self the necessaries of life--and even then my
folly will sting me.--Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I at
this moment endure--that I, whose power of doing good is so limited,
should do harm, galls my very soul. ****** may laugh at these
qualms--but, supposing Mr. ------ to be unworthy, I am not the less to
blame. Surely it is hell to despise one's self!--I did not want this
additional vexation--at this time I have many that hang heavily on my
spirits. I shall not call on you this month--nor stir out.--My stomach
has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am unable to lean over the
desk.

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

* * * * *

LETTER VII.

AS I am become a reviewer, I think it right, in the way of business, to
consider the subject. You have alarmed the editor of the Critical, as the
advertisement prefixed to the Appendix plainly shows. The Critical
appears to me to be a timid, mean production, and its success is a
reflection on the taste and judgment of the public; but, as a body, who
ever gave it credit for much? The voice of the people is only the voice
of truth, when some man of abilities has had time to get fast hold of the
GREAT NOSE of the monster. Of course, local fame is generally a clamour,
and dies away. The Appendix to the Monthly afforded me more amusement,
though every article almost wants energy and a _cant_ of virtue and
liberality is strewed over it; always tame, and eager to pay court to
established fame. The account of Necker is one unvaried tone of
admiration. Surely men were born only to provide for the sustenance of
the body by enfeebling the mind!

MARY.

* * * * *

LETTER VIII.

YOU made me very low-spirited last night, by your manner of talking.--You
are my only friend--the only person I am _intimate_ with.--I never had a
father, or a brother--you have been both to me, ever since I knew
you--yet I have sometimes been very petulant.--I have been thinking of
those instances of ill-humour and quickness, and they appeared like
crimes.

Yours sincerely

MARY.

* * * * *

LETTER IX.

Saturday Night.

I AM a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
suggestions of reason. Your note--I can scarcely tell why, hurt me--and
produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent
tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill--Heaven knows it was