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Title: The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft

Contributor: Roger Ingpen

Release date: November 23, 2010 [eBook #34413]
Most recently updated: July 19, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE
LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT TO GILBERT IMLAY ***

The Love Letters
of
Mary Wollstonecraft
TO GILBERT IMLAY

With a Prefatory Memoir

By Roger Ingpen

ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS

Philadelphia
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
London: HUTCHINSON & CO.
1908

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT’S LETTERS

EDITED BY ROGER INGPEN
LEIGH HUNT’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. A.
Constable & Co.
ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: A Collection of Verse
Old and New. Hutchinson & Co.
FORSTER’S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Abridged. (Standard
Biographies.) Hutchinson & Co.
BOSWELL’S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. Abridged. (Standard
Biographies.) Hutchinson & Co.
BOSWELL’S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. Complete. Illustrated
Edition. 2 Vols. Pitman.

From an engraving, after the painting by John Opie, R.A.

PREFACE

I

Of Mary Wollstonecraft’s ancestors little is known, except that they were of
Irish descent. Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraft, was the son of a
prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of Irish birth, from whom he inherited
the sum of ten thousand pounds. He married towards the middle of the
eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in good
position, of Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: Edward, Mary,
Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. Mary, the eldest daughter and second
child, was born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of Burns and Schiller, and
the last year of George II.’s reign. She passed her childhood, until she was
five years old, in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, but it is doubtful
whether she was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstonecraft followed no
profession in particular, although from time to time he dabbled in a variety
of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money. He is described as of
idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an ungovernable temper and a
restless spirit that urged him to perpetual changes of residence. From
Hoxton, where he squandered most of his fortune, he wandered to Essex,
and then, among other places, in 1768 to Beverley, in Yorkshire. Later he
took up farming at Laugharne in Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired
of this experiment and returned once more to London. As his fortunes
declined, his brutality and selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently
compelled to defend her mother from his acts of personal violence,
sometimes by thrusting herself bodily between him and his victim. Mrs.
Wollstonecraft herself was far from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant
and a stern but incompetent ruler of her household, she treated Mary as the
scapegoat of the family. Mary’s early years therefore were far from being
happy; what little schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father’s
migratory habits.

In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts were once more in London,
Mary formed a friendship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her own
age, which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. There
was a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for Fanny
contrived by her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as
her father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow.
Mary’s new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. She loved music,
sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting letters.
It was by comparing Fanny Blood’s letters with her own, that Mary first
recognised how defective her education had been. She applied herself
therefore to the task of increasing her slender stock of knowledge—hoping
ultimately to become a governess. At length, at the age of nineteen, Mary
went to Bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old lady, a Mrs.
Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London tradesman. In spite of many
difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years, leaving
it only to attend the deathbed of her mother.
Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the
home. Mary went to live temporarily with the Bloods at Walham Green, and
assisted Mrs. Blood, who took in needle-work; Everina became for a short
time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a solicitor; and Eliza married a
Mr. Bishop.
Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that “all the Wollstonecraft sisters were
enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles,
sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied insults.
All had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the nerves, and
Eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution.” Mrs.
Bishop’s married life from the first was one of utter misery; they were an
ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently exasperated her
husband’s worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the scenes of violence of
daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were afterwards described
with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, “The Wrongs of Women.” It
was plainly impossible for Mrs. Bishop to continue to live with such a man,
and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill, Mary, with her
characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon after assisted her in
her flight from her husband.

In the following year (1783) Mary set up a school at Islington with Fanny
Blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, Mrs.
Bishop and Everina. The school was afterwards moved to Newington
Green, where Mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day
scholars. After a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house;
but unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to
her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet.
While Mary was living at Newington Green, she was introduced to Dr.
Johnson, who, Godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and
attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. He desired her to
repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last
illness and death.
In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired her health by overwork, and
signs of consumption were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who was
engaged in business at Lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long
admired Fanny, and wanted to marry her. It was thought that the climate of
Portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more
on that account than on any other, to become his wife. She left England in
February 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. Mary’s anxiety for
her friend’s welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition, she at
once went off to Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only in time to
comfort Fanny in her dying moments. Mary was almost broken-hearted at
the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon as short as possible,
remaining only as long as was necessary for Mrs. Skeys’s funeral.
She returned to England to find that the school had greatly suffered by
neglect during her absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys’s brother, George
Blood, she says: “The loss of Fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud
over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when I am bereft of
every other comfort? I have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and
where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?”
She thus realised that to continue her school was useless. But her
experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. She had
observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and
her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, “Thoughts on the

Education of Daughters,” (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, a
sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who
were desirous of going over to Ireland.
She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the October of 1787 she became
governess to the daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaelstown, with a
salary of forty pounds a year. Lady Kingsborough in Mary’s opinion was “a
shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... She rouges, and in short is a fine
lady without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by
dogs....” Lady Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her
chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. She pampered her dogs, much to
the disgust of Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. What views
she had on education were narrow. She had been accustomed to submission
from her governess, but she learnt before long that Mary was not of a
tractable disposition. The children, at first unruly and defiant, “literally
speaking, wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing,” soon gave Mary
their confidence, and before long their affection. One of her pupils,
Margaret King, afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the warmest
regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady Mountcashel continued her
acquaintance with William Godwin after Mary’s death, and later came
across Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won from the children the
affection that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn
of 1788, when she had been with Lady Kingsborough for about a year, she
received her dismissal. She had completed by this time the novel to which
she gave the name of “Mary,” which is a tribute to the memory of her friend
Fanny Blood.

II

And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary Wollstonecraft had concluded her
career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to
literature. Her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had written
nothing to encourage her for such a venture. It was her fortune, however, to
make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, the humanitarian publisher and
bookseller of St. Paul’s Churchyard, who issued the works of Priestley,
Horne Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and other men of advanced thought, and

she met at his table many of the authors for whom he published, and such
eminent men of the day as William Blake, Fuseli, and Tom Paine. Mr.
Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends, encouraged her in
her literary plans. He was the publisher of her “Thoughts on the Education
of Daughters,” and had recognised in that little book so much promise, that
when she sought his advice, he at once offered to assist her with
employment.
Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a house in George Street,
Blackfriars. She had brought to London the manuscript of her novel
“Mary,” and she set to work on a book for children entitled “Original
Stories from Real Life.” Both of these books appeared before the year was
out, the latter with quaint plates by William Blake. Mary also occupied
some of her time with translations from the French, German, and even
Dutch, one of which was an abridged edition of Saltzmann’s “Elements of
Morality,” for which Blake also supplied the illustrations. Besides this
work, Johnson engaged Mary as his literary adviser or “reader,” and secured
her services in connexion with The Analytical Review, a periodical that he
had recently founded.
While she was at George Street she also wrote her “Vindication of the
Rights of Man” in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief satisfaction in
keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters
could always come when out of employment. She was never weary of
assisting them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them
situations. One of her first acts when she settled in London was to send
Everina Wollstonecraft to Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. Johnson,
who wrote a short account of Mary’s life in London at this time, says she
often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his
advice, or unburden her troubles to him. Among the many duties she
imposed on herself was the charge of her father’s affairs, which must indeed
have been a profitless undertaking.
The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft’s labours while she was living
at Blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with her
name, “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.” This volume—now much
better known by its title than its contents—was dedicated to the astute M.
Talleyrand de Périgord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on account of his

authorship of a pamphlet on National Education. It is unnecessary to
attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal book—
modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both of
Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say that it is really a plea
for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not only her own sex,
but also humanity in its widest sense. Many of her suggestions have long
since been put to practical use, such as that of a system of free national
education, with equal advantages for boys and girls. The book contains too
much theory and is therefore to a great extent obsolete. Mary Wollstonecraft
protests against the custom that recognises woman as the plaything of man;
she pleads rather for a friendly footing of equality between the sexes,
besides claiming a new order of things for women, in terms which are
unusually frank. Such a book could not fail to create a sensation, and it
speedily made her notorious, not only in this country, but on the Continent,
where it was translated into French. It was of course the outcome of the
French Revolution; the whole work is permeated with the ideas and ideals
of that movement, but whereas the French patriots demanded rights for
men, she made the same demands also for women.
It is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in France had
made a deep impression on Mary’s mind—its influence is stamped on every
page of her book, and it was her desire to visit France with Mr. Johnson and
Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so she went
alone in the December of 1792, chiefly with the object of perfecting her
French. Godwin states, though apparently in error, that Fuseli was the cause
of her going to France, the acquaintance with the painter having grown into
something warmer than mere friendship. Fuseli, however, had a wife and
was happily married, so Mary “prudently resolved to retire into another
country, far remote from the object who had unintentionally excited the
tender passion in her breast.”
She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on
December 24 to her sister Everina: “The day after to-morrow I expect to see
the King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost afraid
to anticipate.” On the day in question, the 26th, Louis XVI. appeared in the
Hall of the Convention to plead his cause through his advocate, Desize, and
on the same day she wrote that letter to Mr. Johnson which has so often
been quoted: “About nine o’clock this morning,” she says, “the King passed

by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a few
strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through
empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round the
carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants 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
behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell
you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from
my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from
his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of
his race had triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV. before me,
entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his victories so flattering
to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the
sublime gloom of misery....”
Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame Filiettaz, the daughter of
Madame Bregantz, in whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and
Everina Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary was now something of a
celebrity—“Authorship,” she writes, “is a heavy weight for female
shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity”—and she carried with
her letters of introduction to several influential people in Paris. She renewed
her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate with Helen Maria
Williams (who is said to have once lived with Imlay), and visited, among
others, the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her intention to go to
Switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she settled at
Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. “Her habitation here,” says
Godwin, “was a solitary house in the midst of a garden, with no other
habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man who performed for her
many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of
making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration for his guest, and
would set before her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort,
which she could not without the greatest difficulty obtain of him when she
had any person with her as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for
the most part executed, her historical and moral view of the French
Revolution, into which she incorporated most of the observations she had
collected for her letters, and which was written with more sobriety and

cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been commenced. In the
evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring
wood, from which her host in vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by
recounting divers horrible robberies and murders that had been committed
there.”

From an engraving by Ridley, dated 1796, after a painting by John Opie,
R.A.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale of the late
Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that it represents Mary
Wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the Monthly

Mirror (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was
made. Mrs. Merritt made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul’s
edition of the “Letters to Imlay.”
To face p. xvi

It is probable that in March 1793 Mary Wollstonecraft first saw Gilbert
Imlay. The meeting occurred at Mr. Christie’s house, and her immediate
impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided
him. However, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and later
into love. Gilbert Imlay was born in New Jersey about 1755. He served as a
captain in the American army during the Revolutionary war, and was the
author of “A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North
America,” 1792, and a novel entitled “The Emigrants,” 1793. In the latter
work, as an American, he proposes to “place a mirror to the view of
Englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were
once so lovely,” and further “to prevent the sacrilege which the present
practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce.” It is not known
whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of, his
connexion with Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in business,
probably in the timber trade with Sweden and Norway.
In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary sought no advice and took no
one into her confidence. She was evidently deeply in love with him, and felt
that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness to
their union. Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay episode, states
that “the origin of the connexion was about the middle of April 1793, and it
was carried on in a private manner for about three months.” Imlay had no
property whatever, and Mary had objected to marry him, because she would
not burden him with her own debts, or “involve him in certain family
embarrassments,” for which she believed herself responsible. She looked
upon her connexion with Imlay, however, “as of the most inviolable
nature.” Then the French Government passed a decree that all British
subjects resident in France should go to prison until a general declaration of
peace. It therefore became expedient, not that a marriage should take place,
for that would necessitate Mary declaring her nationality, but that she

should take the name of Imlay, “which,” says Godwin, “from the nature of
their connexion (formed on her part at least, with no capricious or fickle
design), she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a certificate from
the American Ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country. Their
engagement being thus avowed, they thought proper to reside under the
same roof, and for that purpose removed to Paris.”
In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her sister Everina, dated from
Havre, March 10, 1794, she describes the climate of France as
“uncommonly fine,” and praises the common people for their manners; but
she is also saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that
“death and misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... If
any of the many letters I have written have come to your hands or Eliza’s,
you know that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most
worthy man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of
feeling, a soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely
to be met with. Having been brought up in the interior parts of America, he
is a most natural, unaffected creature.”
Mary has expressed in the “Rights of Woman” her ideal of the relations
between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic
happiness as she had cherished for some time. She had known much
unhappiness in the past. Godwin says: “She brought in the present instance,
a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a chosen
friend. Let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous,
and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character seemed to
change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits,
were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the vivacity of a
youthful mind. She was playful, full of confidence, kindness, and sympathy.
Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new colour and smoothness.
Her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing with universal
kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to day
illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well recollect,
and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost every one that
beheld it.” She had now met the man to whom she earnestly believed she
could surrender herself with entire devotion. Naturally of an affectionate
nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive Irish spirit, as
Godwin says, “she gave way to all the sensibilities of her nature.”

The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. Mary had
taken her step without much forethought. She attributed to Imlay
“uncommon tenderness of heart,” but she did not detect his instability of
character. He certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both
before and after his attachment to Mary. He was not the man to be satisfied
with one woman as his life-companion. A typical American, he was deeply
immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much of his
time as he represented. In the September after he set up house with Mary,
that is in ’93, the year of the Terror, he left her in Paris while he went to
Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to Havre Marat.
It is awful to think what must have been the life of this lonely stranger in
Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain hardly a reference to
the events of the Revolution.
Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay’s return to Paris, and sickened with the
“growing cruelties of Robespierre,” joined him at Havre in January 1794,
and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in
memory of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence
throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. In a
letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus of little
Fanny:
“I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to fly
away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She does
not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and though
I am sure she has her father’s quick temper and feelings, her good humour
runs away with all the credit of my good nursing.”
In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had
subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of
their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing.
The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in
which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris.
Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she
expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of
business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had cooled,
as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay put her off
with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an end in April,

when she went to London at his request. Her gravest forebodings proved
too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress belonging to a
company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at first he protested
to the contrary, that Mary was only a second consideration in his life. He
provided her, however, with a furnished house, and she did not at once
abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when she realised that hope was
useless, in her despair she resolved to take her life. Whether she actually
attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt of her intention in time to
prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was at this time engaged in trade
with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy representative to transact some
confidential business, it was thought that the journey would restore Mary’s
health and spirits. She therefore consented to take the voyage, and set out
early in April 1795, with a document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as
his representative, and describing her as “Mary Imlay, my best friend, and
wife,” and concluding: “Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness
of my dearly beloved friend and companion; I submit the management of
these affairs entirely and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most
sincerely and affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay.”
The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were
issued in 1796, as “Letters from Sweden and Norway,” one of her most
readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by
Godwin in his wife’s posthumous works, and are given in the present
volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay
had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg,
and to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her
suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely
neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making
the discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought
Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference
resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She first
went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and therefore
walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived there, and
after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until her clothing
was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She was, however,
rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life was saved.

Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last
sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when “he
alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-
encounter passed,” she assured Godwin, “without producing in her any
oppressive emotion.” Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for
herself from Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the
interest to be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor
interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not
known.
Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and
publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her
literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more
seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was
William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced
republicans of the time, the author of “Political Justice” and the novel
“Caleb Williams.” They had met before, for the first time in November
1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the
naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although
they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became
friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him
extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of
the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb,
Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his
family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he
appears to the worst advantage—a kind of early Pecksniff—in his later
correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this correspondence
at the present day that he is best known. The fine side-face portrait of
Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait Gallery, preserves for us all
the beauty of his intellectual brow and eyes. Another portrait of Godwin,
full-face, with a long sad nose, by Pickersgill, once to be seen in the
National Portrait Gallery, is not so pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey
gives an unflattering portrait of Godwin at the time of his marriage, which
seems to suggest the full-face portrait of the philosopher—“he has large
noble eyes, and a nose—oh, most abominable nose! Language is not
vituperatious enough to describe the effect of its downward elongation.”

Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as “friendship melting into
love.” They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty
doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his
theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family
happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning,
generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at his
lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a walk
together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate with
each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints some of
these; such as Godwin’s:
“I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you
four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How do
you do?”
And Mary’s: “Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I
wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I
shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie’s; but should I not
find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give
Fanny butter with her pudding.” This note is dated April 20, 1797, and
probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie.
On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very
occasional clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his
confirmed bachelor habits.
Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married
at Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being
witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered
diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a
mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent to go
through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly for fear
that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Reveley,
two of Godwin’s admirers, were so upset at the announcement of his
marriage that they shed tears.
An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey’s letter to
Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, “Of all the lions or
literati I have seen here, Mary Imlay’s countenance is the best, infinitely the

best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints
of Horne Tooke display—an expression indicating superiority; not
haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but still it is unpleasant. Her eyes
are light brown, and although the lid of one of them is affected by a little
paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw.”
Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life was
uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to
Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband
and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most delightful reading,
and shows how entirely in sympathy they were.

From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie
(probably painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery.

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
This picture passed from Godwin’s hands on his death to his grandson, Sir
Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his
widow, Lady Shelley. It was engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin’s
memoir of his wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the Lady’s
Magazine, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a
mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1802. Mrs. Merritt also made an
etching of the picture for Mr. Paul’s edition of the “Letters to Imlay.”
To face p. xxvi

On August 30, Mary’s child was born, not the William so much desired by
them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well
with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The
best medical advice was obtained, but after a week’s illness, on Sunday
morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During her
illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave
Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, “Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven.” But,
as Mr. Kegan Paul says, “even at that moment Godwin declined to be
entrapped into the admission that heaven existed,” and his instant reply
was: “You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat
easier.” Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband’s religious
doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one.
Godwin’s grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately after
her death, and his tribute to her memory in the “Memoirs” testify. Mary
Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in the
presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was laid
beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is said to
have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin’s daughter. In 1851, when the
Metropolitan and Midland Railways were constructed at St. Pancras, the
graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of Mary and William Godwin were
removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, to Bournemouth, where they
now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley.

In the year following Mary’s death (1798) Godwin edited his wife’s
“Posthumous Works,” in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to
Imlay, and her incomplete novel “The Wrongs of Woman.” His tribute to
Mary Godwin’s memory was also published in 1798, under the title of
“Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”
Godwin’s novel, “St. Leon” came out in 1799; his tragedy “Antonio” was
produced only to fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by Mrs.
Clairmont, a widow. The Godwin household was a somewhat mixed one,
consisting, as it did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. Godwin’s two
children, Charles and Claire Clairmont, and also of William, the only child
born of her marriage with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began a correspondence
with Godwin, which ultimately led to Mary Godwin’s elopement with the
poet. Poor Fanny Imlay, or Godwin, as she was called after her mother’s
death, died at the age of nineteen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her
life had been far from happy in this strange household. She had grown to
love Shelley, but his choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept
her secret to herself. One day she suddenly left home and travelled to
Swansea, where she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in
the inn where she had taken a room, “her long brown hair about her face; a
bottle of laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: ‘I have long
determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the existence
of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only been a
series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in endeavouring to
promote her welfare.’ She had with her the little Genevan watch, a gift of
travel from Mary and Shelley: and in her purse were a few shillings.”[1]
Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with Fanny in London, wrote
this stanza:
“Her voice did quiver as we parted;
Yet knew I not that heart was broken
From whence it came, and I departed
Heeding not the words then spoken.
Misery—O Misery,
This world is all too wide for thee!”

III

The vicissitudes to which Mary Wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during
her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. In her own day
recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in
terms not less ungentle than Horace Walpole’s epithets, “a hyena in
petticoats” or “a philosophising serpent,” posterity has proved hardly more
lenient to her. But the vigorous work of this “female patriot” has saved her
name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of many men and
women more talented than Mary Wollstonecraft. Reputed chiefly as an
unsexed being, who had written “A Vindication of the Rights of Women,”
she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of her sex;
but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction of the
public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. Whether right or
wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing forbidden
subjects. It is true that she detected many social evils, and suggested some
excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was not ripe for her
book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer. Moreover, her memoir
by William Godwin, beautiful as it is in many respects, exercised a
distinctly harmful influence in regard to her memory. The very fact that she
became the wife of so notorious a man, was sufficient reason to condemn
her in the eyes of her countrymen.
For two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to
remove the stigma from her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan Paul, a
man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain
something like justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book on William
Godwin, published in 1876, the true story of Mary’s life was told for the
first time. It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history of an
unhappy but brave and loyal woman, whose faults proceeded from
excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. Mary
Wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her outlook
on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her imagination.
She saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre shadows—it was a
power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce some of her best
writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the defects of her worst work.
Since Mr. Kegan Paul’s memoir, Mary Wollstonecraft has been viewed

from an entirely different aspect, and many there are who have come under
the spell of her fascinating personality. It is not, however, her message alone
that now interests us, but the woman herself, her desires, her aspirations,
her struggles, and her love. Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint
mists of the past, a woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her
books are no longer read. But it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in
this volume are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other
writers have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love,
but Mary Wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the
man whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. It is
true that she was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had probably
assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but
something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had any motive
in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with Imlay. She was far
too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it was only by a
mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion.
December 1907.

PORTRAITS
Mary Wollstonecraft (Photogravure) Frontispiece
Mary Wollstonecraft, by Opie. From an engraving by
facing p. xvi
Ridley
facing p.
Mary Wollstonecraft, from the picture by Opie
xxvi

LETTERS TO GILBERT IMLAY

LETTER I
Two o’Clock [Paris, June 1793].
My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I
have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early hour,
with the Miss ——s, the only day they intend to pass here. I shall however
leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side when I
return, about eight o’clock. Will you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you
will find better, and till then think very affectionately of her.
Yours, truly,
Mary.
I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.

LETTER II
Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday Night
[Paris, Aug. 1793].
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 burthen
almost too heavy to be borne.
But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet 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.
Mary.
I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow.[2]—Yours—

LETTER III
Wednesday Morning [Paris, Aug. 1793].
You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you
know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever since I came to Paris.
I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I like to
see your eyes praise me; and Milton insinuates, that, during such recitals,
there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that
drops from the lips is not merely words.
Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me to
huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of duty—you must be
glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the shade of
Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was talking with
Madame ——, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have sufficient warmth
to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so highly respect
principle.——
Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—Far from it—and, if
I had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the vanity
of my heart, have imagined that I could have made something of his——it
was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love flies
away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my
pale cheeks.
I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——’s to meet him.
——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I
am to spend the day with ——.
I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no matter,
because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I immediately
want, to take with me.—On Friday then I shall expect you to dine with me
—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since I have seen you,
you will not be scolded by yours affectionately,

Mary.

LETTER IV[3]
Friday Morning [Paris, Sept. 1793].
A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here
yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at not
finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ——. I have since seen him, and he
tells me that he has settled the business.
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 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.
Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear,
if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by
becoming happier.
Mary.

LETTER V
Sunday Night [Paris, 1793].
I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed tranquilly
without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my mind is
serene and my heart affectionate.
Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle
twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced
an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm
my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we are
to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding
that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I sat down
in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.
Are you very busy?
* * * * * * * *
So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come
home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
you will.—
Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be patient—kindly
—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the time, as sweetly as
they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over again, that your
happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected with mine,
and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes of former discontent, that
have too often clouded the sunshine, which you have endeavoured to
diffuse through my mind. God bless you! Take care of yourself, and
remember with tenderness your affectionate
Mary.

I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the
kindest good-night I can utter.

LETTER VI
Friday Morning [Paris, Dec. 1793].
I am glad to 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
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.

LETTER VII.
Sunday Morning [Paris, Dec. 29, 1793].
You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. Pray sir! when do you
think of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business
permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that you
will make a power of money to indemnify me for your absence.
* * * * * * * *
Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this
month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I
would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.
I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself airs,
but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for not
informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this score
I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from my pen,
which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will only suffer
an exclamation—“The creature!” or a kind look to escape me, when I pass
the slippers—which I could not remove from my falle door, though they are
not the handsomest of their kind.
Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be
purchased. God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Mary.

LETTER VIII
Monday Night [Paris, Dec. 30, 1793].
My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart,
depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me several, and
the parcel of books directed to Mr. —— was for me. Mr. ——’s letter was
long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own affairs,
though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me.
A melancholy letter from my sister —— has also harrassed my mind—that
from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for
* * * * * * * *
There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and you
shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.—I think that you
would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when your heart
not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness, that he would
meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, and a desire to please the
——where shall I find a word to express the relationship which subsists
between us?—Shall I ask the little twitcher?—But I have dropt half the
sentence that was to tell you how much he would be inclined to love the
man loved by his sister. I have been fancying myself sitting between you,
ever since I began to write, and my heart has leaped at the thought! You see
how I chat to you.
I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, for the
post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I wanted
one.
Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a little!—
It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I love.
There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, if it
has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very dear
you are to me, by charming away half my cares.

Yours affectionately.
Mary.

LETTER IX
Tuesday Morning [Paris, Dec. 31, 1793].
Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take one, I
am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because trifles of this
sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my spirits:—and you,
with all your struggles to be manly, have some of his same sensibility.—Do
not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to master your features;
besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of affection: and why, in
cultivating our understandings, should we try to dry up these springs of
pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days browned by care!
The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not look
into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my stockings.
Yours truly,
Mary.

LETTER X
Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794].
As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to
complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I am
hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not feel?
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
labour 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 mighty matter, talk of it—I
will throw your slippers out at window, and be off—nobody knows where.
Mary.
Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——s,
simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ——, and ——, nay,
all the world, may know it for aught I care!—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s
coarse jokes.
Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it
comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong to her.
When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations,
excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are these the
privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps the

young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man to
condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A man is a tyrant!
You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing
away with some honest fellows in London. The casual exercise of social
sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an
heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour with
you, to be pleased with the world.

Thursday Morning [Paris, Jan. 2, 1794].
I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful
temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the
matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it—I do not want to be
loved like a goddess but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you![4]

LETTER XI
Monday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794].
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——
It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices of
sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much indisposed for
a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a
poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and tender, now I feel it
alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and
every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; still I feel intimations
of its existence, though they have been fainter.
Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask as
many questions as Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue to
be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my tears
—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into
playfulness.
Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not
an angry word—I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a scolding
(it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come back—and then,
if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you the next.
—— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre.
Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it was
some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so.

God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of
tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my
support.—Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did writing
it, and you will make happy your
Mary.

LETTER XII
Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794].
I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage
“quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my love, I could
not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not half as severe as I
merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously alarmed me. I
did not, as you may suppose, care for a little pain on my own account; but
all the fears which I have had for a few days past, returned with fresh force.
This morning I am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that
sorrow has almost made a child of me, and that I want to be soothed to
peace.
One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to
me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would
be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a duty
to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with coldness.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of
your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there is
nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly
depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look
forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth affords—with
a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we
work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, yet most
affectionate
Mary.

LETTER XIII
Thursday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794].
I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I knew
that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, when
your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your poor
sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to receive another
cold one.—Burn it also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget that even those letters
were full of love; and I shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be
mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart.
I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,
because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
continually the fatal consequence of my folly.—But, should you think it
right to remain at Havre, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be strong
again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took such care
of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind. The girl is
come to warm my bed—so I will tenderly say, good-night! and write a line
or two in the morning.

Morning.
I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence
shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was
so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.
I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this
fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before I so
inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a
turn to my whole system.
Yours truly
Mary Imlay.

LETTER XIV
Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794].
The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, will
serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your
motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what
seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I thought
also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at Havre, I might as well
have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded over—Let
us now be friends!
I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and I
will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, till I
see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire when they
will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to your Mary,
when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your journey.
What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy
was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my
eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your knees. I
did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if you have not set
your heart on this round number.
I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the first
day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as I can;
for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has been of such
service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am quite well. I have
scarcely slept before last night, and then not much.—The two Mrs. ——s
have been very anxious and tender.
Yours truly
Mary.
I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

LETTER XV
Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794].
I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is still
detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am not
willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, after
having talked of illness and apprehensions.
I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire
phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood
into my head) so lightsome, that I think it will not go badly with me.—And
nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am urged on, not
only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderness that
plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of
yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the fever that
has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have promised the little
creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not again plague it,
and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could not hug either it or you to my
breast, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is
only for your eye.
I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional uneasiness.
—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do not think a
little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will struggle cheerfully
together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for I
not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into them;
and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours sincerely
Mary.

LETTER XVI
Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794].
I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday with
Mr. ——, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall be to see
you. I have just got my passport, for I do not foresee any impediment to my
reaching Havre, to bid you good-night next Friday in my new apartment—
where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to sleep—for
I have not caught much rest since we parted.
You have, by 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!
Yours truly
Mary.

LETTER XVII
Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794].
I only send this as an avant-coureur, without jack-boots, to tell you, that I
am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you
receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more properly
speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not as
manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your
temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own
forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am afraid to say
never.
Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in
person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has
never left you.
I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too
fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to
Havre my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled
my body to do whatever I wished.
Yours affectionately,
Mary.

LETTER XVIII
Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794].
We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] 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 me I was churlish about; but all would not
do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, though the weather was
not very inviting—and here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing you
peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of your kindest looks—when
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.

LETTER XIX
[Havre, March, 1794].
Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I was to
inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of business.
—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got you by the
fire-side, with the gigot smoking on the board, to lard your poor bare ribs—
and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper up, that was directly
under my eyes! What had I got in them to render me so blind?—I give you
leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; for I am,
Yours most affectionately,
Mary.

LETTER XX
[Havre] Sunday, August 17 [1794].
* * * * * * * *
I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now
permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be sure[6]—whom I cannot
help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall enjoy the
fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my imagination.
I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a
dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her piquante.—But
Monsieur her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the
mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
foreground of the picture.
The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of
commerce from top to toe—so that his abortive attempt to display taste,
only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the pendule—A
nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah!
kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves
and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the sombre day
of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see things as they are,
enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight, the
thirst for which seems to be given only to tantalize us.
But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me
let the square-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of
the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who
sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain my
pen.

I have been writing on, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I
merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a
gigot every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments in
your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the
senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the father,
[7] when they produce the suffusion I admire.—In spite of icy age, I hope
still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be
stupidly useful to the stupid—
Yours,
Mary.

LETTER XXI
Havre, August 19 [1794] Tuesday.
I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you
yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to the
right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that you
might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came in, and some other
things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving
a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is sufficiently obvious,
that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my place, or gain more ground
in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary your affection is to my
happiness.—Still I do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish
that your attention to my happiness should arise as much from love, which
is always rather a selfish passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote
my felicity, by seeking your own.—For, whatever pleasure it may give me
to discover your generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your
affection on the very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your
heart, which demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me
clearly mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of
cherishing a tenderness for your person.
I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long time,
begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all my
affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though
they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our little girl
was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a sense of duty,
than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and when I
walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.
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.

I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)
with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the
friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.
Mary.

LETTER XXII
Havre, August 20 [1794].
I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always
rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had
chastised —— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the
business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
know how you would express your contempt.
Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the dignity
of his conduct.—The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of a
degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you, as one of
the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the man,
without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, which is
the true basis of both public and private friendship.
Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, of
which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning
woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in managing my
happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself,
till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a
heart, which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and
cherished.—You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that
overflowing (épanchement de cœur), which becoming almost childish,
appears a weakness only to the weak.
But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as a
member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a
number of mistresses.—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather
flattered his vanity than his senses.
Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to close
it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost springing out
of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not love her the
less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.

Yours affectionately,
Mary.

LETTER XXIII[8]
[Paris] September 22 [1794].
I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and
which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely write,
because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had left
you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me why you
did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and over again,
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 honour J. J.
Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—
and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.
Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap? There is
nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then rather
chuses 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!
Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the imagination—I
could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the great
distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the passions—animals have a
portion of reason, and equal, if not more exquisite, senses; but no trace of
imagination, or her offspring taste, appears in any of their actions. The
impulse of the senses, passions, if you will, and the conclusions of reason,
draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven,
to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies
that lead to rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead
of leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.

If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which would
be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are embruted
by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back your
barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; and I shall
fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for I
am yours truly,
Mary.

LETTER XXIV
[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794].
I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I cannot
take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my bosom,
she looked so like you (entre nous, your best looks, for I do not admire your
commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began to
think that 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.
Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is all
flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain of
some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days past.

[Paris, 1794] Morning.
Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me
before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same opinion of
his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and real
delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be met
with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine,
interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him to see her.
I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business.
Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now
with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow the
Jacobins, I plainly perceive.
I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at
night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am alone,
that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into reveries and
trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I
suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and
—— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then kiss the girl for you,
and bid you adieu.
I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-
face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you
will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, intelligent
creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could wish for.
I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; but
they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations. I
have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring —— with you.
Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your letters—she
desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you say of the
negroes.
Yours most affectionately,
Mary.

LETTER XXV
Paris, Sept. 28 [1794].
I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have
prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward
them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he will
not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your return, I
inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained,
to whom I also gave a letter.
I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you
with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar
circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost
lamented that I left Havre. ——, who is at best a most helpless creature, is
now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that I
still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed rewards me, for
she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother’s fondness (which,
by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent smiles sinking into my
heart), she has an astonishing degree of sensibility and observation. The
other day by B——’s child, a fine one, she looked like a little sprite.—She
is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.
I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which
you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold my
darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be alluded to.
Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of
your child, and the comfort of her mother.
I have received, for you, letters from ——. I want to hear how that affair
finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his folly
or knavery.
Your own
Mary.

LETTER XXVI
[Paris] October 1 [1794].
It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever
reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going,
every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a low-
spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to forward by
the opportunities that were mentioned to me. Tant mieux! you will say, and I
will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents of a letter, when you
are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford—
judging of your feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind
letters, which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear
affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance
to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only tears of
tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.
After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in
business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money,
taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be
gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the mind.—These
impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, than at
present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces
they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same side as my reason,
which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious to
dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love
you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where else.
My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a
kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my
heart.
I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the
press will produce a great effect here—the cry of blood will not be vain!—
Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are conquered.—Yet I
almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast.

I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which I shall not
now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy
rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better
for the child.
I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.
—— is still here: he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is anxious
about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings
have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his health, as
well as renders his person disgusting.—If his wife had more sense, or
delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save him.
Yours most truly and affectionately
Mary.

LETTER XXVII
[Paris] October 26 [1794].
My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the sight
of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged to
throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and this said
little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little creature, and as gay
as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite so
convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before she was born, and
when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared
to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright
on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has
now the advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to
discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.
I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and
am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also
made some new acquaintance. 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 like to give way to a
sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with you.
“The devil,” you know, is proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when
he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to
play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.
* * * * * * * *
My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks
happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come
back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not be

necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make exertions which injure
your constitution.
Yours most truly and tenderly,
Mary.
P.S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray
call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.

LETTER XXVIII
[Paris] Dec. 26 [1794].
I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not
allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that
many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now
see your letter—and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that your
exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.
* * * * * * * *
Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters,
which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are safe—
and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling that I
am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading that
fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, husband,
father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this moment,
and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it is always
within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the world again
appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy
thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted
my dreams.
My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not
here, to see her little mind 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 every where, 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 you, for looking and laughing like
you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I am kissing her
for resembling you. But there would be no end to these details. Fold us both
to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

Yours,
Mary.

LETTER XXIX
[Paris] December 28 [1794].
* * * * * * * *
I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your
disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with
affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that you
should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me.
——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new
projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather an
immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are
governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet,
we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and it has probably
occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue some sober plan,
which may demand more time, and still enable you to arrive at the same
end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing to live.
Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as
to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your
departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment
necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the
expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be
considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment
and affection out of the heart?
I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to forward
it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what he has
doubtless recommended most warmly.
Stay, my friend, whilst it is absolutely necessary.—I will give you no
tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
the settling the present objects permit.—I do not consent to your taking any
other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where.

But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to
your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes —— so
eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not
importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to see you—and, being at
peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.—Having
suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if I sometimes, when left to
myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a dream, and that my
happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because remembrance retrenches
all the dark shades of the picture.
My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs—She wants you to
bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing her,
and yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her mother for taking
such care of her, as you only can.
Yours truly,
Mary.

LETTER XXX
[Paris] December 29 [1794].
Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just informed
me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I take
advantage of it to inclose you
* * * * * * * *
How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which
obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be
content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this
wearisome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been
drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give place
to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?—I am contented to do
my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not
difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project also—and, if you
do not soon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will
not accept any of your cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.
This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which ——
manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to you?—
If he can persuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and
your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal projects, I am
above using any arguments, though reason as well as affection seems to
offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you—and you
will act accordingly.
Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have
heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, about
the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but contriving to
live—earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but just above
poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate mother—fatigued even
by her attention.—However she has an affectionate husband in her turn, to
render her care light, and to share her pleasure.

I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I grow
sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to observe
with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—
These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer them to escape
you, in search of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to “live
in the present moment.”—If you do—stay, for God’s sake; but tell me the
truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let me not be
always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.
Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort
me.
Mary.

LETTER XXXI
[Paris] December 30 [1794].
Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written
lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only
take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my epistles may
reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ——’s opinion, who talks
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 chuse 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, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has
no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, whenever he deigns to
return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred
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 doat on her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a tie to a
world that for me is ever sown with thorns.

You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest
proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. —— has taken such
pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it has
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.
Mary.[9]

LETTER XXXII
[Paris] January 9 [1795].
I just now received one of your hasty notes; for business so entirely
occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to
write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and
schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb your
happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.
Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain
independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which I
had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from
passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life
were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I
have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed
some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous
enjoyment can give.—Why have you so soon dissolved the charm.
I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s
never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you
are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of
action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to my
feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness to
support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and still
wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these continual
anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and roots out
affection from the heart.
I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will
simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the
arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the
necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose only, is
indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most violent cold
I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual coughing, that I am
unable to write without stopping frequently to recollect myself.—This

however is one of the common evils which must be borne with——bodily
pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the spirits.
Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have
determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too
soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said, “despair
is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.
This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new
weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you
left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object.—If your feelings were in
unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary prospects
of future advantage.
Mary.

LETTER XXXIII
[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795].
I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which would
only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is pleasant to
forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and
28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely conceive the
effect some of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from
you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have seen a superscription
written by you.—Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion, I have
laid it by me, till the person who brought it, left the room—when, behold!
on opening it, I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that have damped
all the rising affection of my soul.
Well, now for business—
* * * * * * * *
My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the
business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and now she
has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. You
would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will guard a crust
for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for some time, dart on
it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing can equal her life and
spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget
to love us—and come soon to tell us that you do.
Mary.

LETTER XXXIV
[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795].
From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will scarcely
reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you have either
not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleasant, or
rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If you have
received them, and are still detained by new projects, it is useless for me to
say any more on the subject. I have done with it for ever; yet I ought to
remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers by your absence.
* * * * * * * *
For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make
money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I
therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest
I should have uttered unseasonable truths.
My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I have
endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to
mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of life,”
you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I have ever
considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the
resolution necessary to bear the common[10] evils of life; I should answer,
that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid
them, cost what it would——
Adieu!
Mary.

LETTER XXXV
[Paris] February 9 [1795].
The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we
were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,
convince me that it was not without foundation. You 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 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 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 honour.—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 inclose 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 expence of my peace of mind.
Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.
Mary.

LETTER XXXVI
[Paris] Feb. 10 [1795].
You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am
dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business,
and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. I conceive
myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the
thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on
her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold
sacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me
mention! She has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up
together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write more fully on the
subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into
the same house. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an
object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I shall take one more, to pay
my servant’s wages, &c. and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want
by my own exertions. I shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the
Americans.
—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very
unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had
provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have
dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your
remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the
bitter cup to care about trifles.
When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the
gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in
America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you
did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary
to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For
a year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating,
drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be

remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but checked my
pen.
As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your
reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content with
the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine
will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative to the
desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could
be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the
resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you are so
continually hurried with business, you need not write to them—I shall,
when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!
Mary.
This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to complain
of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of the
cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who
have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in life,
not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am
imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could forget my
misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——

LETTER XXXVII
[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795].
When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite
time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it
was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickest effect; on the
contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues me
inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with every one, I have only
reason enough, to 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.
As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a
repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians
talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a
woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the necessity
of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine be harrassed!
But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the wind of heaven
not suffered to visit them too rudely,” I have not found a guardian angel, in
heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my bosom.
What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But
I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand
you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and
I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain myself; but if you
have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my meaning. What! is
our life then only to be made up of separations? and am I only to return to a
country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, but for which I feel a
repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!
Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl
would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans
of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.

In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am left
here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered
him callous to every sentiment connected with social or affectionate
emotions.—With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the
pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of the effect it is
visible it has had on me.
Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to avoid
asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.—Do not
mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times
to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking—you must
guess why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to
which you have sacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be
silent for ever.——

LETTER XXXVIII
[Havre] April 7 [1795].
Here I am at Havre, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell
you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I shall
not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—
You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that
naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very
affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till I
see, by your eyes, that it is mutual.
I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes, when I
find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.—I have indeed been so
unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain
tranquillity.—Enough of this—lie 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.
Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I weaned
her, about ten days ago.—I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.
—It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish to embitter
the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.—It
was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to throw this inquietude
with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw over my shoulder.—I
wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the
next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took
her back again to sleep in my bosom!
I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity for
your coming to me.—Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend with
me.—My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some
inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who
have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say
indifference, as you. God bless you!

Yours truly
Mary.

LETTER XXXIX
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795].
Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I
can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.—I shall drive to ——’s
hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope
you will take care to be there to receive us.
I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to
take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my share.—
But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to meet
soon?—What does your heart say?
Yours truly
Mary.
I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL
[26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place]
London, Friday, May 22 [1795].
I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think that I
have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, when the
exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be necessary, to
extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was something
relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which made —— request
to see me to-day, to converse about a matter of great importance. Be that as
it may, his letter (such is the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me,
and rendered the last night as distressing, as the two former had been.
I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that
tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different from
the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry with you—nor
will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments which convince
the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.—We have had too many
cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future prospect; but embitter
the remembrances which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject never
be revived!
It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of being
happy.—Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has been
shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought
for dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my
irritable nerves——
My friend—my dear friend—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 explicit—whether you
desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell
me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily
interrupted your peace.

I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a
cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which
only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours,
Mary.

LETTER XLI
[May 27, 1795] Wednesday.
I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am tempted
very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am angry, or
have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I shall make
every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round
in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically
assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
God bless you!
Yours sincerely,
Mary.

LETTER XLII
[Hull] Wednesday, Two o’Clock
[May 27, 1795].
We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child,
who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night—and now
we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a tomb-like house.
This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter,
(which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally
forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the
struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to
allow me to write with composure.—Imlay,—dear Imlay,—am I always to
be tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest contented in?
How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a
new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach
those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my
eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity,
electrified by sympathy.
I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be
detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours
sincerely and affectionately
Mary.
Fanny is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise
of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.——Adieu!

LETTER XLIII
[Hull, May 28, 1795] Thursday.
A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. I have then only a
moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give
information
* * * * * * * *
But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared
with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this
painful string—God bless you!
Yours truly,
Mary.

LETTER XLIV
[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795].
I have just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, for
it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general observations
which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they
go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most serious misfortunes of
my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses so
fastidious, as almost to close up every tender avenue of sentiment and
affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend,
yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in
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 a 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 characteristic of genius, the
foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish for the beauties of nature, of
which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and child-begeters, certainly
have no idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me:
—I consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose
imagination acts as the stimulus to their senses.
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 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.
Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting
happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in order
to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked sentiments that
nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, without agony,
think of your bosom’s being continually contaminated; and bitter are the
tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child and I are
forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, I had
hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor
can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to labour
perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment.
Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something
like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider
whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term “the zest of
life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your
own incentive to action, do not deceive me!
The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so
wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, let
me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you will
endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great
mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the
dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.
The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I
cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
depart.

[Hull, June 13, 1795]
Saturday Morning.
Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly
wrong, in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though,
without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have
animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have been
more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so
unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to
——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it
was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium
being thrown on you.[11]
I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my
efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am
engaged.
My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most
sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a true,
unsophisticated heart.
Yours most truly
Mary.
If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am afraid I
shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want
this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any
should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I
promise you) from whom I have received great civilities, will send them
after me.
Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on;
and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from
us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word—Come,
Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I shall recover
all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will draw us more
closely together. Once more adieu!

LETTER XLV
[Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795].
I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to
write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I have
any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling—
and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues me, in
which I seek for solace or amusement.
Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was fortunate,
for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the necessary
information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, a pretty
woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather interesting man.
—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor Fanny was
never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.
They took me in their carriage to Beverley, and I ran over my favourite
walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not
please me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when
I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since
I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated,
whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at pleasure, and
throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much
improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have
made, since I resided in this country.
The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to linger—
When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I do not
entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your connections on
either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your entanglements
in business, and your extreme restlessness of mind.—Even now I am almost
afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of being free, does not overbalance
the pain you felt at parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you
will feel me necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the

moment after, despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions
of tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!
Yours sincerely and affectionately
Mary.

LETTER XLVI
[Hull] June 15 [1795].
I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be very
particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence, my dear,
be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation indeed
on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most
affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of
disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet
should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true
friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the
world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has
opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher
value on my heart.
Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one from
me, and believe me yours
Sincerely
Mary.
The wind still continues in the same quarter.

LETTER XLVII
[Hull, June, 1795] Tuesday Morning.
The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the course
of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would have been
a comfort to me to have received another letter from you—Should one
arrive, it will be sent after me.
My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why——The quitting England
seems to be a fresh parting.—Surely you will not forget me.—A thousand
weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual
conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here, bowed down by
the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to be
fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my
faculties.
The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know
not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.—It is not a
presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of
disappointment,—having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery,
I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.—Well, let it come—I
care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! God bless
you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours
Mary.

LETTER XLVIII
[June 17, 1795] Wednesday Morning.
I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having
changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we
are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to
advance a few miles.
You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was
even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at
parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with
so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your letter, if
it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think
how long.
The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind
of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, which
is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness;
but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in
writing some effusions, than in reading.
What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time
before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within
me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and
feelings?—Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much
misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend
my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.—Will you not
endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I saying?—
Rather forget me, if you can—if other gratifications are dearer to you.—
How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? What a
world is this!—They only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or
artificial enjoyments.—Adieu!
Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.—I will
labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,

Yours sincerely
Mary.

LETTER XLIX
[June 18, 1795] Thursday.
Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the pilot,
who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the
wind.—It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going
forward.—I have a violent headache—yet I am obliged to take care of the
child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is unable to do
any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at
anchor.
These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind
—compared with the sinking of a broken heart.—To tell you the truth, I
never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits—from despair.
—I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying
dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of countenance.
I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and
will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at present
it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these continual struggles
—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort—and I will
try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you—when we meet again—surely
we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean not to have seas
between us—it is more than I can support.
The pilot is hurrying me—God bless you.
In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would
disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free,
the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Yours most truly
Mary.

LETTER L
[June 20, 1795] Saturday.
This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every
outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the
remembrances that sadden my heart.
How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to Lisbon, ten years
ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness—and
the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch
futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of
sunbeams!—Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to
frown—or rather mourn with me.—Every thing is cold—cold as my
expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these
North east chillers, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious
Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection
that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger there.
I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to
seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk—after which I hope
to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost
the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the
brink of madness—only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish
slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the sense
of, by every exertion in my power.
Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will
not allow her to remain on deck.
I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you—are you
not tired of this lingering adieu?
Yours truly
Mary.

LETTER LI
[Hull, June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning.
The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left
at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had a troublesome
sail—and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed.
I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one
haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate—you might have
known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart.
These are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But
why do I foolishly continue to look for them?
Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt.
—God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in
every sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I
will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.
Yours sincerely
Mary.
The child is well; I did not leave her on board.

LETTER LII
[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795].
I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at
Arendall. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you
we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were
set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.
What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon—nor mention the
pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.—This morning
however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, I
fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and how I
escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a quarter of an
hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses—the contusion
is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.
Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged
me—and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat;
the inns are mere stables—I must nevertheless go to bed. For God’s sake,
let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well, and yet you
see I cannot die.
Yours sincerely
Mary.

LETTER LIII
[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795].
I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe I
alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s
illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my
fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any
serious consequences.
—— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns here are
so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am
overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours
to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies
heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and
obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that
alone render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears to
me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every
night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a
canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.
Mary.

LETTER LIV
[Sweden] July 1 [1795].
I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by
sorrow and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that
cannot last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—
and, when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve
to live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual struggles.—
But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and, if you
perceive the least chance of being happier without me than with me, or if
your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not dissemble; but tell me
frankly that you will never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I
mentioned to you—for we must either live together, or I will be entirely
independent.
My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision—You know
however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of
the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I
am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest friendship is of any
value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless
affections cannot bestow?
Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should
imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your
affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
God bless you!
Yours truly
Mary.
Poor Fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth.

LETTER LV
[Sweden] July 3 [1795].
There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of
which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you throw
off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since
given place to your usual cheerfulness.
Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) there
is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb
your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my
sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
affectionate friend.
I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this affection
without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness
of soul.—She is an interesting creature.—On ship-board, how often as I
gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the less
troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that the virtue I had followed too far,
was merely an empty name!” and nothing but the sight of her—her playful
smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart—could have
stopped me.
What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I
have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to sully the
delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started with
affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing with balmy
sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving
nature.
My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love, in some minds, is
an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or
taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to
the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they
must be felt, they cannot be described.

Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care
than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming at
tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul—almost
rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have 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.
I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my
constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for,
begins to reanimate my countenance.
I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of
regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect
due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of
the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can
extinguish the heavenly spark.
Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush
when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound
myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.—I will listen to
delicacy, or pride.

LETTER LVI
[Sweden] July 4 [1795].
I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot
tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to
the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of
character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.
Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long time.
I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the
benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my faculties.—
Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of
my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share), the
purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I sleep in the
country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really
surprises me.—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.
With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!—
Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, and makes
friends for herself.
Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us in
Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?—why are
you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather
quickness of your senses, hardens your heart?—It is my misfortune, that my
imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and lending you charms,
whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain) overlook
graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded
heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.

LETTER LVII
[Sweden] July 7 [1795].
I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a
letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have
hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to silence
the usual expressions of sorrow—Believe me, there is such a thing as a
broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; and
who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest
satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from
myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel
keener anguish, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from
life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful sensations?
—But it cannot—it shall not last long.
The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded
to the soul by a negative.—My brain seems on fire. I must go into the air.
Mary.

LETTER LVIII
[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795].
I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. I felt more at leaving my child, than I
thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I heard
the half-formed sounds of her voice,—I asked myself how I could think of
parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?
Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the winds
to the shorn lamb!” but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when my
naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could
add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of
disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach
of confidence, that snaps every social tie!
All is not right somewhere!—When you first knew me, I was not thus lost. I
could still confide—for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort you
have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first object.
Strange want of judgment!
I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am
convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that your
conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.—I mean not
to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple basis of all
rectitude.—However I did not intend to argue—Your not writing is cruel—
and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.
Poor —— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my
fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of
countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually afraid
of some accident.—But it would have injured the child this warm season, as
she is cutting her teeth.
I hear not of your having written to me at Stromstad. Very well! Act as you
please—there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can, or

cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with
letters to which you do not reply.

LETTER LIX
[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795].
I am here in Tonsberg, separated from my child—and here I must remain a
month at least, or I might as well never have come.
* * * * * * * *
I have begun —— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a
pecuniary kind.—I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not
having done it sooner.
I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!
Mary.

LETTER LX
[Tonsberg] July 30 [1795].
I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and
you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention,
and how much I was hurt by your silence.
* * * * * * * *
Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God
knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of
heart!—My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I
feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has
afforded me pleasure,—and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope for—if a
spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.
I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live together,
because I want you to acquire an 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.
When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution
than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined always
to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot
dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set
me free.
Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings
anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made
me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth.
But to have done with these subjects.
* * * * * * * *

I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet I
never was so much in the air.—I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe, and
even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The child,
—— informs me, is well, I long to be with her.
Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you
to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you
seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.
Yours most affectionately
Mary Imlay
I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to
yours.

LETTER LXI
[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795].
Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have
entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my
nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though
trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.—I have, it
is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long
—long time past.—(I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation to
the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)
—Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so constituted, I cannot live
without some particular affection—I am afraid not without a passion—and I
feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude.
* * * * * * * *
Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs—my eyes fill with
tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my
resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my
anguish in my own bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me
sometimes overlook delicacy—the same tenderness will in future restrain
me. God bless you!

LETTER LXII
[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795].
Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles,
and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I
cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some
moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on
the rocks.
This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on
something—and soon;—we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am
sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched—when we were
together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip
from me. I cannot live with 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.
Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and absorbed by
the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what new form of
misery I have to dread.
I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you
will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of

Yours truly
Mary.

LETTER LXIII
[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795].
Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the 14th
of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not expect
from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to assure you that
you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am disgusted with
myself for having so long importuned you with my affection.——
My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I mean,
I and my girl.—I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am informed
how your affairs terminate.
Yours sincerely
Mary.

LETTER LXIV
[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795].
I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more
pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot
conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. Her
increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promised
her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me
forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an independence for her; but I
will not be too anxious on this head.
I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even
vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for peace,
we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm
contentment so termed.—
* * * * * * * *
You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect yours
have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of this
month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.—Certainly
you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world,
and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend—or you would not
treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion—a
clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I will never remind
you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be
free—I will not torment, when I cannot please. I can take care of my child;
you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, that you
will try to cherish tenderness for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we
are separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary
considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without
affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had
a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior
considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to maintain
my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I shall not

remain at ——, living expensively. But be not alarmed! I shall not force
myself on you any more.
Adieu! I am agitated—my whole frame is convulsed—my lips tremble, as if
shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.
God bless you.
Mary.

LETTER LXV
[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795].
I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter last
night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. I will
copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to imagine that
I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life—to prevent
even that, you had better never hear from me—and repose on the idea that I
am happy.
Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment,
when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have suffered this
last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy substitute for wisdom,
insensibility—and the lively sympathies which bind me to my fellow-
creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart
—pleasure and I have shaken hands.
I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people
immersed in trade and sensuality.
I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting-place to
look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks, I
have thought, “But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and
never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections
of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone that I would
fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a delusion. I
meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or
principle—and, when I am conscious that I have fulfilled the duties of my
station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to demand, in a
murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus abandoned?”
You say now
* * * * * * * *

I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more 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
part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer to this. I must
compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.
* * * * * * * *
I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. But this
you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out
what you mean to say—You write, I suppose, at Mr. ——’s after dinner,
when your head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if you have one, I
see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse when you
mention the child—Adieu!

LETTER LXVI
[Hamburg] September 25 [1795].
I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ——. In that I
complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three mails
should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed it, I hear
of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this silence
is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain —— remained a few days longer, I
would have returned with him to England. What have I to do here? I have
repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the same—and quickly. Do not
leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this of you. I cannot write, my
mind is so distressed. Adieu!
Mary.

LETTER LXVII
[Hamburg] September 27 [1795].
When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to
decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there
was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but
too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative
was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of
meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a
yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am
accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, much
less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your shoulders.
I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you
decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a
world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, I had
little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I submit.—I am
content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no
cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having
expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for a
momentary gratification.
I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your
tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I leaned
on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a faithful
friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are differently
organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on my soul by

sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at present on you,
whether you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, till I see or hear from
you.
Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be
like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and not
to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few months
to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will not
receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your
beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not
the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the
independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go
a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry shall
enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my girl.—The
assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I can get at an
easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to such society as she will like—and
thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, which depends on me, I
shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my
expectation, will not always elude my grasp. No poor temptest-tossed
mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at his port.
Mary.
I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to go
to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, that I am
not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see you, though
it be for the last time.

LETTER LXVIII
[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795].
I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of
last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but, as we
sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.
You say, I must decide for myself.—I had decided, that it was most for the
interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to
live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, some years hence,
when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an
affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst
endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in: for you
cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you
have formed some new 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 labouring 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 me, that you would make any
sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even in your last unkind letter,
you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell me, that you
wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return
of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me

whether you 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.

LETTER LXIX
[London, Nov. 1795].
I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the
maid with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue
——, section de ——. 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! Soon, very soon shall I 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
endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames
where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.
God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made
me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear
before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
Mary.

LETTER LXX
[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning.
I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was
inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed 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 dishonoured.
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 thing
sacred 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 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!
Mary.

LETTER LXXI
[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning.
I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with
you, that
* * * * * * * *
But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I
am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.
* * * * * * * *
My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may
lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
but she shall not despise me for meanness.—You are now perfectly free.—
God bless you.
Mary.

LETTER LXXII
[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night.
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated
by any tenderness to me.—You ask “If I am well or tranquil?”—They who
think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to
be the organ of my own sentiments.
I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering
me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new house, as
an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner
perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the moment when
I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this
even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes
seems to suit the habit of my mind.—
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be
necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other medium—
that the affair is finished.—It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be
reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be
the same thing to you.
Mary.
Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
distracted mind.

LETTER LXXIII
[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon.
Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were
left at the house, I have to request you to let —— bring them to ——
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be 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.
Farewel.
Mary.

LETTER LXXIV
London, November 27 [1795].
The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.—I had thrown the letters aside
—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger
—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me,
made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
expect much attention to my sufferings.
In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has
almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I
am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel recollections
never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to conceal in total
solitude.—My life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, continually on
the stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, that I
shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But is it
not possible that passion clouds your reason, as much as it does mine?—
and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so “exalted,” as
you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words,
whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your
inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the
expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you
now seem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may
never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt
you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will
drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine.

I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious
arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am miserable!
It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest
principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my social feelings,
and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole soul,
only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that existence is a
burthen without it.
I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship, you
still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling are the
ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.—God bless you!
Mary.
I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You
seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether
you dashed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled.
Do you judge coolly, and I trust you will not continue to call those
capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only the
most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.—You
would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a
father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly the
most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to please
ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!
Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from you—
and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct—I am
convinced you will not always justify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your
mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle
require such sacrifices?

LETTER LXXV
London, December 8 [1795].
Having just been informed that —— is to return immediately to Paris, I
would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain that
my last, by Dover has reached you.
Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I
wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light
of an enemy.
That I have not been used well I must ever feel; perhaps, not always with
the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write calmly, and
I cannot restrain my tears.
I am stunned!—Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.—
Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, I
could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are sacred things
—and we never play with truth, with impunity.
The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your affection,
every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it seems to me, when I am
more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you will not
always forget me.—You will feel something like remorse, for having lived
only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a
comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested
friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will
come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into
that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of
action, are all superior to your present conduct. You do, you must, respect
me—and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem.
You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an
imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I

am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be
cleared up by time.
You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own
eyes.—I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed in
some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have afforded
you equal pleasure.
Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I thought
your property in jeopardy.—When I went to [Sweden], I requested you, if
you could conveniently, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other
people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away, yet not
only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not
discharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendship—or generosity?
Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for
you.—God bless you.
Mary.

LETTER LXXVI
[London, Dec. 1795.]
As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I will
once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling
ingenuity!
I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is
impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward
inclination with the manly dictates of principle.
You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why do I?——Because you cannot
estrange your heart entirely from me—and you feel that justice is on my
side. You urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.”—It was not.—When
your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to
remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took
great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the
effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with these
words, “Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and I
will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”
With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I
wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old
propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last prevail. I still
thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you
to conquer yourself.
Imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings
of this kind.—You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction
you would feel, would amply repay you.
In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will
come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even
in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every thing to

your generosity—but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in suspense!—Let
me see you once more!—

LETTER LXXVII
[London, Dec. 1795.]
You must do as you please with respect to the child.—I could wish that it
might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is
now finished.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I
disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the
“forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no
consequence.—I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.
I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch not
from the duties which tie me to life.
That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters
not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet your
understanding or mine must be strangely warped—for what you term
“delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for
morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to
follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and affection.
Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the
brunt of your sarcasms.
The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will
survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The
impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal desire,
the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come.—
Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.
It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me
to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
I part with you in peace.

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

Footnotes:
[1] Dowden’s “Life of Shelley.”
[2] The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,” probably
from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.—W. G.
[3] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.—W. G.
[4] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a
similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person
to whom they were addressed.—W. G.
[5] Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre,
but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he
went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited
London on business.
[6] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.—
W. G.
[7] She means, “the latter more than the former.”—W. G.
[8] This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many
months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from
Paris, and bear the address of London.—W. G.
[9] The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], was about this
time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was

recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of business
now accumulated upon him.—W. G.
[10] This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] the person to
whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things
upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation.
—W. G.
[11] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and
not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.—W. G.

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