erct 5s: Though they may gang a kennin ‘orang, ‘To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The reason Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark _—-- How far perhaps they rue it.
_ Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But not know what's resisted.
RoBert Burns.
The material which follows has gone through several metamorphosis since its collection was first undertaken. Originally conceived as Notes, I came later to regard it as a Preface and then as an Intro- duction. Not properly coming under any of these heads, it is now presented, I hope pery and appro- _. priately, as: A SUPPLEMENT.
For many of the facts of Mary’s career Godwin is the sole authority; but it is possible, in a number of instances, to supply additional information regarding Mary’s life, her books, her family and friends.
Of Mary’s childhood her own writings are the only source of evidence. Her novel Mary, written at Bristol Hot-Wells in the summer of 1787, when she was twenty-eight, and her unfinished novel The Wrongs of Woman: or, Maria, A Fragment, begun ten years later and interrupted by her death, both contain passages of an autobiographical nature.
In 1768, while the Wollstonecrafts were still living in that ‘convenient house behind the town of Barking in Essex, eight miles from London,’ their youngest son, James, was born. Mary was in her ninth year when her brother was born, and the same year, at Michaelmas, the family ‘removed to a farm near Beverley in Yorkshire,’ where Mary would have been near enough to the mouth of the Humber—at that place really an arm of the North Sea—to ‘ listen to the sea that was not far distant.’
Here the family remained until July 1774, and until Mary was fifteen, and here most of her recollections of her childhood probably centre. Twenty-one years later Mary recorded her impressions on revisiting 138 q * 4 SIRE E OGD YA eR EMER LET the place. While she was waiting in Hull for the vessel that was to carry her to Sweden she met a physician and his wife and went with them to Beverley. She wrote to Imlay: Sunday, June 14 [1795].
They took me in their carriage to [Beverley], and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you. The town did not please me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.
It was during the last year she spent in Beverley that Mary wrote to her friend, Miss Massey, the first of the letters that Miss Massey printed, under the name ‘ Jane Gardiner,’ in a little volume entitled English Exercises. These eleven letters date from 1773 to 1782, and are written from Beverley, Bath, and London. I have vainly searched, both here and in England, for a copy of the book containing them.
The family’s next removal was ‘to a house in Queen’s Row, in Hoxton, near London.’ Curiously enough, Godwin had entered Hoxton College as a student in September 1773, where, he tells us: I read all the authors of greatest repute, for and against the Trinity, original sin, and the most 1 Posthumous Works, Letter XLv. iii. 137, 8. 139 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS disputed doctrines, but I was not yet of an under- standing sufficiently ripe for impartial decision, and all my inquiries terminated in Calvinism. I was famous in our college for calm and impassionate discussion; for one whole summer I rose at five and went to bed at midnight, that I might have sufficient time for theology and metaphysics...?
But in those days Godwin did not meet Mary— perhaps fortunately.
Her father’s disagreeable traits and the favouritism shown to her elder brother Edward are described alike in Mary and in Maria. Speaking of the father of ‘ Mary ’ and of his treatment of her mother, Mary says: ...He treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother’s luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father’s vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own break- fast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger.
She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she deter- mined never to do it again. In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so Se — ant hall i = : : : ‘ a ae / CHARACTER OF PARENTS strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not too clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion.
In Maria she thus writes of her parents: His orders were not to be disputed; and the whole house was expected to fly at the word of command...He was to be instantaneously obeyed, especially by my mother, whom he very benevolently married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation when she dared, in the slightest instance, to question his absolute authority. My eldest brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more respect by my father; and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the house. The representative of my father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the darling of my mother, he did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such indeed was my mother’s extravagant parti- ality, that, in comparison with her affection for him, she might be said not to love the rest of her children. Yet none of the children seemed to have so little affection for her. Extreme indulgence had rendered him so selfish, that he only thought of himself; and from tormenting insects and animals, he became the despot of his brothers, and still more of his sisters.
It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which obscured the morning of my life; continual restraints in the most trivial matters; unconditional submission to orders, which, as a mere child, I socn discovered to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory. Thus are we 3’ Mary, chap. ii. I4I SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS destined to experience a mixture of bitterness, with the recollection of our most innocent enjoyments.
The circumstances which, during my childhood, occurred to fashion my mind, were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleasure to revive the fading remembrance of new-born delight, than you, my child, could feel in the perusal, I will not entice you to stray with me into the verdant meadow, to search for the flowers that youthful hopes scatter in every path; though, as I write, I almost scent the fresh green of spring—of that spring which never returns!
I had two sisters, and one brother, younger than myself; my brother Robert was two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his parents, and the torment of the rest of the family. Such indeed is the force of prejudice, that what was called spirit and wit in him, was cruelly repressed as forwardness in me.
My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from paying much attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a neighbour- ing heath, on which we bounded at pleasure, volatilized the humours that improper food might have generated. And to enjoy’open air and free- dom, was paradise, after the unnatural restraint of our fireside, where we were often obliged to sit three or four hours together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out of humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boisterous amusement.
The residence of the Wollstonecraft family at Hoxton continued, as Godwin related, ‘a year and a half.’ While here Mary was introduced by a Mrs. Clare to her friend Fanny Blood. Here is the account od fe — FANNY BLOOD i given in Mary of ‘ Ann,’ whose original was Fanny Blood: Near her [Mary’s] father’s house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a clergyman. While she was with him, a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imper- ceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother: —the companion of her youth forgot her. They took no more sweet counsel together. This dis- appointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary’s, though her natural disposition was different.
She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought for her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was now almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her.
As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate their difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young people 143 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend’s letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash in her eyes.
As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuat-.
ing, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on account of her mother’s partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and ’ friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter.
Mary was often hurt by the involuntary in- difference which these consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affec- tion, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she run to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann’s countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expression seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility.
She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection.
144 PEARIAS SLING TR LOIT Y In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother’s illness, her friend’s f misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind.® The narrative goes on to describe the heroine’s own feelings at this time and the appeal of nature to her ’ sensibility: Near to her father’s house was a range of moun- tains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and com- manded a view of the sea.6 This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there.
When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod—gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity.
5 Mary, chap. iii.
8 The ‘ cloud cap’t mountains ’ and the castle were prob- ably Mary’s recollections of those she had seen at Mitchels- town, Ireland, about six months before she wrote this novel. M.W. ails K SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned—it seemed the Temple of Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she read Thomson’s Seasons, Young’s Night Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves.
Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer.
In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon becamea part of her mind.
Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep.
These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse.
Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity.
Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, conversing with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own com- posing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself.
She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius.
She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half 147 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state.
But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to com- memorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself the baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watchings.
The orient pearls were strewed around—she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will toward men. She was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid.
These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored her.: In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practised the most rigid economy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affec- tions had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment.
This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions.
We will now enter on the more active field of life.”
In entering on this ‘ more active field of life’ Mary leaps between chapters over two years in her heroine’s ? Mary, chap. iv. 148 EN Sea LES life, so we shall take leave of her for a moment and record a sketch of her brother Edward given in another place: My eldest brother was articled to a neighbouring attorney, the shrewdest, and, I may add, the most unprincipled man in that part of the country. As my brother generally came home every Saturday, to astonish my mother by exhibiting his attain- ments, he gradually assumed a right of directing the whole family, not excepting my father. He seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humbling me; and if I ever ventured to complain of this treatment to either my father or mother, J was rudely rebuffed for presuming to judge of the conduct of my eldest brother.® It must have been in March 1776 (estimating from the ‘ year and a half’ spent at Hoxton) that Edward John Wollstonecraft’s wandering disposition led him and his family to spend a‘ little more than a year’ in Laugharne, Pembrokeshire, Wales, where he had a farm. This was apparently his last attempt at farming.
Of Mary’s sojourn in Wales there is little to be said. Even Godwin is singularly reticent. Probably at this time she observed the desolate scene of the ruined Welsh castle with its poverty-stricken inhabitants, of whose wretched condition Mrs. Mason gives an account in Chapter XIV. of Original. Stories from Real Life. This incident was illustrated by Blake, and as this illustration chances to be the only one not included in the group of ten sepia drawings lent for reproduction by Mr. A. Edward Newton, a SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS facsimile of the engraving as published is here given. The words that accompany it in the printed book are: ‘The scene pleased me,’ continued Mrs. Mason, ‘I thought of the various customs which the lapse of time unfolds; and dwelt on the state of the Welsh, when this castle, now so desolate, was the hospitable abode of the chief of a noble family. These reflections entirely engrossed my mind, when the sound of a harp reached my ears...I listened awhile, and then trying to trace the pleasing sound, discovered, after a short search, a little hut, rudely built.’
The removal of the Wollstonecraft family from Wales took place probably about April 1777, when Mary persuaded her father ‘to determine his choice in favour of the village of Walworth, that she might be near her chosen friend,’ Fanny Blood. It is, I think, possible to establish their actual place of residence. Mr. J. M. Rigg, in his D.N.B. account of Thomas Taylor (1758-1835), Platonist, says that Taylor at this period was a clerk in ‘ Lubbock’s bank,’ and dwelt in ‘a small house, 9 Manor Place, Wal- worth,’ and goes on to say that in Taylor’s house ‘lodged for awhile Mary Wollstonecraft,’ whose Vindication of the Rights of Woman he somewhat heavily parodied in his Vindication of the Rights of Brutes, London, 1792.
Mary’s account, in the words of her fictional Mary, of the poverty-stricken condition of the Blood family, may probably be assigned to this Walworth period when certainly she was in continual intimacy with Fanny and her home.
150 com mmcapaleaonaraee Peewee OOD nAM ILE Y Ann’s mother’s resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in its clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions.
There were many elegant amusements, which she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love.
Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother’s abode; and she, though a good sort of woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost.
This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect.
In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations.
She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. This liking taught 151 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions.: Ann’s misfortune and ill-health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them into practice.* In 1778 Mary went to spend two years in Bath as companion to that Mrs. Dawson—foe of all former companions—whose ‘ one son already adult ’ Godwin carefully removed from his Second Edition, Cor- rected.
She returned only because her mother was rapidly failing in health, and was not expected to live. Godwin tells us that in 1780 her father had again pulled up stakes and removed to another suburb —Enfield. So to Enfield went Mary and was with her mother in her last illness.
Mary gives us two accounts of her mother’s death. That in Mary shall here suffice: Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms, her husband was apprised of her immediate danger...Mary was sent for; she had rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and 3 a 4 4 Eq my DEATH OF MARY’S MOTHER he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears.
As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance.
All this was told to Mary—and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. ‘I could bear all,’ she cried; ‘ but what will become of my children? Of this child’ (pointing to the fainting Ann), ‘whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief—where will she go? ’ —Mary’s heart ceased to beat while she asked the question—She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her, and desired her to accompany him.
Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours ponlive, < Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father’s face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to her brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned; after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind—her dying mother —her friend’s miserable situation...She loved Ann better than any one in the world— to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction— she would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss?
153 SUPPLEMENT TO - MENOTR.
Full of these thoughts she entered her mother’s chamber, but they then fled at the sight of her dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed hers. ‘ My child,’ said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection: ‘ My child, I have not always treated you with kindness—God forgive me! do you?’ Mary’s tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. ‘I forgive you,’ said she, in a tone of astonishment.
The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick...Mary...ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms.
Ann was sent for to console her.?
* Mary, last of chap. v.
154 es for them” “ God car From the original y William Blake b Wing dra below, pp. 207-10) (¢f II 1780-1787 MARY ON SENSIBILITY—SOJOURN IN IRELAND AS A GOVERNESS.
In 1780, after the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Wollstone- craft, the family scattered. Soon after his wife died Edward John brought into the house a new wife or a mistress—Kegan Paul terms her one: Mary the other '—and conditions became-so intolerable that the daughters, at least, could no longer remain. Everina went to keep house for her brother Edward, who had ‘ settled near the Tower in London’; Eliza married a Mr. Bishop—George Venables in The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria—with whom she led a most wretched life; Mary joined Fanny Blood at Walham Green ‘ and earned her livelihood by helping Mrs. Blood, who took in needlework’; and James went to sea in September, on board H.M. ship Carysfoot. Charles, ‘ her favourite brother, had been articled to the elder [Edward], an attorney in the Minories.’ Some years later, cir. 1789, Charles is mentioned as living with relatives in Cork. He was later placed ‘with a farmer for instruction,’ and SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS towards the end of 1792 Mary paid his passage to America., Of the events of the next few years Godwin has given a succinct account. The starting of the school ~ with Fanny Blood is not emphasized in the auto- biographical fictions, the narrative of Mary passing to a moving description of ‘ Ann’s ’ worsening illness.
Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostications: Mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy.
Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent...She forgot all, listening to Ann’s cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave.?
In the novel Mary the heroine at this time had a husband, aged fifteen, whom she had reluctantly married, forced by her father’s importunity, at her mother’s death-bed. We are told ‘ her husband set off for the continent the same: day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities.’ The novel then continues with a rather long account of the voyage of Mary and Ann to Lisbon, of Ann’s death there, and of Mary’s solitary return, which is of course based on the author’s recollection of her 2 Mary, chap. vi. 156 PROM LISBON TO ENGEAND own voyage to Lisbon to be with her friend Fanny Blood during her fatal confinement. , Mary in her little fiction thus describes her own home-coming: In England then landed the forlorn wanderer...She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going; the mass of buildings ij appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in a hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself and exclaim: Are these my fellow creatures!...
She saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice—her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight. Forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoy- ments: she was fond of seeing animals at play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann...To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate woman of her loss...We may dismiss the novel with a final extract in order to give Mary’s definition of ‘ sensibility,’ a word and emotion greatly overworked at that period: Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we Cay) SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisaical days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction.
It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, ~ and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tender- ness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness, the soul is disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feeling the eyes moistened after having comforted the unfortunate?; Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections——But it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion.
— Mary once more described this state of mind, when attributing these remarks to Sagestus, the sage, in her romance The Cave of Fancy: