The Same to the Same.

In the course of their correspondence Mary Wollstonecraft went to Sweden, whence she wrote a collection of letters, which are published, among her other works, under the title of Letters from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark:

SWEDEN, July 3, 1795.

THERE was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind; though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.

Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you), there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation rather than disturb your tranquillity. If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my sorrows in my own bosom, and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.

I grow more and more attached to my little girl, and I cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul. She is an interesting creaOn shipboard, how often, as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom

ture.

in its less troubled deep,

tus, "that the virtue I had

asserting, with Bru

followed too far was

merely an empty name; and nothing but the sight of her her playful smiles, which seemed

to cling and twine round my heart could have stopped me.

What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts. Yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination, and started with affright from every sensation that, stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.

My friend, I have paid dearly for one conviction. Love, in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable; they must be felt, they cannot be described.

Love is a want of the heart. I have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find that to deaden is not to calm the mind. Aiming at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul, almost rooted out

what renders it estimable. Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm of character which converts the grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid; soul and body seem fading away before the withering touch of disappoint

ment.

I am now endeavouring to recover myself; and such is the elasticity of my constitution and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for begins to reanimate my countenance. I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you; but the desire of regaining peace (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions, sacred emotions that are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy, and shall enjoy ; for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark.

Still, when we meet again I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my former conduct, and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to delicacy or pride.

The Same to the Same.

SWEDEN, July 4, 1795.

I HOPE to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections from you; and though every remembrance stings me to my very soul, I think of you till I make allowance for the very defects of character that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.

Still, however, I am more alive than you have seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing stupor that, for the last year, has frozen up all my faculties. Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health than to the vigour of my reason; for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really surprises me. The rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks, and I have seen a physical life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth.

With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope! Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor

Fanny's pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with -'s children, and makes friends for herself.

Do not tell me that you are happier without us. Will you not come to us in Switzerland ? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment? Why are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or rather the quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my misfortune that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects and lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me that only dignity of mind and the sensibility of an expanded heart can give. God bless you! Adieu.

The Same to the Same.

TONSBERG, July 30, 1795.

I HAVE just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June, and you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention and how much I was hurt by your silence.

Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God knows, since I left you.