R XIV.

LAST MONTHS: DEATH.

1797.

During the month of June of this year, Godwin made a pleasure trip into
Staffordshire with Basil Montague. The two friends went in a carriage,
staying over night at the houses of different acquaintances, and were
absent for a little more than a fortnight. Godwin, while away, made his
usual concise entries in his diary, but to his wife he wrote long and
detailed accounts of his travels. The guide-book style of his letters is
somewhat redeemed by occasional outbursts of tenderness, pleasant to read
as evidences that he could give Mary the demonstrations of affection
which to her were so indispensable. By his playful messages to little
Fanny and his interest in his unborn child, it can be seen that, despite
his bachelor habits, domestic life had become very dear to him. Fatigue
and social engagements could not make him forget his promise to bring the
former a mug. "Tell her" [that is, Fanny], he writes, "I have not
forgotten her little mug, and that I shall choose her a very pretty one."
And again, "Tell Fanny I have chosen a mug for her, and another for
Lucas. There is an F. on hers and an L. on his, shaped in an island of
flowers of green and orange-tawny alternately." He warns Mary to be
careful of herself, assuring her that he remembers at all times the
condition of her health, and wishes he could hear from moment to moment
how she feels. He and Montague, riding out early in the morning, recall
the important fact that it is the very hour at which "little Fanny is
going to plungity-plunge." When Mary's letters are accidentally detained
he is as worried and hurt as she would be under similar circumstances.
From Etruria he writes:--

"Another evening and no letter. This is scarcely kind. I reminded
you in time that it would be impossible to write to me after
Saturday, though it is not improbable you may not see me before the
Saturday following. What am I to think? How many possible accidents
will the anxiety of affection present to one's thoughts! Not
serious ones, I hope; in that case I trust I should have heard. But
headaches, but sickness of the heart, a general loathing of life
and of me. Do not give place to this worst of diseases! The least I
can think is that you recollect me with less tenderness and
impatience than I reflect on you. There is a general sadness in the
sky; the clouds are shutting around me and seem depre