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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S 
 LETTERS 
 
EDITED BY ROGER INOPEN 
 
 LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. lUustiated 
 Kdition. z Vols. A. Constable & Co. 
 
 ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN : 
 A Collection of Verse Old and New. 
 
 HOTCHINSON & Co. 
 
 FORSTER'S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 Abridged. (Standard Biographies.) 
 Hutchinson & Co. 
 
 BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 Abridged. (Standard Biographies.) 
 Hutchinson & Co. 
 
 BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. Pitman. 
 
yytr-^^ 
 
 ^-r-L-C^Ct.,^^-^^^ 
 
The Love Letters 
 
 OF 
 
 Mary Wollstonecraft 
 
 TO GILBERT IMLAY 
 
 With a Prefatory Memoir 
 By Roger Ingpen 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 Philadelphia 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 London : HUTCHINSON & CO. 
 1908 
 
 EV. 
 

 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN 
 
PREEACE 
 
 Qr Mary Wollstonecraft's ancestors little is 
 kpown, except that they were of Irish descent; 
 Her father, Edward John WoUstonecraf t, was the 
 son of a prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer' of 
 Irish birth, from whom he inherited the sum of ten 
 thousand pounds. He married towards the middle 
 of the eighteenth centuiy Elizabeth Dixon, the 
 ^lighter of a gentleman in good position, of 
 fejlyshannon, by whom he had sis children: 
 Edward, Mary, Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. 
 Maiy, the eldest daughter and second child, was 
 bom on April 27, 1759, the birth year ' of 
 Bums and Schiller, and the last year of George 
 IL's reign. She passed her childhood, until she 
 was five years old, in the neighbourhood of 
 Epping Forest, but it is doubtful whether she 
 was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. WoUstone- 
 craf t followed no profession in particular, although 
 from time to time he dabbled in a variety of pur- 
 suits when seized with a desire to make money. 
 He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and 
 possessed of an ungovernable temper and a rest- 
 less spirit that urged him to perpetual changes of 
 residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered 
 most of his fortune, he wandered to Essex, and 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 then, among other places, in 1768 to Beverley, 
 in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at 
 Laugharne in Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew 
 tired of this experiment and returned once more 
 to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality 
 and selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently 
 compelled to defend her mother from his acts 
 of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting her- 
 self bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. 
 Wollstonecraft herself was far from being an 
 amiable woman ; a petty tyrant and a stern but 
 incompetent ruler of her household, she treated 
 Mary as the scapegoat of the family. Mary's 
 early years therefore were far from being happy ; 
 what little schooling she had was spasmodic, 
 owing to her father's migratory habits. 
 
 In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecraf ts 
 were once more in London, Mary formed a friend- 
 ship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her 
 own age, which was destined to be one of the 
 happiest events of her life. There was a strong 
 bond of sympathy between the two friends, for 
 Fanny contrived by her work as an artist to be 
 the chief support of her family, as her father, like 
 Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow. 
 
 Mary's new friend was an intellectual and 
 cultiired girL She loved music, sang agreeably, 
 was well-read too, for her age, and wrote 
 interesting letters. It was by comparing Fanny 
 Blood's letters with her own, that Mary first 
 recognised how defective her education had been. 
 §he applied herself therefore to the task of 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 increasing her slender stock of knowledge — hoping 
 ultimately to become a governess. At length, at 
 the age of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as 
 companion to a tiresome and exacting old lady, 
 a Mrs. Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London - 
 tradesman. In spite of many difficulties, she 
 managed to retain her situation for some two 
 years, leaving it only to attend the deathbed of 
 her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Wollstonecraft's death (in 1780) was 
 followed by the break-up of the home. Mary 
 went to live temporarily with the Bloods at 
 Walham Green, and assisted Mrs. Blood, who 
 took in needle- work ; Everina became for a short 
 time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a 
 solicitor ; and Eliza married a Mr. Bishop. 
 
 Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that " aU the 
 Wollstonecraft sisters were enthusiastic, excitable, 
 and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, 
 sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, 
 and slights into studied insults. All had bad 
 health of a kind which is especially trying to the 
 nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family tempera- 
 ment and constitution." Mrs. Bishop's married 
 life from the first was one of utter misery ; they 
 were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar 
 temperament evidently exasperated her husband's 
 worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the 
 scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which 
 he was responsible, were afterwards described 
 with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, " The 
 Wrongs of Women." It was plainly impossible 
 
^ fmmcE 
 
 {pii.'Mi&. Bi$hop ta' continue to live with such a: 
 maiij and when, in 1782, she became -dangeronsly 
 ill^ Mary, with hec characteristic good nature, went: 
 tp. nurse her, and soon after assisted her in her- 
 flight from her husband. 
 
 ■ In the following year (1783) . Mary set up a 
 school at Islington with Fanny Blood, and she was 
 thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, 
 Mrs. Bishop and Everina. The school was after- 
 wards moyed to Newington Green, where. Mary 
 soon had an . establishment with some . twenty 
 day scholars. After a time, emboldened by her 
 success, she .took a larger . house ; but un- 
 fortunately the number of her pupils did not; 
 increase in proportion to her obligations, which- 
 were now heavier than she could well meet. 
 
 ■ While 'Mary was living at Newington Green, 
 she was introduced to Dr. Johnson, who, Godwin 
 says,' treated her with particular kindness and 
 attention, and with whom she had a long conver- 
 sation. He desired her to repeat her visit, but 
 she was prevented from seeing him again by his 
 last illness and death. 
 
 ^ In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired 
 her health by overwork, and signs of consumption 
 were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who 
 was engaged in business at Lisbon, though some- 
 what of a weak lover, had long admired Fanny^ 
 and wanted to marry her. It was thought that- 
 tJie climate of Portugal might help to restore- her 
 health, and she consented, perhaps more on that 
 account than on any other, to become his wife. 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 She left En^nd in Eebruaty 1785, but her health 
 continueKl to grow worse. Mary's anxiety for* 
 her friend's weKare was such that, on hearing, 
 of her grave . con4itioD, she at once went off to 
 I^isboo, and arrived after a stormy passage, only 
 in time to Qomfort Fanny in her dying moments. 
 !Nf!ary was almost broken-hearted at the loss of. 
 her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon as. 
 short as possible, remaining only as long as wa&' 
 necessary for Mrs. Skeys's funeiaL . 
 .She returned to England to . find that the 
 school had greatly suffered l)y neglect during her. 
 absence. In a. letter to Mrs. Skeys's brother, 
 George Blood, she says : "The loss of -Fanny was; 
 sufficient to have thrown a cloud over my brightest . 
 days : what effect then-' must it have, when I am 
 bereft of every other comfort ? I have too many 
 4ebts, the rent is so enormous, and where to go,' 
 without money. or friends, who can point out i" ■ 
 
 She thus realised that to continue her school 
 was useless. . '. But her experience • as a school- 
 mistress was to bear fruit in the future. She 
 had observed some of the defects of the eduT; 
 cationaj methods, of her time, and her earliest' 
 published effort was a pamphlet entitled,: 
 "Thoughts on the Education. of Daughters^" 
 (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, a . 
 sum that she gave to the parents of her friend^'. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Blpodi. who were desirous of going 
 over to Jreland. ;., 
 
 She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the 
 October of 1787 she became governess to the 
 
X PKEFACE 
 
 daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaels- 
 town, with a salary of forty pounds a year. Lady 
 Kingsborough in Mary's opinion was "a shrewd 
 
 clever woman, a great talker. She rouges, and 
 
 in short is a fine lady without fancy or sensibility. 
 
 I am almost tormented to death by dogs " Lady 
 
 Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, 
 and her chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. 
 She pampered her dogs, much to the disgust of 
 Mary Wollstonecraf t, and neglected her children. 
 What views she had on education were narrow. 
 She had been accustomed to submission from her 
 governess, but she learnt before long that Mary 
 was not of a tractable disposition. The children, 
 at first unruly and defiant, "literally speaking, 
 wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing," 
 soon gave Mary their confidence, and before long 
 their affection. One of her pupils, Margaret King, 
 af terw3,rds Lady Mountcashel, always retained the 
 warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady 
 Mountcashel continued her acquaintance with 
 WiUiam Godwin after Mary's death, and later came 
 across Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won 
 from the children the aflfection that they withheld 
 from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 
 1V88, when she had been with Lady Kingsborough 
 for about a year, she received her dismissal. She 
 had completed by this time the novel to which 
 she gave the name of " Mary," which is a tribute 
 to the memory of her friend Fanny Blood. 
 
PEEFACE xi 
 
 II 
 
 . And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary WoUstone- 
 craf t had concluded her career as a gOTerness. and 
 was resolved henceforth to devote herself to- 
 literature. Her chances of success were slender 
 indeed, for she had written nothing to encourage 
 her for such a venture. It was her fortune, how- 
 ever, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, 
 the humanitarian publisher and bookseller of 
 St- Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of 
 Priestley, Home Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and 
 other men of advanced thought, and she met at 
 his table many of the authors for whom he 
 published, and such eminent men of the day as 
 William Blake, Fuseli, and Tom Paine. Mr. 
 Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best 
 friends, encouraged her in her literary plans. He 
 was the publisher of her "Thoughts on the 
 Education of Daughters," and had recognised in 
 that little book so much promise, that when she 
 sought his advice, he at once offered to assist her 
 with employment. 
 
 Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a 
 house in George Street, Blackfriars. She had 
 brought to London the manuscript of her- novel 
 " Mary," and she set to work on a book for children 
 entitled " Original Stories from Keal Life." Both 
 of these books appeared before the year was out, 
 the latter with quaint plates by WiUiam Blake. 
 Mary also occupied some of her time with transla- 
 tions from the French, German, and even Dutch, 
 
Hi PREFACE 
 
 one of wliich was an abridged edition of Saltz- 
 mann's "Elements of Morality," for which Blake 
 also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, 
 Johnson engaged Mary as his litierary - adviser 
 or, "reader," and secured her services in con- 
 nexion with The Analytical Review, a periodi- 
 cal that he had recently founded. 
 - While she was at . George Street she also 
 wrote her "Vindication of the Bights of Man" 
 in. a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief 
 satisfaction in. keeping up .this house was to 
 have a home where her brothers and sisters could 
 always.come when out of employment She was 
 never weary of assisting them either with money, 
 or by exerting her influence to find them situa- 
 tions. jOne of her first ^cts when she settled 
 in London was to send EverinaWoUstonecraf t to 
 Paris .to improve her French accent Mr. John- 
 son, who wrote a short account of Mary's life in 
 London at this time, .says she often spent her 
 afternoons and evenings at his house, and 
 used to seek his advice, or unburden her troubles 
 to him. Among the many duties she imposed' 
 on herself was the charge of her fathers afifairs, 
 which must, indeed have been a profitless under- 
 taking. 
 
 The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft's' 
 labours while she was living at Blackfriars was 
 the writing of the book that is chiefly associ- 
 ated with her name, "A Vindication of the 
 Bights {of Woman.^' . This volume — now much 
 better known by its . title than its contents — 
 
PREFACE ^iii 
 
 was dedicated to the astiite M. TaUeyrand de 
 :P^rigord, l^te Bkhop of Autun,. apparently on 
 account of . his authorship of a pamphlet" on 
 .National Education. .It is unnece'ssaiy to attempt 
 an analysis of this strikingly original but most 
 • unequal book — ^modern reprints of tiie-work' hav© 
 appeared under the editorship - both of ■ Mrs. 
 , Fawcett and Mrs. FennelL It is sufficient to Say 
 that it is really a plea for a more enlightened 
 ^system of education, affecting not only her own 
 sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many 
 .of her suggestions have long' since been put to 
 practical use, such as that. of a system of free 
 national education, with equal advantages' for boys 
 and ^Is. The book contains too much theory 
 and is therefore to a great extent obsolete. Mary 
 Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that 
 recognises woman as the plaything of -man ; she 
 pleads rather. for a friendly footing of equality 
 .between the sexes, besides claiming a new order 
 of things for women, in terms which are unusually 
 frank. Such a book could not fail to create a 
 sensation, andjit speedily made her notorious, not 
 . only in this country, but on the (Continent, where 
 it was translated into. French. It was of coiu:se 
 the outcome of the French Eevolution ; the whole 
 work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of 
 that movement, but whereas the French patriots 
 demanded rights for men, she made the s£ime 
 demands also for women. : ■ ' 
 
 It is evident that the great historical drama 
 ,then being enacts in France -had made a deeip 
 
3dv PREFACE 
 
 impression- on Maiy's mind — its influence is 
 stamped on every page of her book, and it was 
 her desire to visit France ynth. Mr. Johnson and 
 FuselL Her friends were, however, unable to 
 accompany her, so she went alone in the December 
 of 1792, chiefly with the object of perfecting her 
 French. Godwin states, though apparently in 
 error, that Fuseli was the cause of her going to 
 France, the acquaintance with the painter having' 
 grown into something warmer than mere friend- 
 ship. Fuseli, however, had a wife and was happily 
 married, so Mary "prudently resolved to retire 
 into another coimtiy, far remote from the object 
 who had unintentionally excited the tender passion 
 in her breast." 
 
 She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic 
 moment ; she wrote on December 24 to her 
 sister Everina: "The day after to-morrow I 
 expect to see the King at the bar, and the con- 
 sequences that will foUow I am almost afraid to 
 anticipate." On the day in question, the 26th, 
 Louis XVI. appeared in the Hall of the Convention 
 to plead his cause through his advocate, Desize, 
 and on the same day she wrote that letter to 
 Mr. Johnson which has so often been quoted : 
 "About nine o'clock this morning," she says, 
 " the King passed by my window, moving silently 
 along (excepting now and then a few strokes on 
 the drum, which rendered the stillness more 
 awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the 
 national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, 
 .seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants 
 
PKEFACE XT 
 
 flocked to theii windows, but the casements were 
 all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see 
 anything like an insulting gesture. For the first 
 time since I entered France I bowed to the 
 majesty of the people, and resx>ected the propriety 
 of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own 
 feelings. I can scarcely tell you why, but an 
 association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly 
 from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with 
 more dignity than I expected from his character, 
 in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where 
 80 many of his race had triumphed. My fancy 
 instantly brought Louis XIV. before me, entering 
 the capital with all bis x>omp, after one of his 
 victories so flattering to his pride, only to see 
 the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the 
 sublime gloom of misery. . . ." 
 
 Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame 
 Filiettaz, the daughter of Madame Bregantz, in 
 whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and 
 Everina Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Maiy 
 was now something of a celebrity — " Authorship," 
 she writes, " is a heavy weight for female shoulders, 
 especially in the sunshine of prosperity" — and 
 she carried with her letters of introduction to 
 several influential people in Paris. She renewed 
 her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate 
 with Helen Maria Williams (who is said to have 
 once lived with Imlay), and visited, among others, 
 the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her 
 intention to go to Switzerland, but there was 
 some trouble about her passport, so she settled 
 
•xvi PRiEFACE 
 
 ;at iNetiJllyj-then a village three miles' from Pans. 
 ■•" Her :ialritation here," says Godwin, t "was' a 
 isolitary house in the midst of a garden, with no 
 other habitant than herself and the gardener, an 
 old man "who performed for her many oflBces of 
 .-a domestic, and would sometimes contend for the 
 ^honour ai making her bed. The -gardener had 
 S' great veneration for his guest, -and would set 
 ^before her, when alone, some grapes of a par- 
 .ticularly fine -sort, which she could not without 
 the greatest difficulty obtain of him 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 she incorporated most of 
 the observations she had collected for her letters, 
 and which was written with more sobriety and 
 -cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been 
 conmienced. In the evening she was accustomed 
 to refresh 'herself by a walk in a neighbouring 
 •^ood, from which her host in vain endeavoured 
 to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible 
 .robberies and murders that had been committed 
 there." 
 
 • - It is probable that in March 1793 Mary 
 WoUstonecraft first saw Gilbert Imlay. The 
 meeting occurred at Mr. Christie's house, and 
 her immediate impression was one of dislike, so 
 vthat on subsequent occasions she avoided him. 
 However, her regard ' for him rapidly changed 
 into friendship, and later into love. Gilbert 
 Imlay was born in New Jersey' about 1755. 
 
From !in engraving by Ridley, tlatetl 179(1, after a painting 
 "by John Opie, R.A. 
 
 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. 
 This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale 
 of the late Mr. William Bussell. The reason for supposiog that 
 it represents Mary WoUstoneci'aft rests solely on testimony of the 
 engraving in the Monthly MiiTor (published during her life- 
 time), from which this reproduction was made. Mrs, Merritt 
 made an etching of the i^icture for Mr. Kegan Paul's edition of 
 the " Letters to fmlay." 
 
 To face p. xi\ 
 
PREFACE xvii 
 
 He served as a captain in the American army 
 during the Revolutionary war, and was the 
 author of "A Topographical Description of the 
 Western Territory of North America," 1792, and 
 a novel entitled "The Emigrants," 1793. In 
 the latter work, as an American, he proposes to 
 " place a mirror to the view of Englishmen, that 
 they may behold the decay of these features that 
 were once so lovely," and further " to prevent the 
 sacrilege which the present practice of matrimonial 
 engagements necessarily produce." It is not known 
 whether these views regarding marriage preceded, 
 or were the result of, his connexion with Mary 
 Wollstonecraft In 1793 he was engaged in 
 business, probably in the timber trade with 
 Sweden and Norway. 
 
 In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary 
 sought no advice and took no one into her con- 
 fidence. She was evidently deeply in love with 
 him, and felt that their mutual confidence shared 
 by no one else gave a sacredness to their union. 
 Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay 
 episode, states that " the origin of the connexion 
 was about the middle of April 1793, and it was 
 carried on in a private manner for about three 
 months." Imlay had no property whatever, and 
 Mary had- objected to marry him, because she 
 would- not burden him with her own debts, or 
 " involve him in certain family embarrassments," 
 for which she beUeved herself responsible. She 
 looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, 
 "as of the most inviolable nature." Then the 
 
 5 
 
xviii PEEFACE 
 
 French Government passed a decree that all 
 British subjects resident in France should go to 
 prison until a general declaration of peace. It 
 therefore became expedient, not that a marriage 
 should take place, for that would necessitate 
 Mary declaring her nationality, but that she 
 should take the name of Imlay, "which," says 
 Godwin, "from the nature of their connexion 
 (formed on her part at least, with no capricious or 
 fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to 
 do, and obtain a certificate from the American 
 Ambassador, as the wife of a native of that 
 country. Their engagement being thus avowed, 
 they thought proper to reside under the same roof, 
 and for that purpose removed to Paris." 
 
 In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her 
 sister Everina, dated from Havre, March 10, 1794, 
 she describes the climate of France as "uncom- 
 monly fine," and praises the common people for 
 their manners ; but she is also saddened by the 
 scenes that she had witnessed and adds that 
 " death and misery, in every shape of terror, haunt 
 this devoted country. ... If any of the many 
 letters I have written have come to your hands or 
 Eliza's, you know that I am safe, through the 
 protection of an American, a most worthy man 
 who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and 
 quickness of feeling, a soundness of understanding, 
 and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met 
 with. Having been brought up in the interior 
 parts of America, he is a most natural, unaffected 
 creature." 
 
PEEFACE 3dx 
 
 Mary has expressed in the " Eights of Woman " 
 her ideal of the relations between man and wife ; 
 she now looked forward to such a life of domestic 
 happiness as she had cherished for some time. 
 She had known much unhappiness in the past. 
 Godwin says : " She brought in the present instance, 
 a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the 
 attachment of a chosen friend. Let it not, how- 
 ever, be imagined, that she brought a heart, 
 querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure- 
 No ; her whole character seemed 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 playful, full of confidence, kind- 
 ness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new 
 lustre, and her cheeks new colour and smoothness. 
 Her voice became cheerful ; her temper over- 
 flowing with universal kindness; and that smile 
 of bewitching tenderness from day to day illumin- 
 ated her countenance, which all who knew her will 
 so well recollect, and which won, both heart and 
 soul, the affections of almost every one that 
 beheld it." She had now met the man to whom 
 she earnestly believed she could surrender herself 
 with entire devotion. Naturally of an affectionate 
 nature, for the first time in her life, with her 
 impulsive Irish spirit, as Godwin says, " she gave 
 way to all the sensibilities of her nature." 
 
 The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure 
 from the first. Mary had taken her step without 
 much forethought. She attributed to Imlay 
 
XX PREFACE 
 
 " nncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not 
 detect his instability of character. He certainly 
 fasdnated her, as he fascinated other women, both 
 before and after his attachment to Mary. He 
 was not the man to be satisfied with one woman 
 as his life-companion. A typical American, he was 
 deeply immersed in bnsiness, but his affairs may 
 not have claimed as much of his time as he 
 represented. In the September after he set up 
 house with Mary, that is in '93, the year of the 
 Terror, he left her in Paris while he went to 
 Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but 
 then altered to Havre Marat. It is awful to think 
 what must have been the life of this lonely 
 stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters 
 to Lnlay contain hardly a reference to the events 
 of the Bevolution. 
 
 Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to 
 Paris, and sickened with the "growing cruelties 
 of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 
 1794, and on May '14 she gave birth to a girl, 
 whom she named Frances in memory of Fanny 
 Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every 
 evidence throughout her letters to Imlay of how 
 tenderly she loved the little one. In a letter to 
 Evelina, dated from Paris on September 20, she 
 speaks thus of little Fanny : 
 
 " I want you to see my little girl, who is more 
 like a boy. She is ready to fly away with spirits, 
 and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. 
 She does not promise to be a beauty, but appears 
 wonderfully intelligent, and though I am sure she 
 
PREFACE xri 
 
 has her father's quick temper and feelings, her 
 good humour runs avray with all the credit of my 
 good nursing." 
 
 In September Imlay left Havre for London, and 
 now that the Terror had subsided Mary returned 
 to Paris. This separation really meant the end 
 of their camaraderie. They were to meet again, 
 but never on the old footing. The journey 
 proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the 
 carriage in which she travelled breaking down 
 four times between Havre and Paris. Imky 
 promised to come to Paris in the course of two 
 months, and she expected him till the end of the 
 year with cheerfulness. With the press of business 
 and other distractions his feelings for her and the 
 child had cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed.. 
 For three months longer Imlay put her ofiF with 
 unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense 
 came to an end in April, when she went to London 
 at his request. Her gravest forebodings proved 
 too true. Imlay was already living with a young 
 actress belonging to a company of strolling 
 players; and it was evident, though at first he 
 protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a 
 second consideration in his life. He provided 
 her, however, with a furnished house, and she 
 did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation : 
 but when she realised that hope was useless, in 
 her despair she resolved to take her life. Whether 
 she actually attempted suicide, or whether Lnlaiy 
 learnt of her intention in time to prevent her, is 
 not actually known. Imlay was at this time 
 
xxii PREFACE 
 
 engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a 
 trustworthy representative to transact some con- 
 fidential business, it was thought that the journey 
 would restore Mary's health and spirits. She 
 therefore consented to take the voyage, and set 
 out early in April 1795, with a document drawn up 
 by Imlay appointing her as his representative, 
 and describing her as "Mary Imlay, my best 
 friend, and wife," and concluding : " Thus, confiding 
 in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly 
 beloved friend and companion ; I submit the 
 management of these affairs entirely and im- 
 plicitly to her discretion : Bemainiag most sin- 
 cerely and affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay." 
 
 The letters describing her travels, excluding 
 any personal matters, were issued in 1796, as 
 " Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her 
 most readable books. The portions eliminated 
 from these letters were printed by Grodwin in 
 his wife's posthumous works, and are given in 
 the present volume. She returned to England 
 early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay had 
 promised to meet her on the homeward journey, 
 possibly at Hamburg, and to take her to Switzer- 
 land, but she hastened to London to find her 
 suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a 
 lodging, but entirely neglected her for some woman 
 with whom he was living. On first making the 
 discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony 
 of mind, she sought Imlay at the house he had 
 furnished for his new companion. The conference 
 resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to 
 
PREFACE xxiii 
 
 drown herself. She first went to Battersea 
 Bridge, bat found too many people there; and 
 therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and 
 raining when she arrived there, and after wander- 
 ing up and down the bridge for half-an-hour 
 until her clothing was thoroughly drenched she 
 threw herself into the river. She was, however, 
 rescued from the water and, although unconscious, 
 her life was saved. 
 
 Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other 
 occasions ; probably her last sight of him was in 
 the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when " he 
 alighted from his horse, and walked with her 
 some time ; and the re-encounter passed," she 
 assured Grodwin, " vrithout producing in her any 
 oppressive emotion." Mary refused to accept any 
 pecuniary assistance for herself from Imlay, but 
 he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, 
 the interest to be devoted to the maintenance 
 of their child ; neither principal nor interest, 
 however, was ever paid. What ultimately became 
 of Imlay is not known. 
 
 Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. 
 Her old friend and publisher, Mr. Johnson, came 
 to her aid, and she resolved to resume her literary 
 work for the support of herseK and her chUd. 
 She was once more seen in literary society. 
 Among the people whom she met at this time 
 was William Godwin. Three years her senior, he 
 was one of the most advanced republicans of the 
 time, the author of "Political Justice" and the 
 novel " Caleb Williams." They had met before, 
 
xxiv PREFACE 
 
 for the first time in November 1791, but sbe 
 displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip 
 silenced the naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom 
 he was anxious to hear talk. Although they met 
 occasionaUy afterwards, it was not until 1796 that 
 they became friendly. There must have been some- 
 thing about Godwin that made him extremely 
 attractive to his friends, for he numbered among 
 them some of the most charming women of the 
 day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, Hazlitt, 
 and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the 
 members of his family he was of a kind, even 
 affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he ap- 
 pears to the worst advantage — a Hnd of early 
 Pecksniff — in his later correspondence and relations 
 with Shelley, and it is by this correspondence at 
 the present day that he is best known. The fine 
 side-face jmrtrait of Godwin by Northcote, in 
 the National Portrait Gallery, preserves for us 
 all the beauty of his intellectual brow and 
 eyes. Another portrait of Gfodwin, full-face, 
 with a long sad nose, by Pickersgill, once to be 
 seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not 
 so pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey 
 gives an imflattering portrait of Godwin at the 
 time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the 
 full-face portrait of the philosopher — "he has 
 large noble eyes, and a nose — oh, most abominable 
 nose ! Language is not vituperations enough to 
 describe the effect of its downward elongation." 
 ■ Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as 
 "friendship melting into. love." They agre^ to 
 
PREFACE xxv 
 
 live together, bat Ood\dn took tooms about 
 twenty doors from tbeir home in the Polygon, 
 Somers Town, as it was one of his theories that 
 Uving together nnder the same roof is destruc- 
 tive of family happiness. Grodwin went to his 
 rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, generally 
 without taUng breakfast with Maiy, and he 
 sometimes slept at his lodgings, lliey rarely 
 met again until dinner-time, unless to take a 
 walk together. During the day this extra- 
 ordinary couple would communicate with each 
 other by means of short letters or notes. 
 Mr. Kegan Paul prints some of these; such as 
 Grodwin's : 
 
 " I will have the honour to dine with you. You 
 ask me whether I can get you four orders. I do 
 not know, but I do not think the thing impos- 
 ^ble. How do you do ? " 
 
 And Mary's : " Fanny is delighted with the 
 thought of dining with yon. But I wish you to 
 eat your meat first, and let her come up with the 
 pudding. I shall probably knock at your door on 
 my way to Opie's ; but should I not find you, let 
 me request you not to be too late this evening. Do 
 not give Fanny butter with her pudding." TMs 
 note is dated April 20, 1797, and probably fixes 
 the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to 
 Opie. 
 
 On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived Jiappily 
 together, with very occasional clouds, mainly due 
 to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed 
 bachelor habits. 
 
xxvi PKEFACE 
 
 Although both were opi>osed to matrimony on 
 principle, they were married at Old St. Fancias 
 Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church 
 being witness. Godwin does not mention the event 
 in his carefully registered diary. The reason for 
 the marriage was that Mary was about to become 
 a mother, and it was for the sake of the child that 
 they deemed it prudent to go through the cere- 
 mony. But it was not made public at once, 
 chiefly for fear that Johnson should cease to help 
 Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Eeveley, two of 
 Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announce- 
 ment of his marriage that they shed tears. 
 
 An interesting description of Mary at this time 
 is given in Southey's letter to Cottle, quoted 
 above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, " Of all 
 the lions or literati I have seen here, Mary Im- 
 lay's countenance is the best, infinitely the best : 
 the only fault in it is an expression somewhat 
 similar to what the prints of Home Tooke display 
 — an expression indicating superiority; not 
 haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but 
 still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, 
 and although the Ud of one of them is a£fected 
 by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning 
 I ever saw." 
 
 Mary busied herself with literary work ; other- 
 wise her short married life was uneventful 
 Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil 
 Montagu to Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and 
 the correspondence between husband and wife 
 during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most 
 
From a photo by Emerj', Walker after the picture lay Opie (probably 
 liaintetl in April, 179T) in the National Portrait Gallery. 
 
 MART WOLLSTONECRAFT. 
 
 This picture passed from Godwin's bands on his death to his 
 grandson, Sir Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards be- 
 queathed to the nation "by his widow, Lady Shelley, It was 
 engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin's memoir of his 
 wife. An engraving of it also api)eared in the Lady's Maffazine, 
 from which the frantisi^iece to this book was made, and a 
 mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in l>Of!. Mrs. Merritt 
 also made an etching of the picture for Mr, Paul's edition of the 
 " Letters to Imlay." 
 
 To face p. xxi'i 
 
PEEFACE xxvii 
 
 delightful reading, and shows how entirely in 
 sympathy they were. 
 
 On August 30, Mary's child was bom, not the 
 William so much desired by them both but 
 Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All 
 seemed well with the mother until September 3, 
 when alarming symptoms appeared. The best 
 medical advice was obtained, but after a week's 
 illness, on Sunday morning, the 10th, at twenty 
 minutes to eight, she sank and died. During her 
 illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was 
 administered, which gave Mary some relief, when 
 she exclaimed, " Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." 
 But, as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that 
 moment Godwin declined to be entrapped into 
 the admission that heaven existed," and his in- 
 stant reply was: "Tou mean, my dear, that your 
 physical sensations are somewhat easier." Mary 
 Godwin, however, did not share her husband's 
 religious doubts. Her sufferings had been great, 
 but her death was a peaceful one. 
 
 Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters 
 that he wrote immediately after her death, and 
 his tribute to her memory in the "Memoirs" 
 testify. Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. 
 Pancras churchyard on September 15, in the 
 presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived 
 tin 1836, when he was laid beside her. Many years 
 afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is 
 said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin's 
 daughter. In 1851,. when the Metropolitan and 
 Midland Railways were constructed at St. 
 
xxviii PEEFACE 
 
 Fancras, the graveyard was destroyed, but the 
 bodies of Mary and William Godwin were 
 removed by their grandson, Sir Percy SheDey, 
 to Boamemouth, where they now rest with his 
 remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 In the year following Mary's death (1798) Gfpd- 
 win edited his wife's " Posthumous Works," in four 
 Yolnmes, in which appeared the letters to Lnlay, 
 and her incomplete novel "The Wrongsof Woman." 
 His tribute to Mary Godwin's memory was also 
 published in 1798, under the title of "Memoirs of 
 the Author of A Vindication of the Bights of 
 Womam," Godwin's novel, " St. Leon " came out in 
 1799 ; his tragedy " Antonio " was produced only 
 to fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won 
 by Mrs. Clairmont, a widow. The Godwin house- 
 hold was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it 
 did, of Fanny Lnlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. (Jod- 
 win's two children, Charles and Claire Clairmont, 
 and also of William, the only child bom of her 
 marriage with Grodwin. In 1812 Shelley began 
 a correspondence with Godwin, which ultimately 
 led to Mary Godwin's elopement with the poet. 
 Poor Fanny Imlay, or Godwin, as she was called 
 after her mother's death, died at the age of nine- 
 teen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life 
 had been far from happy in this strange household 
 She had grown to love SheUey, but his choice had 
 fallen on her half -sister, so she bravely kept her 
 secret to herself. One day she suddenly left home 
 and travelled to Swansea, where she was found 
 lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn 
 
PREFACE xxix 
 
 where she had taken a room, " her long brown 
 hair about her face ; a bottle of laudannm upon 
 the table, and a note which ran thus : ' I have 
 long determined that the best thing I conld do 
 was to put an end to the existence of a being 
 whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has 
 only been a series of pain to those persons who 
 have hurt their health in endeavouring to promote 
 her welfare.' She had with her the little Genevan 
 watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley : 
 and in her purse were a few shillings." ' 
 
 Shelley, afterwaids recalling his last interview 
 with Fanny in London, wrote this stanza : 
 
 " Her voice did quiver aa we parted ; 
 
 Yet knew I not that heart was broken 
 From whence it came, and I departed 
 
 Heeding not the words then spoken. 
 Misery — O Misery, 
 This world is all too wide for thee ! " 
 
 III 
 
 The vicissitudes to which Mary "WoUstonecraft 
 was so largely a prey during her lifetime seem 
 to have pursued her after death. In her own 
 day recognised as a public character, reviled by 
 most of her contemporaries in terms not less 
 ungentle than Horace Walpole's epithets, "a 
 hyena in petticoats " or " a philosophising serpent," 
 posterity has proved hardly more lenient to her. 
 
 • Dowden's " Life of Shelley." 
 
MX PREFACE 
 
 But the vigorous work of this " female patriot " has 
 saved her name from that descent into obscurity 
 which is the reward of many men and women 
 more talented than Mary WoLstonecraft. Eeputed 
 chiefly as an unsexed being, who had written " A 
 Vindication of the Rights of Women," she was 
 not the first woman to hold views on the emanci- 
 pation of her sex ; but her chief crimes were in 
 expressing them for the instruction of the public, 
 and having the courage to live up to her opinions. 
 Whether right or wrong, she paid the i)enalty of 
 violating custom by discussing forbidden subjects. 
 It is true that she detected many social evils, 
 and suggested some excellent remedies for their 
 amelioration, but the time was not rii)e for her 
 book, and she suffered the usual fate of the 
 pioneer. Moreover, her memoir by William God- 
 win, beautiful as it is in many respects, exercised 
 a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her 
 memory. The very fact that she became the wife 
 of 80 notorious a man, was sufficient reason to 
 condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen. 
 
 For two generations after her death practically 
 no attempt was made to remove the stigma from 
 her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan 
 Patd, a man of wide and generous sympathies, 
 made a serious effort to obtain something like 
 justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book 
 on William Godwin, published in 1876, the true 
 story of Mary's life was told for the first time. 
 It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded 
 the history of an unhappy but brave and loyal 
 
PREFACE xiod 
 
 troman, whose faults proceeded from excessive 
 sensibility and from a heart that -was over^ 
 susceptible. Maty Wollstonecraft was an idealist 
 in a very matter-of-fact age, and her outlook on 
 life, like that of most idealists, was strongly 
 affected by her imagination. She saw people and 
 events in brilliant lights or sombre shadows — it 
 was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled 
 her to produce some of her best writing, but it 
 also prevented her from seeing the defects of her 
 worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul's memoir, 
 Mary Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an 
 entirely different aspect, and many there are who 
 have come under the spell of her fascinating 
 personality. It' is not, however, her message alone 
 that now interests us, but the woman herself, her 
 desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her 
 love. Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in 
 the faint mists of the past, a woman that will 
 continue to evoke sympathy when her books are 
 no longer read. But it is safe to predict that the 
 pages reprinted in this volume are not destined 
 to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other 
 writers have been unhappy and have known the 
 pains of unrequited love, but Mary Wollstone- 
 craft addressed these letters with a breaking heart 
 to the man whom she adored, the most passionate 
 love letters in our literature. It is true that she 
 was a votary of Bousseau, and that she had 
 probably assimilated from the study of his work 
 not only many of his views, but something of his 
 style ; it does not, however, appear that she had 
 
TTTii PEEFACE 
 
 any motive in 'writing these letters other than 
 to plead her cause with Imlay. She was far too 
 sensitive to have intended them for publication, 
 and it was only by a mere chance that they 
 were rescued from oblivion. 
 
 December 1907. 
 
 PORTRAITS 
 
 Hast Wollstonbcbapt (Photogravure) FronUtpieee 
 Makt Wollstonbcratt, by Opie. From an 
 
 engraving by Bidley ... facing p. xvi 
 Mast Wollstoiteckaft, from the picture by 
 
 Opie facing p. zzvi 
 
LETTERS 
 TO GILBERT IMLAY 
 
 LETTER I 
 
 Two o'clock {Paris, June 1793]. 
 
 My dear love, after making my 
 arrangements for our snug dinner to- 
 day, I have been taken by storm, 
 and obliged to promise to dine, at an 
 
 early hour, with the Miss s, the 
 
 only day they intend to pass here. 
 I shall however leave the key in the 
 door, and hope to find you at my 
 fire-side when I return, about ieight 
 o'clock. Will you not wait for poor 
 Joan ? — ^whom you wiU find bette;r, 
 and till then think very afiectionately 
 of her. 
 
 Yours, truly, 
 
 Mary, 
 
 1 am sitting down to dinner; so 
 do not send an answer. 
 
 1 
 
LETTERS 
 
 LETTER II 
 
 Past Twelve o'clock, Monday Night 
 [Parvs, Aug. 1793]. 
 
 1 OBEY an emotion of my heart, 
 which made me think of wishing 
 thee, my love, good-night ! before 
 I go to rest, with more tenderness 
 than I can to-morrow, when writing a 
 
 hasty hne or two under Colonel 's 
 
 eye. You can scarcely imagine with 
 what pleasure I anticipate the day, 
 when we are to begin almost to live 
 together; and you would smile to 
 hear how many plans of employment 
 I have in my head, now that I am 
 confident my heart has found peace 
 in your bosom. — Cherish me with 
 that dignified tenderness, which I 
 have only found in you ; and your 
 own dear girl will try to keep under 
 a quickness of feeUng, that has some- 
 times given you pain. — Yes, I will 
 be good, that I may deserve to be 
 happy ; and whilist you love me, I 
 
TO IMLAY S 
 
 cannot again fall into the miserable 
 state, which rendered life a burthen 
 almost too heavy to be borne. 
 
 But, good-night ! — God bless you i 
 Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss — 
 yet I would rather give you the kiss; 
 into the bargain, glowing with grati- 
 tude to Heaven, and affection to you. 
 I like the word affection, because 
 it signifies something habitual ; and 
 we are soon to meet, to try whether 
 we have mind enough to keep our 
 hearts warm. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I wiU be at the barrier a little after 
 ten o'clock to-morrow.^ — Yours — 
 
 LETTER III 
 
 Wednesday Morning [Paris, Aitg. 1793J. 
 
 You have often called me, dear 
 girl, but you would now say good, 
 did you know how very attentive 
 
 * The child is in a suhsequent letter called the 
 "barrier ^rl," probably from a supposition that 
 she owed her existence to this inten'iew. — W. G. 
 
4 LETTERS 
 
 I have been to the ever since I 
 
 came to Paris. I am not however 
 going to trouble you with the account, 
 because I like to see your eyes praise 
 me ; and Milton insinuates, that, 
 during such recitals, there are inter- 
 ruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, 
 when the honey that drops from the 
 hps is not merely words. 
 
 Yet, I shall not (let me tell you 
 before these people enter, to force 
 me to huddle away my letter) be 
 content with only a kiss of duty — 
 you must be glad to see me — ^because 
 you are glad — or I wiU make love 
 to the shade of Mirabeau, to whom 
 my heart continually turned, whilst 
 
 I was talking with Madame , 
 
 forcibly telling me, that it wiU ever 
 have sufficient Avarmth to love, 
 whether I will or not, sentiment, 
 though I so highly respect prin- 
 ciple. — — 
 
 Not that 1 think Mirabeau utterly 
 devoid of principles — Far from it — 
 and, if I had not begun to form a 
 
TO IMLAY . 6 
 
 new theory respecting men, I should, 
 in the vanity of my heart, have 
 imagined that / could have made 
 
 something of his it was composed 
 
 of such materials — Hush ! here they 
 come — and love flies away in the 
 twinkling of an eye, leaving a little 
 brush of his wing on my pale cheeksl 
 
 I hope to see Dr. this morn- 
 ing ; I am going to Mr. 's to 
 
 meet him. , and some others^ 
 
 are invited to dine with us to-day ; 
 and to-morrow T am to spend the 
 day with . 
 
 I shall probably not be able to 
 
 return to to-morrow ; but it is 
 
 no matter, because I must take a 
 carriage, I have so many books, that I 
 immediately want, to take with me. — 
 On Friday then I shall expect you 
 to dine with me — and, if you come a 
 little before dinner, it is so long since 
 I have seen you, you will not be 
 scolded by yours affectionately, 
 
 Mary. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 LETTER IV ^ 
 
 Friday Morning [Paris, Sept. 1793J. 
 
 A MAN, whom a letter from Mr. 
 previously amiounced, called 
 
 here yesterday for the payment of a 
 draft; and, as he seemed disappointed 
 at not finding you at home, I sent 
 
 him to Mr. . I have since seen 
 
 him, and he teUs me that he has 
 settled the business. 
 
 So much for business ! — ^May 1 
 venture to talk a little longer about 
 less weighty aflfairs ? — How are you ? 
 — I have been following you all along 
 the road this comfortless weather ; 
 for, when I am absent from those I 
 love, my imagination is as lively, as 
 if my senses had never been gratified 
 by their presence — I was going to 
 say caresses — and why should I not ? 
 I have found out that I have more 
 
 • This and the thirteen following letters appear 
 to have been written during a separation of several 
 mouths ; the date, Paris. — -w. G. 
 
TO IMLAY 7 
 
 mind than you, in one respect ; be- 
 cause I can, without any violent 
 effort of reason, find food for love 
 in the same object, much longer 
 than you can. — The way to my 
 senses is through my heart : but, 
 forj^ve me Ml^ thmk ^here is some- 
 times' a 3wrte£iSit-£o.-y6ursr" 
 " "With ninety-nine men out of a 
 hundred, a very sufficient dash of 
 foUy is necessary to render a woman 
 piquante, a soft word for desirable ; 
 and, beyond these casual ebuUitions 
 of sympathy, few look for enjoyment 
 by fostering a passion in their hearts. 
 One reason, in short, why I wish my 
 whole sex to become wiser, is, that 
 the foolish ones may not, by their 
 pretty folly, rob those whose sensi- 
 bUity keeps down their vanity, of 
 the few roses that afford them some 
 solace in the thorny road of life. 
 
 I do not know how 1 fell into 
 these reflections, excepting one 
 thought produced it — that these 
 continual separations were necessary 
 
» LETTERS 
 
 to warm your affection.— Of late, 
 we are always separating. — Crack ! — 
 crack! — and away you go. — This 
 joke wears the saUow cast of thought ; 
 for, though I began to write cheer- 
 fully, some melancholy tears have 
 found their way into my eyes, that 
 linger there, whilst a glow of tender- 
 ness at my heart whispers that you 
 are one of the best creatures in the 
 world. — Pardon then the vagaries of 
 a mind, that has been almost " crazed 
 by care," as well as " crossed in hap- 
 less love," and bear with me a little 
 longer ! — ^I'V^hen we are settled in 
 the country together, more duties 
 wiU open before me, and my heart, 
 which now, trembling into peace, 
 is agitated by every emotion that 
 awakens the remembrance of old 
 griefs, will learn to rest on yours, 
 with that dignity your character, not 
 to talk of my own, demands. 
 
 Take care of yourself — and write 
 soon to your own girl (you may add 
 dear, if you please) who sincerely 
 
TO IMLAY 9 
 
 loves you, and will try to convince 
 you of it, by becoming happier. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER V 
 
 Sunday Night [Paris, 1793]. 
 
 I HAVE just received your letter, 
 and feel as if I could not go to bed 
 tranquilly without saying a few words 
 in reply — merely to tell you, that 
 my mind is serene and my heart 
 affectionate. 
 
 Ever since you last saw me in- 
 clined to faint, I have felt some 
 gentle twitches, which make me 
 begin to think, that I am nourishing 
 a creatiu*e who wiU soon be sensible 
 of my care.— This thought has not 
 only produced an overflowing of 
 tenderness to you, but made me 
 very attentive to calm my mind and 
 take exercise, lest I should destroy 
 an object, in whom we are to have a 
 mutual interest, you know. Yester- 
 day—do not smile ! — ^finding that I 
 
10 LETTERS 
 
 hadhurt myself by lifting precipitately 
 a large log of wood, I sat down in an 
 agony, tUl I felt those said twitches 
 again. 
 
 Are you very busy ? 
 
 So you may reckon on its being 
 finished soon, though not before you 
 come home, unless you are detained 
 longer than I now allow myself to 
 beheve you will. — 
 
 Be that as it may, write to me, 
 my best love, and bid me be patient 
 — kindly — and the expressions of 
 kindness wiU again beguile the time, 
 as sweetly as they have done to- 
 night. — Tell me also over and over 
 again, that your happiness (and you 
 deserve to be happy !) is closely 
 connected with mine, and I will try 
 to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes 
 of former discontent, that have too 
 often clouded the sunshine, which 
 you have endeavoured to diffuse 
 through my mind. God bless you ! 
 
TO IMLAY 11 
 
 Take care of yourself, and remember 
 with tenderness your affectionate 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I am going to rest very happy, and 
 you have made me so. — This is the 
 kindest good-night I can utter. 
 
 LETTER VI 
 
 Friday Morning [Paris, Dec. 1793]. 
 
 I AM glad to jBnd that other people 
 can be unreasonable, as well as myself 
 — ^for be it known to thee, that I 
 answered thy first letter, the very 
 night it reached me (Sunday), though 
 thou couldst not receive it before 
 Wednesday, because it was not sent 
 off tiU the next day. — There is a full, 
 true, and particular account, — 
 
 Yet I am not angry with thee, my 
 love, for I think that it is a proof of 
 stupidity, and Ukewise of a milk-and- 
 water affection, which comes to the 
 same thing, when the temper is 
 governed by a square and compass. 
 
12 LETTERS 
 
 — There is nothing picturesque iri 
 this straight-lined equality, and the 
 passions always give grace to the 
 actions. 
 
 Recollection now makes my heart 
 bound to thee; but, it is not to thy 
 money-getting face, though I cannot 
 be seriously displeased with the exer- 
 tion which increases my esteem, or 
 rather is what I should have expected 
 from thy character. — No ; I have thy 
 honest countenance before me — Pop 
 — ^relaxed by tenderness ; a little — 
 httle wounded by my whims ; and 
 thy eyes ghstening with sympathy. — 
 Thy Ups then feel softer than soft — 
 and I rest my cheek on thine, for- 
 getting all the world.— I have not 
 left the hue of love out of the picture 
 — ^the rosy glow; and fancy has 
 spread it over my own cheeks, I 
 believe, for I feel them burning, 
 whilst a delicious tear trembles in ray 
 eye, that would be aU your own, if a 
 grateful emotion directed to the 
 Father of nature, who has made me 
 
TO IMLAY 13 
 
 thus alive to happiness, did not 
 give more warmth to the sentiment 
 it divides — I must pause a moment. 
 
 Need I tell you that I am tranquil 
 after writing thus ? — I do not know 
 why, but I have more confidence 
 in your aflFection, when absent, than 
 present ; nay, I think that you must 
 love me, for, in the sincerity of my 
 heart let me say it, I believe I 
 deserve your tenderness, because I am 
 true, and have a degree of sensibUity 
 that you can see and rehsh. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Mary, 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Swiday Morning [Paris, Dec. 29, 1793]. 
 
 You seem to have taken up your 
 abode at Havre. Pray sir ! when do 
 you think of coming home ? or, to 
 write very considerately, when will 
 business permit you ? I shall expect 
 (as the country people say in. 
 
14 LETTERS 
 
 England) that you will make a 
 power of money to indemnify me 
 for your absence. 
 
 Well ! but, my love, to the old story 
 — am I to see you this week, or this 
 month? — I do not know what you 
 are about — ^for, as you did not tell 
 
 me, I would not ask Mr. , who 
 
 is generally pretty communicative. 
 
 I long to see Mrs. ; not to 
 
 hear from you, so do not give your- 
 self airs, but to get a letter from 
 
 Mr. . And I am half angry 
 
 with you for not informing me 
 whether she had brought one with 
 her or not. — On this score I AviU 
 cork up some of the kind things that 
 were ready to drop from my pen, 
 which has never been dipt in gall when 
 addressing you; or, ^vlll only suffer 
 an exclamation — ■" The creature 1 " or 
 a kind look to escape me, when I pass 
 the sUppers — ^which I could not 
 remove from ray falle door, though 
 
TO IMLAY 15 
 
 they are not the handsomest of their 
 kind. 
 
 Se not too anxious to get money ! — 
 for nothing worth having is to be 
 purchased. God bless you. 
 
 Yours aiFeetionately, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER VIII 
 
 Monday Night [Paris, Dec. SO, 1793]. 
 
 My best love, your letter to-night 
 was particularly gratefiil to my heart, 
 depressed by the letters I received 
 
 by , for he brought me several, 
 
 and the parcel of books directed to 
 
 Mr. was for me. Mr. 's 
 
 letter was long and very aifectionate ; 
 but the account he gives me of his 
 own affairs, though he obviously 
 makes the best of them, has vexed 
 me. 
 
 A melancholy letter from my 
 
 sister has also harrassed my 
 
 mind — ^that from my brother would 
 
16 LETTERS 
 
 have given me sincere pleasure ; but 
 
 for 
 
 ***** 
 
 There is a spirit of independence in 
 his letter, that will please you ; and 
 you shall see it, when we are once 
 more over the fire together.— I think 
 that you would hail him as a brother, 
 with one of your tender looks, when 
 your heart not only gives a lustre to 
 your eye, but a dance of playfulness, 
 that he would meet vdth a glow 
 half made up of bashfulness, and a 
 
 desire to please the where shall I 
 
 find a word to express the relationship 
 which subsists between us ? — ShaU I 
 ask the little twitcher ? — But I have 
 dropt half the sentence that was to 
 tell you how much he would be 
 inchned to love the man loved by 
 his sister. I have been fancying my- 
 self sitting between you, ever since I 
 began to -write, and my heart has 
 leaped at the thought ! You see how 
 I chat to you. 
 
 I did not receive your letter till I 
 
TO IMLAY 17 
 
 came home; and I did not expect 
 it, for the post came in much later 
 than usual. It was a cordial to me — 
 and I wanted one. 
 
 Mr. tells me that he has 
 
 written again and again. — Love him 
 a Uttle ! — It would be a kind of 
 separation, if you did not love those 
 I love. 
 
 There was so much considerate 
 tenderness in your epistle to-night, 
 that, if it has not made you dearer 
 to me, it has -made me forcibly feel 
 how very dear you are to me, by 
 charming away half my cares. 
 
 Yours aflfectionately. 
 
 Maky. 
 
 LETTER IX 
 
 Tuesday Morning [Pam, Dec. 31, 179S]. 
 
 Though I have just sent a letter 
 
 off, yet, as captain oflfers to take 
 
 one, I am not wUling to let him go 
 without a kind greeting, because 
 trifles of this sort, vidthout having 
 
18 LETTERS 
 
 any effect on my mind, damp my 
 spirits : — and you, with all your 
 struggles to be manly, have some of 
 his same sensibility. — ^Do not bid it 
 begone, for 1 love to see it striving 
 to master your features ; besides, 
 these kind of sjnnpathies are the life 
 of affection : and why, in cultivating 
 our understandings, should we try to 
 dry up these springs of pleasure, 
 which gush out to give a fi-e^iness to 
 days browned by care ! 
 • The books sent to me are such as 
 we may read together; so I shall 
 not look into them tiU you retiu"n ; 
 when you shall read, whilst I mend 
 my stockings. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER X 
 
 Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794]. 
 
 As I have been, you tell me, three 
 days without writing, I ought not to 
 complain of two : yet, as I expected 
 
TO IMLAY 19 
 
 to receive, a letter this afternoon, I 
 am hurt ; and why should I, by con- 
 cealing it, affect the heroism I do 
 not feel? 
 
 1 hate commerce. How differ- 
 ently must 's head and heart 
 
 be organized from minel You will 
 tell me, that exertions are necessary : 
 I am weary of them ! The face of 
 things, public and private, vexes me. 
 The " peace " and clemency which 
 seemed to be dawning a few days 
 ago, disappear again. " I am fallen," 
 as MUton said, " on evil days ; " for I 
 really believe that Europe will be in 
 a state of convulsion, during half a 
 century at least. Life is but a labour 
 of patienee: it is always rolUng a 
 great stone up a hill ; for, before a 
 person can find a resting-place, im- 
 agining it is lodged, down it comes 
 again, and all the work is to be done 
 over anew ! 
 
 Should I attempt to write any 
 more, I could not change the strain. 
 My head aches, and my heart is heavy. 
 
20 LETTERS 
 
 The world appears an " unweeded 
 garden," where "things rank and 
 vile " flourish best. 
 
 If you do not return soon — or, 
 which is no such mighty matter, talk 
 of it — I wiU throw your slippers out 
 at window, and be off — nobody knows 
 where. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Finding that I was observed, I 
 told the good women, the two Mrs. 
 
 s, simply that I was with child : 
 
 and let them stare ! and , and 
 
 , nay, aU the world, may know 
 
 it for aught I care ! — Yet I wish to 
 avoid 's coarse jokes. 
 
 Considering the care and anxiety 
 a woman must have about a child 
 before it comes into the world, it 
 seems to me, by a natural nght, to 
 belong to her. When men get im- 
 mersed in the world, they seem to 
 lose all sensations, excepting those 
 necessary to continue or produce 
 life ! — Are these the privileges of 
 
TO IMLAY 21 
 
 reason ? Amongst the feathered race, 
 whilst the hen keeps the young warm, 
 her mate stays by to cheer her ; but 
 it is sufficient for man to condescend 
 to get a child, in order to claim it. — 
 A man is a tyrant ! 
 
 You may now tell me, that, if it 
 were not for me, you would be laugh- 
 ing away with some honest fellows in 
 London. The casual exercise of social 
 sympathy would not be sufficient for 
 me — I should not think such an 
 heartless life worth preserving. — It is 
 necessary to be in good-humour 
 with you, to be pleased with the 
 world. 
 
 Thursday Morning [Paris, Jan. 2, 1794], 
 
 I WAS very low-spirited last night, 
 ready to quarrel with your cheerful 
 temper, which makes absence easy 
 to you. — And, why should I mince 
 the matter ? I was offended at your 
 not even mentioning it — I do not 
 want to be loved like a goddess but 
 
22 LETTERS 
 
 I wish to be necessary to you. God 
 bless you ! ^ 
 
 LETTER XI 
 
 Monday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794J. 
 
 I HAVE just received your kind and 
 rational letter, and would fain hide 
 my face, glowing with shame for my 
 folly. — I would hide it in your bosom, 
 if you would again open it to me, 
 and nestle closely till you bade my 
 fluttering heart be still, by saying that 
 you forgave me. With eyes over- 
 flowing with tears, and in the humblest 
 attitude, I entreat you. — Do not turn 
 from me, for indeed I love you fondly, 
 and have been very wretched, since 
 the night I was so cruelly hurt by 
 thinking that you had no confidence 
 in me 
 
 It is time for me to grow more 
 reasonable, a few more of these 
 
 ' Some further letters^ written during the re- 
 mainder of the week, in a similar stram to the 
 preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the 
 person to whom they were addressed. — W. G. 
 
TO IMLAY 23 
 
 caprices of sensibility would destroy 
 me. I have, in fact, been very much 
 indisposed for a few days past, and 
 the notion that I was tormenting, 
 or perhaps killing, a poor little 
 animal, about whom I am grown 
 anxious and tender, now I feel it 
 alive, made me worse. My bowels 
 have been dreadfully disordered, and 
 every thing I ate or drank disagreed 
 with my stomach ; still I feel mtima- 
 tions of its existence, though they 
 have been fainter. 
 
 Do you think that the creature goes 
 regularly to sleep? I am ready to 
 ask as many questions as Voltaire's 
 Man of Forty Crowns. Ah ! do not 
 continue to be angry with me ! You 
 perceive that I am already smiling 
 through my tears — ^You have light- 
 ened my heart, and my frozen spirits 
 are melting into plajdfulness. 
 
 Write the moment you receive 
 this. I shall count the minutes. 
 But drop not an angry word — I 
 <3annot now bear it. Yet, if you 
 
24 LETTERS 
 
 think I deserve a scolding (it does 
 not admit of a question, I grant), 
 "wait till you come back — and then, 
 if you are angry one day, I shall be 
 sure of seeing you the next. 
 
 did not -write to you, I 
 
 suppose, because he talked of going 
 to Havre. Hearing that I was ill, 
 he called very kindly on me, not 
 dreaming that it was some words that 
 he incautiously let feU, which rendered 
 me so. 
 
 God bless you, my love ; do not 
 shut your heart against a return of 
 tenderness ; and, as I now in fancy 
 cling to you, be more than ever my 
 support. — Feel but as affectionate 
 when you read this letter, as I did 
 writing it, and you will make happy 
 
 y°^ maky. 
 
 LETTER XII 
 
 Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]. 
 I WILL never, if I am not entirely 
 cured of quarrelling, begin to en- 
 
TO IMLAY 25 
 
 courage "quick-coming fancies," when 
 we are separated. Yesterday, my 
 love, I could not open your letter for 
 some time ; and, though it was not 
 half as severe as I merited, it threw 
 me into such a fit of trembling, as 
 seriously alarmed me. I did not, as 
 you may suppose, care for a little 
 pain on my own account ; but all the 
 fears which I have had for a few days 
 past, returned with fresh force. This 
 morning I am better ; will you not 
 be glad to hear it ? You perceive that 
 sorrow has almost made a child of me, 
 and that I want to be soothed to peace. 
 One thing you mistake in my cha- 
 racter, and imagine that to be coldness 
 which is just the contrary. For, 
 when I am hurt by the person most 
 dear to me, I must let out a whole 
 torrent of emotions, in which tender- 
 ness would be uppermost, or stifle 
 them altogether; and it appears to 
 me almost a duty to stifle them, when 
 I imagine that I am treated with 
 coldness. 
 
26 LETTERS 
 
 I am lafraid that 1 have vexed you, 
 my own [Imlay]. I know the quick- 
 ness of your feelings — and let me, in 
 the sincerity of my heart, assure you, 
 there is nothing I would not suflFer 
 to make you happy. My o-mti happi- 
 ness wholly depends on you — and, 
 knowing you, when my reason is not 
 clouded, I look forward to a rational 
 prospect of as much feMcity as the 
 earth affords — ^with a Uttle dash of 
 rapture into the bargain, if you will 
 look at me, when we work again, as 
 you have sometimes greeted, your 
 humbled, yet most affectionate 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XIII 
 
 Thursday Night [Pam, Ja7i. 1794]. 
 
 I HAVE been wishing the time away, 
 my kind love, unable to rest till I 
 knew that my penitential letter had 
 reached your hand — and this after- 
 noon, when your tender epistle of 
 
TO IMLAY 27 
 
 Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure 
 to your poor sick girl, her heart smote 
 her to think that you were still to 
 receive another cold one. — Burn it 
 also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget 
 that even those letters were full of 
 love ; and I shall ever recollect, that 
 you did not wait to be moUified by 
 my penitence, before you took me 
 again to your heart. 
 
 I have been unwell, and would 
 not, now I am recovering, take a 
 journey, because I have been seriously 
 alarmed and angry with myself, 
 dreading continually the fatal con- 
 sequence of my foUy. — But, should 
 you think it right to remain at 
 Havre, I shall find some opportunity, 
 in the course of a fortnight, or less 
 perhaps, to come to you, and before 
 then I shall be strong again. — Yet 
 do not be uneasy ! I am really 
 better, and never took such care of 
 myself, as I have done since you 
 restored my peace of mind. The 
 girl is come to warm my bed — ^so I 
 
28 LETTERS 
 
 will tenderly say, good-night ! and 
 write a line or two in the morning. 
 
 Morning. 
 
 I WISH you were here to walk 
 with me this fine morning ! yet your 
 absence shall not prevent me. I have 
 stayed at home too much ; though, 
 when I was so dreadfully out of 
 spirits, I was careless of every thing. 
 
 I will now sally forth (you will 
 go with me in my heart) and try 
 whether this fine bracing air will 
 not give the vigour to the poor babe, 
 it had, before I so inconsiderately 
 gave way to the grief that deranged 
 my bowels, and gave a turn to my 
 whole system. 
 
 Yours truly 
 JMaiiy Imlay. 
 
 LETTER XIV 
 
 Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. ] 794]. 
 
 The two or three letters, which I 
 have written to you lately, my love. 
 
TO IMLAY 29 
 
 will serve as an answer to your ex- 
 planatory one. I cannot but respect 
 your motives and conduct. I always 
 respected them ; and was only 
 hurt, by what seemed to me a want 
 of confidence, and consequently 
 affection. — I thought also, that if 
 you were obliged to stay three 
 months at Havre, I might as well 
 have been with you. — Well! well, 
 what signifies what I brooded over 
 — Let us now be friends ! 
 
 I shall probably receive a letter 
 from you to-day, sealing my pardon 
 — and I will be careful not to tor- 
 ment you with my querulous humours, 
 at least, till I see you again. Act 
 as circumstances direct, and I will 
 not enquire when they will permit 
 you to return, convinced that you 
 will hasten to your Mary, when you 
 have attained (or lost sight of) the 
 object of your journey. 
 
 What a picture have you sketched 
 of our fire-side ! Yes, my love, my 
 fancy was instantly at work, and 
 
30 LETTERS 
 
 I found my head on your shoulder, 
 whilst my eyes were fixed on the 
 little creatures that were clinging 
 about your knees. I did not 
 absolutely determine that there 
 should be six — if you have not set 
 your heart on this round number. 
 
 I am going to dine with Mrs. . 
 
 I have not been to visit her since the 
 first day she came to Paris. I wish 
 indeed to be out in the air as much as 
 I can ; for the exercise I have taken 
 these two or three days past, has been 
 of such service to me, that I hope 
 shortly to tell you, that I am quite 
 well. 1 have scarcely slept before last 
 night, and then not much. — The two 
 
 Mrs. s have been very anxious 
 
 and tender. 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I need not desire you to give the 
 colonel a good bottle of wine. 
 
TO IMLAY 31 
 
 LETTER XV 
 
 Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]. 
 
 I WROTE to you yesterday, my 
 [Imlay] ; but, finding that the colonel 
 is stUl detained (for his passport was 
 forgotten at the office yesterday) I am 
 not wiUing to let so many days elapse 
 without your hearing from me, after 
 having talked of illness and appre- 
 hensions. 
 
 I cannot boast of being quite 
 recovered, yet I am (I must use my 
 Yorkshire phrase ; for, when my 
 heart is warm, pop come the ex- 
 pressions of childhood into my head) 
 so lightsome, that I think it will not 
 go badly with me. — And nothing shall 
 be wanting on my part, 1 assure you ; 
 for I am urged on, not only by an 
 enlivened aiFection for you, but by 
 a new-born tenderness that plays 
 cheerly round my dilating heart. 
 
 I was therefore, in defiance of cold 
 and dirt, out in the air the greater 
 
32 LETTERS 
 
 part of yesterday ; and, if I get over 
 this evehing without a return of the 
 fever that has tormented me, I shall 
 talk no more of illness. I have 
 promised the little creature, that its 
 mother, who ought to cherish it, will 
 not again plague it, and begged it to 
 pardon me ; and, since I could not 
 hug. either it or you to my breast, 
 I have to my heart. — I am afraid to 
 read over this prattle — ^but it is only 
 for your eye. 
 
 I have been seriously vexed, to find 
 that, whilst you were harrassed by 
 impediments in your undertakings, I 
 was giving you additional uneasiness. 
 — If you can make any of your plans 
 answer — it is weU, I do not think a 
 little money inconvenient ; but, should 
 they fail, we will struggle cheerfully 
 together — drawn closer by the pinch- 
 ing blasts of poverty. 
 
 Adieu, my love ! Write often to 
 your poor girl, and write long letters ; 
 for I not only like them for being 
 longer, but because more heart steals 
 
TO IMLAY 33 
 
 into them ; and I am happy to catch 
 your heart whenever I can. 
 
 Yours sincerely 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XVI 
 
 Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]. 
 
 I SEIZE this opportunity to inform 
 you, that I am to set out on Thursday 
 
 with Mr. , and hope to tell you 
 
 soon (on your lips) how glad I shall 
 be to see you. I have just got my 
 passport, for I do not foresee any im- 
 pediment to my reaching Havre, to 
 bid you good-night next Friday in 
 my new apartment — where I am to 
 meet you and love, in spite of care, 
 to smile me to sleep — for I have not 
 caught much rest since we parted. 
 
 You have, by yovu* tenderness and 
 worth, twisted yourself more artfully 
 round my heart, than I supposed pos- 
 sible. — Let me indulge the thought, 
 that I have thrown out some tendrils 
 to cling to the elm by which I wish 
 to be supported. — This is talking a 
 
 3 
 
34 LETTERS 
 
 new language for me ! — But, know- 
 ing that I am not a parasite-plant, I 
 am willing to receive the proofs of 
 affection, that every pulse replies to, 
 when I think of being once more in 
 the same house with you. God bless 
 you ! Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XVII 
 
 Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]. 
 I ONLY send this as an avant- 
 coureur, without jack-boots, to tell 
 you, that I am again on the wing, 
 and hope to be with you a few hours 
 after you receive it. I shall find you 
 well, and composed, I am sure ; or, 
 more properly speaking, cheerful. — 
 What is the reason that my spirits 
 are not as manageable as yours ? 
 Yet, now I think of it, I will not 
 allow that your temper is even, 
 though I have promised myself, in 
 order to obtain my own forgiveness, 
 that I wiU not ruffle it for a long, 
 long time — I am afraid to say never. 
 
TO IMLAY 35 
 
 Farewell for a moment ! — Do not 
 forget that I am driving towards you 
 in person I My mind, unfettered, 
 has flown to you long since, or rather 
 has never left you. 
 
 I am well, and have no apprehension 
 that I shall find the journey too 
 fatiguing, when I follow the lead of 
 my heart. — ^With my face turned to 
 Havre my spirits will not sink — and 
 my mind has always hitherto enabled 
 my body to do whatever I wished. 
 Yours affectionately, 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XVIIl 
 
 Thursday Morning, Havre^ March 12 [1794]. 
 
 We are such creatures of habit, my 
 love, that, though I cannot say I was 
 sorry, childishly so, for your going,^ 
 when I knew that you were to stay 
 such a short time, and I had a plan 
 
 ' Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending 
 a fortnight at Havre, but he returned to Mary soon 
 after the date of Letter XIX In August he went 
 to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In 
 September Imlay visited London on business. 
 
36 LETTERS 
 
 of employment ; yet I could not sleep. 
 — I turned to your side of the bed, 
 and tried to make the most of the 
 comfort of the pillow, which you used 
 to teU me I was churlish about ; but 
 aU would not do. — 1 took neverthe- 
 less my walk before breakfast, though 
 the weather was not very inviting — 
 and here I am, wishing you a finer 
 day, and seeing you peep over my 
 shoulder, as I write, with one of your 
 kindest looks — ^when youreyes glisten, 
 and a suffusion creeps over your re- 
 laxing features. 
 
 But I do not mean to dally with 
 you this morning — So God bless you ! 
 Take care of yourself — and sometimes 
 fold to your heart your affectionate 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XIX 
 
 [Havre, March, 1794]. 
 
 Do not caU me stupid, for leaving 
 
 on the table the little bit of paper I 
 
 was to inclose. — This comes of being 
 
 in love at the fag-end of a letter of 
 
TO IMLAY 37 
 
 business. — ^You know, you say, they 
 will not chime together. — I had got 
 you by the fire-side, with the gigot 
 smoking on the board, to lard your 
 poor bare ribs — and behold, I closed 
 my letter without taking the paper 
 up, that was directly under my eyes ! 
 What had I got in them to render 
 me so blind ? — I give you leave to 
 answer the question, if you will not 
 scold ; for 1 am. 
 
 Yours most ajffectionately, 
 
 Maky. 
 
 LETTER XX 
 
 \Hame\ Sunday, August 17 [1794]. 
 
 # * * * « 
 
 I HAVE promised to go with 
 
 him to his country-house, where he 
 is now permitted to dine — I, and the 
 little darling, to be sure^ — whom I 
 cannot help kissing with more fond- 
 ness, since you left us. I think I 
 
 ' The child spoken of in some preceding letters, 
 had now been born a considerable time. She was 
 bom. May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny. — W. G. 
 
88 LETTERS 
 
 shall enjoy the fine prospect, and 
 that it will rather enliven, than 
 satiate my imagination. 
 
 I have called on Mrs. . She has 
 
 the manners of a gentlewoman, with 
 a dash of the easy French coquetry, 
 which renders her piquante. — But 
 Monsieur her hushand, whom nature 
 never dreamed of casting in either the 
 mould of a gentleman or lover, makes 
 but an aukward figure in the fore- 
 ground of the picture. 
 
 The H s are very ugly, without 
 
 doubt — and the house smelt of com- 
 merce from top to toe — so that his 
 abortive attempt to display taste, 
 only proved it to be one of the things 
 not to be bought with gold. I was 
 in a room a moment alone, and my at- 
 tention was attracted by the pendule 
 — ^A nymph was offering up her vows 
 before a smoking altar, to a fat-bot- 
 tomed Cupid (saving your presence), 
 who was kicking his heels in the 
 air. — Ah ! kick on, thought I ; for 
 the demon of traffic will ever fright 
 
TO IMLAY 39 
 
 away the loves and graces, that streak 
 with the rosy beams of infant fancy 
 the sombre day of Kfe — whilst the 
 imagination, not allowing us to see 
 things as they are, enables us to 
 catch a hasty draught of the run- 
 ning stream of delight, the thirst for 
 which seems to be given only to 
 tantahze us. 
 
 But I am philosophizing; nay,: 
 perhaps you wiU caU me severe, 
 and bid me let the square-headed 
 money-getters alone. — ^Peaceto them ! 
 though none of the social sprites (and 
 there are not a few of different de- 
 scriptions, who sport about the various 
 inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch 
 to restrain my pen. 
 
 I have been writing on, expecting 
 
 poor to come ; for, when I 
 
 began, I merely thought of business ; 
 and, as this is the idea that most 
 naturally associates with your image, 
 I wonder I stumbled on any other. 
 
 Yet, as common life, in my opinion, 
 is scarcely worth having, even with a 
 
40 LETTERS 
 
 ^got every day, and a pudding added 
 thereunto, I will allow you to culti- 
 vate my judgment, if you will permit 
 me to keep alive the sentiments in 
 your heart, which may be termed 
 romantic, because, the offspring of 
 the senses and the imagination, they 
 resemble the mother more than the 
 father,* when they produce the 
 suffusion I admire. — In spite of icy 
 age, I hope still to see it, if you have 
 not determined only to eat and drink, 
 and be stupidly useful to the stupid — 
 
 Yours, 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXI 
 
 Havre^ August 19 [1794] Tuesday. 
 
 I RECEIVED both your letters to-day 
 — I had reckoned on hearing from 
 you yesterday, therefore was disap- 
 pointed, though I imputed your 
 silence to the right cause. I intended 
 
 ' She means, " the latter more than the former " 
 — W. G. 
 
TO IMLAY 41 
 
 answering , your kind letter immedi- 
 ately, that you might have felt the 
 
 pleasure it gave me ; but came 
 
 in, and some other things interrupted 
 me ; so that the fine vapour has 
 evaporated — ^yet, leaving a sweet scent 
 behind, I have only to teU you, what 
 is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest 
 desire I have shown to keep my place, 
 or gain more ground in your heart, 
 is a sure proof how necessary your 
 affection is to my happiness. — Still I 
 do not think it false delicacy, or 
 foolish pride, to wish that your at- 
 tention to my happiness should arise 
 as much from love, which is always 
 rather a selfish passion, as reason — 
 that is, I want you to promote my 
 felicity, by seeking your own. — For, 
 whatever pleasure it may give me to 
 discover your generosity of soul, 1 
 would not be dependent for your 
 affection on the very quality I most 
 admire. No ; there are qualities in 
 your heart, which demand my affec- 
 tion ; but, unless the attachment 
 
42 LETTERS 
 
 appears to me clearly mutual, I shall 
 labour only to esteem your character, 
 instead of cherishing a tenderness for 
 your person. 
 
 I write in a hurry, because the little 
 one, who has been sleeping a long 
 time, begins to call for me. Poor 
 thing ! when I am sad, I lament that 
 aU my aflfections grow on me, tiU 
 they become too strong for my peace, 
 though they aU afford me snatches 
 of exquisite enjoyment — This for our 
 Uttle girl was at first very reasonable 
 — more the effect of reason, a sense 
 of duty, than feeling — now, she has 
 got into my heart and imagination, 
 and when I walk out without her, her, 
 Uttle figure is ever dancing before me. 
 
 You too have somehow clung round 
 my heart — I found I could not eat 
 my dinner in the gi-eat room — and, 
 when I took up the large knife to 
 carve for myself, tears rushed into 
 my eyes. — Do not however suppose 
 that I am melancholy — for, when you 
 are from me, I not only wonder how 
 
TO IMLAY 4S 
 
 I can find. fault with you — but how 
 I can doubt your affection. 
 
 I will not mix any comments on 
 the inclosed (it roused my indignation) 
 with the efiiision of tenderness, with 
 which I assure you, that you are the 
 friend of my bosom, and the prop 
 of my heart. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXII 
 
 Havre, August 20 [1794]. 
 
 I WANT to know what steps you 
 
 have taken respecting . Knavery 
 
 always rouses my indignation — ^^I 
 should be gratified to hear that the 
 
 law had chastised severely; but 
 
 I do not wish you to see him, because 
 the business does not now admit of 
 peaceful discussion, and I do not ex- 
 actly know how you would express 
 your contempt. 
 
 Pray ask some questions about 
 TaDien — I am still pleased with the 
 dignity of his conduct. — The other 
 
44 LETTERS 
 
 day, in the cause of humanity, he 
 made use of a degree of address, which 
 I admire — and mean to point out to 
 you, as one of the few instances of 
 address which do credit to the abiUties 
 of the man, without t^^j pg awa y 
 ^SaJiaJJiaUfiBfidQBSejii^h^^^ 
 . of hea rt, which is the to^basig_pf 
 
 ^oth^uBK3s^.4ymlirffi^SEr 
 
 JJo not suppose that I mean to 
 allude to a Uttle reserve of temper in 
 you, of which I have sometimes com- 
 plained ! You have been used to a 
 cunning woman, and you almost look 
 for cunning — Nay, in managing my 
 happiness, you now and then wounded 
 my sensibility, concealing yourself, 
 tUl honest sympathy, gi^Tng you to 
 me without disguise, lets me look 
 into a heart, which my half-broken 
 one wishes to creep into, to be re- 
 vived and cherished. — Youhavefrank- 
 ness of heart, but not often exactly 
 that overflowing {epanchement de 
 ca?Mr), whichbecomingalmost childish, 
 appears a weakness only to the weak. 
 
TO IMLAY 45 
 
 But I have left poor Tallien. I 
 wanted you to enquire likewise 
 whether, as a member declared in 
 the convention, Robespierre really 
 maintained a nuvnber of mistresses. — 
 Should it prove so, I suspect that 
 they rather flattered his vanity than 
 his senses. 
 
 Here is a chatting, desultory epistle I 
 But do not suppose that I mean to 
 close it vpithout mentioning the little 
 damsel — who has been almost spring- 
 ing out of my arm — she certainly 
 looks very like you — but I do not 
 love her the less for that, whether 
 1 am angry or pleased with you. 
 Yours affectionately, 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXIII ^ 
 
 \Pans\ September 22 [1794]. 
 
 I HAVE just written two letters,, 
 that are going by other conveyances, 
 
 ' This is the first of a series of letters written 
 during a separation of many months, to which no 
 cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent 
 from Parisj and bear the address of London. — W. G. 
 
46 LETTERS 
 
 and which 1 reckon on your receiving 
 long before this. I therefore merely 
 write, because I know I should be 
 disappointed at seeing any one who 
 had left you, if you did not send a 
 letter, were it ever so short, to tell 
 me why you did not write a longer 
 — and you wiU want to be told, 
 over and over again, that our httle 
 Hercules is quite recovered. 
 
 Besides looking at me, there are 
 three other things, which deUght her 
 — ^to ride in a coach, to look at a 
 scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music 
 —yesterday, at the fete, she enjoyed 
 the two latter ; but, to honour J. J. 
 Rousseau, 1 intend to give her a sash, 
 the first she has ever had round her 
 — and why not ? — for I have always 
 been half in love with him. 
 
 Well, this you will say is trifling — 
 shall I talk about alum or soap ? 
 There is nothing picturesque in yoxir 
 present pursuits ; my imagination 
 then rather chuses to ramble back to 
 the barrier with you, or to see you 
 
TO IMLAY 47 
 
 icoming to meet me, and my basket 
 of grapes. — With what pleasure do 
 I recollect your looks and words, 
 when I have been sitting on the 
 window, regarding the waving com ! 
 Believe me, sage sir, you have not 
 sufficient respect for the imagination 
 — I could prove to you in a trice 
 that it is the mother of sentiment, 
 the great distinction of our nature, 
 the only purifier of the passions — 
 animals have a portion of reason, and 
 equal, if not more exquisite, senses ; 
 but no trace of imagination, or her 
 offspring taste, appears in any of their 
 actions. The impulse of the senses, 
 passions, if you will, and the con- 
 clusions of reason, drawmen together ; 
 but the imagination is the true fire, 
 stolen from heaven, to animate this 
 cold creature of clay, producing .aU 
 those fine sympathies that lead to 
 rapture, rendering men social by ex- 
 panding their hearts, instead of leaving 
 them leisure to calculate how many 
 comforts society affords. 
 
48 LEITERS 
 
 If you call these observations 
 romantic, a phrase in this place which 
 would be tantamount to nonsensical, 
 I shall be apt to retort, that you are 
 embruted by trade, and the vulgar 
 enjoyments of life — Bring me then 
 back your barrier-face, or you shall 
 have nothing to say to my barrier- 
 girl; and I shall fly from you, to 
 cherish the remembrances that wiU 
 ever be dear to me ; for I am yours 
 truly, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXIV 
 
 [Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794]. 
 
 I HAVE been playing and laughing 
 with the little girl so long, that I 
 cannot take up my pen to address 
 you without emotion. Pressing her 
 to my bosom, she looked so hke you 
 (entre nous, your best looks, for I do 
 not admire your commercial face) 
 every nerve seemed to vibrate to the 
 touch, and I began to think that 
 
TO IMLAY 49 
 
 there was something in the assertion 
 of man and wife being one — for you 
 seemed to pervade my whole frame, 
 quickening the beat of my heart, and 
 lending me the sjnnpathetic tears you 
 excited. 
 
 Have I any thing more to say to 
 you ? No ; not for the present — the 
 rest is all flown away ; and, indulging; 
 tenderness for you, I cannot now 
 complain of some people here, who 
 have ruffled my temper for two or 
 three days past. 
 
 [Paris, 1794] Morning. 
 
 Yesterday B sent to me for 
 
 my packet of letters. He called on 
 me before; and I like him better 
 than I did — ^that is, I have the same 
 opinion of his understanding, but I 
 think with you, he has more tender- 
 ness and real delicacy of feeling with 
 respect to women, than are commonly 
 to be met with. His manner too of 
 speaking of his little girl, about the 
 
 4 
 
50 LETTERS 
 
 age of mine, interested me. I gave 
 him a letter for my sister, and re- 
 quested him to see her. 
 
 I have been interrupted. Mr. 
 
 I suppose will "Write about business. 
 Public aflfairs I do not descant on, ex- 
 cept to tell you that they write now 
 with great jEreedom and truth ; and 
 this hberty of the press wiU over- 
 throw the Jacobins, I plainly 
 perceive. 
 
 I hope you take care of your 
 health. I have got a habit of rest- 
 lessness at night, which arises, I be- 
 heve, from activity of mind ; for, 
 when I am alone, that is, not near 
 one to whom I can open my heart. 
 I sink into reveries and trains of 
 thinking, which agitate and fatigue 
 me. 
 
 This is my third letter ; when am 
 I to hear from you ? I need not tell 
 you, I suppose, that I am now 
 writing with somebody in the room 
 
 with me, and is waiting to 
 
 carry this to Mr. 's. I will then 
 
TO IMLAY 51 
 
 kiss the girl for you, and bid you 
 adieu. 
 
 I desired you, in one of my other 
 letters, to bring back to me your 
 barrier-face — or that you should not 
 be loved by my barrier-girl. I know- 
 that you wUl love her more and 
 more, for she is a httle affectionate, 
 inteUigent creature, with as much 
 vivacity, I should think, as you could 
 wish for. 
 
 I was going to teU you of two or 
 three things which displease me here ;. 
 but they are not of sufficient con- 
 sequence to interrupt pleasing sensa- 
 tions. I have received a letter from 
 
 Mr. . I want you to bring 
 
 with you. Madame S is by me, 
 
 reading a German translation of your 
 letters — she desires me to give her love 
 to you, on account of what you say 
 of the negroes. 
 
 Yours most affectionately, 
 
 Mary. 
 
52 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XXV 
 
 Paris, Sept. 28 [1794]. 
 
 I HAVE written to you three or 
 four letters ; but different causes have 
 prevented my sending them by the 
 persons who promised to take or 
 forward them. The inclosed is one 
 
 I wrote to go by B ; yet, finding 
 
 that he will not arrive, before I hope, 
 and believe, you will have set out 
 on your return, I inclose it to you, 
 
 and shall give it in charge to , 
 
 as Mr. is detained, to whom 
 
 I also gave a letter. 
 
 I cannot help being anxious to 
 iear from you ; but I shall not 
 iiarrass you with accounts of in- 
 quietudes, or of cares that arise from 
 pecuUar circumstances. — I have had 
 so many little plagues here, that I 
 have almost lamented that I left 
 
 Havre. , who is at best a most 
 
 helpless creature, is now, on account 
 of her pregnancy, more trouble than 
 
TO IMLAY 5S 
 
 use to me, so that I still continue 
 to be almost a slave to the child. — 
 She indeed rewards me, for she is a 
 sweet little creature ; for, setting 
 aside a mother's fondness (which, by 
 the bye, is growing on me, her little 
 intelligent smiles sinking into my 
 heart), she has an astonishing degree 
 of sensibility and observation. The 
 
 other day by B 's child, a fine 
 
 one, she looked like a little sprite. — 
 She is all life and motion, and her 
 eyes are not the eyes of a fool — I will 
 swear. 
 
 I slept at St. Germain's, in the 
 very room (if you have not forgot) 
 in which you pressed me very tenderly 
 to your heart. — I did not forget to 
 fold my darling to mine, with sensa- 
 tions that are almost too sacred to 
 be alluded to. 
 
 Adieu, my love ! Take care of 
 yourself, if you wish to be the pro- 
 tector of your child, and the comfort 
 of her mother. 
 
 I have received, for you, letters 
 
54 LETTERS 
 
 from — ; . I want to hear how 
 
 that affair finishes, though I do not 
 know whether I have most contempt 
 for his folly or knavery. 
 
 Your own 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXVI 
 
 [Paris] October 1 [1794]. 
 
 It is a heartless task to write 
 letters, without knowing whether 
 they will ever reach you. — I have 
 
 given two to -, who has been 
 
 •a-going, a-going, every day, for a 
 week past ; and three others, which 
 ;were written in a low-spirited strain, 
 a httle querulous or so, I have not 
 been able to forward by the oppor- 
 tunities that were mentioned to me. 
 Tant mieux ! you wUl say, and I will 
 not say nay ; for I should be sorry 
 that the contents of a letter, when 
 you are so far away, should damp 
 the pleasure that the sight of it 
 
TO IMLAY 55 
 
 would afford — -judgingof your feelings 
 by my own. I just now stumbled 
 on one of the kind letters, which you 
 wrote during your last absence. You 
 are then a dear affectionate creature, 
 and I wiU not plague you. The 
 letter which you chance to receive, 
 when the absence is so long, ought 
 to bring only, tears of tenderness, 
 without any bitter aUoy, into your 
 eyes. 
 
 After your return I hope indeed, 
 that you will not be so immersed in 
 business, as during the last three or 
 four months past — for even money, 
 taking into the account all the future 
 comforts it is to procure, may be 
 gained at too dear a rate, if painful 
 impressions are left on the mind. — 
 ■These impressions were much more 
 lively, soon after you went away, 
 than at present — for a thousand 
 tender recollections efface the melan- 
 choly traces they left on my mind — 
 jand every emotion is on the same side 
 as my reason, which always was on 
 
56 LETTERS 
 
 yours.-^Separated, it would be al- 
 most impious to dwell on real or 
 imaginary imperfections of character. 
 — I feel that I love you ; and, if I 
 cannot be happy with you, I wiU 
 seek it no where else. 
 
 My little darling grows every day 
 more dear to me — and she often has 
 a kiss, when we are alone together, 
 which I give her for you, with aU 
 my heart. 
 
 I have been interrupted — and must 
 send off my letter. The liberty of 
 the press will produce a great effect 
 here — the cry of blood will not. be 
 vain! — Some more monsters will 
 perish — and the Jacobins are con- 
 quered. — Yet I almost fear the last 
 flap of the tail of the beast. 
 
 I have had several trifling teazing 
 inconveniences here, which 1 shaU 
 not now trouble you with a detail 
 
 of.— I am sending back ; her 
 
 pregnancy rendered her useless. The 
 girl I have got has more vivacity, 
 which is better for the child. 
 
TO IMLAY 57 
 
 I long to hear from you.^Bring 
 
 a copy of and with you. 
 
 is still here : he is a lost 
 
 man. — He really loves his wife, and 
 is anxious about his children ; but 
 his indiscriminate hospitality and 
 social feelings have given him an 
 inveterate habit of drinking, that 
 destroys his health, as well as renders 
 his person disgusting. — If his wife 
 had more sense, or delicacy, she 
 might restrain him : as it is, nothing 
 will save him. 
 Yours most truly and affectionately 
 
 Maby. 
 
 LETTER XXVII 
 
 [Paris] October 26 [1794]. 
 
 My dear love, I began to wish so 
 earnestly to hear from you, that the 
 sight of your letters occasioned such 
 pleasurable emotions, I was obliged 
 to throw them aside till the little 
 girl and I were alone together ; and 
 this said httle girl, our darling, is 
 
68 LETTERS 
 
 become a most intelligent little 
 creature, and as gay as a- lark, and 
 that in the morning too, which 1 do 
 not find quite so convenient. I once 
 told you, that the sensations before 
 she was bom, and when she is sucking, 
 were pleasant; but they do not de- 
 serve to be compared to the emotions 
 1 feel, when she stops to smile upon 
 me, or laughs outright on meeting 
 me unexpectedly in the street, or 
 after a short absence. She has now 
 the advantage of having two good 
 nurses, and I am at present able to 
 discharge my duty to her, without 
 being the slave of it. 
 
 I have therefore employed and 
 
 amused myself since I got rid of , 
 
 and am making a progress in the 
 language amongst other things. I 
 have also made some new acquaint- 
 ance. I have almost charvied a judge 
 
 of the tribunal, R , who, though 
 
 I should not have thought it possible, 
 has humanity, if not beauccmp 
 d esprit. But let me tell you, if you 
 
TO IMLAY 59 
 
 do not make haste back, I shall be 
 half in love with the author of the 
 MarseiUaise, who is a handsome 
 man, a Uttle too broad-faced or so, 
 and plays sweetly on the violin. 
 
 What do you say to this threat? 
 — ^why, entre noits, I like to give 
 way to a sprightly vein, when writing 
 to you, that is, when I am pleased 
 with you. " The devil," you know, 
 is proverbially said to be " in a good 
 humour, when he is pleased." WiU 
 you not then be a good boy, and 
 come back quickly to play with 
 your girls ? but I shall not allow you 
 to love the new-comer best. 
 
 My heart longs for your return, 
 my love, and only looks for, and 
 seeks happiness with you ; yet do 
 not imagine that I childishly wish 
 you to come back, before you have 
 arranged things in such a manner, 
 that it will not be necessary for you 
 to leave us soon again, or to make 
 
60 LETTERS 
 
 exertions which injure your constitu- 
 tion. 
 
 Yours most truly and tenderly, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 P.S. You would oblige me by 
 
 deUvering the inclosed to Mr. , 
 
 and pray call for an answer.^ — It 
 is for a person uncomfortably situated. 
 
 LETTER XXVIII 
 
 [Paris] Dec. 26 [1794]. 
 
 I HAVE been, my love, for some 
 days tormented by fears, that I 
 would not allow to assume a form— 
 I had been expecting you daily — 
 and I heard that many vessels had 
 been driven on shore during the late 
 gale. — Well, I now see your letter — 
 and find that you are safe ; I will 
 not regret then that your exertions 
 have hitherto been so unavaiUnsf. 
 
 ^«5' 
 
 Be that as it may, return to me 
 when you have arranged the other 
 
TO LMLAY 61 
 
 matters, which — . — has been crowd-, 
 ing on you. I want to be sure that 
 you are safe — and not separated from 
 me by a sea that must be passed. 
 For, feehng that I am happier than 
 I ever was, do you wonder at my 
 sometimes dreading that fate has 
 not done persecuting me ? Come to 
 me, my dearest friend, husband, 
 father of my child ! — ^All these fond 
 ties glow at my heart at this moment, 
 and dim my eyes. — With you an 
 independence is desirable ; and it is 
 always within our reach, if affluence 
 escapes us — ^without you the world 
 again appears empty to me. But 
 I .am recurring to some of the 
 melancholy thoughts that have flitted 
 across my mind for some days past, 
 and haunted my dreams. 
 
 My little darling is indeed a sweet 
 child ; and I am sorry that you are 
 not here, to see her little mind un- 
 fold itself. You talk of " dalliance ; " 
 but certainly no lover was ever more 
 attached to his mistress, than she 
 
62 LETTERS 
 
 is to me. Her eyes follow me everjr 
 where, and by affection I have the 
 most despotic power over her. She 
 is all Advacity or softness — ^yes ; I 
 love her more than I thought I 
 should. When 1 have been hurt 
 at your stay, I have embraced her 
 as my only comfort — when pleased 
 with you, for looking and laughing 
 like you ; nay, I cannot, I find, long 
 be angry with you, whilst I am kissing 
 her for resembling you. But there 
 would be no end to these details. 
 Fold us both to your heart ; for I 
 am truly and affectionately 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXIX 
 
 [Pari^] December 28 [1794]. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I DO, my love, indeed sincerely 
 sjmipathize with you in all your dis- 
 appointments. — Yet, knoAving that 
 
TO IMLAY 63 
 
 you are well, and think of me with 
 aiFection, 1 only lament other disap- 
 pointments, because 1 am sorry that 
 you should thus exert yourself in vain^ 
 and that you are kept from me. 
 
 , 1 know, urges you to stay, 
 
 and is continually branching out into 
 new projects, because he has the idle 
 desire to amass a large fortune, rather 
 an immense one, merely to have the 
 credit of having made it. But we 
 who are governed by other motives, 
 ought not to be led on by him. When 
 we meet, we wiU discuss this subject 
 — You will listen to reason, and it has 
 probably occurred to you, that it will 
 be better, in future, to pursue some 
 sober plan, which may demand more 
 time, and stUl enable you to arrive at 
 the same end. It appears to me 
 absurd to waste life in preparing to 
 live. 
 
 Would it not now be possible to 
 arrange your business in such a 
 manner as to avoid the inquietudes, 
 of which I have had my share since 
 
64 LETTERS 
 
 your departure ? Is it not possible to 
 enter into business, as an employment 
 necessary to keep the faculties awake, 
 and (to sink a little in the expressions) 
 the pot boiling, without suflFering what 
 musteverbe considered as a secondary 
 object, to engross the mind, and drive 
 sentiment and aflfection out of the 
 heart? 
 
 I am in a hurry to give this letter 
 to the person who has promised to 
 
 forward it with 's. I wish then 
 
 to counteract, in some measure, what 
 he has doubtless recommended most 
 warmly. 
 
 Stay, my friend, whilst it is abso- 
 lutely necessary. — I wiU give you no 
 tenderer name, though it glows at my 
 heart, unless you come the moment 
 the settling the present objects permit. 
 — / do not consent to your taking any 
 other journey — or the little woman 
 and I will beofF, the Lordknows where. 
 But, as I had rather owe every thing 
 to your affection, and, I may add, to 
 your reason, (for this immoderate 
 
TO IMLAY 65 
 desire of wealth, which makes 
 
 so eager to have you remain, is 
 contrary to your principles of action), 
 1 will not importune you. — I will 
 only tell you, that I long to see you 
 — and, being at peace with you, I shall 
 be hurt, rather than made angry, by 
 delays. — Having suffered so much in 
 life, do not be surprised if I sometimes, 
 when left to myself, grow gloomy, and 
 suppose that it was all a dream, and 
 that my happiness is not to last. I 
 say happiness, because remembrance 
 retrenches all the dark shades of the 
 picture. 
 
 My little one begins to show her 
 teeth, and use her legs — She wants 
 you to bear your part in the nursing 
 business, for I am fatigued with danc- 
 ing her, and yet she is not satisfied — 
 she wants you to thank her mother , 
 for taking such care of her, as you 
 only can. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 Mary. 
 
66 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XXX 
 
 [Paris] December 29 [1794]. 
 
 Though I suppose you have later 
 
 intelligence, yet, as has just 
 
 informed me that he has an oppor- 
 tunity of sending immediately to you, 
 I take advantage of it to inclose you 
 
 ***** 
 
 How I hate this crooked business ! 
 This intercourse with the world, which 
 ■obUges one to see the worst side of 
 human nature ! Why cannot you be 
 content with the object you had first 
 in view, when you entered into this 
 wearisome labyrinth ? — I know very 
 well that you have imperceptibly been 
 drawn on ; yet why does one project, 
 successful or abortive, only give place 
 to two others ? Is it not sufficient to 
 avoid poverty? — I am contented to 
 do my part ; and, even here, sufficient 
 to escape from wretchedness is not 
 difficult to obtain. And, let me tell 
 
TO IMLAY 67 
 
 you, I have my project also — and, if 
 you do not soon return, the little girl 
 and I wiU take care of ourselves ; we 
 wiU not accept any of your cold 
 kindness — ^your distant civilities — ^no ; 
 not we. 
 
 This is but half jesting, for I am 
 really tormented by the desire which 
 
 manifests to have you remain 
 
 where you are. — Yet why do I talk 
 to you ? — If he can persuade you — 
 let him ! — ^for, if you are not happier 
 with me, and your own wishes do 
 not make you throw aside these 
 eternal projects, I am above using 
 any arguments, though reason as well 
 as affection seems to offer them — ^if 
 our affection be mutual, they will 
 occur to you — and you will act ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 Since my arrival here, I have found 
 the German lady, of whom you have 
 heard me speak. Her first child died 
 in the month ; but she has another, 
 about the age of my Fanny, a fine 
 Uttle creature. They are still but 
 
68 LETTERS 
 
 contriving to live — earning their daily 
 bread — ^yet, though they are but just 
 above poverty, I envy them. — She 
 is a tender, affectionate mother — 
 fatigued even by her attention. — ■ 
 However she has an affectionate 
 husband in her turn, to render her 
 ciare hght, and to share her pleasure. 
 
 I will own to you that, feeling 
 extreme tenderness for my little girl, 
 1 grow sad very often when I am 
 plajdng with her, that you are not 
 here, to observe with me how J ier 
 mind_ ju:^ldsr'-amd---4i«y--jjt^fe-iieai± 
 "becomes attached ! — These appear to 
 ifle^onbe true pleasures — and stiU 
 you suffer them to escape you, in 
 search of what we may never enjoy. 
 — It is your own maxim to " live in 
 the present moment." — If you do — 
 stay, for God's sake ; but tell me 
 the truth — ^if not, tell me when I 
 may expect to see you, and let me 
 not be always vainly looking for you, 
 tiU I grow sick at heart. 
 
 Adieu ! I am a little hurt. — I must 
 
TO IMLAY 69 
 
 take my. darling to my bosom to 
 comfort me. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXXI 
 
 [Paris] December 30 [1794]. 
 
 Should you receive three or four 
 of the letters at once which I have 
 written lately, do not think of Sir 
 John Brute, for I do not mean to 
 wife you. I only take advantage of 
 every occasion, that one out of three 
 of my epistles may reach your hands, 
 and inform you that I am not of 
 
 's opinion, who talks tiU he 
 
 makes me angry, of the necessity of 
 your staying two or three months 
 longer. I do not hke this life of 
 continual inquietude — and, entre nous, 
 I am determined to try to earn some 
 money here myself, in order to con- 
 vince you that, if you chuse to run 
 about the world to get a fortune, 
 it is for yourself — ^for the Httle girl 
 and I will hve without your assistance. 
 
70 LETTERS 
 
 unless you are with us. I may be 
 termed proud — Be it so — but I wUl 
 never abandon certain principles of 
 action. 
 
 The common run of men have such 
 an ignoble way of thinking, that, if 
 they debauch their hearts, and prosti- 
 tute their persons, following perhaps 
 a gust of inebriation, they suppose 
 the wife, slave rather, whom they 
 maintain, has no right to complain, 
 and ought to receive the sultan, 
 whenever he deigns to return, with 
 open arms, though his have been 
 polluted by half an hundred promis- 
 cuous amours during his absence. 
 
 I consider fidelity and constancy as 
 two distinct things ; yet the former 
 is necessary, to give Ufe to the other 
 — and such a degree of respect do I 
 think due to myself, that, if only 
 probity, which is a good thing in 
 its place, brings you back, never 
 return ! — for, if a wandering of the 
 heart, or even a caprice of the 
 imagination detains you — there is an 
 
TO IMLAY 71 
 
 end of all my hopes of happiness — I 
 could not forgive it, if I would. 
 
 I have gotten into a melancholy 
 mood, you perceive. You know my 
 opinion of men in general ; you know 
 that I think them systematic tyrants, 
 and that it is the rarest thing in the 
 world, to meet with a man with suf- 
 ficient delicacy of feeling to govern 
 desire. When I am thus sad, I 
 lament that my little darling, fondly 
 as I doat on her, is a girl. — I am 
 sorry to have a tie to a world that 
 for me is ever sown with thorns. 
 
 You win call this an ill-humoured 
 letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest 
 proof of affection I can give, to dread 
 
 to lose you. has taken such 
 
 pains to convince me that you must 
 and ought to stay, that it has incon- 
 ceivably depressed my spirits — You 
 have always known my opinion — I 
 have ever declared, that two people, 
 who mean to hve together, ought 
 not to be long separated. — If certain 
 things are more necessary to you 
 
72 LETTERS 
 
 than me — search for them — Say but 
 one word, and you shall never hear 
 of me more. — If not — ^for God's sake, 
 let us struggle with poverty — with 
 any evil, but these continual in- 
 quietudes of business, which I have 
 been told were to last but a few 
 months, though every day the end 
 appears more distant ! This is the 
 first letter in this strain that I have 
 determined to forward to you ; the 
 rest lie by, because I was unwilling 
 to give you pain, and I should not 
 now write, if I did not think that 
 there would be no conclusion to the 
 schemes, which demand, as I am 
 told, your presence. 
 
 Mary.^ 
 
 ' The person to whom the letters are addressed 
 [Imlay], was about this time at Ramsgate, on his re- 
 turn, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, 
 as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure 
 of business now accumulated upon him. — W. G. 
 
TO IMLAY 73 
 
 LETTER XXXII 
 
 [Paris] Jammry 9 [1795]. 
 
 I JUST now received one of your 
 hasty nates; for business so entirely 
 occupies you, that you have not time, 
 or STifficient command of thought, to 
 write letters. Beware ! you seem to 
 be got into a whirl of projects and 
 schemes, which are drawing you into 
 a gulph, that, if it do not absorb 
 your happiness, will infallibly destroy 
 mine. 
 
 Fatigued during my youth by the 
 most arduous struggles, not only to 
 obtain independence, but to render 
 myself useful, not merely pleasure, 
 for which I had the most lively taste, 
 I mean the simple pleasures that flow 
 from passion and affection, escaped 
 me, but the most melancholy views 
 of life were impressed by a dis- 
 appointed heart on my mind. Since 
 I knew you, I have been endeavour- 
 ing to go back to my former nature. 
 
74 LETTERS 
 
 and have allowed some time to glide 
 away, winged with the delight which 
 only spontaneous enjoyment can 
 give. — ^Why have you so soon dis- 
 soh'ed the charm. 
 
 I am really unable to bear the 
 continual inquietude which your and 
 
 's never-ending plans produce. 
 
 This you may term want of firmness 
 — but you are mistaken — I have still 
 sufl&cient firmness to pursue my 
 principle of action. The present 
 misery, I cannot find a softer word 
 to do justice to my feehngs, appears 
 to me unnecessary — and therefore I 
 have not firmness to support it as you 
 may think I ought. I should have 
 been content, and still -wash, to retire 
 with you to a farm — My God ! any 
 thing, but these continual anxieties — 
 any thing but commerce, which de- 
 bases the mind, and roots out affec- 
 tion from the heart. 
 
 I do not mean to complain of 
 
 subordinate inconveniences yet I 
 
 wiU simply observe, that, led to ex- 
 
TO IMLAY • 75 
 
 pect you every week, I did not make 
 the arrangements required by the 
 present circumstances, to procure the 
 necessaries of life. In order to have 
 them, a servant, for that purpose 
 only, is indispensible — The want of 
 wood, has made me catch the most 
 violent cold I ever had ; and my 
 head is so disturbed by continual 
 coughing, that I am unable to write 
 without stopping frequently to re- 
 collect myself. — This however is one 
 of the common evils which must be 
 
 borne with bodily pain does not 
 
 touch the heart, though it fatigues 
 the spirits. 
 
 Still as you talk of your return, 
 even in February, doubtingly, I have 
 determined, the moment the weather 
 changes, to wean my child. — It is too 
 soon for her to begin to divide 
 sorrow ! — And as one has well said, 
 "despair is a freeman," we wiU go 
 and seek our fortune together. 
 
 This is not a caprice of the moment 
 — for your absence has given new 
 
76 LEITERS 
 
 weight to some conclusions, that I 
 was very reluctantly forming before 
 you left me. — I do not chuse to be 
 a secondary object. — If your feehngs 
 were in unison with mine, you would 
 not sacrifice so much to visionaiy 
 prospects of future advantage. 
 
 Majiy. 
 
 LETTER XXXIII 
 
 [Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]. 
 
 I WAS just going to begin my 
 letter with the fag end of a song, 
 which would only have told you, 
 what I may as well say simply, that 
 it is pleasant to forgive those we love. 
 I have received your two letters, 
 dated the 26th and 28th of December, 
 and my anger died away. You can 
 scarcely conceive the effect some of 
 your letters have produced on me. 
 After longing to hear from you 
 during a tedious interval of suspense, 
 1 have seen a superscription written 
 by you. — Promising myself pleasure, 
 
TO IMLAY 77 
 
 and feeling emotion, I have laid it by 
 me, tUl the person who brought it, 
 left the room — when, behold ! on 
 opening it, I have found only half a 
 dozen hasty lines, that have damped 
 all the rising affection of my soul. 
 Well, now for business — 
 ***** 
 
 My animal is well ; I have not yet 
 taught her to eat, but nature is doing 
 the business. I gave her- a crust to 
 assist the cutting of her teeth ; and 
 now she has two, she makes good use 
 of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. 
 You would laugh to see her ; she is 
 just like a little squirrel ; she will 
 guard a crust for two hours ; and, 
 after fixing her eye on an object for 
 some time, dart on it with an aim as 
 sure as a bird of jprey — nothing can 
 equal her life and spirits. I suffer 
 from a cold ; but it does not affect 
 her. Adieu ! do not forget to love 
 us — and come soon to tell us that 
 you do. 
 
 Mary. 
 
78 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XXXIV 
 
 [Paris] Jan. 30 [1795]. 
 
 From the purport of your last 
 letters, I should suppose that this 
 will scarcely reach you ; and I have 
 already written so many letters, that 
 you have either not received, or 
 neglected to acknowledge, I do not 
 find it pleasant, or rather I have no 
 inclination, to go over the same 
 ground again. If you have received 
 them, and are still detained by new 
 projects, it is useless for me to say 
 any more on the subject. I have 
 done with it for ever; yet I ought 
 to remind you that your pecuniary 
 interest suffers by your absence. 
 
 iR V ^t lit i|& 
 
 For my part, my head is turned 
 giddy, by only hearing of plans to 
 make money, and my contemptuous 
 feelings have sometimes burst out. 
 I therefore was glad that a violent 
 cold gave me a pretext to stay at 
 
TO IMLAY 79 
 
 home, lest I should have uttered un- 
 seasonable truths. 
 
 My child is well, and the spring 
 will perhaps restore me to myself. — 
 I have endured many inconveniences 
 this winter, which should I be 
 ashamed to mention, if they had 
 been unavoidable. "The secondary 
 pleasures of life," you say, " are very- 
 necessary to my comfort : " it may 
 be so ; but I have ever considered 
 them as secondary. If therefore you 
 accuse me of wanting the resolution 
 necessary to bear the common ^ evils 
 of life ; I should answer, that I have 
 not fashioned my mind to sustain 
 them, because I would avoid them, 
 cost what it would 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 ' This probably alludes to some expression of 
 [Imlay] the person.to whom the letters are addressed, 
 in which he treated as common evils, things npon 
 which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a 
 different appellation. — W. G. 
 
80 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XXXV 
 
 [Park] February 9 [1795]. 
 
 The melancholy presentiment has 
 for some time hung on my spirits, 
 that we were parted for ever ; and 
 the letters I received this day, by 
 
 Mr. , convince me that it was 
 
 not without foundation. You aUude 
 to some other letters, which I suppose 
 have miscarried ; for most of those 
 I have got, were only a few hasty 
 hnes, calculated to wound the tender- 
 ness the sight of the superscriptions 
 excited. 
 
 I mean not however to complain ; 
 yet so many feeUngs are struggling 
 for utterance, and agitating a heart 
 almost bursting with anguish, that I 
 find it very difficult to write with 
 any degree of coherence. 
 
 You left me indisposed, though 
 you have taken no notice of it ; and 
 the most fatiguing journey I ever 
 had, contributed to continue it. How- 
 
TO IMLAY 81 
 
 ever, I recovered my health ; but a 
 neglected cold, and continual in- 
 quietude during the last two months, 
 have reduced me to a state of weak- 
 ness I never before experienced. 
 Those who did not know that the 
 canker-worm was at work at the core, 
 cautioned me about suckling my 
 child too long. — God preserve this 
 poor child, and render her happier 
 than her mother ! 
 
 But I am wandering from my 
 subject : indeed my head turns giddy, 
 when I think that aU the confidence 
 I have had in the affection of others 
 is come to this. — I did not expect 
 this blow from you. I have done 
 my duty to you and my child ; and 
 if I am not to have any return of 
 affection to reward me, I have 
 the sad consolation of knowing that 
 I deserved a better fate. My soul 
 is weary — I am sick at heart ; and, 
 but for this little darling, I would 
 cease to care about a life, which is 
 now stripped of every charm. 
 
 6 
 
82 LETTERS 
 
 You see how stupid I am, uttering 
 declamation, when I meant simply 
 to tell you, that I consider your 
 requesting me to come to you, as 
 merely dictated by honour. — Indeed, 
 I scarcely understand you. — You 
 request me to come, and then teU 
 me, that you have not given up all 
 thoughts of returning to this place. 
 
 When I determined to hve with 
 you, I was only governed by affection. 
 — I would share poverty Avith you, 
 but I turn with affright from the sea 
 of trouble on which you are entering. 
 — I have certain principles of action : 
 I know what I look for to found my 
 happiness on. — It is not money. — 
 With you I wished for sufficient to 
 procure the comforts of life — as it 
 is, less will do. — I can stUl exert 
 myself to obtain the necessaries of 
 life for my child, and she does not 
 want more at present. — I have two 
 or three plans in my head to earn 
 our subsistence ; for do not suppose 
 that, neglected by you, I will he 
 
TO IMLAY 88 
 
 under obligations of a pecuniary kind 
 to you ! — No ; I would sooner submit 
 to menial service. — I wanted the 
 support of your affection — that gone, 
 aU is over ! — I did not think, when 
 
 I complained of 's contemptible 
 
 avidity to accumulate money, that 
 he would have dragged you into his 
 schemes. 
 
 i cannot write. — I inclose a frag- 
 ment of a letter, written soon after 
 your departure, and another which 
 tenderness made me keep back when 
 it was written. — You wUl see then 
 the sentiments of a calmer, though 
 not a more determined, moment. — 
 Do not insult me by sa5dng, that 
 "our being together is paramount 
 to every other consideration ! " Were 
 it, you would not be running after 
 a bubble, at the expence of my peace 
 of mind. 
 
 Perhaps this is the last letter you 
 will ever receive from me. 
 
 Mary. 
 
84 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XXXVI 
 
 [PaTT^] Feb. 10 [1795]. 
 
 You talk of " permanent views 
 and future comfort " — not for me, 
 for I am dead to hope. The in- 
 quietudes of the last winter have 
 finished the business, and my heart 
 is not only broken, but my constitu- 
 tion destroyed. 1 conceive myself 
 in a galloping consumption, and the 
 continual anxiety I feel at the 
 thought of leaving my child, feeds 
 the fever that nightly devours me. 
 It is on her account that I again 
 write to you, to conjure you, by aU 
 that you hold sacred, to leave her 
 here with the German lady you may 
 have heard me mention ! She has 
 a child of the same age, and they 
 may be brought up together, as I 
 wish her to be brought up. I shall 
 write more fully on the subject. To 
 facilitate this, I shall give up my 
 present lodgings, and go into the 
 
TO IMLAY 85 
 
 same house. I can live much 
 cheaper there, which is now be- 
 come an object. I have had 3000 
 
 Uvres from , and I shall take 
 
 one more, to pay my servant's wages, 
 &c. and then 1 shall endeavour to 
 procure what I want by my own 
 exertions. I shall entirely give up 
 the acquaintance of the Americans. 
 
 and I have not been on good 
 
 terms a long time. Yesterday he 
 very immanlily exulted over me, on 
 account of your determination to 
 stay. I had provoked it, it is true, 
 by some asperities against commerce, 
 which have dropped from me, when 
 we have argued about the propriety 
 of your remaining where you are ; 
 and it is no matter, I have irunk too 
 deep of the bitter cup to care about 
 trifles. 
 
 When you first entered into these 
 plans, you bounded your views to 
 the gaining of a thousand pounds. 
 It was sufficient to have procured a 
 farm in America, which would have 
 
86 LETTERS 
 
 been an independence. You find 
 now that you did not know yourself, 
 and that a certain situation in life is 
 more necessary to you than you 
 imagined — more necessary than an 
 uncorrupted heart — For a year or 
 two, you may procure yourself what 
 you call pleasure ; eating, drinking, 
 and women ; but in the solitude of 
 declining life, I shall be remembered 
 with regret — I was going to say with 
 remorse, but checked my pen. 
 
 As I have never concealed the 
 nature of my connection vrith you, 
 your reputation will not sufifer. I 
 shall never have a confident : I am 
 content with the approbation of my 
 own mind ; and, if there be a searcher 
 of hearts, mine will not be despised. 
 Reading what you have written 
 relative to the desertion of women, 
 1 have often wondered how theory 
 and practice could be so different, 
 till I recollected, that the sentiments 
 of passion, and the resolves of reason, 
 are very distinct. As to my sisters. 
 
TO EMLAY 87 
 
 as you are so continually hurried 
 with business, you need not write 
 to them — I shall, when my mind i& 
 calmer. God bless you 1 Adieu ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 This has been such a period of 
 barbarity and misery, I ought not 
 to complain of having my share. I 
 wish one moment that I had never 
 heard of the cruelties that have been 
 practised here, and the next envy 
 the mothers who have been lolled 
 with their children. Surely I had 
 suffered enough in life, not to be 
 cursed with a fondness, that bums 
 up the vital stream I am imparting. 
 You win think me mad : I would 
 I were so, that I could forget my 
 misery — so that my head or heart 
 would be still. 
 
 LETTER XXXVII 
 
 [Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]. 
 
 WHE>f I first received your letter, 
 putting off your return to an indefi- 
 
88 LETTERS 
 
 nite time, I felt so hurt, that I know 
 not what I wrote. I am now calmer, 
 though it was not the kind of wound 
 over which time has the quickest 
 effect; on the contrary, the more I 
 think, the sadder I grow. Society- 
 fatigues me inexpressibly — So much 
 so, that finding fault with every one, 
 I have only reason enough, to dis- 
 cover that the fault is in myself. 
 My chUd alone interests me, and, 
 but for her, I should not take any 
 pains to recover my health. 
 
 As it is, I shall wean her, and try 
 if by that step (to which I feel a 
 repugnance, for it is my only solace) 
 I can get rid of my cough. Physi- 
 cians talk much of the danger attend- 
 ing any complaint on the lungs, after 
 a woman has suckled for some months. 
 They lay a stress also on the necessity 
 of keeping the mind tranquil — and, 
 my God ! how has mine be harrassed ! 
 But whilst the caprices of other 
 women are gratified, " the ^^dnd of 
 heaven not suffered to visit them 
 
TO IMLAY 89 
 
 too rudely," I have not found a 
 guardian angel, in heaven or on 
 earth, to ward off sorrow or care from 
 my bosom. 
 
 What sacrifices have you not made 
 for a woman you did not respect ! — 
 But I will not go over this ground — 
 I want to tell you that 1 do not 
 understand you. You say that you 
 have not given up aU thoughts of 
 returning here — and I know that it 
 will be necessary — nay, is. I cannot 
 explain myself; but if you have not 
 lost your memory, you will easily 
 divine my meaning. What ! is our 
 hfe then only to be made up of 
 separations ? and am I only to 
 return to a country, that has not 
 merely lost all charms for me, but 
 for which 1 feel a repugnance that 
 almost amounts to horror, only to be 
 left there a prey to it ! 
 
 Why is it so necessary that I 
 should return ? — brought up here, 
 my girl would be freer. Indeed, 
 expecting you to join us, I had formed 
 
90 LETTERS 
 
 some plans of usefulness that have 
 now vanished with my hopes of 
 happiness. 
 
 In the bitterness of my heart, I 
 could complain with reason, that I 
 am left here dependent on a man, 
 whose avidity to acquire a fortune 
 has rendered him callous to every 
 sentiment connected with social or 
 affectionate emotions. — With a brutal 
 insensibility, he cannot help dis- 
 playing the pleasure your determina- 
 tion to stay gives him, in spite of 
 the effect it is visible it has had 
 on me. 
 
 Till I can earn money, I shall 
 endeavour to borrow some, for I 
 want to avoid asking him continually 
 for the sum necessary to maintain 
 me. — Do not mistake me, I have 
 never been refused. — Yet I have gone 
 half a dozen times to the house to 
 ask for it, and come away without 
 
 speaking you must guess why — 
 
 Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of 
 the eternal projects to which you 
 
TO IMLAY 91 
 
 have sacrificed my peace — ^not re- 
 membering — but I will be silent for 
 ever. 
 
 LETTER XXXVITI 
 
 [Havre] April 7 [1795]. 
 
 Heke I am at Havre, on the wing 
 towards you, and I write now, only 
 to tell you, that you may expect me 
 in the course of three or four days ; 
 for I shall not attempt to give vent 
 to the different emotions which 
 agitate my heart — You may term a 
 feeling, which appears to me to be 
 a degree of delicacy that naturally 
 arises from sensibility, pride — Still 
 I cannot indulge the very affec- 
 tionate tenderness which glows in 
 my bosom, without trembling, till I 
 see, by your eyes, that it is mutual. 
 
 I sit, lost in thought, looking at 
 the sea — and tears rush into my eyes, 
 when I find that I am cherishing 
 any fond expectations. — I have in- 
 deed been so unhappy this winter. 
 
92 LETTERS 
 
 I find it as difficult to acquire fresh 
 hopes, as to regain tranquillity. — 
 Enough of this — lie still, fooUsh 
 heart! — But for the little girl, I 
 could almost wish that it should 
 cease to beat, to be no more alive 
 to the anguish of disappointment. 
 
 Sweet little creature ! I deprived 
 myself of my only pleasure, when 
 I weaned her, about ten days 
 ago. — I am however glad I con- 
 quered my repugnance. — It was 
 necessary it should be done soon, 
 and I did not wish to embitter the 
 renewal of your acquaintance with 
 her, by putting it off till we met. — 
 It was a painful exertion to me, and 
 I thought it best to throw this in- 
 quietude with the rest, into the sack 
 that I would fain throw over my 
 shoulder. — 1 wished to endure it 
 alone, in short — Yet, after sending 
 her to sleep in the next room for 
 three or four nights, you cannot 
 think with what joy I took her back 
 again to sleep in my bosom ! 
 
TO IMLAY 9S 
 
 I suppose I shall find you, when I 
 arrive, for 1 do not see any necessity 
 for your coming to me. — ^Pray in- 
 form Mr, , that I have his little 
 
 fiiend with me. — My wishing to 
 oblige him, made me put myself to 
 
 some inconvenience and delay 
 
 my departure ; which was irksome 
 to me, who have not quite as much 
 philosophy, I would not for the world 
 say indifference, as you. God bless 
 you ! 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX 
 
 BrigMhelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795]. 
 
 Here we are, my love, and mean 
 to set out early in the morning ; and^ 
 if I can find you, I hope to dine with 
 you to-morrow. — I shall drive to 
 
 's hotel, where teUs nxe 
 
 you have been — and, if you have 
 left it, I hope you will take care to 
 be there to receive us. 
 
94 LETTERS 
 
 I have brought with me Mr. 's 
 
 little friend, and a girl whom I hke 
 to take care of our little darling — not 
 on the way, for that feU to my share. 
 — But why do I write about tnfles ? — 
 or any thing ? — Are we not to meet 
 soon ? — What does your heart say ? 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I have weaned my Fanny, and she 
 is now eating away at the white bread. 
 
 LETTER XL 
 
 [26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place] 
 London, Friday, May 22 [1795]. 
 
 I HAVE just received your affec- 
 tionate letter, and am distressed to 
 think that I have added to your 
 embarrassments at this troublesome 
 juncture, when the exertion of all 
 the faculties of yom- mind appears 
 to be necessary, to extricate you out 
 of your pecuniary difficulties. I sup- 
 pose it was something relative to the 
 
TO IMLAY 95 
 
 circumstance you have mentioned, 
 
 which made request to see 
 
 me to-day, to coiive?'se about a 
 matter of great importance. Be that 
 as it may, his letter (such is the state 
 of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed 
 me, and rendered the last night as dis- 
 tressing, as the two former had been. 
 
 1 have laboured to calm my mind 
 since you left me — StiU I find that 
 tranquillity is not to be obtained by 
 exertion ; it is a feehng so different 
 from the resignation of despair ! — I 
 am however no longer angry with 
 you — ^nor wUl I ever utter another 
 complaint — there are arguments 
 which convince the reason, whilst 
 they carry death to the heart. — We 
 have had too many cruel explanations, 
 that not only cloud every future 
 prospect; but embitter the remem- 
 brances which alone give life to 
 affection. — Let the subject nev^er be 
 revived ! 
 
 It seems to me that I have not 
 only lost the hope, but the power of 
 
96 LETTERS 
 
 being happy.— Every emotion is now 
 sharpened by anguish. — My soul has 
 been shook, and my tone of feelings 
 destroyed. — I have gone out — and 
 sought for dissipation, if not amuse- 
 ment, merely to fatigue still more, I 
 find, my irritable nerves 
 
 My friend — my dear friend — exa- 
 mine yourself weU — I am out of the 
 question ; for, alas ! I am nothing — 
 and discover what you wish to do— 
 what will render you most comfortable 
 — or, to be more expUcit — ^whether 
 you desire to hve with me, or part 
 for ever ? When you can once ascer- 
 tain it, tell me frankly, I conjure 
 you ! — for, believe me, I have very 
 involuntarily interrupted yoiu: peace. 
 
 I shall expect you to dinner on 
 Monday, and wiU endeavour to as- 
 sume a cheerful face to greet you — 
 at any rate 1 will avoid conversations, 
 which only tend to harrass your feel- 
 ings, because I am most affectionately 
 yours, 
 
 Mary. 
 
TO IMLAY 97 
 
 LETTER XLI 
 
 [May 27, 1795] Wednesday. 
 
 I INCLOSE you the letter, which 
 you desired me to forward, and I am. 
 tempted very laconically to wish you 
 a good morning — ^not because I am 
 angry, or have nothing to say ; but 
 to keep down a wounded spirit. — I 
 shall make every effort to calm my 
 mind — ^yet a strong conviction seems 
 to whirl round in the very centre of 
 my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, 
 emphatically assures me, that grief 
 has a firm hold of my heart. 
 
 God bless you ! 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Mary-, 
 
 LETTER XLII 
 
 [Hull] Wednesday, Two o'clock 
 [May 27, 1795]. 
 
 We arrived here about an hour 
 ago. I am extremely fatigued with 
 
 7 
 
98 LETTERS 
 
 the child, who would not rest quiet 
 with any body but me, during the 
 night — and now we are here in a 
 comfortless, damp room, in a sort of 
 a tomb-like house. This however I 
 shall quickly remedy, for, when I 
 have finished this letter, (which I must 
 do immediately, because the post goes 
 out early), I shall sally forth, and 
 enquire about a vessel and an inn. 
 
 I will not distress you by talking 
 of the depression of my spirits, or 
 the struggle I had to keep alive my 
 djdng heart. — It is even now too full 
 to allow me to write with composure. 
 — Imlay, — dearlmlay, — am 1 always 
 to be tossed about thus ? — shall I 
 never find an asylum to rest contented 
 in ? How can you love to fly about 
 continually — dropping do^^^l, as it 
 were, in a new world — cold and 
 strange ! — every other day ? Why 
 do you not attach those tender 
 emotions round the idea of home, 
 which even now dim my eyes ? — 
 This alone is affection — every thing 
 
TO IMLAY 99 
 
 else is only humanity, electrified by 
 sympathy. 
 
 I wiU write to you again to-morrow, 
 when I know how long I am to be 
 detained — and hope to get a letter 
 quickly from .you, to cheer yours 
 sincerely and affectionately 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Fanny is pla5dng near me in high 
 spirits. She was so pleased with the 
 noise of the mail-horn, she has been 
 continually imitating it. Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER XLIII 
 
 [HuU, May 28, 1795] Thursday. 
 
 A i>ADY has just sent to offer to 
 take me to Beverley. I have then 
 only a moment to exclaim against 
 the vague manner in which people 
 give information 
 
 But why talk of inconveniences, 
 which are in fact trifling, when 
 compared with the sinking of the 
 
100 LETTERS 
 
 heart I have felt ! I did not intend 
 to touch this painful string — God 
 bless you ! 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XLIV 
 
 [Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]. 
 
 I HAVE just received yours dated 
 the 9th, which I suppose was a 
 mistake, for it could scarcely have 
 loitered so long on the road. The 
 general observations which apply to 
 the state of your own mind, appear 
 to me just, as far as they go ; and I 
 shall always consider it as one of the 
 most serious misfortunes of my life, 
 that I did not meet you, before satiety 
 had rendered your senses so fastidious, 
 as almost to close up every tender 
 avenue of sentiment and affection 
 that leads to your sympathetic heart. 
 You have a heart, my friend, yet, 
 hurried away by the impetuosity of 
 inferior feelings, you have sought in 
 
TO IMLAY 101 
 
 vulgar excesses, for that gratification 
 which only the heart can bestow. 
 
 The common run of men, I know, 
 with strong.health and gross appetites, 
 must have variety to banish ennui, 
 because the imagination never lends 
 its magic wand, to convert appetite 
 into love, cemented by according 
 reason. — Ah ! my Mend, you know 
 not the ineffable delight, the exquisite 
 pleasure, which arises from a unison 
 of affection and desire, when the 
 whole soul and senses are abandoned 
 to a lively ima^nation, that renders 
 every emotion dehcate and rapturous. 
 Yes ; these are emotions, over which 
 satiety has no power, and the re- 
 collection of which, even disappoint- 
 ment cannot disenchant ; but they 
 do not exist without self-deniaL 
 These emotions, more or less strong, 
 appear to me to be the distinctive 
 characteristic of genius, the foundation 
 of taste, and of that exquisite relish 
 for the beauties of nature, of which 
 the common herd of eaters and 
 
102 LETTERS 
 
 drinkers and cMM-begeters, certainly 
 have no idea. You will smile at an 
 observation that has just occurred to 
 me : — I consider those minds as the 
 most strong and original, whose 
 imagination acts as the stimulus to 
 their senses. 
 
 WeU ! you will ask, what is the 
 result of all this reasoning ? Why I 
 cannot help thinking that it is possible 
 for you, having great strength of 
 mind, to return to nature, and regain 
 a sanity of constitution, and purity of 
 feehng — ^which would open your heart 
 to me. — I would fain rest there ! 
 
 Yet, convinced more than ever of 
 the sincerity and tenderness of my 
 attachment to you, the involuntary 
 hopes, which a determination to live 
 has revived, are not sufficiently strong 
 to dissipate the cloud, that despair 
 has spread over futurity. I have 
 looked at the sea, and at my chUd, 
 hardly daring to own to myself the 
 secret wish, that it might become our 
 tomb ; and that the heart, still so 
 
TO IMLAY 103 
 
 alive to anguish, might there be 
 quieted by death. At this moment 
 ten thousand complicated sentiments 
 press for utterance, weigh on my 
 heart, and obscure my sight. 
 
 Are we ever to meet again? and 
 will you endeavour to render that 
 meeting happier than the last ? Will 
 you endeavour to restrain your 
 caprices, in order to give vigour to 
 affection, and to give play to the 
 checked sentiments that nature in- 
 tended should expand your heart ? 
 I cannot indeed, without agony, think 
 of your bosom's being continually 
 contaminated ; and bitter are the 
 tears which exhaust my eyes, when 
 I recoUect why ray child and I are 
 forced to stray from the asylum, in 
 which, after so many storms, I had 
 hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate. 
 — These are not common sorrows ; 
 nor can you perhaps conceive, how 
 much active fortitude it requires to 
 labour perpetually to blunt the shafts 
 of disappointment. 
 
104 LETTERS 
 
 Examine now yourself, and ascer- 
 tain whether you can live in some- 
 thing like a settled stile. Let our 
 confidence in future be unbounded ; 
 consider whether you find it necessary 
 to sacrifice me to what you term 
 " the zest of life ; " and, when you 
 have once a clear view of your own 
 motives, of your own incentive to 
 action, do not deceive me ! 
 
 The train of thoughts which the 
 writing of this epistle awoke, makes 
 me so wretched, that I must take a 
 walk, to rouse and calm my mind. 
 But first, let me tell you, that, if 
 you really wish to promote my 
 happiness, you will endeavour to give 
 me as much as you can of yourself. 
 You have great mental energy ; and 
 your judgment seems to me so 
 just, that it is only the dupe of 
 your inclination in discussing one 
 subject. 
 
 The post does not go out to-day. 
 To-morrow I may write more tran- 
 quilly. I cannot yet say when the 
 
TO IMLAY 105 
 
 vessel will sail in which I have de- 
 termined to depart. 
 
 [Hull, Jwie 13, 1795] 
 Saturdai/ Morning. 
 
 Your second letter reached me 
 about an hour ago. You were 
 certainly wrong, in supposing that I 
 did not mention you with respect ; 
 though, without my being conscious 
 of it, some sparks of resentment may 
 have animated the gloom of despair 
 — ^Yes ; with less affection, I should 
 have been more respectful. How- 
 ever the regard which I have for you, 
 is so unequivocal to myself, I imagine 
 that it must be sufficiently obvious 
 to every body else. Besides, the only 
 letter I intended for the public eye 
 
 was to , and that I destroyed 
 
 jfrom delicacy before you saw them, 
 because it was only written (of course 
 warmly in your praise) to prevent 
 any odium being thrown on you.^ 
 
 ' This passage refers to letters written under 
 a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be 
 opened till after the catastrophe. — W. G. 
 
106 LETTERS 
 
 I am harrassed by your embarrass- 
 ments, and shall certainly use all my 
 efforts, to make the business ter- 
 minate to your satisfaction in which 
 I am engaged. 
 
 My friend — my dearest friend — I 
 feel my fate united to yours by the 
 most sacred principles of my soul, 
 and the yearns of — yes, I will say it 
 — a true, unsophisticated heart. 
 Yours most truly 
 
 Maky. 
 
 If the wind be fair, the captain 
 talks of sailing on Monday ; but I 
 am afraid I shall be detained some 
 days longer. At any rate, continue 
 to write, (I want this support) till 
 you are sure I am where I cannot 
 expect a letter ; and, if any should 
 arrive after my departure, a gentle- 
 man (not Mr. 's friend, I promise 
 
 you) from whom I have received 
 great civihties, will send them after 
 me. 
 
 Do write by every occasion ! I 
 
TO IMLAY 107 
 
 am anxious to hear how your affairs 
 go on ; and, still more, to be con- 
 vinced that you are not separating 
 yourself from us. For my little 
 darling is calling papa, and adding 
 her parrot word — Come, Come! And 
 will you not come, and let us exert 
 ourselves ? — I shall recover all my 
 energy, when I am convinced that 
 my exertions will draw us more 
 closely together. Once more adieu ! 
 
 LETTER XLV 
 
 [Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795]. 
 
 I KATHER expected to hear from, 
 you to-day — I wish you would not 
 fail to write to me for a little time, 
 because I am not quite well — 
 Whether I have any good sleep or 
 not, I "wake in the morning in violent 
 fits of trembUng — and, in spite of all 
 my efforts, the chQd — every thing — 
 fatigues me, in which I seek for 
 solace or amusement. 
 
 Mr. forced on me a letter 
 
108 LETTERS 
 
 to a physician of this place ; it was 
 fortunate, for I should otherwise 
 have had some difficulty to obtain 
 the necessary information. His wife 
 is a pretty woman (I can admire, you 
 know, a pretty woman, when I am 
 alone) and he an inteUigent and 
 rather interesting man. — They have 
 behaved to me with great hospitality; 
 and poor Fanny was never so happy in 
 her hfe, as amongst their young brood. 
 They took me in their carriage to 
 Beverley, and I ran over my favourite 
 walks, with a vivacity that would 
 have astonished you. — The town did 
 not please me quite so well as 
 formerly — It appeared so diminutive; 
 and, when I found that many of the 
 inhabitants had lived in the same 
 houses ever since I left it, I could 
 not help wondering how they could 
 thus have vegetated, whUst I was 
 running over a world of sorrow, 
 snatching at pleasure, and throwing 
 off prejudices. The place where I 
 at present am, is much improved ; 
 
TO IMLAY 109 
 
 but it is astonishing what strides 
 aristocracy and fanaticism have made, 
 since I resided in this country. 
 
 The wind does not appear inclined 
 to change, so I am still forced to 
 linger — When do you think that you 
 shall be able to set out for France ? 
 I do not entirely hke the aspect of 
 your affairs, and still less your con- 
 nections on either side of the water. 
 Often do I sigh, when I think of 
 your entanglements in business, and 
 your extreme restlessness of mind. — 
 Even now I am almost afraid to ask 
 you, whether the pleasure of being 
 free, does not overbalance the pain you 
 felt at parting vsdth me ? Sometimes 
 I indulge the hope that you vdll feel 
 me necessary to you — or why should 
 we meet again ? — but, the moment 
 after, despair damps my rising spirits, 
 aggravated by the emotions of 
 tenderness, which ought to soften 
 the cares of life. God bless you ! 
 
 Yours sincerely and affectionately 
 
 Mary. 
 
110 LETTERS 
 
 LETTER XLVI 
 
 [Huiq June 15 [1795]. 
 
 I WANT to know how you have 
 
 settled with respect to . In 
 
 short, be very particular in your ac- 
 count of all your affairs — let our con- 
 fidence, my dear, be unbounded. — 
 The last time we were separated, was 
 a separation indeed on yovu: part — 
 Now you have acted more ingenu- 
 ously, let the most aifectionate inter- 
 change of sentiments fill up the 
 aching void of disappointment. I 
 almost dread that your plans wiU 
 jprove abortive — yet should the most 
 unlucky turn send you home to us, 
 convinced that a true friend is a 
 treasure, I should not much mind 
 having to struggle with the world 
 again. Accuse me not of pride — yet 
 sometimes, when nature has opened 
 my heart to its author, I have 
 wondered that you did not set a 
 higher value on my heart. 
 
TO IMLAY 111 
 
 Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was 
 going to add, if you will not take 
 one from me, and believe me yours 
 
 Sincerely 
 
 Mary. 
 
 The wind still continues in the 
 same quarter. 
 
 LETTER XLVII 
 
 [Hull; June, 1795] Tuesday Morning. 
 
 The captain has just sent to in- 
 form me, that 1 must be on board 
 in the course of a few hours. — I 
 wished to have stayed till to-morrow. 
 It would have been a comfort to me 
 to have received another letter from 
 you — Should one arrive, it wiU be 
 sent after me. 
 
 My spirits are agitated, I scarcely 
 
 know why The quitting England 
 
 seems to be a fresh parting. — Surely 
 you will not forget me. — A thousand 
 weak forebodings assault my soul, 
 and the state of my health renders 
 
112 LETTERS 
 
 me sensible to every thing. It is 
 surprising that in London, in a con- 
 tinual conflict of mind, I was still 
 growing better — whilst here, bowed 
 down by the despotic hand of fate, 
 forced into resignation by despair, I 
 seem to be fading away — perishing 
 beneath a cruel blight, that withers 
 up all my faculties. 
 
 The child is perfectly well. My 
 hand seems unwilling to add adieu ! 
 I know not why this inexpressible 
 sadness has taken possession of me. 
 — It is not a presentiment of ill. 
 Yet, having been so perpetually the 
 sport of disappointment, — having a 
 heart that has been as it were a mark 
 for misery, I dread to meet wretched- 
 ness in some new shape. — Well, let 
 it come — I care not ! — what have I 
 to dread, who have so little to hope 
 for ! God bless you — I am most 
 affectionately and sincerely yours 
 
 Mary. 
 
TO IMLAY 113 
 
 LETTER XLVIII 
 
 [JuTie 17, 1795] Wednesday Morning. 
 
 I WAS hurried on board yesterday 
 about three o'clock, the wind having 
 changed. But before evening it 
 veered round to the old point ; and 
 here we are, in the midst of mists 
 and water, only taking advantage of 
 the tide to advance a few miles. 
 
 You wiU scarcely suppose that I 
 left the town with reluctance — yet 
 it was even so — for I wished to 
 receive another letter from you, and 
 I felt pain at parting, for ever per- 
 haps, from the amiable family, who 
 had treated me with so much hos- 
 pitahty and kindness. They wiU 
 probably send me your letter, if it 
 arrives this morning ; for here we 
 are likely to remain, I am afraid to 
 think how long. 
 
 The vessel is very commodious, 
 and the captain a civU, open-hearted 
 kind of man. There being no other 
 
 8 
 
114 LETTERS 
 
 passengers, I have the cabin to my- 
 self, which is pleasant ; and I have 
 brought a few books \vith me to 
 beguile weariness ; but I seem in- 
 cUned, rather to employ the dead 
 moments of suspence in -v^iiting some 
 effusions, than in reading. 
 
 What are you about? How are 
 your affairs going on ? It may be a 
 long time before you answer these 
 questions. My dear friend, my heart 
 sinks within me ! — Why am I forced 
 thus to struggle continually with my 
 affections and feelings ? — Ah ! why 
 are those affections and feehngs the 
 source of so much misery, when they 
 seem to have been given to vivify 
 my heart, and extend my usefulness ! 
 But I must not dwell on this subject. 
 — Will you not endeavour to cherish 
 all the affection you can for me ? 
 What am I saying? — Rather forget 
 me, if you can — if other gratifications 
 are dearer to you. — How is every 
 remembrance of mine embittered by 
 disappointment ? What a world is 
 
TO IMLAY 115 
 
 this ! — They only seem happy, who 
 never look beyond sensual or artificial 
 enjoyments. — Adieu ! 
 
 Fanny begins to play with the 
 cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark. — 
 I will labour to be tranquil ; and am 
 in every mood, 
 
 Yours sincerely 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER XLIX 
 
 [JuTie 18, 1795] Thursday. 
 
 Here I am still — and I have just 
 received your letter of Monday by 
 the pilot, who promised to bring it 
 to me, if we were detained, as he 
 expected, by the wind. — It is indeed 
 wearisome to be thus tossed about 
 without going forward. — I have a 
 violent headache — yet I am obhged 
 to take care of the child, who is a 
 little tormented by her teeth, because 
 
 is unable to do any thing, she 
 
 is rendered so sick by the motion of 
 the ship, as we ride at anchor. 
 
116 LETTERS 
 
 These are however trifling incon- 
 veniences, compared with anguish of 
 mind — compared with the sinking of 
 a broken heart. — To tell you the 
 truth, 1 never suffered in my hfe so 
 much from depression of spirits — 
 from despair. — I do not sleep — or, if 
 I close my eyes, it is to have the 
 most terrtfying dreams, in which I 
 often meet you with different casts of 
 countenance. 
 
 I will not, my dear Imlay, torment 
 you by dwelling on my sufferings — 
 and will use all my efforts to calm 
 my mind, instead of deadening it — 
 at present it is most painfully active. 
 I fmd 1 am not equal to these con- 
 tinual struggles — yet your letter this 
 morning has afforded me some 
 comfort — and I will try to revive 
 hope. One thing let me tell you — 
 when we meet again — surely we are 
 to meet ! — it must be to part no 
 more. I mean not to have seas 
 between us — it is more than I can 
 support. 
 
TO IMLAY 117 
 
 The pilot is hurrying me — God 
 bless you. 
 
 In spite of the commodiousness of 
 the vessel, every thing here wotild 
 disgust my senses, had I nothing else 
 to think of — " When the mind's free, 
 the body's delicate ; " — mine has been 
 too much hurt to regard trifles. 
 Yours most truly 
 
 Maky. 
 
 LETTER L 
 
 [June 20, 1795] Saturday. 
 
 This is the fifth dreary day I have 
 been imprisoned by the wind, with 
 every outward object to disgust the 
 senses, and unable to banish the re- 
 membrances that sadden my heart. 
 
 How am I altered by disappoint- 
 ment ! — When going to Lisbon, ten 
 years ago, the elasticity of my mind 
 was sufficient to ward oif weariness — 
 and the imagination stiU could dip 
 her brush in the rainbow of fancy, 
 and sketch futurity in smiling colours. 
 
118 LETTERS 
 
 Now I am going towards the North 
 in search of sunbeams ! — Will any 
 ever warm this desolated heart ? All 
 nature seems to frown — or rather 
 mourn with me, — Every thing is cold 
 — cold as my expectations ! Before 
 I left the shore, tormented, as I now 
 am, by these North east chillers, I 
 could not help exclaiming — Give me, 
 gracious Heaven ! at least, genial 
 weather, if I am never to meet the 
 genial affection that still warms this 
 agitated bosom — compelling life to 
 linger there. 
 
 I am now going on shore with the 
 captain, though the weather be rough, 
 to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, 
 and to take a walk — after which I 
 hope to sleep — for, confined here, 
 svuTOunded by disagreeable smells, I 
 have lost the little appetite I had ; 
 and I he awake, till thinking almost 
 drives me to the brink of madness — 
 only to the brink, for I never forget, 
 even in the fev^erish slumbers I some- 
 times fall into, the misery I am 
 
TO IMLAY 119 
 
 labouring to blunt the sense of, by 
 every exertion in my power. 
 
 Poor stiU continues sick, 
 
 and grows weary when the 
 
 weather will not allow her to remain 
 on deck. 
 
 I hope this wUl be the last letter 
 I shall write from England to you — 
 are you not tired of this hngering 
 adieu ? 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LI 
 
 [HuU, June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning. 
 
 The captain last night, after I had 
 written my letter to you intended to 
 be left at a little village, offered to 
 
 go to to pass to-day. We had 
 
 a troublesome sail — and now I must 
 hurry on board again, for the wind 
 has changed. 
 
 I half expected to find a letter 
 from you here. Had you written 
 one haphazard, it would have been 
 
120 LETTERS 
 
 kind and considerate — ^you might 
 have known, had you thought, that 
 the wind would not permit me to 
 depart. These are attentions, more 
 grateful to the heart than offers of 
 service — But why do I foolishly con- 
 tinue to look for them ? 
 
 Adieu ! adieu ! My Mend — your 
 friendship is very cold — ^you see I am 
 hint. — God bless you ! I may per- 
 haps be, some time or other, inde- 
 pendent in every sense of the word — 
 Ah ! there is but one sense of it of 
 consequence. I will break or bend 
 this weak heart — ^yet even now it is 
 full. 
 
 Yours sincerely 
 
 Mary. 
 
 The child is well ; I did not leave 
 her on board. 
 
 LETTER LII 
 
 [Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795]. 
 
 I AKKivED in Gothenburg this after- 
 noon, after vainly attempting to land 
 
TO IMLAY 121 
 
 at Arendall. 1 have now but a 
 moment, before the post goes out, 
 to inform you we have got here ; 
 though not without considerable 
 difficulty, for we were set ashore in a 
 boat above twenty miles below. 
 
 What I suffered in the vessel 1 
 wiU not now descant upon — nor 
 mention the pleasure I received from 
 the sight of the rocky coast. — This 
 morning however, walking to join the 
 carriage that was to transport us to 
 this place, I fell, without any previous 
 w^aming, senseless on the rocks — and 
 how I escaped with life I can scarcely 
 guess. I was in a stupour for a 
 quarter of an hour ; the suffiision of 
 blood at last restored me to my senses 
 — the contusion is great, and my brain 
 confused. The chUd is well. 
 
 Twenty miles ride in the rain, after 
 my accident, has sufficiently deranged 
 me — and here I could not get a fire 
 to warm me, or any thing warm to 
 eat ; the inns are mere stables — 1 
 must nevertheless go to bed. For 
 
122 LETTERS 
 
 God's sake, let me hear from you 
 immediately, my friend! I am not 
 well, and yet you see I cannot die. 
 Yours sincerely 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LIII 
 
 [Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]. 
 
 I WROTE to you by the last post, 
 to inform you of my arrival; and I 
 believe I alluded to the extreme 
 fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing 
 
 to 's illness, and the roughness 
 
 of the weather — I likewise mentioned 
 to you my fall, the effects of which 
 I still feel, though I do not think it 
 will have any serious consequences. 
 
 wUl go with me, if I find it 
 
 necessary to go to . The inns 
 
 here are so bad, I was forced to 
 accept of an apartment in his house. 
 I am overwhelmed with civiHties on 
 aU sides, and fatigued with the en- 
 deavours to amuse me, from which I 
 cannot escape. 
 
TO IMLAY 1^ 
 
 My friend — my friend, I am not 
 well — a deadly weight of sorrow lies 
 heavily on my heart. I am again 
 tossed on the troubled biUows of life ; 
 and obliged to cope with diffi- 
 culties, without being buoyed up 
 by the hopes that alone render them 
 bearable. " How flat, dull, and im- 
 profitable," appears to me all the 
 bustle into which I see people here 
 so eagerly enter ! I long every night 
 to go to bed, to hide my melancholy 
 face in my pillow; but there is a 
 canker-worm in my bosom that never 
 sleeps. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LIV 
 
 [Sweden] July 1 [1795]. 
 
 I LABOUR in vain to calm my mind 
 — my soul has been overwhelmed by 
 sorrow and disappointment. Every 
 thing fatigues me — this is a life that 
 cannot last long. It is you who must 
 determine with respect to futurity — 
 
124 LETTERS 
 
 and, when you have, I will act accord- 
 ingly — I mean, we must either resolve 
 to live together, or part for ever, I 
 cannot bear these continual struggles. 
 — But I wish you to examine carefully 
 your own heart and mind ; and, if 
 you perceive the least chance of being 
 happier without me than with me, or 
 if your inclination leans capriciously 
 to that side, do not dissemble; but 
 tell me frankly that you ■will never 
 see me more. I will then adopt the 
 plan I mentioned to you — for we 
 must either Uve together, or I will be 
 entirely independent. 
 
 My heart is so oppressed, I cannot 
 write with precision — ^You know how- 
 ever that what I so imperfectly ex- 
 press, are not the crude sentiments of 
 the moment — You can only contribute 
 to my comfort (it is the consolation 
 I am in need of) by being with me — 
 and, if the tenderest friendship is of 
 any value, why will you not look to 
 me for a degree of satisfaction that 
 heartless affections cannot bestow ? 
 
TO IMLAY 125 
 
 Tell me then, will you determine 
 to meet me at Basle ? — I shall, I 
 
 should imagine, be at before 
 
 the close of August ; and, after you 
 settle your affairs at Paris, could we 
 not meet there ? 
 God bless you ! 
 
 Yours truly 
 Mary. 
 
 Poor Fanny has suffered during 
 the journey with her teeth. 
 
 LETTER LV 
 
 [Sweden] Jtdy 3 [1795]. 
 
 There was a gloominess diffused 
 through your last letter, the impres- 
 sion of which still rests on my mind — 
 though, recollecting how quickly you 
 throw off the forcible feelings of the 
 moment, I flatter myself it has long 
 since given place to your usual cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 Beheve me (and my eyes fill with 
 tears of tenderness as I assure you) 
 
126 LETTERS 
 
 there is nothing I would not endure 
 in the way of privation, rather than 
 disturb your tranquillity. — If 1 am 
 fated to be unhappy, I wiU labour 
 to hide my sorrows in my own bosom ; 
 and you shall always find me a faith- 
 ful, aflfectionate Mend. 
 
 I grow more and more attached 
 to my little girl — and I cherish this 
 affection without fear, because it 
 must be a long time before it can 
 become bitterness of soul. — She is an 
 interesting creature. — On ship-board, 
 how often as I gazed at the sea, have 
 I longed to bury my troubled bosom 
 in the less troubled deep ; asserting 
 with Brutus, "that the virtue I had 
 followed too far, was merely an 
 empty name I " and nothing but the 
 sight of her — her playful smiles, 
 which seemed to cling and twine 
 round my heart — could have stopped 
 me. 
 
 What pecuUar misery has fallen to 
 my share ! To act up to my princi- 
 ples, I have laid the strictest restraint 
 
TO IMLAY 127 
 
 on my very thoughts — ^yes ; not to 
 sully the delicacy of my feelings, I 
 have reined in my imagination ; and 
 started with affright from every sensa- 
 tion, (I allude to ) that stealing 
 
 with balmy sweetness into my soul, 
 led me to scent from afar the fragrance 
 of reviving nature. 
 
 My friend, I have dearly paid for 
 one conviction. — Love, in some minds, 
 is an affair of sentiment, arising from 
 the same delicacy of perception (or 
 taste) as renders them alive to the 
 beauties of nature, poetry, &c., aUve 
 to the charms of those evanescent 
 graces that are, as it were, impalpable 
 — ^they must be felt, they cannot be 
 described. 
 
 Love is a want of my heart. I 
 have examined myself lately with 
 more care than formerly, and find, 
 that to deaden is not to calm the 
 mind — Aiming at tranquillity, I have 
 almost destroyed all the energy of 
 my soul — almost rooted out what 
 renders it estimable — Yes, I have 
 
128 LETTERS 
 
 damped that enthusiasm of character, 
 which converts the grossest materials 
 into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds 
 hopes, which aspire above common 
 enjoyment. Despair, since the birth 
 of my child, has rendered me stupid 
 — soul and body seemed to be fadmg 
 away before the withering touch of 
 disappointment. 
 
 I am now endeavouring to recover 
 myself — and such is the elasticity of 
 my constitution, and the purity of the 
 atmosphere here, that health unsought 
 for, begins to reanimate my counte- 
 nance. 
 
 I have the sincerest esteem and 
 affection for you — but the desire of 
 regaining peace, (do you xmderstand 
 me ?) has made me forget the respect 
 due to my own emotions — sacred 
 emotions, that are the sure harbingers 
 of the delights I was formed to enjoy 
 — and shall enjoy, for nothing can 
 extinguish the heavenly spark. 
 
 Still, when we meet again, I Avill 
 not torment you, I promise you. I 
 
TO IMLAY 129 
 
 blush when I recollect my former 
 conduct — ^and wiU not in future con- 
 found myself with the beings whom 
 I feel to be my inferiors. — 1 wiU. 
 listen to deUcacy, or pride. 
 
 LETTER LVI 
 
 [Sweden] July 4 [1795J. 
 
 I HOPE to hear from you by to- 
 morrow's mail. My dearest friend ! 
 I cannot tear my affections from you 
 — and, though every remembrance 
 stings me to the soul, I think of you, 
 till I make allowance for the very 
 defects of character, that have given 
 such a cruel stab to my peace. 
 
 Still however I am more alive, 
 than you have seen me for a long, 
 long time. I have a degree of 
 vivacity, even in my grief, which is 
 preferable to the benumbing stupour 
 that, for the last year, has frozen up; 
 all my faculties. — Perhaps this change 
 is more owing to retvu-ning health, 
 than to the vigour of my reason — 
 
 9 
 
130 LETTERS 
 
 for, in spite of sadness (and surely 
 I have had my share), the purity of 
 this air, and the being continually 
 out in it, for I sleep in the country 
 every night, has made an alteration 
 in my appearance that really svurprises 
 me. — The rosy fingersof health already 
 streak my cheeks — and I have seen 
 a physical life in my eyes, after I have 
 been chmbing the rocks, that re- 
 sembled the fond, credulous hopes of 
 youth. 
 
 With what a cruel sigh have I 
 recollected that I had forgotten to 
 hope ! — ^Reason, or rather experience, 
 ■does not thus crueUy damp poor 
 
 's pleasures ; she plays all day 
 
 in the garden with 's children, 
 
 And makes friends for herself. 
 
 Do not tell me, that you are happier 
 without us — Will you not come to 
 us in Switzerland ? Ah, why do not 
 you love us with more sentiment ? — 
 why are you a creature of such 
 sympathy, that the warmth of your 
 feelings, or rather quickness of your 
 
TO IMLAY 131 
 
 senses, hardens your heart ? — It is my 
 misfortune, that my imagination is 
 perpetually shading your defects, and 
 lending you charms, whilst the gross- 
 ness of your senses makes you (call 
 me not vain) overlook graces in me, 
 that only dignity of mind, and the 
 sensibiUty of an expanded heart can 
 give. — God bless you ! Adieu. 
 
 LETTER LVII 
 
 [Sweden] July 7 [1795]. 
 
 I COULD not help feeling extremely 
 mortified last post, at not receiving 
 
 a letter from you. My being at 
 
 was but a chance, and you might have 
 hazarded it ; and would a year ago. 
 
 I shall not however complain — 
 There are misfortunes so great, as to 
 silence the usual expressions of sorrow 
 — Believe me, there is such a thing 
 as a broken heart ! There are characters 
 whose very energy preys upon them ; 
 and who, ever inclined to cherish by 
 reflection some passion, cannot rest 
 
132 LETTERS 
 
 satisfied with the common comforts 
 of hfe. I have endeavoured to fly 
 from myself and laimched into all 
 the dissipation possible here, only to 
 feel keener anguish, when alone with 
 my child. 
 
 Still, could any thing please me — 
 had not disappointment cut me off 
 from life, this romantic coimtry, these 
 fine evenings, would interest me. — My 
 God ! can any thing ? and am I ever 
 to feel alive only to painful sensa- 
 tions?— ^But it cannot — it shall not 
 last long. 
 
 The post is again arrived ; I have 
 sent to seek for letters, only to be 
 wounded to the soul by a negative. — 
 My brain seems on fire. I must go 
 into the air. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LVIII 
 
 [Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795]. 
 
 I AM now on my journey to Tons- 
 berg. I felt more at leaving my child. 
 
TO IMLAY 133 
 
 than I thought I should — and, whilst 
 at night I imagined every instant that 
 I heard the half-formed sounds of her 
 voice, — I asked myself how I could 
 think of parting with her for ever, of 
 leaving her thus helpless ? 
 
 Poor lamb ! It may run very well 
 in a tale, that " God will temper the 
 winds to the shorn lamb ! " but how 
 can I expect that she will be shielded, 
 when my naked bosom has had to 
 brave continually the pitiless storm ? 
 Yes ; I could add, with poor Lear — 
 What is the war of elements to the 
 pangs of disappointed affection, and 
 the horror arising from a discovery 
 of a breach of confidence, that snaps 
 every social tie ! 
 
 All is not right somewhere ! — 
 When you first knew me, I was not 
 thus lost. I could stiU confide — for 
 I opened my heart to you — of this 
 only comfort you have deprived me, 
 whilst my happiness, you tell me, 
 was your first object. Strange want 
 of judgment ! 
 
134. LETTERS 
 
 I will not complain ; but, jfrom the 
 soundness of your understanding, I 
 am convinced, if you give yourself 
 leave to reflect, you wUl also feel, 
 that your conduct to me, so far from 
 being generous, has not been just. — I 
 mean not to aUude to factitious prin- 
 ciples of moraUty ; but to the simple 
 basis of aU rectitude. — However I did 
 not intend to argue — Your not writing 
 is cruel — and my reason is perhaps 
 disturbed by constant wretchedness. 
 
 Poor would fain have ac- 
 companied me, out of tenderness ; 
 for my fainting, or rather convulsion, 
 when I landed, and my sudden 
 changes of countenance since, have 
 alarmed her so much, that she is 
 perpetually afraid of some accident. — 
 But it would have injured the child 
 this warm season, as she is cutting 
 her teeth. 
 
 I hear not of your having written to 
 me at Stromstad. Very well ! Act as 
 you please — ^there is nothing I fear or 
 care for ! When I see whether I can. 
 
TO IMLAY 135 
 
 or cannot obtain the money I am come 
 here about, I will not trouble you 
 with letters to which you do not reply. 
 
 LETTER LIX 
 
 [Tomberg] July 18 [1795]. 
 
 I AM here in Tonsberg, separated 
 from my child — and here I must 
 remain a month at least, or I might 
 as well never have come. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I have begun which will, I 
 
 hope, discharge all my obligations 
 of a pecuniary kind. — I am lowered 
 in my own eyes, on account of my 
 not having done it sooner. 
 
 I shall make no further comments 
 on your sUence. God bless you ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LX 
 
 \Tomherg\ Jtdy 30 [1795J. 
 
 I HAVE just received two of your 
 letters, dated the 26th and 30th of 
 
136 LETTERS 
 
 June ; and you must have received 
 several from me, informing you of 
 my detention, and how much I was 
 hurt by your silence. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Write to me then, my friend, and 
 write explicitly. I have suffered, 
 God knows, since I left you. Ah ! 
 you have never felt this kind of 
 sickness of heart ! — My mind how- 
 ever is at present painfully active, 
 and the sympathy I feel almost rises 
 to agony. But this is not a subject 
 of complaint, it has afforded me 
 pleasure, — and reflected pleasure is all 
 I have to hope for — if a spark of hope 
 be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. 
 
 I wUl try to write with a degree of 
 composure. I wish for us to live 
 together, because 1 want you to ac- 
 quire an habitual tenderness for my 
 poor girl. I cannot bear to think of 
 lea%Tng her alone in the world, or 
 that she should only be protected by 
 your sense of duty. Next to pre- 
 
TO IMLAY 137 
 
 serving her, my most earnest wish is 
 not to disturb your peace. I have 
 nothing to expect, and little to fear, 
 in life — There are w^ounds that can 
 never be healed — but they may be 
 allowed to fester in silence without 
 "wincing. 
 
 When we meet again, you shall be 
 convinced that I have more resolution 
 than you give me credit for. I will 
 not torment you. If I am destined 
 always to be disappointed and un- 
 happy, I will conceal the anguish I 
 cannot dissipate ; and the tightened 
 cord of life or reason will at last 
 snap, and set me free. 
 
 Yes ; 1 shall be happy — This heart 
 is worthy of the bliss its feelings an- 
 ticipate — and I cannot even persuade 
 myself, wretched as they have made 
 me, that my principles and sentiments 
 are not founded in nature and truth. 
 But to have done with these subjects. 
 
 I have been seriously employed in 
 
138 LETTERS 
 
 this way since I came to Tonsberg ; 
 yet I never was so much in the air. 
 — I walk, I ride on horseback— row, 
 bathe, and even sleep in the fields ; 
 my health is consequently improved. 
 
 The child, informs me, is weU, 
 
 I long to be with her. 
 
 Write to me immediately — ^were 
 I only to think of myself, I cotdd 
 wish you to return to me, poor, with 
 the simpUcity of character, part of 
 which you seem lately to have lost, 
 that first attached to you. 
 
 Yours most affectionately 
 
 Mary Imi^y 
 
 I have been subscribing other letters 
 — so I mechanically did the same to 
 yours. 
 
 LETTER LXl 
 
 [Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]. 
 
 Employment and exercise have 
 been of great service to me ; and I 
 have entirely recovered the strength 
 and activity I lost during the time 
 
TO IMLAY 139 
 
 of my nursing. 1 have seldom been 
 in better health ; and my mind, 
 though trembling to the touch of 
 anguish, is calmer — ^yet still the same. 
 — I have, it is true, enjoyed some 
 tranquillity, and more happiness here, 
 than for a long — ^long time past. — (1 
 say happiness, for I can give no other 
 appellation to the exquisite dehght 
 this wild country and fine summer 
 have afforded me.) — Still, on examin- 
 ing my heart, I find that it is so 
 constituted, I cannot hve without 
 some particular affection — I am afiraid 
 not without a passion — and 1 feel 
 the want of it more in society, than 
 in sohtude. 
 
 Writing to you, whenever an affec- 
 tionate epithet occurs — my eyes fill 
 with tears, and my trembling hand 
 stops — ^you may then depend on my 
 resolution, when with you. If I am 
 doomed to be unhappy, I will con- 
 fine my anguish in my own bosom — 
 
140 LETTERS 
 
 tenderness, rather than passion, has 
 made me sometimes overlook delicacy 
 — ^the same tenderness wiU in future 
 restrain me. God bless you ! 
 
 LETTER LXII 
 
 [Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]. 
 
 Air, exercise, and bathing, have 
 restored me to health, braced my 
 muscles, and covered my ribs, even 
 whilst 1 have recovered my former 
 activity. — I cannot tell you that my 
 mind is calm, though I have snatched 
 some moments of exquisite delight, 
 wandering through the woods, and 
 resting on the rocks. 
 
 This state of suspense, my friend, 
 is intolerable; we must determine 
 on something — and soon ; — we must 
 meet shortly, or part for ever. I am 
 sensible that I acted foolishly — but 
 I was wretched — when we were 
 together — Expecting too much, I let 
 the pleasure I might have caught, 
 slip from me. I cannot live with 
 
TO IMLAY 141 
 
 you — I ought not — if you form an- 
 other attachment. But I promise 
 you, mine shall not be intruded on 
 you. Little reason have I to expect 
 a shadow of happiness, after the cruel 
 disappointments that have rent my 
 heart ; but that of my child seems 
 to depend on our being together. 
 Still I do not wish you to sacrifice 
 a chance of enjoyment for an uncer- 
 tain good. I feel a conviction, that 
 I can provide for her, and it shall 
 be my object — if we are indeed to 
 part to meet no more. Her afiection 
 must not be divided. She must be 
 a comfort to me — ^if I am to have 
 no other — and only know me as her 
 support. I feel that I cannot endure 
 the anguish of corresponding with 
 you — if we are only to correspond. — 
 No ; if you seek for happiness else- 
 where, my letters shall not interrupt 
 your repose. I will be dead to you. 
 1 cannot express to you what pain 
 it gives me to write about an eternal 
 separation. — You must determine — = 
 
142 LETTERS 
 
 examine yourself — But, for God's 
 sake I spare me the anxiety of un- 
 certainty ! — I may sink under the 
 trial ; but I will not complain. 
 
 Adieu ! If I had any thing more 
 to say to you, it is all flovra, and 
 absorbed by the most tormenting 
 apprehensions ; yet I scarcely know 
 what new form of misery I have to 
 dread. 
 
 I ought to beg your pardon for 
 having sometimes written peevishly ; 
 but you wiU impute it to affection, 
 if you understand anything of the 
 heart of 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXIII 
 
 [Tonsberg] August 9 [1795]. 
 
 Five of your letters have been 
 
 sent after me from . One, dated 
 
 the 14th of July, was written in a 
 style which I may have merited, but 
 did not expect from you. However 
 
TO IMLAY 143 
 
 this is not a time to reply to it, ex- 
 cept to assure you that you shall not 
 be tormented with any more com- 
 plaints. I am disgusted with myself 
 for having so long importuned you 
 
 with my affection. 
 
 My child is very weU. We shall 
 soon meet, to part no more, I hope 
 — I mean, I and my girl. — I shall 
 wait with some degree of anxiety till 
 I am informed how your affairs 
 terminate. 
 
 Yours sincerely 
 
 Maky. 
 
 LETTER LXIV 
 
 [Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]. 
 
 I AURivED here last night, and 
 with the most exquisite deUght, once 
 more pressed my babe to my heart. 
 We shall part no more. You per- 
 haps cannot conceive the pleasure it 
 gave me, to see her run about, and 
 play alone. Her increasing intelli- 
 gence attaches me more and more 
 
144 LETTERS 
 
 to her. I have promised her that I 
 will fulfil my duty to her; and 
 nothing in future shall make me 
 forget it. I will also exert myself 
 to obtain an independence for her ; 
 but I will not be too anxious on this 
 head. 
 
 I have already told you, that I 
 have recovered my health. Vigour, 
 and even vivacity of mind, have re- 
 turned with a renovated constitution. 
 As for peace, we will not talk of it. 
 I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy 
 the calm contentment so termed. — 
 
 You tell me that my letters torture 
 you; I will not describe the effect 
 yours have on me. I received three 
 this morning, the last dated the 7th 
 of this month. I mean not to give 
 vent to the emotions they produced. 
 — Certainly you are right ; our minds 
 are not congenial. I have lived in 
 an ideal world, and fostered senti- 
 ments that you do not comprehend 
 
TO EVILAY 145 
 
 — or you would not treat me thus. 
 I am not, I will not be, merely an 
 object of compassion — a clog, how- 
 ever light, to teize you. Forget that 
 I exist: I will never remind you. 
 Something emphatical whispers me 
 to put an end to these struggles. 
 Be free — 1 will not torment, when I 
 cannot please. I can take care of 
 my chUd ; you need not continually 
 tell me that our fortune is insepar- 
 able, that you will try to cherish 
 tenderness for me. Do no violence 
 to yourself ! When we are separated, 
 our interest, since you give so much 
 weight to pecuniary considerations, 
 will be entirely divided. I want not 
 protection without aflfection ; and 
 support I need not, whilst my 
 faculties are undisturbed. I had a 
 dishke to living in England ; but 
 painful feelings must give way to 
 superior considerations. I may not 
 be able to acquire the sum necessary 
 to maintain my child and self else- 
 where. It is too late to go to 
 
 10 
 
146 LETTERS 
 
 Switzerland. I shall not remain at 
 
 , living expensively. But be 
 
 not alarmed ! I shall not force my- 
 self on you any more. 
 
 Adieu ! I am agitated — my whole 
 j&ame is convulsed — my lips tremble, 
 as if shook by cold, though fire seems 
 to be circulating in my veins. 
 
 God bless you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXV 
 
 [Copenhagen] September 6 [1795]. 
 
 I RECEIVED just uow your letter of 
 the 20th. I had written you a letter 
 last night, into which imperceptibly 
 shpt some of my bitterness of soul. 
 I will copy the part relative to busi- 
 ness. I am not sufficiently vain to 
 imagine that I can, for more than a 
 moment, cloud your enjoyment of 
 life — ^to prevent even that, you had 
 better never hear from me — and 
 repose on the idea that I am happy. 
 
 Gracious God! It is impossible 
 
TO IMLAY 147 
 
 for me to stifle something like resent- 
 ment, when I receive fresh proofs 
 of your indifference. What I have 
 suffered this last year, is not to be 
 forgotten! I have not that happy 
 substitute for wisdom, insensibility — 
 and the lively sympathies which bind 
 me to my fellow-creatures, are aU of 
 a painful kind. — They are the agonies 
 of a broken heart — ^pleasure and I 
 have shaken hands. 
 
 I see here nothing but heaps of 
 ruins, and only converse with people 
 immersed in trade and sensuality. 
 
 I am weary of travelling — yet seem 
 to have no home — no resting-place 
 to look to. — I am strangely cast off. 
 — How often, passing through the 
 rocks, I have thought, " But for this 
 child, I would lay my head on one 
 of them, and never open my eyes 
 again ! " With a heart feehngly alive 
 to aU the affections of my nature — I 
 have never met with one, softer than 
 the stone that I would fain take for 
 my last pillow. I once thought I 
 
14,8 LETTERS 
 
 had, but it was all a delusion. I 
 meet with families continually, who 
 are bound together by affection or 
 principle — and, when I am conscious 
 that I have fulfilled the duties of my 
 station, almost to a forgetfulness of 
 myself, I am ready to demand, in a 
 murmuring tone, of Heaven, " Why 
 am I thus abandoned ? " 
 You say now 
 
 I do not understand you. It is 
 necessary for you to write more ex- 
 phcitly — and determine on some 
 mode of conduct. — I cannot endure 
 this suspense — Decide — Do you fear 
 to strike another blow ? We hve 
 together, or eternally part ! — I shall 
 not write to you again, tUl I receive 
 an answer to this. I must compose 
 my tortured soul, before I write on 
 indifferent subjects. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I do not know whether I write 
 
TO IMLAY 149 
 
 intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. 
 But this you ought to pardon — for it is 
 with difficulty frequently that I make 
 out what you mean to say — You 
 
 write, I suppose, at Mr. 's after 
 
 dinner, when your head is not the 
 clearest — ^and as for your heart, if 
 you have one, I see nothing like the 
 dictates of affection, unless a ghmpse 
 when you mention the child — Adieu ! 
 
 LETTER LXVI 
 
 [Hamburg] September 25 [1795]. 
 
 I HAVE just finished a letter, to be 
 given in charge to captain 
 
 In that I complained of your silence, 
 and expressed my surprise that three 
 mails should have arrived without 
 bringing a line for me. Since I 
 closed it, I hear of another, and still 
 no letter. — I am labouring to write 
 calmly — this silence is a refinement 
 on cruelty. Had captain re- 
 mained a few days longer, I would 
 have returned with him to England. 
 
150 LETTERS 
 
 What have I to do here ? I have 
 repeatedly written to you fully. Do 
 you do the same — and quickly. Do 
 not leave me in suspense. I have 
 not deserved this of you. I cannot 
 write, my mind is so distressed. 
 Adieu! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXVII 
 
 \Hamburg\ September 27 [1795]. 
 
 When you receive this, 1 shall 
 either have landed, or be hovering, on 
 the British coast — ^your letter of the 
 18th decided me. 
 
 By what criterion of principle or 
 affection, you term my questions 
 extraordinary and unnecessary, I can- 
 not determine. — You desire me to 
 decide — I had decided. You must 
 have had long ago two letters of mine, 
 
 from , to the same purport, to 
 
 consider. — In these, God knows! there 
 was but too much affection, and the 
 agonies of a distracted mind were 
 
TO IMLAY 151 
 
 but too faithfiiUy pourtrayed! — What 
 more then had I to say ? — The nega- 
 tive was to come from you. — You had 
 perpetually recurred to your promise 
 of meeting me in the autumn — Was 
 it extraordinary that I should demand 
 a yes, or no ? — ^Your letter is written 
 with extreme harshness, coldness I 
 an accustomed to, in it I find not a 
 trace of the tenderness of humanity, 
 much less of friendship. — I only see 
 a desire to heave a load off your 
 shoulders. 
 
 I am above disputing about words. 
 — It matters not in what terms you 
 decide. 
 
 The tremendous power who formed 
 this heart, must have foreseen that, 
 in a world in which self-interest, in 
 various shapes, is the principal mobile^ 
 I had little chance of escaping misery. 
 — To the fiat of fate I submit. — I am 
 content to be wretched; but I will 
 not be contemptible. — Of me you 
 have no cause to complain, but for 
 having had too much regard for you 
 
152 LETTERS 
 
 — ^for having expected a degree of 
 permanent happiness, when you only- 
 sought for a momentary gratification. 
 
 I am strangely deficient in sagacity. 
 — Uniting myself to you, your tender- 
 ness seemed to make me amends for 
 all my former misfortunes. — On this 
 tenderness and aflfection with what 
 confidence did I rest ! — but I leaned 
 on a spear, that has pierced me to the 
 heart. — ^You have thrown off a faith- 
 fid friend, to pursue the caprices of the 
 moment. — Wecertainlyaredifferently 
 organized ; for even now, when con- 
 viction has been stamped on my soul 
 by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it 
 possible. It depends at present on 
 you, whether you will see me or not. 
 — I shall take no step, till I see or 
 hear from you. 
 
 Preparing myself for the worst— I 
 have determined, if your next letter 
 
 be like the last, to write to Mr. 
 
 to procure me an obscure lodging, 
 and not to inform any body of my 
 arrival. — There I will endeavour in 
 
TO IMLAY 153 
 
 a few months to obtain the sum 
 necessary to take me to France — 
 from you I will not receive any more, 
 — I am not yet sufficiently humbled 
 to depend on your beneficence. 
 
 Some people, whom my unhappi- 
 ness has interested, though they 
 know not the extent of it, will assist 
 me to attain the object I have in 
 view, the independence of my child. 
 Should a peace take place, ready 
 money will go a great way in France 
 — and I will borrow a sum, which my 
 industry shall enable me to pay at my 
 leisure, to purchase a small estate for 
 my girl. — The assistance I shall find 
 necessary to complete her education, 
 I can get at an easy rate at Paris — 
 I can introduce her to such society 
 as she will like — and thus, securing 
 for her all the chance for happiness, 
 which depends on me, I shall die in 
 peace, persuaded that the felicity 
 which has hitherto cheated my 
 expectation, will not always elude 
 my-grasp. No poor temptest-tossed 
 
154 LETTERS 
 
 mariner ever more earnestly longed 
 to arrive at his port. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I shall not come up in the vessel 
 all the way, because I have no place 
 
 to go to. Captain will inform 
 
 you where I am. It is needless to 
 add, that I am not in a state of 
 mind to bear suspense — and that I 
 wish to see you, though it be for the 
 last time. 
 
 LETTER LXVIII 
 
 [Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]. 
 
 I WROTE to you by the packet, to 
 inform you, that your letter of the 
 18th of last month, had determined 
 
 me to set out with captain ; 
 
 but, as we sailed very quick, I take 
 it for granted, that you have not 
 yet received it. 
 
 You say, I must decide for myself. 
 — I had decided, that it was most 
 for the interest of my little girl, and 
 
TO IMLAY 155 
 
 for my own comfort, little as I expect, 
 for us to live together; and I even 
 thought that you would be glad, 
 some years hence, when the tumult 
 of business was over, to repose in the 
 society of an affectionate friend, and 
 mark the progress of our interesting 
 child, whilst endeavouring to be of 
 use in the circle you at last resolved 
 to rest in : for you cannot run about 
 for ever. 
 
 From the tenour of your last letter 
 however, I am led to imagine, that 
 you have formed some new attach- 
 ment. — If it be so, let me earnestly 
 request you to see me once more, 
 and immediately. This is the only 
 proof I require of the friendship you 
 profess for me. I wUl then decide, 
 since you boggle about a mere form. 
 
 I am labouring to write with calm- 
 ness — but the extreme anguish I feel, 
 at landing without ha^ang any friend 
 to receive me, and even to be con- 
 scious that the friend whom I most 
 wish to see, wiU feel a disagreeable 
 
156 LETTERS 
 
 sensation at being informed of my 
 arrival, does not come under the de- 
 scription of common misery. Every 
 emotion yields to an overwhelming 
 flood of sorrow — and the playfulness 
 of my child distresses me. — On her 
 account, I wished to remain a few 
 days here, comfortless as is my situa- 
 tion. — Besides, I did not wish to sur- 
 prise you. You have told me, that 
 you would make any sacrifice to 
 promote my happiness — and, even in 
 your last unkind letter, you talk of 
 the ties which bind you to me and 
 my child. — Tell me, that you wish 
 it, and I will cut this Gordian 
 knot. 
 
 I now most earnestly intreat you 
 to write to me, without fail, by the 
 return of the post. Direct your letter 
 to be left at the post-office, and tell 
 me whether you wiU come to me 
 here, or where you will meet me. I 
 can receive your letter on Wednesday 
 morning. 
 
 Do not keep me in suspense. — I 
 
TO IMLAY 157 
 
 expect nothing from you, or any- 
 human being : my die is cast ! — I 
 have fortitude enough to determine 
 to do my duty; yet I cannot raise 
 my depressed spirits, or cahn my 
 trembling heart. — That being who 
 moulded it thus, knows that I am 
 unable to tear up by the roots the 
 propensity to affection which has 
 been the torment of my life — ^but 
 life will have an end ! 
 
 Should you come here (a few 
 months ago I could not have doubted 
 
 it) you will find me at . If 
 
 you prefer meeting me on the road, 
 tell me where. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Mahy. 
 
 LETTER LXIX 
 
 [London, Nov. 1795]. 
 I WRITE to you now on my knees ; 
 imploring you to send my child and 
 
 the maid with , to Paris, to be 
 
 consigned to the care of Madame 
 , rue , section de • 
 
158 LETTERS 
 
 Should they be removed, can 
 
 give their direction. 
 
 Let the maid have all my clothes, 
 without distinction. 
 
 Pray pay the cook her wages, and 
 do not mention the confession which 
 I forced from her — a little sooner or 
 later is of no consequence. Nothing 
 but my extreme stupidity could have 
 rendered me blind so long. Yet, 
 whilst you assured me that you had 
 no attachment, I thought we inight 
 stiU have Uved together. 
 
 I shall make no comments on your 
 conduct ; or any appeal to the world. 
 Let my wrongs sleep with me ! 
 Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. 
 When you receive this, my burning 
 head will be cold. 
 
 1 would encounter a thousand 
 deaths, rather than a night Uke the 
 last. Your treatment has throw^n 
 my mind into a state of chaos ; yet 
 I am serene. I go to find comfort, 
 and my only fear is, that my poor 
 body will be insulted by an endeavour 
 
TO IMLAY 159 
 
 to recal my hated existence. But I 
 shall plunge into the Thames where 
 there is the least chance of my being 
 snatched from the death I seek. 
 
 God bless you ! May you never 
 know by experience what you have 
 made me endure. Should your sen- 
 sibility ever awake, remorse wiU find 
 its way to your heart; and, in the 
 midst of business and sensual pleasure, 
 I shall appear before you, the victim 
 of your deviation from rectitude. 
 
 Maby. 
 
 LETTER LXX 
 
 [London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning. 
 
 I HAVE only to lament, that, when 
 the bitterness of death was past, I 
 was inhumanly brought back to life 
 and misery. But a fixed determina- 
 tion is not to be baffled by disap- 
 pointment ; nor will I allow that to 
 be a frantic attempt, which was one 
 of the calmest acts of reason. In 
 this respect, I am only accountable 
 
160 LETTERS 
 
 to myself. Did I care for what is 
 termed reputation, it is by other 
 circumstances that I should be dis- 
 honoured. 
 
 You say, " that you know not how 
 to extricate ourselves out of the 
 wretchedness into which we have 
 been plunged." You are extricated 
 long since. — But I forbear to com- 
 ment. — If I am condemned to hve 
 longer, it is a hving death. 
 
 It appears to me, that you lay 
 much more stress on delicacy, than 
 on principle ; for I am unable to 
 discover what sentiment of delicacy 
 would have been violated, by your 
 visiting a wretched friend — ^if indeed 
 you have any friendship for me. — 
 But since your new attachment is 
 the only thing sacred in your eyes, I 
 am silent — Be happy ! My com- 
 plaints shall never more damp your 
 enjoyment — perhaps I am mistaken 
 in supposing that even my death 
 could, for more than a moment. — 
 This is what you call magnanimity. — 
 
TO IMLAY 161 
 
 It is happy for yourself, that you 
 possess this quaUty in the highest 
 degree. 
 
 Your continually asserting, that 
 you will do all in your power to 
 contribute to my comfort (when you 
 only allude to pecuniary assistance), 
 appears to me a flagrant breach of 
 delicacy. — I want not such wdgar 
 comfort, nor will I accept it. I 
 never wanted but your heart — ^That 
 gone, you have nothing more to 
 give. Had 1 only poverty to fear, I 
 should not shrink from hfe. — ^For- 
 give me then, if I say, that I shall 
 consider any direct or indirect at- 
 tempt to supply my necessities, as an 
 insult which I have not merited — 
 and as rather done out of tenderness 
 for your own reputation, than for 
 me. Do not mistake me ; I do not 
 think that you value money (there- 
 fore I wiU not accept what you do 
 not care for) though I do much less, 
 because certain privations are not 
 painful to me. When I am dead, 
 
 11 
 
162 LETTERS 
 
 respect for yourself will make you 
 take care of the child. 
 
 I write with difficulty — probably I 
 shall never write to you again. — 
 Adieu ! 
 
 God bless you! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXXI 
 
 [London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning. 
 
 I AM compelled at last to say that 
 you treat me ungenerously. I agree 
 with you, that 
 
 T^t ^tf- ^tt its- ^jJ 
 
 But let the obliquity now fall on 
 me. — I fear neither poverty nor in- 
 famy. I am unequal to the task of 
 writing — and explanations are not 
 necessary. 
 
 ***** 
 
 My child may have to blush for her 
 mother's want of prudence — and may 
 lament that the rectitude of my 
 heart made me above vulgar precau- 
 
TO IMLAY 163 
 
 tions ; but she shall not despise me 
 for meanness. — ^You are now per- 
 fectly free. — God bless you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXXII 
 
 [London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night 
 
 I HAVE been hurt by indirect en- 
 quiries, which appear to me not to 
 be dictated by any tenderness to 
 me. — ^You ask " If I am well or 
 tranquQ ? " — They who think me so, 
 must want a heart to estimate my 
 feelings by. — I chuse then to be the 
 organ of my own sentiments. 
 
 I must teU you, that I am very 
 much mortified by your continually 
 offering me pecuniary assistance — 
 and, considering your going to the 
 new house, as an open avowal that 
 you abandon me, let me tell you 
 that I will sooner perish than receive 
 any thing from you — and I say this 
 at the moment when I am disap- 
 pointed in my first attempt to obtain 
 
164 LETTERS 
 
 a temporary supply. But this even 
 pleases me ; an accumulation of dis- 
 appointments and misfortunes seems 
 to suit the habit of my mind. — 
 
 Have but a little patience, and I 
 will remove myself where it will not 
 be necessary for you to talk — of 
 course, not to think of me. But let 
 me see, written by yourself — ^for I 
 will not receive it through any other 
 medium — ^that the affair is finished. 
 — It is an insult to me to suppose, 
 that I can be reconciled, or recover 
 my spirits ; but, if you hear nothing of 
 me, it will be the same thing to you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Even your seeing me, has been to 
 oblige other people, and not to sooth 
 my distracted mind. 
 
 LETTER LXXIII 
 
 [Lotidon, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon. 
 
 Mr. having forgot to desire 
 
 you to send the things of mine which 
 
TO IMLAY 165 
 
 were left, at the house, I have to 
 
 request you to let bring them 
 
 to 
 
 I shall go this evening to the 
 lodging ; so you need not be re- 
 strained from coming here to transact 
 your business. — ^And, whatever I may 
 think, and feel — you need not fear 
 that I shall pubhcly complain — ^No ! 
 If I have any criterion to judge of 
 right and wrong, I have been most 
 ungenerously treated : but, wishing 
 now only to hide myself, I shall be 
 silent as the grave in which I long 
 to forget myself. I shall protect and 
 provide for my child. — I only mean 
 by this to say, that you have 
 nothing to fear from my desperation. 
 
 F arewel. 
 
 Mauy. 
 
 LETTER LXXIV 
 
 London, November 27 [1795]. 
 
 The letter, without an address, 
 which you put up with the letters 
 
166 LETTERS 
 
 you returned, did not meet my eyes 
 till just now. — 1 had thrown the 
 letters aside — I did not wish to look 
 over a register of sorrow. 
 
 My not having seen it, wiU account 
 for my having written to you with 
 anger — under the impression your 
 departure, without even a line left 
 for me, made on me, even after your 
 late conduct, which could net lead 
 me to expect much attention to my 
 sufferings. 
 
 In fact, " the decided conduct, 
 which appeared to me so unfeeling," 
 has almost overturned my reason ; 
 my mind is injured — I scarcely know 
 where I am, or what I do. — ^The 
 grief I cannot conquer (for some 
 cruel recollections never quit me, 
 banishing almost every other) I labour 
 to conceal in total solitude. — My life 
 therefore is but an exercise of forti- 
 tude, continually on the stretch — 
 and hope never gleams in this tomb, 
 where I am buried alive. 
 ' But I meant to reason with you. 
 
TO IMLAY 167 
 
 and not to complain. — You tell me, 
 that I shall judge more coolly of 
 your mode of acting, some time 
 hence." But is it not possible that 
 passion clouds your reason, as much 
 as it does mine ? — and ought you not 
 to doubt, whether those principles 
 are so " exalted," as you term them, 
 which only lead to your own gratifi- 
 cation ? In other words, whether 
 it be just to have no principle of 
 action, but that of following your 
 incUnation, trampling on the affection 
 you have fostered, and the expecta- 
 tions you have excited ? 
 
 My affection for you is rooted in 
 my heart. — I know you are not what 
 you now seem — ^nor will you always 
 act, or feel, as you now do, though 
 I may never be comforted by the 
 change. — Even at Paris, my image 
 will haunt you. — You will see my 
 pale face — and sometimes the tears 
 of anguish will drop on your heart,- 
 which you have forced from mine. ■ 
 > I cannot write. I thought I could 
 
168 LETTERS 
 
 quickly have refiited all your in- 
 genious arguments; but my head 
 is confused. — Right or wrong, I am 
 miserable ! 
 
 It seems to me, that my conduct 
 has always been governed by the 
 strictest principles of justice and 
 truth. — ^Yet, how wretched have my 
 social feelings, and delicacy of senti- 
 ment rendered me I — I have loved 
 with my whole soul, only to discover 
 that I had no chance of a return — 
 and that existence is a burthen with- 
 out it. 
 
 I do not perfectly understand you. 
 —If, by the offer of your friendship, 
 you stfll only mean pecuniary sup- 
 port — I must again reject it. — Trifling 
 are the iUs of poverty in the scale of 
 my misfortunes. — God bless you ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I have been treated ungenerously 
 — if I understand what is generosity. 
 — You seem to me only to have been 
 anxious to shake me off — ^regardless 
 
TO IMLAY 169 
 
 whether you dashed me to atoms by 
 the fall. — In truth I have been rudely 
 handled. Do you judge coolly, and 
 I trust you will not continue to call 
 those capricious feelings "the most 
 refined," which would undermine not 
 only the most sacred principles, but 
 the affections which unite mankind. 
 ■ — You would render mothers un- 
 natiu^al — and there would be no such 
 thing as a father! — If your theory 
 of morals is the most "exalted," it 
 is certainly the most easy. — It does 
 not require much magnanimity, to 
 determine to please ourselves for the 
 moment, let others suffer what they 
 wiU! 
 
 Excuse me for again tormenting 
 you, my heart thirsts for justice 
 from you — and whilst I recollect that 
 
 you approved Miss 's conduct 
 
 — I am convinced you wUl not always 
 justify your own. 
 
 Beware of the deceptions of passion ! 
 It will not always banish from your 
 mind, that you have acted ignobly — 
 
170 LETTERS 
 
 and condescended to subterfuge to 
 gloss over the conduct you could not 
 excuse. — Do truth and principle re- 
 quire such sacrifices ? 
 
 LETTER LXXV 
 
 London, December 8 [1795]. 
 
 Having just been informed that 
 is to return immediately to 
 
 Paris, I would not miss a sure oppor- 
 tunity of writing, because I am not 
 certain that my last, by Dover has 
 reached you. 
 
 Resentment, and even anger, are 
 momentary emotions with me — and 
 I wished to ,tell you so, that if you 
 ever think of me, it may not be in 
 the light of an enemy. 
 
 That I have not been used well I 
 must ever feel ; perhaps, not always 
 with the keen anguish I do at present 
 — for I began even now to write 
 calmly, and t cannot restrain my 
 tears. 
 
 I am stunned! — Your late conduct 
 
TO IMLAY 171 
 
 still appears to me a frightfiil dream. 
 — Ah ! ask yourself if you have 
 not condescended to employ a little 
 address, I could almost say cunning, 
 unworthy of you ? — Principles are 
 sacred things — and we never play 
 with truth, with impunity. 
 
 The expectation (I have too fondly 
 nourished it) of regaining your aflfec- 
 tion, every day grows fainter and 
 fainter. — Indeed, it seems to me, 
 when I am more sad than usual, that 
 I shall never see you more. — Yet 
 you will not always forget me. — 
 You will feel something like remorse, 
 for having lived only for yourself — 
 and sacrificed my peace to inferior 
 gratifications. In a comfortless old 
 age, you will remember that you had 
 one disinterested friend, whose heart 
 you wounded to the quick. The 
 hour of recollection will come — and 
 you will not be satisfied to act the 
 part of a boy, till you fall into that 
 of a dotard. I know that your mind, 
 your heart, and your principles of 
 
172 LETTERS 
 
 action, are all superior to your 
 present conduct. You do, you must, 
 respect me— and you will be sorry 
 to forfeit my esteem. 
 
 You know best whether I am still 
 preserving the remembrance of an 
 imaginary being. — I once thought 
 that I knew you thoroughly — ^but 
 now I am obliged to leave some 
 doubts that involuntarily press on 
 me, to be cleared up by time. 
 
 You may render me unhappy ; but 
 cannot make me contemptible in my 
 own eyes. — I shall still be able to 
 support my child, though I am dis- 
 appointed in some other plans of use- 
 fulness, which I once believed would 
 have afforded you equal pleasure. 
 
 Whilst I was with you, 1 restrained 
 my natural generosity, because I 
 thought your property in jeopardy. — 
 When I went to [Sweden],! requested 
 you, if you could conveniently, not 
 to forget my father, sisters, and some 
 other people, whom I was interested 
 about. — Money was lavished away. 
 
TO IMLAY 173 
 
 yet not only my requests were neg- 
 lected, but some trifling debts were 
 not discharged, that now come on 
 me. — Was this friendship — or gener- 
 osity ? WiU you not grant you have 
 forgotten yourself? Still I have an 
 affection for you. — God bless you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 LETTER LXXVI 
 
 XLondon, Dec. 1795.] 
 
 As the parting from you for ever 
 is the mtm serious event of my life, 
 I will once expostulate with you, and 
 call not the language of truth and 
 feeling ingenuity ! 
 
 I knowthe soundnessof your under- 
 standing — and know that it is im- 
 possible for you always to confound 
 the caprices of every wayw^ard in- 
 clination with the manly dictates of 
 principle. 
 
 You tell me " that I torment you." 
 — Why do I ? Because you can- 
 not estrange your heart entirely from 
 
174 LETTERS 
 
 me — and you feel that justice is on 
 my side. You urge, " that your con- 
 duct was unequivocal." — It was not. 
 — When your coolness has hurt me, 
 with what tenderness have you en- 
 deavoured to remove the impression I 
 — and even before I returned to 
 England, you took great pains to 
 convince me, that aU my uneasiness 
 was occasioned by the effect of a 
 worn-out constitution — and you con- 
 cluded your letter with these words, 
 " Business alone has kept me from 
 you. — Come to any port, and I will 
 fly down to my two dear girls with 
 a heart aU their own." 
 
 With these assurances, is it extra- 
 ordinary that I should believe what 
 I wished ? I might — and did think 
 that you had a struggle with old pro- 
 pensities ; but I still thought that I 
 and virtue should at last prevail. I 
 still thought that you had a mag- 
 nanimity of character, which would 
 enable you to conquer yourself. 
 
 Imlay, beheve me, it is not 
 
TO IMLAY 175 
 
 romance, you have acknowledged to 
 me feelings of this kind. — You could 
 restore me to life and hope, and the 
 satisfaction you would feel, would 
 amply repay you. 
 
 In tearing myself from you, it is 
 my own heart I pierce — and the time 
 will come, when you wUl lament that 
 you have thrown away a heart, that, 
 even in the moment of passion, you 
 cannot despise. — I would owe every 
 thing to your generosity — ^but, for 
 .Gk>d's sake, keep me no longer in 
 suspense ! — Let me see you once 
 more ! — 
 
 LETTER LXXVII 
 
 [London, Dec. 1795.] 
 
 You must do as you please with 
 respect to the child. — I could wish 
 that it might be done soon, that my 
 name may be no more mentioned to 
 you. It is now finished. — Convinced 
 that you have neither regard nor 
 fiiendship, I disdain to utter a re; 
 
176 LETTERS 
 
 proach, though I have had reason to 
 think, that the " forbearance " talked 
 of, has not been very deUcate. — It is 
 however of no consequence.- — I aiii 
 glad you are satisfied with your own 
 conduct. 
 
 I now solemnly assure you, that 
 this is an eternal fareweL — Yet I 
 flinch not from the duties which tie 
 me to life. 
 
 That there is " sophistry " on one 
 side or other, is certain ; but now it 
 matters not on which. On my part 
 it has not been a question of words. 
 Yet your understanding or mine 
 must be strangely warped — ^for what 
 you term " deUcacy," appears to me 
 to be exactly the contrary. I have 
 no criterion for moraUty, and have 
 thought in vain, if the sensations 
 which lead you to follow an ancle or 
 step, be the sacred foundation of 
 principle and affection. Mine has 
 been of a very different nature, or it 
 w^ould not have stood the brunt of 
 your sarcasms. 
 
TO IMLAY 177 
 
 The sentiment in me is still sacred. 
 If there be any part of me that will 
 survive the sense of my misfortunes, 
 it is the purity of my affections. The 
 impetuosity of your senses, may have 
 led you to term mere animal desire, 
 the source of principle ; and it may 
 give zest to some years to come. — 
 Whether you will always think so, 
 I shall never know. 
 
 It is strange that, in spite of aU 
 you do, something like conviction 
 forces me to believe, that you are not 
 what you appear to be. 
 
 I part with you in peace. 
 
 PriiiUd by Hazell, Watson Gr Viney^ Ld., Loftdon and Aylesbury. 
 
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