another effort, and deſiring to ſee him once more. "During his abſence, affection had led her to make numberleſs excuſes for his conduct," and ſhe probably wiſh⯑ed to believe that his preſent connection [140] was, as he repreſented it, purely of a caſual nature. To this application, ſhe obſerves, that "he returned no other anſwer, except declaring, with unjuſti⯑fiable paſſion, that he would not ſee her."

This anſwer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not the ultimate cloſe of the affair. Mr. Chriſtie was connected in buſineſs with Mr. Imlay, at the ſame time that the houſe of Mr. Chriſtie was the only one at which Mary habitually viſited. The conſequence of this was, that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at Mr. Chriſtie's one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Chriſtie heard Mary's voice in the paſ⯑ſage, and haſtened to her, to intreat her not to make her appearance. Mary [141] however was not to be controlled. She thought, as ſhe afterwards told me, that it was not conſiſtent with conſci⯑ous rectitude, that ſhe ſhould ſhrink, as if abaſhed, from the preſence of one by whom ſhe deemed herſelf injured. Her child was with her. She entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary into another apart⯑ment, and promiſed to dine with her at her lodging, I believe, the next day.

In the interview which took place in conſequence of this appointment, he expreſſed himſelf to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated to ſooth her deſpair. Though he could conduct himſelf, when abſent from her, in a way which ſhe cenſured as unfeel⯑ing; this ſpecies of ſternneſs conſtantly [142] expired when he came into her pre⯑ſence. Mary was prepared at this mo⯑ment to catch at every phantom of happineſs; and the gentleneſs of his carriage, was to her as a ſun-beam, awakening the hope of returning day. For an inſtant ſhe gave herſelf up to deluſive viſions; and, even after the period of delirium expired, ſhe ſtill dwelt, with an aching eye, upon the air-built and unſubſtantial proſpect of a reconciliation.

At his particular requeſt, ſhe retained the name of Imlay, which, a ſhort time before, he had ſeemed to diſpute with her. "It was not," as ſhe expreſſes herſelf in a letter to a friend, "for the world that ſhe did ſo—not in the leaſt—but ſhe was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot, or tear herſelf away in appear⯑ance, when ſhe could not in reality."

[143] The day after this interview, ſhe ſet out upon a viſit to the country, where ſhe ſpent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I believe, while ſhe was upon this viſit, that ſome epiſ⯑tolary communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her reſolutely to expel from her mind, all remaining doubt as to the iſſue of the affair.

Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty to her child, and even of in⯑dulgence to her own deep-rooted pre⯑dilection, was diſcharged. She deter⯑mined to rouſe herſelf, and caſt off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a ſpring of inexhauſtible bitter⯑neſs. Her preſent reſidence among the ſcenes of nature, was favourable to this purpoſe. She was at the houſe of an old and intimate friend, a lady of [144] the name of Cotton, whoſe partiality for her was ſtrong and ſincere. Mrs. Cotton's neareſt neighbour was Sir William Eaſt, baronet; and, from the joint effect of the kindneſs of her friend, and the hoſpitable and diſtin⯑guiſhing attentions of this reſpectable family, ſhe derived conſiderable benefit. She had been amuſed and intereſted in her journey to Norway; but with this difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with trembling anxiety to conjectures reſpecting Mr. Imlay's future conduct, whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted ſpirit, ſhe threw aſide every thought that recurred to him, while ſhe felt herſelf called upon to make one more effort for life and happineſs.

Once after this, to my knowledge, ſhe ſaw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long [145] after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he alighted from his horſe, and walked with her for ſome time; and the ren⯑counter paſſed, as ſhe aſſured me, without producing in her any oppreſ⯑ſive emotion.

Be it obſerved, by the way, and I may be ſuppoſed beſt to have known the real ſtate of the caſe, ſhe never ſpoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and was diſpleaſed when any perſon, in her hearing, expreſſed contempt of him. She was characteriſed by a ſtrong ſenſe of indignation; but her emotions of this ſort were ſhort-lived, and in no long time ſubſided into a dignified ſe⯑reneneſs and equanimity.

The queſtion of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have ſeen, was not completely diſmiſſed, till March [146] 1796. But it is worthy to be ob⯑ſerved, that ſhe did not, like ordi⯑nary perſons under extreme anguiſh of mind, ſuffer her underſtanding, in the mean time, to ſink into liſtleſſneſs and debility. The moſt inapprehenſive reader may conceive what was the mental torture ſhe endured, when he conſiders, that ſhe was twice, with an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of October, prompted by it to purpoſes of ſuicide. Yet in this period ſhe wrote her Letters from Norway. Shortly after its expi⯑ration ſhe prepared them for the preſs, and they were publiſhed in the cloſe of that year. In January 1796, ſhe finiſh⯑ed the ſketch of a comedy, which turns, in the ſerious ſcenes, upon the inci⯑dents of her own ſtory. It was offered to both the winter-managers, and re⯑mained [147] among her papers at the period of her deceaſe; but it appeared to me to be in ſo crude and imperfect a ſtate, that I judged it moſt reſpectful to her memory to commit it to the flames. To underſtand this extraordinary de⯑gree of activity, we muſt recollect how⯑ever the entire ſolitude, in which moſt of her hours were at that time con⯑ſumed.

CHAP. IX.
1796, 1797.

I AM now led, by the progreſs of the ſtory, to the laſt branch of her hiſtory the connection between Mary and my⯑ſelf. And this I ſhall relate with the ſame ſimplicity that has pervaded every other part of my narrative. If there ever were any motives of prudence or delicacy, that could impoſe a qualifi⯑cation upon the ſtory, they are now over. They could have no relation but to factitious rules of decorum. [149] There are no circumſtances of her life, that, in the judgment of honour and reaſon, could brand her with diſgrace. Never did there exiſt a human being, that needed, with leſs fear, expoſe all their actions, and call upon the uni⯑verſe to judgè them. An event of the moſt deplorable ſort, has awfully im⯑poſed ſilence upon the gabble of fri⯑volity.

We renewed our acquaintance in January 1796, but with no particular effect, except ſo far as ſympathy in her anguiſh, added in my mind to the reſpect I had always entertained for her talents. It was in the cloſe of that month that I read her Letters from Norway; and the impreſſion that book produced upon me has been already related.

It was on the fourteenth of April [150] that I firſt ſaw her after her excurſion into Berkſhire. On that day ſhe call⯑ed upon me in Somers Town, ſhe having, ſince her return, taken a lodg⯑ing in Cumming-ſtreet, Pentonville, at no great diſtance from the place of my habitation. From that time our intimacy increaſed, by regular, but al⯑moſt imperceptible degrees.

The partiality we conceived for each other, was in that mode, which I have always regarded as the pureſt and moſt refined ſtyle of love. It grew with equal advances in the mind of each. It would have been impoſſible for the moſt minute obſerver to have ſaid who was before, and who was after. One ſex did not take the priority which long-eſtabliſhed cuſtom has awarded it, nor the other overſtep that delicacy which is ſo ſeverely impoſed. [151] I am not conſcious that either party can aſſume to have been the agent or the patient, the toil-ſpreader or the prey, in the affair. When, in the courſe of things, the diſcloſure came, there was nothing, in a manner, for either party to diſcloſe to the other.

In July 1796 I made an excurſion into the county of Norfolk, which oc⯑cupied nearly the whole of that month. During this period Mary removed, from Cumming-ſtreet, Pentonville, to Judd place Weſt, which may be con⯑ſidered as the extremity of Somers Town. In the former ſituation, ſhe had occupied a furniſhed lodging. She had meditated a tour to Italy or Swit⯑zerland, and knew not how ſoon ſhe ſhould ſet out with that view. Now however ſhe felt herſelf reconciled to a longer abode in England, probably [152] without exactly knowing why this change had taken place in her mind. She had a quantity of furniture locked up at a broker's ever ſince her reſidence in Store-ſtreet, and ſhe now found it adviſeable to bring it into uſe. This circumſtance occaſioned her preſent removal.

The temporary ſeparation attendant on my little journey, had its effect on the mind of both parties. It gave a ſpace for the maturing of inclina⯑tion. I believe that, during this inter⯑val, each furniſhed to the other the principal topic of ſolitary and daily contemplation. Abſence beſtows a refined and aerial delicacy upon affec⯑tion, which it with difficulty acquires in any other way. It ſeems to reſem⯑ble the communication of ſpirits, with⯑out [153] the medium, or the impediment, of this earthly frame.

When we met again, we met with new pleaſure, and, I may add, with a more deciſive preference for each other. It was however three weeks longer, before the ſentiment which trembled upon the tongue, burſt from the lips of either. There was, as I have already ſaid, no period of throes and reſolute explanation attendant on the tale. It was friendſhip melting into love. Previouſly to our mutual declaration, each felt half-aſſured, yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety to have aſſurance complete.

Mary reſted her head upon the ſhoulder of her lover, hoping to find a heart with which ſhe might ſafely treaſure her world of affection; fear⯑ing to commit a miſtake, yet, in ſpite [154] of her melancholy experience, fraught with that generous confidence, which, in a great ſoul, is never extinguiſhed. I had never loved till now; or, at leaſt, had never nouriſhed a paſſion to the ſame growth, or met with an object ſo conſummately worthy.

We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to indiſcrimi⯑nate adoption, contrary to the eſtab⯑liſhed rules and prejudices of man⯑kind; but certainly nothing can be ſo ridiculous upon the face of it, or ſo contrary to the genuine march of ſen⯑timent, as to require the overflowing of the ſoul to wait upon a ceremo⯑ny, and that which, wherever delicacy and imagination exiſt, is of all things moſt ſacredly private, to blow a trum⯑pet before it, and to record the mo⯑ment [155] when it has arrived at its cli⯑max.

There were however other reaſons why we did not immediately marry. Mary felt an entire conviction of the propriety of her conduct. It would be abſurd to ſuppoſe that, with a heart withered by deſertion, ſhe was not right to give way to the emotions of kindneſs which our intimacy produc⯑ed, and to ſeek for that ſupport in friendſhip and affection, which could alone give pleaſure to her heart, and peace to her meditations. It was only about ſix months ſince ſhe had reſolutely baniſhed every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at leaſt eighteen that he ought to have been baniſhed, and would have been baniſhed, had it not been for her ſcrupulous pertinacity in determining to leave no meaſure untried [156] to regain him. Add to this, that the laws of etiquette ordinarily laid down in theſe caſes, are eſſentially abſurd, and that the ſentiments of the heart cannot ſubmit to be directed by the rule and the ſquare. But Mary had an extreme averſion to be made the topic of vulgar diſcuſſion; and, if there be any weakneſs in this, the dreadful trials through which ſhe had recently paſſed, may well plead in its excuſe. She felt that ſhe had been too much, and too rudely ſpoken of, in the former in⯑ſtance; and ſhe could not reſolve to do any thing that ſhould immediately re⯑vive that painful topic.

For myſelf, it is certain that I had for many years regarded marriage with ſo well-grounded an apprehenſion, that, notwithſtanding the partiality for Mary that had taken poſſeſſion of my ſoul, I [157] ſhould have felt it very difficult, at leaſt in the preſent ſtage of our intercourſe, to have reſolved on ſuch a meaſure. Thus, partly from ſimilar, and partly from different motives, we felt alike in this, as we did perhaps in every other circumſtance that related to our inter⯑courſe.

I have nothing further that I find it neceſſary to record, till the commence⯑ment of April 1797. We then judged it proper to declare our marriage, which had taken place a little before. The principal motive for complying with this ceremony, was the circum⯑ſtance of Mary's being in a ſtate of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps with reaſon, to incur that ex⯑cluſion from the ſociety of many valu⯑able and excellent individuals, which cuſtom awards in caſes of this ſort. I [158] ſhould have felt an extreme repugnance to the having cauſed her ſuch an in⯑convenience. And, after the experi⯑ment of ſeven months of as intimate an intercourſe as our reſpective modes of living would admit, there was cer⯑tainly leſs hazard to either, in the ſub⯑jecting ourſelves to thoſe conſequences which the laws of England annex to the relations of huſband and wife. On the ſixth of April we entered into poſ⯑ſeſſion of a houſe, which had been taken by us in concert.

In this place I have a very curious cir⯑cumſtance to notice, which I am happy to have occaſion to mention, as it tends to expoſe certain regulations of poliſhed ſociety, of which the abſurdity vies with the odiouſneſs. Mary had long poſ⯑ſeſſed the advantage of an acquaintance [159] with many perſons of genius, and with others whom the effects of an inter⯑courſe with elegant ſociety, combined with a certain portion of information and good ſenſe, ſufficed to render amuſ⯑ing companions. She had lately ex⯑tended the circle of her acquaintance in this reſpect; and her mind, trem⯑bling between the oppoſite impreſſions of paſt anguiſh and renovating tranquil⯑lity, found eaſe in this ſpecies of recre⯑ation. Wherever Mary appeared, ad⯑miration attended upon her. She had always diſplayed talents for conver⯑ſation; but maturity of underſtanding, her travels, her long reſidence in France, the diſcipline of affliction, and the ſmil⯑ing, new-born peace which awaked a cor⯑reſponding ſmile in her animated coun⯑tenance, inexpreſſibly increaſed them. The way in which the ſtory of Mr. Im⯑lay [160] was treated in theſe polite circles, was probably the reſult of the partiality ſhe excited. Theſe elegant perſonages were divided between their cautious adherence to forms, and the deſire to ſeek their own gratification. Mary made no ſecret of the nature of her connection with Mr. Imlay; and in one inſtance, I well know, ſhe put herſelf to the trouble of explaining it to a per⯑ſon totally indifferent to her, becauſe he never failed to publiſh every thing he knew, and, ſhe was ſure, would re⯑peat her explanation to his numerous acquaintance. She was of too proud and generous a ſpirit to ſtoop to hypo⯑criſy. Theſe perſons however, in ſpite of all that could be ſaid, perſiſted in ſhutting their eyes, and pretending they took her for a married woman.

Obſerve the conſequence of this! [161] While ſhe was, and conſtantly profeſſed to be, an unmarried mother; ſhe was fit ſociety for the ſqueamiſh and the formal. The moment ſhe acknow⯑ledged herſelf a wife, and that by a marriage perhaps unexceptionable, the caſe was altered. Mary and myſelf, ignorant as we were of theſe elevated refinements, ſuppoſed that our marriage would place her upon a ſurer footing in the calendar of poliſhed ſociety, than ever. But it forced theſe people to ſee the truth, and to confeſs their belief of what they had carefully been told; and this they could not forgive. Be it re⯑marked, that the date of our marriage had nothing to do with this, that queſ⯑tion being never once mentioned dur⯑ing this period. Mary indeed had, till now, retained the name of Imlay which had firſt been aſſumed from ne⯑ceſſity [162] in France; but its being retain⯑ed thus long, was purely from the auk⯑wardneſs that attends the introduction of a change, and not from an apprehen⯑ſion of conſequences of this ſort. Her ſcrupulous explicitneſs as to the nature of her ſituation, ſurely ſufficed to make the name ſhe bore perfectly immaterial.

It is impoſſible to relate the particu⯑lars of ſuch a ſtory, but in the language of contempt and ridicule. A ſerious reflection however upon the whole, ought to awaken emotions of a dif⯑ferent ſort. Mary retained the moſt numerous portion of her acquaintance, and the majority of thoſe whom ſhe principally valued. It was only the ſupporters and the ſubjects of the un⯑principled manners of a court, that ſhe loſt. This however is immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding, ſtrictly [163] conſidered, and uniformly acted upon, would have been to proſcribe her from all valuable ſociety. And who was the perſon proſcribed? The firmeſt champion, and, as I ſtrongly ſuſpect, the greateſt ornament her ſex ever had to boaſt! A woman, with ſentiments as pure, as refined, and as delicate, as ever inhabited a human heart! It is fit that ſuch perſons ſhould ſtand by, that we may have room enough for the dull and inſolent dictators, the gamblers and demireps of poliſhed ſociety!

Two of the perſons, the loſs of whoſe acquaintance Mary principally regret⯑ted upon this occaſion, were Mrs. Inch⯑bald and Mrs. Siddons. Their ac⯑quaintance, it is perhaps fair to ob⯑ſerve, is to be ranked among her recent acquiſitions. Mrs. Siddons, I am ſure, regretted the neceſſity, which ſhe con⯑ceived [164] to be impoſed on her by the peculiarity of her ſituation, to conform to the rules I have deſcribed. She is endowed with that rich and generous ſenſibility, which ſhould beſt enable its poſſeſſor completely to feel the merits of her deceaſed friend. She very truly obſerves, in a letter now be⯑fore me, that the Travels in Norway were read by no one, who was in poſſeſ⯑ſion of "more reciprocity of feeling, or more deeply impreſſed with admira⯑tion of the writer's extraordinary powers."

Mary felt a tranſitory pang, when the conviction reached her of ſo unex⯑pected a circumſtance, that was rather exquiſite. But ſhe diſdained to ſink under the injuſtice (as this ultimately was) of the ſupercilious and the fooliſh, and preſently ſhook off the impreſſion [165] of the firſt ſurprize. That once ſub⯑ſided, I well know that the event was thought of, with no emotions, but thoſe of ſuperiority to the injuſtice ſhe ſuſ⯑tained; and was not of force enough, to diminiſh a happineſs, which ſeem⯑ed hourly to become more vigorous and firm.

I think I may venture to ſay, that no two perſons ever found in each other's ſociety, a ſatisfaction more pure and refined. What it was in itſelf, can now only be known, in its full extent, to the ſurvivor. But, I believe, the ſerenity of her countenance, the in⯑creaſing ſweetneſs of her manners, and that conſciouſneſs of enjoyment that ſeemed ambitious that every one ſhe ſaw ſhould be happy as well as herſelf, were matters of general obſervation to all her acquaintance. She had always [166] poſſeſſed, in an unparalleled degree, the art of communicating happineſs, and ſhe was now in the conſtant and un⯑limited exerciſe of it. She ſeemed to have attained that ſituation, which her diſpoſition and character imperi⯑ouſly demanded, but which ſhe had never before attained; and her under⯑ſtanding and her heart felt the benefit of it.

While we lived as near neighbours only, and before our laſt removal, her mind had attained conſiderable tran⯑quillity, and was viſited but ſeldom with thoſe emotions of anguiſh, which had been but too familiar to her. But the improvement in this reſpect, which accrued upon our removal and eſtab⯑liſhment, was extremely obvious. She was a worſhipper of domeſtic life. She loved to obſerve the growth of [167] affection between me and her daughter, then three years of age, as well as my anxiety reſpecting the child not yet born. Pregnancy itſelf, unequal as the decree of nature ſeems to be in this re⯑ſpect, is the ſource of a thouſand en⯑dearments. No one knew better than Mary how to extract ſentiments of ex⯑quiſite delight, from trifles, which a ſuſpicious and formal wiſdom would ſcarcely deign to remark. A little ride into the country with myſelf and the child, has ſometimes produced a ſort of opening of the heart, a general expreſſion of confidence and affection⯑ate ſoul, a ſort of infantine, yet dig⯑nified endearment, which thoſe who have felt may underſtand, but which I ſhould in vain attempt to pourtray.

In addition to our domeſtic pleaſures, I was fortunate enough to introduce her [168] to ſome of my acquaintance of both ſexes, to whom ſhe attached herſelf with all the ardour of approbation and friendſhip.

Ours was not an idle happineſs, a paradiſe of ſelfiſh and tranſitory plea⯑ſures. It is perhaps ſcarcely neceſſary to mention, that, influenced by the ideas I had long entertained upon the ſubject of cohabitation, I engaged an apartment, about twenty doors from our houſe in the Polygon, Sômers Town, which I deſigned for the purpoſe of my ſtudy and literary occupations. Trifles however will be intereſting to ſome readers, when they relate to the laſt pe⯑riod of the life of ſuch a perſon as Mary. I will add therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was poſſible for two perſons to be too uniformly in each other's ſociety. Influenced by [169] that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the apartment I have men⯑tioned as ſoon as I roſe, and frequently not to make my appearance in the Polygon, till the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning the notion, pre⯑valent in many ſituations in life, that a man and his wife cannot viſit in mix⯑ed ſociety, but in company with each other; and we rather ſought occaſions of deviating from, than of complying with, this rule. By theſe means, though, for the moſt part, we ſpent the latter half of each day in one another's ſo⯑ciety, yet we were in no danger of fatiety. We ſeemed to combine, in a conſiderable degree, the novelty and lively ſenſation of a viſit, with the more delicious and heart-felt pleaſures of domeſtic life.

Whatever may be thought, in other [170] reſpects, of the plan we laid down to ourſelves, we probably derived a real advantage from it, as to the conſtancy and uninterruptedneſs of our literary purſuits. Mary had a variety of pro⯑jects of this ſort, for the exerciſe of her talents, and the benefit of ſo⯑ciety; and, if ſhe had lived, I believe the world would have had very little reaſon to complain of any remiſſion of her induſtry. One of her projects, which has been already mentioned, was of a ſeries of Letters on the Manage⯑ment of Infants. Though ſhe had been for ſome time digeſting her ideas on this ſubject with a view to the preſs, I have found comparatively no⯑thing that ſhe had committed to paper reſpecting it. Another project, of longer ſtanding, was of a ſeries of books for the inſtruction of children. [171] A fragment ſhe left in execution of this project, is inſerted in her Poſt⯑humous Works.

But the principal work, in which ſhe was engaged for more than twelve months before her deceaſe, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of Woman. I ſhall not ſtop here to explain the na⯑ture of the work, as ſo much of it as was already written, is now given to the public. I ſhall only obſerve that, impreſſed, as ſhe could not fail to be, with the conſciouſneſs of her talents, ſhe was deſirous, in this inſtance, that they ſhould effect what they were capa⯑ble of effecting. She was ſenſible how arduous a taſk it is to produce a truly excellent novel; and ſhe rouſed her faculties to grapple with it. All her other works were produced with a rapidity, that did not give her powers [172] time fully to expand. But this was written ſlowly and with mature conſi⯑deration. She began it in ſeveral forms, which ſhe ſucceſſively rejected, after they were confiderably advanced. She wrote many parts of the work again and again, and, when ſhe had finiſhed what ſhe intended for the firſt part, ſhe felt herſelf more urgently ſtimulated to reviſe and improve what ſhe had written, than to proceed, with conſtancy of application, in the parts that were to follow.

CHAP. X.