“Dear Mary,—I wrote to you a fortnight ago, and professed my intention of not writing again. I certainly will not write when the result shall be to give pain, unmitigated pain. It is the questionable shape of what I have to communicate that still thrusts the pen into my hand. This day we are compelled by summary process to leave the house we live in, and to hide our heads in whatever alley will receive us. If we can compound with our creditor, and he seems not unwilling to receive £400 (I have talked with him on the subject), we may emerge again. Our business, if freed from this intolerable burthen, is more than ever worth keeping.
“But all this would perhaps have failed in inducing me to resume the pen, but for an extraordinary accident. Wednesday, May 1, was the day when the last legal step was taken against me. On Wednesday morning, a few hours before this catastrophe, Willatts, the man who three or four years before lent Shelley £2000 at two for one, called on me to ask whether Shelley wanted any more money on the same terms. What does this mean? In the contemplation of such a coincidence I could almost grow superstitious. But alas, I fear, I fear, I am a drowning man, catching at straws.—Ever most affectionately your father,
