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Title: Mary Wollstonecraft

Author: Elizabeth Robins Pennell

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Most recently updated: January 3, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY
WOLLSTONECRAFT ***

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
BY

ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.

BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1890.

Copyright, 1884,
By Roberts Brothers.

University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

PREFACE.
Comparatively little has been written about the life of Mary
Wollstonecraft. The two authorities upon the subject are Godwin and Mr.
C. Kegan Paul. In writing the following Biography I have relied chiefly
upon the Memoir written by the former, and the Life of Godwin and
Prefatory Memoir to the Letters to Imlay of the latter. I have endeavored to
supplement the facts recorded in these books by a careful analysis of Mary
Wollstonecraft’s writings and study of the period in which she lived.

I must here express my thanks to Mr. Garnett, of the British Museum, and
to Mr. C. Kegan Paul, for the kind assistance they have given me in my
work. To the first named of these gentlemen I am indebted for the loan of a
manuscript containing some particulars of Mary Wollstonecraft’s last illness
which have never yet appeared in print, and to Mr. Paul for the gift, as well
as the loan, of several important books.
E. R. P.

London, August, 1884.

CONTENTS.
Page
Introduction 1
Chapter

I. Childhood and Early Youth. 1759-1778 12
II. First Years of Work. 1778-1785 30
III. Life as Governess. 1786-1788 60
IV. Literary Life. 1788-1791 85
V. Literary Work. 1788-1791 117
VI. “Vindication of the Rights of Women” 136
VII. Visit to Paris. 1792-1793 171
VIII. Life with Imlay. 1793-1794 198
IX. Imlay’s Desertion. 1794-1795 218
X. Literary Work. 1793-1796 248
XI. Retrospective. 1794-1796 280
XII. William Godwin 290
XIII. Life with Godwin: Marriage. 1796-1797 314
XIV. Last Months: Death. 1797 340

[Pg 1] MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

INTRODUCTION.
Few women have worked so faithfully for the cause of humanity as Mary
Wollstonecraft, and few have been the objects of such bitter censure. She
devoted herself to the relief of her suffering fellow-beings with the ardor of
a Saint Vincent de Paul, and in return she was considered by them a moral
scourge of God. Because she had the courage to express opinions new to
her generation, and the independence to live according to her own standard
of right and wrong, she was denounced as another Messalina. The young
were bidden not to read her books, and the more mature warned not to
follow her example, the miseries she endured being declared the just
retribution of her actions. Indeed, the infamy attached to her name is almost
incredible in the present age, when new theories are more patiently
criticised, and when purity of motive has been accepted as the vindication
of at least one well-known breach of social laws. The malignant attacks
made upon her character since her death have been too great to be ignored.
They had best be stated here, that the life which follows may serve as their
refutation.

[Pg 2] As a rule, the notices which were published after she was dead were
harsher and more uncompromising than those written during her lifetime.
There were happily one or two exceptions. The writer of her obituary notice

in the “Monthly Magazine” for September, 1797, speaks of her in terms of
unlimited admiration.

“This extraordinary woman,” he writes, “no less distinguished by admirable
talents and a masculine tone of understanding, than by active humanity,
exquisite sensibility, and endearing qualities of heart, commanding the
respect and winning the affections of all who were favored with her
friendship or confidence, or who were within the sphere of her influence,
may justly be considered as a public loss. Quick to feel, and indignant to
resist, the iron hand of despotism, whether civil or intellectual, her exertions
to awaken in the minds of her oppressed sex a sense of their degradation,
and to restore them to the dignity of reason and virtue, were active and
incessant; by her impassioned reasoning and glowing eloquence, the fabric
of voluptuous prejudice has been shaken to its foundation and totters
towards its fall; while her philosophic mind, taking a wider range, perceived
and lamented in the defects of civil institutions interwoven in their texture
and inseparable from them the causes of those partial evils, destructive to
virtue and happiness, which poison social intercourse and deform domestic
life.” Her eulogist concludes by calling her the “ornament of her sex, the
enlightened advocate for freedom, and the benevolent friend of
humankind.”

It is more than probable, however, that this was written by a personal friend;
for a year later the same [Pg 3] magazine, in its semi-annual retrospect of
British literature, expressed somewhat altered opinions. This time it says:
“It is not for us to vindicate Mary Godwin from the charge of multiplied
immorality which is brought against her by the candid as well as the
censorious, by the sagacious as well as the superstitious observer. Her
character in our estimation is far from being entitled to unqualified praise;

she had many faults; she had many transcendent virtues. But she is now
dead, and we shall

‘No farther seek her merits to disclose,
Or draw her frailties from the dread abode;
There they alike in trembling hope repose,
The bosom of her father and her God!’”

The notice in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for October, 1797, the month
after her death, is friendly, but there are limitations to its praise. The
following is the sentence it passed upon her: “Her manners were gentle,
easy, and elegant; her conversation intelligent and amusing, without the
least trait of literary pride, or the apparent consciousness of powers above
the level of her sex; and, for fondness of understanding and sensibility of
heart, she was, perhaps, never equalled. Her practical skill in education was
ever superior to her speculations upon that subject; nor is it possible to
express the misfortune sustained in that respect by her children. This tribute
we readily pay to her character, however adverse we may be to the system
she supported in politics and morals, both by her writings and practice.”

In 1798 Godwin published his Memoir of Mary, together with her
posthumous writings. He no doubt [Pg 4] hoped by a clear statement of the
principal incidents of her life to moderate the popular feeling against her.
But he was the last person to have undertaken the task. Outside of the small
circle of friends and sympathizers who really loved him, he was by no
means popular. There were some who even seemed to think that the greatest
hardship of Mary’s life was to have been his wife. Thus Roscoe, after
reading the Memoir, expressed the sentiments it aroused in him in the
following lines:—

“Hard was thy fate in all the scenes of life,

As daughter, sister, mother, friend, and wife;
But harder still thy fate in death we own,
Thus mourned by Godwin with a heart of stone.”

Moreover, Godwin’s views about marriage, as set forth in his “Political
Justice,” were held in such abhorrence that the fact that he approved of
Mary’s conduct was reason enough for the multitude to disapprove of it. His
book, therefore, was not a success as far as Mary’s reputation was
concerned. Indeed, it increased rather than lessened the asperity of her
detractors. It was greeted by the “European Magazine” for April, 1798,
almost immediately after its publication, by one of the most scathing
denunciations of Mary’s character which had yet appeared.

“The lady,” the article begins, “whose memoirs are now before us, appears
to have possessed good abilities, and originally a good disposition, but, with
an overweening conceit of herself, much obstinacy and self-will, and a
disposition to run counter to established practices and opinions. Her
conduct in the early part of her life was blameless, if not exemplary; but the
[Pg 5] latter part of it was blemished with actions which must consign her
name to posterity (in spite of all palliatives) as one whose example, if
followed, would be attended with the most pernicious consequences to
society: a female who could brave the opinion of the world in the most
delicate point; a philosophical wanton, breaking down the bars designed to
restrain licentiousness; and a mother, deserting a helpless offspring
disgracefully brought into the world by herself, by an intended act of
suicide.” Here follows a short sketch of the incidents recorded by Godwin,
and then the article concludes: “Such was the catastrophe of a female
philosopher of the new order, such the events of her life, and such the
apology for her conduct. It will be read with disgust by every female who
has any pretensions to delicacy; with detestation by every one attached to

the interests of religion and morality; and with indignation by any one who
might feel any regard for the unhappy woman, whose frailties should have
been buried in oblivion. Licentious as the times are, we trust it will obtain
no imitators of the heroine in this country. It may act, however, as a warning
to those who fancy themselves at liberty to dispense with the laws of
propriety and decency, and who suppose the possession of perverted talents
will atone for the well government of society and the happiness of
mankind.”

This opinion of the “European Magazine” was the one most generally
adopted. It was re-echoed almost invariably when Mary Wollstonecraft’s
name was mentioned in print. A Mrs. West, who, in 1801, published a series
of “Letters to a Young Man,” full of goodly [Pg 6] discourse and moral
exhortation, found occasion to warn him against Mary’s works, which she
did with as much energy as if the latter had been the Scarlet Woman of
Babylon in the flesh. “This unfortunate woman,” she says in conclusion,
“has terribly terminated her guilty career; terribly, I say, because the
account of her last moments, though intentionally panegyrical, proves that
she died as she lived; and her posthumous writings show that her soul was
in the most unfit state to meet her pure and holy judge.”

A writer in the “Beauties of England and Wales,” though animated by the
same spirit, saw no reason to caution his readers against Mary’s pernicious
influence, because of his certainty that in another generation she would be
forgotten. “Few writers have attained a larger share of temporary celebrity,”
he admits. “This was the triumph of wit and eloquence of style. To the age
next succeeding it is probable that her name will be nearly unknown; for the
calamities of her life so miserably prove the impropriety of her doctrines

that it becomes a point of charity to close the volume treating of the Rights
of Women with mingled wonder and pity.”

But probably the article which was most influential in perpetuating the ill-
repute in which she stood with her contemporaries, is the sketch of her life
given in Chalmers’s “Biographical Dictionary.” The papers and many books
of the day soon passed out of sight, but the Dictionary was long used as a
standard work of reference. In this particular article every action of Mary’s
life is construed unfavorably, and her character shamefully vilified. Judging
from Godwin’s Memoir, [Pg 7] it decides that Mary “appears to have been a
woman of strong intellect, which might have elevated her to the highest
ranks of English female writers, had not her genius run wild for want of
cultivation. Her passions were consequently ungovernable, and she
accustomed herself to yield to them without scruple, treating female honor
and delicacy as vulgar prejudices. She was therefore a voluptuary and
sensualist, without that refinement for which she seemed to contend on
other subjects. Her history, indeed, forms entirely a warning, and in no part
an example. Singular she was, it must be allowed, for it is not easily to be
conceived that such another heroine will ever appear, unless in a novel,
where a latitude is given to that extravagance of character which she
attempted to bring into real life.” Beloe, in the “Sexagenarian,” borrowed
the scurrilous abuse of the “Biographical Dictionary,” which was
furthermore accepted by almost every history of English literature and
encyclopædia as the correct estimate of Mary’s character and teachings. It
is, therefore, no wonder that the immorality of her doctrines and
unwomanliness of her conduct came to be believed in implicitly by the too
credulous public.

That she fully deserved this disapprobation and contempt seemed to many
confirmed by the fact that her daughter, Mary Godwin, consented to live
with Shelley before their union could be legalized. The independence of
mother and daughter excited private as well as public animosity. There is in
the British Museum a book containing a collection of drawings, newspaper
slips, and written notes, illustrative of the history and topography of the
parish of Saint Pancras. As Mary [Pg 8] Wollstonecraft was buried in the
graveyard of Saint Pancras Church, mention is made of her. A copy of the
painting1 by Opie, which was supposed until very recently to be her
portrait, is pasted on one of the pages of this book, and opposite to it is the
following note, written on a slip of paper, and dated 1821: “Mary
Wollstonecraft, a disgrace to modesty, an eminent instance of a perverted
strong mind, the defender of the ‘Rights of Women,’ but an ill example to
them, soon terminated her life of error, and her remains were laid in the
cemetery of Saint Pancras, amidst the believers of the papal creed.

1 It was engraved and published in the “Monthly Mirror,” with Mary’s name attached
to it, during her lifetime. When Mr. Kegan Paul published the “Letters to Imlay,” in
1879, there seemed no doubt of its authenticity. But since then it has been proved to
be the portrait of the wife of an artist who lived in the latter part of the eighteenth
century.

“There is a monument placed over her remains, being a square pillar.” (The
inscription here follows.) “A willow was planted on each side of the pillar,
but, like the character of Mary, they do not flourish. Her unfortunate
daughters were reared by their infamous father for prostitution,—one is sold
to the wicked poet Shelley, and the other to attend upon her. The former
became Mrs. Shelley.” The prejudice of the writer of these lines against the
subject of them, together with his readiness to accept all the ill spoken of

her, is at once shown in his reference to Claire, who was the daughter of the
second Mrs. Godwin by her first husband, and hence no relation whatever
to Mrs. Shelley. This mistake proves that he relied overmuch upon current
gossip.

[Pg 9] During all these years Mary was not entirely without friends, but their
number was small. In 1803 an anonymous admirer published a defence of
her character and conduct, “founded on principles of nature and reason as
applied to the peculiar circumstances of her case,” in a series of nine letters
to a lady. But his defence is less satisfactory to his readers than it is to be
presumed it was to himself. In it he carefully repeats those details of
Godwin’s Memoir which were most severely criticised, and to some of
them gives a new and scarcely more favorable construction. He candidly
admits that he does not pretend to vindicate the whole of her conduct. He
merely wishes to apologize for it by demonstrating the motives from which
she acted. But to accomplish this he evolves his arguments chiefly from his
inner consciousness. Had he appealed more directly to her writings, and
thought less of showing his own ingenuity in reasoning, he would have
written to better purpose.

Southey was always enthusiastic in his admiration. His letters are full of her
praises. “We are going to dine on Wednesday next with Mary
Wollstonecraft, of all the literary characters the one I most admire,” he
wrote to Thomas Southey, on April 28, 1797. And a year or two after her
death, he declared in a letter to Miss Barker, “I never praised living being
yet, except Mary Wollstonecraft.” He made at least one public profession of
his esteem in these lines, prefixed to his “Triumph of Woman:”—

“The lily cheek, the ‘purple light of love,’
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,

Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these
[Pg 10]
Did Woman triumph ... turn not thou away
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc
Had, in those ages, for her country’s cause
Wielded the sword of freedom; no Roland
Had borne the palm of female fortitude;
No Condé with self-sacrificing zeal
Had glorified again the Avenger’s name,
As erst when Cæsar perished; haply too
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.”

Shelley too offered her the tribute of his praise in verse. In the dedication of
the “Revolt of Islam,” addressed to his wife, he thus alludes to the latter’s
famous mother:—

“They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring child.
I wonder not; for one then left the earth
Whose life was like a setting planet mild
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled
Of its departing glory.”

But the mere admiration of Southey and Shelley had little weight against
popular prejudice. Year by year Mary’s books, like so many other literary
productions, were less frequently read, and the prediction that in another
generation her name would be unknown bade fair to be fulfilled. But the
latest of her admirers, Mr. Kegan Paul, has, by his zealous efforts in her
behalf, succeeded in vindicating her character and reviving interest in her
writings. By his careful history of her life, and noble words in her defence,
he has re-established her reputation. As he says himself, “Only eighty years
after her death has any serious attempt been made to set her right in the eyes
of those who will choose to see her as she was.” His attempt has been [Pg 11]

successful. No one after reading her sad story as he tells it in his Life of
Godwin, can doubt her moral uprightness. His statement of her case
attracted the attention it deserved. Two years after it appeared, Miss
Mathilde Blind published, in the “New Quarterly Review,” a paper
containing a briefer sketch of the incidents he recorded, and expressing an
honest recognition of this great but much-maligned woman.

Thus, at this late day, the attacks of her enemies are being defeated. The
critic who declared the condition of the trees planted near her grave to be
symbolical of her fate, were he living now, would be forced to change the
conclusions he drew from his comparison. In that part of Saint Pancras
Churchyard which lies between the two railroad bridges, and which has not
been included in the restored garden, but remains a dreary waste, fenced
about with broken gravestones, the one fresh green spot is the corner
occupied by the monument1 erected to the memory of Mary Wollstonecraft,
and separated from the open space by an iron railing. There is no sign of
withering willows in this enclosure. Its trees are of goodly growth and fair
promise. And, like them, her character now flourishes, for justice is at last
being done to her.

1 Her body has been removed to Bournemouth.

[Pg 12] CHAPTER I.
CHILDHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH.

1759-1778.

Mary Wollstonecraft was born on the 27th of April, 1759, but whether in
London or in Epping Forest, where she spent the first five years of her life,
is not quite certain. There is no history of her ancestors to show from whom
she inherited the intellectual greatness which distinguished her, but which
characterized neither of her parents. Her paternal grandfather was a
manufacturer in Spitalfields, of whom little is known, except that he was of
Irish extraction and that he himself was respectable and prosperous. To his
son, Edward John, Mary’s father, he left a fortune of ten thousand pounds,
no inconsiderable sum in those days for a man of his social position. Her
mother was Elizabeth, daughter of Mr. Dixon, of Ballyshannon, Ireland,
who belonged to an eminently good family. Mary was the second of six
children. The eldest, Edward, who was more successful in his worldly
affairs than the others, and James, who went to sea to seek his fortunes,
both passed to a great extent out of her life. But her two sisters, Eliza and
Everina, and her youngest brother, Charles, were so dependent upon her for
assistance in their many troubles that their career is intimately associated
with hers.

[Pg 13] With her very first years Mary Wollstonecraft began a bitter training
in the school of experience, which was to no small degree instrumental in
developing her character and forming her philosophy. There are few details
of her childhood, and no anecdotes indicating a precocious genius. But
enough is known of her early life to make us understand what were the
principal influences to which she was exposed. Her strength sprang from
the very uncongeniality of her home and her successful struggles against the
poverty and vice which surrounded her. Her father was a selfish, hot-
tempered despot, whose natural bad qualities were aggravated by his
dissipated habits. His chief characteristic was his instability. He could
persevere in nothing. Apparently brought up to no special profession, he
was by turns a gentleman of leisure, a farmer, a man of business. It seems to
have been sufficient for him to settle in any one place to almost
immediately wish to depart from it. The history of the first fifteen or twenty
years of his married life is that of one long series of migrations. The
discomforts and petty miseries unavoidable to travellers with large families
in pre-railroad days necessarily increased his irascibility. The inevitable
consequence of these many changes was loss of money and still greater loss
of temper. That his financial experiments proved to be failures, is certain
from the abject poverty of his later years. That they were bad for him
morally, is shown in the fact that his children, when grown up, found it
impossible to live under the same roof with him. His indifference in one
particular to their wishes and welfare led in the end to disregard of them in
all matters.

[Pg 14] It is more than probable that Mary, in her “Wrongs of Woman,” drew
largely from her own experience for the characters therein represented, and
we shall not err in identifying the father she describes in this novel with Mr.
Wollstonecraft himself. “His orders,” she writes, “were not to be disputed;

and the whole house was expected to fly at the word of command.... He was
to be instantaneously obeyed, especially by my mother, whom he very
benevolently married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation
when she dared in the slightest instance to question his absolute authority.”
He was, in a word, an egotist of the worst description, who found no
brutality too low once his anger was aroused, and no amount of despotism
too odious when the rights and comforts of others interfered with his own
desires. When contradicted or thwarted his rage was ungovernable, and he
used personal violence not only to his dogs and children, but even to his
wife. Drink and unrestrained selfishness had utterly degraded him. Such
was Mary’s father.

Mrs. Wollstonecraft was her husband’s most abject slave, but was in turn
somewhat of a tyrant herself. She approved of stern discipline for the
young. She was too indolent to give much attention to the education of her
children, and devoted what little energy she possessed to enforcing their
unquestioning obedience even in trifles, and to making them as afraid of her
displeasure as they were of their father’s anger. “It is perhaps difficult to
give you an idea of the petty cares which obscured the morning of my life,”
Mary declares through her heroine,—“continual restraint in the most trivial
matters, unconditional submission to orders, which [Pg 15] as a mere child I
soon discovered to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory.
Thus are we destined to experience a mixture of bitterness with the
recollection of our most innocent enjoyment.” Edward, as the mother’s
favorite, escaped her severity; but it fell upon Mary with double force, and
was with her carried out with a thoroughness that laid its shortcomings bare,
and consequently forced Mrs. Wollstonecraft to modify her treatment of her
younger children. This concession on her part shows that she must have had
their well-being at heart, even when her policy in their regard was most

misguided, and that her unkindness was not, like her husband’s cruelty,
born of caprice. But it was sad for Mary that her mother did not discover
her mistake sooner.

When Mary was five years old, and before she had had time to form any
strong impressions of her earliest home, her father moved to another part of
Epping Forest near the Chelmsford Road. Then, at the end of a year, he
carried his family to Barking in Essex, where he established them in a
comfortable home, a little way out of the town. Many of the London
markets were then supplied from the farms around Barking, so that the
chance for his success here was promising.

This place was the scene of Mary’s principal childish recollections and
associations. Natural surroundings were with her of much more importance
than they usually are to the very young, because she depended upon them
for her pleasures. She cared nothing for dolls and the ordinary amusements
of girls. Having received few caresses and little tender nursing, she did not
know how to play the part of mother. Her recreation led [Pg 16] her out of
doors with her brothers. That she lived much in the open air and became
thoroughly acquainted with the town and the neighborhood, seems certain
from the eagerness with which she visited it years afterwards with Godwin.
This was in 1796, and Mary with enthusiasm sought out the old house in
which she had lived. It was unoccupied, and the garden around it was a wild
and tangled mass. Then she went through the town itself; to the market-
place, which had perhaps been the Mecca of frequent pilgrimages in the old
times; to the wharves, the bustle and excitement of which had held her
spellbound many a long summer afternoon; and finally from one street to
another, each the scene of well-remembered rambles and adventures. Time
can soften sharp and rugged lines and lighten deep shadows, and the

pleasant reminiscences of Barking days made her overlook bitterer
memories.

That there were many of the latter, cannot be doubted. Only too often the
victim of her father’s cruel fury, and at all times a sufferer because of her
mother’s theories, she had little chance for happiness during her childhood.
She was, like Carlyle’s hero of “Sartor Resartus,” one of those children
whose sad fate it is to weep “in the playtime of the others.” Not even to the
David Copperfields and Paul Dombeys of fiction has there fallen a lot so
hard to bear and so sad to record, as that of the little Mary Wollstonecraft.
She was then the most deserving object of that pity which later, as a
woman, she was always ready to bestow upon others. Her affections were
unusually warm and deep, but they could find no outlet. She met, on the [Pg
17] one hand, indifference and sternness; on the other, injustice and ill-usage.
It is when reading the story of her after-life, and learning from it how,
despite her masculine intellect, she possessed a heart truly feminine, that we
fully appreciate the barrenness of her early years. She was one of those
who, to use her own words, “cannot live without loving, as poets love.” At
the strongest period of her strong womanhood she felt, as she so touchingly
confesses in her appeals to Imlay, the need of some one to lean upon,—
some one to give her the love and sympathy, which were to her what light
and heat are to flowers. It can therefore easily be imagined how much
greater was the necessity, and consequently the craving caused by its non-
gratification, when she was nothing but a child. Overflowing with
tenderness, she dared not lavish it on the mother who should have been so
ready to receive it. Instead of the confidence which should exist between
mother and daughter, there was in their case nothing but cold formality. Nor
was there for her much compensation in the occasional caresses of her
father. Sensitive to a fault, she could not forgive his blows and unkindness

so quickly as to be able to enjoy his smiles and favors. Moreover, she had
little chance of finding, without, the devotion and gentle care which were
denied to her within her own family. Mr. Wollstonecraft remained so short a
time in each locality in which he made his home, that his wife saw but little
of her relations and old acquaintances; while no sooner had his children
made new friends, than they were separated from them.

To whatever town they went, the Wollstonecrafts [Pg 18] seem to have given
signs of gentility and good social standing, which won for them, if not
many, at least respectable friends. At Barking an intimacy sprang up
between them and the family of Mr. Bamber Gascoyne, Member of
Parliament. But Mary was too young to profit by this friendship. It was
most ruthlessly interrupted three years later, when, in 1768, the restless
head of the house, whose industry in Barking had not equalled the
enterprise which brought him there, took his departure for Beverly, in
Yorkshire.

This was the most complete change that he had as yet made. Heretofore his
wanderings had been confined to Essex. But he either found in his new
home more promising occupation and congenial companionship than he had
hitherto, or else there was a short respite to his feverish restlessness, for he
continued in it for six years. It was here Mary received almost all the
education that was ever given her by regular schooling. Beverly was
nothing but a small market-town, though she in her youthful enthusiasm
thought it large and handsome, and its inhabitants brilliant and elegant, and
was much disappointed, when she passed through it many years afterwards,
on her way to Norway, to see how far the reality fell short of her youthful
idealizations. Its schools could not have been of a very high order, and we
do not need Godwin’s assurance to know that Mary owed little of her

subsequent culture to them. But her education may be said to have really
begun in 1775, when her father, tired of farming and tempted by
commercial hopes, left Beverly for Hoxton, near London.

Mary was at this time in her sixteenth year. The [Pg 19] effect of her home
life, under which most children would have succumbed, had been to
develop her character at an earlier age than is usual with women. In spite of
the tyranny and caprice of her parents, and, indeed, perhaps because of
them, she had soon asserted her individuality and superiority. When she had
recognized the mistaken motives of her mother and the weakness of her
father, she had been forced to rely upon her own judgment and self-
command. It is a wonderful proof of her fine instincts that, though she must
have known her strength, she did not rebel, and that her keen insight into
the injustice of some actions did not prevent her realizing the justice of
others. Her mind seems to have been from the beginning too evenly
balanced for any such misconceptions. When reprimanded, she deservedly
found in the reprimand, as she once told Godwin, the one means by which
she became reconciled to herself for the fault which had called it forth. As
she matured, her immediate relations could not but yield to the influence
which she exercised over all with whom she was brought into close contact.
If there be such a thing as animal magnetism, she possessed it in perfection.
Her personal attractions commanded love, and her great powers of
sympathy drew people, without their knowing why, to lean upon her for
moral support. In the end she became an authority in her family. Mrs.
Wollstonecraft was in time compelled to bestow upon her the affection
which she had first withheld. It was the ugly duckling after all who proved
to be the swan of the flock. Mr. Wollstonecraft learned to hold his eldest
daughter in awe, and his wrath sometimes diminished in her presence.

Pity was always Mary’s ruling passion. Feeling deeply the family
[Pg 20]

sorrows, she was quick to forget herself in her efforts to lighten them when
this privilege was allowed to her. There were opportunities enough for self-
sacrifice. With every year Mr. Wollstonecraft squandered more money, and
grew idler and more dissipated. Home became unbearable, the wife’s
burden heavier. Mary, emancipated from the restraints of childhood, no
longer remained a silent spectator of her father’s fits of passion. When her
mother was the victim of his violence, she interposed boldly between them,
determined that if his blows fell upon any one, it should be upon herself.
There were occasions when she so feared the results of his drunken rage
that she would not even go to bed at night, but, throwing herself upon the
floor outside her room, would wait there, on the alert, to meet whatever
horrors darkness might bring forth. Could there be a picture more tragical
than this of the young girl, a weary woman before her time, protecting the
mother who should have protected her, fighting against the vices of a father
who should have shielded her from knowledge of them! Already before she
had left her home there must have come into her eyes that strangely sad
expression, which Kegan Paul, in speaking of her portrait by Opie, says
reminds him of nothing unless it be of the agonized sorrow in the face of
Guido’s Beatrice Cenci. No one can wonder that she doubted if marriage
can be the highest possible relationship between the sexes, when it is
remembered that for years she had constantly before her, proofs of the
power man possesses, by sheer physical strength and simple brutality, to
destroy the happiness of an entire household.

[Pg 21] It was fortunate for her that she spent these wretched years in or very
near the country. She could wear off the effects of the stifling home
atmosphere by races over neighboring heaths, or by walks through lanes
and woods. Constant exercise in the open air is the best of stimulants. It

helped her to escape the many ills which childish flesh is heir to; it lessened
the morbid tendency of her nature; and it developed an energy of character
which proved her greatest safeguard against her sensitive and excitable
temperament. Besides this, she seems to have taken real delight in her out-
of-doors life. If at a later age she loved to sit in solitude and listen to the
singing of a robin and the falling of the leaves, she must, as a child, have
possessed much of that imaginative power which transforms all nature into
fairyland. If, in the bitter consciousness that she was a betrayed and much-
sinned-against woman, she could still find moments of exquisite pleasure in
wandering through woods and over rocks, such haunts must have been as
dear to her when she sought in them escape from her young misery. It is
probable that she refers to herself when she makes her heroine, Maria, say,
“An enthusiastic fondness for the varying charms of nature is the first
sentiment I recollect.”

Mary’s existence up to 1775 had been, save when disturbed by family
storms, quiet, lonely, and uneventful. As yet no special incident had
occurred in it, nor had she been awakened to intellectual activity. But in
Hoxton she contracted a friendship which, though it was with a girl of her
own age, was always esteemed by her as the chief and leading event in her
existence. This it was which first aroused her love of study and of [Pg 22]

independence, and opened a channel for the outpouring of her too-long
suppressed affections. Her love for Fanny Blood was the spark which
kindled the latent fire of her genius. Her arrival in Hoxton, therefore, marks
the first important era in her life.

She owed this new pleasure to Mr. Clare, a clergyman, and his wife, who
lived next to the Wollstonecrafts in Hoxton. The acquaintanceship formed
with their neighbors ripened in Mary’s case into intimacy. Mr. Clare was

deformed and delicate, and, because of his great physical weakness, led the
existence of a hermit. He rarely, if ever, went out, and his habits were so
essentially sedentary that a pair of shoes lasted him for fourteen years. It is
hardly necessary to add that he was eccentric. But he was a man of a certain
amount of culture. He had read largely, his opportunity for so doing being
great. He was attracted by Mary, whom he soon discovered to be no
ordinary girl, and he interested himself in forming and training her mind.
She, in return, liked him. His deformity alone would have appealed to her,
but she found him a congenial companion, and, as she proved herself a
willing pupil, he was glad to have her much with him. She was a friend of
Mrs. Clare as well; indeed, the latter remained true to her through later
storms which wrecked many other less sincere friendships. Mary sometimes
spent days and even weeks in the house of these good people; and it was on
one of these occasions, probably, that Mrs. Clare took her to Newington
Butts, then a village at the extreme southern end of London, and there
introduced her to Frances Blood.

The first meeting between them, Godwin says, “bore [Pg 23] a resemblance to
the first interview of Werter with Charlotte.” The Bloods lived in a small,
but scrupulously well-kept house, and when its door was first opened for
Mary, Fanny, a bright-looking girl about her own age, was busy, like
another Lotte, in superintending the meal of her younger brothers and
sisters. It was a scene well calculated to excite Mary’s interest. She, better
than any one else, could understand its full worth. It revealed to her at a
glance the skeleton in the family closet,—the inefficiency of the parents to
care for the children whom they had brought into the world, and the poverty
which prevented their hiring others to do their work for them. And at the
same time it showed her the noble unselfishness of the daughter, who not
only took upon herself the burden so easily shifted by the parents, but who

accepted her fate cheerfully. Cheerfulness is a virtue but too lightly prized.
When maintained in the face of difficulties and unhappiness it becomes the
finest heroism. The recognition of this heroic side of Fanny’s nature
commanded the instant admiration and respect of her visitor. Mary then and
there vowed in her heart eternal friendship for her new acquaintance, and
the vow was never broken.

Balzac, in his “Cousine Bette,” says that there is no stronger passion than
the love of one woman for another. Mary Wollstonecraft’s affection for
Frances Blood is a striking illustration of the truth of his statement. It was
strong as that of a Sappho for an Erinna; tender and constant as that of a
mother for her child. From the moment they met until they were separated
by poor Fanny’s untimely death, Mary never wavered in her devotion and
its active expression, nor could the [Pg 24] vicissitudes and joys of her later
life destroy her loving loyalty to the memory of her first and dearest friend.
“When a warm heart has strong impressions,” she wrote in a letter long
years afterwards, “they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments;
and the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent, by fondly
retracing them. I cannot without a thrill of delight recollect views I have
seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve,
which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the
friend of my youth; still she is present with me, and I hear her soft voice
warbling as I stray over the heath.”

There was much to draw the two friends together. They had many miseries
and many tastes and interests in common. Fanny’s parents were poor, and
her father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was idle and dissipated. There were
young children to be reared, and an incompetent mother to do it. Fanny was
only two years older than Mary, but was, at that time, far more advanced

mentally. Her education had been more complete. She was in a small way
both musician and artist, was fond of reading, and had even tried her
powers at writing. But her drawing had proved her most profitable
accomplishment, and by it she supported her entire family. Mary as yet had
perfected herself in nothing, and was helpless where money-making was
concerned. Her true intellectual education had but just begun under Mr.
Clare’s direction. She had previously read voluminously, but, having done
so for mere immediate gratification, had derived but little profit therefrom.
As she lived in Hoxton, [Pg 25] and Fanny in Newington Butts, they could
not see each other very often, and so in the intervals between their visits
they corresponded. Mary found that her letters were far inferior to those of
her friend. She could not spell so well; she had none of Fanny’s ease in
shaping her thoughts into words. Her pride was hurt and her ambition
stirred. She determined to make herself at least Fanny’s intellectual equal. It
was humiliating to know herself powerless to improve her own condition,
when her friend was already earning an income large enough not only to
meet her own wants but those of others depending upon her. To prepare
herself for a like struggle with the world, a struggle which in all likelihood
she would be obliged to make single-handed, she studied earnestly. Books
acquired new value in her eyes. She read no longer for passing amusement,
but to strengthen and cultivate her mind for future work. It cannot be
doubted that under any circumstances she would, in the course of a few
years, have become conscious of her power and the necessity to exercise it.
But to Fanny Blood belongs the honor of having given the first incentive to
her intellectual energy. This brave, heavily burdened young English girl,
accepting toils and tribulations with stout heart, would, with many another
silent heroine or hero, have been forgotten, had it not been for the stimulus
her love and example were to an even stronger sister-sufferer. The larger

field of interests thus opened for Mary was like the bright dawn after a long
and dark night. For the first time she was happy.

There was therefore much in her life at Hoxton to relieve the gloomy
influence of the family troubles. [Pg 26] Work for a definite end is in itself a
great joy. Many pleasant hours were spent with the Clares, and occasional
gala-days with Fanny. These last two pleasures, however, were short-lived.
The inexorable family tyrant, her father, grew tired of commerce, as indeed
he did of everything, and in the spring of 1776 he abandoned it for
agriculture, this time settling in Pembroke, Wales, where he owned some
little property. With a heavy heart Mary bade farewell to her new friends.

It is well worth recording that in 1775, while Mary Wollstonecraft was
living in Hoxton, William Godwin was a student at the Dissenting College
in that town. Godwin, in his short Memoir of his wife, pauses to speculate
as to what would have been the result had they then met and loved. In his
characteristic philosophical way he asks, “Which would have been
predominant,—the disadvantages of obscurity and the pressure of a family,
or the gratifications and improvement that might have flowed from their
intercourse?” But the vital question is: Would an acquaintanceship formed
between them at that time have ever become more than mere friendship?
She was then a wild, untrained girl, and had not reduced her contempt for
established institutions to fixed principles. Godwin, the son of a Dissenting
clergyman, was studying to be one himself, and his opinions of the rights of
man were still unformed. Neither had developed the ideas and doctrines
which afterwards were the bond of sympathy between them. One thing is
certain: while they might have benefited had they married twenty years
earlier than they did, the world would have lost. Godwin, under the
influence of a wife’s tender love, would never [Pg 27] have became a cold,

systematic philosopher. And Mary, had she found a haven from her misery
so soon, would not have felt as strongly about the wrongs of women.
Whatever her world’s work under those circumstances might have been, she
would not have become the champion of her sex.

Of external incidents the year in Wales was barren. The only one on record
is the intimacy which sprang up between the Wollstonecrafts and the Allens.
Two daughters of this family afterwards married sons of the famous potter,
Wedgwood, and the friendship then begun lasted for life. To Mary herself,
however, this year was full and fertile. It was devoted to study and work.
Hers was the only true genius,—the genius for industry. She never relaxed
in the task she had set for herself, and her progress was rapid. The signs she
soon manifested of her mental power added to the respect with which her
family now treated her. Realizing that the assistance she could give by
remaining at home was but little compared to that which might result from
her leaving it for some definite employment, she seems at this period to
have announced her intention of seeking her fortunes abroad. But Mrs.
Wollstonecraft looked upon the presence of her daughter as a strong
bulwark of defence against the brutal attacks of her husband, and was loath
to lose it. Mary yielded to her entreaties to wait a little longer; but her
sympathy and tender pity for human suffering fortunately never destroyed
her common sense. She knew that the day must come when on her own
individual exertions would depend not only her own but a large share of her
sisters’ and brothers’ maintenance, and, in consenting to [Pg 28] remain at
home, she exacted certain conditions. She insisted upon being allowed
freedom in the regulation of her actions. She demanded that she should
have a room for her exclusive property, and that, when engaged in study,
she should not be interrupted. She would attend to certain domestic duties,
and after they were over, her time must be her own. It was little to ask. All

she wanted was the liberty to make herself independent of the paternal care
which girls of eighteen, as a rule, claim as their right. It was granted her.

At the end of another year, the demon of restlessness again attacked Mr.
Wollstonecraft. Wales proved less attractive than it had appeared at a
distance. Orders were given to repack the family goods and chattels, and to
set out upon new wanderings. On this occasion, Mary interfered with a
strong hand. Since a change was to be made, it might as well be turned to
her advantage. She had, without a word, allowed herself to be carried to
Wales away from the one person she really loved, and she now knew the
sacrifice had been useless. It was clear to her that one place was no better
for her father than another; therefore he should go where it pleased her. It
was better that one member of the family should be content, than that all
should be equally miserable. She prevailed upon him to choose Walworth as
his next resting-place. Here she would be near Fanny, and life would again
hold some brightness for her.

It was at Walworth that she took the first step in what was fated to be a long
life of independence and work. The conditions which she had made with
her family seem to have been here neglected, and study at home [Pg 29]
became more and more impossible. She was further stimulated to action by
the personal influence of her energetic friend, by the fact that the younger
children were growing up to receive their share of the family sorrow and
disgrace, and by her own great dread of poverty. “How writers professing to
be friends to freedom and the improvement of morals can assert that
poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine!” she exclaims in the “Wrongs of
Woman.” She cared nothing for the luxuries and the ease and idleness
which wealth gives, but she prized above everything the time and
opportunity for self-culture of which the poor, in their struggle for

existence, are deprived. The Wollstonecraft fortunes were at low ebb. Her
share in them, should she remain at home, would be drudgery and slavery,
which would grow greater with every year. Her one hope for the future
depended upon her profitable use of the present. The sooner she earned
money for herself, the sooner would she be able to free her brothers and
sisters from the yoke whose weight she knew full well because of her own
eagerness to throw it off. Unselfish as her father was selfish, she thought
quite as much of their welfare as of her own. Therefore when, at the age of
nineteen, a situation as lady’s companion was offered to her, neither tears
nor entreaties could alter her resolution to accept it. She entered at once
upon her new duties, and with them her career as woman may be said to
have begun.

[Pg 30] CHAPTER II.
FIRST YEARS OF WORK.

1778-1785.

Mary Wollstonecraft did not become famous at once. She began her career
as humbly as many a less gifted woman. Like the heroes of old, she had
tasks allotted her before she could attain the goal of her ambition. And
Heracles in his twelve labors, Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, Sigurd
in pursuit of the treasure, did not have greater hardships to endure or
dangers to overcome than she had before she won for herself independence
and fame.

It is difficult for a young man without money, influential friends, or
professional education to make his way in the world. With a woman placed
in similar circumstances the difficulty is increased a hundred-fold. We of to-
day, when government and other clerkships are open to women, cannot
quite realize their helplessness a few generations back. In Mary
Wollstonecraft’s time those whose birth and training had unfitted them for
the more menial occupations—who could neither bake nor scrub—had but
two resources. They must either become governesses or ladies’ companions.
In neither case was their position enviable. They ranked as little better than

upper servants. Mary’s first appearance on the world-stage, therefore, was
not brilliant.

[Pg 31] The lady with whom she went to live was a Mrs. Dawson, a widow
who had but one child, a grown-up son. Her residence was in Bath. Mary
must then have given at least signs of the beauty which did not reach its full
development until many years later, her sorrows had not entirely destroyed
her natural gayety, and she was only nineteen years old. The mission in
Bath in those days of young girls of her age was to dance and to flirt, to lose
their hearts and to find husbands, to gossip, to listen to the music, to show
themselves in the Squares and Circus and on the Parades, or, sometimes,
when they were seriously inclined, to drink the waters. Mary’s was to cater
to the caprices of a cross-grained, peevish woman. There was little sunshine
in the morning of her life. She was destined always to see the darkest side
of human nature. Mrs. Dawson’s temper was bad, and her companions, of
whom there seem to have been many, had hitherto fled before its outbreaks,
as the leaves wither and fall at the first breath of winter. Mary’s home-
schooling was now turned to good account. Mrs. Dawson’s rage could not,
at its worst, equal her father’s drunken violence; and long experience of the
latter prepared her to bear the former with apparent, if not real, stoicism. We
have no particulars of her life as companion nor knowledge of the exact
nature of her duties. But of one thing we are certain, the fulfilment of them
cost her many a heartache. Those who know her only as the vindicator of
the Rights of Women and the defiant rebel against social laws, may think
her case calls for little sympathy. But the truth is, there have been few
women so dependent for happiness upon human love, [Pg 32] so eager for the
support of their fellow-beings, and so keenly alive to neglects and slights.
In Bath she was separated from her friends, she was alone in her struggle,
and she held a position which did not always command respect. However,

her indomitable will and unflagging energy availed her to such good
purpose that she continued with Mrs. Dawson for two years, doubtless to
the surprise of the latter, accustomed as she was to easily frightened and
hastily retreating companions. Her departure then was due, not to moral
cowardice or exhaustion, but to a summons from home.

Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s health had begun to fail. Her life had been a hard one,
and the drains upon her constitution many. She was the mother of a large
family, and had had her full share of the by no means insignificant pains
and cares of maternity. In addition to these she had had to contend against
poverty, that evil which, says the Talmud, is worse than fifty plagues, and
against the vagaries of a good-for-nothing drunken husband. Once she fell
beneath her burden, she could not rise with it again. She had no strength left
to withstand her illness. Eliza and Everina were both at home to take care of
her, but she could not rest without the eldest daughter, upon whom
experience had taught her to rely implicitly. She sent for Mary, and the
latter hastened at once to her mother’s side. Her own hopes and ambitions,
her chances and prospects, all were forgotten in her desire to do what she
could for the poor patient. Fierce and fearless as an inspired Joan of Arc,
when fighting in the cause of justice, she was tender and gentle as a sister of
charity [Pg 33] when tending the sick. She waited upon her mother with
untiring care. Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s illness was long and lingering, though it
declared itself at an early stage to be hopeless. In her pleasure at her
daughter’s return she received her services with grateful thanks. But, as she
grew worse, she became more accustomed to the presence of her nurse, and
exacted as a right that which she had first accepted as a favor. She would
allow no one else to attend to her, and day and night Mary was with her.

Finally the end came. Mrs. Wollstonecraft died, happy to be released from a
world which had given her nothing but unkindness and sorrow. Her parting
words were: “A little patience, and all will be over!” It was not difficult for
the dying woman, so soon to have eternity to rest in, to bear quietly time’s
last agony. But for the weary, heart-sick young girl, before whom there
stretched a vista of long years of toil, the lesson of patience was less easy to
learn. Mary never forgot these words, nor did she heed their bitter sarcasm.
Often and often, in her after trials, they returned to her, carrying with them
peace and comfort.

This event occurred in 1780. The family were then living in Enfield, which
place had succeeded Walworth in their periodical migrations. After her
mother’s death Mary, tired out from constant nursing, want of sleep, and
anxiety of mind, became ill. She sorely needed quiet and an interval from
work. But the necessity to depart from her father’s house was imperative.
He had fallen so low that his daughters were forced to leave him. The
difficulty was to find immediate means to meet the emergency. A return to
Mrs. Dawson [Pg 34] does not seem to have suggested itself as a possibility.
Mary’s great ambition was to become a teacher and to establish a school.
But this could not be easily or at once accomplished. She must have time to
prepare herself for the venture, to make friends, and to give proof of her
ability to teach. Fortunately, at this juncture Fanny Blood proved a true
friend, and offered her at least a temporary home at Walham Green.

Fanny was still gaining a small income from her drawings, to which Mrs.
Blood added whatever she could make by her needle. Mary was not one to
fare upon another’s bread. Too proud to become an additional charge to
these two hard-working women, she helped the latter with her sewing and
so contributed her share to the family means. It was not a congenial

occupation. But to her any work was preferable to waiting, Micawber-like,
for something better to turn up. Though she was happy because she was
with her friend, her life here was wellnigh as tragic as it had been in her
father’s house. The family sorrows were great and many. Mr. Blood was a
ne’er-do-weel and a drunkard. Caroline, one of the daughters, had then
probably begun her rapid descent down-hill, moved thereto, poor girl, by
the relief which vice alone gave to the poverty and gloom of her home.
George, the brother, with whom Mary afterwards corresponded for so many
years, was unhappy because of his unrequited love for Everina
Wollstonecraft. He was an honest, good-principled young man, but his
associates were disreputable, and he was at times compromised by their
actions. But still sadder for Mary was the fact that Fanny, in addition to
domestic grievances, was tortured by the [Pg 35] unkindness of an uncertain
lover. She had met, not long before, Mr. Hugh Skeys, a young but already
successful merchant. Attracted by her, he had been sufficiently attentive and
devoted to warrant her conclusion that his intentions were serious. He
seems to have loved her as deeply as he was capable of loving, but
discouraged perhaps by the wretched circumstances of the family, he could
not make up his mind to marry her. At one moment he was ready to desert
her, and at the next to claim her as his wife. Instead of resenting his
unpardonable conduct, as a prouder woman would have done, she bore it
with the humble patience of a Griselda. When he was kind, she hoped for
the best; when he was cold, she dreaded the worst. The consequence of
these alternate states of hope and despair was mental depression, and finally
physical ill health. Through her troubles, Mary, who had given her the
warmest and best, because the first, love of her life, was her faithful ally
and comforter. Indeed, her friendship grew warmer with Fanny’s increasing
misfortunes. As she said of herself a few years later, she was not a fair-

weather friend. “I think,” she wrote once in a letter to George Blood, “I love
most people best when they are in adversity, for pity is one of my prevailing
passions.” She realized that she had made herself her friend’s equal, if not
superior, intellectually, and that, so far as moral courage and will power
were concerned, she was much the stronger of the two. There is nothing
which so deepens a man’s or a woman’s tenderness, as the knowledge that
the object of it looks up to her or to him for support, and Mary’s affection
increased because of its new inspiration.

[Pg 36] It has been said that it was necessary for all Mr. Wollstonecraft’s
daughters to leave his house. Mary was not yet in a position to help her
sisters, and they had but few friends. Their chances of self-support were
small. Their position was the trying one of gentlewomen who could not
make servants of themselves, and who indeed would not be employed as
such, and who had not had the training to fit them for higher occupations.
Everina, therefore, was glad to find an asylum with her brother Edward,
who was an attorney in London. She became his housekeeper, for, like
Mary, she was too independent to allow herself to be supported by the
charity of others. Eliza, the youngest sister, who, with greater love of
culture than Everina, had had even less education, solved her present
problem by marrying, but she escaped one difficulty only to fall into
another still greater and more serious. The history of her married experience
is important because of the part Mary played in it. The latter’s independent
conduct in her sister’s regard is a foreshadowing of the course she pursued
at a later period in the management of her own affairs.

Eliza was the most excitable and nervous of the three sisters. The family
sensitiveness was developed in her to a painful degree. She was not only
quick to take offence, but was ever on the lookout for slights and insults

even from people she dearly loved. She assumed a defensive attitude
against the world and mankind, and therefore life went harder with her than
with more cheerfully constituted women. It was almost invariably the little
rift that made her life-music mute. Her indignation and rage were not so
easily appeased [Pg 37] as aroused. Altogether, she was a very impossible
person to live with peacefully. Mr. Bishop, the man she married, was as
quick-tempered and passionate as she, and, morally, was infinitely beneath
her. He was the original of the husband in the “Wrongs of Woman,” who is
represented as an unprincipled sensualist, brute, and hypocrite. The worst of
it was that, when not carried away by his temper, his address was good and
his manners insinuating. As one of his friends said of him, he was “either a
lion or a spaniel.” Unfortunately, at home he was always the lion, a fact
which those who knew him only as the spaniel could not well believe. The
marriage of two such people, needless to say, was not happy. They mutually
aggravated each other. Eliza, with her sensitive, unforgiving nature, could
not make allowances. Mr. Bishop would not. Much as her waywardness and
hastiness were at fault, he was still more to blame in effecting the rupture
between them.

The strain upon Eliza’s nervous system, caused by almost daily quarrels and
scenes of violence, was more than she could bear. Then, to add to her
misery, she found herself in that condition in which women are apt to be
peculiarly susceptible and irritable. Her pregnancy so stimulated her
abnormal emotional excitement that her reason gave way, and for months
she was insane. Though she had her intervals of passivity she was at times
very violent, and disastrous results were feared. It was necessary for some
one to keep constant guard over her, and Mary was asked to undertake this
task.

Relentless as Fate in pursuing the hero of Greek [Pg 38] Tragedy to his
predestined end, were the circumstances which formed Mary’s prejudice
against the institution of marriage. This was the third domestic tragedy
caused by the husband’s petty tyranny and the wife’s slender resources of
defence, of which she was the immediate witness. Her experience was
unfortunate. The bright side of the married state was hidden from her. She
saw only its shadows, and these darkened until her soul rebelled against the
injustice, not of life, but of man’s shaping of it. Sad as was the fate of the
Bloods and much as they needed her, the Bishop household was still sadder
and its appeals more urgent, and Mary hurried thither at once.

No one can read the life of Mary Wollstonecraft without loving her, or
follow her first bitter struggles without feeling honor, nay reverence, for her
true womanliness which bore her bravely through them. She never shrank
from her duty nor lamented her clouded youth. Without a murmur she left
Walham Green and established herself as nurse and keeper to the poor mad
sister. There could be no greater heroism than this. With a nervous
constitution not unlike that of “poor Bess,” she had to watch over the
frenzied mania of the wife and to confront the almost equally insane fury of
the husband. One of the letters which she wrote at this time to Everina
describes forcibly enough her sister’s sad condition and her own
melancholy:—

Saturday afternoon, Nov. 1783.

I expected to have seen you before this, but the extreme coldness of the
weather is a sufficient apology. I cannot yet give any certain account of
Bess, or form a [Pg 39] rational conjecture with respect to the termination of
her disorder. She has not had a violent fit of frenzy since I saw you, but her
mind is in a most unsettled state, and attending to the constant fluctuation of
it is far more harassing than the watching these raving fits that had not the

least tincture of reason. Her ideas are all disjointed, and a number of wild
whims float on her imagination, and fall from her unconnectedly something
like strange dreams, when judgment sleeps, and fancy sports at a fine rate.
Don’t smile at my language, for I am so constantly forced to observe her,
lest she run into mischief, that my thoughts continually turn on the
unaccountable wanderings of her mind. She seems to think she has been
very ill used, and, in short, till I see some more favorable symptoms, I shall
only suppose that her malady has assumed a new and more distressing
appearance.
One thing, by way of comfort, I must tell you, that persons who recover
from madness are generally in this way before they are perfectly restored,
but whether Bess’s faculties will ever regain their former tone, time only
will show. At present I am in suspense. Let me hear from you, or see you,
and believe me to be yours affectionately,
M. W.
Sunday noon.—Mr. D. promised to call last night, and I intended sending
this by him. We have been out in a coach, but still Bess is far from being
well. Patience—patience. Farewell.

To her desire to keep Everina posted as to the progress of affairs, we are
indebted, for her letters, which give a very life-like picture of herself and
her surroundings while she remained in her brother-in-law’s house. They
are interesting because, by showing the difficulties against which she had to
contend, and the effect these had upon her, we can better appreciate the
greatness of her nature by which she triumphed over them. There is another
one written during this sad period [Pg 40] which must be quoted here because
it throws still more light upon Bishop’s true character and his ingenuity in
tormenting those who lived with him:—

Monday morning, Jan. 1784.

I have nothing to tell you, my dear girl, that will give you pleasure.
Yesterday was a dismal day, long and dreary. Bishop was very ill, etc., etc.
He is much better to-day, but misery haunts this house in one shape or
other. How sincerely do I join with you in saying that if a person has
common sense, they cannot make one completely unhappy. But to attempt
to lead or govern a weak mind is impossible; it will ever press forward to
what it wishes, regardless of impediments, and, with a selfish eagerness,
believe what it desires practicable though the contrary is as clear as the
noon-day. My spirits are hurried with listening to pros and cons; and my
head is so confused, that I sometimes say no, when I ought to say yes. My
heart is almost broken with listening to B. while he reasons the case. I
cannot insult him with advice, which he would never have wanted, if he
was capable of attending to it. May my habitation never be fixed among the
tribe that can’t look beyond the present gratification, that draw fixed
conclusions from general rules, that attend to the literal meaning only, and,
because a thing ought to be, expect that it will come to pass. B. has made a
confidant of Skeys; and as I can never speak to him in private, I suppose his
pity may cloud his judgment. If it does, I should not either wonder at it, or
blame him. For I that know, and am fixed in my opinion, cannot
unwaveringly adhere to it; and when I reason, I am afraid of being
unfeeling. Miracles don’t occur now, and only a miracle can alter the minds
of some people. They grow old, and we can only discover by their
countenances that they are so. To the end of their chapter will their misery
last. I expect Fanny next Thursday, and she will stay with us but a few days.
Bess desires her love; she grows better and of course more sad.

[Pg 41] Though Mary’s heart was breaking and her brain reeling, her closer
acquaintance with Bishop convinced her that Eliza must not continue with
him. She determined at all hazards to free her sister from a man who was
slowly but surely killing her, and she knew she was right in her
determination. “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist,”
Emerson says. Mary, because she was a true woman, was ruled in her
conduct not by conventionalities or public opinion, but by her sense of
righteousness. In her own words, “The sarcasms of society and the

condemnation of a mistaken world were nothing to her, compared with
acting contrary to those feelings which were the foundation of her
principles.” For some months Eliza’s physical and mental illness made it
impossible to take a decided step or to form definite plans. But when her
child was born, and she returned to a normal, though at the same time
sadder, because conscious, state, Mary felt that the time for action had
arrived. That she still thought it advisable for her sister to leave her
husband, though this necessitated the abandonment of her child,
conclusively proves the seriousness of Bishop’s faults. It was no easy
matter to effect the separation. Bishop objected to it. It is never unpleasant
for a man to play the tyrant, and he was averse to losing his victim.
Pecuniary assistance was therefore not to be had from him, and the sisters
were penniless. Mary applied to Edward, though she was not sure it was
desirable for Eliza to take refuge with him. However, he does not seem to
have responded warmly, for Mary’s suggestion was never acted upon.
Theirs was a situation in which friends are not apt to [Pg 42] interfere, and
besides, Bishop’s plausibility had won over not a few to his side.
Furthermore, the chance was that if he worked successfully upon Mr.
Skeys’ sympathies, the Bloods would be influenced. There was absolutely
no one to help them, but Mary knew that it was useless to wait, and that the
morrow would not make easier what seemed to her the task of the present
day. When there was work to be done she never could rest with “unlit lamp
and ungirt loin.” What she now most wanted for her sister was liberty, and
she resolved to secure this at once, and then afterwards to look about her to
see how it was to be maintained.

Accordingly, one day, Bishop well out of the way, the sisters left his house
forever. There was a mad, breathless drive, Bess, with her insanity half
returned, biting her wedding ring to pieces, a hurried exchange of coaches

to further insure escape from detection, a joyful arrival at modest lodgings
in Hackney, a giving in of false names, a hasty locking of doors, and then—
the reaction. Eliza, whose excitement had exhausted itself on the way,
became quiet and even ready for sleep. Mary, now that immediate necessity
for calmness and courage was over, grew nervous and restless. With
strained ears she listened to every sound. Her heart beat time to the passing
carriages, and she trembled at the lightest knock.

That night, in a wild, nervous letter to Everina, she wrote:—

I hope B. will not discover us, for I would sooner face a lion; yet the door
never opens but I expect to see him, panting for breath. Ask Ned how we
are to behave if he should find us out, for Bess is determined not to return.
[Pg 43] Can he force her? but I’ll not suppose it, yet I can think of nothing

else. She is sleepy, and going to bed; my agitated mind will not permit me.
Don’t tell Charles or any creature! Oh! let me entreat you to be careful, for
Bess does not dread him now as much as I do. Again, let me request you to
write, as B.’s behavior may silence my fears. You will soon hear from me
again. Fanny carried many things to Lear’s, brush-maker in the Strand, next
door to the White Hart.
Yours,
Mary.
Miss Johnston—Mrs. Dodds, opposite the Mermaid, Church Street,
Hackney.
She looks now very wild. Heaven protect us!
I almost wish for an husband, for I want somebody to support me.

The Rubicon was crossed. But the hardships thereby incurred were but just
beginning. The two sisters were obliged to keep in hiding as if they had
been criminals, for they dared not risk a chance meeting with Bishop. They

had barely money enough to pay their immediate expenses, and their means
of making more were limited by the precautions they had to take. It had
only been possible in their flight to carry off a few things, and they were
without sufficient clothing. Then there came from their friends an outcry
against their conduct. The general belief then was, as indeed it
unfortunately continues to be, that women should accept without a murmur
whatever it suits their husbands to give them, whether it be kindness or
blows. Better a thousand times that one human soul should be stifled and
killed than that the Philistines of society should be scandalized by its
struggles for air and life. Eliza’s happiness might have been totally
sacrificed had she remained with [Pg 44] Bishop; but at least the feelings of
her acquaintances, in whom respectability had destroyed the more humane
qualities, would have been saved. Her scheme, Mary wrote bitterly to
Everina, was contrary to all the rules of conduct that are published for the
benefit of new married ladies. Many felt forced to forfeit the friendship of
these two social rebels, though it grieved them to the heart to do it. Mrs.
Clare, be it said to her honor, remained stanch, but even she only approved
cautiously, and Mary had her misgivings that she would advise a
reconciliation if she once saw Bishop. To add to the hopelessness of their
case, the deserted husband restrained his rage so well, and made so much of
Eliza’s heartlessness in abandoning her child, that he drew to himself the
sympathy which should have been given to her. Mary feared the effect his
pleadings and representations would have upon Edward, the extent of
whose egotism she had not yet measured, and she commissioned Everina to
keep him firm. As for Eliza, she was so shaken and weak, and so unhappy
about the poor motherless infant, that she could neither think nor act. The
duty of providing for their wants, immediate and still to come, fell entirely
upon Mary. She felt this to be just, since it was chiefly through her

influence that they had been brought to their present plight; but the
responsibility was great, and it is no wonder that, brave as she was, she
longed for some one to share it with her.

Her one source of consolation and strength at this time was her religion.
This will seem strange to many, who, knowing but few facts of her life,
conclude from her connection with Godwin and her social radicalism that
she was an atheist. But the sincerest spirit of piety [Pg 45] breathes through
her letters written during her early troubles. When the desertion of her so-
called friends made her most bitter, she wrote to Everina:—

“Don’t suppose I am preaching when I say uniformity of conduct cannot in
any degree be expected from those whose first motive of action is not the
pleasing the Supreme Being, and those who humbly rely on Providence will
not only be supported in affliction but have peace imparted to them that is
past describing. This state is indeed a warfare, and we learn little that we
don’t smart for in the attaining. The cant of weak enthusiasts has made the
consolations of religion and the assistance of the Holy Spirit appear
ridiculous to the inconsiderate; but it is the only solid foundation of comfort
that the weak efforts of reason will be assisted and our hearts and minds
corrected and improved till the time arrives when we shall not only see
perfection, but see every creature around us happy.”

The consolation she found was sufficient to make her advise her friends to
seek for it from the same quarter. She wrote to George Blood at a time when
he was in serious difficulties:—

“It gives me the sincerest satisfaction to find that you look for comfort
where only it is to be met with, and that Being in whom you trust will not
desert you. Be not cast down; while we are struggling with care life slips
away, and through the assistance of Divine Grace we are obtaining habits of
virtue that will enable us to relish those joys that we cannot now form any
idea of. I feel myself particularly attached to those who are heirs of the

promises, and travel on in the thorny path with the same Christian hopes
that render my severe trials a cause of thankfulness when I can think.”

These passages, evangelical in tone, occur in private letters, meant to be
read only by those to whom they [Pg 46] were addressed, so that they must be
counted as honest expressions of her convictions and not mere cant. Just as
she wrote freely to her sisters and her intimate friends about her temporal
matters, so without hesitation she talked to them of her spiritual affairs. Her
belief became broader as she grew older. She never was an atheist like
Godwin, or an unbeliever of the Voltaire school. But as the years went on,
and her knowledge of the world increased, her religion concerned itself
more with conduct and less with creed, until she finally gave up going to
church altogether. But at the time of which we are writing she was regular
in her attendance, and, though not strictly orthodox, clung to certain forms.
The mere fact that she possessed definite ideas upon the subject while she
was young shows the naturally serious bent of her mind. She had received
the most superficial religious education. Her belief, such as it was, was
wholly the result of her own desire to solve the problems of existence and
of the world beyond the senses. It is this fact, and the inferences to be
drawn from it, which make her piety so well worth recording.

There seem to have been several schemes for work afoot just then. One was
that the two sisters and Fanny Blood, who, some time before, had expressed
herself willing and anxious to leave home, should join their fortunes. Fanny
could paint and draw. Mary and Eliza could take in needlework until more
pleasant and profitable employment could be procured. Poverty and toil
would be more than compensated for by the joy which freedom and
congenial companionship would give them. There was nothing very
Utopian in [Pg 47] such a plan; but Fanny, when the time came for its
accomplishment, grew frightened. Her hard apprenticeship had given her

none of the self-confidence and reliance which belonged to Mary by right
of birth. Her family, despite their dependence upon her, seemed like a
protection against the outer world. And so she held back, pleading the small
chances of success by such a partnership, her own poor health, which would
make her a burden to them, and, in fact, so many good reasons that the plan
was abandoned. She, then, with greater aptitude for suggestion than for
action, proposed that Mary and Eliza should keep a haberdashery shop, to
be stocked at the expense of the much-called-upon but sadly unsusceptible
Edward. There is something grimly humorous in the idea of Mary
Wollstonecraft, destined as she was from all eternity to sound an alarum call
to arouse women from their lethargy, spending her days behind a counter
attending to their trifling temporal wants! A Roland might as well have been
asked to become cook, a Sir Galahad to turn scullion. Honest work is never
disgraceful in itself. Indeed, “Better do to no end, than nothing!” But one
regrets the pain and the waste when circumstances force men and women
capable of great work to spend their energies in ordinary channels. A greater
misery than indifference to the amusement in which one seeks to take part,
which Hamerton counts as the most wearisome of all things, is positive
dislike for the work one is bound to do. Fortunately, Fanny’s project was
never carried out. Probably Edward, as usual, failed to meet the proposals
made to him, and Mary realized that the chains by which she would thus
bind herself would be unendurable.

[Pg 48] The plan finally adopted was that dearest to Mary’s heart. She began
her career as teacher. She and Eliza went to Islington, where Fanny was
then living, and lodged in the same house with her. Then they announced
their intention of receiving day pupils. Mary was eminently fitted to teach.
Her sad experience had increased her natural sympathy and benevolence.
She now made her own troubles subservient to those of her fellow-sufferers,

and resolved that the welfare of others should be the principal object of her
life. Before the word had passed into moral philosophy, she had become an
altruist in its truest sense. The task of teacher particularly attracted her
because it enabled her to prepare the young for the struggle with the world
for which she had been so ill qualified. Because so little attention had been
given to her in her early youth, she keenly appreciated the advantage of a
good practical education. But her merits were not recognized in Islington.
Like the man in the parable, she set out a banquet of which the bidden
guests refused to partake. No scholars were sent to her. Therefore, at the end
of a few months, she was glad to move to Newington Green, where better
prospects seemed to await her. There she had relatives and influential
friends, and the encouragement she received from them induced her to
begin work on a large scale. She rented a house, and opened a regular
school. Her efforts met with success. Twenty children became her pupils,
while a Mrs. Campbell, a relative, and her son, and another lady, with three
children, came to board with her. Mary was now more comfortable than she
had heretofore been. She was, comparatively speaking, [Pg 49] prosperous.
She had much work to do, but by it she was supporting herself, and at the
same time advancing towards her “clear-purposed goal” of self-
renunciation. Then she had cause for pleasure in the fact that Eliza was now
really free, Bishop having finally agreed to the separation. Mary
Wollstonecraft, at the head of a house, and mistress of a school, was a very
different person from Mary Wollstonecraft, simple companion to Mrs.
Dawson or dependent friend of Fanny Blood. Her position was one to
attract attention, and it was sufficient for her to be known, to be loved and
admired. Her social sphere was enlarged. No one could care more for
society than she did, when that society was congenial. At Newington Green
she already began to show the preference for men and women of

intellectual tastes and abilities that she manifested so strongly in her life in
London. Foremost among her intimate acquaintances at this time was Dr.
Richard Price, a clergyman, a Dissenter, then well known because of his
political and mathematical speculations. He was an honest, upright, simple-
hearted man, who commanded the respect and love of all who knew him,
and whose benevolence was great enough to realize even Mary’s ideals. She
became deeply attached to him personally, and was a warm admirer of his
religious and moral principles. His sermons gave her great delight, and she
often went to listen to them. He in return seems to have felt great interest in
her, and to have recognized her extraordinary mental force. Mr. John
Hewlet, also a clergyman, was another of her friends, and she retained his
friendship for many years afterwards. A third friend, mentioned [Pg 50] by
Godwin in his Memoirs, was Mrs. Burgh, widow of a man now almost
forgotten, but once famous as the author of “Political Disquisitions.” In
sorrows soon to come, Mrs. Burgh gave practical proof of her affection. If a
man can be judged by the character of his associates, then the age,
professions, and serious connections of Mary’s friends at Newington Green
are not a little significant.

Much as she cared for these older friends, however, they could not be so
dear to her as Fanny and George Blood. She had begun by pitying the latter
for his hopeless passion for Everina, and had finished by loving him for
himself with true sisterly devotion. To brother and sister both, she could
open her heart as she could to no one else. They were young with her, and
that in itself is a strong bond of union. They, too, were but just beginning
life, and they could sympathize with all her aspirations and
disappointments. It was, therefore, an irreparable loss to her when they, at
almost the same time, but for different reasons, left England. Fanny’s health
had finally become so wretched that even her uncertain lover was moved to

pity. Mr. Skeys seems to have been one of the men who only appreciate that
which they think they cannot have. Not until the ill-health of the woman he
loved warned him of the possibility of his losing her altogether did he make
definite proposals to her. Her love for him had not been shaken by his
unkindness, and in February, 1785, she married him, and went with him to
Lisbon, where he was established in business. A few years earlier he might,
by making her his wife, have secured her a long life’s happiness. Now, as it
[Pg 51] turned out, he succeeded but in making her path smooth for a few
short months. Mary’s love for Fanny made her much more sensitive to Mr.
Skeys’ shortcomings as a lover than Fanny had been. Shortly after the
marriage she wrote indignantly to George:—

“Skeys has received congratulatory letters from most of his friends and
relations in Ireland, and he now regrets that he did not marry sooner. All his
mighty fears had no foundation, so that if he had had courage to brave the
world’s opinion, he might have spared Fanny many griefs, the scars of
which will never be obliterated. Nay, more, if she had gone a year or two
ago, her health might have been perfectly restored, which I do not now
think will ever be the case. Before true passion, I am convinced, everything
but a sense of duty moves; true love is warmest when the object is absent.
How Hugh could let Fanny languish in England, while he was throwing
money away at Lisbon, is to me inexplicable, if he had a passion that did
not require the fuel of seeing the object. I much fear he loves her not for the
qualities that render her dear to my heart. Her tenderness and delicacy are
not even conceived of by a man who would be satisfied with the fondness
of one of the general run of women.”

George Blood’s departure was due to less pleasant circumstances than
Fanny’s. One youthful escapade which had come to light was sufficient to
attach to his name the blame for another, of which he was innocent. Some
of his associates had become seriously compromised; and he, to avoid being

implicated with them, had literally taken flight, and had made Ireland his
place of refuge.

Mary’s friends left her just when she most needed them. Unfortunately, the
interval of peace inaugurated [Pg 52] by the opening of the school was but
short-lived. Encouraged by the first success of her enterprise, she rented a
larger house, hoping that in it she would do even better. But this step proved
the Open Sesame to an inexhaustible mine of difficulties. The expense
involved by the change was greater than she had expected, and her means
of meeting it smaller. The population at Newington Green was not
numerous or wealthy enough to support a large first-class day-school, and
more pupils were not forthcoming to avail themselves of the new
accommodations provided for them. It was a second edition of the story of
the wedding feast, and again highways and by-ways were searched in vain.
Moreover, her boarders neglected to pay their bills regularly. Instead of
being a source of profit, they were an additional burden. Her life now
became unspeakably sad. Her whole day was spent in teaching. This in
itself would not have been hard. She always interested herself in her pupils,
and the consciousness of good done for others was her most highly prized
pleasure. Had the physical fatigue entailed by her work been her only
hardship, she would have borne it patiently and perhaps gayly. But from
morning till night, waking and sleeping, she was haunted by thoughts of
unpaid bills and of increasing debts. Poverty and creditors were the two
unavoidable evils which stared her in the face. Then, when she did hear
from Fanny, it was to know that the chances for her recovery were
diminishing rather than increasing. Reports of George Blood’s ill-conduct,
repeated for her benefit, hurt and irritated her. On one occasion, her house
was visited by men sent thither in his pursuit by the girl who had [Pg 53]

vilely slandered him. Mrs. Campbell, with the meanness of a small nature,

reproached Mary for the encouragement which she had given his vices. She
loved him so truly that this must have been gall and wormwood to her
sensitive heart. Mr. and Mrs. Blood continued poor and miserable, he
drinking and idling, and she faring as it must ever fare with the wives of
such men. Mary saw nothing before her but a dreary pilgrimage through the
wide Valley of the Shadow of Death, from which there seemed no escape to
the Mount Zion beyond. If she dragged herself out of the deep pit of mental
despondency, it was to fall into a still deeper one of physical prostration.
The bleedings and blisters ordered by her physician could help her but little.
What she needed to make her well was new pupils and honest boarders, and
these the most expert physician could not give her. Is it any wonder that she
came in time to hate Newington Green,—“the grave of all my comforts,”
she called it,—to lose relish for life, and to feel cheered only by the
prospect of death? She had nothing to reproach herself with. In sorrow and
sickness alike she had toiled to the best of her abilities. That which her hand
had found to do, she had done with all her might. The result of her labors
and long-sufferance had hitherto been but misfortune and failure. Truly
could she have called out with the Lady of Sorrows in the Lamentations:
“Attend, all ye who pass by, and see if there be any sorrow like unto mine.”
Because we know how great her misery was, we can more fully appreciate
the extent of her heroism. Though, as she confessed to her friends in her
weariest moments, her heart was broken, she never once swerved [Pg 54]

from allegiance to the heaven-given mandate, as Carlyle calls it, “Work
thou in well-doing!” She never faltered in the accomplishment of the duty
she had set for herself, nor forgot the troubles of others because of her own.
Though her difficulties accumulated with alarming rapidity, there was no
relaxation in her attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Blood, in her care for her sister,
nor in the sympathy she gave to George Blood.

Perhaps the greatest joy that came to her during this year was the news that
Mr. Skeys had found a position for his brother-in-law in Lisbon. But this
pleasure was more than counterbalanced by the discouraging bulletins of
Fanny’s health. Mr. Skeys was alarmed at his wife’s increasing weakness,
and was anxious to gratify her every desire. Fanny expressed a wish to have
Mary with her during her confinement. The latter, with characteristic
unselfishness, consented, when Mr. Skeys asked her to go to Lisbon, though
in so doing she was obliged to leave school and house. This shows the
sincerity of her opinion that before true passion everything but duty moves.
To her, Fanny’s need seemed greater than her own; and she thought to fulfil
her duty towards her sister, and to provide for her welfare by giving her
charge of her scholars and boarders while she was away from them. Mary’s
decision was vigorously questioned by her friends. Indeed, there were many
reasons against it. It was feared her absence from the school for a
necessarily long period would be injurious to it, and this eventually proved
to be the case. The journey was a long one for a woman to make alone. And
last, but not least, she had not the ready money to pay her expenses. But,
despite all [Pg 55] her friends could say, she could not be moved from her
original resolution. When they saw their arguments were useless, they
manifested their friendship in a more practical manner. Mrs. Burgh lent her
the necessary sum of money for the journey. Godwin, however, thinks that
in doing this she was acting in behalf of Dr. Price, who modestly preferred
to conceal his share in the transaction. All impediments having thus been
removed, Mary, in the autumn of 1785, started upon the saddest, up to this
date, of her many missions of charity.

The reunion of the friends was a joyless pleasure. When Mary arrived in
Lisbon, she found Fanny in the last stages of her illness, and before she had
time to rest from her journey she began her work as sick-nurse. Four hours

after her arrival Fanny’s child was born. It had been sad enough for Mary to
watch her mother’s last moments and Eliza’s insanity; but this new duty
was still more painful. She loved Fanny Blood with a passion whose depth
is beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. Her affection for her was
the one romance of her youth, and she lavished upon it all the sweetness
and tenderness, the enthusiasm and devotion of her nature, which make her
seem to us lovable above all women. And now this friend, the best gift life
had so far given her, was to be taken from her. She saw Fanny grow weaker
and weaker day by day, and knew that she was powerless to avert the
coming calamity. Yet whatever could be done, she did. There never has
been, and there never can be, a more faithful, gentle nurse. The following
letter gives a graphic description of her journey, of the sad welcome which
awaited [Pg 56] her at its termination, and the still sadder duties she fulfilled
in Lisbon:—

Lisbon, Nov. or Dec. 1785.

My dear Girls,—I am beginning to awake out of a terrifying dream, for in
that light do the transactions of these two or three last days appear. Before I
say more, let me tell you that, when I arrived here, Fanny was in labor, and
that four hours after she was delivered of a boy. The child is alive and well,
and considering the very, very low state to which Fanny was reduced she is
better than could be expected. I am now watching her and the child. My
active spirits have not been much at rest ever since I left England. I could
not write to you on shipboard, the sea was so rough; and we had such hard
gales of wind, the captain was afraid we should be dismasted. I cannot write
to-night or collect my scattered thoughts, my mind is so unsettled. Fanny is
so worn out, her recovery would be almost a resurrection, and my reason
will scarce allow me to think it possible. I labor to be resigned, and by the
time I am a little so, some faint hope sets my thoughts again afloat, and for
a moment I look forward to days that will, alas! never come.

I will try to-morrow to give you some little regular account of my journey,
though I am almost afraid to look beyond the present moment. Was not my
arrival providential? I can scarce be persuaded that I am here, and that so
many things have happened in so short a time. My head grows light with
thinking on it.
Friday morning.—Fanny has been so alarmingly ill since I wrote the above,
I entirely gave her up, and yet I could not write and tell you so: it seemed
like signing her death-warrant. Yesterday afternoon some of the most
alarming symptoms a little abated, and she had a comfortable night; yet I
rejoice with trembling lips, and am afraid to indulge hopes. She is very low.
The stomach is so weak it will scarce bear to receive the slightest
nourishment; in short, if I were to tell you all her complaints you would not
wonder at my fears. The child, though a puny [Pg 57] one, is well. I have got
a wet-nurse for it. The packet does not sail till the latter end of next week,
and I send this by a ship. I shall write by every opportunity. We arrived last
Monday. We were only thirteen days at sea. The wind was so high and the
sea so boisterous the water came in at the cabin windows; and the ship
rolled about in such a manner, it was dangerous to stir. The women were
sea-sick the whole time, and the poor invalid so oppressed by his
complaints, I never expected he would live to see Lisbon. I have supported
him for hours together gasping for breath, and at night, if I had been
inclined to sleep, his dreadful cough would have kept me awake. You may
suppose that I have not rested much since I came here, yet I am tolerably
well, and calmer than I could expect to be. Could I not look for comfort
where only ’tis to be found, I should have been mad before this, but I feel
that I am supported by that Being who alone can heal a wounded spirit.
May He bless you both.
Yours,
Mary.

Her state of uncertainty about poor Fanny did not last long. Shortly after the
above letter was written, the invalid died. Just as life was beginning to smile
upon her, she was called from it. She had worked so long that when

happiness at length came, she had no strength left to bear it. The blessing
her wrestling had wrought was but of short duration.

Godwin, in his Memoirs, says that Mary’s trip to Portugal probably
enlarged her understanding. “She was admitted,” he writes, “to the very best
company the English colony afforded. She made many profound
observations on the character of the natives and the baleful effects of
superstition.” But it seems doubtful whether she really saw many people in
Lisbon, or gave great heed to what was going on around her. [Pg 58] Arrived
there just in time to see her friend die, she remained but a short time after
all was over. There was no inducement for her to make a longer stay. Her
feelings for Mr. Skeys were not friendly. She could not forget that had he
but treated Fanny as she, for example, would have done had she been in his
place, this early death might have been prevented. Her school, intrusted to
Mrs. Bishop’s care, was a strong reason for her speedy return to England.
The cause which had called her from it being gone, she was anxious to
return to her post.

An incident highly characteristic of her is told of the journey home. She had
nursed a poor sick man on the way to Portugal; on the way back she was
instrumental in saving the lives of many men. The ship in which she sailed
met at mid-sea a French vessel so dismantled and storm-beaten that it was
in imminent risk of sinking, and its stock of provisions was almost
exhausted. Its officers hailed the English ship, begging its captain to take
them and their entire crew on board. The latter hesitated. This was no
trifling request. He had his own crew and passengers to consider, and he
feared to lay such a heavy tax on the provisions provided for a certain
number only. This was a case which aroused Mary’s tenderest sympathy. It
was impossible for her to witness it unmoved. She could not without a

protest allow her fellow-creatures to be so cruelly deserted. Like another
Portia come to judgment, she clinched the difficulty by representing to the
captain that if he did not yield to their entreaties she would expose his
inhumanity upon her return to England. Her arguments prevailed. The
sufferers [Pg 59] were saved, and the intercessor in their behalf added one
more to the long list of her good deeds. Never has there been a woman, not
even a Saint Rose of Lima or a Saint Catherine of Siena, who could say as
truly as Mary Wollstonecraft,—

“... I sate among men
And I have loved these.”

[Pg 60] CHAPTER III.
LIFE AS GOVERNESS.

1786-1788.

There was little pleasure for Mary in her home-coming. The school, whose
difficulties had begun before her departure, had prospered still less under
Mrs. Bishop’s care. Many of the pupils had been taken away. Eliza, her
quick temper and excitability aggravated at that time by her late
misfortunes, was not a fitting person to have the control of children. She
had thoughtlessly quarrelled with their most profitable boarder, the mother
of the three boys, who had in consequence given up her rooms. As yet no
one else had been found to occupy them. The rent of the house was so high
that these losses left the sisters without the means to pay it. They were
therefore in debt, and that deeply, for people with no immediate, or even
remote, prospects of an addition to their income. Then the Bloods during
Mary’s absence had fallen further into the Slough of Despond, out of which,
now their daughter was dead, there was no one to help them. George could
not aid them, because, though they did not know it, he was just then without
employment. Unable to live amicably with his brother-in-law after Fanny’s
death, he had resigned his position in Lisbon and gone to Ireland, where for
a long while he could [Pg 61] find nothing to do. Mr. Skeys simply refused to
satisfy the never-ceasing wants of his wife’s parents. He cannot be severely

censured when their shiftlessness is borne in mind. He probably had already
received many appeals from them. But Mary could not accept their troubles
so passively.

To add to her distress, she was weakened by the painful task she had just
completed. She was low-spirited and broken-hearted, and really ill. Her
eyes gave out; and no greater inconvenience could have just then befallen
her. Her mental activity was temporarily paralyzed, and yet she knew that
prompt measures were necessary to avert the evils crowding upon her. She
had truly been anointed to wrestle and not to reign.

There was no chance of relief from her own family. Her father had married
again, but his second marriage had not improved him. He had descended to
the lowest stage of drunkenness and insignificance. His home was in
Laugharne, Wales, where he barely managed to exist. James, the second
son, had gone to sea in search of better fortune. Charles, the youngest, was
not old enough to seek his, and hence had to endure as best he could the
wretchedness of the Wollstonecraft household. Instead of Mary’s receiving
help from this quarter, she was called upon to give it. Kinder to her father
than he had ever been to her, she never ignored his difficulties. When she
had money, she shared it with him. When she had none, she did all she
could to force Edward, the one prosperous member of the family, to send
his father the pecuniary assistance which, it seems, he had promised.

[Pg 62] In whatever direction she looked, she saw misery and unhappiness.
The present was unendurable, the future hopeless. For a brief interval she
was almost crushed by her circumstances. To George Blood, now even
dearer to her than he had been before, she laid bare the weariness of her
heart. Shortly after her return she wrote him this letter, pathetic in its
despair:

Newington Green, Feb. 4, 1786.

I write to you, my dear George, lest my silence should make you uneasy;
yet what have I to say that will not have the same effect? Things do not go
well with me, and my spirits seem forever flown. I was a month on my
passage, and the weather was so tempestuous we were several times in
imminent danger. I did not expect ever to have reached land. If it had
pleased Heaven to have called me hence, what a world of care I should have
missed! I have lost all relish for pleasure, and life seems a burden almost
too heavy to be endured. My head is stupid, and my heart sick and
exhausted. But why should I worry you? and yet, if I do not tell you my
vexations, what can I write about?
Your father and mother are tolerably well, and inquire most affectionately
concerning you. They do not suspect that you have left Lisbon, and I do not
intend informing them of it till you are provided for. I am very unhappy on
their account, for though I am determined they shall share my last shilling,
yet I have every reason to apprehend extreme distress, and of course they
must be involved in it. The school dwindles to nothing, and we shall soon
lose our last boarder, Mrs. Disney. She and the girls quarrelled while I was
away, which contributed to make the house very disagreeable. Her sons are
to be whole boarders at Mrs. Cockburn’s. Let me turn my eyes on which
side I will, I can only anticipate misery. Are such prospects as these likely
to heal an almost broken heart? The loss of Fanny was sufficient of itself to
[Pg 63] 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 debts. I
cannot think of remaining any longer in this house, the rent is so enormous;
and where to go, without money or friends, who can point out? My eyes are
very bad and my memory gone. I am not fit for any situation; and as for
Eliza, I don’t know what will become of her. My constitution is impaired. I
hope I shan’t live long, yet I may be a tedious time dying.
Well, I am too impatient. The will of heaven be done! I will labor to be
resigned. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” I scarce know what I
write, yet my writing at all when my mind is so disturbed is a proof to you
that I can never be lost so entirely in misery as to forget those I love. I long
to hear that you are settled. It is the only quarter from which I can

reasonably expect pleasure. I have received a very short, unsatisfactory
letter from Lisbon. It was written to apologize for not sending the money to
your father which he promised. It would have been particularly acceptable
to them at this time; but he is prudent, and will not run any hazard to serve a
friend. Indeed, delicacy made me conceal from him my dismal situation,
but he must know how much I am embarrassed....
I am very low-spirited, and of course my letter is very dull. I will not
lengthen it out in the same strain, but conclude with what alone will be
acceptable, an assurance of love and regard.
Believe me to be ever your sincere and affectionate friend,
Mary Wollstonecraft.

“There is but one true cure for suffering, and that is action,” Dr. Maudsley
says. The first thing Mary did in her misery was to undertake new work,
this time a literary venture, not for herself, but for the benefit of Mr. and
Mrs. Blood. Their son-in-law having refused [Pg 64] to contribute from his
plenty, their daughter’s friend came forward and gave from her nothing.

At the instigation of Mr. Hewlet, one of her friends already mentioned, she
wrote a small pamphlet called “Thoughts on the Education of Daughters.”
This gentleman rated her powers so high that he felt sure of her success as a
writer. As he was well acquainted with Mr. Johnson, a prominent bookseller
in Fleet Street, he could promise that her manuscript would be dealt with
fairly. Her choice of subject was, in one way, fortunate. Being a teacher she
could speak on educational matters with authority. But this first work is not
striking or remarkable. Indeed, it is chiefly worth notice because it was the
means of introducing her to Mr. Johnson, who was a true friend to her
through her darkest, as well as through her brightest, days, and whose
influence was strong in shaping her career. He paid her ten guineas for her
pamphlet, and these she at once gave to Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who were

thereby enabled to leave England and go to Dublin. There, they thought,
because they and their disgrace were not yet known, the chances of their
starting in life afresh were greater.

It was now time for Mary to turn her attention to her own affairs. It was
absolutely necessary to give up the school. Her presence could not recall the
pupils who had left it, and her debts were pressing. The success of the
sisters had been too slight to tempt them to establish a similar institution in
another town. They determined to separate, and each to earn her livelihood
alone. Mary was not loath to do this. Because of her superior administrative
ability, too large a share of the [Pg 65] work in the school had devolved upon
her, while her sisters’ society was a hindrance rather than a comfort. She
was ready to sacrifice herself for others, but she had enough common sense
to realize that too great unselfishness in details would in the end destroy her
power of aiding in larger matters. She could do more for Eliza and Everina
away from them, than if she continued to live with them.

What she desired most earnestly was to devote all her time to literary work.
Mr. Hewlet had represented to her that she would be certain to make an
ample support by writing. Mr. Johnson had received her pamphlet
favorably, and had asked for further contributions. But her present want was
urgent, and she could not wait on a probability. She had absolutely no
money to live upon while she made a second experiment. She had learned
thoroughly the lesson of patience and of self-restraint, and she resolved for
the present to continue to teach. By doing this, she could still find a few
spare hours for literary purposes, while she could gradually save enough
money to warrant her beginning the life for which she longed. One plan,
abandoned, however, before she attempted to put it into execution, she
describes in the following letter to George Blood. The tone in which she

writes is much less hopeless than that of the letter last quoted. Already the
remedy of activity was beginning to have its effect:—

Newington Green, May 22, 1787.

By this time, my dear George, I hope your father and mother have reached
Dublin. I long to hear of their safe arrival. A few days after they set sail, I
received a letter [Pg 66] from Skeys. He laments his inability to assist them,
and dwells on his own embarrassments. How glad I am they are gone! My
affairs are hastening to a crisis.... Some of my creditors cannot afford to
wait for their money; as to leaving England in debt, I am determined not to
do it.... Everina and Eliza are both endeavoring to go out into the world, the
one as a companion, and the other as a teacher, and I believe I shall
continue some time on the Green. I intend taking a little cheap lodging, and
living without a servant; and the few scholars I have will maintain me. I
have done with all worldly pursuits and wishes; I only desire to submit
without being dependent on the caprice of our fellow-creatures. I shall have
many solitary hours, but I have not much to hope for in life, and so it would
be absurd to give way to fear. Besides, I try to look on the best side, and not
to despond. While I am trying to do my duty in that station in which
Providence has placed me, I shall enjoy some tranquil moments, and the
pleasures I have the greatest relish for are not entirely out of my reach.... I
have been trying to muster up my fortitude, and laboring for patience to
bear my many trials. Surely, when I could determine to survive Fanny, I can
endure poverty and all the lesser ills of life. I dreaded, oh! how I dreaded
this time, and now it is arrived I am calmer than I expected to be. I have
been very unwell; my constitution is much impaired; the prison walls are
decaying, and the prisoner will ere long get free.... Remember that I am
your truly affectionate friend and sister,
Mary Wollstonecraft.

Perhaps the uncertainty of keeping her pupils, or the double work
necessitated by this project, discouraged her. At all events, it was
relinquished when other and seemingly better proposals were made to her.

Some of her friends at Newington Green recommended her to the notice of
Mr. Prior, then Assistant [Pg 67] Master at Eton, and his wife. Through them
she was offered the situation of governess to the children of Lord
Kingsborough, an Irish nobleman. If she accepted it, she would be spared
the anxiety which a school of her own had heretofore brought her. The
salary would be forty pounds a year, out of which she calculated she could
pay her debts and then assist Mrs. Bishop. But she would lose her
independence, and would expose herself to the indifference or contempt
then the portion of governesses. “I should be shut out from society,” she
explained to George Blood, “and be debarred the pleasures of imperfect
friendship, as I should on every side be surrounded by unequals. To live
only on terms of civility and common benevolence, without any interchange
of little acts of kindness and tenderness, would be to me extremely
irksome.” The prospect, it must be admitted, was not pleasant. But still the
advantages outweighed the drawbacks, and Mary agreed to Lady
Kingsborough’s terms.

Mr. and Mrs. Prior intended taking a trip to Ireland, and they suggested that
she should accompany them. Travelling was not easy in those days, and she
decided to wait and go with them. But, for some reason, they did not start as
soon as they had expected. She had already joined them in their home at
Eton, in which place their delay detained her for some time. This gave her
the opportunity to study the school and the principles upon which it was
conducted. The entire system met with her disapprobation, and afterwards,
in her “Rights of Women,” she freely and strongly expressed her
unfavorable opinion. Judging from what [Pg 68] she there saw, she concluded
that schools regulated according to the same rules were hot-beds of vice.
Nothing disgusted her so much in this institution as the false basis upon
which religion was established. The slavery to forms, demanded of the

boys, seemed to her to at once undermine their moral uprightness. What,
indeed, could be expected of a boy who would take the sacrament for no
other reason than to avoid the fine of half a guinea imposed upon those who
would not conform to this ceremony? Her visit did much towards
developing and formulating her ideas on the subject of education.

Mrs. Prior seems to have given her every chance to become acquainted not
only with the school, but with the social life at Eton. But her interest in the
gay world, as there represented, was lukewarm. Its shallowness provoked
her. She, looking upon life as real and earnest, and not as a mere
playground, could not sympathize with women who gave themselves up to
dress, nor with men who expended their energies in efforts to raise a laugh.
Wit of rather an affected kind was the fashion of the day. At its best it was
odious, but when manufactured by the weaklings of society, it was beyond
endurance. Heine says that there is no man so crazy that he may not find a
crazier comrade who will understand him. And it may be said as truly, that
there is no man so foolish that he will not meet still greater fools ready to
admire his folly. To Mary Wollstonecraft it was doubtful which was most to
be despised, the affectation itself or the applause which nourished it. The
governess elect, whose heart was heavy laden, saw in the flippant [Pg 69]

gayeties of Eton naught but vanity and vexation of spirit.

She wrote to Everina on the 9th of October,—

The time I spend here appears lost. While I remained in England I would
fain have been near those I love.... I could not live the life they lead at Eton;
nothing but dress and ridicule going forward, and I really believe their
fondness for ridicule tends to make them affected, the women in their
manners and the men in their conversation; for witlings abound, and puns
fly about like crackers, though you would scarcely guess they had any
meaning in them, if you did not hear the noise they create. So much

company without any sociability would be to me an insupportable fatigue. I
am, ’tis true, quite alone in a crowd, yet cannot help reflecting on the scene
around me, and my thoughts harass me. Vanity in one shape or other reigns
triumphant.... My thoughts and wishes tend to that land where the God of
love will wipe away all tears from our eyes, where sincerity and truth will
flourish, and the imagination will not dwell on pleasing illusions which
vanish like dreams when experience forces us to see things as they really
are. With what delight do I anticipate the time when neither death nor
accidents of any kind will interpose to separate me from those I love....
Adieu; believe me to be your affectionate friend and sister,
Mary Wollstonecraft.

Finally the time came for her departure. In October, 1787, she set out with
Mr. and Mrs. Prior for Ireland, and towards the end of the month arrived at
the castle of Lord Kingsborough in Mitchelstown. Her first impressions
were gloomy. But, indeed, her depression and weakness were so great, that
she looked at all things, as if through a glass, darkly. Her sorrows were still
too fresh to be forgotten in idle curiosity about the [Pg 70] inhabitants and
customs of her new home. Even if she had been in the best of spirits, her
arrival at the castle would have been a trying moment. It is never easy for
one woman to face alone several of her sex, who, she knows, are waiting to
criticise her. There were then staying with Lady Kingsborough her step-
mother and her three unmarried step-sisters and several guests. Governesses
in this household had fared much as companions in Mrs. Dawson’s. They
had come and gone in rapid succession. Therefore Mary was examined by
these ladies much as a new horse is inspected by a racer, or a new dog by a
sportsman. She passed through the ordeal successfully, but it left her
courage at low ebb. Her first report to her sister is not cheerful:—

The Castle, Mitchelstown, Oct. 30, 1787.

Well, my dear girl, I am at length arrived at my journey’s end. I sigh when I
say so, but it matters not, I must labor for content, and try to reconcile
myself to a state which is contrary to every feeling of my soul. I can
scarcely persuade myself that I am awake; my whole life appears like a
frightful vision, and equally disjointed. I have been so very low-spirited for
some days past, I could not write. All the moments I could spend in solitude
were lost in sorrow and unavailing tears. There was such a solemn kind of
stupidity about this place as froze my very blood. I entered the great gates
with the same kind of feeling as I should have if I was going into the
Bastille. You can make allowance for the feelings which the General would
term ridiculous or artificial. I found I was to encounter a host of females,—
My Lady, her step-mother and three sisters, and Mrses. and Misses without
number, who, of course, would examine me with the most minute attention.
I cannot attempt to give you a description of [Pg 71] the family, I am so low; I
will only mention some of the things which particularly worry me. I am
sure much more is expected from me than I am equal to. With respect to
French, I am certain Mr. P. has misled them, and I expect in consequence of
it to be very much mortified. Lady K. is a shrewd, clever woman, a great
talker. I have not seen much of her, as she is confined to her room by a sore
throat; but I have seen half a dozen of her companions. I mean not her
children, but her dogs. To see a woman without any softness in her manners
caressing animals, and using infantine expressions, is, you may conceive,
very absurd and ludicrous, but a fine lady is a new species to me of animal.
I am, however, treated like a gentlewoman by every part of the family, but
the forms and parade of high life suit not my mind.... I hear a fiddle below,
the servants are dancing, and the rest of the family are diverting themselves.
I only am melancholy and alone. To tell the truth, I hope part of my misery
arises from disordered nerves, for I would fain believe my mind is not so
very weak. The children are, literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed and
not very pleasing; but you shall have a full and true account, my dear girl,
in a few days....
I am your affectionate sister and sincere friend,
Mary Wollstonecraft.

It was at least fortunate that she escaped, with Lady Kingsborough, the
indignities which she had feared she, as governess, would receive. Instead
of being placed on a level with the servants, as was often the fate of
gentlewomen in her position, she was treated as one of the family, but she
had little else to be thankful for. There was absolutely no congeniality
between herself and her employers. She had no tastes or views in common
with them. Lady Kingsborough was a thorough woman of the world. She
was clever but cold, and her natural coldness had been increased by [Pg 72]
the restraints and exactions of her social rank. If she rouged to preserve her
good looks, and talked to exhibit her cleverness, she was fulfilling all the
requirements of her station in life. Her character and conduct were in every
way opposed to Mary’s ideals. The latter, who was instinctively honest, and
who never stooped to curry favor with any one, must have found it difficult
to treat Lady Kingsborough with a deference she did not feel, but which her
subordinate position obliged her to show. The struggle between impulse and
duty thus caused was doubtless one of the chief factors in making her
experiences in Ireland so painful. How great this struggle was can be best
estimated when it is known what she thought of the mother of her pupils.
She was never thrown into such intimate relations with any other woman of
fashion, and therefore it is not illogical to believe that many passages in the
“Rights of Women,” relating to women of this class, are descriptions of
Lady Kingsborough. The allusion to pet dogs in the following seems to
establish the identity beyond dispute:—

“... She who takes her dogs to bed, and nurses them with a parade of
sensibility when sick, will suffer her babes to grow up crooked in a nursery.
This illustration of my argument is drawn from a matter of fact. The woman
whom I allude to was handsome, reckoned very handsome by those who do
not miss the mind when the face is plump and fair; but her understanding
had not been led from female duties by literature, nor her innocence

debauched by knowledge. No, she was quite feminine according to the
masculine acceptation of the word; and so far from loving these spoiled
brutes that filled the place which her children ought to have occupied, she
only lisped out a pretty mixture [Pg 73] of French and English nonsense, to
please the men who flocked round her. The wife, mother, and human
creature were all swallowed up by the factitious character which an
improper education and the selfish vanity of beauty had produced.
“I do not like to make a distinction without a difference, and I own that I
have been as much disgusted by the fine lady who took her lap-dog to her
bosom, instead of her child, as by the ferocity of a man, who beating his
horse, declared that he knew as well when he did wrong as a Christian.”

If Lady Kingsborough was a representative lady of fashion, her husband
was quite as much the typical country lord. Tom Jones was still the ideal
hero of fiction, and Squire Westerns had not disappeared from real life.
Lord Kingsborough was good-natured and kind, but, like the rest of the
species, coarse. “His countenance does not promise more than good humor
and a little fun, not refined,” Mary told Mrs. Bishop. The three step-sisters
were too preoccupied with matrimonial calculations to manifest their
character, if indeed they had any. Clearly, in such a household Mary
Wollstonecraft was as a child of Israel among the Philistines.

The society of the children, though they were “wild Irish,” was more to her
taste than that of the grown-up members of the family. Three were given
into her charge. At first she thought them not very pleasing, but after a
better acquaintance she grew fond of them. The eldest, Margaret, afterwards
Lady Mountcashel, was then fourteen years of age. She was very talented,
and a “sweet girl,” as Mary called her in a letter to Mrs. Bishop. She
became deeply attached to her new [Pg 74] governess, not with the passing
fancy of a child, but with a lasting devotion. The other children also learned
to love her, but being younger there was less friendship in their affection.

They were afraid of their mother, who lavished her caresses upon her dogs,
until she had none left for them. Therefore, when Mary treated them
affectionately and sympathized with their interests and pleasures, they
naturally turned to her and gave her the love which no one else seemed to
want. That this was the case was entirely Lady Kingsborough’s fault, but
she resented it bitterly, and it was later a cause of serious complaint against
the too competent governess. The affection of her pupils, which was her
principal pleasure during her residence in Ireland, thus became in the end a
misfortune.

A more prolific source of trouble to her was, strangely enough, her interest
in them. Lady Kingsborough had very positive ideas upon the subject of her
children’s education, and by insisting upon adherence to them she made
Mary’s task doubly hard. Had she not been interfered with, her position
would not have been so unpleasant. She could put her whole soul into her
work, whatever it might be, and find in its success one of her chief joys.
She wished to do her utmost for Margaret and her sisters, but this was
impossible, since she knew the system Lady Kingsborough exacted to be
vicious. The latter cared more for a show of knowledge than for knowledge
itself, and laid the greatest stress upon the acquirement of accomplishments.
This was not in accord with Mary’s theories, who prized reality and not
appearances. A less conscientious woman might have contented herself with
[Pg 75] the thought that she was carrying out the wishes of her employer. But
Mary could not quiet her scruples in this way. She was tormented by the
sense of duty but half fulfilled. She realized, by her own sad experience,
how much depends upon the training received in childhood, and yet she was
powerless to bring up her pupils in the way she knew to be best. She had,
besides, constantly before her in Lady Kingsborough and her sisters a, to
her, melancholy example of the result of the methods she was asked to

adopt. They had been carefully taught many different languages and much
history, but had been as carefully instilled with the idea that their studies
were but means to social success and to a brilliant marriage. The
consequence was that their education, despite its thoroughness, had made
them puppets, self-interest being the wire which moved them. She did not
want this to be the fate of her pupils, but she could see no escape for them.

In addition to her honest anxiety for their future, she must have been
worried by the certainty that, if she remained with them, she would be held
responsible for their character and conduct in after-life. Though she had
charge of them only for a year, this eventually proved to be the case.
Margaret’s reputation as Lady Mountcashel was not wholly unsullied, and
when it was remembered that she had, at one time, been under the influence
of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of the “Rights of Women,” the fault was
attributed to the immoral and irreligious teaching of the latter. Never was
any woman so unjustly condemned. In the first place, Mary was not her
governess long enough to [Pg 76] actually change her nature, or to influence
her for life; and, in the second place, she was not allowed to have her own
way with her pupils. Had she been free she would have been more apt to
encourage a spirit of piety, and inculcate a fine moral sense. For she was at
that period in a deeply religious frame of mind, while she did all she could
to counteract what she considered the deteriorating tendencies of the
children’s home training. As Kegan Paul says, “Her whole endeavor was to
train them for higher pursuits and to instil into them a desire for a wider
culture than fell to the lot of most girls in those days. Her sorrow was deep
that her pupils’ lives were such as to render sustained study and religious
habits of mind alike difficult.”

This caused her much unhappiness. Her worriment developed into positive
illness. After she had been with them some months, the strain seemed more
than she could bear, as she confessed to Mr. Johnson, to whom she wrote
from Dublin on the 14th of April,—

I am still an invalid, and begin to believe that I ought never to expect to
enjoy health. My mind preys on my body, and, when I endeavor to be
useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost
entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their future
welfare, and mortified beyond measure when counteracted in my endeavors
to improve them. I feel all a mother’s fears for the swarm of little ones
which surround me, and observe disorders, without having power to apply
the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life, when it is always a
painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the pleasures I relish? I
allude to rational conversations and domestic affections. Here, alone, a [Pg
77] poor solitary individual in a strange land, tied to one spot, and subject to

the caprice of another, can I be contented? I am desirous to convince you
that I have some cause for sorrow, and am not without reason detached from
life. I shall hope to hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,
Wollstonecraft.

The family troubles followed Mary to Ireland. The news which reached her
from home was discouraging. Edward Wollstonecraft at this period declared
he would do nothing more for his father. Prudent, and with none of his
sister’s unselfishness, he grew tired of the drain upon his purse. There was
also difficulty about some money which Mary and her sisters considered
theirs by right, but which the eldest brother, with shameless selfishness,
refused to give up. What the exact circumstances were is not certain; but it
could have been no light tax upon Mary to contribute the necessary amount
for her father’s support, and no small disappointment to be deprived of
money which she thought to be legally hers. Money cares were to her what

the Old Man of the Sea was to Sinbad. They were a burden from which she
was never free. When from forty pounds a year she had to take half to pay
her debts, and then give from the remainder to her father, her share of her
earnings was not large. And yet she counted upon her savings to purchase
her future release from a life of dependence.

Though she wrote to Mr. Johnson that she was almost entirely confined to
the society of children, she really did see much of the family, often taking
part in their amusements. Judging from the attractions and conversational
powers which made her a favorite in London [Pg 78] society, it is but natural
to conclude that she was an addition to the household. She seems at times to
have exerted herself to be agreeable. Godwin records the extreme
discomfiture of a fine lady of quality, when, on one occasion, after having
singled her out and treated her with marked friendliness, she discovered that
she had been entertaining the children’s governess! Mary cared nothing for
these people, but as they were civil to her, she returned their politeness by
showing them she was well worth being polite to. Low-spirited as she was,
she mustered up sufficient courage to discuss the husband-hunts of the
young ladies and even to notice the dogs. This was, indeed, a concession.
To Everina she sent a bulletin—not untouched with humor—of her
wonderful and praiseworthy progress with the inmates of the castle:—

Mitchelstown, Nov. 17, 1787.

... Confined to the society of a set of silly females, I have no social
converse, and their boisterous spirits and unmeaning laughter exhaust me,
not forgetting hourly domestic bickerings. The topics of matrimony and
dress take their turn, not in a very sentimental style,—alas! poor sentiment,
it has no residence here. I almost wish the girls were novel-readers and
romantic. I declare false refinement is better than none at all; but these girls
understand several languages, and have read cartloads of history, for their

mother was a prudent woman. Lady K.’s passion for animals fills up the
hours which are not spent in dressing. All her children have been ill,—very
disagreeable fevers. Her ladyship visited them in a formal way, though their
situation called forth my tenderness, and I endeavored to amuse them, while
she lavished awkward fondness on her dogs. I think now I hear her
infantine lisp. She rouges, and, in short, is a fine lady, [Pg 79] without fancy
or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by dogs. But you will
perceive I am not under the influence of my darling passion—pity; it is not
always so. I make allowance and adapt myself, talk of getting husbands for
the ladies—and the dogs, and am wonderfully entertaining; and then I retire
to my room, form figures in the fire, listen to the wind, or view the Gotties,
a fine range of mountains near us, and so does time waste away in apathy or
misery.... I am drinking asses’ milk, but do not find it of any service. I am
very ill, and so low-spirited my tears flow in torrents almost insensibly. I
struggle with myself, but I hope my Heavenly Father will not be extreme to
mark my weakness, and that He will have compassion upon a poor bruised
reed, and pity a miserable wretch, whose sorrows He only knows.... I
almost wish my warfare was over.

The religious tone of this letter calls for special notice, since it was written
at the very time she was supposed to be imparting irreligious principles to
her pupils.

Mary had none of the false sentiment of a Sterne, and could not waste
sympathy over brutes, when she felt that there were human beings who
needed it. Her ladyship’s dogs worried her because of the contrast between
the attention they received and the indifference which fell to the lot of the
children. Besides, the then distressing condition of the laboring population
in Ireland made the luxuries and silly affectations of the rich doubly
noticeable. Mary saw for herself the poverty of the peasantry. Margaret was
allowed to visit the poor, and she accompanied her on her charitable rounds.
The almost bestial squalor in which these people lived was another cruel
contrast to the pampered existence led by the dogs at the castle. She had

none of Strap’s veneration for the epithet of gentleman. Eliza owned [Pg 80]
to a “sneaking kindness for people of quality.” But Mary cared only for a
man’s intrinsic merit. His rank could not cover his faults. Therefore, with
the misery and destitution of so many men and women staring her in the
face, the amusements and occupations of the few within Lady
Kingsborough’s household continually grated upon her finer instincts.

In the winter of 1788 the family went to Dublin, and Mary accompanied
them. She liked the society of the capital no better than she had that of the
country. She, however, occasionally shared in its frivolities, her relations to
Lady Kingsborough obliging her to do this. She was still young enough to
possess the capacity for enjoyment, though her many hardships and sorrows
had made her think this impossible, and she was sometimes carried away by
the gayety around her. But, as thorough a hater of shams as Carlyle, she was
disgusted with herself once the passing excitement was over. From Dublin
she wrote to Everina giving her a description of a mask to which she had
gone, and of which she had evidently been a conspicuous feature:—

Dublin, March 14, 1788.

... I am very weak to-day, but I can account for it. The day before yesterday
there was a masquerade; in the course of conversation some time before, I
happened to wish to go to it. Lady K. offered me two tickets for myself and
Miss Delane to accompany me. I refused them on account of the expense of
dressing properly. She then, to obviate that objection, lent me a black
domino. I was out of spirits, and thought of another excuse; but she
proposed to take me and Betty Delane to the houses of several people of
fashion who saw masks. We went to a great number, and were a tolerable,
nay, a much-admired, [Pg 81] group. Lady K. went in a domino with a smart
cockade; Miss Moore dressed in the habit of one of the females of the new
discovered islands; Betty D. as a forsaken shepherdess; and your sister
Mary in a black domino. As it was taken for granted the stranger who had
just arrived could not speak the language, I was to be her interpreter, which
afforded me an ample field for satire. I happened to be very melancholy in
the morning, as I am almost every morning, but at night my fever gives me
false spirits; this night the lights, the novelty of the scene, and all things
together contributed to make me more than half mad. I gave full scope to a
satirical vein, and suppose ...

Unfortunately, the rest of the letter is lost.

In the midst of her duties and dissipations she managed to find some little
time for more solid pleasures and more congenial work. In her letters she
speaks of nothing with so much enthusiasm as of Rousseau, whose “Émile”
she read while she was in Dublin. She wrote to Everina, on the 24th of
March,—

I believe I told you before that as a nation I do not admire the Irish; and as
to the great world and its frivolous ceremonies, I cannot away with them;
they fatigue me. I thank Heaven I was not so unfortunate as to be born a
lady of quality. I am now reading Rousseau’s “Émile,” and love his
paradoxes. He chooses a common capacity to educate, and gives as a reason

that a genius will educate itself. However, he rambles into that chimerical
world in which I have too often wandered, and draws the usual conclusion
that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. He was a strange, inconsistent,
unhappy, clever creature, yet he possessed an uncommon portion of
sensibility and penetration....
Adieu, yours sincerely,
Mary.

[Pg 82]It was also during this period that she wrote a novel called “Mary.” It
is a narrative of her acquaintance and friendship with Fanny Blood,—her In
Memoriam of the friend she so dearly loved. In writing it she sought relief
for the bitter sorrow with which her loss had filled her heart.

The Irish gayeties lasted through the winter. In the spring the family crossed
over to England and went to Bristol, Hotwells, and Bath. In all these places
Mary saw more of the gay world, but it was only to deepen the disgust with
which it inspired her. Those were the days when men drank at dinner until
they fell under the table; when young women thought of nothing but beaux,
and were exhibited by their fond mothers as so much live-stock to be
delivered to the highest bidder; and when dowagers, whose flirting season
was over, spent all their time at the card-table. Nowhere were the
absurdities and emptiness of polite society so fully exposed as at these three
fashionable resorts. Even the frivolity of Dublin paled in comparison.
Mary’s health improved in England. The Irish climate seems to have
specially disagreed with her. But notwithstanding the much-needed
improvement in her physical condition, and despite her occasional
concessions to her circumstances, her life became more unbearable every
day, while her sympathies and tastes grew farther apart from those of her
employers.

But while even the little respect she felt for Lord and Lady Kingsborough
lessened, her love for the children increased. This they returned with
interest. Once, when one of them had to go into the country with her mother
and without her governess, she cried so bitterly [Pg 83] that she made herself
ill. The strength of Margaret’s affection can be partly measured by the
following passage from a letter written by Mary shortly after their
separation:—

“I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter from my
poor dear Margaret. With all the mother’s fondness, I could transcribe a part
of it. She says, every day her affection to me, and dependence on heaven,
increase, etc. I miss her innocent caresses, and sometimes indulge a
pleasing hope, that she may be allowed to cheer my childless age if I am to
live to be old. At any rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not contemplate.”

Lady Kingsborough made no effort to win her children’s affection, but she
was unwilling that they should bestow it upon a stranger. She could not
forgive the governess who had taken her place in their hearts. She and her
eldest daughter had on this account frequent quarrels. Mary’s position was
therefore untenable. Her surroundings were uncongenial, her duties
distasteful, and she was disapproved of by her employer. Nothing was
needed but a decent pretext for the latter to dismiss her. This she before
long found when, Mary being temporarily separated from her pupils,
Margaret showed more regret than her mother thought the occasion
warranted. Lady Kingsborough seized the opportunity to give the governess
her dismissal. This was in the autumn of 1788, and the family were in
London. Mary had for some weeks known that this end was inevitable, but
still her departure, when the time came, was sudden. It was a trial to her to
leave the children, but escape from the household was a joyful
emancipation. Again she was obliged to face the [Pg 84] world, and again she

emerged triumphant from her struggles. With each new change she
advanced a step in her intellectual progress. After she left Lady
Kingsborough she began the literary life which was to make her famous.

[Pg 85] CHAPTER IV.
LITERARY LIFE.

1788-1791.

During her residence with the family of Lady Kingsborough in Ireland,
Mary, as has been seen, corresponded with Mr. Johnson the publisher. In
her hour of need she went to him for advice and assistance. He strongly
recommended, as he had more than once before, that she should give up
teaching altogether, and devote her time to literary work.

Mr. Johnson was a man of considerable influence and experience, and he
was enterprising and progressive. He published most of the principal books
of the day. The Edgeworths sent him their novels from Ireland, and Cowper
his poetry from Olney. One day he gave the reading world Mrs. Barbauld’s
works for the young, and the next, the speculations of reformers and social
philosophers whose rationalism deterred many another publisher. It was for
printing the Rev. Gilbert Wakefield’s too plain-spoken writings that he was,
at a later date, fined and imprisoned. Quick to discern true merit, he was
equally prompt in encouraging it. As Mary once said of him, he was a man
before he was a bookseller. His kind, generous nature made him as ready to
assist needy and deserving authors with his purse as he was to publish their
[Pg 86] works. From the time he had seen Mary’s pamphlet on the “Education

of Daughters,” he had been deeply and honestly interested in her. It had
convinced him of her power to do something greater. Her letters had
sustained him in this opinion, and her novel still further confirmed it. He
now, in addition to urging her to try to support herself by writing, promised
her continual employment if she would settle in London.

To-day there would seem no possible reason for any one in her position to
hesitate before accepting such an offer. But in her time it was an unusual
occurrence for a woman to adopt literature as a profession. It is true there
had been a great change since Swift declared that “not one gentleman’s
daughter in a thousand has been brought to read or understand her own
natural tongue.” Women had learned not only to read, but to write. Miss
Burney had written her novels, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu her Letters,
and Mrs. Inchbald her “Simple Story” and her plays, before Mary came to
London. Though the Amelias and Lydia Melfords of fiction were still
favorite types, the blue-stocking was gaining ascendency. Because she was
such a rara avis she received a degree of attention and devotion which now
appears extraordinary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Opie, Maria Edgeworth and
Mrs. Barbauld, at the end of the last and beginning of this century, were
fêted and praised as seldom falls to the lot of their successors of the present
generation. But, despite this fact, they were not quite sure that they were
keeping within the limits of feminine modesty by publishing their writings.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had considered it necessary [Pg 87] to apologize
for having translated Epictetus. Miss Burney shrank from publicity, and
preferred the slavery of a court to the liberty of home life, which meant time
for writing. Good Mrs. Barbauld feared she “stepped out of the bounds of
female reserve” when she became an author. They all wrote either for
amusement or as a last resource to eke out a slender income. But Mary
would, by agreeing to Mr. Johnson’s proposition, deliberately throw over

other chances of making a livelihood to rely entirely upon literature. She
was young, unmarried, and, to all intents and purposes, alone in the world.
Such a step was unprecedented in English literary annals. She would really
be, as she wrote to her sister, the first of a new genus. Her conduct would
unquestionably be criticised and censured. She would have to run the
gauntlet of public opinion, a much more trying ordeal than that through
which she had passed at the castle in Mitchelstown.

But, on the other hand, she would thereby gain freedom and independence,
for which she had always yearned above all else; her work would be
congenial; and, what to her was even more important, she would obtain
better means to further the welfare of her sisters and brothers, and to assist
her father. Compared to these inducements, the fact that people would look
upon her askance was a very insignificant consideration. She believed in a
woman’s right to independence; and, the first chance she had, she acted
according to her lights.

But, at the same time, she knew that if her friends heard of her
determination before she had carried it into effect, they would try to
dissuade her from it. [Pg 88] She was firmly resolved not to be influenced in
this matter by any one; and therefore, to avoid the unpleasant discussions
and disputes that might arise from a difference of opinion, she maintained
strict secrecy as to her plans. From her letters it seems probable that she had
made definite arrangements with Mr. Johnson before her formal dismissal
by Lady Kingsborough. In September of 1788 she stayed at Henley for a
short time with Mrs. Bishop; and it was doubtless this visit that caused
Margaret’s unhappiness and hence her mother’s indignation. At Henley
Mary enjoyed a short interval of rest. The quiet of the place and temporary
idleness were the best of tonics for her disordered nerves, and an excellent

preparation for her new labors. That she was at that time determined to give
up teaching for literature, but that she did not take her sister into her
confidence, is shown by this letter written to Mr. Johnson, containing a
pleasant description of her holiday:—

Henley, Thursday, Sept. 13.

My dear Sir,—Since I saw you I have, literally speaking, enjoyed solitude.
My sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered
alone by the side of the Thames, and in the neighboring beautiful fields and
pleasure grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I caught
tranquillity while I surveyed them; my mind was still, though active. Were I
to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile. I found
an old French Bible here, and amused myself with comparing it with our
English translation; then I would listen to the falling leaves, or observe the
various tints the autumn gave to them. At other times, the singing of a robin
or the noise of a water-mill engaged my attention; for I was at the same
time, perhaps, discussing [Pg 89] some knotty point, or straying from this tiny
world to new systems. After these excursions I returned to the family meals,
told the children stories (they think me vastly agreeable), and my sister was
amused. Well, will you allow me to call this way of passing my days
pleasant?
I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say all I
have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for me? I
often think of my new plan of life; and lest my sister should try to prevail
on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am determined! Your
sex generally laugh at female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet
resolved to do anything of consequence, that I did not adhere resolutely to
it, till I had accomplished my purpose, improbable as it might have
appeared to a more timid mind. In the course of near nine and twenty years
I have gathered some experience, and felt many severe disappointments;
and what is the amount? I long for a little peace and independence! Every
obligation we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes

from our native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere
earthworms. I am not fond of grovelling!
I am, Sir, yours, etc.,
Mary Wollstonecraft.

When she parted from Lady Kingsborough, and the time arrived for
beginning her new life, she thought it best to communicate her prospects to
Everina; but she begged the latter not to mention them to any one else. She
seems for some time to have wished that her family at least should know
nothing of her whereabouts or her occupations.

She wrote from London on the 7th of November to Everina,—

I am, my dear girl, once more thrown on the world. I have left Lord K.’s,
and they return next week to Mitchelstown. [Pg 90] I long since imagined that
my departure would be sudden. I have not seen Mrs. Burgh, but I have
informed her of this circumstance, and at the same time mentioned to her,
that I was determined not to see any of my friends till I am in a way to earn
my own subsistence. And to this determination I will adhere. You can
conceive how disagreeable pity and advice would be at this juncture. I have
two other cogent reasons. Before I go on will you pause, and if, after
deliberating, you will promise not to mention to any one what you know of
my designs, though you may think my requesting you to conceal them
unreasonable, I will trust to your honor, and proceed. Mr. Johnson, whose
uncommon kindness, I believe, has saved me from despair and vexation I
shrink back from, and fear to encounter, assures me that if I exert my talents
in writing, I may support myself in a comfortable way. I am then going to
be the first of a new genus. I tremble at the attempt; yet if I fail I only
suffer; and should I succeed, my dear girls will ever in sickness have a
home and a refuge, where for a few months in the year they may forget the
cares that disturb the rest. I shall strain every nerve to obtain a situation for
Eliza nearer town: in short, I am once more involved in schemes. Heaven
only knows whether they will answer! Yet while they are pursued life slips
away. I would not on any account inform my father or Edward of my

designs. You and Eliza are the only part of the family I am interested about;
I wish to be a mother to you both. My undertaking would subject me to
ridicule and an inundation of friendly advice to which I cannot listen; I must
be independent. I wish to introduce you to Mr. Johnson. You would respect
him; and his sensible conversation would soon wear away the impression
that a formality, or rather stiffness of manners, first makes to his
disadvantage. I am sure you would love him, did you know with what
tenderness and humanity he has behaved to me....
I cannot write more explicitly. I have indeed been very much harassed. But
Providence has been very kind [Pg 91] to me, and when I reflect on past
mercies, I am not without hope with respect to the future; and freedom,
even uncertain freedom, is dear.... This project has long floated in my mind.
You know I am not born to tread in the beaten track; the peculiar bent of my
nature pushes me on. Adieu; believe me ever your sincere friend and
affectionate sister,
Mary Wollstonecraft.
Seas will not now divide us, nor years elapse before we see each other.

Thus, hopeful for herself and her sisters, she started out upon a new road,
which, smoother than any she had yet trodden, was not without its many
thorns and pitfalls. For a little while she stayed with Mr. Johnson, whose
house was then, as ever, open to her. But as soon as possible she moved to
lodgings he found for her in George Street, in the neighborhood of
Blackfriars’ Bridge. Here she was near him, and this was an important
consideration, as the work he proposed to give her necessitated frequent
intercourse between them, and it was also an advantage for her to be within
reasonable distance of the only friend she possessed in London.

Mr. Johnson made her his “reader;” that is to say, he gave her the
manuscripts sent to him to read and criticise; he also required that she
should translate for him foreign works, for which there was then a great

demand, and that she should contribute to the “Analytical Review,” which
had just been established. Her position was a good one. It is true it left her
little time for original work, and Godwin thought that it contracted rather
than enlarged her genius for the time being. But it gave her a certain
valuable experience [Pg 92] and much practice which she would not
otherwise have obtained, and it insured her steady employment. She was to
the publisher what a staff contributor is to a newspaper. Whenever anything
was to be done, she was called upon to do it. Therefore, there was no danger
of her dying of starvation in a garret, like Chatterton, or of her offering her
manuscripts to one unwilling bookseller after another, as happened to
Carlyle.

She did not disappoint Mr. Johnson’s expectations. She worked well and
diligently, being thoroughly conscientious in whatever she did. The office
of “reader” is no mere sinecure; it requires a keen critical sense, an
impartial mind, and not a little moral courage. The first of these
qualifications Mary possessed naturally, and her honesty enabled her to
cultivate the two last. She was as fearless in her criticisms as she was just;
she praised and found fault with equal temerity. This disagreeable duty was
the indirect cause of the happiest event of her life. The circumstance in
question belongs to a later date, but it may more appropriately be mentioned
here in connection with this branch of her work. On one occasion she had to
read a volume of Essays written by Miss Hayes. The preface displeased her,
and this she told the author, stating her reasons with unhesitating frankness.
Miss Hayes was a woman capable of appreciating such candor of speech;
and the business transaction led to a sincere and lasting friendship. Miss
Hayes was the mutual friend who succeeded in producing a better feeling
between Godwin and Mary, who, as the sequel will show, were not very

friendly when they first met. This fact adds a personal interest to Mary’s
letter. She writes,—

“I yesterday mentioned to Mr. Johnson your request, and he assented,
[Pg 93]

desiring that the titlepage might be sent to him. I therefore can say nothing
more, for trifles of this kind I have always left to him to settle; and you
must be aware, madam, that the honor of publishing, the phrase on which
you have laid a stress, is the cant of both trade and sex; for if really equality
should ever take place in society, the man who is employed and gives a just
equivalent for the money he receives will not behave with the servile
obsequiousness of a servant.
“I am now going to treat you with still greater frankness. I do not approve
of your preface, and I will tell you why: if your work should deserve
attention, it is a blur on the very face of it. Disadvantages of education, etc.,
ought, in my opinion, never to be pleaded with the public in excuse for
defects of any importance, because if the writer has not sufficient strength
of mind to overcome the common difficulties that lie in his way, nature
seems to command him, with a very audible voice, to leave the task of
instructing others to those who can. This kind of vain humility has ever
disgusted me; and I should say to an author, who humbly sued for
forbearance, If you have not a tolerably good opinion of your own
production, why intrude it on the public? We have plenty of bad books
already, that have just gasped for breath and died. The last paragraph I
particularly object to, it is so full of vanity. Your male friends will still treat
you like a woman; and many a man, for instance Dr. Johnson, Lord
Littleton, and even Dr. Priestley have insensibly been led to utter warm
eulogiums in private that they would be sorry openly to avow without some
cooling explanatory ifs. An author, especially a woman, should be cautious,
lest she too hastily swallows the crude praises which partial friend and
polite acquaintance bestow thoughtlessly when the supplicating eye looks
for them. In short, it requires great resolution to try rather to be useful than
to please. With this remark in your head, I must beg you to pardon my
freedom whilst you consider the purport of what I am going to add,—rest
on yourself. If [Pg 94] your essays have merit, they will stand alone; if not,
the shouldering up of Dr. this or that will not long keep them from falling to

the ground. The vulgar have a pertinent proverb, ‘Too many cooks spoil the
broth;’ and let me remind you that when weakness claims indulgence, it
seems to justify the despotism of strength. Indeed, the preface, and even
your pamphlet, is too full of yourself. Inquiries ought to be made before
they are answered; and till a work strongly interests the public, true
modesty should keep the author in the background, for it is only about the
character and life of a good author that curiosity is active. A blossom is but
a blossom.”

It is a pity that most of Mary’s contributions to the “Analytical Review,”
being unsigned, cannot be credited to her. She wrote for it many reviews
and similar articles, and they probably were characterized by her
uncompromising honesty and straightforwardness of speech. “If you do not
like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J——’s S—— on his wife,” she
wrote in a note to Mr. Johnson, “be it known unto you, I will not do it any
other way. I felt some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the
memory of a man, who, spite of all his faults, I have an affection for.” From
this it appears, that to tell the truth in these matters was not always an
uncongenial duty.

She was principally occupied in translating. Following Mr. Johnson’s
advice, she had while in Ireland perfected her French. She was tolerably
familiar with Italian; and she now devoted all her spare minutes, and these
could not have been many, to mastering German. Her energy was
unflagging, and her determination to succeed in the calling she had chosen,
indomitable. By studying she was laying up the only [Pg 95] capital she knew
how to accumulate, and she feared her future loss should she not make use
of present opportunities. She wrote to Mr. Johnson, who was materially
interested in her progress,—

I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn that
language, and I will tell you the reason why. While I live, I am persuaded, I
must exert my understanding to procure an independence and render myself
useful. To make the task easier, I ought to store my mind with knowledge.
The seed-time is passing away. I see the necessity of laboring now, and of
that necessity I do not complain; on the contrary, I am thankful that I have
more than common incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw my pleasures
from the employments that are within my reach. You perceive this is not a
gloomy day. I feel at this moment particularly grateful to you. Without your
humane and delicate assistance, how many obstacles should I not have had
to encounter! Too often should I have been out of patience with my fellow-
creatures, whom I wish to love. Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call
friend a being I respect. Adieu.
Mary W.

She had indeed reason to be grateful to Mr. Johnson, and she expressed her
gratitude in a more practical way than by protestations. The German
grammar was not wasted. Before long Mary undertook for practice to
translate Salzmann’s “Elements of Morality,” and her exercise proved so
masterly that she, with a few corrections and additions, published it. This
gave rise to a correspondence between the author and herself; and after
several years the former returned the compliment by translating the “Rights
of Women” into German. Some idea will be given of her industry when it is
stated that during the five years of her London life, she, in [Pg 96] addition to
the work already mentioned, rewrote a translation from the Dutch of
“Young Grandison;” translated from the French “Young Robinson,” Necker
on “Religious Opinions,” and Lavater’s “Physiognomy;” wrote a volume of
“Original Stories from Real Life for Children,” and compiled a “Female
Reader.” As these works were undertaken for money rather than for fame,
she did not through them exert any personal influence on contemporary
thought, or leave any impression on posterity.

She never degenerated, however, into a mere hack writer, nor did she accept
the literary tasks which came in her way, unless she felt able to accomplish
them. She was too conscientious to fall into a fault unfortunately common
among men and women in a similar position. She did not shrink from any
work, if she knew she was capable of doing it justice. When it was beyond
her powers, she frankly admitted this to be the case. Thus, she once wrote to
Mr. Johnson:—

“I return you the Italian manuscript, but do not hastily imagine that I am
indolent. I would not spare any labor to do my duty; that single thought
would solace me more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I
could not translate the manuscript well. If it were not a manuscript I should
not be so easily intimidated; but the hand, and errors in orthography or
abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first setting out. I cannot bear to
do anything I cannot do well; and I should lose time in the vain attempt.”

When she settled in London, she was in no humor for social pleasures. Her
sole ambition was to be useful, and she worked incessantly. She at first hid
herself from almost everybody. When she expected her sisters [Pg 97] to stay
with her, she begged them beforehand, “If you pay any visits, you will
comply with my whim and not mention my place of abode or mode of life.”
She lived in very simple fashion; her rooms were furnished with the merest
necessities. Another warning she had to give Everina and Mrs. Bishop was,
“I have a room, but not furniture. J. offered you both a bed in his house, but
that would not be pleasant. I believe I must try to purchase a bed, which I
shall reserve for my poor girls while I have a house.” It has been recorded
that Talleyrand visited her in her lodgings on George Street, and that while
the two discussed social and political problems, they drank their tea and
then their wine from tea-cups, wine-glasses being an elegance beyond
Mary’s means. Her dress was as plain as her furniture. Her gowns were

mean in material and often shabby, and her hair hung loosely on her
shoulders, instead of being twisted and looped as was then fashionable.
Knowles, in his “Life of Fuseli,” finds fault with her on this account. She
was not, however, a philosophical sloven, with romantic ideas of
benevolence, as he intimates. Either he or Fuseli strangely misjudged her.
The reason she paid so little heed to the luxuries and frivolities which
custom then exacted, was because other more pressing demands were made
upon her limited income. Then, as usual, she was troubled by the wretched
complications and misfortunes of her family. The entire care and
responsibility fell upon her shoulders. None of the other members seemed
to consider that she was as destitute as they were,—that what she did was
literally her one source of revenue. Assistance would have been as welcome
to her as it [Pg 98] was to them. But they accepted what she had to give, and
were never deterred by reflecting upon the difficulty with which she
responded to their needs. This is always the way. The strong are made to
bear the burdens of the weak.

The amount of practical help she gave them is almost incredible. Eliza and
Everina had, when the school at Newington Green failed, become
governesses, but their education had been so sadly neglected that they were
not competent for their work. Mary, knowing this, sent Everina to France,
that she might study to be a good French teacher. The tide of emigration
caused by the Revolution had only just begun, and French governesses and
tutors were not the drug on the market they became later. Everina remained
two years in France at her eldest sister’s expense. Mary found a place for
Eliza, first as parlor boarder, and then as assistant, in an excellent school
near London. For most of the time, however, both sisters were birds of
passage. Everina was for a while at Putney, and then in Ireland, where she
probably learned for herself the discomforts which Mary had once endured.

Eliza was now at Market Harborough and Henley, and again at Putney, and
finally she obtained a situation in Pembrokeshire, Wales, which she retained
longer than any she had hitherto held. During these years there were
occasional intermissions when both sisters were out of work, and there were
holiday seasons to be provided for. To their father’s house it was still
impossible for them to go. Its wretchedness was so great, it could no longer
be called a home. Eliza, soon to see it, found it unbearable. Edward, it
appears, was willing [Pg 99] to give shelter to Everina; but this brother, of
whom less mention is made in the sisters’ letters, was never a favorite, and
residence with him was an evil to be avoided. The one place, therefore,
where they were sure of a warm welcome was the humble lodging near
Blackfriars’ Bridge. Mary fulfilled her promise of being a mother to them
both. She stinted herself that she might make their lot more endurable.

When Eliza went to begin her Welsh engagement at Upton Castle, she spent
a night on the way with her father. Her report of this visit opened a new
channel for Mary’s benevolence. Mr. Wollstonecraft was then living at
Laugharne, where he had taken his family many years before, and where his
daughters had made several very good friends. But Eliza, as she lamented to
Everina, went sadly from one old beloved haunt to another, without meeting
an eye which glistened at seeing her. Old acquaintances were dead, or had
sought a home elsewhere. The few who were left would not, probably
because of the father’s disgrace, come to see her. The step-mother, the
second Mrs. Wollstonecraft, was helpful and economical; but her thrift
availed little against the drunken follies of her husband. The latter had but
just recovered from an illness. He was worn to a skeleton, he coughed and
groaned all night in a way to make the listener’s blood run cold, and he
could not walk ten yards without pausing to pant for breath. His poverty
was so abject that his clothes were barely decent, and his habits so low that

he was indifferent to personal cleanliness. For days and weeks after she had
seen him, Eliza was haunted by the memory of his unkempt hair and beard,
[Pg 100] his red face and his beggarly shabbiness. Poor unfortunate Charles,
the last child left at home, was half-naked, and his time was spent in
quarrelling with his father. Eliza, who knew how to be independent, was
irritated by her brother’s idleness. “I am very cool to Charles, and have said
all I can to rouse him,” she wrote to Everina; but then immediately she
added, forced to do him justice, “But where can he go in his present
plight?” It scarcely seems possible that such misery should have befallen a
gentleman’s family. Mr. Wollstonecraft’s one cry, through it all, was for
money. He threatened to go to London in his rags, and compel the obdurate
Edward to comply with his demands. When Eliza told him of the sacrifices
Mary made in order to help him, he only flew into a rage.

It was not long before Mary had brought Charles to London. The first thing
to be done for him was much what Mr. Dick had advised in the case of
ragged David Copperfield, and her initiatory act in his behalf was to clothe
him. She took him to her house, where he lived, if not elegantly and
extravagantly, at least decently, a new experience for the poor lad. She then
had him articled to Edward, the attorney; but this experiment, as might have
been expected, proved a failure. Mary next consulted with Mr. Barlow
about the chances of settling him advantageously on a farm in America; and
to prepare him for this life, which seemed full of promise, she sent him to
serve a sort of apprenticeship with an English farmer. About this time
James, the second son, who had been at sea, came home, and for him also
Mary found room in her lodgings until, through her influence, he went to
Woolwich, where for a few [Pg 101] months he was under the instruction of
Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, as a preparation to enter the Royal
Navy. He eventually went on Lord Hood’s fleet as a midshipman, and was

then promoted to the rank of lieutenant, after which he appears to have been
able to shift for himself.

Mary, as if this were not enough, also undertook the care of her father’s
estate, or rather of the little left of it. Mr. Wollstonecraft had long since been
incapable of managing his own affairs, and had intrusted them to some
relations, with whose management Mary was not satisfied. She
consequently took matters into her own hands, though she could ill afford to
spare the time for this new duty. She did all that was possible to
disembarrass the estate so that it might produce sufficient for her father’s
maintenance. She was ably assisted by Mr. Johnson. “During a part of this
period,” he wrote of her residence in George Street, “which certainly was
the most active part of her life, she had the care of her father’s estate, which
was attended with no little trouble to both of us. She could not,” he adds,
“during this time, I think, expend less than £200 on her brothers and
sisters.” Their combined efforts were in vain. Mr. Wollstonecraft had
succeeded too well in ruining himself; and for the remainder of her life all
Mary could do for him was to help him with her money. Godwin says that,
in addition to these already burdensome duties, she took charge, in her own
house, of a little girl of seven years of age, a relation of Mr. Skeys.

She struggled bravely, but there were times when it required superhuman
efforts to persevere. She was [Pg 102] subject to attacks of depression which
usually resulted in physical illness. She gives a graphic description of the
mental and bodily weakness against which she had to fight, in a note
written at this period and addressed to Mr. Johnson:—

“I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
suggestions of reason. Your note, I can scarcely tell why, hurt me, and
produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent

tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill; Heaven knows it was
more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the
morning I have grown delirious. Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined
—— was thrown into his great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist
him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of irritation I
suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary, and might have
diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blush when I recollect how
often I have teased you with childish complaints and the reveries of a
disordered imagination. I even imagined that I intruded on you, because you
never called on me though you perceived that I was not well. I have
nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gave me as many unnecessary
pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest, and often a frightful dream, yet
catch myself every day searching for something serious, and feel real
misery from the disappointment. I am a strange compound of weakness and
resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will endeavor to suffer in silence.
There is certainly a great defect in my mind; my wayward heart creates its
own misery. Why I am made thus, I cannot tell; and, till I can form some
idea of the whole of my existence, I must be content to weep and dance like
a child,—long for a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.
“We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has lost its bells and
grown so heavy I find it intolerably [Pg 103] troublesome. Good-night! I have
been pursuing a number of strange thoughts since I began to write, and have
actually both laughed and wept immoderately. Surely I am a fool.”

In these dark days it was always to Mr. Johnson she turned for sympathy
and advice. She had never been on very confidential terms with either of
her sisters, and her friendship with George Blood had grown cooler. Their
paths in life had so widely diverged that this was unavoidable. The
following extract from a letter Mary wrote to him in the winter of 1791
shows that the change in their intimacy had not been caused by ill-feeling
on either side. He apparently had, through her, renewed his offer of
marriage to Everina, as he was now able to support a wife:—

“... Now, my dear George, let me more particularly allude to your own
affairs. I ought to have done so sooner, but there was an awkwardness in the
business that made me shrink back. We have all, my good friend, a sisterly
affection for you; and this very morning Everina declared to me that she
had more affection for you than for either of her brothers; but, accustomed
to view you in that light, she cannot view you in any other. Let us then be
on the old footing; love us as we love you, but give your heart to some
worthy girl, and do not cherish an affection which may interfere with your
prospects when there is no reason to suppose that it will ever be returned.
Everina does not seem to think of marriage. She has no particular
attachment; yet she was anxious when I spoke explicitly to her, to speak to
you in the same terms, that she might correspond with you as she has ever
done, with sisterly freedom and affection.”

But good friends as they continued to be, he was far away in Dublin, with
different interests; and Mary [Pg 104] craved immediate and comprehensive
sympathy. Mr. Johnson was ever ready to administer to her spiritual wants;
he was a friend in very truth. He evidently understood her nature and knew
how best to deal with her when she was in these moods. “During her stay in
George Street,” he says in a note referring to her, “she spent many of her
afternoons and most of her evenings with me. She was incapable of
disguise. Whatever was the state of her mind, it appeared when she entered,
and the tone of conversation might easily be guessed. When harassed,
which was very often the case, she was relieved by unbosoming herself, and
generally returned home calm, frequently in spirits.” Sometimes her mental
condition threatened to interfere seriously with her work, and then again
Mr. Johnson knew how to stimulate and encourage her. When she was
writing her answer to Burke’s “Reflections on the French Revolution,” and
when the first half of her paper had been sent to the printer, her interest in
her subject and her power of writing suddenly deserted her. It was important
to publish all that was written in the controversy while public attention was

still directed to it. And yet, though Mary knew this full well, it was simply
impossible for her to finish what she had eagerly begun. In this frame of
mind she called upon Mr. Johnson and told him her troubles. Instead of
finding fault with her, he was sympathetic and bade her not to worry, for if
she could not continue her pamphlet he would throw aside the printed
sheets. This roused her pride. It was a far better stimulus than abuse would
have been, and it sent her home to write the second half immediately. That
she at times reproached [Pg 105] herself for taking undue advantage of Mr.
Johnson’s kindness appears from the following apologetic little note:—

You made me very low-spirited last night by your manner of talking. You
are my only friend, the only person I am intimate with. I never had a father
or a brother; you have been both to me ever since I knew you, yet I have
sometimes been very petulant. I have been thinking of those instances of ill-
humor and quickness, and they appear like crimes.
Yours sincerely,
Mary.

The dry morsel and quietness which were now her portion were infinitely
better than the house full of strife which she had just left. She was happier
than she had ever been before, but she was only happy by comparison.
Solitude was preferable to the society of Lady Kingsborough and her
friends, but for any one of Mary’s temperament it could not be esteemed as
a good in itself. Her unnatural isolation fortunately did not last very long.
Her friendship with Mr. Johnson was sufficient in itself to break through her
barrier of reserve. She was constantly at his house, and it was one of the
gayest and most sociable in London. It was the rendezvous of the literati of
the day. Persons of note, foreigners as well as Englishmen, frequented it.
There one could meet Fuseli, impetuous, impatient, and overflowing with
conversation; Paine, somewhat hard to draw out of his shell; Bonnycastle,

Dr. George Fordyce, Mr. George Anderson, Dr. Geddes, and a host of other
prominent artists, scientists, and literary men. Their meetings were
informal. They [Pg 106] gathered together to talk about what interested them,
and not to simper and smirk, and give utterance to platitudes and
affectations, as was the case with the society to which Mary had lately been
introduced. The people with whom she now became acquainted were too
earnest to lay undue stress on what Herbert Spencer calls the non-essentials
of social intercourse. Sincerity was more valued by them than standard
forms of politeness. When Dr. Geddes was indignant with Fuseli, he did not
disguise his feelings, but in the face of the assembled company rushed out
of the room to walk two or three times around Saint Paul’s Churchyard, and
then, when his rage had diminished, to return and resume the argument.
This indifference to conventionalities, which would have been held by the
polite world to be a fault, must have seemed to Mary, after her late
experience, an incomparable virtue. It is no wonder that Mrs. Barbauld
found the evenings she spent with her publisher lively. “We protracted them
sometimes till ——” she wrote to her brother in the course of one of her
visits to London. “But I am not telling tales. Ask —— at what time we used
to separate.” Mary was also a welcome guest at Mrs. Trimmer’s house,
which, like that of Mr. Johnson, was a centre of attraction for clever people.
This Mrs. Trimmer had acquired some little literary reputation, and had
secured the patronage of the royal family and the clergy. She and Mary
differed greatly, both in character and creed, but they became very good
friends. “I spent a day at Mrs. Trimmer’s, and found her a truly respectable
woman,” was the verdict the latter sent to Everina; nor had she ever reason
to alter it. Her intimacy with Miss Hayes [Pg 107] also brought her into
contact with many of the same class.

As soon as she began to be known in London, she was admired. She was
young,—being only twenty-nine when she came there to live—and she was
handsome. Her face was very striking. She had a profusion of auburn hair;
her eyes were brown and beautiful, despite a slight droop in one of them;
and her complexion, as is usually the case in connection with her
Titianesque coloring of hair and eyes, was rich and clear. The strength and
unutterable sadness of her expression combined with her other charms to
make her face one which a stranger would turn to look at a second time.
She possessed to a rare degree the power of attracting people. Few could
resist the influence of her personality. Added to this she talked cleverly, and
even brilliantly. The tone of her conversation was at times acrid and
gloomy. Long years of toil in a hard, unjust world had borne the fruit of
pessimism. She was too apt to overlook the bright for the dark side of a
picture. But this was a fault which was amply counterbalanced by her
talents. For the first time she made friends who were competent to justly
measure her merits. She was recognized to be a woman of more than
ordinary talents, and she was treated accordingly. Mean clothes and shabby
houses were no drawbacks to clever women in those days. Mrs. Inchbald, in
gowns “always becoming, and very seldom worth so much as eight-pence,”
as one of her admirers described them, was surrounded as soon as she
entered a crowded room, even when powdered and elegantly attired ladies
of fashion were deserted. And [Pg 108] Mary, though she had not glasses out
of which to drink her wine, and though her coiffure was unfashionable,
became a person of consequence in literary circles.

Under the influence of congenial social surroundings, she gave up her
habits of retirement. She began to find enjoyment in society, and her
interest in life revived. She could even be gay, nor was there so much
sorrow in her laughter as there had been of yore. Among the most intimate

of her new acquaintances were Mr. and Mrs. Fuseli; and the account has
been preserved of at least one pleasure party to which she accompanied
them. This was a masked ball, and young Lavater, then in England, was
with them. Masquerades were then at the height of popularity. All sorts and
conditions of men went to them. Beautiful Amelia Opie, in her poorest
days, spent five pounds to gain admittance to one given to the Russian
ambassadors. Mrs. Inchbald, when well advanced in years, could enter so
thoroughly into the spirit of another as to beg a friend to lend her a faded
blue silk handkerchief or sash, that she might represent her real character of
a passée blue-stocking. Mary’s gayety on the present occasion was less
artificial than it had been at the Dublin mask. But Fuseli’s hot temper and
fondness for a joke brought their amusement to a sudden end. They were
watching the masks, when one among the latter, dressed as a devil, danced
up to them, and, with howls and many mad pranks, made merry at their
expense. Fuseli, when he found he could not rid himself of the tormentor,
called out half angrily, half facetiously, “Go to Hell!” The devil proved to
be of the dull species, and instead of answering with a lively [Pg 109] jest,
broke out into a torrent of hot abuse, and refused to be appeased. Fuseli,
wishing to avoid a scene, literally turned and fled, leaving Mary and the
others to save themselves as best they could.

At this period a man, whose name, luckily for himself, is now forgotten,
wished to make Mary his wife. Her treatment of him was characteristic. He
could not have known her very well, or else he would not have been so
foolish as to represent his financial prosperity as an argument in his favor.
For a woman to sell herself for money, even when the bargain was
sanctioned by the marriage ceremony, was, in her opinion, the unpardonable
sin. Therefore, what he probably intended as an honor, she received as an
insult. She declared that it must henceforward end her acquaintance not

only with him, but with the third person through whom the offer was sent,
and to whom Mary gave her answer. Her letters in connection with this
subject are among the most interesting in her correspondence. They bear
witness to the sanctity she attached to the union of man and wife. Her views
in this relation cannot be too prominently brought forward, since, by
manifesting the purity of her principles, light is thrown on her subsequent
conduct. In her first burst of wrath she unbosomed herself to her ever-
sympathetic confidant, Mr. Johnson:—

“Mr. —— called on me just now. Pray did you know his motive for calling?
I think him impertinently officious. He had left the house before it had
occurred to me in the strong light it does now, or I should have told him so.
My poverty makes me proud. I will not be insulted by a superficial puppy.
His intimacy with Miss [Pg 110] —— gave him a privilege which he should
not have assumed with me. A proposal might be made to his cousin, a
milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him
that I am offended, and do not wish to see him again. When I meet him at
your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him by the nose. I can
force my spirit to leave my body, but it shall never bend to support that
body. God of heaven, save thy child from this living death! I scarcely know
what I write. My hand trembles; I am very sick,—sick at heart.”

Then she wrote to the man who had undertaken in an evil moment to
deliver the would-be lover’s message:

Sir,—When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment, your
officious message, which at first appeared to me a joke, looked so very like
an insult, I cannot forget it. To prevent, then, the necessity of forcing a
smile when I chance to meet you, I take the earliest opportunity of
informing you of my sentiments.
Mary Wollstonecraft.

This brief note seems to have called forth an answer, for Mary wrote again,
and this time more fully and explicitly:—

Sir,—It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a
subject that has already raised a tumult of indignant emotions in my bosom,
which I was laboring to suppress when I received your letter. I shall now
condescend to answer your epistle; but let me first tell you that, in my
unprotected situation, I make a point of never forgiving a deliberate insult,
—and in that light I consider your late officious conduct. It is not according
to my nature to mince matters. I will tell you in plain terms what I think. I
have ever considered you in the light of a civil acquaintance,—on the word
friend I lay a peculiar emphasis,—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were
rude and cruel to step forward to insult a woman [Pg 111] whose conduct and
misfortunes demand respect. If my friend Mr. Johnson had made the
proposal, I should have been severely hurt, have thought him unkind and
unfeeling, but not impertinent. The privilege of intimacy you had no claim
to, and should have referred the man to myself, if you had not sufficient
discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and destitute; yet I have a
spirit that will never bend, or take indirect methods to obtain the
consequences I despise; nay, if to support life it was necessary to act
contrary to my principles, the struggle would soon be over. I can bear
anything but my own contempt.
In a few words, what I call an insult is the bare supposition that I could for a
moment think of prostituting my person for a maintenance; for in that point
of view does such a marriage appear to me, who consider right and wrong
in the abstract, and never by words and local opinions shield myself from
the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.
It is needless to say more; only you must excuse me when I add that I wish
never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so grossly
mistake my character. An apology is not necessary, if you were inclined to
make one, nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I cannot overlook
an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to respect poverty, even
when it gives lustre to a character; and I tell you, sir, I am poor, yet can live
without your benevolent exertions.

Mary Wollstonecraft.

Her struggles with work wearied her less than her struggles with the follies
of men, of which the foregoing is an example. Indeed, while she was
eminently fitted to enjoy society, she was also peculiarly susceptible to the
many slings and arrows from which those who live in the world cannot
escape. The very tenderness of her feelings for humanity, which was a
blessing in one [Pg 112] way, was almost a curse in another. For, just as the
conferring of a benefit on one in need gave her intense pleasure, so, if she
was the chance cause of pain to friend or foe, she suffered acutely.
Intentionally she could not have injured any man. But often a word or
action, said or done in good faith, will involve others in serious difficulties.
The misery she endured under such circumstances was greater than that
aroused by her own individual troubles. The thought that she had added to a
fellow-sufferer’s life-burden cut her to the quick, and she was unsparing in
her self-reproaches. She then reached the very acme of mental torture, as is
seen by this letter to Mr. Johnson:—

“I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head against
the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from self-
reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with myself, and I
will tell you the cause. You may recollect that I did not mention to you the
circumstance of —— having a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it drop
from me when I conversed with my sister, because I knew he had a
sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when his character was
aspersed, as I thought unjustly, in the heat of vindication I informed ——
that he was now independent; but, at the same time, desired him not to
repeat my information to B——; yet last Tuesday he told him all, and the
boy at B——’s gave Mrs. —— an account of it. As Mr. —— knew he had
only made a confidant of me (I blush to think of it!) he guessed the channel
of intelligence, and this morning came, not to reproach me,—I wish he had,
—but to point out the injury I have done him. Let what will be the

consequence, I will reimburse him, if I deny myself the necessaries of life,
and even then my folly will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive
the misery I at this moment endure. That I, whose power of doing [Pg 113]
good is so limited, should do harm, galls my very soul. —— may laugh at
these qualms, but, supposing Mr. —— to be unworthy, I am not the less to
blame. Surely it is hell to despise one’s self! I did not want this additional
vexation. At this time I have many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall
not call on you this month, nor stir out. My stomach has been so suddenly
and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.”

The sequel of the affair is not known, but this letter, because it is so
characteristic, is interesting.

The advantages social intercourse procured for her were, however, more
than sufficient compensation for the heart-beats it caused her. If there is
nothing so deteriorating as association with one’s intellectual inferiors,
there is, on the other hand, nothing so improving as the society of one’s
equals or superiors. Stimulated into mental activity by her associates in the
world in which she now moved, Mary’s genius expanded, and ideas but half
formed developed into fixed principles. As Swinburne says of Blake, she
was born into the church of rebels. Her present experience was her baptism.
The times were exciting. The effect of the work of Voltaire and the French
philosophers was social upheaval in France. The rebellion of the colonies
and the agitation for reform at home had encouraged the liberal party into
new action. Men had fully awakened to a realization of individual rights,
and in their first excitement could think and talk of nothing else. The
interest then taken in politics was general and wide-spread to a degree now
unknown. Every one, advocates and opponents alike, discussed the great
social problems of the day.

[Pg 114] As a rule, the most regular frequenters of Mr. Johnson’s house, and
the leaders of conversation during his evenings, were Reformers. Men like
Paine and Fuseli and Dr. Priestley were, each in his own fashion, seeking to
discover the true nature of human rights. As the Reformation in the
sixteenth century had aimed at freeing the religion of Christ from the abuses
and errors of centuries, and thus restoring it to its original purity, so the
political movement of the latter half of the eighteenth century had for object
the destruction of arbitrary laws and the re-establishment of government on
primary principles. The French Revolution and the American Rebellion
were but means to the greater end. Philosophers, who systematized the
dissatisfaction which the people felt without being able to trace it to its true
source, preached the necessity of distinguishing between right and wrong
per se, and right and wrong as defined by custom. This was the doctrine
which Mary heard most frequently discussed, and it was but the
embodiment of the motives which had invariably governed her actions from
the time she had urged her sister to leave her husband. She had never, even
in her most religious days, been orthodox in her beliefs, nor conservative in
her conduct. As she said in a letter just quoted, she considered right and
wrong in the abstract, and never shielded herself by words or local
opinions. Hitherto, owing chiefly to her circumstances, she had been
content to accept her theory as a guide for herself in her relations to the
world and her fellow-beings. But now that her scope of influence was
extended, she felt compelled to communicate to others her moral creed,
which had assumed definite shape.

[Pg 115] Her first public profession of her political and social faith was her
answer to Burke’s “Reflections on the French Revolution,” which had
summoned all the Liberals and Reformers in England to arms. Many came
forward boldly and refuted his arguments in print. Mary was among the

foremost, her pamphlet in reply to his being the first published. Later
authorities have given precedence to Dr. Priestley’s, but this fact is asserted
by Godwin in his Memoirs, and he would hardly have made the statement
at a time when there were many living to deny it, had it not been true. These
answers naturally were received with abuse and sneers by the Tories. Burke
denounced his female opponents as “viragoes and English poissardes;” and
Horace Walpole wrote of them as “Amazonian allies,” who “spit their rage
at eighteen-pence a head, and will return to Fleet-ditch, more fortunate in
being forgotten than their predecessors, immortalized in the ‘Dunciad.’”
Peter Burke, in his “Life of Burke,” says that the replies made by Dr. Price,
Mrs. Macaulay, and Mary Wollstonecraft were merely attempts and nothing
more. Yet all three were writers of too much force to be ignored. They were
thrown into the shade because Paine’s “Rights of Man,” written for the
same purpose, was so much more startling in its wholesale condemnation of
government that the principal attention of the public was drawn to it.

Mary’s pamphlet, however, added considerably to her reputation, especially
among the Liberals. It was her first really important work. Her success
encouraged her greatly. It increased her confidence in her powers and
possibilities to influence the reading public. It [Pg 116] therefore proved an
incentive to fresh exertions in the same field. Much as she was interested in
the rights of men, she was even more concerned with the rights of women.
The former had obtained many able defenders, but no one had as yet
thought of saying a word for the latter. Her own experience had been so
bitter that she realized the disadvantages of her sex as others, whose path
had been easier, never could. She saw that women were hindered and
hampered in a thousand and one ways by obstacles created not by nature,
but by man. And she also saw that long suffering had blinded them to their,
in her estimation, humiliating and too often painful condition. A change for

the better must originate with them, and yet how was this possible, if they
did not see their degradation?

“Can the sower sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?”

Clearly, since she had found the light, it was her duty to illuminate with it
those who were groping in darkness. She could not with a word
revolutionize womankind, but she could at least be the herald to proclaim
the dawn of the day during which the good seed was to be sown. She had
discovered her life’s mission, and, in her enthusiasm, she wrote the
“Vindication of the Rights of Women.”

[Pg 117] CHAPTER V.
LITERARY WORK.

1788-1791.

As has been stated, Mary Wollstonecraft began her literary career by
writing a small pamphlet on the subject of education. Its title, in full, is
“Thoughts on the Education of Daughters: with Reflections on Female
Conduct in the more Important Duties of Life.” It is interesting as her first
work. Otherwise it is of no great value. Though Mr. Johnson saw in it the
marks of genius, there is really little originality in its contents or striking
merit in the method of treating them. The ideas it sets forth, while
eminently commendable, are remarkable only because it was unusual in the
eighteenth century for women, especially the young and unmarried, to have
any ideas to which to give expression.

The pamphlet consists of a number of short treatises, indicating certain laws
and principles which Mary thought needed to be more generally understood
and more firmly established. That a woman should not shirk the functions,
either physical or moral, of maternity; that artificial manners and exterior
accomplishments should not be cultivated in lieu of practical knowledge
and simplicity of conduct; that matrimony is to be considered seriously and
not entered into capriciously; that the individual owes certain duties [Pg 118]

to humanity as well as to his or her own family,—all these are truths which
it is well to repeat frequently. But if their repetition be not accompanied by
arguments which throw new light on ethical science, or else if it be not
made with the vigor and power born of a thorough knowledge of humanity
and its wants and shortcomings, it will not be remembered by posterity. The
“Education of Daughters” certainly bears no relation to such works as the
“Imitation” on the one hand, or the “Data of Ethics” on the other. It is not a
book for all time.

However, much in it is significant to readers interested in the study of Mary
Wollstonecraft’s life and character. Every sentence reveals the earnestness
of her nature. Many passages show that as early as 1787 she had seriously
considered the problems which, in 1791, she attempted to solve. She was
even then perplexed by the unfortunate situation of women of the upper
classes who, having received but the pretence of an education, eventually
become dependent on their own exertions. Her sad experience probably led
her to these thoughts. Reflection upon them made her the champion of her
sex. Already in this little pamphlet she declares her belief that, by a rational
training of their intellectual powers, women can be prepared at one and the
same time to meet any emergencies of fortune and to fulfil the duties of
wife and mother. She demonstrates that good mental discipline, instead of
interfering with feminine occupations, increases a woman’s fitness for
them. Thus she writes:—

“No employment of the mind is a sufficient excuse for neglecting domestic
duties; and I cannot conceive that [Pg 119] they are incompatible. A woman
may fit herself to be the companion and friend of a man of sense, and yet
know how to take care of his family.”

The intense love of sincerity in conduct and belief which is a leading
characteristic in the “Rights of Women” is also manifested in these early
essays. Mary exclaims in one place,—

“How many people are like whitened sepulchres, and careful only about
appearances! Yet if we are too anxious to gain the approbation of the world,
we must often forfeit our own.”

And again she says, as if in warning:—

“... Let the manners arise from the mind, and let there be no disguise for the
genuine emotions of the heart.
“Things merely ornamental are soon disregarded, and disregard can
scarcely be borne when there is no internal support.”

Another marked feature of the pamphlet is the extremely puritanical
tendency of its sentiments. It was written at the period when Mary was
sending sermon-like letters to George Blood, and breathes the same spirit of
stern adherence to religious principles, though not to special dogma.

But perhaps the most noteworthy passage which occurs in the treatise is one
on love, and in which, strangely enough, she establishes a belief which she
was destined some years later to confirm by her actions. When the
circumstances of her union with Godwin are remembered, her words seem
prophetic.

“It is too universal a maxim with novelists,” she says, “that love is felt but
once; though it appears to me that [Pg 120] the heart which is capable of
receiving an impression at all, and can distinguish, will turn to a new object
when the first is found unworthy. I am convinced it is practicable, when a
respect for goodness has the first place in the mind, and notions of
perfection are not affixed to constancy.”

Though not very wonderful in itself, the “Education of Daughters” is, in its
choice of subject and the standards it upholds, a worthy prelude to the riper
work by which it was before very long followed.

The next work Mary published was a volume called “Original Stories from
Real Life; with Conversations calculated to regulate the Affections and
form the Mind to Truth and Goodness.” This was written while her
experience as school-mistress and governess was still fresh in her memory.
As she explains in her Preface, her object was to make up in some measure
for the defective education or moral training which, as a rule, children in
those days received from their parents.

“Good habits,” she writes, “are infinitely preferable to the precepts of
reason; but as this task requires more judgment than generally falls to the
lot of parents, substitutes must be sought for, and medicines given, when
regimen would have answered the purpose much better.
“... To wish that parents would, themselves, mould the ductile passions is a
chimerical wish, as the present generation have their own passions to
combat with, and fastidious pleasures to pursue, neglecting those nature
points out. We must then pour premature knowledge into the succeeding
one; and, teaching virtue, explain the nature of vice.”

In addressing a youthful audience, Mary was as deeply inspired by her love
of goodness per se, and [Pg 121] her detestation of conventional conceptions
of virtue, as she was afterwards in appealing to older readers. She
represents, in her book, two little girls, aged respectively twelve and
fourteen, who have been sadly neglected during their early years, but who,
fortunately, have at this period fallen under the care of a Mrs. Mason, who
at once undertakes to form their character and train their intellect. This good
lady, in whose name Mary sermonizes, seizes upon every event of the day
to teach her charges a moral lesson. The defects she attacks are those most

common to childhood. Cruelty to animals, peevishness, lying, greediness,
indolence, procrastination, are in turn censured, and their opposite virtues
praised. Some of the definitions of the qualities commended are excellent.
For example, Mrs. Mason says to the two children:—

“Do you know the meaning of the word goodness? I see you are unwilling
to answer. I will tell you. It is, first, to avoid hurting anything; and then to
contrive to give as much pleasure as you can.”

Again, she warns them thus:—

“Remember that idleness must always be intolerable, as it is the most
irksome consciousness of existence.”

This latter definition is a little above the comprehension of children of
twelve and fourteen. But then Mary is careful to explain in the Preface that
she writes to assist teachers. She wishes to give them hints which they must
apply to the children under their care as they think best. The religious tone
of the “Stories” is even more pronounced than that of the “Education of
Daughters.” The following is but one of many [Pg 122] proofs of Mary’s
honest endeavors to make children understand the importance of religious
devotion. In one of her conversational sermons Mrs. Mason says:

“Recollect that from religion your chief comfort must spring, and never
neglect the duty of prayer. Learn from experience the comfort that arises
from making known your wants and sorrows to the wisest and best of
Beings, in whose hands are the issues, not only of this life, but of that which
is to come.”

To strengthen the effect of Mrs. Mason’s words, an example or story is in
every chapter added to her remarks. They are all appropriate, and many of
the tales are beautiful. As the book is so little known, one of these may with

advantage be given here. The story selected is that of Crazy Robin. Mrs.
Mason tells it to Mary and Caroline, the two little girls, to explain to them
how much wretchedness can be produced by unkindness to men and beasts.
It is interesting because it shows the quality of the mental food which Mary
thought best fitted for the capacity of children. She was evidently an
advocate for strong nourishment. Besides, the story, despite some
unpleasant defects of style, is very powerful. It is full of dramatic force, and
is related with great simplicity and pathos:—

“In yonder cave lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of
Crazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married my father’s
dairy-maid, a girl deserving of such a good husband. For some time they
continued to live very comfortably; their daily labor procured their daily
bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should have a large family,
borrowed a trifle to add to the small pittance they had saved in service, and
took [Pg 123] a little farm in a neighboring county. I was then a child.
“Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very
harmless, had by the side of the brook piled a great number of stones; he
would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would
frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himself,
‘Thou wilt not leave me. We will dwell with the owl in the ivy.’ A number
of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones he waded for he carried to the
mouth of the hole, and only left just room enough to go in. Some of the
neighbors at last recollected him; and I sent to inquire what misfortune had
reduced him to such a deplorable state.
“The information I received from different persons I will communicate to
you in as few words as I can.
“Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came
to his native place, he had been overwhelmed by a torrent of misery.
Through unavoidable misfortunes he was long in arrears to his landlord;
who, seeing that he was an honest man, and endeavored to bring up his
family, did not distress him; but when his wife was lying-in of her last

child, the landlord died, and his heir sent and seized the stock for the rent;
and the person he had borrowed some money of, exasperated to see all
gone, arrested him, and he was hurried to jail. The poor woman,
endeavoring to assist her family before she had gained sufficient strength,
found herself very ill; and the illness, through neglect and the want of
proper nourishment, turned to a putrid fever, which two of the children
caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jacky and
Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog that had long
shared their frugal meals.
“The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched
father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the
country air made bloom with a peculiar freshness. Their blood had been
tainted by the putrid complaint that destroyed their [Pg 124] mother; in short,
they caught the small-pox, and died. The poor father, who was now bereft
of all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groan or
a tear escaped from him while he stood, two or three hours, in the same
attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his
hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for a while he seemed not to
observe his caresses; when he did, he said mournfully, ‘Thou wilt not leave
me;’ and then he began to laugh. The bodies were removed; and he
remained in an unsettled state, often frantic; at length the frenzy subsided,
and he grew melancholy and harmless. He was not then so closely watched;
and one day he contrived to make his escape, the dog followed him, and
came directly to his native village.
“After I received this account, I determined he should live in the place he
had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which he rejected
except a mat, on which he sometimes slept; the dog always did. I tried to
induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog whatever I sent him, and
lived on haws and blackberries and every kind of trash. I used to call
frequently on him; and he sometimes followed me to the house I now live
in, and in winter he would come of his own accord, and take a crust of
bread. He gathered water-cresses out of the pool, and would bring them to
me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which he plucked from the sides of the
mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog was a cur; it had the tricks of

curs, and would run after horses’ heels and bark. One day, when his master
was gathering water-cresses, the dog ran after a young gentleman’s horse,
and made it start, and almost throw the rider. Though he knew it was the
poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at it, shot it, and instantly rode off.
Robin came to him; he looked at his wounds, and, not sensible that he was
dead, called him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he
took him to the pool, and washed off the blood before it began to clot, and
then brought him home and laid him on the mat.
[Pg 125]“I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills, and sent to
inquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreaties could
prevail on him to quit it, or receive any refreshment. I went to him myself,
hoping, as I had always been a favorite, that I should be able to persuade
him. When I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was
still melancholy; but there was not such a mixture of wildness in it. I
pressed him to take some food; but, instead of answering me, or turning
away, he burst into tears, a thing I had never seen him do before, and, in
inarticulate accents, he said, ‘Will any one be kind to me? You will kill me!
I saw not my wife die—no!—they dragged me from her, but I saw Jacky
and Nancy die; and who pitied me, but my dog?’ He turned his eyes to the
body. I wept with him. He would then have taken some nourishment, but
nature was exhausted, and he expired.”

The book is, on the whole, well written, and was popular enough in its day.
The first edition, published in 1788, was followed by a second in 1791, and
a third in 1796. To make it still more attractive, Mr. Johnson engaged Blake,
whom he was then befriending, to illustrate it. But children of the present
day object to the tales with a moral which were the delight of the nursery in
Mary’s time. They have lost all faith in the bad boy who invariably meets
with the evil fate which is his due; and they are sceptical as to the good
little girl who always receives the cakes and ale—metaphorically speaking
—her virtues deserve. And so it has come to pass that the “Original Stories”
are remembered chiefly on account of their illustrations.

The drawings contributed by Blake were more in number than were
required, and only six were printed. [Pg 126] A copy of one of those rejected is
given in Gilchrist’s Life of the artist. None of them rank with his best work.
“The designs,” his biographer says, “can hardly be pronounced a successful
competition with Stothard, though traces of a higher feeling are visible in
the graceful female forms,—benevolent heroine, or despairing, famishing
peasant group. The artist evidently moves in constraint, and the accessories
of these domestic scenes are simply generalized as if by a child: the result
of an inobservant eye for such things.” But of those published there are two
at least which, as Mr. Kegan Paul has already pointed out, make a deep
impression on all who see them. One is the frontispiece, which illustrates
this sentence of the text: “Look what a fine morning it is. Insects, birds, and
animals are all enjoying existence.” The posing of the three female figures
standing in reverential attitudes, and the creeping vine by the doorway, are
conceived and executed in Blake’s true decorative spirit. The other
represents Crazy Robin by the bedside of his two dead children, the faithful
dog by his side. The grief, horror, and despair expressed in the man’s face
cannot be surpassed, while the pathos and strength of the scene are
heightened by the simplicity of the drawing.

Of the several translations Mary made at this period, but the briefest
mention is necessary. It often happens that the book translated is in a great
degree indicative of the mental calibre of its translator. Thus it is
characteristic of Carlyle that he translated Goethe, of Swinburne that he
selected the verses of Villon or Théophile Gautier for the same purpose. But
Mary’s case was entirely different. The choice of foreign [Pg 127] works
rendered into English was not hers, but Mr. Johnson’s. By adhering to it she
was simply fulfilling the contract she had entered into with him. There were
times when she had but a poor opinion of the books he put into her hands.

Thus of one of the principal of these, Necker on the “Importance of
Religion,” she says in her “French Revolution:”—

“Not content with the fame he [Necker] acquired by writing on a subject
which his turn of mind and profession enabled him to comprehend, he
wished to obtain a higher degree of celebrity by forming into a large book
various metaphysical shreds of arguments, which he had collected from the
conversation of men fond of ingenious subtilties; and the style, excepting
some declamatory passages, was as inflated and confused as the thoughts
were far fetched and unconnected.”

But though she was so far from approving of the original, her translation,
published in London in 1788, was declared by the “European Magazine” to
be just and spirited, though apparently too hastily executed; and it was
sufficiently appreciated by the English-speaking public to be republished in
Philadelphia in 1791. There was at least one book, the translation of which
must have been a pleasure to her. This was the Rev. C. G. Salzmann’s
“Elements of Morality, for the Use of Children.” Its object, like that of the
“Original Stories,” was to teach the young, by practical illustration, why
virtue is good, why vice is evil. It was written much in the same style, and
was for many years highly popular. Johnson brought out the first edition in
1790 and a second in 1793. It was published in Baltimore, Maryland, in
1811, and in Edinburgh in 1821, and a [Pg 128] still newer edition was
prepared for the present generation by Miss Yonge. The “Analytical
Review” thought it upon its first appearance worthy of two notices.

Mary never pretended to produce perfectly literal translations. Her version
of Lavater’s “Physiognomy,” now unknown, was but an abridgment. She
purposely “naturalized” the “Elements of Morality,” she explains, in order
not to “puzzle children by pointing out modifications of manners, when the
grand principles of morality were to be fixed on a broad basis.” She made

free with the originals that they might better suit English readers, and this
she frankly confesses in her Prefaces. Her translations are, in consequence,
proofs of her industry and varied talents and not demonstrations of her own
mental character.

The novel “Mary,” like Godwin’s earlier stories, has disappeared. There are
a few men and women of the present generation who remember having seen
it, but it is now not to be found either in public libraries or in bookstores. It
was the record of a happy friendship, and to write it had been a labor of
love. As Mary always wrote most eloquently on subjects which were of
heartfelt interest, its disappearance is to be regretted.

However, after she had been in London about two years, constant writing
and translating having by that time made her readier with her pen, she
undertook another task, in which her feelings were as strongly interested.
This was her answer to Burke’s “Reflections on the French Revolution.”
Love of humanity was an emotion which moved her quite as deeply as
affection for individual friends. Burke, by his disregard [Pg 129] for the
sufferings of that portion of the human race which especially appealed to
her, excited her wrath. Carried away by the intensity of her indignation, she
at once set about proving to him and the world that the reasoning which led
to such insensibility was, plausible as it might seem, wholly unsound. She
never paused for reflection, but her chief arguments, the result of previous
thought, being already prepared, she wrote before her excitement had time
to cool. As she explains in the Advertisement to her “Letter” to Burke, the
“Reflections” had first engaged her attention as the transient topic of the
day. Commenting upon it as she read, her remarks increased to such an
extent that she decided to publish them as a short “Vindication of the Rights
of Man.”

A sermon preached by Dr. Richard Price was the immediate reason which
moved Burke to write the “Reflections.” The Revolutionists were in the
habit of meeting every 4th of November, the anniversary of the arrival of
the Prince of Orange in England, to commemorate the Revolution of 1688.
Dr. Price was, in 1789, the orator of the day. He, on this occasion, expressed
his warm approbation of the actions of the French Republicans, in which
sentiment he was warmly seconded by all the other members of the society.
Burke seized upon these demonstrations as a pretext for expounding his
own views upon the proceedings in France. The sermon and orations were
really not of enough importance to evoke the long essay with which he
favored them. But though he began by denouncing the English
Revolutionists in particular, the subject so inflamed him that before he had
finished, he had written [Pg 130] without restraint his opinion of the social
struggle of the French people, and given his definition of the word Liberty,
then in everybody’s mouth. As he wrote, news came pouring into England
of later political developments in France which increased instead of
lessening his hatred and distrust of the Revolution. It was a year before he
had finished his work, and it had then grown into a lengthy and elaborate
treatise.

The “Reflections” gives a careful exposition of the errors of the French
Republican party, and the shortcomings of the National Assembly; and, to
add to this the force of antithesis, it extols the merits and virtues of the
English Constitution. Furthermore, it points out the evil consequences
which must follow the realization of the French attempts at reform. But the
real question at issue is the nature of the rights of men. It was to gain for
their countrymen the justice which they thought their due, that the
revolutionary leaders curtailed the power of the king, lowered the nobility,
and disgraced the clergy. If it could be proved that their conception of

human justice was wholly wrong, the very foundation of their political
structure would be destroyed. Burke’s arguments, therefore, are all intended
to achieve this end.

In her detestation of his insensibility to the natural equality of mankind,
Mary was too impatient to consider the minor points of his reasoning. She
announces in her Advertisement that she intends to confine her strictures, in
a great measure, to the grand principles at which he levels his ingenious
arguments. Her object, therefore, as well as Burke’s, is to demonstrate what
are the rights of men, but she reasons from a very [Pg 131] different stand-
point. Burke defends the claims of those who inherit rights from long
generations of ancestors; Mary cries aloud in defence of men whose one
inheritance is the deprivation of all rights. Burke is moved by the misery of
a Marie Antoinette, shorn of her greatness; Mary, by the wretchedness of
the poor peasant woman who has never possessed even its shadow. The
former knows no birthright for individuals save that which results from the
prescription of centuries; the latter contends that every man has a right, as a
human being, to “such a degree of liberty, civil and religious, as is
compatible with the liberty of the other individuals with whom he is united
in social compact.” Burke asserts that the present rights of man cannot be
decided by reason alone, since they are founded on laws and customs long
established. But Mary asks, How far back are we to go to discover their first
foundation? Is it in England to the reign of Richard II., whose incapacity
rendered him a mere cipher in the hands of the Barons; or to that of Edward
III., whose need for money forced him to concede certain privileges to the
commons? Is social slavery to be encouraged because it was established in
semi-barbarous days? Does Burke, she continues,—

“... recommend night as the fittest time to analyze a ray of light?

“Are we to seek for the rights of men in the ages when a few marks were
the only penalty imposed for the life of a man, and death for death when the
property of the rich was touched?—when—I blush to discover the depravity
of our nature—a deer was killed! Are these the laws that it is natural to
love, and sacrilegious to invade? Were the rights of men understood when
the law [Pg 132] authorized or tolerated murder?—or is power and right the
same?”

Burke’s contempt for the poor, which Mary thought the most conspicuous
feature of his treatise, was the chief cause of her indignation. She could not
endure silently his admonitions to the laboring class to respect the property
which they could not possess, and his exhortations to them to find their
consolation for ill-rewarded labor in the “final proportions of eternal
justice.” “It is, sir, possible,” she tells him with some dignity, “to render the
poor happier in this world, without depriving them of the consolation which
you gratuitously grant them in the next.” To her mind, the oppression which
the lower classes had endured for ages, until they had become in the end
beings scarcely above the brutes, made the losses of the French nobility and
clergy seem by comparison very insignificant evils. The horrors of the 6th
of October, the discomforts and degradation of Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette, and the destitution to which many French refugees had been
reduced, blinded Burke to the long-suffering of the multitude which now
rendered the distress of the few imperative. But Mary’s feelings were all
stirred in the opposite cause.

“What,” she asks in righteous indignation,—“what were the outrages of the
day to these continual miseries? Let those sorrows hide their diminished
heads before the tremendous mountain of woe that thus defaces our globe!
Man preys on man, and you mourn for the idle tapestry that decorated a
Gothic pile, and the dronish bell that summoned the fat priest to prayer. You
mourn for the empty pageant of a name, when slavery flaps her wing, and
the [Pg 133] sick heart retires to die in lonely wilds, far from the abodes of

man. Did the pangs you felt for insulted nobility, the anguish which rent
your heart when the gorgeous robes were torn off the idol human weakness
had set up, deserve to be compared with the long-drawn sigh of melancholy
reflection, when misery and vice thus seem to haunt our steps, and swim on
the top of every cheering prospect? Why is our fancy to be appalled by
terrific perspectives of a hell beyond the grave? Hell stalks abroad: the lash
resounds on a slave’s naked sides; and the sick wretch, who can no longer
earn the sour bread of unremitting labor, steals to a ditch to bid the world a
long good-night, or, neglected in some ostentatious hospital, breathes its
last amidst the laugh of mercenary attendants.”

Occasionally Mary interrupts the main drift of her “Letter” to refute some
of the incidental statements in the “Reflections.” But in doing this she is
more eager to show the evils of English political and social laws, which
Burke praises so unreservedly, than to prove that many existed in the old
French government, a fact which he obstinately refuses to recognize. This
may have been because she then knew little more than Burke of the real
state of affairs in France, and would not take the time to collect her proofs.
This is very likely, for the chief fault of her “Letter” is undue haste in its
composition. It was written on the spur of the moment, and is without the
method indispensable to such a work. There is no order in the arguments
advanced, and too often reasoning gives place to exhortation and
meditation. Another serious error is the personal abuse with which her
“Letter” abounds. She treats Burke in the very same manner with which she
reproves him for treating Dr. Price. Instead of [Pg 134] confining herself to
denunciation of his views, she attacks his character, she accuses him of
vanity and susceptibility to the charms of rank, of insincerity and
affectation. She calls him a slave of impulse, and tells him he is too full of
himself, and even compares his love for the English Constitution to the
brutal affection of weakness built on blind, indolent tenderness, rather than
on rational grounds. Sometimes she grows eloquent in her sarcasm.

“... On what principle you, sir,” she observes, “can justify the Reformation,
which tore up by the roots an old establishment, I cannot guess,—but I beg
your pardon, perhaps you do not wish to justify it, and have some mental
reservation to excuse you to yourself, for not openly avowing your
reverence. Or, to go further back, had you been a Jew, you must have joined
in the cry, ‘Crucify him! Crucify him!’ The promulgator of a new doctrine,
and the violator of old laws and customs, that did not, like ours, melt into
darkness and ignorance, but rested on Divine authority, must have been a
dangerous innovator in your eyes, particularly if you had not been informed
that the Carpenter’s Son was of the stock and lineage of David.”

But vituperation is not argument, and abuse proves nothing. This is a fault,
however, into which youth readily falls. Mary was young when she wrote
the “Vindication of the Rights of Man,” and feeling was still too strong to
be forgotten in calm discussion. It was a mistake, too, to dwell, as she did,
on the inconsistency between Burke’s earlier and present policy. This was a
powerful weapon against him at the time, but posterity has recognized the
consistency which, in reality, underlay his seemingly diverse political
creeds. [Pg 135] Besides, the demonstration that sentiments in the
“Reflections” were at variance with others expressed some years previously,
did not prove them to be unsound.

Because of these faults of youth and haste, Mary’s “Letter” is not very
powerful when considered as a reply to Burke; but its intrinsic merits are
many. It is a simple, uncompromising expression of honest opinions. It is
noble in its fearlessness, and it manifests a philosophical insight into the
meaning and basis of morality wonderful in a woman of Mary’s age. It
really deserves the praise bestowed upon it in the “Analytical Review,”
where the critic says that, “notwithstanding it may be the ‘effusion of the
moment,’ [it] yet evidently abounds with just sentiments and lively and
animated remarks, expressed in elegant and nervous language, and which

may be read with pleasure and improvement when the controversy which
gave rise to them is over.”

[Pg 136] CHAPTER VI.
“VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.”

The “Vindication of the Rights of Women” is the work on which Mary
Wollstonecraft’s fame as an author rests. It is more than probable that, but
for it, her other writings would long since have been forgotten. In it she
speaks the first word in behalf of female emancipation. Her book is the
forerunner of a movement which, whatever may be its results, will always
be ranked as one of the most important of the nineteenth century. Many of
her propositions are, to the present advocates of the cause, foregone
conclusions. Hers was the voice of one crying in the wilderness to prepare
the way. Her principal task was to demonstrate that the old ideals were
false.

The then most exalted type of feminine perfection was Rousseau’s Sophia.
Though this was an advance from the conception of the sex which inspired
Congreve, when he made the women of his comedies mere targets for
men’s gallantries, or Swift, when he wrote his “Advice to a Young Married
Lady,” it was still a low estimate of woman’s character and sphere of action.
According to Rousseau, and the Dr. Gregorys and Fordyces who re-echoed
his doctrines in England, women are so far inferior to men that their
contribution to the comfort and pleasure of the latter is the [Pg 137] sole
reason for their existence. For them virtue and duty have a relative and not

an absolute value. What they are is of no consequence. The essential point
is what they seem to men. That they are human beings is lost sight of in the
all-engrossing fact that they are women.

It is strange that Rousseau, who would have had men return to a state of
nature that they might be freed from shams and conventionalities, did not
see that the sacrifice of reality to appearances was quite as bad for women.
Mary Wollstonecraft, farther-sighted than he, discovered at once the flaw in
his reasoning. What was said of Schopenhauer by a Frenchman could with
equal truth be said of her: “Ce n’est pas un philosophe comme les autres,
c’est un philosophe qui a vu le monde.” She had lived in woman’s world,
and consequently, unlike the sentimentalists who were accepted authorities
on the subject, she did not reason from an outside stand-point. This was
probably what helped her not only to recognize the false position of her sex,
but to understand the real cause of the trouble. She referred it, not to
individual cases of masculine tyranny or feminine incompetency, but to the
fundamental misconception of the relations of the sexes. Therefore, what
she had to do was to awaken mankind to the knowledge that women are
human beings, and then to insist that they should be given the opportunity
to assert themselves as such, and that their sex should become a secondary
consideration. It would have been useless for her to analyze their rights in
detail until she had established the premises upon which their claims must
rest. It is true she contends for [Pg 138] their political emancipation. “I really
think,” she writes, “that women ought to have representatives instead of
being arbitrarily governed without having any direct share allowed them in
the deliberations of government.” And she also maintains their ability for
the practice of many professions, especially of medicine. But this she says,
as it were, in parenthesis. These necessary reforms cannot be even begun
until the equality of the sexes as human beings is proved beyond a doubt.

The object of the “Vindication” is to demonstrate this equality, and to point
out the preliminary measures by which it may be secured.

The book is now seldom read. Others of later date have supplanted it.
Conservative readers are prejudiced against it because of its title. The
majority of the liberal-minded have not the patience to master its contents
because they can find its propositions expressed more satisfactorily
elsewhere. Yet, as a work which marks an epoch, it deserves to be well
known. A comprehensive analysis of it will therefore not be out of place.

It begins strangely, as it appears to this generation, with a dedication to
Talleyrand. Mary had seen him often when he had been in London, and
only knew what was best in him. She admired his principles, being ignorant
of his utter indifference to them. He had lately published a pamphlet on
National Education, and this was a subject upon which, in vindicating
women’s rights, she had much to say. He had, in pleading the cause of
equality for all men, approached so closely to the whole truth that she
thought, once this was pointed out to him, he could not fail to recognize [Pg
139] it as she did. If he believed that, in his own words, “to see one half of the
human race excluded by the other from all participation in government was
a political phenomenon that, according to abstract principles, it was
impossible to explain,” he could not logically deny that prescription was
unjust when applied to women. Therefore, as a new constitution—the first
based upon reason—was about to be established in France, she reminds him
that its framers would be tyrants like their predecessors if they did not allow
women to participate in it. In order to command his interest, she explains
briefly and concisely the truth which she proposes to prove by her
arguments, and thus she gives immediately the keynote to her book.

“Contending for the rights of woman, my main argument,” she tells him, “is
built on this simple principle, that if she be not prepared by education to
become the companion of man, she will stop the progress of knowledge; for
truth must be common to all, or it will be inefficacious with respect to its
influence on general practice. And how can woman be expected to co-
operate unless she know why she ought to be virtuous; unless freedom
strengthen her reason till she comprehend her duty, and see in what manner
it is connected with her real good? If children are to be educated to
understand the true principle of patriotism, their mother must be a patriot;
and the love of mankind, from which an orderly train of virtues spring, can
only be produced by considering the moral and civil interests of mankind;
but the education and situation of woman, at present, shuts her out from
such investigations.
“In this work I have produced many arguments, which to me were
conclusive, to prove that the prevailing notion respecting a sexual character
was subversive of morality; and I have contended, that to render the human
body and [Pg 140] mind more perfect, chastity must more universally prevail,
and that chastity will never be respected in the male world till the person of
a woman is not, as it were, idolized, when little virtue or sense embellish it
with the grand traces of mental beauty or the interesting simplicity of
affection.”

In her Introduction Mary further states the object and scope of her work.
She advances the importance of bringing to a more healthy condition
women, who, like flowers nourished in over-luxuriant soil, have become
beautiful at the expense of strength. She attributes their weakness to the
systems of education which have aimed at making them alluring mistresses
rather than rational wives, and taught them to crave love, instead of
exacting respect. But, to prevent misunderstanding, she explains that she
does not wish them to seek to transform themselves into men by cultivating
essentially masculine qualities. They are inferior physically, and must be
content to remain so. Enthusiasm never carried her to the absurd and

exaggerated extremes which have made later champions of the cause
laughing-stocks. She also expresses her intention of steering clear of an
error into which most writers upon the subject, with the exception perhaps
of the author of “Sandford and Merton,” have fallen; namely, that of
addressing their instruction to women of the upper classes. But she intends,
while including all ranks of society, to give particular attention to the
middle class, who appear to her to be in a more natural state. Then, warning
her sex that she will treat them like rational creatures, and not as beings
doomed to perpetual childhood, she tells them:—

“... I wish to show that elegance is inferior to virtue, that the first
[Pg 141]

object of laudable ambition is to obtain a character as a human being,
regardless of the distinction of sex, and that secondary views should be
brought to this simple touchstone.”

The Introduction is important because, as she says, it is the “very essence of
an introduction to give a cursory account of the contents of the work it
introduces.” Having learnt from it what she intends to do, it remains to be
seen how she accomplishes her task.

For the convenience of readers, the treatise may be divided into three parts,
though the author does not make this division, and was probably
unconscious of its possibility. The first chapters give a general statement of
the case. The second part is an elaboration of the first, and is more
concerned with individual forms of the evil than with it as a whole. The
third part suggests the remedy by which women are to be delivered from
social slavery.

Mary assumes as the basis of her entire argument that “the more equality
there is established among men, the more virtue and happiness will reign in
society.” The moral value of equality she demonstrates by the wretchedness

and wickedness which result whenever there is a substitution of arbitrary
power for the law of reason. The regal position, for example, is gained by
vile intrigues and unnatural crimes and vices, and maintained by the
sacrifice of true wisdom and virtue. Military discipline, since it demands
unquestioning submission to the will of others, encourages thoughtless
action. Even the clergy, [Pg 142] because of the blind acquiescence required
from them to certain forms of belief, have their faculties cramped. This
being the case, it follows that society, “as it becomes more enlightened,
should be very careful not to establish bodies of men who must necessarily
be made foolish or vicious by the very constitution of their profession.”
Now women, that is to say, one half of the human race, have hitherto, on
account of their sex, been absolutely debarred from the exercise of reason in
forming their conduct. As women it has been supposed that they cannot
have the same ideals as men. What is vice for the latter is for them virtue.
Their duty is to acquire “cunning, softness of temper, outward obedience,
and a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety.” They are to render
themselves “gentle domestic brutes.” In their education the training of their
understanding is to be neglected for the cultivation of corporeal
accomplishments. They are bidden to obey no laws save those of behavior,
to which they are as complete slaves as soldiers are to the commands of
their general, or the clergy to the ex cathedra utterances of their church.
Fondness for dress, habits of dissimulation, and the affectation of a sickly
delicacy are recommended for their cultivation as essentially feminine
qualities; yet if virtue have but one eternal standard, it should be the same in
quality for the two sexes, even if there must be a difference in the degree
acquired by each. If women be moral beings, they should aim at unfolding
all their faculties, and not, as Rousseau and his disciples would have them
do, labor only to make themselves pleasing sexually. Even if this be

counted a praiseworthy [Pg 143] end, and they succeed in it, to what or how
long will it avail them? The result proves the unsoundness of such
doctrines:—

“The woman who has only been taught to please will soon find that her
charms are oblique sunbeams, and that they cannot have much effect on her
husband’s heart when they are seen every day, when the summer is past and
gone. Will she then have sufficient native energy to look into herself for
comfort, and cultivate her dormant faculties; or is it not more rational to
expect, that she will try to please other men, and, in the emotions raised by
the expectation of new conquests, endeavor to forget the mortification her
love or pride has received? When the husband ceases to be a lover—and the
time will inevitably come—her desire of pleasing will then grow languid, or
become a spring of bitterness; and love, perhaps the most evanescent of all
passions, give place to jealousy or vanity.
“I now speak of women who are restrained by principle or prejudice; such
women, though they would shrink from an intrigue with real abhorrence,
yet, nevertheless, wish to be convinced by the homage of gallantry, that
they are cruelly neglected by their husbands; or days and weeks are spent in
dreaming of the happiness enjoyed by congenial souls, till the health is
undermined and the spirits broken by discontent. How, then, can the great
art of pleasing be such a necessary study? It is only useful to a mistress; the
chaste wife and serious mother should only consider her power to please as
the polish of her virtues, and the affection of her husband as one of the
comforts that render her task less difficult, and her life happier.”

Coquettish arts triumph only for a day. Love, the most transitory of all
passions, is inevitably succeeded by friendship or indifference.

[Pg 144] The arguments which have been advanced to support this degrading
system of female education are easily proved to have no foundation in
reason. Women, it is said, are not so strong physically as men. True; but this
does not imply that they have no strength whatsoever. Because they are

weak relatively, it does not follow that they should be made so absolutely.
The sedentary life to which they are condemned weakens them, and then
their weakness is accepted as an inherent, instead of an artificial, quality.
Rousseau concludes that a woman is naturally a coquette, and governed in
all matters by the sexual instinct, because her earliest amusements consist in
playing with dolls, dressing them and herself, and in talking. These
conclusions are almost too puerile to be refuted:—

“That a girl, condemned to sit for hours listening to the idle chat of weak
nurses or to attend at her mother’s toilet, will endeavor to join the
conversation, is indeed very natural; and that she will imitate her mother or
aunts, and amuse herself by adorning her lifeless doll, as they do in dressing
her, poor innocent babe! is undoubtedly a most natural consequence. For
men of the greatest abilities have seldom had sufficient strength to rise
above the surrounding atmosphere; and if the page of genius has always
been blurred by the prejudices of the age, some allowance should be made
for a sex, who, like kings, always see things through a false medium.”

The truth is, were girls allowed the same freedom in the choice of
amusements as boys, they would manifest an equal fondness for out-of-door
sports, to the neglect of dolls and frivolous pastimes. But it is denied to
them. Directors of their education have, as a rule, [Pg 145] been blind
adherents to the doctrine that whatever is, is right, and hence have argued
that because women have always been brought up in a certain way they
should continue to be so trained.

The worst of it is that the artificial delicacy of constitution thus produced is
the cause of a corresponding weakness of mind; and women are in actual
fact fair defects in creation, as they have been called. And yet, after having
been unfitted for action, they are expected to be competent to take charge of
a family. The woman who is well-disposed, and whose husband is a

sensible man, may act with propriety so long as he is alive to direct her. But
if he were to die how could she alone educate her children and manage her
household with discretion? The woman who is ill-disposed is not only
incapacitated for her duties, but, in her desire to please and to have
pleasure, she neglects dull domestic cares.

“It does not require a lively pencil, or the discriminating outline of a
caricature, to sketch the domestic miseries and petty vices which such a
mistress of a family diffuses. Still, she only acts as a woman ought to act,
brought up according to Rousseau’s system. She can never be reproached
for being masculine, or turning out of her sphere; nay, she may observe
another of his grand rules, and, cautiously preserving her reputation free
from spot, be reckoned a good kind of woman. Yet in what respect can she
be termed good? She abstains, it is true, without any great struggle, from
committing gross crimes; but how does she fulfil her duties? Duties—in
truth, she has enough to think of to adorn her body and nurse a weak
constitution.
“With respect to religion, she never presumes to judge for herself; but
conforms, as a dependent creature should, [Pg 146] to the ceremonies of the
church which she was brought up in, piously believing that wiser heads than
her own have settled that business; and not to doubt is her point of
perfection. She therefore pays her tithe of mint and cummin, and thanks her
God that she is not as other women are. These are the blessed effects of a
good education! these the virtues of man’s helpmate!”

At this point Mary, after having given the picture of woman as she is now,
describes her as she ought to be. This description is worth quoting, but not
because it contains any originality of thought or charm of expression. It is
interesting as showing exactly what the first sower of the seeds of female
enfranchisement expected to reap for her harvest. People who are frightened
by a name are apt to suppose that women who defend their rights would
have the world filled with uninspired Joans of Arc, and unrefined Portias.

Those who judge Mary Wollstonecraft by her conduct, without inquiring
into her motives or reading her book, might conclude that what she desired
was the destruction of family ties and, consequently, of moral order.
Therefore, in justice to her, the purity of her ideals of feminine perfection
and her respect for the sanctity of domestic life should be clearly
established. This can not be better done than by giving her own words on
the subject:—

“Let fancy now present a woman with a tolerable understanding,—for I do
not wish to leave the line of mediocrity,—whose constitution, strengthened
by exercise, has allowed her body to acquire its full vigor, her mind at the
same time gradually expanding itself to comprehend the moral duties of
life, and in what human virtue and dignity consist. Formed thus by the
relative duties of [Pg 147] her station, she marries from affection, without
losing sight of prudence; and looking beyond matrimonial felicity, she
secures her husband’s respect before it is necessary to exert mean arts to
please him, and feed a dying flame, which nature doomed to expire when
the object became familiar, when friendship and forbearance take the place
of a more ardent affection. This is the natural death of love, and domestic
peace is not destroyed by struggles to prevent its extinction. I also suppose
the husband to be virtuous; or she is still more in want of independent
principles.
“Fate, however, breaks this tie. She is left a widow, perhaps without a
sufficient provision; but she is not desolate. The pang of nature is felt; but
after time has softened sorrow into melancholy resignation, her heart turns
to her children with redoubled fondness, and, anxious to provide for them,
affection gives a sacred, heroic cast to her maternal duties. She thinks that
not only the eye sees her virtuous efforts from whom all her comfort now
must flow, and whose approbation is life; but her imagination, a little
abstracted and exalted by grief, dwells on the fond hope that the eyes which
her trembling hand closed may still see how she subdues every wayward
passion to fulfil the double duty of being the father as well as the mother of
her children. Raised to heroism by misfortunes, she represses the first faint

dawning of a natural inclination before it ripens into love, and in the bloom
of life forgets her sex, forgets the pleasure of an awakening passion, which
might again have been inspired and returned. She no longer thinks of
pleasing, and conscious dignity prevents her from priding herself on
account of the praise which her conduct demands. Her children have her
love, and her highest hopes are beyond the grave, where her imagination
often strays.
“I think I see her surrounded by her children, reaping the reward of her
care. The intelligent eye meets hers, whilst health and innocence smile on
their chubby cheeks, and as they grow up the cares of life are lessened by
their grateful attention. She lives to see the virtues which she [Pg 148]
endeavored to plant on principles, fixed into habits, to see her children
attain a strength of character sufficient to enable them to endure adversity
without forgetting their mother’s example.
“The task of life thus fulfilled, she calmly waits for the sleep of death, and
rising from the grave may say, Behold, thou gavest me a talent, and here are
five talents.”

Truly, if this be the result of the vindication of their rights, even the most
devoted believer in Rousseau must admit that women thereby will gain, and
not lose, in true womanliness.

From the primal source of their wrongs,—that is, the undue importance
attached to the sexual character,—Mary next explains that minor causes
have arisen to prevent women from realizing this ideal. The narrowness of
mind engendered by their vicious education hinders them from looking
beyond the interests of the present. They consider immediate rather than
remote effects, and prefer to be “short-lived queens than to labor to attain
the sober pleasures that arise from equality.” Then, again, the desire to be
loved or respected for something, which is instinctive in all human beings,
is gratified in women by the homage paid to charms born of indolence.
They thus, like the rich, lose the stimulus to exertion which this desire gives

to men of the middle class, and which is one of the chief factors in the
development of rational creatures. A man with a profession struggles to
succeed in it. A woman struggles to marry advantageously. With the former,
pleasure is a relaxation; with the latter, it is the main purpose of life.
Therefore, while the man is forced to forget himself in his work, the
woman’s attention is [Pg 149] more and more concentrated upon her own
person. The great evil of this self-culture is that the emotions are developed
instead of the intellect. Women become a prey to what is delicately called
sensibility. They feel and do not reason, and, depending upon men for
protection and advice, the only effort they make is to give their weakness a
graceful covering. They require, in the end, support even in the most trifling
circumstances. Their fears are perhaps pretty and attractive to men, but they
reduce them to such a degree of imbecility that they will start “from the
frown of an old cow or the jump of a mouse,” and a rat becomes a serious
danger. These fair, fragile creatures are the objects of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
deepest contempt, and she gives a good wholesome prescription for their
cure, which, despite modern co-education and Women Conventions, female
doctors and lawyers, might still be more generally adopted to great
advantage. It is in such passages as the following that she proves the
practical tendency of her arguments:—

“I am fully persuaded that we should hear of none of these infantine airs if
girls were allowed to take sufficient exercise and not confined in close
rooms till their muscles are relaxed and their powers of digestion destroyed.
To carry the remark still further, if fear in girls, instead of being cherished,
perhaps created, was treated in the same manner as cowardice in boys, we
should quickly see women with more dignified aspects. It is true they could
not then with equal propriety be termed the sweet flowers that smile in the
walk of man; but they would be more respectable members of society, and
discharge the important duties of life by the light of their own reasons.
‘Educate women like men,’ says Rousseau, ‘and the more [Pg 150] they

resemble our sex, the less power will they have over us.’ This is the very
point I aim at. I do not wish them to have power over men, but over
themselves.”

Some philosophers have asserted with contempt, as evidence of the
inferiority of the female understanding, that it arrives at maturity long
before the male, and that women attain their full strength and growth at
twenty, but men not until they are thirty. But this Mary emphatically denies.
The seeming earlier precocity of girls she attributes to the fact that they are
much sooner treated as women than boys are as men. Their more speedy
physical development is assumed because with them the standard of beauty
is fine features and complexion, whilst male beauty is allowed to have some
connection with the mind. But the truth is, that “strength of body and that
character of countenance which the French term a physionomie, women do
not acquire before thirty any more than men.”

There are some curious remarks in reference to polygamy as a mark of the
inferiority of women, but they need not be given here, since this evil is not
legally recognized by civilized people, with the exception of the Mormons.
But there is a polygamy, not sanctioned by law, which exists in all
countries, and which has done more than almost anything else to dishonor
women. Mary’s observations in this connection are among the strongest in
the book. She understands the true difficulty more thoroughly than many
social reformers to-day, and offers a better solution of the problem than they
do. Justice, not charity, she declares, is wanted in the world. Asylums and
Magdalens are not the proper remedies for the abuse. But women [Pg 151]

should be given the same chance as men to rise after their fall. The first
offence should not be made unpardonable, since good can come from evil.
From a struggle with strong passions virtue is often evolved.

To sum up in a few words Mary’s statement of her subject, woman having
always been treated as an irrational, inferior being, has in the end become
one. Her acquiescence to her moral and mental degradation springs from a
want of understanding. But “whether this arises from a physical or
accidental weakness of faculties, time alone can determine.” Women must
be allowed to exercise their understanding before it can be proved that they
have none.

While each individual man is much to blame in encouraging the false
position of women, inconsistently degrading those from whom they pretend
to derive their chief pleasure, still greater fault lies with writers who have
given to the world in their works opinions which, seemingly favorable, are
in reality of a derogatory character to the entire sex. Having set themselves
up as teachers, they are doubly responsible. They add to their personal
influence that of their written doctrine. They necessarily become leaders,
since the majority of men are more than willing to be led. There were
several writers of the eighteenth century who had dogmatized about women
and their education and the laws of behavior. Rousseau was to many as an
inspired prophet. No woman’s library was then considered complete which
did not include Dr. Fordyce’s Sermons and Dr. Gregory’s “Legacy to His
Daughters.” Mrs. Piozzi and Madame de Staël were minor authorities, and
Lord Chesterfield’s Letters had their [Pg 152] admirers and upholders. These
writers Mary treats separately, after she has shown the result of the tacit
teaching of men, taken collectively; and here what may be called the second
part of the book begins.

As Mary says, the comments which follow can all be referred to a few
simple principles, and “might have been deduced from what I have already
said.” They are a mere elaboration of what has gone before, and it would be

therefore useless to repeat them. She exposes the folly of Rousseau’s ideal,
the perfect Sophia who unites the endurance of a Griselda to the wiles of a
Vivien, and whose principal mission seems to be to make men wonder, with
the French cynic, of what use women over forty are in the world. She
objects to Dr. Fordyce’s eulogium of female purity and his Rousseau-
inspired appeals to women to make themselves all that is desirable in men’s
eyes, expressed in “lover-like phrases of pumped-up passion.” The
sensuous piety of his Sermons, suggestive of the erotic religious poems of
the East, were particularly offensive to her. She next regrets that Dr.
Gregory, at such a solemn moment as that of giving last words of advice to
his daughters, should have added the weight of his authority to the doctrine
of dissimulation; she is indignant that Mrs. Piozzi and Madame de Staël
should have so little realized the dignity of true womanhood as to have
confirmed the fiat their tyrants had passed against them; and she vigorously
condemns Lord Chesterfield’s vicious system, which tends to the early
acquirement of knowledge of the world and leaves but little opportunity for
the free development of man’s natural powers. These writers, no matter how
much [Pg 153] they differ in detail, agree in believing external behavior to be
of primary importance; and Mary’s criticisms of their separate beliefs may
therefore be reduced to one leading proposition by which she contradicts
their main assertions. Right and wrong, virtue and vice, must be studied in
the abstract and not by the measure of weak human laws and customs. This
is the refrain to all her arguments.

These remarks are followed by four chapters which, while they really relate
to the subject, add little to the force of the book. Introduced as they are,
they seem like disconnected essays. There is a dissertation upon the effect
of early associations of ideas to prove what has already been asserted in an
earlier chapter, that “females, who are made women of when they are mere

children, and brought back to childhood when they ought to leave the go-
cart forever,” will inevitably have a sexual character given to their minds.
Modesty is next considered, not as a sexual virtue but comprehensively, to
show that it is a quality which, regardless of sex, should always be based on
humanity and knowledge, and never on the false principle that it is a means
by which women make themselves pleasing to men. To teach girls that
reserve is only necessary when they are with persons of the other sex is at
once to destroy in their minds the intrinsic value of modesty. Yet this is
usually the lesson taught them. As a natural consequence, women are free
and confidential with each other to a fault, and foolishly prudent and
squeamish with men. They are never for a moment unconscious of the
difference of sex, and, in affecting the semblance of modesty, the true virtue
[Pg 154] escapes them altogether. In their neglect of what is for what seems,
they lose the substance and grasp a shadow. This consideration of behavior,
arbitrarily regulated, rather than of conduct ruled by truth, leads women to
care much more for their reputation than for their actual chastity or virtue.
They gradually learn to believe that the sin is in being found out. “Women
mind not what only Heaven sees.” If their reputation be safe, their
consciences are satisfied. A woman who, despite innumerable gallantries,
preserves her fair name, looks down with contempt upon another who
perhaps has sinned but once, but who has not been as clever a mistress of
the art of deception.

“This regard for reputation, independent of its being one of the natural
rewards of virtue, however, took its rise from a cause that I have already
deplored as the grand source of female depravity, the impossibility of
regaining respectability by a return to virtue, though men preserve theirs
during the indulgence of vice. It was natural for women then to endeavor to
preserve what, once lost, was lost forever, till, this care swallowing up

every other care, reputation for chastity became the one thing needful for
the sex.”

As pernicious as the effects of distorted conceptions of virtue are those
which arise from unnatural social distinctions. This is a return to the
proposition relating to the necessity of equality with which the book opens.
In treating it in detail the question of woman’s work is more closely studied.
The evils which the difference of rank creates are aggravated in her case.
Men of the higher classes of society can, by entering a political or military
life, make duties for themselves. Women in the same station are not allowed
these [Pg 155] channels of escape from the demoralizing idleness and luxury
to which their social position confines them. On the other hand, women of
the middle class, who are above menial service but who are forced to work,
have the choice of a few despised employments. Milliners and mantua-
makers are respected only a little more than prostitutes. The situation of
governess is looked upon in the light of a degradation, since those who fill
it are gentlewomen who never expected to be humiliated by work. Many
women marry and sacrifice their happiness to fly from such slavery. Others
have not even this pitiful alternative. “Is not that government then very
defective, and very unmindful of the happiness of one half of its members,
that does not provide for honest, independent women, by encouraging them
to fill respectable stations?” It is a melancholy result of civilization that the
“most respectable women are the most oppressed.”

The next chapter, on Paternal Affection, leads to the third part of the
treatise. It is not enough for a reformer to pull down. He must build up as
well, or at least lay the foundation stone of a new structure. The missionary
does not only tell the heathen that his religion is false, but he instructs him
in the new one which is to take its place. The scientist, besides maintaining
that old theories are exploded, explains to the student new facts which have

superseded them. Mary, after demonstrating the viciousness of existing
educational systems, suggests wherein they may be improved, so that
women, their understandings trained and developed, may have the chance
to show what they really are.

[Pg 156] Family duties necessarily precede those of society. As the “formation
of the mind must be begun very early, and the temper, in particular, requires
the most judicious attention,” a child’s training should be undertaken, not
from the time it is sent to school, but almost from the moment of its birth.
Therefore a few words as to the relations between parents and children are
an indispensable introduction to the larger subject of education, properly so
called, which prepares the young for social life.

Father and mother are rightful protectors of their child, and should accept
the charge of it, instead of hiring a substitute for this purpose. It is not even
enough for them to be regulated in this matter by the dictates of natural
affection. They must be guided by reason. For there are the two equally
dangerous extremes of tyrannical exercise of power and of weak indulgence
to be avoided. Unless their understanding be strengthened and enlightened,
they will not know what duties to exact from their children. In their own
disregard of reason as a guide to conduct, they “demand blind obedience,”
and, to render their demand binding, a “mysterious sanctity is spread around
the most arbitrary principle.” Parents have a right to expect their children
throughout their lives to pay them due respect, give heed to their advice,
and take care of them should illness or old age make it impossible for them
to do this for themselves; but they should never desire to subjugate their
sons and daughters to their own will, after they have arrived at years of
discretion and can answer for their actions. To obey a parent, “only on
account of his being a parent, shackles [Pg 157] the mind, and prepares it for a

slavish submission to any power but reason.” These remarks are particularly
applicable to girls, who “from various causes are more kept down by their
parents, in every sense of the word, than boys,” though in the case of the
latter there is still room for improvement. That filial duty should thus be
reduced to slavery is inexcusable, since children can very soon be made to
understand why they are requested to do certain things habitually. This, of
course, necessitates trouble; but it is the only way to qualify them for
contact with the world, and the active life which must come with their
maturity.

Once this rational foundation has been laid for the formation of a child’s
character, more immediate attention can be given to the development of its
mental faculties and social tendencies.

The first step in solving the great problem of education—and here both
sexes are referred to—is to decide whether it should be public or private.
The objections to private education are serious. It is not good for children to
be too much in the society of men and women; for they then “acquire that
kind of premature manhood which stops the growth of every vigorous
power of mind or body.” By growing accustomed to have their questions
answered by older people instead of being obliged to seek the answers for
themselves, as they are forced to do when thrown with other children, they
do not learn how to think for themselves. The very groundwork of self-
reliance is thus destroyed. “Besides, in youth the seeds of every affection
should be sown, and the respectful regard which is felt for a parent is very
different from the [Pg 158] social affections that are to constitute the happiness
of life as it advances.” “Frank ingenuousness” can only be attained by
young people being frequently in society where they dare to speak what

they think. To know how to live with their equals when they are grown up,
children must learn to associate with them when they are young.

The evils which result from the boarding-school system are almost as great
as those of private education. The tyranny established among the boys is
demoralizing, while the acquiescence to the forms of religion demanded of
them, encourages hypocrisy. Children who live away from home are
unfitted for domestic life. “Public education of every denomination should
be directed to form citizens, but if you wish to make good citizens, you
must first exercise the affections of a son and a brother.” Home-training on
the one hand, and boarding-schools on the other, being equally vicious, the
only way out of the difficulty is to combine the two systems, retaining what
is best in each, and doing away with what is evil. This combination could be
obtained by the establishment of national day-schools.

They must be supported by government, because the school-master who is
dependent upon the parents of children committed to his charge, necessarily
caters to them. In schools for the upper classes, where the number of pupils
is small and select, he spends his energies in giving them a show of
knowledge wherewith they may startle friends and relations into admiration
of his superior system. In common schools, where the charges are small, he
is forced, in order to support himself, to multiply the number of pupils until
it is [Pg 159] impossible for him to do any one of them justice. But if
education were a national affair, school-masters would be responsible to a
board of directors, whose interest would be given to the boys collectively
and not individually, while the number of pupils to be received would be
strictly regulated.

To perfect national schools the sexes must be educated together. By this
means only can they be prepared for their after relations to each other,

women thus becoming enlightened citizens and rational companions for
men. The experiment of co-education is at all events worth making. Even
should it fail, women would not be injured thereby, “for it is not in the
power of man to render them more insignificant than they are at present.”

Mary is very practical in this branch of her subject, and suggests an
admirable educational scheme. In her levelling of rank among the young,
she shows the influence of Plato; in her hint as to the possibility of uniting
play and study in elementary education, she anticipates Froebel. Her ideas
can be best appreciated by giving them in her own words:—

“To render this [that is, co-education] practicable, day-schools for particular
ages should be established by government, in which boys and girls might be
educated together. The school for the younger children, from five to nine
years of age, ought to be absolutely free and open to all classes. A sufficient
number of masters should also be chosen by a select committee, in each
parish, to whom any complaint of negligence, etc., might be made, if signed
by six of the children’s parents.
“Ushers would then be unnecessary: for I believe experience will ever
prove that this kind of subordinate [Pg 160] authority is particularly injurious
to the morals of youth....
“But nothing of this kind [that is, amusement at the expense of ushers]
would occur in an elementary day-school, where boys and girls, the rich
and poor, should meet together. And to prevent any of the distinctions of
vanity, they should be dressed alike, and all obliged to submit to the same
discipline, or leave the school. The schoolroom ought to be surrounded by a
large piece of ground, in which the children might be usefully exercised, for
at this age they should not be confined to any sedentary employment for
more than an hour at a time. But these relaxations might all be rendered a
part of elementary education, for many things improve and amuse the
senses when introduced as a kind of show, to the principles of which, dryly
laid down, children would turn a deaf ear. For instance, botany, mechanics,
and astronomy, reading, writing, arithmetic, natural history, and some

simple experiments in natural philosophy, might fill up the day; but these
pursuits should never encroach on gymnastic plays in the open air. The
elements of religion, history, the history of man, and politics might also be
taught by conversations in Socratic form.
“After the age of nine, girls and boys intended for domestic employments or
mechanical trades ought to be removed to other schools, and receive
instruction in some measure appropriated to the destination of each
individual, the two sexes being still together in the morning; but in the
afternoon the girls should attend a school where plain work, mantua-
making, millinery, etc., would be their employment.
“The young people of superior abilities or fortune might now be taught, in
another school, the dead and living languages, the elements of society, and
continue the study of history and politics on a more extensive scale, which
would not exclude polite literature. ‘Girls and boys still together?’ I hear
some readers ask. Yes; and I should not fear any other consequence than
that some early attachment might take place....
[Pg 161] “Besides, this would be a sure way to promote early marriages, and
from early marriages the most salutary physical and moral effects naturally
flow....
“... Those (youths) who were designed for particular professions might
attend, three or four mornings in the week, the schools appropriated for
their immediate instruction....
“My observations on national education are obviously hints; but I
principally wish to enforce the necessity of educating the sexes together to
perfect both, and of making children sleep at home, that they may learn to
love home; yet to make private ties support, instead of smothering, public
affections, they should be sent to school to mix with a number of equals, for
only by the jostlings of equality can we form a just opinion of ourselves....
“... The conclusion which I wish to draw is obvious: make women rational
creatures and free citizens, and they will quickly become good wives and
mothers; that is, if men do not neglect the duties of husbands and fathers.”

This is no place to enter into a discussion as to whether Mary
Wollstonecraft’s theories were right or wrong. National education and co-
education are still subjects of controversy. But even those who object most
strongly to her conclusions must admit that they were the logical results of
her premises. Equality! was her battle-cry. All men and women are equal
inasmuch as they are human. Her scheme is the only possible one by which
this fundamental equality can be maintained. It covers the whole ground,
too, by its recognition of the secondary distinctions of rank and sex, and the
necessary division of labor. Mary was not a communist in her social
philosophy. She knew such differences must always exist, and she allowed
for them.

[Pg 162] In the remaining chapter she cites instances of folly generated by
women’s ignorance, and makes reflections upon the probable improvement
to be produced by a revolution in female manners. Some of the evils with
which she deals are trifling, as, for example, the prevailing mania for
mesmerism and fortune-telling. Others are serious, as, for instance, the
incapacity of ignorant women to rear children. But all which are of real
weight have already been more than amply discussed. She here merely
repeats herself, and these last pages are of little or no consequence.

A plainness of speech, amounting in some places to coarseness, and a
deeply religious tone, are to many modern readers the most curious features
of the book. A just estimate of it could not be formed if these two facts were
overlooked. A century ago men and women were much more
straightforward in their speech than we are to-day. They were not
squeamish. In real life Amelias listened to raillery from Squire Westerns not
a whit more refined than Fielding’s good country gentlemen. Therefore,
when it came to serious discussions for moral purposes, there was little

reason for writers to be timid. It was impossible for Mary to avoid certain
subjects not usually spoken of in polite conversation. Had she done so, she
would but have half stated her case. She was not to be deterred because she
was a woman. Such mock-modesty would at once have undermined her
arguments. According to her own theories, there was no reason why she
should not think and speak as unhesitatingly as men, when her sex was as
vitally interested as theirs. And therefore, with her characteristic
consistency, she did so. But [Pg 163] while her language may seem coarse to
our over-fastidious ears, it never becomes prurient or indecent. In her
Dedication she expresses very distinctly her disgust for the absence of
modesty among contemporary Frenchwomen. Hers is the plain-speaking of
the Jewish law-giver, who has for end the good of man; and not that of an
Aretino, who rejoices in it for its own sake.

Even more remarkable than this boldness of expression is the strong vein of
piety running through her arguments. Religion was to her as important as it
was to a Wesley or a Bishop Watts. The equality of man, in her eyes, would
have been of small importance had it not been instituted by man’s Creator.
It is because there is a God, and because the soul is immortal, that men and
women must exercise their reason. Otherwise, they might, like animals,
yield to the rule of their instincts and emotions. If women were without
souls, they would, notwithstanding their intellects, have no rights to
vindicate. If the Christian heaven were like the Mahometan paradise, then
they might indeed be looked upon as slaves and playthings of beings who
are worthy of a future life, and hence are infinitely their superiors. But,
though sincerely pious, she despised the meaningless forms of religion as
much as she did social conventionalities, and was as free in denouncing
them. The clergy, who from custom cling to old rites and ceremonies, were,
in her opinion, “indolent slugs, who guard, by liming it over, the snug place

which they consider in the light of an hereditary estate,” and “idle vermin
who two or three times a day perform, in the most slovenly manner, a
service which [Pg 164] they think useless, but call their duty.” She believed in
the spirit, but not in the letter of the law. The scriptural account of the
creation is for her “Moses’ poetical story,” and she supposes that very few
who have thought seriously upon the subject believe that Eve was, “literally
speaking, one of Adam’s ribs.” She is indignant at the blasphemy of
sectarians who teach that an all-merciful God has instituted eternal
punishment, and she is impatient of the debtor and creditor system which
was then the inspiration of the religion of the people. She believes in God as
the life of the universe, and she accepts neither the theory of man’s innate
wickedness nor that of his natural perfection, the two then most generally
adopted, but advocates his power of development:—

“Rousseau exerts himself to prove that all was right originally; a crowd of
authors that all is now right; and I, that all will be right.”

She, in fact, teaches the doctrine of evolution. But where its modern
upholders refer all things to an unknowable source, she builds her belief “on
the perfectibility of God.”

Even the warmest admirers of Mary Wollstonecraft must admit that the
faults of the “Vindication of the Rights of Women” are many. Criticised
from a literary stand-point, they exceed its merits. Perfection of style was
not, it is true, the aim of the writer, as she at once explains in her
Introduction. She there says, that being animated by a far greater end than
that of fine writing,—

“... I shall disdain to cull my phrases or polish my style. I aim at being
useful, and sincerity will render me [Pg 165] unaffected; for wishing rather to
persuade by the force of my arguments than to dazzle by the elegance of my
language, I shall not waste my time in rounding periods, nor in fabricating
the turgid bombast of artificial feelings, which, coming from the head,
never reach the heart. I shall be employed about things, not words! and,
anxious to render my sex more respectable members of society, I shall try to
avoid that flowery diction which has slided from essays into novels, and
from novels into familiar letters and conversation.”

Yet she errs principally from the fault she determines to avoid, as the very
sentence in which she announces this determination proves. Despite her
sincerity, she is affected, and her arguments are often weakened by
meretricious forms of expression. No one can for a moment doubt that her
feelings are real, but neither can the turgidity and bombast of her language
be denied. She borrows, unconsciously perhaps, the “flowery diction”
which she so heartily condemns. Her style, instead of being clear and

simple, as would have best suited her subject, is disfigured by the euphuism
which was the fashion among writers of the last century. When she is
enthusiastic, her pen “darts rapidly along” and her “heart bounds;” if she
grows indignant at Rousseau’s ideal of feminine perfection, “the rigid frown
of insulted virtue effaces the smile of complacency which his eloquent
periods are wont to raise, when I read his voluptuous reveries.” When she
wants to prove that men of genius, as a rule, have good constitutions, she
says:—

“... Considering the thoughtless manner in which they lavished their
strength when, investigating a favorite science, they have wasted the lamp
of life, forgetful of the [Pg 166] midnight hour, or when, lost in poetic dreams,
fancy has peopled the scene, and the soul has been disturbed, till it shook
the constitution by the passions that meditation had raised, whose objects,
the baseless fabric of a vision, faded before the exhausted eye, they must
have had iron frames.”

In her praise of the virtue of modesty, she exclaims:

“... It is the pale moon-beam that renders more interesting every virtue it
softens, giving mild grandeur to the contracted horizon. Nothing can be
more beautiful than the poetical fiction which makes Diana, with her silver
crescent, the goddess of chastity. I have sometimes thought that, wandering
in sedate step in some lonely recess, a modest dame of antiquity must have
felt a glow of conscious dignity, when, after contemplating the soft,
shadowy landscape, she has invited with placid fervor the mild reflection of
her sister’s beams to turn to her chaste bosom.”

She is too ready to moralize, and her moralizing degenerates unfortunately
often into commonplace platitudes. She is even at times disagreeably
pompous and authoritative, and preaches rather than argues. This was due
partly to a then prevailing tendency in literature. Every writer—essayist,
poet, and novelist—preached in those days. Mary frequently forgets she has

a cause to prove in her desire to teach a lesson. She exhorts her sisters as a
minister might appeal to his brethren, and this resemblance is made still
more striking by the oratorical flights or prayers with which she interrupts
her argument to address her Creator. Moreover, the book is throughout, as
Leslie Stephen says, “rhetorical rather than speculative.” It is unmistakably
the creation of a zealous partisan, and not [Pg 167] of a calm advocate. It reads
more like an extempore declamation than a deliberately written essay.
Godwin says, as if in praise, that it was begun and finished within six
weeks. It would have been better had the same number of months or years
been devoted to it. Because of the lack of all method it is so full of
repetition that the argument is weakened rather than strengthened. She is so
certain of the truth of abstract principles from which she reasons, that she
does not trouble herself to convince the sceptical by concrete proofs. Owing
to this want of system, the “Vindication” has little value as a philosophical
work. Women to-day, with none of her genius, have written on the same
subject books which exert greater influence than hers, because they have
appreciated the importance of a definite plan.

Great as are these faults, they are more than counterbalanced by the merits
of the book. All the flowers of rhetoric cannot conceal its genuineness. As is
always the case with the work of honest writers, it commands respect even
from those who disapprove of its doctrine and criticise its style. Despite its
moralizing it is strong with the strength born of an earnest purpose. It was
written neither for money nor for amusement, too often the inspiration to
book-making. The one she had not time to seek; the other she could have
obtained with more certainty by translating for Mr. Johnson, or by
contributing to the “Analytical Review.” She wrote it because she thought it
her duty to do so, and hence its vigor and eloquence. All her pompous
platitudes cannot conceal the earnestness of her denunciation of shams. The

“Rights of Women” is an outcry against them. The age was an artificial one.
[Pg 168] Ladies played at being shepherdesses, and men wept over dead

donkeys. Sensibility was a cultivated virtue, and philanthropy a pastime.
Women were the arch-sufferers from this evil; but, pleased at being likened
unto angels, they failed to see that the ideal set up for them was false. It is
to Mary’s glory that she could penetrate the mists of prevailing prejudices
and see the clear unadulterated truth. The excess of sentimentalism had
given rise to the other extreme of naturalism. In France the reaction against
arbitrary laws, empty forms, and the unjust privileges of rank, led to the
French Revolution. In England its outcome was a Wesley in religious
speculation, a Wilkes in political action, and a Godwin and a Paine in social
and political theorizing. But those who were most eager to uphold reason as
a guide to the conduct of men, had nothing to say in behalf of women. Even
the reformers, by ignoring their cause, seemed to look upon them as beings
belonging to another world. Day, in his “Sandford and Merton,” was the
only man in the least practical where the weaker sex was concerned. Mary
knew that no reform would be complete which did not recognize the fact
that what is law and truth for man must be so for women also. She carried
the arguments for human equality to their logical conclusion. Her theories
are to the philosophy of the Revolutionists what modern rationalism is to
the doctrine of the right of private judgment. She saw the evil to which
greater philosophers than she had been indifferent. The same contempt for
conventional standards which characterized her actions inspired her
thoughts. Once she had evolved this belief, she felt the necessity of
proclaiming [Pg 169] it to the world at large; and herein consists her greatness.
“To believe your own thought,” Emerson says, “to believe that what is true
for you in your private heart is true for all men,—that is genius.” The

“Vindication of the Rights of Women” will always live because it is the
work of inspiration, the words of one who speaketh with authority.

Furthermore, another and very great merit of the book is that the ideas
expressed in it are full of common sense, and eminently practical. Mary’s
educational theories, far in advance of her time, are now being to a great
extent realized. The number of successful women physicians show how
right she was in supposing medicine to be a profession to which they are
well suited. The ability which a few women have manifested as school
directors and in other minor official positions confirms her belief in the
good to be accomplished by giving them a voice in social and political
matters. But what is especially to her credit is her moderation. Apostles of a
new cause or teachers of a new doctrine are, as a rule, enthusiasts or
extremists who lose all sense of the fitness of things. A Diogenes, to express
his contempt for human nature, must needs live in a tub. A Fox knows no
escape from the shams of society, save flight to the woods and an exchange
of linen and cloth covering for a suit of leather. But Mary’s enthusiasm did
not make her blind; she knew that women were wronged by the existing
state of affairs; but she did not for this reason believe that they must be
removed to a new sphere of action. She defended their rights, not to unfit
them for duties assigned them by natural and social [Pg 170] necessities, but
that they might fulfil them the better. She eloquently denied their inferiority
to men, not that they might claim superiority, but simply that they might
show themselves to be the equals of the other sex. Woman was to fight for
her liberty that she might in deed and in truth be worthy to have her
children and her husband rise up and call her blessed!

[Pg 171] CHAPTER VII.
VISIT TO PARIS.

1792-1793.

The “Vindication of the Rights of Women” made Mary still more generally
known. Its fame spread far and wide, not only at home but abroad, where it
was translated into German and French. Like Paine’s “Rights of Man,” or
Malthus’ “Essay on the Theory of Population,” it advanced new doctrines
which threatened to overturn existing social relations, and it consequently
struck men with fear and wonder, and evoked more censure than praise. To-
day, after many years’ agitation, the question of women’s rights still creates
contention. The excitement caused by the first word in its favor may,
therefore, be easily imagined. If one of the bondsmen helping to drag stones
for the pyramids, or one of the many thousand slaves in Athens, had
claimed independence, Egyptians or Greeks could not have been more
surprised than Englishmen were at a woman’s assertion that, mentally, she
was man’s equal. Some were disgusted with such a bold breaking of
conventional chains; a few were startled into admiration. Much of the
public amazement was due not only to the principles of the book, but to its
warmth and earnestness. As Miss Thackeray says, the English authoresses
of those days “kept their readers carefully [Pg 172] at pen’s length, and
seemed for the most part to be so conscious of their surprising achievement

in the way of literature, as never to forget for a single minute that they were
in print.” But here was a woman who wrote eloquently from her heart, who
told people boldly what she thought upon subjects of which her sex, as a
rule, pretended to know nothing, and who forgot herself in her interest in
her work. It was natural that curiosity was felt as to what manner of being
she was, and that curiosity changed into surprise when, instead of the virago
expected, she was found to be, to use Godwin’s words, “lovely in her
person, and, in the best and most engaging sense, feminine in her manners.”
The fable was in this case reversed. It was the sheep who had appeared in
wolf’s clothing.

In her own circle of friends and acquaintances she was lionized. Some of
her readers were converted into enthusiasts. One of these—a Mr. John
Henry Colls—a few years later addressed a poem to her. However, his
admiration unfortunately did not teach him justly to appreciate its object,
nor to write good poetry, and his verses have been deservedly forgotten.
The reputation she had won by her answer to Burke was now firmly
established. She was respected as an independent thinker and a bold dealer
with social problems. The “Analytical Review” praised her in a long and
leading criticism.

“The lesser wits,” her critic writes, “will probably affect to make
themselves merry at the title and apparent object of this publication; but we
have no doubt, if even her contemporaries should fail to do her justice,
posterity will compensate the defect; and have no hesitation in [Pg 173]
declaring that if the bulk of the great truths which this publication contains
were reduced to practice, the nation would be better, wiser, and happier than
it is upon the wretched, trifling, useless, and absurd system of education
which is now prevalent.”

But the conservative avoided her and her book as moral plagues. Many
people would not even look at what she had written. Satisfied with the old-
fashioned way of treating the subjects therein discussed, they would not run
the risk of finding out that they were wrong. Their attitude in this respect
was much the same as that of Cowper when he refused to read Paine’s
“Rights of Man.” “No man,” he said, “shall convince me that I am
improperly governed, while I feel the contrary.”

Women then, even the cleverest and most liberal, bowed to the decrees of
custom with a submission as servile as that of the Hindu to the laws of
caste. Like the latter, they were contented with their lot and had no desire to
change it. They dreaded the increase of knowledge which would bring with
it greater sorrow. Mrs. Barbauld, eloquent in her defence of men’s rights,
could conceive no higher aim for women than the attainment of sufficient
knowledge to make them agreeable companions to their husbands and
brothers. Should there be any deviation from the methods of education
which insured this end, they would, she feared, become like the Précieuses
or Femmes Savantes of Molière. Mary’s vigorous appeal for improvement
could, therefore, have no meaning for her. Hannah More, enthusiastic in her
denunciations of slavery, but unconscious that her liberty was in the least
restricted, did not hesitate to form an opinion of the “Rights of
[Pg 174]

Women” without examining it, thus necessarily missing its true
significance. In this she doubtless represented a large majority of her sex.
She wrote to Horace Walpole in 1793:—

“I have been much pestered to read the ‘Rights of Women,’ but am
invincibly resolved not to do it. Of all jargon, I hate metaphysical jargon;
beside, there is something fantastic and absurd in the very title. How many
ways there are of being ridiculous! I am sure I have as much liberty as I can
make a good use of, now I am an old maid; and when I was a young one I

had, I dare say, more than was good for me. If I were still young, perhaps I
should not make this confession; but so many women are fond of
government, I suppose, because they are not fit for it. To be unstable and
capricious, I really think, is but too characteristic of our sex; and there is,
perhaps, no animal so much indebted to subordination for its good behavior
as woman. I have soberly and uniformly maintained this doctrine ever since
I have been capable of observation, and I used horridly to provoke some of
my female friends—maîtresses femmes—by it, especially such heroic
spirits as poor Mrs. Walsingham.”

Men, on the other hand, thought Mary was unsexing herself by her
arguments, which seemed to interfere with their rights,—an interference
they could not brook. To the Tories the fact that she sympathized with the
Reformers was enough to damn her. Walpole, when he answered the letter
from which the above extract is taken, wrote with warmth:—

“... It is better to thank Providence for the tranquillity and happiness we
enjoy in this country, in spite of the philosophizing serpents we have in our
bosom, the [Pg 175] Paines, the Tookes, and the Wollstonecrafts. I am glad
you have not read the tract of the last-mentioned writer. I would not look at
it, though assured it contains neither metaphysics nor politics; but as she
entered the lists of the latter, and borrowed her title from the demon’s book
which aimed at spreading the wrongs of men, she is excommunicated from
the pale of my library. We have had enough of new systems, and the world a
great deal too much already.”

Walpole may be accepted as the typical Tory, and to all his party Mary
probably appeared as the “philosophizing serpent.” She seems always to
have incurred his deepest scorn and wrath. He could not speak of her
without calling her names. A year or two later, when she had published her
book on the French Revolution, writing again to Hannah More, he thus
concludes his letter:—

“Adieu, thou excellent woman! thou reverse of that hyena in petticoats,
Mrs. Wollstonecraft, who to this day discharges her ink and gall on Marie
Antoinette, whose unparalleled sufferings have not yet stanched that
Alecto’s blazing ferocity.”

There was at least one man in London whose opinion was worth having
who, it is known, treated the book with indifference, and he, by a strange
caprice of fate, was William Godwin. It was at this time, when she was in
the fulness of her fame, that Mary first met him. She was dining at
Johnson’s with Paine and Shovet, and Godwin had come purposely to meet
the American philosopher and to hear him talk. But Paine was at best a
silent man; and Mary, it seems, monopolized the conversation. Godwin was
disappointed, and consequently the impression she made upon him [Pg 176]

was not pleasing. He afterwards wrote an account of this first meeting,
which is interesting because of the closer relationship to which an
acquaintance so unpropitiously begun was to lead.

“The interview was not fortunate,” he says. “Mary and myself parted
mutually displeased with each other. I had not read her ‘Rights of Women.’
I had barely looked into her answer to Burke, and been displeased, as
literary men are apt to be, with a few offences against grammar and other
minute points of composition. I had therefore little curiosity to see Mrs.
Wollstonecraft, and a very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine, in his
general habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in occasionally some
shrewd and striking remarks, the conversation lay principally between me
and Mary. I, of consequence, heard her very frequently when I wished to
hear Paine.
“We touched on a considerable variety of topics and particularly on the
character and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been
observed, had acquired, in a very blamable degree, the practice of seeing
everything on the gloomy side, and bestowing censure with a plentiful
hand, where circumstances were in any degree doubtful. I, on the contrary,

had a strong propensity to favorable construction, and, particularly where I
found unequivocal marks of genius, strongly to incline to the supposition of
generous and manly virtue. We ventilated in this way the character of
Voltaire and others, who have obtained from some individuals an ardent
admiration, while the greater number have treated them with extreme moral
severity. Mary was at last provoked to tell me that praise, lavished in the
way that I lavished it, could do no credit either to the commended or the
commender. We discussed some questions on the subject of religion, in
which her opinions approached much nearer to the received ones than mine.
As the conversation proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the tone of my
own [Pg 177] share in it. We touched upon all topics without treating forcibly
and connectedly upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice, in giving an
account of the conversation to a party in which I supped, though I was not
sparing of my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of active and
independent thinking. On her side, she did me no part of what perhaps I
considered as justice.
“We met two or three times in the course of the following year, but made a
very small degree of progress towards a cordial acquaintance.”

Not until Mary had lived through the tragedy of her life were they destined
to become more to each other than mere fellow mortals. There was much to
be learned, and much to be forgotten, before the time came for her to give
herself into his keeping.

Her family were naturally interested in her book from personal motives; but
Eliza and Everina heartily disapproved of it, and their feelings for their
eldest sister became, from this period, less and less friendly. However, as
Kegan Paul says, their small spite points to envy and jealousy rather than to
honest indignation.

Both were now in good situations. Mary felt free, therefore, to consider her
own comforts a little. Besides, she had attained a position which it became
her to sustain with dignity. She was now known as Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and

was a prominent figure in the literary world. Shortly after the publication of
the “Rights of Women” she moved from the modest lodgings on George
Street, to larger, finer rooms on Store Street, Bedford Square, and these she
furnished comfortably. Necessity was no longer her only standard. She also
gave more care to her dress. Her stern apprenticeship was over. She had so
successfully trampled upon the [Pg 178] thorns in her path that she could
pause to enjoy the flowers. To modern readers her new furniture and gowns
are welcome signs of the awakening of the springtime in her cold and
wintry life. But her sisters resented them, particularly because, while they,
needing less, received less from her bounty, Charles, waiting for a good
opening in America, was living at her expense. He, with thoughtless
ingratitude, sent them semi-satirical accounts of her new mode of living,
and thus unconsciously kindled their jealousy into a fierce flame. When the
extent of Mary’s kindness and self-sacrifice in their regard is remembered,
the petty ill-nature of brother and sisters, as expressed in the following letter
from Mrs. Bishop to Everina, is unpardonable:—

Upton Castle, July 3, 1792.

... He [Charles] informs me too that Mrs. Wollstonecraft is grown quite
handsome; he adds likewise that, being conscious she is on the wrong side
of thirty, she now endeavors to set off those charms she once despised, to
the best advantage. This, entre nous, for he is delighted with her affection
and kindness to him.
So the author of “The Rights of Women” is going to France! I dare say her
chief motive is to promote poor Bess’s comfort, or thine, my girl, or at least
I think she will so reason. Well, in spite of reason, when Mrs. W. reaches
the Continent she will be but a woman! I cannot help painting her in the
height of all her wishes, at the very summit of happiness, for will not
ambition fill every chink of her great soul (for such I really think hers) that
is not occupied by love? After having drawn this sketch, you can hardly

suppose me so sanguine as to expect my pretty face will be thought of when
matters of State are in agitation, yet I know you think such a miracle not
impossible. I wish I could think it at all [Pg 179] probable, but, alas! it has so
much the appearance of castle-building that I think it will soon disappear
like the “baseless fabric of a vision, and leave not a wrack behind.”
And you actually have the vanity to imagine that in the National Assembly,
personages like M. and F.[useli] will bestow a thought on two females
whom nature meant to “suckle fools and chronicle small beer.”

But a few days before Mary had written to Everina to discuss with her a
matter relative to Mrs. Bishop’s prospects. This letter explains the allusions
of the latter to Mary’s proposed trip to France, and shows how little reason
she had for her ill-natured conclusions:—

London, June 20, 1792.

... I have been considering what you say respecting Eliza’s residence in
France. For some time past Mr. and Mrs. Fuseli, Mr. Johnson, and myself
have talked of a summer excursion to Paris; it is now determined on, and
we think of going in about six weeks. I shall be introduced to many people.
My book has been translated, and praised in some popular prints, and Mr.
Fuseli of course is well known; it is then very probable that I shall hear of
some situation for Eliza, and I shall be on the watch. We intend to be absent
only six weeks; if then I fix on an eligible situation for her she may avoid
the Welsh winter. This journey will not lead me into any extraordinary
expense, or I should put it off to a more convenient season, for I am not, as
you may suppose, very flush of money, and Charles is wearing out the
clothes which were provided for his voyage. Still, I am glad he has acquired
a little practical knowledge of farming....

The French trip was, however, put off until the following December; and
when the time came for her departure, neither Mr. Johnson nor the Fuselis
[Pg 180] accompanied her. Since the disaffection of the latter has been
construed in a way which reflects upon her character, it is necessary to

pause here to consider the nature of the friendship which existed between
them. The slightest shadow unfairly cast upon her reputation must be
dissipated.

Mary valued Fuseli as one of her dearest friends. He, like her, was an
enthusiast. He was a warm partisan of justice and a rebel against established
institutions. He would take any steps to see that the rights of the individual
were respected. His interference in a case where men in subordinate
positions were defrauded by those in authority, but which did not affect him
personally, was the cause of his being compelled to leave Zurich, his home,
and thus eventually of his coming to England. Besides their unity of thought
and feeling, their work often lay in the same direction. Fuseli, as well as
Mary, translated for Johnson, and contributed to the “Analytical Review.”
He was an intimate friend of Lavater, whose work on Physiognomy Mary
had translated with the liveliest interest. There was thus a strong bond of
sympathy between them, and many ways in which they could help and
consult with each other in their literary tasks. Mary was devoid of the
coquetry which is so strong with some women that they carry it even into
their friendships. She never attempted to conceal her liking for Fuseli. His
sex was no drawback. Why should it be? It had not interfered with her
warm feelings for George Blood and Mr. Johnson. She was the last person
in the world to be deterred from what she thought was right for the sake of
appearances.

[Pg 181] However, another construction was given to her friendly
demonstrations. The story told both by Knowles, the biographer of Fuseli,
and by Godwin, is that Mary was in love with the artist; and that the
necessity of suppressing, even if she could not destroy, her passion—
hopeless since its object was a married man—was the immediate reason of

her going to France alone. But they interpret the circumstances very
differently. The incidents, as given by Godwin, are in nowise to Mary’s
discredit, though his account of them was later twisted and distorted by Dr.
Beloe in his “Sexagenarian.” The latter, however, is so prejudiced a writer
that his words have but little value. Godwin, in his Memoirs, after
demonstrating the strength of the intimacy between Mary and Fuseli, says:
—

“Notwithstanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a temper to
live upon terms of so much intimacy with a man of merit and genius
without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in his society, she transferred
by association to his person. What she experienced in this respect was no
doubt heightened by the state of celibacy and restraint in which she had
hitherto lived, and to which the rules of polished society condemn an
unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and ardent affection for him.
Mr. Fuseli was a married man, and his wife the acquaintance of Mary. She
readily perceived the restrictions which this circumstance seemed to impose
upon her; but she made light of any difficulty that might arise out of them.
Not that she was insensible to the value of domestic endearments between
persons of an opposite sex, but that she scorned to suppose that she could
feel a struggle in conforming to the laws she should lay down to her
conduct.
“... There is no reason to doubt that if Mr. Fuseli had been disengaged
[Pg 182]

at the period of their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her
choice.
“... One of her principal inducements to this step, [her visit to France]
related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli. She had at first considered it as reasonable
and judicious to cultivate what I may be permitted to call a platonic
affection for him; but she did not, in the sequel, find all the satisfaction in
this plan which she had originally expected from it. It was in vain that she
enjoyed much pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her
ardent imagination was continually conjuring up pictures of the happiness
she should have found if fortune had favored their more intimate union. She

felt herself formed for domestic affection, and all those tender charities
which men of sensibility have constantly treated as the dearest bond of
human society. General conversation and society could not satisfy her. She
felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass of her species, and she
repined when she reflected that the best years of her life were spent in this
comfortless solitude. These ideas made the cordial intercourse of Mr.
Fuseli, which had at first been one of her greatest pleasures, a source of
perpetual torment to her. She conceived it necessary to snap the chain of
this association in her mind; and, for that purpose, determined to seek a new
climate, and mingle in different scenes.”

Knowles, on the other hand, represents her as importunate with her love as
a Phaedra, as consumed with passion as a Faustina. He states as a fact that it
was for Fuseli’s sake that she changed her mode of life and adopted a new
elegance in dress and manners. He declares that when the latter made no
return to her advances, she pursued him so persistently that on receiving her
letters, he thrust them unopened out of sight, so sure was he that they
contained nothing but [Pg 183] protestations of regard and complaints of
neglect; that, finally, she became so ill and miserable and unfitted for work
that, despite Fuseli’s arguments against such a step, she went boldly to Mrs.
Fuseli and asked to be admitted into her house as a member of the family,
declaring that she could not live without daily seeing the man she loved;
and that, thereupon, Mrs. Fuseli grew righteously wrathful and forbade her
ever to cross her threshold again. He furthermore affirms that she
considered her love for Fuseli strictly within the bounds of modesty and
reason, that she encouraged it without scruple, and that she made every
effort to win his heart. These proving futile, he concludes: “No resource
was now left for Mrs. Wollstonecraft but to fly from the object which she
regarded; her determination was instantly fixed; she wrote a letter to Fuseli,
in which she begged pardon ‘for having disturbed the quiet tenor of his
life,’ and on the 8th of December left London for France.”

An anonymous writer who in 1803 published a “Defence of the Character
of the Late Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin,” repeats the story, but a little
more kindly, declaring that Mary’s discovery of an unconsciously nurtured
passion for a married man, and her determination to flee temptation, were
the cause of her leaving England. That there was during her life-time some
idle gossip about her relations to Fuseli is shown in the references to it in
Eliza’s ill-natured letter. This counts for little, however. It was simply
impossible for the woman who had written in defiance of social laws and
restrictions, to escape having scandals attached to her name.

[Pg 184] Kegan Paul, Mary’s able defender of modern times, denies the whole
story. He writes in his Prefatory Memoir to her “Letters to Imlay:”—

“... Godwin knew extremely little of his wife’s earlier life, nor was this a
subject on which he had sought enlightenment from herself. I can only here
say that I fail to find any confirmation whatever of this preposterous story,
as told in Knowles’s ‘Life of Fuseli,’ or in any other form, while I find
much which makes directly against it, the strongest fact being that Mary
remained to the end the correspondent and close friend of Mrs. Fuseli.”

Her character is the best refutation of Knowles’s charges. She was too
proud to demean herself to any man. She was too sensitive to slights to risk
the repulses he says she accepted. And since always before and after this
period she had nothing more at heart than the happiness of others, it is not
likely that she would have deliberately tried to step in between Fuseli and
his wife, and gain at the latter’s expense her own ends. She could not have
changed her character in a day. She never played fast and loose with her
principles. These were in many ways contrary to the standard of the rest of
mankind, but they were also equally opposed to the conduct imputed to her.
The testimony of her actions is her acquittal. That she did not for a year
produce any work of importance is no argument against her. It was only

after three years of uninterrupted industry that she found time to write the
“Rights of Women.” On account of the urgency of her every-day needs, she
had no leisure for work whose financial success was uncertain. Knowles’s
story [Pg 185] is too absurdly out of keeping with her character to be believed
for a moment.

The other version of this affair is not so inconceivable. That her affection
may in the end have developed into a warmer feeling, and that she would
have married Fuseli had he been free, is just possible. Allusions in her first
letters to Imlay to a late “hapless love,” and to trouble, seem to confirm
Godwin’s statement. But it is quite as likely that Fuseli, whose heart was, as
his biographer admits, very susceptible, felt for her a passion which as a
married man he had no right to give, and that she fled to France for his sake
rather than for her own. In either of these cases, she would deserve
admiration and respect. But the insufficiency of evidence reduces
everything except the fact of her friendship for him to mere surmise.

However this may have been, it is certain that Mr. Johnson and the Fuselis
decided to remain at home when Mary in December started for Paris.

The excitement in the French capital was then at fever heat. But the outside
world hardly comprehended how serious the troubles were. Princes and
their adherents trembled at the blow given to royalty in the person of Louis
XVI. Liberals rejoiced at the successful revolt against monarchical tyranny.
But neither one party nor the other for a moment foresaw what a terrible
weapon reform was to become in the hands of the excitable French people.
If, in the city where the tragedy was being enacted, the customary baking
and brewing, the promenading under the trees, and the dog-dancing and the
shoe-blacking on the Pont-Neuf could still continue, it is not strange [Pg 186]
that those who watched it from afar mistook its real weight.

The terrible night of the 10th of August had come and gone. The September
massacres, the details of which had not yet reached England, were over. The
Girondists were in the ascendency and had restored order. There were fierce
contentions in the National Convention, but, on the whole, its attitude was
one to inspire confidence. The English, who saw in the arrest of the king,
and in the popular feeling against him, just such a crisis as their nation had
passed through once or twice, were not deterred from visiting the country
by its unsettled state. The French prejudice against England, it is true, was
strong. Lafayette had some time before publicly expressed his belief that
she was secretly conspiring against the peace of France. But his imputation
had been vigorously denied, and nominally the two governments were
friendly. English citizens had no reason to suppose they would not be safe
in Paris, and those among them whose opinions brought them en rapport
with the French Republicans felt doubly secure. Consequently Mary’s
departure for that capital, alone and unprotected, did not seem so hazardous
then as it does now that the true condition of affairs is better understood.

She knew in Paris a Madame Filiettaz, daughter of the Madame Bregantz at
whose school in Putney Eliza and Everina had been teachers, and to her
house she went, by invitation. Monsieur and Madame Filiettaz were absent,
and she was for some little time its sole occupant save the servants. The
object of her visit was twofold. She wished to study French, for though [Pg
187] she could read and translate this language fluently, from want of practice
she could neither speak nor understand it when it was spoken; and she also
desired to watch for herself the development of the cause of freedom. Their
love of liberty had made the French, as a nation, peculiarly attractive to her.
She had long since openly avowed her sympathy by her indignant reply to
Burke’s outcry against them. It was now a great satisfaction to be where she
could follow day by day the progress of their struggle. She had excellent

opportunities not only to see what was on the surface of society, which is all
visitors to a strange land can usually do, but to study the actual forces at
work in the movement. Thomas Paine was then in Paris. He was a member
of the National Convention, and was on terms of intimacy with Condorcet,
Brissot, Madame Roland, and other Republican leaders. Mary had known
him well in London. She now renewed the acquaintance, and was always
welcomed to his house near the Rue de Richelieu. Later, when, worn out by
his numerous visitors, he retired to the Faubourg St. Denis, to a hotel where
Madame de Pompadour had once lived, and allowed it to be generally
believed that he had gone into the country for his health, Mary was one of
the few favored friends who knew of his whereabouts. She thus, through
him, was brought into close contact with the leading spirits of the day. She
also saw much of Helen Maria Williams, the poetess, already notorious for
her extreme liberalism, and who had numerous friends and acquaintances
among the Revolutionary party in Paris. Mrs. Christie was still another
friend of this period. Her husband’s business having kept them in [Pg 188]

France, they had become thoroughly nationalized. At their house many
Americans congregated, among others a Captain Gilbert Imlay, of whom
more hereafter. In addition to these English friends, Mary had letters of
introduction to several prominent French citizens.

She arrived in Paris just before Louis XVI.’s trial. The city was
comparatively quiet, but there was in the air an oppression which betokened
the coming storm. She felt the people’s suspense as if she too had been
personally interested. Between her studies and her efforts to obtain the
proper clew by which she could in her own mind reduce the present
political chaos to order, she found more than enough wherewith to fill her
days. As always happened with her, the mental strain reacted upon her

physical health, and her old enemies, depression of spirits and headaches,
returned to harass her.

She wrote to Everina on the 24th of December:

To-morrow I expect to see Aline [Madame Filiettaz]. During her absence
the servants endeavored to render the house, a most excellent one,
comfortable to me; but as I wish to acquire the language as fast as I can, I
was sorry to be obliged to remain so much alone. I apply so closely to the
language, and labor so continually to understand what I hear, that I never go
to bed without a headache, and my spirits are fatigued with endeavoring to
form a just opinion of public affairs. The day after to-morrow I expect to
see the King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost
afraid to anticipate.
I have seen very little of Paris, the streets are so dirty; and I wait till I can
make myself understood before I call upon Madame Laurent, etc. Miss
Williams has behaved very civilly to me, and I shall visit her frequently
because I rather like her, and I meet French company at her [Pg 189] house.
Her manners are affected, yet the simple goodness of her heart continually
breaks through the varnish, so that one would be more inclined, at least I
should, to love than admire her. Authorship is a heavy weight for female
shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity. Of the French I will not
speak till I know more of them. They seem the people of all others for a
stranger to come amongst, yet sometimes when I have given a commission,
which was eagerly asked for, it has not been executed, and when I ask for
an explanation,—I allude to the servant-maid, a quick girl, who, an’t please
you, has been a teacher in an English boarding-school,—dust is thrown up
with a self-sufficient air, and I am obliged to appear to see her meaning
clearly, though she puzzles herself, that I may not make her feel her
ignorance; but you must have experienced the same thing. I will write to
you soon again. Meantime, let me hear from you, and believe me yours
sincerely and affectionately,
M. W.

When the dreaded 26th came, there was no one in Paris more excited and
interested than Mary. From her window she saw the King as, seemingly
forgetting the history he was making for future historians to discuss, he rode
by with calm dignity to his trial. Throughout the entire day she waited
anxiously, uncertain as to what would be the effects of the morning’s
proceedings. Then, when evening came, and all continued quiet and the
danger was over, she grew nervous and fearful, as she had that other
memorable night when she kept her vigil in the little room at Hackney. She
was absolutely alone with her thoughts, and it was a relief to write to Mr.
Johnson. It gave her a sense of companionship. This “hyena in petticoats,”
this “philosophizing serpent,” was at heart as feminine as Hannah More or
any other “excellent woman.”

[Pg 190] Paris, Dec. 26, 1792.

I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have
thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with blood.
Indeed, the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to
prevent a tumult made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not dare
to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was not
mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home with
composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine o’clock this
morning the King passed by my window, moving silently along, excepting
now and then a few strokes on the drum which rendered the stillness more
awful, through empty streets, surrounded by the National Guards, who,
clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants
flocked to their windows, but the casements were all shut; not a voice was
heard, nor did I see anything like an insulting gesture. For the first time
since I entered France I bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected
the propriety of behavior, so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can
scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow
insensibly from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I

expected from his character, in a hackney-coach, going to meet death where
so many of his race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV.
before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories
most flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity
overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
since; and though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images that
have filled my imagination all the day. Nay, do not smile, but pity me, for
once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes glare
through a glass door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at me. Not
the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are remote from
those of the servants, the only persons who [Pg 191] sleep with me in an
immense hotel, one folding-door opening after another. I wish I had even
kept the cat with me! I want to see something alive, death in so many
frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed, and for the
first time in my life I cannot put out the candle.
M. W.

These imaginary terrors gave way to real ones soon enough. The execution
of Louis was followed by the declaration of war between France and
England and the complete demoralization of the French people, especially
of the Parisians. The feeling against England grew daily more bitter, and the
position of English residents in Paris more precarious. It was next to
impossible for them to send letters home, and therefore their danger was not
realized by their countrymen on the other side of the Channel. Mrs. Bishop,
in the faraway Welsh castle, grew impatient at Mary’s silence. Politics was
a subject dear to her heart, but one tabooed at Upton. At her first word upon
the topic the family, her employers, left the room, and she was consequently
obliged to ignore it when she was with them. But when, some months later
on, two or three French refugees came to Pembroke, she was quick to go to
them, ostensibly for French lessons, but in reality to hear their accounts of
the scenes through which they had passed. Forced to live in quiet, remote

places, she longed for the excitement only to be had in the large centres of
action, and at one time, in her discontent, began to make plans to join her
sister in France. While Eliza was thus contemplating a journey to Paris,
Mary was wondering how it would be possible either to continue living
there or to leave the [Pg 192] country. It was equally out of the question to
obtain fresh supplies of money from England or a passport to carry her
safely back. She had, when she left London, only intended to be absent for a
few weeks, and had not even given up her rooms in George Street. But the
weeks had lengthened into months, and now her return was an
impossibility.

For motives of economy she left the large Filiettaz mansion. At first she
thought of making a trip to Switzerland, but this plan had to be abandoned
because of the difficulty in procuring a passport. She therefore went to
Neuilly, where, her ready money wellnigh exhausted, she lived as simply as
she could. Economy was doubly necessary at a time when heavy taxes were
sending a hungry multitude into the streets, clamoring for bread. She was
now more alone than ever. Her sole attendant was an old man, a gardener.
He became her warm friend, succumbing completely to her power of
attraction. With the gallantry of his race he could not do enough for
Madame. He waited upon her with unremitting attention; he even disputed
for the honor of making her bed. He served up at her table, unasked, the
grapes from his garden which he absolutely refused to give to her guests.
He objected to her English independence; her lonely walks through the
woods of Neuilly met with his serious disapproval, and he besought her to
allow him the privilege of accompanying her, painting in awful colors the
robbers and other dangers with which the place abounded. But Mary
persisted in going alone; and when, evening after evening, she returned
unharmed, it must have seemed to him as if she bore a charmed life. Such

incidents as these [Pg 193] show, better than volumes of praise, the true
kindliness of her nature which was not influenced by distinctions of rank.

Those who knew her but by name, however, dealt with her in less gentle
fashion. Her fame had been carried even into Pembroke; and while she was
living her solitary and inoffensive life in Paris, Mrs. Bishop was writing to
Everina: “The conversation [at Upton Castle] turns on Murphy, on Irish
potatoes, or Tommy Paine, whose effigy they burnt at Pembroke the other
day. Nay, they talk of immortalizing Miss Wollstonecraft in like manner, but
all end in damning all politics: What good will they do men? and what
rights have men that three meals a day will not supply?” After all, perhaps
they were wise, these Welshmen. Were not their brethren in France
purchasing their rights literally at the price of their three meals a day?

Sometimes, perhaps to please her friend, the gardener, instead of her
rambles through the woods, Mary walked towards and even into Paris, and
then she saw sights which made Pembroke logic seem true wisdom, and
freedom a farce. Once, in so doing, she passed by chance a place of
execution, just at the close of one of its too frequent tragic scenes. The
blood was still fresh upon the pavement; the crowd of lookers-on not yet
dispersed. She heard them as they stood there rehearsing the day’s horror,
and she chafed against the cruelty and inhumanity of the deed. In a moment
—her French so improved that she could make herself understood—she
was telling the people near her something of what she thought of their new
tyrants. Those [Pg 194] were dangerous times for freedom of speech. So far
the champions of liberty had proved themselves more inexorable masters
than the Bourbons. Some of the bystanders, who, though they dared not
speak their minds, sympathized with Mary’s indignation, warned her of her
danger and hurried her away from the spot. Horror at the ferocity of men’s

passions, wrath at injustices committed in the name of freedom, and
impatience at her own helplessness to right the evils by which she was
surrounded, no doubt inspired her, as saddened and sobered she walked
back alone to Neuilly.

During all this time she continued her literary work. She proposed to write a
series of letters upon the present character of the French nation, and with
this end in view she silently studied the people and the course of political
action. She was quick and observant, and nothing escaped her notice. She
came to Paris prepared to continue a firm partisan of the French Revolution;
but she could not be blind to the national defects. She saw the frivolity and
sensuality of the people, their hunger for all things sweet, and the
unrestrained passions of the greater number of the Republican leaders,
which made them love liberty more than law itself. She valued their cause,
but she despised the means by which they sought to gain it. Thus, in
laboring to grasp the meaning of the movement, not as it appeared to petty
factions, but as it was as a whole, she was confronted by the greatest of all
mysteries, the relation of good and evil. Again, as when she had analyzed
the rights of women, she recognized evil to be a power which eventually
works [Pg 195] for righteousness, thereby proving the clearness of her mental
vision. Only one of these letters, however, was written and published. It is
dated Feb. 15, 1793, so that the opinions therein expressed were not hastily
formed. As its style is that of a familiar letter, and as it gives a good idea of
the thoroughness with which she had applied herself to her task, it may
appropriately be quoted here.

“... The whole mode of life here,” she writes, “tends indeed to render the
people frivolous, and, to borrow their favorite epithet, amiable. Ever on the
wing, they are always sipping the sparkling joy on the brim of the cup,
leaving satiety in the bottom for those who venture to drink deep. On all

sides they trip along, buoyed up by animal spirits, and seemingly so void of
care that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me that
they alone understand the full import of the term leisure; and they trifle
their time away with such an air of contentment, I know not how to wish
them wiser at the expense of gayety. They play before me like motes in a
sunbeam, enjoying the passing ray; whilst an English head, searching for
more solid happiness, loses in the analysis of pleasure the volatile sweets of
the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true, rises from vanity; but it is not
the vanity that engenders vexation of spirit: on the contrary, it lightens the
heavy burden of life, which reason too often weighs, merely to shift from
one shoulder to the other....
“I would I could first inform you that out of the chaos of vices and follies,
prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair form of
Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue, expanding her wings to shelter all her
children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that have rent the
bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that lopt off the rotten
limbs. But if the aristocracy of birth is levelled with the ground, only to
make [Pg 196] room for that of riches, I am afraid that the morals of the
people will not be much improved by the change, or the government
rendered less venial. Still it is not just to dwell on the misery produced by
the present struggle without adverting to the standing evils of the old
system. I am grieved, sorely grieved, when I think of the blood that has
stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I also hear the same live stream
cry aloud from the highways through which the retreating armies passed
with famine and death in their rear, and I hide my face with awe before the
inscrutable ways of Providence, sweeping in such various directions the
besom of destruction over the sons of men.
“Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion that strong
virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress of
civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course of
improvement, men would labor to become virtuous, without being goaded
on by misery. But now the perspective of the golden age, fading before the
attentive eye of observation, almost eludes my sight; and, losing thus in part
my theory of a more perfect state, start not, my friend, if I bring forward an

opinion which, at the first glance, seems to be levelled against the existence
of God! I am not become an atheist, I assure you, by residing at Paris; yet I
begin to fear that vice or, if you will, evil is the grand mobile of action, and
that, when the passions are justly poised, we become harmless, and in the
same proportion useless....
“You may think it too soon to form an opinion of the future government, yet
it is impossible to avoid hazarding some conjectures, when everything
whispers me that names, not principles, are changed, and when I see that
the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old system to corrupt the new.
For the same pride of office, the same desire of power, are still visible; with
this aggravation, that, fearing to return to obscurity after having but just
acquired a relish for distinction, each hero or philosopher, for all are dubbed
with these new titles, endeavors to make hay [Pg 197] while the sun shines;
and every petty municipal officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of
the day, stalks like a cock on a dunghill.”

The letters were discontinued, probably because Mary thought letter-writing
too easy and familiar a style in which to treat so weighty a subject. She only
gave up the one work, however, to undertake another still more ambitious.
At Neuilly she began, and wrote almost all that was ever finished, of her
“Historical and Moral View of the French Revolution.”

While she was thus living the quiet life of a student in the midst of
excitement, her own affairs, as well as those of France, were hastening to a
crisis.

[Pg 198] CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE WITH IMLAY.

1793-1794.

While Mary was living at Neuilly, the terrors of the French Revolution
growing daily greater, she took a step to which she was prompted by pure
motives, but which has left a blot upon her fair fame. The outcry raised by
her “Vindication of the Rights of Women” has ceased, since its theories
have found so many champions. But that which followed her assertion of
her individual rights has never yet been hushed. Kegan Paul speaks the truth
when he says, “The name of Mary Wollstonecraft has long been a mark for
obloquy and scorn.” The least that can be done to clear her memory of
stains is to state impartially the facts of her case.

As has been said in the previous chapter, Mary often spent her free hours
with Mrs. Christie, and at her house she met Captain Gilbert Imlay. He was
one of the many Americans then living in Paris. He was an attractive man
personally, and his position and abilities entitled him to respect. He had
taken an active part in the American rebellion, having then risen to the rank
of captain, and, after the war, had been sent as commissioner to survey still
unsettled districts of the western States. On his return from this work he
wrote [Pg 199] a monograph, called “A Topographical Description of the

Western Territory of North America,” which is remarkable for its
thoroughness and its clear, condensed style, appropriate to such a treatise. It
passed through several editions and increased his reputation. His business in
France is not very explicitly explained. His headquarters seem to have been
at Havre, while he had certain commercial relations with Norway and
Sweden. He was most probably in the timber business, and was, at least at
this period, successful. Godwin says that he had no property whatever, but
his speculations apparently brought him plenty of ready money.

Foreigners in Paris, especially Americans and English, were naturally
drawn together. Mary and Imlay had mutual acquaintances, and they saw
much of each other. His republican sentiments alone would have appealed
to her. But the better she learned to know him, the more she liked him
personally. He, on his side, was equally attracted, and his kindness and
consideration for her were greatly in his favor. Their affection in the end
developed into a feeling stronger than mere friendship. Its consequence,
since both were free, would under ordinary circumstances have been
marriage.

But her circumstances just then were extraordinary. Godwin says that she
objected to a marriage with Imlay because she did not wish to “involve him
in certain family embarrassments to which she conceived herself exposed,
or make him answerable for the pecuniary demands that existed against
her.” There were, however, more formidable objections, not of her own
making. The English who remained in Paris ran the [Pg 200] chance from day
to day of being arrested with the priests and aristocrats, and even of being
carried to the guillotine. Their only safeguard lay in obscurity. They had
above all else to evade the notice of government officers. Mary, if she
married Imlay, would be obliged to proclaim herself a British subject, and

would thus be risking imprisonment and perhaps death. Besides, it was very
doubtful whether a marriage ceremony performed by the French authorities
would be recognized in England as valid. Had she been willing to pass
through this perilous ordeal she would have gained nothing. Love’s labor
would indeed have been lost. Marriage was thus out of the question.

To Mary, however, this did not seem an insurmountable obstacle to their
union. “Her view had now become,” Kegan Paul says, “that mutual
affection was marriage, and that the marriage tie should not bind after the
death of love, if love should die.” In her “Vindication,” she had upheld the
sanctity of marriage because she believed that the welfare of society
depends upon the order maintained in family relations. But her belief also
was that the form the law demands is nothing, the feeling which leads those
concerned to desire it, everything. What she had hitherto seen of married
life, as at present instituted, was not calculated to make her think highly of
it. Her mother and her friend’s mother had led the veriest dogs’ lives
because the law would not permit them to leave brutal and sensual
husbands, whom they had ceased to honor or love. Her sister had been
driven mad by the ill-treatment of a man to whom she was bound by legal,
but not by natural ties. Lady Kingsborough, giving to dogs the [Pg 201] love
which neither her coarse husband nor her children by him could evoke, was
not a brilliant example of conjugal pleasure. Probably in London other
cases had come within her notice. Marriage vows, it seemed, were with the
majority but the convenient cloak of vice. Women lived with their husbands
that they might be more free to entertain their lovers. Men lived with their
wives that they might keep establishments elsewhere for their mistresses.
Love was the one unimportant element in the marriage compact. The
artificial tone of society had disgusted all the more earnest thinkers of the
day. The very extreme to which existing evils were carried drove reformers

to the other. Rousseau and Helvetius clamored for a relapse into a state of
nature without exactly knowing what the realization of their theories would
produce. Mary reasoned in the same spirit as they did, and from no desire to
uphold the doctrine of free love. Fearless in her practice as in her theories,
she did not hesitate in this emergency to act in a way that seemed to her
conscience right. She loved Imlay honestly and sincerely. Because she
loved him she could not think evil of him, nor suppose for a moment that
his passion was not as pure and true as hers. Therefore she consented to live
with him as his wife, though no religious nor civil ceremony could sanction
their union.

That this, according to the world’s standard, was wrong, is a fact beyond
dispute. But before the first stones are thrown, the pros as well as the cons
must be remembered. If Mary had held the conventional beliefs as to the
relations of the sexes, she would be judged by them. Had she thought her
connection [Pg 202] with Imlay criminal, then she would be condemned by
her own conviction. But she did not think so. Moreover, her opinions to the
contrary were very decided. When she gave herself to Imlay without
waiting for a minister’s blessing or a legal permit, she acted in strict
adherence to her moral ideals; and this at once places her in a far different
rank from that of the Mrs. Robinsons and Mrs. Jordans, with whom men
have been too ready to class her. Neither can she be compared to a woman
like George Sand, who also believed that love was a more sacred bond of
union than the marriage tie, and who acted accordingly. But to George
Sand, as masculine by nature as by dress, love was of her life a thing apart,
and a change of lovers a matter of secondary importance. To Mary love was
literally her whole existence, and fidelity a virtue to be cultivated above all
others. Since she in her conduct in this instance stands alone, she can be
justly judged by no other standard than her own.

Whether marriage does or does not represent the ideal relation which can
exist between a man and woman is without the compass of the present
work. But since it is and has been for ages held to be so, the woman who
bids defiance to this law must abide by the consequences. Custom has
inconsistently pardoned freedom in such matters to men, but never to
women. Mary Wollstonecraft might rely upon her friends and acquaintances
for recognition of her virtue, but she should have remembered that to the
world at large her conduct would appear immoral; that by it she would
become a pariah in society, and her work lose much of its efficacy; while
she would be [Pg 203] giving to her children, if she had any, an inheritance of
shame that would cling to them forever.

She may probably have realized this drawback and determined to avoid the
evil consequences of her defiance to social usages. For the first few months
it seems that she kept her intimacy with Imlay secret, and she may have
intended concealing it until such time as she could make it legal in the eyes
of the world. Godwin dates its beginning in April, 1793. The only
information in this respect is to be had from her published letters to Imlay,
the first of which was written in June of the same year, though, it must be
added, Kegan Paul queries the date. This and the following note, dated
August, prove the secrecy she for a time maintained. The latter seems to
have been written after she had determined to live openly with Imlay in
Paris, but just before she carried her determination into practice:—

Past Twelve o’clock, Monday night.

I 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 line 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 feeling that has sometimes given you pain. Yes, I will
be good, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, I cannot
again fall into the miserable state which rendered life a burden almost too
heavy to be borne.
But good-night! God bless you! Sterne says that is equal to a kiss, yet
[Pg 204]

I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude 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.
I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow.
Yours,
——

The reason for this step was probably the fact that it was not safe for her to
continue in Paris alone and unprotected. The robbers in the woods at
Neuilly might be laughed at; but the red-capped citoyens and citoyennes,
drunk from the first draught of aristocratic blood, were no old man’s
dangers. The peril of the English in the city increased with every new
development of the struggle; but Americans were looked upon as stanch
brother citizens, and a man who had fought for the American Republic was
esteemed as the friend and honored guest of the French Republic. As
Imlay’s wife, Mary’s safety would therefore be assured. The murderous
greed of the people, to break out in September in the Law of the Suspect,
was already felt in August, and at the end of that month she sought
protection under Imlay’s roof, and shielded herself by his name.

She could not at once judge of the manner in which this expedient would be
received. It was impossible to hold any communication with England. For
eighteen months after her letter to Mr. Johnson, not a word from her
reached her friends at home. As for those in Paris, so intense was the great
human tragedy of [Pg 205] which they were the witnesses, that they probably
forgot to gossip about each other. The crimes and horrors that stared them in
the face were so appalling that desire to seek out imaginary ones in their
neighbors was lost. As far as can be known from Mary’s letters, her
connection with Imlay did not take from her the position she had held in the
English colony. No door was closed against her; no scandal was spread
about her. The truth is, these people must have understood her difficulties as
well as she did. They knew the impossibility of a legal ceremony and the
importance in her case of an immediate union; and understanding this, they
seem to have considered her Imlay’s wife. At least the rumors which
months afterwards came to her sisters treated her marriage as a certainty.
Charles Wollstonecraft, now settled in Philadelphia, wrote on June 16,
1794, to Eliza, a year after Mary and Imlay had begun their joint life: “I
heard from Mary six months ago by a gentleman who knew her at Paris,
and since that have been informed she is married to Captain Imlay of this
country.” The same report had found its way to Mr. Johnson, and through
him again to Mrs. Bishop. It was hard to doubt its truth, and yet Mrs.
Bishop knew as well as, if not better than, any one Mary’s views about
marriage. She had, happily for herself, reaped the benefit of them. In her
surprise she sent Charles’s letter to Everina, accompanied by her own
reflections upon the startling news. These are a curious testimony to the
strength of Mary’s objections to matrimony. Eliza’s petty envy of her
greater sister is still apparent in this letter. It is dated August 15:—

[Pg 206] “... If Mary is actually married to Mr. Imlay, it is not impossible but
she might settle there [in America] too. Yet Mary cannot be married! It is
natural to conclude her protector is her husband. Nay, on reading Charles’s
letter, I for an instant believed it true. I would, my Everina, we were out of
suspense, for all at present is uncertainty and the most cruel suspense; still,
Johnson does not repeat things at random, and that the very same tale
should have crossed the Atlantic makes me almost believe that the once M.
is now Mrs. Imlay, and a mother. Are we ever to see this mother and her
babe?”

The only record of Mary’s connection with Imlay, which lasted for about
two years, are the letters which she wrote to him while he was away from
her, his absences being frequent and long. Fortunately, these letters have
been preserved. They were published by Godwin almost immediately after
her death, and were republished in 1879 by C. Kegan Paul. “They are,” says
Godwin, “the offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated
with the passion it essays to describe.” She was thirty-five when she met
Imlay. Her passion for him was strong with the strength of full womanhood,
nor had it been weakened by the flirtations in which so many women fritter
away whatever deep feeling they may have originally possessed. She was
no coquette, as she told him many times. She could not have concealed her
love in order to play upon that of the man to whom she gave it. What she
felt for him she showed him with no reservation or affectation of feminine
delicacy. She despised such false sentiments. The consequence is, that her
letters contain the unreserved expression of her feelings. Those [Pg 207]

written before she had cause to doubt her lover are full of wifely devotion
and tenderness; those written from the time she was forced to question his
sincerity, through the gradual realization of his faithlessness, until the bitter
end, are the most pathetic and heart-rending that have ever been given to
the world. They are the cry of a human soul in its death-agony, and are the

more tragic because they belong to real life and not to fiction. The sorrows
of the Heros, Guineveres, and Francescas of romance are not greater than
hers were. Their grief was separation from lovers who still loved them. Hers
was the loss of the love of a man for whom her passion had not ceased, and
the admission of the unworthiness of him whom she had chosen as worthy
above all others. Who will deny that her fate was the more cruel?

She in her letters tells her story better than any one else could do it for her.
Therefore, as far as it is possible, it will be repeated here in her own words.

Imlay’s love was to Mary what the kiss of the Prince was to the Sleeping
Beauty in the fairy tale. It awakened her heart to happiness, leading her into
that new world which is the old. Hitherto the love which had been her
portion was that which she had sought

“... in the pity of other’s woe,
In the gentle relief of another’s care.”

And yet she had always believed that the pure passion which a man gives to
a woman is the greatest good in life. That she was without it had been to her
a heavier trial than an unhappy home and overwhelming debts. [Pg 208] Now,
when she least expected it, it had come to her. While women in Paris were
either trembling with fear for what the morrow might bring forth, or else
caught in the feverish whirl of rebellion, one at least had found rest. But
human happiness can never be quite perfect. Sensitiveness was a family
fault with the Wollstonecrafts. It had been developed rather than suppressed
in Mary by her circumstances. She was therefore keenly susceptible not
only to Imlay’s love, but to his failings. Of these he had not a few. He does
not seem to have been a refined man. From some remarks in Mary’s letters
it may be concluded that he had at one time been very dissipated, and that

the society of coarse men and women had blunted his finer instincts. His
faults were peculiarly calculated to offend her. His passion had to be
stimulated. His business called him away often, and his absences were
unmistakably necessary to the maintenance of his devotion. The sunshine of
her new life was therefore not entirely unclouded. She was by degrees
obliged to lower the high pedestal on which she had placed her lover, and to
admit to herself that he was not much above the level of ordinary men. This
discovery did not lessen her affection, though it made her occasionally
melancholy. But she was, on the whole, happy.

In September he was compelled to leave her to go to Havre, where he was
detained for several months. Love had cast out all fear from her heart. She
was certain that he considered himself in every sense of the word her
husband; and therefore during his absence she frankly told him how much
she missed him, and in her letters shared her troubles and pleasures with
him. [Pg 209] She wrote the last thing at night to tell him of her love and her
loneliness. She could not take his slippers from their old place by the door.
She would not look at a package of books sent to her, but said she would
keep them until he could read them to her while she would mend her
stockings. She drew pictures of the happy days to come when in the farm,
either in America or France, to which they both looked forward as their
Ultima Thule, they would spend long evenings by their fireside, perhaps
with children about their knees. If Eliza sent her a worrying letter, half the
worry was gone when she had confided it to him. If ne’er-do-weel Charles,
temporarily prosperous or promising to be so, wrote her one that pleased
her, straightway she described the delight with which he would make a
friend of Imlay. When the latter had been away but a short time, she found
there was to be a new tie between them. As the father of her unborn child he
became doubly dear to her, while the consciousness that another life

depended upon her made her more careful of her health. “This thought,” she
told him, “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.” As
Kegan Paul says, “No one can read her letters without seeing that she was a
pure, high-minded, and refined woman, and that she considered herself, in
the eyes of God and man, his wife.”

During the first part of his absence, Imlay appears to have been as devoted
as she could have wished him to be. When her letters to him did not come
[Pg 210] regularly,—as indeed, how could they in those troubled days?—he
grew impatient. His impatience Mary greeted as a good sign. In December
she wrote:—

I am glad to find 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 till 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, likewise, of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the
same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass. There is
nothing picturesque in 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 exertion
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, little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes
glistening with sympathy. Thy lips then feel softer than soft, and I rest my
cheek on thine, forgetting 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 my eye,
that would be all your own, if a grateful emotion, directed to the Father of
nature, who has made me 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 affection when absent than present; nay, I
think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let me [Pg 211]
say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and have a
degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.
Yours sincerely,
Mary.

But there were days during his absence when her melancholy returned with
full force. She could not but fear that the time would come when the coarse
fibre of his love would work her evil. Just after he left, she wrote,—

“... So much for business! May I venture to talk a little longer about less
weighty affairs? 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 mind than you in one respect; because 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, forgive
me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours.
“With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is
necessary to render a woman piquante, a soft word for desirable; and,
beyond these casual ebullitions 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 sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roses
that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life.

“I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought
produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your
affection. Of late we are always separating. Crack! crack! and away you go!
This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to write
cheerfully, some melancholy [Pg 212] tears have found their way into my
eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness 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 hapless
love,’ and bear with me a little longer. When we are settled in the country
together, more duties will 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.”

The business at Havre apparently could not be easily settled. The date of
Imlay’s return became more and more uncertain, and Mary grew restless at
his prolonged stay. This she let him know soon enough. She was not a silent
heroine willing to let concealment prey on her spirits. It was as impossible
for her to smile at grief as it was to remain unconscious of her lover’s
shortcomings. Her first complaints, however, are half playful, half serious.
They were inspired by her desire to see him more than by any misgiving as
to the cause of his detention. On the 29th of December she wrote:

“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 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.”

But the playfulness quickly disappeared. Mary was ill, and her illness
aggravated her normal sensitiveness, [Pg 213] while the terrible death-drama

of the Revolution was calculated to deepen rather than to relieve her gloom.
A day or two later she broke out vehemently:—

“... I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s head and heart be
organized from mine! 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 Milton 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 labor of patience; it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; for before
a person can find a resting-place, imagining 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. The world appears an ‘unweeded garden’
where things ‘rank and vile’ flourish best.
“If you do not return soon,—or, which is no such weighty matter, talk of it,
—I will throw my slippers out at window, and be off, nobody knows
where.”

The next morning she added in a postscript:—

“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 I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you!”

Imlay’s answers to these letters were kind and reassuring, and contained
ample explanation of his apparent coldness. He probably, to give him the
benefit of the doubt, was at this time truthful in pleading business as an
excuse for his long absence. His [Pg 214] reasons, at all events, not only
satisfied Mary but made her ashamed of what seemed to her a want of faith

in him. She was as humble in her penitence as if she had been grievously at
fault. One Monday night she wrote:—

“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 overflowing 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.”

As it continued impossible for Imlay to leave Havre, it was arranged that
Mary should join him there. She could not go at once on account of her
health. While she had been so unhappy, she had neglected to take that care
of herself which her condition necessitated, and she was suffering the
consequences. Once her mind was at rest, she made what amends she could
by exercise in the bracing winter air, in defiance of dirt and intense cold,
and by social relaxation, at least such as could be had while the guillotine
was executing daily tasks to the tune of Ça ira, and women were madly
turning in the mazes of the Carmagnole. Though she could not boast of
being quite recovered, she was soon able to report to Imlay, “I am so
lightsome, that I think it will not go badly with me.” Her health sufficiently
restored, and an escort—the excited condition of the country making one
more than usually indispensable—having been found, she began her
welcome journey. It was doubly welcome. One could breathe more [Pg 215]

freely away from Paris, the seat of the Reign of Terror, where the
Revolution, as Vergniaud said, was, Saturn-like, devouring its own children;
and for Mary the journey had likewise the positive pleasure of giving her
her heart’s desire. Before Imlay’s warm assurances of his love, her
uneasiness melted away as quickly as the snow at the first breath of spring.

How completely, is shown in this extract from a letter in which she
prepared him for her coming:—

“You have by your tenderness and worth twisted yourself more artfully
round my heart than I supposed possible. 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 new language for me! But, knowing 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!”

She arrived in Havre in the February of 1794. About a fortnight later Imlay
left for Paris, but many proofs of his affection had greeted her, and during
these few days he had completely calmed her fears. Judging from the letters
she sent him during this absence, he must have been as lover-like as in the
first happy days of their union. One was written the very day after his
departure:—

Havre, Thursday morning, March 12.

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 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 tell [Pg 216] me I was churlish about; but all would
not do. I took, nevertheless, my walk before breakfast, though the weather
was not 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
your eyes glisten and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing 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.

The second note was written shortly before his return, and was a mere
postscript to a letter on business. Had she covered reams of paper with her
protestations, she could not have expressed her tender devotion more
strongly than in these few lines:—

Do not call me stupid for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I was to
enclose. This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of 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 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 I am
Yours most affectionately,
Mary.

Imlay’s absence was brief, nor did he again leave Mary until the following
August. In April their child, a daughter, was born, whom Mary called Fanny
in memory of her first and dearest friend. Despite her past imprudences, she
was so well that she remained in bed but a day. Eight days later she was out
again. Though she felt no ill effects at the time, her rashness had probably
something to do with her illness when her second child was born. These
months at Havre [Pg 217] were a pleasant oasis in the dreary desert of her
existence. To no parched, sun-weary traveller have the cooling waters of the
well and the shade of the palm-tree been more refreshing and invigorating
than domestic pleasures were to Mary. Years before she had told Mr.
Johnson they were among her most highly cherished joys, nor did they
prove less desirable when realized than they had in anticipation. She seems
to have had a house of her own in Havre, and to have seen a little of the
Havrais, whom she found “ugly without doubt,” and their houses smelling
too much of commerce. They were, in a word, bourgeois. But her husband

and child were all the society she wanted. With them any wilderness would
have been a paradise. Her affection increased with time, and Imlay, though
discovered not to be a demigod, grew ever dearer to her. Her love for her
child, which she confessed was at first the effect of a sense of duty,
developed soon into a deep and tender feeling. With Imlay’s wants to attend
to, the little Fanny, at one time ill with small-pox, to nurse, and her book on
the Revolution to write, the weeks and months passed quickly and happily.
In August Imlay was summoned to Paris, and at once the sky of her
paradise was overcast. She wrote to him,—

“You too have somehow clung round my heart. I found I could not eat my
dinner in the great 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 I can find
fault with you, but how I can doubt your affection.”

[Pg 218] CHAPTER IX.
IMLAY’S DESERTION.

1794-1795.

Unfortunately, as a rule, the traveller on life’s journey has but as short a
time to stay in the pleasant green resting-places, as the wanderer through
the desert. In September Mary followed Imlay to Paris. But the gates of her
Eden were forever barred. Before the end of the month he had bidden her
farewell and had gone to London. Against the fascination of money-
making, her charms had little chance. His estrangement dates from this
separation. When Mary met him again, he had forgotten love and honor,
and had virtually deserted her. While her affection became stronger, his
weakened until finally it perished altogether.

Her confidence in him, however, was confirmed by the months spent at
Havre, and she little dreamed his departure was the prelude to their final
parting. For a time she was lighter-hearted than she had ever before been
while he was away. The memory of her late happiness reassured her. Her
little girl was an unceasing source of joy, and she never tired of writing to
Imlay about her. Her maternal tenderness overflows in her letters:—

“... You will want to be told over and over again,” she said in one of
[Pg 219]

them, not doubting his interest to be as great as her, “that our little Hercules

is quite recovered.
“Besides looking at me, there are three other things which delight her: to
ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music.
Yesterday at the fête she enjoyed the two latter; but, to honor J. J. Rousseau,
I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had round her....”

In a second, she writes:—

“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 like you (entre nous, your best looks, for I do not admire your
commercial face), every nerve seemed to vibrate to her touch, and I began
to think that 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 sympathetic tears you excited.”

And in still another, she exclaims:—

“My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not
here to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of ‘dalliance,’ but certainly
no lover was ever more attached to his mistress than she is to me. Her eyes
follow me everywhere, and by affection I have the most despotic power
over her. She is all vivacity or softness. Yes; I love her more than I thought I
should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced her as my only
comfort; when pleased with her, 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.”

As the devout go on pilgrimage to places once sanctified by the presence of
a departed saint, so she visited [Pg 220] alone the haunts of the early days of
their love, living over again the incidents which had made them sacred.
“My imagination,” she told him, “... chooses to ramble back to the barrier
with you, or to see you coming 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 corn.” She begged him to bring back
his “barrier face,” as she thus fondly recalled their interviews at the barrier.
She told him of a night passed at Saint Germains in the very room which
had once been theirs, and, glowing with these recollections, she warned
him, that if he should return changed in aught, she would fly from him to
cherish remembrances which must be ever dear to her. Occasionally a little
humorous pleasantry interrupted the more tender outpourings in her letters.
Just as, according to Jean Paul, a man can only afford to ridicule his religion
when his faith is firm, so it was only when her confidence in Imlay was
most secure that she could speak lightly of her love. To the reader of her
life, who can see the snake lurking in the grass, her mirth is more tragical
than her grief. On the 26th of October, Imlay having now been absent for
over a month, she writes:—

“I have almost charmed a judge of the tribunal, R., who, though I should
not have thought it possible, has humanity, if not beaucoup d’esprit. But, let
me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I shall be half in love with the
author of the Marseillaise, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced
or so, and plays sweetly on the violin.
“What do you say to this threat?—why, entre nous, I [Pg 221] like to give way
to a sprightly vein when writing to you. ‘The devil,’ you know, is
proverbially said to ‘be in a good humor when he is pleased.’”

Many of her old friends in the capital had been numbered among the
children devoured by the insatiable monster. A few, however, were still left,
and she seems to have made new ones and to have again gone into Parisian
society. The condition of affairs was more conducive to social pleasures
than it had been the year before. Robespierre was dead. There were others
besides Mary who feared “the last flap of the tail of the beast;” but, as a

rule, the people, now the reaction had come, were over-confident, and the
season was one of merry-making. There were fêtes and balls. Even
mourning for the dead became the signal for rejoicing; and gay Parisians,
their arms tied with crape, danced to the memory of the victims of the late
national delirium. The Reign of Terror was over, but so was Mary’s
happiness. Public order was partly restored, but her own short-lived peace
was rudely interrupted. Imlay in London became more absorbed in his
immediate affairs, a fact which he could not conceal in his letters; and Mary
realized that compared to business she was of little or no importance to him.
She expostulated earnestly with him on the folly of allowing money cares
and ambitions to preoccupy him. She sincerely sympathized with him in his
disappointments, but she could not understand his willingness to sacrifice
sentiment and affection to sordid cares. “It appears to me absurd,” she told
him, “to waste life in preparing to live.” Not one of the least of her trials
was that she was at this time [Pg 222] often forced to see a man who was
Imlay’s friend or partner in Paris, and who seems to have aided and abetted
him in his speculations. He tormented her with accounts of new enterprises,
and she complained very bitterly of him. “——, I know, urges you to stay,”
she wrote in one of her first letters of expostulation, “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 will discuss this subject.” For a little while she
tried to believe that her doubts had no substantial basis, but were the result
of her solitude. In the same letter she said:—

“... 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.”

But by degrees the dark shades increased until they had completely blotted
out the light made by the past. Imlay’s letters were fewer and shorter, more
taken up with business, and less concerned with her. Ought she to endure
his indifference, or ought she to separate from him forever? was the
question which now tortured her. She had tasted the higher pleasures, and
the present pain was intense in proportion. Her letters became mournful as
dirges.

On the 30th of December she wrote:—

[Pg 223]“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 till he makes me angry of the necessity of your staying two or three
months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude, and, entre
nous, I am determined to try to earn some money here myself, in order to
convince you that, if you choose to run about the world to get a fortune, it is
for yourself; for the little girl and I will live without your assistance unless
you are with us. I may be termed proud; be it so, but I will 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 prostitute their persons, following perhaps a gust
of inebriation, 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 promiscuous
amours during his absence.
“I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things, yet the former is
necessary to give life 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 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 sufficient
delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my
little darling, fondly as I dote on her, is a girl. I am sorry to have a tie to a
world that for me is ever sown with thorns.
“You will call this an ill-humored letter, when, in fact, [Pg 224] 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
inconceivably depressed my spirits. You have always known my opinion. I
have ever declared that two people who mean to live together ought not to
be long separated. If certain things are more necessary to you 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 inquietudes 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.”

Once, but only once, the light shone again. On the 15th of January she
received a kind letter from Imlay, and her anger died away. “It is pleasant to
forgive those we love,” she said to him simply. But it was followed by his
usual hasty business notes or by complete silence, and henceforward she
knew hope only by name. Her old habit of seeing everything from the dark
side returned. She could not find one redeeming point in his conduct.
Despair seized her soul. Her own misery was set against a dark background,

for she looked beneath the surface of current events. She heard not the
music of the ball-room, but that of the battle-field. She saw not the dances
of the heedless, but the tears of the motherless and the orphaned. The luxury
of the upper classes might deceive some men, but it could not deafen her to
the complaints of the poor, who were only waiting their chance to [Pg 225]

proclaim to the new Constitution that they wanted not fine speeches, but
bread. Other discomforts contributed their share to her burden. A severe
cold had settled upon her lungs, and she imagined she was in a galloping
consumption. Her lodgings were not very convenient, but she had put up
with them, waiting day by day for Imlay’s return. Weary of her life as Job
was of his, she, like him, spoke out in the bitterness of her soul. Her letters
from this time on are written from the very valley of the shadow of death.
On February 9 she wrote:—

“The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that
we were parted forever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,
convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other
letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got were
only a few, hasty lines calculated to wound the tenderness that the sight of
the superscriptions excited.
“I mean not, however, to complain; yet so many feelings 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. However, I
recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during
the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness 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 all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to
this. I did [Pg 226] 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.
“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
honor. Indeed, I scarcely understand you. You request me to come, and then
tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.
“When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. I
would share poverty with 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 still 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 lie 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, all 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 enclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your
departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was
written. You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more
determined moment. Do not insult me by saying that ‘our being together is
paramount to every other consideration!’ Were it, you would not be running
after a bubble, at the expense of my peace of mind.
“Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.”

[Pg 227] Grief sometimes makes men strong. Mary’s stimulated her into a
determination to break her connection with Imlay, and to live for her child

alone. She would remain in Paris and superintend Fanny’s education. She
had already been able to look out for herself; there was no reason why she
should not do it again. Until she settled upon the means of support to be
adopted, she would borrow money from her friends. Anything was better
than to live at Imlay’s expense. As for him, such a course would probably
be a relief, and certainly it would do him no harm. “As I never concealed
the nature of my connection with you,” she wrote him, “your reputation will
not suffer.” But her plans, for some reason, did not meet with his approval.
He was tired of her, and yet he seems to have been ashamed to confess his
inconstancy. At one moment he wrote that he was coming to Paris; at the
next he bade her meet him in London. But no mention was made of the
farm in America. The excitement of commerce proved more alluring than
the peace of country life. His shilly-shallying unnerved Mary; positive
desertion would have been easier to bear. On February 19 she wrote him:—

“When I first received your letter putting off your return to an indefinite
time, I felt so hurt that I knew 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 discover that the fault is in myself. My child alone
interests me, and but for her I should not take any pains to recover my
health.”

[Pg 228] The child was now the strongest bond of union between them. For
her sake she felt the necessity of continuing to live with Imlay as long as
possible, though his love was dead. Therefore, when he wrote definitely that
he would like her to come to him, since he could not leave his business to
go to her, she relinquished her intentions of remaining alone in France with
Fanny, and set out at once for London. She could hardly have passed
through Havre without feeling the bitter contrast between her happiness of

the year before, and her present hopelessness. “I sit, lost in thought,” she
wrote to Imlay, “looking at the sea, and tears rush into my eyes when I find
that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed been so unhappy
this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes as to regain
tranquillity. Enough of this; be still, foolish 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.” The boat upon which she sailed was run
aground, and she was thus unexpectedly detained at Havre. During this
interval she touched still more closely upon sorrow’s crown of sorrow in
remembering happier things, by writing to Mr. Archibald Hamilton Rowan,
who had escaped from his prison in Ireland to France, and giving him
certain necessary information about the house she had left, and which he
was about to occupy.

She reached London in April, 1795. Her gloomiest forebodings were
confirmed. Imlay had provided a furnished house for her, and had
considered her comforts. But his manner was changed. He was cold and
constrained, and she felt the difference immediately. [Pg 229] He was little
with her, and business was, as of old, the excuse. According to Godwin, he
had formed another connection with a young strolling actress. Life was thus
even less bright in London than it had been in Paris. If hell is but the
shadow of a soul on fire, she was now plunged into its deepest depths. Its
tortures were more than she could endure. For her there were, indeed, worse
things waiting at the gate of life than death, and she resolved by suicide to
escape from them. This part of her story is very obscure. But it is certain
that her suicidal intentions were so nearly carried into effect, that she had
written several letters containing her, as she thought, last wishes, and which
were to be opened after all was over. There is no exact account of the
manner in which she proposed to kill herself, nor of the means by which she

was prevented. “I only know,” Godwin says, “that Mr. Imlay became
acquainted with her purpose at a moment when he was uncertain whether or
no it was already executed, and that his feelings were roused by the
intelligence. It was perhaps owing to his activity and representations that
her life was at this time saved. She determined to continue to exist.”

This event sobered both Imlay and Mary. They saw the danger they were in,
and the consequent necessity of forming a definite conclusion as to the
nature of their future relations. They must either live together in perfect
confidence, or else they must separate. “My friend, my dear friend,” she
wrote him, “examine yourself well,—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 [Pg 230] explicit, whether you desire to live with
me, or part forever! When you can ascertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure
you! for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.” The
determination could not be made in a hurry. In the meantime Mary knew it
would be unwise to remain idle, meditating upon her wrongs. Forgetfulness
of self in active work appeared the only possible means of living through
the period of uncertainty. Imlay had business in Norway and Sweden which
demanded the personal superintendence either of himself or of a
trustworthy agent. He gave it in charge to Mary, and at the end of May she
started upon this mission. That Imlay still looked upon her as his wife, and
that his confidence in her was unlimited, is shown by the following
document in which he authorizes her to act for him:—

May 19, 1795.

Know all men by these presents that I, Gilbert Imlay, citizen of the United
States of America, at present residing in London, do nominate, constitute,
and appoint Mary Imlay, my best friend and wife, to take the sole
management and direction of all my affairs, and business which I had

placed in the hands of Mr. Elias Bachman, negotiant, Gottenburg, or in
those of Messrs. Myburg & Co., Copenhagen, desiring that she will manage
and direct such concerns in such manner as she may deem most wise and
prudent. For which this letter shall be a sufficient power, enabling her to
receive all the money or sums of money that may be recovered from Peter
Ellison or his connections, whatever may be the issue of the trial now
carrying on, instigated by Mr. Elias Bachman, as my agent, for the violation
of the trust which I had reposed in his integrity.
Considering the aggravated distresses, the accumulated [Pg 231] losses and
damages sustained in consequence of the said Ellison’s disobedience of my
injunctions, I desire the said Mary Imlay will clearly ascertain the amount
of such damages, taking first the advice of persons qualified to judge of the
probability of obtaining satisfaction, or the means the said Ellison or his
connections, who may be proved to be implicated in his guilt, may have, or
power of being able to make restitution, and then commence a new
prosecution for the same accordingly....
Respecting the cargo of goods in the hands of Messrs. Myburg and Co.,
Mrs. Imlay has only to consult the most experienced persons engaged in the
disposition of such articles, and then, placing them at their disposal, act as
she may deem right and proper....
Thus confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved
friend and companion, I submit the management of these affairs entirely
and implicitly to her discretion.
Remaining most sincerely and affectionately hers truly,
G. Imlay.
Witness, J. Samuel.

Unfortunately for Mary, she was detained at Hull, from which town she was
to set sail, for about a month. She was thus unable immediately to still the
memory of her sorrows. It is touching to see how, now that she could no
longer doubt that Imlay was made of common clay, she began to find

excuses for him. She represented to herself that it was her misfortune to
have met him too late. Had she known him before dissipation had enslaved
him, there would have been none of this trouble. She was, furthermore,
convinced that his natural refinement was not entirely destroyed, and that if
he would but make the effort he could overcome his grosser appetites. To
this effect she wrote him from Hull:—

[Pg 232]“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
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 friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure,
which arises from an unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul
and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every
emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions over which satiety
has no power, and the recollection of which even disappointment cannot
disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These emotions, more
or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristics of genius,
the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish for the beauties of
nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and child-
begetters 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.
“Well! 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 feeling
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 child, hardly daring
to own to myself the secret wish that [Pg 233] it might become our tomb, and
that the heart, still so 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.”

After almost a month of inactivity, the one bright spot in it being a visit to
Beverly, the home of her childhood, she sailed for Sweden, with Fanny and
a maid as her only companions. Her “Letters from Sweden, Norway, and
Denmark,” with the more personal passages omitted, were published in a
volume by themselves shortly after her return to England. Notice of them
will find a more appropriate place in another chapter. All that is necessary
here is the very portion which was then suppressed, but which Godwin later
included with the “Letters to Imlay.” The northern trip had at least this good
result. It strengthened her physically. She was so weak when she first
arrived in Sweden that the day she landed she fell fainting to the ground as
she walked to her carriage. For a while everything fatigued her. The bustle
of the people around her seemed “flat, dull, and unprofitable.” The civilities
by which she was overwhelmed, and the endeavors of the people she met to
amuse her, were fatiguing. Nothing, for a while, could lighten her deadly
weight of sorrow. But by degrees, as her letters show, she improved. Pure
air, long walks, and rides on horseback, rowing and bathing, and days in the
country had their beneficial effect, and she wrote to Imlay on July 4, “The
rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks; and I have seen a physical
life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the
fond, credulous hopes of youth.”

[Pg 234] But even a sound body cannot heal a broken heart. Mary could not
throw off her troubles in a day. She after a time tried to distract her mind by
entering into the amusements she had at first scorned, but it was often in
vain. “I have endeavored to fly from myself,” she said in one letter, “and
launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish
when alone with my child.” There was a change for the better, however, in
her mental state, for though her grief was not completely cured, she at least
voluntarily sought to recover her emotional equilibrium. Self-examination
showed her where her weakness lay, and she resolved to conquer it. With
but too much truth, she told Imlay:—

“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 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 fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.”

Despite her endeavors, her spiritual recovery was slow. A cry of agony still
rang through her letters. But she had at least one pleasure that helped to
soften her cares. This was her love for her child, which, always great, was
increased by Imlay’s cruelty. The tenderness which he by his indifference
repulsed, she now lavished upon Fanny. She seemed to feel that she ought
to make amends for the fact that her child [Pg 235] was, to all intents and
purposes, fatherless. In the same letter from which the above passage is
taken, there is this little outburst of maternal affection:—

“I grow more and more attached to my little girl, and I cherish this affection
with 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 a
name!’ and nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed
to cling and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.”

It so happened that at one time she was obliged to leave her child with her
nurse for about a month. Business called her to Tönsberg in Norway, and
the journey would have been bad for Fanny, who was cutting her teeth. “I
felt more at leaving my child than I thought I should,” she wrote to Imlay,
“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
forever, of leaving her thus helpless.” Here indeed was a stronger argument
against suicide than Christianity or its “aftershine.” This absence stimulated
her motherly solicitude and heightened her sense of responsibility. In her
appeals to Imlay to settle upon his future course in her regard, she now
began to dwell upon their child as the most important reason to keep them
together. On the 30th of July she wrote from Tönsberg:—

“I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live
together, because I want you to acquire an [Pg 236] habitual tenderness for my
poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she
should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving her, my
most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and
little to fear, in life. There are wounds that can never be healed; but they
may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing.”

On the 7th of August she wrote again in the same strain:—

“This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on
something, and soon; we must meet shortly, or part forever. I am sensible
that I acted foolishly, but I was wretched when we were together. Expecting
too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip from me. I cannot live
with you, I ought not, if you form another attachment. But I promise you,

mine shall not be intruded on you. Little reason have I to expect a shadow
of happiness, after the cruel disappointments that have rent my heart; but
that of my child seems to depend on our being together. Still, I do not wish
you to sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a
conviction that I can provide for her, and it shall be my object, if we are
indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must
be a comfort to me, if I am to have no other, and only know me as her
support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you,
if we are only to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my
letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express
to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation. You must
determine. Examine yourself. But, for God’s sake! spare me the anxiety of
uncertainty! I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain.”

He seems to have written to her regularly. At times she reproached him for
not letting her hear from him, [Pg 237] but at others she acknowledged the
receipt of three and five letters in one morning. If these had been preserved,
hers would not seem as importunate as they do now, for he gave her reason
to suppose that he was anxious for a reunion, and wrote in a style which she
told him she may have deserved, but which she had not expected from him.
She also referred to his admission that her words tortured him; and there
was talk of a trip together to Switzerland. But at the same time his proofs of
indifference forced her to declare that she and pleasure had shaken hands.
“How often,” she breaks out in her agony, “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!’” The only particular in which he remained firm
was his unwillingness to give a final decision in what, to her, was the one
all-important matter. His vacillating behavior was heartless in the extreme.
Her suspense became unbearable, and all her letters contained entreaties for
him to relieve it. She was ready, once he said the word, to undertake to
support her child and herself. But the fiat must come from him. Had it

remained entirely with her she would have returned to him. But this she
could not do unless he would receive her as his wife and promise loyalty to
her. “I do not understand you,” she wrote on the 6th of September, in
answer to one of his letters. “It is necessary for you to write more explicitly,
and determine on some mode of conduct. I cannot endure this suspense.
Decide. Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or eternally
apart! I shall not write to you again till I receive an answer to this.”

[Pg 238] Finally, after allowing her to suffer three months of acute agony, he
summoned up resolution enough to write and tell her he would abide by her
decision. Her business in the North had been satisfactorily settled, for which
she was, alas! to receive but poor thanks; and the welfare of the child
having now become the pivot of her actions, she returned to England. From
Dover she sent him a letter informing him that she was prepared once more
to make his home hers:—

You say I must decide for myself. I have decided that it was most for the
interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to
live together; and I even thought that you would be glad some years hence,
when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an
affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst
endeavoring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in, for you
cannot run about forever.
From the tenor of your last letter, however, I am led to imagine that you
have formed some new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly request you
to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of
the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle about
a mere form.
I am laboring to write with calmness; but the extreme anguish I feel at
landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious
that the friend whom I most wish to see will feel a disagreeable sensation at

being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of
common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow,
and the playfulness of my child distresses me. On her account I wished to
remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation. Besides, I did not
wish to surprise you. You have told [Pg 239] 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 entreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return
of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me
whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive
your letter on Wednesday morning.
Do not keep me in suspense. I expect nothing from you, or any human
being; my die is cast! I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty;
yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart. That
being who moulded it thus knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots
the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life,—but life
will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
will find me at ——. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately,
Mary.

The result of this letter was that Imlay and Mary tried to retie the broken
thread of their domestic relations. The latter went up to London, and they
settled together in lodgings. It would have been better for her had she never
seen him again. The fire of his love had burnt out. No power could rekindle
it. His indifference was hard to bear; but so long as he assured her that he
had formed no other attachment, she made no complaint. For Fanny’s sake
she endured the new bitterness, and found such poor comfort as she could
in being with him. It was but too true that the constancy of her affection was

the torment of her life. In spite of everything, she still loved him. Before
long, however, [Pg 240] she discovered through her servants that he was
basely deceiving her. He was keeping up a separate establishment for a new
mistress. Mary, following the impulse of the moment, went at once to this
house, where she found him. The particulars of their interview are not
known; but her wretchedness during the night which followed maddened
her. His perfidy hurt her more deeply than his indifference. Her cup of
sorrow was filled to overflowing, and for the second time she made up her
mind to fly from a world which held nothing but misery for her. It may be
concluded that for the time being she was really mad. It will be remembered
that troubles of a kindred nature had driven Mrs. Bishop to insanity. All the
Wollstonecrafts inherited a peculiarly excitable temperament. Mary, had she
not lost all self-control, would have been deterred from suicide, as she had
been from thoughts of it in Sweden, by her love for Fanny. But her grief
was so great it drowned all memory and reason. The morning after this
night of agony she wrote to Imlay:—

“I write you now on my knees, imploring you to send my child and the
maid with —— to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, Rue
——, Section de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their
direction.
“Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.
“Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I
forced from her; a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but
my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you
assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived
together.
“I shall make no comments on your conduct or any appeal to the world. Let
my wrongs sleep with me! [Pg 241] Soon, very soon, I shall be at peace. When
you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

“I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. Your
treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. I go to
find comfort; and my only fear is that my poor body will be insulted by an
endeavor to recall my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames
where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.
“God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made
me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasures, I shall
appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.”

Then she left her house to seek refuge in the waters of the river. She went
first to Battersea Bridge, but it was too public for her purpose. She could
not risk a second frustration of her designs. There was no place in London
where she could be unobserved. With the calmness of despair, she hired a
boat and rowed to Putney. It was a cold, foggy November day, and by the
time she arrived at her destination the night had come, and the rain fell in
torrents. An idea occurred to her: if she wet her clothes thoroughly before
jumping into the river, their weight would make her sink rapidly. She
walked up and down, up and down, the bridge in the driving rain. The fog
enveloped the night in a gloom as impenetrable as that of her heart. No one
passed to interrupt her preparations. At the end of half an hour, satisfied that
her end was accomplished, she leaped from the bridge into the water below.
Despite her soaked clothing, she did [Pg 242] not sink at once. In her
desperation she pressed her skirts around her; then she became unconscious.
She was found, however, before it was too late. Vigorous efforts were made
to restore life, and she was brought back to consciousness. She had met
with the insult she most dreaded, and her disappointment was keen. Her
failure only increased her determination to destroy herself. This she told
Imlay in a letter written shortly after, dated November, 1795:—

“I have only to lament that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was
inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not
to be baffled by disappointment: nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt
which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect I am only
accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by
other circumstances that I should be dishonored.
“You say ‘that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the
wretchedness into which we have been plunged.’ You are extricated long
since. But I forbear to comment. If I am condemned to live longer it is a
living death.
“It appears to me that you lay much more stress on delicacy than on
principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would
have been violated by your visiting a wretched friend, if indeed you have
any friendship for me. But since your new attachment is the only sacred
thing in your eyes, I am silent. Be happy! My complaints shall never more
damp your enjoyment; perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my
death could, for more than a moment. This is what you call magnanimity. It
is happy for yourself that you possess this quality in the highest degree.
“Your continually asserting that you will do all in your power to contribute
to my comfort, when you only allude to pecuniary assistance, appears to me
a flagrant breach [Pg 243] of delicacy. I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will
I accept it. I never wanted but your heart. That gone, you have nothing more
to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life. Forgive
me, then, if I say that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to
supply my necessities as an insult which I have not merited, and as rather
done out of tenderness for your own reputation than for me. Do not mistake
me. I do not think that you value money; therefore I will not accept what
you do not care for, though I do much less, because certain privations are
not painful to me. When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take
care of the child.
“I write with difficulty; probably I shall never write to you again. Adieu!
“God bless you!”

Imlay, whose departure to his other house Mary construed into
abandonment of her, made, in spite of this letter, many inquiries as to her
health and tranquillity, repeated his offers of pecuniary assistance, and, at
the request of mutual acquaintances, even went to see her. But a show of
interest was not what she wanted, and her thanks for it was the assurance
that before long she would be where he would be saved the trouble of either
talking or thinking of her. Fortunately Mr. Johnson and her other friends
interfered actively in her behalf, and by their arguments and representations
prevailed upon her to relinquish the idea of suicide. Through their kindness,
the fever which consumed her was somewhat abated. Her temporary
madness over, she again remembered her responsibility as a mother, and
realized that true courage consists in facing a foe, and not in flying from it.
Of the change in her intentions for the future she informed Imlay:—

[Pg 244] London, November, 1795.

Mr. Johnson having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which
were left at the house, I have to request you to let Marguerite bring them to
me.
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from
coming here to transact your business. And whatever I may think and feel,
you need not fear that I shall publicly complain. No! If I have any criterion
to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated; but
wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I
long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child. I only mean
by this to say that you have nothing to fear from my desperation.
Farewell.

Godwin makes the incredible statement that Imlay refusing to break off his
new connection, though he declared it to be of a temporary nature, Mary
proposed that she should live in the same house with his mistress. In this

way he would not be separated from his child, and she would quietly wait
the end of his intrigue. Imlay, according to Godwin, consented to her
suggestion, but afterwards thought better of it and refused. There is not a
word in her letters to confirm this extraordinary story. It is simply
impossible that at one moment she should have been driven to suicide by
the knowledge that he had a mistress, and that at the next she should take a
step which was equivalent to countenancing his conduct. It is more rational
to conclude that Godwin was misinformed, than to believe this.

Towards the end of November Imlay went to Paris with the woman for
whom he had sacrificed wife and child. Mary felt that the end had now
really come, as is seen in the few letters which still remain. Once [Pg 245] the
first bitterness of her disappointment had been mastered, the old tenderness
revived, and she renewed her excuses for him. “My affection for you is
rooted in my heart,” she wrote fondly and sadly. “I know you are not what
you now seem, nor will you always act and feel as you now do, though I
may never be comforted by the change.” And in another letter she said,
“Resentment and even anger are momentary emotions with me, and I wish
to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an
enemy.” Writing to him, however, was more than she could bear. Each letter
reopened the wound he had inflicted, and inspired her with a wild desire to
see him. She therefore wisely concluded that all correspondence between
them must cease. In December, 1795, while he was still in Paris, she bade
him her last farewell, though in so doing she was, as she says, piercing her
own heart. She refused to hold further communication with him or to
receive his money, but she told him she would not interfere in anything he
might wish to do for Fanny. Here it may be said that, though Imlay declared
that a certain sum should be settled upon the latter, not a cent of it was ever
paid. This is Mary’s last letter to him:—

London, December, 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 friendship, I
disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think that the
“forbearance” talked of has not been very delicate. It is, however, of no
consequence. I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.
I now solemnly assure you that this is an eternal farewell. Yet I flinch
[Pg 246]

not from the duties which tie me to life.
That there is “sophistry,” on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters
not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet your
understanding or mine must be strangely warped, for what you term
“delicacy” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for
morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to
follow an ankle or step be the sacred foundation of principle and affection.
Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the
brunt of your sarcasms.
The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will
survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The
impetuosity of your senses may have led you to term mere animal desire the
source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come. Whether
you will always think so, I shall never know.
It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me
to believe that you are not what you appear to be.
I part with you in peace.

She saw him once or twice afterwards. When he came to London again,
Godwin says that “she could not restrain herself from making another
effort, and desiring to see him once more. During his absence, affection had
led her to make numberless excuses for his conduct, and she probably
wished to believe that his present connection was, as he represented it,

purely of a casual nature. To this application she observes that he returned
no other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he would
not see her.”

They did meet, however, but their meeting was accidental. Imlay was one
day paying a visit to Mr. [Pg 247] Christie, who had returned to London, and
with whom he had business relations. He was sitting in the parlor, when
Mary called. Mrs. Christie, hearing her voice, and probably fearing an
embarrassing scene, hurried out to warn her of his presence, and to advise
her not to come in the room. But Mary, not heeding her, entered fearlessly,
and, with Fanny by the hand, went up and spoke to Imlay. They retired, it
seems, to another room, and he then promised to see her again, and indeed
to dine with her at her lodgings on the following day. He kept his promise,
and there was a second interview, but it did not lead to a reconciliation. The
very next day she went into Berkshire, where she spent the month of March
with her friend, Mrs. Cotton. She never again made the slightest attempt to
see him or to hear from him. There was a limit even to her affection and
forbearance. One day, after her return to town, she was walking along the
New Road when Imlay passed her on horseback. He jumped off his horse
and walked with her for some little distance. This was the last time they
met. From that moment he passed completely out of her life.

And so ends the saddest of all sad love stories.

[Pg 248] CHAPTER X.
LITERARY WORK.

1793-1796.

The first volume of “An Historical and Moral View of the Origin and
Progress of the French Revolution, and the Effect it has produced in
Europe,” which Mary wrote during the months she lived in France, was
published by Johnson in 1794. It was favorably received and criticised,
especially by that portion of the public who had sympathized with the
Revolutionists in the controversy with Burke. One admirer, in 1803,
declared it was not second even to Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire.” It went very quickly through two editions, surest proof of
its success. The “Analytical Review” called it

“... a work of uncommon merit, abounding with strong traits of original
genius, and containing a great variety of just and important observations on
the recent affairs of France and on the general interests of society at the
present crisis.”

Mary had apparently spent in idleness the years which had elapsed since the
“Rights of Women” had taken England by storm. But in reality she must
have made good use of them. This new book marks an enormous advance in
her mental development. It is but little disfigured by the faults of style, and
is [Pg 249] never weakened by the lack of method, which detract from the
strength and power of the work by which she is best known. In the “French
Revolution” her arguments are well weighed and balanced, and flowers of
rhetoric, with a few exceptions, are sacrificed for a simple and concise
statement of facts. Unfortunately the first volume was never followed by a
second. Had Mary finished the book, as she certainly intended to do when
she began it, it probably would still be ranked with the standard works on
the Revolution.

As the title demonstrates, her object in writing this history was to explain
the moral significance, as well as the historical value, of the incidents which
she recorded. This moral element is uppermost in every page of her book.
The determination to discover the truth at all hazards is its key-note. This
end Mary hoped to accomplish, first by tracing the French troubles to their
real causes, and then by giving an unprejudiced account of them. The result
of a thorough study and investigation of her subject was the formation of
doctrines which are in close sympathy with those of the evolutionists of to-
day. Nothing strikes the reader so much as her firm belief in the theory of
development, and her conclusion therefrom that progress in government
consists in the gradual substitution of altruistic principles for the egotism

which was the primal foundation of law and order. Profession of this creed
is at once made in both the preface and first chapter of the “French
Revolution.” In the former, she writes:—

“By ... attending to circumstances, we shall be able to discern clearly that
the Revolution was neither produced [Pg 250] by the abilities or the intrigues
of a few individuals, nor was the effect of sudden and short-lived
enthusiasm; but the natural consequence of intellectual improvement,
gradually proceeding to perfection in the advancement of communities from
a state of barbarism to that of polished society.”

In considering this subject, she concludes that the civilization of the
ancients was deficient because it paid more attention to the cultivation of
taste in the few than to the development of understanding in the many, and
that that of the moderns is superior to it because of the more general
diffusion of knowledge which followed the invention of printing. Her
arguments in support of her theories are excellent.

“When,” she writes, “learning was confined to a small number of the
citizens of a state, and the investigation of its privileges was left to a
number still smaller, governments seem to have acted as if the people were
formed only for them; and ingeniously confounding their rights with
metaphysical jargon, the luxurious grandeur of individuals has been
supported by the misery of the bulk of their fellow-creatures, and ambition
gorged by the butchery of millions of innocent victims.”

This despotism, she further asserts, always continues so long as men are
unqualified to judge with precision of their civil and political rights. But
once they begin to think, and hence to learn the true facts of history, they
must discover that the first social systems were founded on passion,
—“individuals wishing to fence round their own wealth or power, and make
slaves of their brothers to prevent encroachment,”—and that the laws of

society could not have been originally “adjusted so as to take in the future
conduct of its members, [Pg 251] because the faculties of man are unfolded
and perfected by the improvements made by society.” This knowledge
necessarily destroys belief in the sanctity of prescription, and when once it
is made the basis of government, the ruling powers will have as much
consideration for the rights of others as for their own.

“When society was first subjugated to laws,” she writes, “probably by the
ambition of some, and the desire of safety in all, it was natural for men to
be selfish, because they were ignorant how intimately their own comfort
was connected with that of others; and it was also very natural that
humanity, rather the effect of feeling than of reason, should have a very
limited range. But when men once see clear as the light of heaven—and I
hail the glorious day from afar!—that on the general happiness depends
their own, reason will give strength to the fluttering wings of passion, and
men will ‘do unto others what they wish they should do unto them.’”

One of the first means, therefore, by which this much-to-be-desired end is
to be attained, is the destruction of blind reverence of the past.

With uncompromising honesty, she says:—

“We must get entirely clear of all the notions drawn from the wild traditions
of original sin: the eating of the apple, the theft of Prometheus, the opening
of Pandora’s box, and the other fables too tedious to enumerate, on which
priests have erected their tremendous structures of imposition to persuade
us that we are naturally inclined to evil. We shall then leave room for the
expansion of the human heart, and, I trust, find that men will insensibly
render each other happier as they grow wiser.”

After a brief analysis of the laws of progress in general, Mary proceeds to
their special application in the [Pg 252] case of France. The illumination of the
French people she believes was hastened by the efforts of such men, on the

one hand, as Rousseau and Voltaire, who warred against superstition, and
on the other, as Quesnay and Turgot, who opposed unjust taxation. It was
through them that the nation awoke to a consciousness of its wrongs, and
saw for the first time, in the clear light of truth, the inveterate pride of the
nobles, the rapacity of the clergy, and the prodigality of the court. The
farmer then realized to the full the injustice of a government which could
calmly allow taxes and feudal claims to swallow all but the twentieth part of
the profit of his labor. Citizens discovered the iniquity of laws which gave
so little security to their lives and property, that these could be sported with
impunity by the aristocracy. In a word, the people found that without a
pretext of justice, they were forced to be hewers of wood and drawers of
water for a chosen few. Once enlightened they rebelled against the nobles
who treated them as beasts of burden and trod them under foot with the
mud; and they boldly demanded their rights as human beings and as
citizens.

Having thus given the raison d’être of the great French crisis, she describes
with striking energy the events which ensued. She makes manifest the folly
and blindness of the court, the shortcomings and vile intrigues of ministers,
the duplicity and despotism of the parliaments, which prevented the
petitions and demands of the people from receiving the attention and
consideration which alone could have satisfied them. That there were evils
in the French government, not even its friends could deny. The recognition
of them [Pg 253] necessitated their being done away with. There were but two
methods by which this could be accomplished: they must either be reformed
or destroyed. The government refused to accept the first course; the people
resolved to adopt the second. Mary’s treatment of this question is
interesting. The following passage contains her chief arguments upon the
subject, and the conclusion she drew from them, so very different from the

result of Burke’s reasoning on the same point in the “Reflections.” This
passage is an excellent specimen of the style in which the book is written.
The hasty measures of the French, she says, being worthy of philosophical
investigation, fall into two distinct inquiries:—

“First, if from the progress of reason we be authorized to infer that all
governments will be meliorated, and the happiness of man placed on the
solid basis gradually prepared by the improvement of political science; if
the degrading distinctions of rank, born in barbarism and nourished by
chivalry, be really becoming in the estimation of all sensible people so
contemptible, that a modest man, in the course of fifty years, would
probably blush at being thus distinguished; if the complexion of manners in
Europe be completely changed from what it was half a century ago, and the
liberty of its citizens tolerably secured; if every day extending freedom be
more firmly established in consequence of the general dissemination of
truth and knowledge,—it then seems injudicious for statesmen to force the
adoption of any opinion, by aiming at the speedy destruction of obstinate
prejudices; because these premature reforms, instead of promoting, destroy
the comfort of those unfortunate beings who are under their dominion,
affording at the same time to despotism the strongest arguments to urge in
opposition to the theory of reason. Besides, the objects intended to be
forwarded [Pg 254] are probably retarded, whilst the tumult of internal
commotion and civil discord leads to the most dreadful consequence,—the
immolating of human victims.
“But, secondly, it is necessary to observe, that, if the degeneracy of the
higher orders of society be such that no remedy less fraught with horror can
effect a radical cure; and if, enjoying the fruits of usurpation, they domineer
over the weak, and check, by all the means in their power, every humane
effort to draw man out of the state of degradation into which the inequality
of fortune has sunk him; the people are justified in having recourse to
coercion to repel coercion. And, further, if it can be ascertained that the
silent sufferings of the citizens of the world are greater, though less
obvious, than the calamities produced by such violent convulsions as have
happened in France, which, like hurricanes whirling over the face of nature,

strip off all its blooming graces, it may be politically just to pursue such
measures as were taken by that regenerating country, and at once root out
those deleterious plants which poison the better half of human happiness.”

Among the most remarkable passages in the book are those relating to
Marie Antoinette. As was the case when she wrote her answer to Burke, the
misery of millions unjustly subjected moved Mary more than the woes of
one woman justly deprived of an ill-used liberty. Her love and sympathy for
the people made her perhaps a little too harsh in her judgment of the queen.
“Some hard words, some very strong epithets, are indeed used of Marie
Antoinette,” Mr. Kegan Paul says in his short but appreciative criticism of
this book, “showing that she, who could in those matters know nothing
personally, could not but depend on Paris gossip; but this is interesting, as
showing what the view taken of the queen was before passion rose to its [Pg
255] highest, before the fury of the people, with all the ferocity of word and
deed attendant on great popular movements, had broken out.” The
following lines, therefore, reflecting the feelings and opinions of the day,
must be read with as much, if not more interest than those of later and
better-informed historians:—

“The unfortunate Queen of France, beside the advantages of birth and
station, possessed a very fine person; and her lovely face, sparkling with
vivacity, hid the want of intelligence. Her complexion was dazzlingly clear;
and when she was pleased, her manners were bewitching; for she happily
mingled the most insinuating voluptuous softness and affability with an air
of grandeur bordering on pride, that rendered the contrast more striking.
Independence also, of whatever kind, always gives a degree of dignity to
the mien; so that monarchs and nobles with most ignoble souls, from
believing themselves superior to others, have actually acquired a look of
superiority.

“But her opening faculties were poisoned in the bud; for before she came to
Paris she had already been prepared, by a corrupt, supple abbé, for the part
she was to play; and, young as she was, became so firmly attached to the
aggrandizement of her house, that, though plunged deep in pleasure, she
never omitted sending immense sums to her brother on every occasion. The
person of the king, in itself very disgusting, was rendered more so by
gluttony, and a total disregard of delicacy, and even decency, in his
apartments; and when jealous of the queen, for whom he had a kind of
devouring passion, he treated her with great brutality, till she acquired
sufficient finesse to subjugate him. Is it then surprising that a very desirable
woman, with a sanguine constitution, should shrink, abhorrent, from his
embraces; or that an empty mind should be employed only to vary the
pleasures which emasculated her Circean court? And, added to this, the
histories of the Julias and Messalinas of antiquity convincingly prove that
there is no end to the vagaries of [Pg 256] the imagination, when power is
unlimited, and reputation set at defiance.
“Lost, then, in the most luxurious pleasures, or managing court intrigues,
the queen became a profound dissembler; and her heart was hardened by
sensual enjoyments to such a degree that, when her family and favorites
stood on the brink of ruin, her little portion of mind was employed only to
preserve herself from danger. As a proof of the justness of this assertion, it
is only necessary to observe that, in the general wreck, not a scrap of her
writing has been found to criminate her; neither has she suffered a word to
escape her to exasperate the people, even when burning with rage and
contempt. The effect that adversity may have on her choked understanding,
time will show [this was written some months before the death of the
queen]; but, during her prosperity, the moments of languor that glide into
the interstices of enjoyment were passed in the most childish manner,
without the appearance of any vigor of mind to palliate the wanderings of
the imagination. Still, she was a woman of uncommon address; and though
her conversation was insipid, her compliments were so artfully adapted to
flatter the person she wished to please or dupe, and so eloquent is the
beauty of a queen, in the eyes even of superior men, that she seldom failed
to carry her point when she endeavored to gain an ascendency over the
mind of an individual. Over that of the king she acquired unbounded sway,

when, managing the disgust she had for his person, she made him pay a
kingly price for her favors. A court is the best school in the world for actors;
it was very natural then for her to become a complete actress, and an adept
in all the arts of coquetry that debauch the mind, whilst they render the
person alluring.”

Mary’s inflexible hatred of the cruelty of the court and the nobility, which
had led to the present horrors, though great, did not prevent her from seeing
the tyranny and brutality in which the people indulged so [Pg 257] soon as
they obtained the mastery. Her treatment of the facts of the Revolution is
characterized by honesty. She is above all else an impartial historian and
philosopher. She distinguishes, it is true, between the well-meaning
multitude—those who took the Bastille, for example—and the rabble
composed of the dregs of society,—those who headed the march to
Versailles. She declares, “There has been seen amongst the French a
spurious race of men, a set of cannibals, who have gloried in their crimes;
and, tearing out the hearts that did not feel for them, have proved that they
themselves had iron bowels.” But while she makes this distinction, she does
not hesitate to admit that the retaliation of the French people, suddenly all
become sovereigns, was as terrible as that of slaves unexpectedly loosed
from their fetters. It is but fair, after quoting her denunciations of Marie
Antoinette, to show how far the new rule was from receiving her
unqualified approbation. Describing the silence and ruin which have
succeeded the old-time gayety and grandeur of Versailles, she exclaims:—

“Weeping, scarcely conscious that I weep, O France! over the vestiges of
thy former oppression, which, separating man from man with a fence of
iron, sophisticated all, and made many completely wretched, I tremble, lest
I should meet some unfortunate being, fleeing from the despotism of
licentious freedom, hearing the snap of the guillotine at his heels, merely
because he was once noble, or has afforded an asylum to those whose only

crime is their name; and, if my pen almost bound with eagerness to record
the day that levelled the Bastille with the dust, making the towers of despair
tremble to their base, the recollection that still the abbey is appropriated to
hold the victims of revenge and suspicion palsies the hand [Pg 258] that would
fain do justice to the assault, which tumbled into heaps of ruins, walls that
seemed to mock the resistless force of time. Down fell the temple of
despotism; but—despotism has not been buried in its ruins! Unhappy
country! when will thy children cease to tear thy bosom? When will a
change of opinion, producing a change of morals, render thee truly free?
When will truth give life to real magnanimity, and justice place equality on
a stable seat? When will thy sons trust, because they deserve to be trusted;
and private virtue become the guarantee of patriotism? Ah! when will thy
government become the most perfect, because thy citizens are the most
virtuous?”

The same impartiality is preserved in the relation of even the most exciting
and easily misconceived incidents of the Revolution. The courageous and
resolute resistance of the Third Estate to the clergy and nobility is described
with dignified praise which never descends into fulsome flattery. The
ignorance, vanity, jealousy, disingenuousness, self-sufficiency, and
interested motives of members of the National Assembly are unhesitatingly
exposed in recording such of their actions as, examined superficially, might
seem the outcome of a love of freedom. In giving the details of the taking of
the Bastille, and the women’s march on Versailles, Mary becomes really
eloquent. Mr. Kegan Paul’s opinion may be here advantageously cited. “Her
accounts of the Bastille siege and of the Versailles episode,” he says, “are
worth reading beside those of the master to whose style they are so great a
contrast. Carlyle has seized on the comic element in the march to Versailles,
Mary Wollstonecraft on the tragic; and hers seems to me the worthier view.”

Many of the remarks upon civilization and the influence [Pg 259] of the
cultivation of science on the understanding, with which the book is

interspersed, are full of wisdom and indicative of deep thought and careful
research. Hers was, to use with but slight change the words with which she
concludes, the philosophical eye, which, looking into the nature and
weighing the consequence of human actions, is able to discern the cause
which has produced so many dreadful effects.

Notwithstanding its excellence and the reputation it once had, this work is
now almost unknown. But few have ever heard of it, still fewer read it; a
fact due, of course, to its incompleteness. The first and only volume ends
with the departure of Louis from Versailles to Paris, when the Revolution
was as yet in its earliest stages. This must ever be a matter of regret. That
succeeding volumes, had she written them, would have been even better is
very probable. There was marked development in her intellectual powers
after she published the “Rights of Women.” The increased merit of her later
works somewhat confirms Southey’s declaration, made three years after her
death, that “Mary Wollstonecraft was but beginning to reason when she
died.”

The last book she finished and published during her life-time was her
“Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and
Denmark.” Her journey, as has been explained in the last chapter, was
undertaken to attend to certain business affairs for Imlay. Landing in
Sweden, she went from there to Norway, then again to Sweden, and finally
to Denmark and Hamburg, in which latter places she remained a
comparatively short period. Not being free to go and come as she chose, she
was sometimes detained in [Pg 260] small places for two or three weeks, while
she could stay but a day or two in large cities. But she had letters of
introduction to many of the principal inhabitants of the towns and villages
to which business called her, and was thus able to see something of the life

of the better classes. The then rough mode of travelling also brought her
into close contact with the peasantry. As the ground over which she
travelled was then but little visited by English people, she knew that her
letters would have at least the charm of novelty.

They were published by her friend Johnson in 1796. Hitherto, her work had
been purely of a philosophical, historical, or educational nature. The
familiar epistolary style in which she had begun to record her observations
of the French people had been quickly changed for the more formal tone of
the “French Revolution.” These travels, consequently, marked an entirely
new departure in her literary career. Their success was at once assured.
Even the fastidious Godwin, who had condemned her other books, could
find no fault with this one. Contemporary critics agreed in sharing his good
opinion.

“Have you ever met with Mary Wollstonecraft’s ‘Letters from Sweden and
Norway’?” Southey asked in a letter to Thomas Southey. “She has made me
in love with a cold climate and frost and snow, with a northern moonlight.”
The impression they produced was lasting. When, several years later, he
wrote an “Epistle” to A. S. Cottle to be published in the latter’s volume of
“Icelandic Poetry,” he again alluded to them. In referring to the places
described in northern poems he declared,—

[Pg 261]
“... Scenes like these
Have almost lived before me, when I gazed
Upon their fair resemblance traced by him
Who sung the banished man of Ardebeil,
Or to the eye of Fancy held by her,
Who among Women left no equal mind
When from the world she passed; and I could weep
To think that She is to the grave gone down!”

The “Annual Register” for 1796 honored the “Letters” by publishing in its
columns a long extract from them containing a description of the
Norwegian character. The “Monthly Magazine” for July of the same year
concluded that the book, “though not written with studied elegance,
interests the reader in an uncommon degree by a philosophical turn of
thought, by bold sketches of nature and manners, and above all by strong
expressions of delicate sensibility.” The verdict of the “Analytical Review”
was as follows:—

“A vigorous and cultivated intellect easily accommodates itself to new
occupations. The notion that individual genius can only excel in one thing is
a vulgar error. A mind endued by nature with strong powers and quick
sensibility, and by culture furnished in an uncommon degree with habits of
attention and reflection, wherever it is placed will find itself employment,
and whatever it undertakes will execute it well. After the repeated proofs
which the ingenious and justly admired writer of these letters has given the
public, that her talents are far above the ordinary level, it will not be
thought surprising that she could excel in different kinds of writing; that the
qualifications which have enabled her to instruct young people by moral
lessons and tales, and to furnish the philosopher with original and important
speculations, should also empower her to entertain and interest the [Pg 262]
public in a manner peculiarly her own by writing a book of travels.
“We have no hesitation in assuring our readers that Mrs. Wollstonecraft has
done this in the present volume.”

The qualities most desirable in a writer of travels are quickness of
perception, active interest in the places and people described, appreciation
of local color, a nice sense of discrimination, and a pleasant, simple style. It
is true that occasionally affected and involved phrases occur in Mary’s
letters from the North, and that the tone of many passages is a trifle too
sombre. But the former defects are much less glaring and fewer in number

than those of her earlier writings; while, when it is remembered that during
her journey her heart was heavy-laden with disappointment and despair, her
melancholy reflections must be forgiven her. With the exception of these
really trifling shortcomings, she may be said to have ably fulfilled the
required conditions. It may be asserted of her, in almost the identical words
which Heine uses in praise of Goethe’s “Italian Journey,” that she, during
her travels, saw all things, the dark and the light, colored nothing with her
individual feelings, and pictured the land and its people in the true outlines
and true colors in which God clothed it.

Determined to avoid the mistake common to most travellers, of speaking
from feeling rather than from reason, she shows her readers the virtues and
faults of the people among whom she travelled, without overestimating the
former or exaggerating the latter. She found Swedes and Norwegians
unaffected and hospitable, but sensual and indolent. Both good and evil [Pg
263] she attributes to the influence of climate and to the comparatively low

stage of culture attained in these northern countries. The long winter nights,
she explains in her letters, have made the people sluggish. Their want of
interest in politics, literature, and scientific pursuits have concentrated their
attention upon the pleasures of the senses. They are hospitable because of
the excitement and social amusements hospitality insures. They care for the
flesh-pots of Egypt because they have not yet heard of the joys of the
Promised Land. The women of the upper classes are so indolent that they
exercise neither mind nor body; consequently the former has but a narrow
range, the latter soon loses all beauty. The men seek no relaxation from
their business occupations save in Brobdingnagian dinners and suppers. If
they are godly, they are never cleanly, cleanliness requiring an effort of
which they are incapable. Indolence and indifference to culture throughout
Sweden and Norway are the chief characteristics of the natives.

To Mary the coarseness of the people seemed the more unbearable because
of the wonderful beauty of their country as she saw it in midsummer. She
could not understand their continued indifference to its loveliness. Her own
keen enjoyment of it shows itself in all her letters. She constantly pauses in
relating her experiences to dwell upon the grandeur of cliffs and sea, upon
the impressive wildness of certain districts, full of great pine-covered
mountains and endless fir woods, contrasting with others more gentle and
fertile, which are covered with broad fields of corn and rye. She loves to
describe the long still summer nights and the [Pg 264] gray dawn when the
birds begin to sing, the sweet scents of the forest, and the soft freshness of
the western breeze. The smallest details of the living picture do not escape
her notice. She records the musical tinkling of distant cow-bells and the
mournful cry of the bittern. She even tells how she sometimes, when she is
out in her boat, lays down her oars that she may examine the purple masses
of jelly-fish floating in the water. Truly, her ways were not as those of the
Philistines around her.

The following extract from a letter written from Gothenburg gives a good
idea of the impression made upon her by the moral ugliness and natural
beauty which she met wherever she went. The passage is characteristic,
since its themes are the two to which she most frequently recurs:—

“... Every day, before dinner and supper, even whilst the dishes are cooling
on the table, men and women repair to a side-table, and, to obtain an
appetite, eat bread and butter, cheese, raw salmon or anchovies, drinking a
glass of brandy. Salt fish or meat then immediately follows, to give a further
whet to the stomach. As the dinner advances,—pardon me for taking up a
few minutes to describe what, alas! has detained me two or three hours on
the stretch, observing,—dish after dish is changed, in endless rotation, and
handed round with solemn pace to each guest; but should you happen not to
like the first dishes, which was often my case, it is a gross breach of

politeness to ask for part of any other till its turn comes. But have patience,
and there will be eating enough. Allow me to run over the acts of a visiting
day, not overlooking the interludes.
“Prelude, a luncheon; then a succession of fish, flesh, and fowl for two
hours; during which time the dessert [Pg 265] —I was sorry for the
strawberries and cream—rests on the table to be impregnated by the fumes
of the viands. Coffee immediately follows in the drawing-room, but does
not preclude punch, ale, tea and cakes, raw salmon, etc. A supper brings up
the rear, not forgetting the introductory luncheon, almost equalling in
removes the dinner. A day of this kind you would imagine sufficient—but a
to-morrow and a to-morrow. A never-ending, still-beginning feast may be
bearable, perhaps, when stern Winter frowns, shaking with chilling aspect
his hoary locks; but during a summer sweet as fleeting, let me, my kind
strangers, escape sometimes into your fir groves, wander on the margin of
your beautiful lakes, or climb your rocks to view still others in endless
perspective; which, piled by more than giant’s hand, scale the heavens to
intercept its rays, or to receive the parting tinge of lingering day,—day that,
scarcely softened into twilight, allows the freshening breeze to wake, and
the moon to burst forth in all her glory to glide with solemn elegance
through the azure expanse.
“The cow’s bell has ceased to tinkle the herd to rest; they have all paced
across the heath. Is not this the witching time of night? The waters murmur,
and fall with more than mortal music, and spirits of peace walk abroad to
calm the agitated breast. Eternity is in these moments; worldly cares melt
into the airy stuff that dreams are made of; and reveries, mild and
enchanting as the first hopes of love, or the recollection of lost enjoyment,
carry the hapless wight into futurity, who, in bustling life, has vainly strove
to throw off the grief which lies heavy at the heart. Good-night! A crescent
hangs out in the vault before, which wooes me to stray abroad: it is not a
silvery reflection of the sun, but glows with all its golden splendor. Who
fears the falling dew? It only makes the mown grass smell more fragrant.”

As might be expected, judging from Mary’s natural benevolence, the
poverty and misery she saw during [Pg 266] her journey awakened feelings of

deep compassion. She describes in tones of pity the wretched condition of
the lower classes in Sweden. Servants, she writes, are no better than slaves.
They are beaten and maltreated by their masters, and are paid so little that
they cannot afford to wear sufficient clothing or to eat decent food.
Laborers live in huts wretched beyond belief, and herd together like
animals. They have so accustomed themselves to a stifling atmosphere, that
fresh air is never let into their houses even in summer, and the mere idea of
cleanliness is beyond their comprehension. Indolence is their failing as well
as that of their superiors in rank. Many in their brutishness refuse to exert
themselves save to find the food absolutely necessary to support life, and
are too sluggish to be curious. It is pleasant to know that they have at least
one good quality, in the exercise of which they surpass the rich. This is
politeness, the national virtue. Mary observes:—

“The Swedes pique themselves on their politeness; but far from being the
polish of a cultivated mind, it consists merely of tiresome forms and
ceremonies. So far indeed from entering immediately into your character,
and making you feel instantly at your ease, like the well-bred French, their
over-acted civility is a continual restraint on all your actions. The sort of
superiority which a fortune gives when there is no superiority of education,
excepting what consists in the observance of senseless forms, has a contrary
effect than what is intended; so that I could not help reckoning the
peasantry the politest people of Sweden, who, only aiming at pleasing you,
never think of being admired for their behavior.”

Mary found the condition of the Norwegians somewhat better. The lower
classes were freer, more industrious, [Pg 267] and more opulent. She describes
their inns as comfortable, whereas those of the Swedes had not been even
inhabitable. The upper classes, though, like the Swedes, over-fond of the
pleasures of the table, narrow in their range of ideas, and wholly without

imagination, at least gave some signs of better days in their dawning
interest in culture. She writes:—

“The Norwegians appear to me a sensible, shrewd people, with little
scientific knowledge, and still less taste for literature; but they are arriving
at the epoch which precedes the introduction of the arts and sciences.
“Most of the towns are seaports, and seaports are not favorable to
improvement. The captains acquire a little superficial knowledge by
travelling, which their indefatigable attention to the making of money
prevents their digesting; and the fortune that they thus laboriously acquire is
spent, as it usually is in towns of this description, in show and good living.
They love their country, but have not much public spirit. Their exertions
are, generally speaking, only for their families; which I conceive will
always be the case, till politics, becoming a subject of discussion, enlarges
the heart by opening the understanding. The French Revolution will have
this effect. They sing at present, with great glee, many republican songs,
and seem earnestly to wish that the republic may stand; yet they appear very
much attached to their prince royal; and, as far as rumor can give an idea of
character, he appears to merit their attachment.”

She remained in Copenhagen and Hamburg but a short time. Imlay’s
unkindness and indecision had, by the time she reached Holland, so
increased her melancholy that the good effect of the bracing northern air
was partially destroyed. She lost her interest in the novelty of her
surroundings, and as she says in [Pg 268] one of her last letters, stayed much
at home. But her perceptive faculties were not wholly deadened. She notes
with her usual precision the indolence and dulness of the Danes, and the
unwavering devotion of the Hamburgers to commerce, and describes the
towns of Hamburg and Copenhagen with graphic force. These descriptions
are well worth reading.

It was always impossible for Mary not to reflect and moralize upon what
passed around her. She not only wanted to examine and record phenomena
and events, but to discover a reason for their existence. She invariably
sought for the primal causes and the final results of the facts in which she
was interested. The civilization of the northern countries through which she
travelled, so different from the culture of England and France, gave her
ample food for thought. The reflections it aroused found their way into her
letters. Some of them are really remarkable, as for example, the following:
—

“Arriving at Sleswick, the residence of Prince Charles of Hesse-Cassel, the
sight of the soldiers recalled all the unpleasing ideas of German despotism,
which imperceptibly vanished as I advanced into the country. I viewed, with
a mixture of pity and horror, these beings training to be sold to slaughter, or
be slaughtered, and fell into reflections on an old opinion of mine, that it is
the preservation of the species, not of individuals, which appears to be the
design of the Deity throughout the whole of nature. Blossoms come forth
only to be blighted; fish lay their spawn where it will be devoured; and
what a large portion of the human race are born merely to be swept
prematurely away! Does not this waste of budding life emphatically assert,
that it is not men, but man, whose preservation is so necessary to the
completion of the grand [Pg 269] plan of the universe? Children peep into
existence, suffer, and die; men play like moths about a candle, and sink into
the flame; war and the ‘thousand ills which flesh is heir to’ mow them down
in shoals, whilst the more cruel prejudices of society palsy existence,
introducing not less sure, though slower decay.”

Had Mary Wollstonecraft lived in the present time, she too would have
written hymns to Man. This is another of the many strange instances in her
writings of the resemblance between theories which she evolved for herself
and those of modern philosophers. She lived a century too soon.

The “Letters” were published in the same year, 1796, in Wilmington,
Delaware. A few years later, extracts from them, translated into Portuguese,
together with a brief sketch of their author, were published in Lisbon, while
a German edition appeared in Hamburg and Altona. The book is now not so
well known as it deserves to be. Mary’s descriptions of the physical
characteristics of Norway and Sweden are equal to any written by more
recent English travellers to Scandinavia; and her account of the people is
valuable as an unprejudiced record of the manners and customs existing
among them towards the end of the eighteenth century. But though so little
known, it is still true that, as her self-appointed defender said in 1803,
“Letters so replete with correctness of remark, delicacy of feeling, and
pathos of expression, will cease to exist only with the language in which
they were written.”

Shortly after her death, Godwin published in four volumes all Mary’s
unprinted writings, unfinished as well as finished. This collection, which is
called simply [Pg 270] “Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin,”
may most appropriately be noticed here in connection with the more
complete productions of her last years.

Of the “Letters to Imlay,” which fill the third and a part of the fourth
volume, nothing more need be said. They have been fully explained, and
sufficient extracts from them have been made in the account of that period
of her life during which they were written. The next in importance of these
writings is “Maria; or, The Wrongs of Woman,” a novel. It is but a
fragment. Mary intended to revise the first chapters carefully, and of the last
she had written nothing but the headings and a few detached hints and
passages. Godwin, in his Preface, says, “So much of it as is here given to
the public, she was far from considering as finished; and in a letter to a

friend directly written on this subject, she says, ‘I am perfectly aware that
some of the incidents ought to be transposed and heightened by more
luminous shading; and I wished in some degree to avail myself of criticism
before I began to adjust my events into a story, the outline of which I had
sketched in my mind.’” It therefore must be more gently criticised than such
of her books as were published during her life-time, and considered by her
ready to be given to the public. But, as the last work upon which she was
engaged, and as one which engrossed her thoughts for months, and to which
she devoted, for her, an unusual amount of labor, it must be read with
interest.

The incidents of the story are, in a large measure, drawn from real life. Her
own experience, that of her sister, and events which had come within her
actual knowledge, are the materials which she used. [Pg 271] These served her
purpose as well as, if not better than, any she could have invented. The only
work of her imagination is the manner in which she grouped them together
to form her plot. The story is, briefly, as follows: Maria, the heroine, whose
home-life seems to be a description of the interior of the Wollstonecraft
household, marries to secure her freedom, rather than from affection for her
lover, as was probably the case with “poor Bess.” Her husband, who even in
the days of courtship had been a dissolute rascal, but hypocrite enough to
conceal the fact, throws off his mask after marriage. He speculates rashly,
drinks, and indulges in every low vice. All this she bears until he,
calculating upon her endurance, seeks to sell her to a friend, that her
dishonor may be his gain financially. Then he learns that he has gone too
far. She flies from his house, to which she refuses, on any consideration, to
return. All attempts to bring her back having failed, he, by a successful
stratagem, seizes her as she is on her way to Dover with her child, and,
taking possession of the latter, has his wife confined in an insane asylum.

Here, after days of horror, Maria succeeds in softening the heart of her
keeper, Jemima by name, and through her makes the acquaintance of Henry
Darnford, a young man who, like her, has been made a prisoner under the
false charge of lunacy. Jemima’s friendship is so completely won that she
allows these two companions in misery to see much of each other. She even
tells them her story, which, as a picture of degradation, equals that of some
of Defoe’s heroines. Darnford then tells his, and the reader at once
recognizes in him another Imlay. Finally, by a lucky accident the two [Pg 272]
prisoners make their escape, and Jemima accompanies them. The latter part
of the story consists of sketches and the barest outlines; but these indicate
the succession of its events and its conclusion. Maria and Darnford live
together as husband and wife in London. The former believes that she is
right in so doing, and cares nothing for the condemnation of society. She
endures neglect and contumely because she is supported by confidence in
the rectitude of her conduct. Her husband now has her lover tried for
adultery and seduction, and in his absence Maria undertakes his defence.
Her separation from her husband is the consequence, but her fortune is
thrown into chancery. She refuses to leave Darnford, but he, after a few
years, during which she has borne him two children, proves unfaithful. In
her despair, she attempts to commit suicide, but fails. When consciousness
and reason return, she resolves to live for her child.

“Maria” is a story with a purpose. Its aim is the reformation of the evils
which result from the established relations of the sexes. Certain rights are to
be vindicated by a full exposition of the wrongs which their absence causes.
Mary wished, as her Preface sets forth, to exhibit the misery and oppression
peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and customs of society.
“Maria,” in fact, was to be a forcible proof of the necessity of those social
changes which she had urged in the “Vindication of the Rights of Women.”

In the career of the heroine the wrongs women suffer from matrimonial
despotism and cruelty are demonstrated; while that of Jemima shows how
impossible it is for poor or degraded women to find [Pg 273] employment.
The principal interest in the book arises from the fact that in it Mary
explains more definitely than she had in any previous work, her views about
the laws and restrictions of matrimony. Otherwise the principles laid down
in it do not differ from those which she had already stated in print. Her
justification of Maria’s conduct is in reality a declaration of her belief that
cruelty, depravity, and infidelity in a man are sufficient reasons for his wife
to separate herself from him, this separation requiring no legal permit; and
that a pure honest love sanctifies the union of two people which may not
have been confirmed by a civil or religious ceremony. The following
passage is a partial statement of these views, which proved very
exasperating to her contemporaries. It is the advice given to Maria, after her
flight, by a friendly uncle:—

“The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally speaking,
can be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a woman, once married,
ought to consider the engagement as indissoluble (especially if there be no
children to reward her for sacrificing her feelings) in case her husband
merits neither her love nor esteem. Esteem will often supply the place of
love, and prevent a woman from being wretched, though it may not make
her happy. The magnitude of a sacrifice ought always to bear some
proportion to the utility in view; and for a woman to live with a man for
whom she can cherish neither affection nor esteem, or even be of any use to
him, excepting in the light of a housekeeper, is an abjectness of condition,
the enduring of which no concurrence of circumstances can ever make a
duty in the sight of God or just men. If indeed she submits to it merely to be
maintained in idleness, she has no right to complain bitterly of her fate; or
to act, as a person of independent character might, as if she had a title to
disregard general rules.

[Pg 274]“But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance,
and forfeit their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The
situation of a woman separated from her husband is undoubtedly very
different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity,
has shaken off a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment is thought
sufficient to secure his reputation from taint. And, should she have been
inconsiderate, he will be celebrated for his generosity and forbearance.
Such is the respect paid to the master-key of property! A woman, on the
contrary, resigning what is termed her natural protector (though he never
was so but in name), is despised and shunned for asserting the
independence of mind distinctive of a rational being, and spurning at
slavery.”

The incidents selected by Mary to prove her case are, it must be admitted,
disagreeable, and the minor details too frequently revolting. The stories of
Maria, Darnford, and Jemima are records of shame, crime, and human
bestiality little less unpleasant than the realism of a Zola. It is an
astonishing production, even for an age when Fielding and Smollett were
not considered coarse. But, as was the case in the “Rights of Women,” this
plainness of speech was due not to a delight in impurity and uncleanness for
their own sakes, but to Mary’s certainty that by the proper use of subjects
vile in themselves, she could best establish principles of purity. Whatever
may be thought of her moral creed and of her manner of promulgating it, no
reader of her books can deny her the respect which her courage and
sincerity evoke. One may mistrust the mission of a Savonarola, and yet
admire his inexorable adherence to it. Mary Wollstonecraft’s faith in, and
devotion to, the doctrines she preached was as [Pg 275] firm and unflinching
as those of any religiously inspired prophet.

This story gives little indication of literary merit. The style is stilted, and
there is no attempt at delineation of character. It is wholly without dramatic
action; for this, Mary explains, would have interfered with her main object.

But then its straightforward statement of facts, by concentrating the
attention upon them, adds very strongly to the impression they produce.
Maria is as complete a departure from the conventional heroine of the day,
as, at a later period, Charlotte Brontë’s Rochester was from the heroes of
contemporary novelists. And the book contains at least one description
which should find a place here. This is the account Maria gives of a visit
she makes to her country home a few years after her marriage and
realization of its bitterness, and is really a record of the sentiments
awakened in her when she visited Beverly, her early home, just before she
left England for Sweden. The passage, in its contrast to the oppressive
narrative which it interrupts, is as refreshing as a cool sea-breeze after the
suffocating sirocco of the desert:—

“This was the first time I had visited my native village since my marriage.
But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a
heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to scenes that
whispered recollections of joy and hope most eloquently to my heart! The
first scent of the wild-flowers from the heath thrilled through my veins,
awakening every sense to pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be
removed from my bosom; and, forgetting my husband, the nurtured visions
of a romantic mind, bursting on me with all their [Pg 276] original wildness
and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet realities. I forgot, with
equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow or knew care in the country; while a
transient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy sky of despondency. The
picturesque forms of several favorite trees, and the porches of rude cottages,
with their smiling hedges, were recognized with the gladsome playfulness
of childish vivacity. I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the
common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported
on it. I gazed with delight on the wind-mill, and thought it lucky that it
should be in motion at the moment I passed by: and entering the dear green
lane which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery
gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active soul,
which only served to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But

spying, as I advanced, the spire peeping over the withered tops of the aged
elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the
church-yard; and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination,
bedewed my mother’s grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I
wandered through the church in fancy as I used sometimes to do on a
Saturday evening. I recollected with what fervor I addressed the God of my
youth; and once more with rapturous love looked above my sorrows to the
Father of nature. I pause, feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing;
and (reminded, as I register my sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt
when, in some tremendous solitude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to
fill the universe) I insensibly breathe softly, hushing every wayward
emotion, as if fearing to sully with a sigh a contentment so ecstatic.”

“Maria” seemed to many of its readers an unanswerable proof of the charge
of immorality brought against its authoress. Mrs. West, in her “Letters to a
Young Man,” pointed to it as evidence of Mary’s unfitness for the world
beyond the grave. The [Pg 277] “Biographical Dictionary” undoubtedly
referred to it when it declared that much of the four volumes of Mary’s
posthumous writings “had better been suppressed, as ill calculated to excite
sympathy for one who seems to have rioted in sentiments alike repugnant to
religion, sense, and decency.” Modern readers have been kinder. The
following is Miss Mathilde Blind’s criticism, which, though a little too
enthusiastic perhaps, shows a keen appreciation of the redeeming merits of
the book:—

“For originality of invention, tragic incident, and a certain fiery eloquence
of style, this is certainly the most remarkable and mature of her works,
although one may object that for a novel the moral purpose is far too
obvious, the manner too generalized, and many of the situations revolting to
the taste of a modern reader. But, with all its faults, it is a production that, in
the implacable truth with which it lays open the festering sores of society, in
the unshrinking courage with which it drags into the light of day the wrongs
the feeble have to suffer at the hands of the strong, in the fiery enthusiasm

with which it lifts up its voice for the voiceless outcasts, may be said to
resemble ‘Les Misérables,’ by Victor Hugo.”

The other contents of these four volumes are as follows: a series of lessons
in spelling and reading, which, because prepared especially for her
“unfortunate child,” Fanny Imlay, are an interesting relic; the “Letters on
the French Nation,” mentioned in a previous chapter; a fragment and list of
proposed “Letters on the Management of Infants;” several letters to Mr.
Johnson, the most important of which have been already given; the “Cave
of Fancy,” an Oriental tale, as Godwin calls [Pg 278] it,—the story of an old
philosopher who lives in a desolate sea-coast district and there seeks to
educate a child, saved from a shipwreck, by means of the spirits under his
command (the few chapters Godwin thought proper to print were written in
1787, and then put aside, never to be finished); an “Essay on Poetry, and
Our Relish for the Beauties of Nature,” a short discussion of the difference
between the poetry of the ancients, who recorded their own impressions
from nature, and that of the moderns, who are too apt to express sentiments
borrowed from books (this essay was published in the “Monthly Magazine”
for April, 1797); and finally, to conclude the list of contents, the book
contains some “Hints” which were to have been incorporated in the second
part of the “Rights of Women” which Mary intended to write.

These fragments and works are intrinsically of small value. The “Cave of
Fancy” contains an interesting definition of sensibility, in which Mary,
perhaps unconsciously, gives an excellent analysis of her own sensitive
nature. This quality, the old sage says, is the

“result of acute senses, finely fashioned nerves, which vibrate at the
slightest touch, and convey such clear intelligence to the brain, that it does
not require to be arranged by the judgment. Such persons instantly enter
into the character of others, and instinctively discern what will give pain to

every human being; their own feelings are so varied that they seem to
contain in themselves not only all the passions of the species, but their
various modifications. Exquisite pain and pleasure is their portion; nature
wears for them a different aspect than is displayed to common mortals. One
moment it is a paradise: all is beautiful; a cloud arises, an emotion [Pg 279]
receives a sudden damp, darkness invades the sky, and the world is an
unweeded garden.”

Of the “Hints,” one on a subject which has of late years been very
eloquently discussed is valuable as demonstrating her opinion of the
relation of religion to morals. It is as follows:—

“Few can walk alone. The staff of Christianity is the necessary support of
human weakness. An acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with
just sentiments on the attributes, would be sufficient, without a voice from
heaven, to lead some to virtue, but not the mob.”

[Pg 280] CHAPTER XI.
RETROSPECTIVE.

1794-1796.

Mary’s torture of suspense was now over. The reaction from it would
probably have been serious, if she had not had the distraction of work.
Activity was, as it had often been before, the tonic which restored her to
comparative health. She had no money, and Fanny, despite Imlay’s
promises, was entirely dependent upon her. Her exertions to maintain
herself and her child obliged her to stifle at least the expression of misery.
One of her last outbursts of grief found utterance in a letter to Mr. Archibald
Hamilton Rowan, who in France had been the witness of her happiness.
Shortly after her final farewell to Imlay, she wrote to this friend:—

London, Jan. 26, 1796.

My dear Sir,—Though I have not heard from you, I should have written to
you, convinced of your friendship, could I have told you anything of myself
that could have afforded you pleasure. I am unhappy. I have been treated
with unkindness, and even cruelty, by the person from whom I had every
reason to expect affection. I write to you with an agitated hand. I cannot be
more explicit. I value your good opinion, and you know how to feel for me.
I looked for something like happiness in the discharge of my relative duties,
and the heart on which I leaned has pierced mine to the quick. I have not [Pg

281] been used well, and live but for my child; for I am weary of myself. I
still think of settling in France, because I wish to leave my little girl there. I
have been very ill, have taken some desperate steps; but I am now writing
for independence. I wish I had no other evil to complain of than the
necessity of providing for myself and my child. Do not mistake me. Mr.
Imlay would be glad to supply all my pecuniary wants; but unless he returns
to himself, I would perish first. Pardon the incoherence of my style. I have
put off writing to you from time to time, because I could not write calmly.
Pray write to me. I will not fail, I was going to say, when I have anything
good to tell you. But for me there is nothing good in store. My heart is
broken! I am yours, etc.,
Mary Imlay.

Outwardly she became much calmer. She resumed her old tasks; Mr.
Johnson now, as ever, practically befriending her by providing her with
work. She had nothing so much at heart as her child’s interests, and these
seemed to demand her abjuration of solitude and her return to social life.
Her existence externally was, save for the presence of Fanny, exactly the
same as it had been before her departure for France. Another minor change
was that she was now known as Mrs. Imlay. Imlay had asked her to retain
his name; and to prevent the awkwardness and misunderstandings that
otherwise would have arisen, she consented to do so.

During this period she had held but little communication with her family.
The coolness between her sisters and herself had, from no fault of hers,
developed into positive anger. Their ill-will, which had begun some years
previous, had been stimulated by her comparative silence during her
residence abroad. She had really written to them often, but it was
impossible at [Pg 282] that time for letters not to miscarry. Those which she
sent by private opportunities reached them, and they contain proofs of her
unremitting and affectionate solicitude for them. Always accustomed to

help them out of difficulties, she worried over what she heard of their
circumstances, and while her hands were, so to speak, tied, she made plans
to contribute to their future comforts. These letters were not given in the
order of their date, that they might not interrupt the narrative of the Imlay
episode. They may more appropriately be quoted here. The following was
written to Everina about a month before Fanny’s birth:—

Havre, March 10, 1794.

My dear Girl,—It is extremely uncomfortable to write to you thus without
expecting, or even daring to ask for an answer, lest I should involve others
in my difficulties, and make them suffer for protecting me. The French are
at present so full of suspicion that had a letter of James’s, imprudently sent
to me, been opened, I would not have answered for the consequence. I have
just sent off a great part of my manuscripts, which Miss Williams would
fain have had me burn, following her example; and to tell you the truth, my
life would not have been worth much had they been found. It is impossible
for you to have any idea of the impression the sad scenes I have witnessed
have left on my mind. The climate of France is uncommonly fine, the
country pleasant, and there is a degree of ease and even simplicity in the
manners of the common people which attaches me to them. Still death and
misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country. I certainly am
glad that I came to France, because I never could have had a just opinion of
the most extraordinary event that has ever been recorded, and I have met
with some uncommon instances of friendship, which my heart will ever
gratefully store up, and call to [Pg 283] mind when the remembrance is keen
of the anguish it has endured for its fellow-creatures at large, for the
unfortunate beings cut off around me, and the still more unfortunate
survivors. 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. I am with him now at

Havre, and shall remain there till circumstances point out what is necessary
for me to do. Before I left Paris, I attempted to find the Laurents, whom I
had several times previously sought for, but to no purpose. And I am apt to
think that it was very prudent in them to leave a shop that had been the
resort of the nobility.
Where is poor Eliza? From a letter I received many, many months after it
was written, I suppose she is in Ireland. Will you write to tell her that I most
affectionately remember her, and still have in my mind some places for her
future comfort. Are you well? But why do I ask? you cannot reply to me.
This thought throws a damp on my spirits whilst I write, and makes my
letter rather an act of duty than a present satisfaction. God bless you! I will
write by every opportunity, and am yours sincerely and affectionately,
Mary.

Another written from Paris, before Imlay had shown himself in his true
colors, is full of kindness, containing a suggestion that Everina should join
her in the spring:

Paris, September, 1794.

As you must, my dear girl, have received several letters from me, especially
one I sent to London by Mr. Imlay, I avail myself of this opportunity just to
tell you that I am well and my child, and to request you to write by this [Pg
284] occasion. I do, indeed, long to hear from you and Eliza. I have at last got

some tidings of Charles, and as they must have reached you, I need not tell
you what sincere satisfaction they afforded me. I have also heard from
James; he too, talks of success, but in a querulous strain. What are you
doing? Where is Eliza? You have perhaps answered these questions in
answer to the letters I gave in charge to Mr. I.; but fearing that some fatality
might have prevented their reaching you, let me repeat that I have written to
you and to Eliza at least half a score of times, pointing out different ways
for you to write to me, still have received no answers. I have again and
again given you an account of my present situation, and introduced Mr.
Imlay to you as a brother you would love and respect. I hope the time is not

very distant when we shall all meet. Do be very particular in your account
of yourself, and if you have not time to procure me a letter from Eliza, tell
me all about her. Tell me, too, what is become of George, etc., etc. I only
write to ask questions, and to assure you that I am most affectionately
yours,
Mary Imlay.
P. S. September 20.—Should peace take place this winter, what say you to a
voyage in the spring, if not to see your old acquaintance, to see Paris, which
I think you did not do justice to. 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 has her father’s
quick temper and feelings, her good-humor runs away with all the credit of
my good nursing....

That she had discussed the question of her sisters’ prospects with Imlay
seems probable from the fact that while he was in London alone, in
November, 1794, he wrote very affectionately to Eliza, saying,—

[Pg 285]“... We shall both of us continue to cherish feelings of tenderness for
you, and a recollection of your unpleasant situation, and we shall also
endeavor to alleviate its distress by all the means in our power. The present
state of our fortune is rather [word omitted]. However, you must know your
sister too well, and I am sure you judge of that knowledge too favorably, to
suppose that whenever she has it in her power she will not apply some
specific aid to promote your happiness. I shall always be most happy to
receive your letters; but as I shall most likely leave England the beginning
of next week, I will thank you to let me hear from you as soon as
convenient, and tell me ingenuously in what way I can serve you in any
manner or respect....”

But all Mary’s efforts to be kind could not soften their resentment. On the
contrary, it was still further increased by the step she took in their regard on

her return to England in the same year. When in France she had gladly
suggested Everina’s joining her there; but in London, after her discovery of
Imlay’s change of feeling, she naturally shrank from receiving her or Eliza
into her house. Her sorrow was too sacred to be exposed to their gaze. She
was brave enough to tell them not to come to her, a course of action that
few in her place would have had the courage to pursue. In giving them her
reasons for this new determination, she of course told them but half the
truth. To Everina she wrote:—

April 27, 1795.

When you hear, my dear Everina, that I have been in London near a
fortnight without writing to you or Eliza, you will perhaps accuse me of
insensibility; for I shall not lay any stress on my not being well in
consequence of a violent cold I caught during the time I was nursing, but
tell you that I put off writing because I was at a loss [Pg 286] what I could do
to render Eliza’s situation more comfortable. I instantly gave Jones ten
pounds to send, for a very obvious reason, in his own name to my father,
and could send her a trifle of this kind immediately, were a temporary
assistance necessary. I believe I told you that Mr. Imlay had not a fortune
when I first knew him; since that he has entered into very extensive plans
which promise a degree of success, though not equal to the first prospect.
When a sufficient sum is actually realized, I know he will give me for you
and Eliza five or six hundred pounds, or more if he can. In what way could
this be of the most use to you? I am above concealing my sentiments,
though I have boggled at uttering them. It would give me sincere pleasure
to be situated near you both. I cannot yet say where I shall determine to
spend the rest of my life; but I do not wish to have a third person in the
house with me; my domestic happiness would perhaps be interrupted,
without my being of much use to Eliza. This is not a hastily formed opinion,
nor is it in consequence of my present attachment, yet I am obliged now to
express it because it appears to me that you have formed some such
expectation for Eliza. You may wound me by remarking on my
determination, still I know on what principle I act, and therefore you can

only judge for yourself. I have not heard from Charles for a great while. By
writing to me immediately you would relieve me from considerable anxiety.
Mrs. Imlay, No. 26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place.
Yours sincerely,
Mary.

Two days later she wrote to this effect to Mrs. Bishop. Both letters are
almost word for word the same, so that it would be useless to give the
second. It was too much for Eliza’s inflammable temper. All her worst
feelings were stirred by what she considered an insult. The kindness of
years was in a moment [Pg 287] effaced from her memory. Her indignation
was probably fanned into fiercer fury by her disappointment. From a few
words she wrote to Everina it seems as if both had been relying upon Mary
for the realization of certain “goodly prospects.” She returned Mary’s letter
without a word, but to Everina she wrote;—

“I have enclosed this famous letter to the author of the ‘Rights of Women,’
without any reflection. She shall never hear from Poor Bess again.
Remember, I am fixed as my misery, and nothing can change my present
plan. This letter has so strangely agitated me that I know not what I say, but
this I feel and know, that if you value my existence you will comply with
my requisition [that is, to find her a situation in Ireland where she, Everina,
then was], for I am positive I will never torture our amiable friend in
Charlotte Street. Is not this a good spring, my dear girl? At least poor Bess
can say it is a fruitful one. Alas, poor Bess!”

It seemed to be Mary’s fate to prove the truth of the saying, that if to him
that hath, it shall be given, so also from him that hath not, shall it be taken
away. Just as she realized that Imlay’s love was lost forever, Eliza’s cruel,
silent answer to her letter came to tell her it would be useless to turn to her
sisters for sympathy. They failed to do justice to her heart, but she bore

them no resentment. In one of her last letters to Imlay, she reminds him that
when she went to Sweden she had asked him to attend to the wants of her
father and sisters, a request which he had ignored. The anger she excited in
them, however, was never entirely appeased, and from that time until her
death, she heard but little of them, and saw still less.

[Pg 288] But, though deserted by those nearest to her, her friends rallied round
her. She was joyfully re-welcomed to the literary society which she had
before frequented. She was not treated as an outcast, because people
resolutely refused to believe the truth about her connection with Imlay. She
was far from encouraging them in this. Godwin says in her desire to be
honest she went so far as to explain the true state of the case to a man whom
she knew to be the most inveterate tale-bearer in London, and who would
be sure to repeat what she told him. But it was of no avail. Her personal
attractions and cleverness predisposed friends in her favor. In order to retain
her society and also to silence any scruples that might arise, they held her to
be an injured wife, as indeed she really was, and not a deserted mistress. A
few turned from her coldly; but those who eagerly reopened their doors to
her were in the majority. One old friend who failed at this time, when his
friendship would have been most valued, was Fuseli. Knowles has
published a note in which Mary reproaches the artist for his want of
sympathy. It reads as follows:—

When I returned from France I visited you, sir, but finding myself after my
late journey in a very different situation, I vainly imagined you would have
called upon me. I simply tell you what I thought, yet I write not at present
to comment on your conduct or to expostulate. I have long ceased to expect
kindness or affection from any human creature, and would fain tear from
my heart its treacherous sympathies. I am alone. The injustice, without
alluding to hopes blasted in the bud, which I have endured, wounding my
bosom, have set my thoughts adrift into an ocean of painful conjecture. I