Elizabeth Robins Pennell

LITERARY LIFE.

1788-1791.

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

Mr. Johnson was a man of considerable influence and experience, and he was enterprising and progressive. He published most of the principal books of the day. The Edgeworths sent him their novels from Ireland, and Cowper his poetry from Olney. One day he gave the reading world Mrs. Barbauld’s works for the young, and the next, the speculations of reformers and social philosophers whose rationalism deterred many another publisher. It was for printing the Rev. Gilbert Wakefield’s too plain-spoken writings that he was, at a later date, fined and imprisoned. Quick to discern true merit, he was equally prompt in encouraging it. As Mary once said of him, he was a man before he was a bookseller. His kind, generous nature made him as ready to assist needy and deserving authors with his purse as he was to publish their works. From the time he had seen Mary’s pamphlet on the “Education of Daughters,” he had been deeply and honestly interested in her. It had convinced him of her power to do something greater. Her letters had sustained him in this opinion, and her novel still further confirmed it. He now, in addition to urging her to try to support herself by writing, promised her continual employment if she would settle in London.

To-day there would seem no possible reason for any one in her position to hesitate before accepting such an offer. But in her time it was an unusual occurrence for a woman to adopt literature as a profession. It is true there had been a great change since Swift declared that “not one gentleman’s daughter in a thousand has been brought to read or understand her own natural tongue.” Women had learned not only to read, but to write. Miss Burney had written her novels, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu her Letters, and Mrs. Inchbald her “Simple Story” and her plays, before Mary came to London. Though the Amelias and Lydia Melfords of fiction were still favorite types, the blue-stocking was gaining ascendency. Because she was such a rara avis she received a degree of attention and devotion which now appears extraordinary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Opie, Maria Edgeworth and Mrs. Barbauld, at the end of the last and beginning of this century, were fÊted and praised as seldom falls to the lot of their successors of the present generation. But, despite this fact, they were not quite sure that they were keeping within the limits of feminine modesty by publishing their writings. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had considered it necessary to apologize for having translated Epictetus. Miss Burney shrank from publicity, and preferred the slavery of a court to the liberty of home life, which meant time for writing. Good Mrs. Barbauld feared she “stepped out of the bounds of female reserve” when she became an author. They all wrote either for amusement or as a last resource to eke out a slender income. But Mary would, by agreeing to Mr. Johnson’s proposition, deliberately throw over other chances of making a livelihood to rely entirely upon literature. She was young, unmarried, and, to all intents and purposes, alone in the world. Such a step was unprecedented in English literary annals. She would really be, as she wrote to her sister, the first of a new genus. Her conduct would unquestionably be criticised and censured. She would have to run the gauntlet of public opinion, a much more trying ordeal than that through which she had passed at the castle in Mitchelstown.

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

But, at the same time, she knew that if her friends heard of her determination before she had carried it into effect, they would try to dissuade her from it. She was firmly resolved not to be influenced in this matter by any one; and therefore, to avoid the unpleasant discussions and disputes that might arise from a difference of opinion, she maintained strict secrecy as to her plans. From her letters it seems probable that she had made definite arrangements with Mr. Johnson before her formal dismissal by Lady Kingsborough. In September of 1788 she stayed at Henley for a short time with Mrs. Bishop; and it was doubtless this visit that caused Margaret’s unhappiness and hence her mother’s indignation. At Henley Mary enjoyed a short interval of rest. The quiet of the place and temporary idleness were the best of tonics for her disordered nerves, and an excellent preparation for her new labors. That she was at that time determined to give up teaching for literature, but that she did not take her sister into her confidence, is shown by this letter written to Mr. Johnson, containing a pleasant description of her holiday:—

Henley, Thursday, Sept. 13.

My dear Sir,—Since I saw you I have, literally speaking, enjoyed solitude. My sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I therefore wandered alone by the side of the Thames, and in the neighboring beautiful fields and pleasure grounds: the prospects were of such a placid kind, I caught tranquillity while I surveyed them; my mind was still, though active. Were I to give you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile. I found an old French Bible here, and amused myself with comparing it with our English translation; then I would listen to the falling leaves, or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them. At other times, the singing of a robin or the noise of a water-mill engaged my attention; for I was at the same time, perhaps, discussing some knotty point, or straying from this tiny world to new systems. After these excursions I returned to the family meals, told the children stories (they think me vastly agreeable), and my sister was amused. Well, will you allow me to call this way of passing my days pleasant?

I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to say all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an habitation for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and lest my sister should try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided mentioning it to her. I am determined! Your sex generally laugh at female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet resolved to do anything of consequence, that I did not adhere resolutely to it, till I had accomplished my purpose, improbable as it might have appeared to a more timid mind. In the course of near nine and twenty years I have gathered some experience, and felt many severe disappointments; and what is the amount? I long for a little peace and independence! Every obligation we receive from our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our native freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms. I am not fond of grovelling!

I am, Sir, yours, etc.,

Mary Wollstonecraft.

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

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

I am, my dear girl, once more thrown on the world. I have left Lord K.’s, and they return next week to Mitchelstown. I long since imagined that my departure would be sudden. I have not seen Mrs. Burgh, but I have informed her of this circumstance, and at the same time mentioned to her, that I was determined not to see any of my friends till I am in a way to earn my own subsistence. And to this determination I will adhere. You can conceive how disagreeable pity and advice would be at this juncture. I have two other cogent reasons. Before I go on will you pause, and if, after deliberating, you will promise not to mention to any one what you know of my designs, though you may think my requesting you to conceal them unreasonable, I will trust to your honor, and proceed. Mr. Johnson, whose uncommon kindness, I believe, has saved me from despair and vexation I shrink back from, and fear to encounter, assures me that if I exert my talents in writing, I may support myself in a comfortable way. I am then going to be the first of a new genus. I tremble at the attempt; yet if I fail I only suffer; and should I succeed, my dear girls will ever in sickness have a home and a refuge, where for a few months in the year they may forget the cares that disturb the rest. I shall strain every nerve to obtain a situation for Eliza nearer town: in short, I am once more involved in schemes. Heaven only knows whether they will answer! Yet while they are pursued life slips away. I would not on any account inform my father or Edward of my designs. You and Eliza are the only part of the family I am interested about; I wish to be a mother to you both. My undertaking would subject me to ridicule and an inundation of friendly advice to which I cannot listen; I must be independent. I wish to introduce you to Mr. Johnson. You would respect him; and his sensible conversation would soon wear away the impression that a formality, or rather stiffness of manners, first makes to his disadvantage. I am sure you would love him, did you know with what tenderness and humanity he has behaved to me....

I cannot write more explicitly. I have indeed been very much harassed. But Providence has been very kind to me, and when I reflect on past mercies, I am not without hope with respect to the future; and freedom, even uncertain freedom, is dear.... This project has long floated in my mind. You know I am not born to tread in the beaten track; the peculiar bent of my nature pushes me on. Adieu; believe me ever your sincere friend and affectionate sister,

Mary Wollstonecraft.

Seas will not now divide us, nor years elapse before we see each other.

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

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

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

“I yesterday mentioned to Mr. Johnson your request, and he assented, desiring that the titlepage might be sent to him. I therefore can say nothing more, for trifles of this kind I have always left to him to settle; and you must be aware, madam, that the honor of publishing, the phrase on which you have laid a stress, is the cant of both trade and sex; for if really equality should ever take place in society, the man who is employed and gives a just equivalent for the money he receives will not behave with the servile obsequiousness of a servant.

“I am now going to treat you with still greater frankness. I do not approve of your preface, and I will tell you why: if your work should deserve attention, it is a blur on the very face of it. Disadvantages of education, etc., ought, in my opinion, never to be pleaded with the public in excuse for defects of any importance, because if the writer has not sufficient strength of mind to overcome the common difficulties that lie in his way, nature seems to command him, with a very audible voice, to leave the task of instructing others to those who can. This kind of vain humility has ever disgusted me; and I should say to an author, who humbly sued for forbearance, If you have not a tolerably good opinion of your own production, why intrude it on the public? We have plenty of bad books already, that have just gasped for breath and died. The last paragraph I particularly object to, it is so full of vanity. Your male friends will still treat you like a woman; and many a man, for instance Dr. Johnson, Lord Littleton, and even Dr. Priestley have insensibly been led to utter warm eulogiums in private that they would be sorry openly to avow without some cooling explanatory ifs. An author, especially a woman, should be cautious, lest she too hastily swallows the crude praises which partial friend and polite acquaintance bestow thoughtlessly when the supplicating eye looks for them. In short, it requires great resolution to try rather to be useful than to please. With this remark in your head, I must beg you to pardon my freedom whilst you consider the purport of what I am going to add,—rest on yourself. If your essays have merit, they will stand alone; if not, the shouldering up of Dr. this or that will not long keep them from falling to the ground. The vulgar have a pertinent proverb, ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth;’ and let me remind you that when weakness claims indulgence, it seems to justify the despotism of strength. Indeed, the preface, and even your pamphlet, is too full of yourself. Inquiries ought to be made before they are answered; and till a work strongly interests the public, true modesty should keep the author in the background, for it is only about the character and life of a good author that curiosity is active. A blossom is but a blossom.”

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

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

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

Mary W.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 wrong per se, and right and wrong as defined by custom. This was the doctrine which Mary heard most frequently discussed, and it was but the embodiment of the motives which had invariably governed her actions from the time she had urged her sister to leave her husband. She had never, even in her most religious days, been orthodox in her beliefs, nor conservative in her conduct. As she said in a letter just quoted, she considered right and wrong in the abstract, and never shielded herself by words or local opinions. Hitherto, owing chiefly to her circumstances, she had been content to accept her theory as a guide for herself in her relations to the world and her fellow-beings. But now that her scope of influence was extended, she felt compelled to communicate to others her moral creed, which had assumed definite shape.

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

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

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.”