| 161 |
Godwin’s increasing intimacy with Mary Wollstonecraft has been already noticed. She had not made any great impression on him at their earliest meetings, nor, when he first knew her, had she ceased to consider herself as virtually the wife of Imlay, whose name she bore. The treatment she had received from this person, however, was such that when the connection was finally dissolved, the bitterness of parting was already past, and the affectionate friendship existing between herself and Godwin passed easily into a warmer feeling. There were, however, many reasons on both sides which rendered the idea of marriage distasteful. Mrs Shelley has left a note in regard to her father which must be given at length.
“He was very averse to marriage. Poverty was a
strong argument against it. When he concocted a code of morals in ‘Political Justice,’ he warmly
opposed a system which exacted a promise to be kept to the end of life, in spite of
every alteration of circumstance and of feeling. Objections to marriage are usually
supposed to infer an approval, and even practice, of illicit intercourse. This was far
from being the case with Godwin. He was in a
supreme degree a conscientious man, utterly opposed to anything like vice or
libertinism, nor did his sense of duty permit him to indulge in any deviation from the
laws of society, which, though he might regard as unjust, could not, he felt, be
infringed without deception and injury to any woman who should act in opposition
| 162 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“Among his acquaintance were several women, to whose society he was exceedingly partial, and who were all distinguished for personal attraction and talents. Among them may be mentioned the celebrated Mary Robinson, whom to the end of his life he considered as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but though he admired her so greatly, their acquaintance scarcely attained intimate friendship. It was otherwise with Mrs Inchbald; he saw her frequently, he delighted in her manners, her conversation, her loveliness; yet he was not in love, and, above all, never thought of marrying her. He was intimate with Miss Alderson, afterwards Mrs Opie, but their friendship is purely such as is formed every day in society. He admired her beauty and sprightliness. She liked his conversation and respected his talents.
“There was yet another favourite. She was married, and this circumstance was a barrier to every sentiment except friendship, but he certainly experienced for her more of tenderness and preference than for any other among his acquaintance.”
It will be plain from what has been already said that Mrs Shelley may possibly have been misinformed about
Miss Alderson. There seems reason to believe that
Godwin did contemplate marriage with her, and
did make a proposal on the subject to Dr Alderson,
if not to the lady herself. The lady to whom Mrs Shelley alludes in
the last paragraph is of course Mrs Reveley, afterwards Mrs Gisborne. It may be added that
Godwin’s dislike of what in “Political Justice” he terms
“co-habitation,” i.e., in his use of the word, the
living perpetually in the same house with another person, and having no time or place which
can be
| MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. | 163 |
Mary Wollstonecraft, who was born April 27, 1759,
was the eldest daughter of a large family, the children of a man who had inherited and
spent a considerable fortune. The family appear to have been originally of Irish
extraction, but Mary’s grandfather was a respectable
manufacturer in Spitalfields, and realized the property which his son squandered. Her
mother’s maiden name was Elizabeth Dixon. She
was Irish, and of good family. Mr Wollstonecraft was
not bred to any profession, but after he had come to the end of his money he left Hoxton,
where he had lived for a short time, and after many changes of residence—to Essex and to
Beverley, in Yorkshire, among others—he went to live at Laugharne in Pembrokeshire, where
he had a farm. He soon, however, returned to London for a time. Mary
Godwin’s mother died in 1780, leaving six children—Edward, an attorney, settled near the Tower in London;
Mary, Everina, and
Eliza, James, afterwards in the Navy; and Charles, who finally emigrated to America. Mr
Wollstonecraft speedily married again, but though his wife seems to have
done what she could to keep him out of difficulties, he was a man of idle and dissipated
habits, and dropped ever lower in fortune and respectability.
| 164 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
Mary had a friend in Fanny Blood, a girl of her own age, and whose circumstances were somewhat similar. Fanny Blood supported her family as an artist, and lived for some time at Walham Green, where Mary joined her, and earned her livelihood by helping Mrs Blood, who took in needlework. She looked to an independent career as a teacher in a school; Everina went to keep her brother’s house; and Eliza married, when circumstances occurred which threw on her a far greater amount of responsibility and difficulty.
Eliza Wollstonecraft had married a Mr Bishop, but the marriage had proved from the first an unhappy one. It is more than probable there were faults on both sides. 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. With a great desire for culture and self-improvement, she had less actual education than Everina, and very far less than her gifted sister Mary, so that there was little to counteract the waywardness of a hasty disposition. Yet with all this there can be no doubt that Bishop was a man of furious violence, and from the letters which remain it would seem that many of the painful scenes in Mary’s unfinished novel, “The Wrongs of Women,” are simple transcriptions of what she had known or even witnessed in her sister’s married life.
Mary, much attached to all her brothers and sisters,
was devoted to Eliza, and considered no sacrifice
too great to make for her. To save her from her misery, she at once gave up all hopes for
the time of an independent career,
| SCHOOL-KEEPING. | 165 |
George Blood, Mrs
Skeys’ younger brother, had also a great share of her affection. His
disposition and the unfortunate condition of his home, since his father was a drunken spendthrift, attracted her to the
lad, and she felt also much for him because he entertained a hopeless, unrequited love for
her sister Everina, who was considerably older than
herself. Somewhat wild and reckless while a mere lad, and somewhat unsettled, he accepted a
situation as clerk near Lisbon, with hopes of promotion, but abandoned it almost at once.
He then returned to Ire-
| 166 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“I expected to have seen you before this, but the extreme coldness of the weather is a sufficient apology. I cannot yet give any certain account of Bess, or form a rational conjecture with respect to the termination of her disorder. She has not had a violent fit of frenzy since I saw you, but her mind is in a most unsettled state, and attending to the constant fluctuation of it is far more harassing than the watching those raving fits that had not the least tincture of reason. Her ideas are all disjointed, and a number of wild whims float on her imagination, and fall from her unconnectedly, something like strange dreams when judgment sleeps, and fancy sports at a fine rate. Don’t smile at my language, for I am so constantly forced to observe her—lest she run into mischief—that my thoughts continually turn on the unaccountable wanderings of her mind. She seems to think she has been very ill used, and, in short, till I see some more favourable symptoms, I shall only suppose that her malady has assumed a new and more distressing appearance.
“One thing, by way of comfort, I must tell you, that
persons who recover from madness are generally in this way before they are
| MRS BISHOP. | 167 |
“Mr D. promised to call last night, and I intended sending this by him. We have been out in a coach, but still Bess is far from being well. Patience—Patience. Farewell.
“I don’t know what to do. Poor Eliza’s situation almost turns my brain. I can’t stay and see this continual misery, and to leave her to bear it by herself without any one to comfort her, is still more distressing. I would do anything to rescue her from her present situation. My head is quite confused with thus being to so little purpose. In this case something desperate must be determined on. Do you think Edward will receive her? Do speak to him; or if you imagine that I should have more influence on his mind, I will contrive to see you, but you must caution him against expostulating with or even mentioning the affair to Bishop, for it would only put him on his guard, and we should have a storm to encounter that I tremble to think of. I am convinced that this is the only expedient to save Bess, and she declares she had rather be a teacher than stay here. I must again repeat it, you must be secret; nothing can be done till she leaves the house. For his friend Wood very justly said that he was ‘either a lion or a spaniel.’ I have been some time deliberating on this, for I can’t help pitying B., but misery must be his portion at any rate till he alters himself, and that would be a miracle.
“To be at Edward’s is not desirable, but of the two evils she must
choose the least. Write a line by the bearer, or by the post
to-morrow—don’t fail. I need not urge you to use your endeavours; if I
did not see it was absolutely necessary, I should not have fixed on it. I tell
you she will soon be deprived of reason.
| 168 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“I have nothing to tell you, my dear girl, that will give you pleasure. Yesterday was a dismal day, long and dreary. Bishop was very ill, &c., &c. He is much better to-day, but misery haunts this house in one shape or other. How sincerely do I join with you in saying that if a person has common sense they cannot make one completely unhappy. But to attempt to lead or govern a weak mind is impossible; it will ever press forward to what it wishes, regardless of impediments, and, with a selfish eagerness, believe what it desires practicable, though the contrary is as clear as the noonday. My spirits are hurried with listening to pros and cons; and my head is so confused, that I sometimes say no, when I ought to say yes. My heart is almost broken with listening to B. while he reasons the case. I cannot insult him with advice, which he would never have wanted, if he was capable of attending to it. May my habitation never be fixed among the tribe that can’t look beyond the present gratification—that draw fixed conclusions from general rules—that attend to the literal meaning only, and because a thing ought to be, expect that it will come to pass. B. has made a confidant of Skeys; and as I can never speak to him in private, I suppose his pity may cloud his judgment. If it does, I should not either wonder at it or blame him. For I that know, and am fixed in my opinion, cannot unwaveringly adhere to it; and when I reason, I am afraid of being unfeeling. Miracles don’t occur now, and only a miracle can alter the minds of some people. They grow old, and we can only discover by their countenances that they are so. To the end of the chapter will their misery last. I expect Fanny next Thursday, and she will stay with us but a few days. Bess desires her love; she grows better, and of course more sad.”
| LETTERS TO EVERINA. | 169 |
“Here we are, Everina; but my trembling hand will scarce let me tell you so. Bess is much more composed than I expected her to be; but to make my trial still more dreadful, I was afraid in the coach she was going to have one of her flights, for she bit her wedding-ring to pieces. When I can recollect myself, I’ll send you particulars; but, at present, my heart beats time with every carriage that rolls by, and a knocking at the door almost throws me into a fit. I hope B. will not discover us, for I could sooner face a lion; yet the door never opens, but I expect to see him panting for breath. Ask Ned how we are to behave if he should find us out, for Bess is determined not to return. Can he force her?—but I’ll not suppose it, yet I can think of nothing else. She is sleepy, and going to bed; my agitated mind will not permit me. Don’t tell Charles or any creature. Oh! let me entreat you to be careful, for Bess does not dread him now so much as I do. Again, let me request you to write, as B.’s behaviour may silence my fears. You will soon hear from me again. Fanny carried many things to Lear’s, brush-maker in the Strand, next door to the White Hart—Yours,
“Miss Johnston—Mrs Dodds, opposite the Mermaid, Church St., Hackney.
“She looks now very wild. Heaven protect us!
“I almost wish for an husband, for I want somebody to support me.”
“Your welcome letter arrived just now, and we thank you
for sending it so soon. Your account of B. does not surprise me, as I am convinced that, to gratify the
ruling passion, he could command all the rest. The plea of the child occurred
to me, and it
| 170 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
| RELIGIOUS CONSOLATIONS. | 171 |
[After discussing the possibility of keeping a school.] “With economy we can live on a guinea a week, and that we can with ease earn. The lady who gave Fanny five guineas for two drawings will assist us and we shall be independent. . . . If Ned makes us a little present of furniture it will be very acceptable, but if he is prudent, we must try to do without it. I knew I should be the Mrs Brown—the shameful incendiary, in this shocking affair of a woman’s leaving her bed-fellow, they thought the strong affection of a sister might apologize for my conduct, but that the scheme was by no means a good one. In short ’tis contrary to all the rules of conduct that are published for the benefit of new married ladies, by whose advice Mrs Brook was actuated when she with grief of heart gave up my friendship. Mrs Clare too, with cautious words approves of our conduct, and were she to see B. might advise a reconciliation
“Don’t suppose I am preaching, when I say uniformity of conduct cannot in any degree be expected from those whose first motive of action is not the pleasing the Supreme Being, and those who humbly rely on Providence will not only be supported in affliction, but have a Peace imparted to them that is past all describing. This state is indeed a warfare, and we learn little that we don’t smart for in the attaining. The cant of weak enthusiasts has made the consolations of Religion and the assistance of the Holy Spirit appear ridiculous to the inconsiderate, but it is the only solid foundation of comfort that the weak efforts of reason will be assisted and our hearts and minds corrected and improved till the time arrives when we shall not only see perfection, but see every creature around us happy. . . .”
“My dear Everina.—The
situation of our two poor girls grows ever more and more desperate. My mind is
tortured
| 172 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
| FANNY BLOOD’S MARRIAGE. | 173 |
In the spring of the following year Fanny Blood married Mr Hugh Skeys, a merchant, and went with him to Lisbon. Mr Skeys had played fast and loose for some time, the uncertainty had greatly injured her health, and her new found happiness was to be of short duration. She left behind great sorrows. Her sister Caroline had disgraced her family, and her father drank. George, who was steady and respectable, had yet been mixed up with some discreditable associates, and had gone to Ireland only in time to avoid being seriously compromised by his association with them. Mary’s letters throw light on the trials of the Blood family as well as on her own.
“The pleasure I felt at hearing of your safe arrival
[in Ireland] was a good deal damped by the account you gave of the
captain’s brutality. By this time I hope all the effects of so
disagreeable a voyage are gone off, except your being a little weather-beaten
or so; and you and I don’t think that of much consequence, we have met
with so many rough blasts that have sunk deeper than the skin. You need not
have made any apology to me about the old man. When I entreated you, my dear
George, to be prudent, I only meant
to caution you against throwing your money away on trifling gratifications, but
I did not wish to narrow your heart or desire you to avoid relieving the
present necessities of your fellow-creatures, in order to ward off any future
ill which might happen to self. It would give me great
pleasure to hear there was any chance of your getting some employment. In the
meantime give way to hope, do your duty and leave the rest to Heaven, forfeit
not that sure support in the time of trouble, and though your want
| 174 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“Palmer has been respited, and of
course will be pardoned. I have made many inquiries concerning the affair that
alarmed us so much, and find that Palmer’s servant
has sworn a child to you, and that it was on that account those men came to our
house. The girl was waiting at a little ale-house near us, so that if you had
stayed, you would have been involved in a pretty piece of business that your
innocence could not have extricated you out of. I suppose the child is
P.’s, or many fathers may dispute the honour.
Let that be as it will, the recent affair of Mary Ann
would have given this some colour of truth. How troublesome fools are!
Mrs Campbell—who has all the constancy that attends on
folly, and in whose mind, when any prejudice is fixed, it remains for ever—has
long disliked you, and this confined ill-humour has at last broken out, and she
has sufficiently railed at your vices, and the encouragement I have given them.
. . . I have been very ill, and gone through the usual physical operations,
have been bled and blistered, yet still am not well; my harassed mind will in
time wear out my body. I have been so hunted down by cares, and see so many
that I must encounter, that my spirits are quite depressed. I have lost all
relish for life, and my almost broken heart is only cheered by the prospect of
death. I may be years a-dying tho’, and so I ought to be patient, for at
this time to wish myself away would be selfish. Your father and mother are
well, and desire their love; the former has received a letter from Fanny, but her letters to your father are
seldom satisfactory to me. I am trying to get your father a place, but my hopes
are very faint. I forgot to tell you that Palmer’s
servant says she followed you one day in town and raised a mob, but that you
ran away. God bless you, and believe me sincerely and affectionately your
friend. I feel that I love you more than I ever supposed that I did. Adieu to
the village delights. I almost hate the Green, for it seems the
| 175 |
Palmer, whose name is mentioned in the foregoing letter, was an attorney, whose clerk, it would seem, George Blood had been. He was induced to forge documents for a client of his, one Mrs Jones, with the intent to represent her as a clergyman’s widow, and her son, therefore, a fit recipient for a charity for clergy orphans. For this he was tried and sentenced to death, but was, as the letters show, afterwards respited.
. . . . . “I am not a fair weather friend; on the contrary, I think I love most people best when they are in adversity, for pity is one of my prevailing passions. I am not fond of possessions, yet, once for all, let me assure you that I have a mother’s tenderness for you, and that my heart dances when I make any new discovery of goodness in you. It gives me the sincerest satisfaction to find that you look for comfort where only it is to be met with, and that Being in whom you trust will not desert you. Be not cast down while we are struggling with care, life slips away, and, through the assistance of Divine Grace, we are obtaining habits of virtue that will enable us to relish those joys that we cannot now form any idea of. I feel myself particularly attached to those who are heirs of the promises, and travel on in the thorny path with the same Christian hopes that render my severe trials a cause of thankfulness when I can think. . . . I often see your father and mother; they desire to be remembered to you in the kindest manner, and entirely acquit you of the crime that is laid to your charge, as do the girls. . . . I have no creature to be unreserved to. Eliza and Everina are so different that I could as soon fly as open my heart to them. How my social comforts have dropped away—Fanny first, and then you went over the hills and far away. I am resigned to my fate, but ’tis that gloomy kind of resignation that is akin to despair. . . . Your affectionate friend,
| 176 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“My dear George,—I have received the long expected packet. . . . The account Fanny gives of her health is far from pleasing me, though I imagine that her complaints arise from a new cause that you can easily guess. . . . She has received several of our letters, and read in the papers an account of Palmer, which made her very uneasy lest your name should be mentioned, which would have been an effectual bar to your settling in Lisbon. . . . Skeys has received congratulatory letters from most of his friends and relations in Ireland, and he now regrets that he did not marry sooner. All his mighty fears had no foundation, so that if he had had courage to have braved the world’s dread laugh, and ventured to have acted for himself, he might have spared Fanny many griefs, the scars of which will never be obliterated. Nay more, if she had gone a year or two ago, her health might have been perfectly restored, which I do not now think will ever be the case. Before true passion, I am convinced, everything but a sense of duty moves; true love is warmest when the object is absent. How Hugh could let Fanny languish in England, while he was throwing money away at Lisbon, is to me inexplicable, if he had a passion that did not require the fuel of seeing the object. I much fear he loves her not for the qualities that render her dear to my heart. Her tenderness and delicacy are not even conceived by a man who would be satisfied with the fondness of one of the general run of women. . . .—Your affectionate friend,
“By this time, my dear George, I suppose you have received Fanny’s letter, informing you that your fortune has at
last taken a turn. I only heard of it yesterday, and I most sincerely rejoice,
as I earnestly wish to hear of your arrival at Lisbon, on
Fanny’s account as well as your own. I hope to
see you before the year
| DEATH OF MRS SKEYS. | 177 |
Fanny Skeys wrote from Lisbon entreating her friend to be with her during her confinement, and Mary Wollstonecraft, then, as always, utterly unselfish, complied, leaving her scholars and house in Mrs Bishop’s charge. She arrived only to nurse her friend in what proved the last hours of her life, and returned almost heart-broken, for her friendship for Fanny Blood was even more than a sister’s love, to find matters at Newington worse than before. All chance of future success was at an end, and the school was given up.
“My dear Girls,—I am beginning to awake out of a
terrifying dream, for in that light do the transactions of these two or three
last days appear. Before I say more, let me tell you that, when I arrived here,
Fanny was in labour, and that four
hours after she was delivered of a boy. The child is alive and well, and
considering the very very low state to which
Fanny was reduced, she is better than could be
expected. I am now watching her and the child. My active spirits have not been
much at rest ever since I left England. I could not write to you on shipboard;
the sea was so rough, and we had such hard gales of wind, the captain was
afraid we should be dismasted. I cannot write to-night, or collect my scattered
thoughts, my mind is so unsettled. Fanny is so worn out,
her recovery would be almost a resurrection, and my reason
| 178 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“I will try to-morrow to give you some little regular account of my journey, though I am almost afraid to look beyond the present moment. Was not my arrival providential? I can scarce be persuaded that I am here, and that so many things have happened in so short a time. My head grows light with thinking on it
“Friday morning.—Fanny has been so alarmingly ill since I wrote the above, I entirely gave her up, and yet I could not write and tell you so: it seemed like signing her death warrant. Yesterday afternoon some of the most alarming symptoms a little abated, and she had a comfortable night; yet I rejoice with trembling lips, and am afraid to indulge hopes: she is very low. The stomach is so weak it will scarce bear to receive the slightest nourishment; in short, if I were to tell you all her complaints, you would not wonder at my fears. The child, though a puny one, is well. I have got a wet-nurse for it. The packet does not sail till the latter end of next week, and I send this by a ship. I shall write by every opportunity. We arrived last Monday. We were only thirteen days at sea. The wind was so high, and the sea so boisterous, the water came in at the cabin windows, and the ship rolled about in such a manner, it was dangerous to stir. The women were sea-sick the whole time, and the poor invalid so oppressed by his complaints, I never expected he would live to see Lisbon. I have supported him for hours together, gasping for breath, and at night, if I had been inclined to sleep, his dreadful cough would have kept me awake. You may suppose that I have not rested much since I came here, yet I am tolerably well, and calmer than I could expect to be. Could I not look for comfort where only ’tis to be found, I should have been mad before this, but I feel that I am supported by that Being who alone can heal a wounded spirit. May He bless you both.—Yours,
| FIRST ESSAY IN LITERATURE. | 179 |
Before the date of the next letter, poor Fanny was in her grave, Mary Wollstonecraft had returned, as also had George Blood, who had thrown up his situation, without a word to any one but his correspondent. It is probable that, after his gentle sister’s death, he did not get on so well with his brother-in-law, on whom he was in great measure dependent. Shortly after Mary’s return, she made her first essay in literature, publishing a small, and in no way remarkable pamphlet called “Thoughts on the Education of Daughters,” for the copyright of which Mr Johnson, the Bookseller in Fleet Street, gave her ten guineas. This sum she applied to enable Mr and Mrs Blood to carry out their desire of going to Ireland and settling in Dublin.
“I write to you, my dear George, lest my silence should make you uneasy, yet what have I to say that will not have the same effect? Things do not go well with me, and my spirits seem for ever flown. I was a month on my passage, and the weather was so tempestuous, we were several times in imminent danger. I did not expect ever to have reached land. If it had pleased Heaven to have called me hence, what a world of care I should have missed. I have lost all relish for pleasure, and life seems a burden almost too heavy to be endured. My head is stupid, and my heart sick and exhausted. But why should I worry you? and yet, if I do not tell you my vexations, what can I write about?
“Your father and mother are tolerably well, and
enquire most affectionately concerning you. They do not suspect that you have
left Lisbon, and I do not intend informing them of it till you are provided
for. I am very unhappy on their account, for though I am determined they shall
share my last shilling, yet I have every reason to apprehend extreme distress,
and of course they must be involved in it. The school dwindles to nothing,
| 180 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“Well, I am too impatient. The will of Heaven be done! I will labour to be resigned. ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ I scarce know what I write, yet my writing at all when my mind is so disturbed is a proof to you that I can never be lost so entirely in misery as to forget those I love. I long to hear that you are settled. It is the only quarter from which I can reasonably expect any pleasure. I have received a very short, unsatisfactory letter from Lisbon. It was written to apologize for not sending the money to your father which he promised. It would have been particularly acceptable to them at this time, but he is prudent, and will not run any hazard to serve a friend. Indeed, delicacy made me conceal from him my dismal situation, but he must know how much I am embarrassed. . . .
“I am very low-spirited, and of course my letter is very dull. I will not lengthen it out in the same strain, but conclude with what alone will be acceptable, an assurance of love and regard.
“Believe me to be ever your sincere and affectionate friend,
It was soon quite clear that the school must be altogether abandoned, or
rather it abandoned the teachers, and all three sisters determined to seek their livelihood
as
| SITUATION AS GOVERNESS. | 181 |
Mary Wollstonecraft obtained a situation as
governess in the family of Lord Kingsborough in Ireland,
through some friends of one of her chief patrons at Newington, and sailed for Ireland with
these friends, Mr and Mrs Prior, who were crossing to Dublin, in the
autumn of 1787. Mr Prior, at this time Assistant
Master at Eton, was a grandson of a former college porter, had obtained a King’s
Scholarship first at Eton and afterwards became Fellow of King’s College, Cambridge.
He built the red house opposite the west doorway of the chapel at Eton. One of his
daughters became the wife of Dr Goodall, Provost of
the College. Mary’s life in Ireland will be sufficiently
detailed in the letters she wrote thence, and little need be said beyond what
| 182 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
The letters will now speak for themselves, or rather extracts from them, the lines omitted referring to domestic details devoid of interest.
“By this time, my dear George, I hope your father and mother have reached Dublin. I
long to hear of their safe arrival A few days after they set sail, I received a
letter from Skeys. He laments
| LETTERS TO GEORGE BLOOD. | 183 |
“. . . Lady
Kingsborough has written about me to Mrs
Prior, and I wait for further particulars before I give my final
answer. Forty pounds a year was the terms mentioned to me, and half of
| 184 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
[After saying that Mr
and Mrs Prior do not leave for Ireland quite as soon as
they had intended, she continues.] “The time I spend here appears lost.
While I remained in England I would fain have been near those I love. . . . I
could not live the life they lead at Eton; nothing but dress and ridicule going
forward, and I really believe their fondness for ridicule tends to make them
affected, the women in their manners and the men in their conversation, for
witlings abound and puns fly about like crackers, though you would scarcely
guess they had any meaning in them, if you did not hear the noise they create.
So much company without any sociability would be to me an insupportable
fatigue. I am, ’tis true, quite alone in a crowd, yet cannot help
reflecting on the scene around me, and my thoughts harass me. Vanity in one
shape or other reigns triumphant. . . . My thoughts and wishes tend to that
land where the God of love will wipe away all
| LIFE IN IRELAND. | 185 |
“Well, my dear Girl, I am at length arrived at my
journey’s end. I sigh when I say so, but it matters not. I must labour
for content, and try to reconcile myself to a state which is contrary to every
feeling of my soul. I can scarcely persuade myself that I am awake; my whole
life appears like a frightful vision, and equally disjointed. I have been so
very low spirited for some days past, I could not write. All the moments I
could spend in solitude were lost in sorrow and unavailing tears. There was
such a solemn kind of stupidity about this place as froze my very blood. I
entered the great gates with the same kind of feeling as I should have if I was
going into the Bastille. You can make allowance for the feelings which the
General would term ridiculous or artificial. I found I was to encounter a host
of females—My Lady, her stepmother, and three sisters, and Mrses. and Misses without number, who of
course would examine me with the most minute attention. I cannot attempt to
give you a description of the family, I am so low; I will only mention some of
the things which particularly worry me. I am sure much more is expected from me
than I am equal to. With respect to French, I am certain Mr P. has misled them, and I expect, in
consequence of it, to be very much mortified. Lady
K. is a shrewd, clever woman, a great talker. I have not seen
much of her, as she is confined to her room by a sore throat; but I have seen
half a dozen of her companions, I mean not her children, but her dogs. To see a
woman without any softness in her manners caressing animals, and using
infantine expressions is, you may conceive, very absurd
| 186 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“. . . Now to introduce the castle to you, and all its inhabitants, a numerous tribe, I assure you. The castle is very pleasantly situated, and commands the kind of prospect I most admire. Near the house, literally speaking, is a cloud-capped hill, and altogether the country is pleasant, and would please me when anything of the kind could rouse my attention. But my spirits have been in continual agitation, and when they will be at rest, heaven only knows. I fear I am not equal to the task I have been persuaded to undertake, and this fear worries me.
“Lady K. is a
clever woman, and a well-meaning one, but not of the order of being that I
could love. With his Lordship I have had
little conversation, but his countenance does not promise more than good
humour, and a little fun not refined. Another face in
the house appears to me more interesting, a pale one, no other than the author of ‘Shepherds I have lost my love.’ His wife is with him—a gentle
pleasing creature, and her sister, a beauty and a sensible woman into the
bargain. Besides them and several visitors, we have resident here
Lady K.’s stepmother, and her three daughters,
fine girls, just going to market, as their brother says. I have committed to my
care three girls, the eldest fourteen, by no means handsome, yet a sweet girl.
She has a wonderful
| LIFE IN IRELAND. | 187 |
. . . “Confined to the society of a set of silly females, I have no social converse, and their boisterous spirits and unmeaning laughter exhaust me, not forgetting hourly domestic bickerings. The topics of matrimony and dress take their turn, not in a very sentimental style—alas, poor sentiment! it has no residence here. I almost wish the girls were novel readers and romantic; I declare false refinement is better than none at all, but these girls understand several languages, and have read cartloads of history, for their mother was a prudent woman. Lady K.’s passion for animals fills up the hours which are not spent in dressing. All her children have been ill—very disagreeable fevers. Her ladyship visited them in a formal way, though their situation called forth my tenderness, and I endeavoured to amuse them, while she lavished awkward fondness on her dogs. I think now I hear her infantine lisp. She rouges—and in short is a fine lady, without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by dogs. But you will perceive I am not under the influence of my darling passion—pity; it is not always so, I make allowance and adapt myself, talk of getting husbands for the Ladies—and the dogs, and am wonderfully entertaining; and then I retire to my room, form figures in the fire, listen to the wind, or view the Gotties, a fine range of mountains near us, and so does time waste away in apathy or misery. . . . I am drinking asses’ milk, but do not find it of any service. I am very ill, and so low-spirited my tears flow in torrents almost insensibly. I struggle with myself, but I hope my Heavenly Father will not be extreme to mark my weakness, and that He will have compassion on a poor bruised reed, and pity a miserable wretch, whose sorrows He only knows. . . . . I almost wish my warfare was over.” . . . [The rest is lost.]
The letters after this date show some improvement, both in health and spirits, though she was much troubled about family matters, which it is not very easy to understand in full from the allusions in the letters. It would appear, however, that Edward Wollstonecraft, the elder brother, not only refused to contribute anything to the support of his father, which fell almost wholly on Mary, but declined to afford a home any longer to Everina, who had been with him for some time. He also retained in his hands a sum of money, apparently a legacy, which the sisters conceived should have been divided between them all. He seems to have been selfish and extravagant, though doing a fair business as an attorney. The letters which passed between the sisters are either of no special interest or harp on the same string as those already quoted. In the winter of 1787 the Kingsborough family went to Dublin, and the letters thence again afford suitable extracts.
| A DUBLIN MASQUERADE. | 189 |
“. . . I believe I told you before that as a nation I do not admire the Irish, and as to the great world and its frivolous ceremonies I cannot away with them. They fatigue one; I thank Heaven that I was not so unfortunate as to be born a lady of quality. I am now reading Rousseau’s ‘Emile,’ and love his paradoxes. He chooses a common capacity to educate, and gives as a reason that a genius will educate itself. However he rambles into that chimerical world in which I have too often wandered, and draws the usual conclusion that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. He was a strange, inconsistent, unhappy, clever creature, yet he possessed an uncommon portion of sensibility and penetration. . . . Adieu, yours sincerely,
“. . . I am very weak to-day, but I can account for it
The day before yesterday there was a masquerade; in the course of conversation
some time before, I happened to wish to go to it. Lady
K. offered me two tickets for myself and Miss
Delane to accompany me. I refused them on account of the expense
of dressing properly. She then to obviate that objection lent me a black
domino. I was out of spirits, and thought of another excuse; but she proposed
to take me and Betty Delane to the houses of several
people of fashion who saw masques. We went to a great number, and were a
tolerable, nay, a much admired group. Lady K. went in a
domino with a smart cockade; Miss Moore dressed in the
habit of one of the females of the new discovered islands; Betty
D. as a forsaken shepherdess, and your sister
Mary in a black domino. As it was taken for granted
the stranger who had just arrived could not speak the language, I was to be her
interpreter, which afforded me an ample field for satire. I happened to be very
melancholy in the morning, as I am almost
| 190 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
From Dublin Lord and Lady Kingsborough and their family went to Bristol, Hotwells, and Bath, and from these places again the letters complain bitterly of the tone of society in which Mary found herself. She speaks of the “dissipated lives led by the women of quality,” and finds that “in many respects the great and little vulgar resemble each other, and in none more than in the motives which induce them to marry.” Her health was better away from Ireland, yet the employment continued to be thoroughly uncongenial to her nature, while she had nothing in common with her employers. It is, therefore, not wonderful that in the autumn of this year Lady Kingsborough dismissed her governess. In addition to the long standing want of cordiality Lady Kingsborough had a new grievance because the love which her children were unable to give to her was bestowed on a stranger. In one of her letters Mary Wollstonecraft speaks of one of the younger children having cried herself sick because she was to go into the country with her mother alone, and Margaret above all the others showed the great affection she felt for one who in return was devoted to her. During the year spent with Lady Kingsborough, Mary wrote a tale called by her own name “Mary,” and devoted in a measure to the record of her own deep friendship with Fanny Blood.
Mr Johnson, the Publisher, had been struck with the
promise Mary Wollstonecraft had shown before she
went to Ireland. By his strong advice she had greatly improved
| RETURN TO LONDON. | 191 |
“. . . I am, my dear girl, once more thrown on the
world; I have left Lord K.’s, and they
return next week to Mitchelstown. I long since imagined that my departure would
be sudden.” [From another letter. “The regret Margaret showed, when I left her for a short
time, was Lady K.’s pretext for
parting with me. They had frequent quarrels, and the consequence was this
determination.”] “I have not seen Mrs Burgh,
but I have informed her of this circumstance, and at the same time mentioned to
her, that I was determined not to see any of my friends till I am in a way to
earn my own subsistence. And to this determination I will adhere. You can
conceive how disagreeable pity and advice would be at this juncture. I have two
other cogent reasons. Before I go on will you pause, and if, after
deliberating, you will promise not to mention to any one what you know of my
designs, though you may think my requesting you to conceal them unreasonable, I
will trust to your honour, and proceed. Mr
Johnson, whose uncommon kindness, I believe, has saved me from
despair and vexation, I shrink back from, and feared to encounter, assures me
that if I exert my talents in writing I may support myself in a comfortable
way. I am then going to be the first of a new genus; I tremble at the attempt,
yet if I fail I only suffer, and should I succeed my
dear girls will ever in sickness have a home, and a refuge, where for a few
months in the year they may forget the cares that disturb
| 192 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“I cannot write more explicitly. I have indeed been very much harassed. But Providence has been very kind to me, and when I reflect on past mercies, I am not without hope with respect to the future. And freedom, even uncertain freedom, is dear. . . . This project has long floated in my mind. You know I am not born to tread in the beaten track, the peculiar bent of my nature pushes me on.—Adieu, believe me ever your sincere friend and affectionate sister,
“Seas will not now divide us, nor years elapse before we see each other.”
. . . [Mr Johnson]
“has now settled me in a little house in a street near Blackfriars
Bridge, and he assures me I may earn a comfortable maintenance if I exert
myself. I have given him ‘Mary,’ and before your vacation I shall finish another book for young
people, which I think has some merit . . . Whenever I am tired of solitude I go
to Mr Johnson’s, and there I meet the kind of
company I find most pleasure in. . . . I spent a day at Mrs. Trimmer’s, and found her a truly
respectable woman. I intend to try to get Bess a situation near me, and hope to succeed before the
| ORIGINAL STORIES. | 193 |
The “other book for young people” is called “Original Stories from Real Life,” and is intended to lead the minds of children to truth and goodness. It is beautifully written, though in a style now obsolete, and for which children in these days would not care, but it ought not to be quite unknown, since it was illustrated by some of Blake’s most striking and beautiful woodcuts. The frontispiece, a simple composition of three figures standing in a doorway, up either side of which climbs a creeper; and another, in strong contrast, of a father standing over a bed on which lie his two children, who have died of want, can never be forgotten by those who have seen them.
A MS. note in Mr Johnson’s writing gives an account of her work and life at this time:—
“She entered upon her house in George St. at Michaelmas 1787, and continued there till Michaelmas 1791.
“Here she wrote the ‘Rights of Woman.’ A translation from the
Dutch of ‘Young
Grandison’ was put into her hands, which she almost re-wrote. She
translated ‘Necker on Religious
Opinions,’ compiled the ‘French Reader,’ introducing some original
pieces, and prefixed a preface to it. She began a novel under the title of the
‘Cave of Fancy,’ wrote many articles in the
| 194 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“Her brothers and sisters were occasionally with her when they were unsettled. Her’s was their home; and she took every method to improve and prepare them for respectable situations. She consulted with Mr Barlow on the probability of getting a farm in America for Charles, which was determined upon, and he was placed with a farmer here for instruction. He left England the latter end of 1792. James, who had been at sea, was sent to Woolwich for a few months to be under Mr Bonnycastle, and afterwards on board Lord Hood’s fleet as a midshipman, where he was presently made a lieutenant. Much of the instruction which all of them obtained was obtained under her own roof, and most, if not all the situations which her sisters had were procured by her exertions. In the beginning of 1788 she sent Everina to Paris for improvement in the language.
“During her stay in George Street 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.
“In a part of this period, which certainly was the most active 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 during this time, I think, expend less than £200 on her brothers and sisters.
“At Michaelmas 1791 she went to Store Street, and continued till Decr. 1792. She then went to Paris.”
The correspondence with her family grew far more infrequent after the
date of the last letter. Nor is there much which needs extraction. The sisters were for
some time at Putney, when intercourse was more easy. Mary
Wollstonecraft was very hard at work, and her sisters had little sym-
| LETTER TO GEORGE BLOOD. | 195 |
. . . ” 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. . . .—Your affectionate friend,
It has been mentioned that Mrs
Bishop and Everina Wollstonecraft
were wanderers during these years. Mrs Bishop was teacher in a school
at Market Harborough,
| 196 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
The situation at Upton Castle had been obtained for Mrs Bishop by Mr Woods, a Welsh clergyman, and an old friend of the family.
“My dearest Everina,—Here I am
at Laugharne, without being recollected by anybody. Neither Miss
Brown nor her mother have condescended to call on me. Many of
the inhabitants have left it, others are dead, or else have quite forgotten
Miss Betsy. Mrs Larne is the only
one who wished to recollect
| A WRETCHED FAMILY. | 197 |
“The sight of my father’s ghastly visage haunts me night and day; for he is really worn to a mere skeleton, and has a dreadful cough that makes my blood run cold whenever I listen to it, and that is the greater part of the night, or else he groans most dreadfully; yet he declares he has good nights. There cannot be a more melancholy sight than to see him, not able to walk ten yards without panting for breath, and continually falling; still he is able to ride ten miles every day, and eat and drink very hearty. His neighbours think, as he has had such a wonderful escape, he will quite recover, though his death-like countenance tells me it is impossible. I am harassed to the last degree how to advise him to act; if he gives up his horse now, he is a dead man in a very short time. When I beg of him to be more careful in money matters, he declares he will go to London, and force Ned; or when I tell him how Mary has been distressed, in order to make him save in trifles, he is in a passion, and exhausts himself. He is mad to be in London. I represented matters as they are, that he might abridge himself of some unnecessary expenses; but now he is too weak in mind and body to act with prudence. She is truly a well-meaning woman, and willing to do the little she can to lessen the debts.
“Charles is
half naked, and is treated by my father in the way that he deserves, for he is
at him perpetually; he never even tried to get him into the Excise, or anywhere
else. He is actually altered rather for the better, drinks never anything but
water, and is much thinner, and all submission. . . . He now talks of listing
for a soldier; if he does, there is an end of him. . . . I am very cool to
Charles, and have said all I can to rouse him; but
where can he go in his present plight? Thanky, my dear, for your kind
| 198 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“. . . But were you to see my father’s countenance. It is now, I really think, the most dreadful face I ever beheld! It appears constantly convulsed by ill-humour, and every unamiable feeling that can be expressed; his face is quite red, his hair grey and dirty, his beard long, and the clothes he wears not worth sixpence. In this plight he arrived at Upton the third night after my arrival, fearing my portmanteau was lost. I was strolling out with the girls, and was surprised to meet Mr Rees coming to meet us, and not less so when he stretched out his friendly hand to shake mine, saying, ‘Who do you think is come to Upton? Your father! in his old clothes too, poor man! He thought you had lost your box.’ The good man really thought I should be alarmed at my father’s appearance, and was anxious to see me first. After keeping me awake the whole night, he went to Laugharne in the morning, displeased, I believe, at not being asked to spend the day. If you had seen the good old man trying to behave so that I might think he was pleased with my father. He is in truth a most amiable man, though not a very sensible one. He has Mrs Cotton’s blush, and none of the tricks of old age. He was tutor to Tom” [name illegible]. “Molly was in his way, as she was waiting-maid in the same house, and he married her, from what motive I will not pretend to say. . . .”
“. . . The only thing here that resembles man is a
noble Newfoundland dog, and a fine greyhound. Neptune and his friend Shark have
contrived to find a corner in my heart, contrary to my
| UPTON CASTLE. | 199 |
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