Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft/Volume 4/Letter 90
LETTER XI.
I thought you very unkind, nay, very unfeeling, last night. My cares and vexations—I will say what I allow myself to think—do me honour, as they arise from my disinterestedness and unbending principles; nor can that mode of conduct be a reflection on my understanding, which enables me to bear misery, rather than selfishly live for myself alone. I am not the only character deserving of respect, that has had to struggle with various sorrows—while inferior minds have enjoyed local fame and present comfort.—Dr. Johnson's cares almost drove him mad—but, I suppose, you would quietly have told him, he was a fool for not being calm, and that wise men striving against the stream, can yet be in good humour. I have done with insensible human wisdom,—"indifference cold in wisdom's guise,"—and turn to the source of perfection—who perhaps never disregarded an almost broken heart, especially when a respect, a practical respect, for virtue, sharpened the wounds of adversity. I am ill—I stayed in bed this morning till eleven o'clock, only thinking of getting money to extricate myself out of some of my difficulties—The struggle is now over. I will condescend to try to obtain some in a disagreeable way.
Mr. ——— called on me just now—pray did you know his motive for calling[1]?—I think him impertinently officious.—He had left the house before it 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.
Mary.
- ↑ This alludes to a foolish proposal of marriage for mercenary considerations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addressed to the gentleman himself.