Chapter 80

Dublin, April 14, [1787.]

Dear sir,

I AM still an invalid--and begin to believe that I ought never to expect to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body--and, when I endeavour to be useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my endeavours to improve them.--I feel all a mother's fears for the swarm of little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life, when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the pleasures I relish?--I allude to rational conversations, and domestic affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land, tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for sorrow--and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

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