“My dearest Everina,—Here I am
at Laugharne, without being recollected by anybody. Neither Miss
Brown nor her mother have condescended to call on me. Many of
the inhabitants have left it, others are dead, or else have quite forgotten
Miss Betsy. Mrs Larne is the only
one who wished to recollect
| A WRETCHED FAMILY. | 197 |
“The sight of my father’s ghastly visage haunts me night and day; for he is really worn to a mere skeleton, and has a dreadful cough that makes my blood run cold whenever I listen to it, and that is the greater part of the night, or else he groans most dreadfully; yet he declares he has good nights. There cannot be a more melancholy sight than to see him, not able to walk ten yards without panting for breath, and continually falling; still he is able to ride ten miles every day, and eat and drink very hearty. His neighbours think, as he has had such a wonderful escape, he will quite recover, though his death-like countenance tells me it is impossible. I am harassed to the last degree how to advise him to act; if he gives up his horse now, he is a dead man in a very short time. When I beg of him to be more careful in money matters, he declares he will go to London, and force Ned; or when I tell him how Mary has been distressed, in order to make him save in trifles, he is in a passion, and exhausts himself. He is mad to be in London. I represented matters as they are, that he might abridge himself of some unnecessary expenses; but now he is too weak in mind and body to act with prudence. She is truly a well-meaning woman, and willing to do the little she can to lessen the debts.
“Charles is
half naked, and is treated by my father in the way that he deserves, for he is
at him perpetually; he never even tried to get him into the Excise, or anywhere
else. He is actually altered rather for the better, drinks never anything but
water, and is much thinner, and all submission. . . . He now talks of listing
for a soldier; if he does, there is an end of him. . . . I am very cool to
Charles, and have said all I can to rouse him; but
where can he go in his present plight? Thanky, my dear, for your kind
| 198 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
