CHAPTER V.

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

When she settled in London, she was in no humor for social pleasures. Her sole ambition was to be useful, and she worked incessantly. She at first hid herself from almost everybody. When she expected her sistersto stay with her, she begged them beforehand, “If you pay any visits, you will comply with my whim and not mention my place of abode or mode of life.” She lived in very simple fashion; her rooms were furnished with the merest necessities. Another warning she had to give Everina and Mrs. Bishop was, “I have a room, but not furniture. J. offered you both a bed in his house, but that would not be pleasant. I believe I must try to purchase a bed, which I shall reserve for my poor girls while I have a house.” It has been recorded that Talleyrand visited her in her lodgings on George Street, and that while the two discussed social and political problems, they drank their tea and then their wine from tea-cups, wine-glasses being an elegance beyond Mary’s means. Her dress was as plain as her furniture. Her gowns were mean in material and often shabby, and her hair hung loosely on her shoulders, instead of being twisted and looped as was then fashionable. Knowles, in his “Life of Fuseli,” finds fault with her on this account. She was not, however, aphilosophical sloven, withromanticideas of benevolence, as he intimates. Either he or Fuseli strangely misjudged her. The reason she paid so little heed to the luxuries and frivolities which custom then exacted, was because other more pressing demands were made upon her limited income. Then, as usual, she was troubled by the wretched complications and misfortunes of her family. The entire care and responsibility fell upon her shoulders. None of the other members seemed to consider that she was as destitute as they were,—that what shedidwas literally her one source of revenue. Assistance would have been as welcome to her as itwas to them. But they accepted what she had to give, and were never deterred by reflecting upon the difficulty with which she responded to their needs. This is always the way. The strong are made to bear the burdens of the weak.

The amount of practical help she gave them is almost incredible. Eliza and Everina had, when the school at Newington Green failed, become governesses, but their education had been so sadly neglected that they were not competent for their work. Mary, knowing this, sent Everina to France, that she might study to be a good French teacher. The tide of emigration caused by the Revolution had only just begun, and French governesses and tutors were not the drug on the market they became later. Everina remained two years in France at her eldest sister’s expense. Mary found a place for Eliza, first as parlor boarder, and then as assistant, in an excellent school near London. For most of the time, however, both sisters were birds of passage. Everina was for a while at Putney, and then in Ireland, where she probably learned for herself the discomforts which Mary had once endured. Eliza was now at Market Harborough and Henley, and again at Putney, and finally she obtained a situation in Pembrokeshire, Wales, which she retained longer than any she had hitherto held. During these years there were occasional intermissions when both sisters were out of work, and there were holiday seasons to be provided for. To their father’s house it was still impossible for them to go. Its wretchedness was so great, it could no longer be called a home. Eliza, soon to see it, found it unbearable. Edward, it appears, was willingto give shelter to Everina; but this brother, of whom less mention is made in the sisters’ letters, was never a favorite, and residence with him was an evil to be avoided. The one place, therefore, where they were sure of a warm welcome was the humble lodging near Blackfriars’ Bridge. Mary fulfilled her promise of being a mother to them both. She stinted herself that she might make their lot more endurable.

When Eliza went to begin her Welsh engagement at Upton Castle, she spent a night on the way with her father. Her report of this visit opened a new channel for Mary’s benevolence. Mr. Wollstonecraft was then living at Laugharne, where he had taken his family many years before, and where his daughters had made several very good friends. But Eliza, as she lamented to Everina, went sadly from one old beloved haunt to another, without meeting an eye which glistened at seeing her. Old acquaintances were dead, or had sought a home elsewhere. The few who were left would not, probably because of the father’s disgrace, come to see her. The step-mother, the second Mrs. Wollstonecraft, was helpful and economical; but her thrift availed little against the drunken follies of her husband. The latter had but just recovered from an illness. He was worn to a skeleton, he coughed and groaned all night in a way to make the listener’s blood run cold, and he could not walk ten yards without pausing to pant for breath. His poverty was so abject that his clothes were barely decent, and his habits so low that he was indifferent to personal cleanliness. For days and weeks after she had seen him, Eliza was haunted by the memory of his unkempt hair and beard,his red face and his beggarly shabbiness. Poor unfortunate Charles, the last child left at home, was half-naked, and his time was spent in quarrelling with his father. Eliza, who knew how to be independent, was irritated by her brother’s idleness. “I am very cool to Charles, and have said all I can to rouse him,” she wrote to Everina; but then immediately she added, forced to do him justice, “But where can he go in his present plight?” It scarcely seems possible that such misery should have befallen a gentleman’s family. Mr. Wollstonecraft’s one cry, through it all, was for money. He threatened to go to London in his rags, and compel the obdurate Edward to comply with his demands. When Eliza told him of the sacrifices Mary made in order to help him, he only flew into a rage.

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

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

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

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

“We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has lost its bells and grown so heavy I find it intolerablytroublesome. Good-night! I have been pursuing a number of strange thoughts since I began to write, and have actually both laughed and wept immoderately. Surely I am a fool.”

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

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

But good friends as they continued to be, he was far away in Dublin, with different interests; and Marycraved immediate and comprehensive sympathy. Mr. Johnson was ever ready to administer to her spiritual wants; he was a friend in very truth. He evidently understood her nature and knew how best to deal with her when she was in these moods. “During her stay in George Street,” he says in a note referring to her, “she spent many of her afternoons and most of her evenings with me. She was incapable of disguise. Whatever was the state of her mind, it appeared when she entered, and the tone of conversation might easily be guessed. When harassed, which was very often the case, she was relieved by unbosoming herself, and generally returned home calm, frequently in spirits.” Sometimes her mental condition threatened to interfere seriously with her work, and then again Mr. Johnson knew how to stimulate and encourage her. When she was writing her answer to Burke’s “Reflections on the French Revolution,” and when the first half of her paper had been sent to the printer, her interest in her subject and her power of writing suddenly deserted her. It was important to publish all that was written in the controversy while public attention was still directed to it. And yet, though Mary knew this full well, it was simply impossible for her to finish what she had eagerly begun. In this frame of mind she called upon Mr. Johnson and told him her troubles. Instead of finding fault with her, he was sympathetic and bade her not to worry, for if she could not continue her pamphlet he would throw aside the printed sheets. This roused her pride. It was a far better stimulus than abuse would have been, and it sent her home to write the second half immediately. That she at times reproachedherself for taking undue advantage of Mr. Johnson’s kindness appears from the following apologetic little note:—

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

Yours sincerely,

Mary.

The dry morsel and quietness which were now her portion were infinitely better than the house full of strife which she had just left. She was happier than she had ever been before, but she was only happy by comparison. Solitude was preferable to the society of Lady Kingsborough and her friends, but for any one of Mary’s temperament it could not be esteemed as a good in itself. Her unnatural isolation fortunately did not last very long. Her friendship with Mr. Johnson was sufficient in itself to break through her barrier of reserve. She was constantly at his house, and it was one of the gayest and most sociable in London. It was the rendezvous of theliteratiof the day. Persons of note, foreigners as well as Englishmen, frequented it. There one could meet Fuseli, impetuous, impatient, and overflowing with conversation; Paine, somewhat hard to draw out of his shell; Bonnycastle, Dr. George Fordyce, Mr. George Anderson, Dr. Geddes, and a host of other prominent artists, scientists, and literary men. Their meetings were informal. Theygathered together to talk about what interested them, and not to simper and smirk, and give utterance to platitudes and affectations, as was the case with the society to which Mary had lately been introduced. The people with whom she now became acquainted were too earnest to lay undue stress on what Herbert Spencer calls thenon-essentialsof social intercourse. Sincerity was more valued by them than standard forms of politeness. When Dr. Geddes was indignant with Fuseli, he did not disguise his feelings, but in the face of the assembled company rushed out of the room to walk two or three times around Saint Paul’s Churchyard, and then, when his rage had diminished, to return and resume the argument. This indifference to conventionalities, which would have been held by the polite world to be a fault, must have seemed to Mary, after her late experience, an incomparable virtue. It is no wonder that Mrs. Barbauld found the evenings she spent with her publisher lively. “We protracted them sometimes till ——” she wrote to her brother in the course of one of her visits to London. “But I am not telling tales. Ask —— at what time we used to separate.” Mary was also a welcome guest at Mrs. Trimmer’s house, which, like that of Mr. Johnson, was a centre of attraction for clever people. This Mrs. Trimmer had acquired some little literary reputation, and had secured the patronage of the royal family and the clergy. She and Mary differed greatly, both in character and creed, but they became very good friends. “I spent a day at Mrs. Trimmer’s, and found her a truly respectable woman,” was the verdict the latter sent to Everina; nor had she ever reason to alter it. Her intimacy with Miss Hayesalso brought her into contact with many of the same class.

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

Under the influence of congenial social surroundings, she gave up her habits of retirement. She began to find enjoyment in society, and her interest in life revived. She could even be gay, nor was there so much sorrow in her laughter as there had been of yore. Among the most intimate of her new acquaintances were Mr. and Mrs. Fuseli; and the account has been preserved of at least one pleasure party to which she accompanied them. This was a masked ball, and young Lavater, then in England, was with them. Masquerades were then at the height of popularity. All sorts and conditions of men went to them. Beautiful Amelia Opie, in her poorest days, spent five pounds to gain admittance to one given to the Russian ambassadors. Mrs. Inchbald, when well advanced in years, could enter so thoroughly into the spirit of another as to beg a friend to lend her a faded blue silk handkerchief or sash, that she might represent her real character of apasséeblue-stocking. Mary’s gayety on the present occasion was less artificial than it had been at the Dublin mask. But Fuseli’s hot temper and fondness for a joke brought their amusement to a sudden end. They were watching the masks, when one among the latter, dressed as a devil, danced up to them, and, with howls and many mad pranks, made merry at their expense. Fuseli, when he found he could not rid himself of the tormentor, called out half angrily, half facetiously, “Go to Hell!” The devil proved to be of the dull species, and instead of answering with a livelyjest, broke out into a torrent of hot abuse, and refused to be appeased. Fuseli, wishing to avoid a scene, literally turned and fled, leaving Mary and the others to save themselves as best they could.

At this period a man, whose name, luckily for himself, is now forgotten, wished to make Mary his wife. Her treatment of him was characteristic. He could not have known her very well, or else he would not have been so foolish as to represent his financial prosperity as an argument in his favor. For a woman to sell herself for money, even when the bargain was sanctioned by the marriage ceremony, was, in her opinion, the unpardonable sin. Therefore, what he probably intended as an honor, she received as an insult. She declared that it must henceforward end her acquaintance not only with him, but with the third person through whom the offer was sent, and to whom Mary gave her answer. Her letters in connection with this subject are among the most interesting in her correspondence. They bear witness to the sanctity she attached to the union of man and wife. Her views in this relation cannot be too prominently brought forward, since, by manifesting the purity of her principles, light is thrown on her subsequent conduct. In her first burst of wrath she unbosomed herself to her ever-sympathetic confidant, Mr. Johnson:—

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

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

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

Mary Wollstonecraft.

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

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

In a few words, what I call an insult is the bare supposition that I could for a moment think ofprostitutingmy person for a maintenance; for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.

It is needless to say more; only you must excuse me when I add that I wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary, if you were inclined to make one, nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to respect poverty, even when it gives lustre to a character; and I tell you, sir, I ampoor, yet can live without your benevolent exertions.

Mary Wollstonecraft.

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

“I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head against the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish from self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased with myself, and I will tell you the cause. You may recollect that I did not mention to you the circumstance of —— having a fortune left to him; nor did a hint of it drop from me when I conversed with my sister, because I knew he had a sufficient motive for concealing it. Last Sunday, when his character was aspersed, as I thought unjustly, in the heat of vindication I informed —— that he was now independent; but, at the same time, desired him not to repeat my information to B——; yet last Tuesday he told him all, and the boy at B——’s gave Mrs. —— an account of it. As Mr. —— knew he had only made a confidant of me (I blush to think of it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning came, not to reproach me,—I wish he had,—but to point out the injury I have done him. Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse him, if I deny myself the necessaries of life, and even then my folly will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at this moment endure. That I, whose power of doinggood is so limited, should do harm, galls my very soul. —— may laugh at these qualms, but, supposing Mr. —— to be unworthy, I am not the less to blame. Surely it is hell to despise one’s self! I did not want this additional vexation. At this time I have many that hang heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this month, nor stir out. My stomach has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the desk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LITERARY WORK.

1788-1791.

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

The pamphlet consists of a number of short treatises, indicating certain laws and principles which Mary thought needed to be more generally understood and more firmly established. That a woman should not shirk the functions, either physical or moral, of maternity; that artificial manners and exterior accomplishments should not be cultivated in lieu of practical knowledge and simplicity of conduct; that matrimony is to be considered seriously and not entered into capriciously; that the individual owes certain dutiesto humanity as well as to his or her own family,—all these are truths which it is well to repeat frequently. But if their repetition be not accompanied by arguments which throw new light on ethical science, or else if it be not made with the vigor and power born of a thorough knowledge of humanity and its wants and shortcomings, it will not be remembered by posterity. The “Education of Daughters” certainly bears no relation to such works as the “Imitation” on the one hand, or the “Data of Ethics” on the other. It is not a book for all time.

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

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

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

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

And again she says, as if in warning:—

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

“... Let the manners arise from the mind, and let there be no disguise for the genuine emotions of the heart.

“Things merely ornamental are soon disregarded, and disregard can scarcely be borne when there is no internal support.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... To wish that parents would, themselves, mould the ductile passions is a chimerical wish, as the present generation have their own passions to combat with, and fastidious pleasures to pursue, neglecting those nature points out. We must then pour premature knowledge into the succeeding one; and, teaching virtue, explain the nature of vice.”

In addressing a youthful audience, Mary was as deeply inspired by her love of goodnessper se, andher detestation of conventional conceptions of virtue, as she was afterwards in appealing to older readers. She represents, in her book, two little girls, aged respectively twelve and fourteen, who have been sadly neglected during their early years, but who, fortunately, have at this period fallen under the care of a Mrs. Mason, who at once undertakes to form their character and train their intellect. This good lady, in whose name Mary sermonizes, seizes upon every event of the day to teach her charges a moral lesson. The defects she attacks are those most common to childhood. Cruelty to animals, peevishness, lying, greediness, indolence, procrastination, are in turn censured, and their opposite virtues praised. Some of the definitions of the qualities commended are excellent. For example, Mrs. Mason says to the two children:—

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

Again, she warns them thus:—

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

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

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

To strengthen the effect of Mrs. Mason’s words, an example or story is in every chapter added to her remarks. They are all appropriate, and many of the tales are beautiful. As the book is so little known, one of these may with advantage be given here. The story selected is that of Crazy Robin. Mrs. Mason tells it to Mary and Caroline, the two little girls, to explain to them how much wretchedness can be produced by unkindness to men and beasts. It is interesting because it shows the quality of the mental food which Mary thought best fitted for the capacity of children. She was evidently an advocate for strong nourishment. Besides, the story, despite some unpleasant defects of style, is very powerful. It is full of dramatic force, and is related with great simplicity and pathos:—

“In yonder cave lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of Crazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married my father’s dairy-maid, a girl deserving of such a good husband. For some time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labor procured their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should have a large family, borrowed a trifle to add to the small pittance they had saved in service, and tooka little farm in a neighboring county. I was then a child.“Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very harmless, had by the side of the brook piled a great number of stones; he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himself, ‘Thou wilt not leave me. We will dwell with the owl in the ivy.’ A number of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones he waded for he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only left just room enough to go in. Some of the neighbors at last recollected him; and I sent to inquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable state.“The information I received from different persons I will communicate to you in as few words as I can.“Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came to his native place, he had been overwhelmed by a torrent of misery. Through unavoidable misfortunes he was long in arrears to his landlord; who, seeing that he was an honest man, and endeavored to bring up his family, did not distress him; but when his wife was lying-in of her last child, the landlord died, and his heir sent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person he had borrowed some money of, exasperated to see all gone, arrested him, and he was hurried to jail. The poor woman, endeavoring to assist her family before she had gained sufficient strength, found herself very ill; and the illness, through neglect and the want of proper nourishment, turned to a putrid fever, which two of the children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jacky and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog that had long shared their frugal meals.“The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the country air made bloom with a peculiar freshness. Their blood had been tainted by the putrid complaint that destroyed theirmother; in short, they caught the small-pox, and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groan or a tear escaped from him while he stood, two or three hours, in the same attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for a while he seemed not to observe his caresses; when he did, he said mournfully, ‘Thou wilt not leave me;’ and then he began to laugh. The bodies were removed; and he remained in an unsettled state, often frantic; at length the frenzy subsided, and he grew melancholy and harmless. He was not then so closely watched; and one day he contrived to make his escape, the dog followed him, and came directly to his native village.“After I received this account, I determined he should live in the place he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which he rejected except a mat, on which he sometimes slept; the dog always did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog whatever I sent him, and lived on haws and blackberries and every kind of trash. I used to call frequently on him; and he sometimes followed me to the house I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own accord, and take a crust of bread. He gathered water-cresses out of the pool, and would bring them to me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which he plucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog was a cur; it had the tricks of curs, and would run after horses’ heels and bark. One day, when his master was gathering water-cresses, the dog ran after a young gentleman’s horse, and made it start, and almost throw the rider. Though he knew it was the poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at it, shot it, and instantly rode off. Robin came to him; he looked at his wounds, and, not sensible that he was dead, called him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and washed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home and laid him on the mat.“I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills, and sent to inquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit it, or receive any refreshment. I went to him myself, hoping, as I had always been a favorite, that I should be able to persuade him. When I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was still melancholy; but there was not such a mixture of wildness in it. I pressed him to take some food; but, instead of answering me, or turning away, he burst into tears, a thing I had never seen him do before, and, in inarticulate accents, he said, ‘Will any one be kind to me? You will kill me! I saw not my wife die—no!—they dragged me from her, but I saw Jacky and Nancy die; and who pitied me, but my dog?’ He turned his eyes to the body. I wept with him. He would then have taken some nourishment, but nature was exhausted, and he expired.”

“Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very harmless, had by the side of the brook piled a great number of stones; he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himself, ‘Thou wilt not leave me. We will dwell with the owl in the ivy.’ A number of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones he waded for he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only left just room enough to go in. Some of the neighbors at last recollected him; and I sent to inquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable state.

“The information I received from different persons I will communicate to you in as few words as I can.

“Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came to his native place, he had been overwhelmed by a torrent of misery. Through unavoidable misfortunes he was long in arrears to his landlord; who, seeing that he was an honest man, and endeavored to bring up his family, did not distress him; but when his wife was lying-in of her last child, the landlord died, and his heir sent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person he had borrowed some money of, exasperated to see all gone, arrested him, and he was hurried to jail. The poor woman, endeavoring to assist her family before she had gained sufficient strength, found herself very ill; and the illness, through neglect and the want of proper nourishment, turned to a putrid fever, which two of the children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jacky and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog that had long shared their frugal meals.

“The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the country air made bloom with a peculiar freshness. Their blood had been tainted by the putrid complaint that destroyed theirmother; in short, they caught the small-pox, and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groan or a tear escaped from him while he stood, two or three hours, in the same attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for a while he seemed not to observe his caresses; when he did, he said mournfully, ‘Thou wilt not leave me;’ and then he began to laugh. The bodies were removed; and he remained in an unsettled state, often frantic; at length the frenzy subsided, and he grew melancholy and harmless. He was not then so closely watched; and one day he contrived to make his escape, the dog followed him, and came directly to his native village.

“After I received this account, I determined he should live in the place he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which he rejected except a mat, on which he sometimes slept; the dog always did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog whatever I sent him, and lived on haws and blackberries and every kind of trash. I used to call frequently on him; and he sometimes followed me to the house I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own accord, and take a crust of bread. He gathered water-cresses out of the pool, and would bring them to me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which he plucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog was a cur; it had the tricks of curs, and would run after horses’ heels and bark. One day, when his master was gathering water-cresses, the dog ran after a young gentleman’s horse, and made it start, and almost throw the rider. Though he knew it was the poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at it, shot it, and instantly rode off. Robin came to him; he looked at his wounds, and, not sensible that he was dead, called him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and washed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home and laid him on the mat.

“I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills, and sent to inquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit it, or receive any refreshment. I went to him myself, hoping, as I had always been a favorite, that I should be able to persuade him. When I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was still melancholy; but there was not such a mixture of wildness in it. I pressed him to take some food; but, instead of answering me, or turning away, he burst into tears, a thing I had never seen him do before, and, in inarticulate accents, he said, ‘Will any one be kind to me? You will kill me! I saw not my wife die—no!—they dragged me from her, but I saw Jacky and Nancy die; and who pitied me, but my dog?’ He turned his eyes to the body. I wept with him. He would then have taken some nourishment, but nature was exhausted, and he expired.”

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

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

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

Back to Index Next