The Last Man
by Mary Shelley
[VOLUME I]
THE LAST MAN
INTRODUCTION
I VISITED Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of
December of that year, my companion and I crossed the
Bay, to visit the antiquities which are scattered on
the shores of Baiae. The translucent and shining waters
of the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas,
which were interlaced by sea-weed, and received diamond
tints from the chequering of the sun-beams; the blue
and pellucid element was such as Galatea might have
skimmed in her car of mother of pearl; or Cleopatra,
more fitly than the Nile, have chosen as the path of
her magic ship. Though it was winter, the atmosphere
seemed more appropriate to early spring; and its genial
warmth contributed to inspire those sensations of
placid delight, which are the portion of every
traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil
bays and radiant promontories of Baiae.
We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus:
and wandered through various ruined temples, baths, and
classic spots; at length we entered the gloomy cavern
of the Cumaean Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore flaring
torches, which shone red, and almost dusky, in the
murky subterranean passages, whose darkness thirstily
surrounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and more
of the element of light. We passed by a natural
archway, leading to a second gallery, and enquired, if
we could not enter there also. The guides pointed to
the reflection of their torches on the water that
paved it, leaving us to form our own conclusion; but
adding it was a pity, for it led to the Sibyl's Cave.
Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this
circumstance, and we insisted upon attempting the
passage. As is usually the case in the prosecution of
such enterprizes, the difficulties decreased on
examination. We found, on each side of the humid
pathway, "dry land for the sole of the foot." At
length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern,
which the Lazzeroni assured us was the Sibyl's Cave.
We were sufficiently disappointed--Yet we examined it
with care, as if its blank, rocky walls could still
bear trace of celestial visitant. On one side was a
small opening. Whither does this lead? we asked: can
we enter here?--"Questo poi, no,"--said the wild
looking savage, who held the torch; "you can advance
but a short distance, and nobody visits it."
"Nevertheless, I will try it," said my companion; "it
may lead to the real cavern. Shall I go alone, or will
you accompany me?"
I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides
protested against such a measure. With great
volubility, in their native Neapolitan dialect, with
which we were not very familiar, they told us that
there were spectres, that the roof would fall in, that
it was too narrow to admit us, that there was a deep
hole within, filled with water, and we might be
drowned. My friend shortened the harangue, by taking
the man's torch from him; and we proceeded alone.
The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us,
quickly grew narrower and lower; we were almost bent
double; yet still we persisted in making our way
through it. At length we entered a wider space, and the
low roof heightened; but, as we congratulated ourselves
on this change, our torch was extinguished by a current
of air, and we were left in utter darkness. The guides
bring with them materials for renewing the light, but
we had none--our only resource was to return as we
came. We groped round the widened space to find the
entrance, and after a time fancied that we had
succeeded. This proved however to be a second passage,
which evidently ascended. It terminated like the
former; though something approaching to a ray, we could
not tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the
space. By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat accustomed to
this dimness, and we perceived that there was no direct
passage leading us further; but that it was possible to
climb one side of the cavern to a low arch at top,
which promised a more easy path, from whence we now
discovered that this light proceeded. With considerable
difficulty we scrambled up, and came to another passage
with still more of illumination, and this led to
another ascent like the former.
After a succession of these, which our resolution alone
permitted us to surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern
with an arched dome-like roof. An aperture in the midst
let in the light of heaven; but this was overgrown with
brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil,
obscuring the day, and giving a solemn religious hue to
the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly circular,
with a raised seat of stone, about the size of a
Grecian couch, at one end. The only sign that life had
been here, was the perfect snow-white skeleton of a
goat, which had probably not perceived the opening as
it grazed on the hill above, and had fallen headlong.
Ages perhaps had elapsed since this catastrophe; and
the ruin it had made above, had been repaired by the
growth of vegetation during many hundred summers.
The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of
piles of leaves, fragments of bark, and a white filmy
substance, resembling the inner part of the green hood
which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian corn. We
were fatigued by our struggles to attain this point,
and seated ourselves on the rocky couch, while the
sounds of tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of
shepherd-boy, reached us from above.
At length my friend, who had taken up some of the
leaves strewed about, exclaimed, "This is the
Sibyl's cave; these are Sibylline leaves." On
examination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and
other substances, were traced with written characters.
What appeared to us more astonishing, was that these
writings were expressed in various languages: some
unknown to my companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian
hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramids. Stranger still,
some were in modern dialects, English and Italian. We
could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed
to contain prophecies, detailed relations of events but
lately passed; names, now well known, but of modern
date; and often exclamations of exultation or woe, of
victory or defeat, were traced on their thin scant
pages. This was certainly the Sibyl's Cave; not indeed
exactly as Virgil describes it, but the whole of this
land had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano,
that the change was not wonderful, though the traces
of ruin were effaced by time; and we probably owed the
preservation of these leaves, to the accident which had
closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing
vegetation which had rendered its sole opening
impervious to the storm. We made a hasty selection of
such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of us
could understand; and then, laden with our treasure,
we bade adieu to the dim hypaethric cavern, and after
much difficulty succeeded in rejoining our guides.
During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this
cave, sometimes alone, skimming the sun-lit sea, and
each time added to our store. Since that period,
whenever the world's circumstance has not imperiously
called me away, or the temper of my mind impeded such
study, I have been employed in deciphering these
sacred remains. Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent,
has often repaid my toil, soothing me in sorrow, and
exciting my imagination to daring flights, through the
immensity of nature and the mind of man. For awhile my
labours were not solitary; but that time is gone; and,
with the selected and matchless companion of my toils,
their dearest reward is also lost to me--
Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro
Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta
Ne' nvidio insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?
I present the public with my latest discoveries in the
slight Sibylline pages. Scattered and unconnected as
they were, I have been obliged to add links, and model
the work into a consistent form. But the main
substance rests on the truths contained in these poetic
rhapsodies, and the divine intuition which the Cumaean
damsel obtained from heaven.
I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and
at the English dress of the Latin poet. Sometimes I
have thought, that, obscure and chaotic as they are,
they owe their present form to me, their decipherer.
As if we should give to another artist, the painted
fragments which form the mosaic copy of Raphael's
Transfiguration in St. Peter's; he would put them
together in a form, whose mode would be fashioned by
his own peculiar mind and talent. Doubtless the
leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl have suffered distortion
and diminution of interest and excellence in my hands.
My only excuse for thus transforming them, is that they
were unintelligible in their pristine condition.
My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and
taken me out of a world, which has averted its once
benignant face from me, to one glowing with imagination
and power. Will my readers ask how I could find solace
from the narration of misery and woeful change? This is
one of the mysteries of our nature, which holds full
sway over me, and from whose influence I cannot escape.
I confess, that I have not been unmoved by the
development of the tale; and that I have been
depressed, nay, agonized, at some parts of the recital,
which I have faithfully transcribed from my materials.
Yet such is human nature, that the excitement of mind
was dear to me, and that the imagination, painter of
tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the stormy and
ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my real sorrows
and endless regrets, by clothing these fictitious ones
in that ideality, which takes the mortal sting from
pain.
I hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For
the merits of my adaptation and translation must decide
how far I have well bestowed my time and imperfect
powers, in giving form and substance to the frail and
attenuated Leaves of the Sibyl.
[Vol. I]
CHAPTER I.
I AM the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a
cloud-enshadowed land, which, when the surface of the
globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless
continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as
an inconsiderable speck in the immense whole; and yet,
when balanced in the scale of mental power, far
outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous
population. So true it is, that man's mind alone was
the creator of all that was good or great to man, and
that Nature herself was only his first minister.
England, seated far north in the turbid sea, now visits
my dreams in the semblance of a vast and well-manned
ship, which mastered the winds and rode proudly over
the waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to
me. When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and
mountain stretch out to the utmost limits of my vision,
speckled by the dwellings of my countrymen, and subdued
to fertility by their labours, the earth's very centre
was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb
was as a fable, to have forgotten which would have
cost neither my imagination nor understanding an
effort.
My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an
exemplification of the power that mutability may
possess over the varied tenor of man's life. With
regard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My
father was one of those men on whom nature had bestowed
to prodigality the envied gifts of wit and imagination,
and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these
winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment
as the pilot for the voyage. His extraction was
obscure; but circumstances brought him early into
public notice, and his small paternal property was soon
dissipated in the splendid scene of fashion and luxury
in which he was an actor. During the short years of
thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred
triflers of the day, nor least by the youthful
sovereign, who escaped from the intrigues of party,
and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find
never-failing amusement and exhilaration of spirit in
his society. My father's impulses, never under his own
controul, perpetually led him into difficulties from
which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the
accumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade,
which would have bent to earth any other, was supported
by him with a light spirit and tameless hilarity; while
his company was so necessary at the tables and
assemblies of the rich, that his derelictions were
considered venial, and he himself received with
intoxicating flattery.
This kind of popularity, like every other, is
evanescent: and the difficulties of every kind with
which he had to contend,increased in a frightful ratio
compared with his small means of extricating himself.
At such times the king, in his enthusiasm for him,
would come to his relief, and then kindly take his
friend to task; my father gave the best promises for
amendment, but his social disposition, his craving for
the usual diet of admiration, and more than all, the
fiend of gambling, which fully possessed him, made his
good resolutions transient, his promises vain. With
the quick sensibility peculiar to his temperament, he
perceived his power in the brilliant circle to be on
the wane. The king married; and the haughty princess
of Austria, who became, as queen of England, the head
of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and
with contempt on the affection her royal husband
entertained for him. My father felt that his fall was
near; but so far from profiting by this last calm
before the storm to save himself, he sought to forget
anticipated evil by making still greater sacrifices to
the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of
his destiny.
The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but
easily led, had now become a willing disciple of his
imperious consort. He was induced to look with extreme
disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my
father's imprudence and follies. It is true that his
presence dissipated these clouds; his warm-hearted
frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding demeanour
were irresistible: it was only when at a distance,
while still renewed tales of his errors were poured
into his royal friend's ear, that he lost his
influence. The queen's dextrous management was
employed to prolong these absences, and gather together
accusations. At length the king was brought to see in
him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he
should pay for the short-lived pleasure of his society
by tedious homilies, and more painful narrations of
excesses, the truth of which he could not disprove. The
result was, that he would make one more attempt to
reclaim him, and in case of ill success, cast him off
for ever.
Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and
high-wrought passion. A powerful king, conspicuous for
a goodness which had heretofore made him meek, and now
lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty and
reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real
interests, resolutely to avoid those fascinations which
in fact were fast deserting him, and to spend his great
powers on a worthy field, in which he, his sovereign,
would be his prop, his stay, and his pioneer. My
father felt this kindness; for a moment ambitious
dreams floated before him; and he thought that it would
be well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler
duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the
required promise: as a pledge of continued favour, he
received from his royal master a sum of money to defray
pressing debts, and enable him to enter under good
auspices his new career. That very night, while yet
full of gratitude and good resolves, this whole sum,
and its amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table.
In his desire to repair his first losses, my father
risked double stakes, and thus incurred a debt of
honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed to apply
again to the king, he turned his back upon London, its
false delights and clinging miseries; and, with poverty
for his sole companion, buried himself in solitude
among the hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his
bon mots, the record of his personal attractions,
fascinating manners, and social talents, were long
remembered and repeated from mouth to mouth. Ask where
now was this favourite of fashion, this companion of
the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien
splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the
gay--you heard that he was under a cloud, a lost man;
not one thought it belonged to him to repay pleasure by
real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit
deserved a pension on retiring. The king lamented his
absence; he loved to repeat his sayings, relate the
adventures they had had together, and exalt his
talents--but here ended his reminiscence.
Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He
repined for the loss of what was more necessary to him
than air or food--the excitements of pleasure, the
admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished
living of the great. A nervous fever was the
consequence; during which he was nursed by the daughter
of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was
lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it
afford astonishment, that the late idol of high-bred
beauty should, even in a fallen state, appear a being
of an elevated and wondrous nature to the lowly
cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to the
ill-fated marriage, of which I was the offspring.
Notwithstanding the tenderness and sweetness of my
mother, her husband still deplored his degraded state.
Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way to
contribute to the support of his increasing family.
Sometimes he thought of applying to the king; pride and
shame for a while withheld him; and, before his
necessities became so imperious as to compel him to
some kind of exertion, he died. For one brief interval
before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the
future, and contemplated with anguish the desolate
situation in which his wife and children would be left.
His last effort was a letter to the king, full of
touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that
brilliant spirit which was an integral part of him. He
bequeathed his widow and orphans to the friendship of
his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by this
means, their prosperity was better assured in his death
than in his life. This letter was enclosed to the care
of a nobleman, who, he did not doubt, would perform the
last and inexpensive office of placing it in the king's
own hand.
He died in debt, and his little property was seized
immediately by his creditors. My mother, pennyless and
burthened with two children, waited week after week,
and month after month, in sickening expectation of a
reply, which never came. She had no experience beyond
her father's cottage; and the mansion of the lord of
the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur she could
conceive. During my father's life, she had been made
familiar with the name of royalty and the courtly
circle; but such things, ill according with her
personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him
who gave substance and reality to them, vague and
fantastical. If, under any circumstances, she could
have acquired sufficient courage to address the noble
persons mentioned by her husband, the ill success of
his own application caused her to banish the idea. She
saw therefore no escape from dire penury: perpetual
care, joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous
being, whom she continued to contemplate with ardent
admiration, hard labour, and naturally delicate health,
at length released her from the sad continuity of want
and misery.
The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly
desolate. Her own father had been an emigrant from
another part of the country, and had died long since:
they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they
were outcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the
most scanty pittance was a matter of favour, and who
were treated merely as children of peasants, yet
poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left them, a
thankless bequest, to the close-handed charity of the
land.
I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my
mother died. A remembrance of the discourses of my
parents, and the communications which my mother
endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father's
friends, in slight hope that I might one day derive
benefit from the knowledge, floated like an indistinct
dream through my brain. I conceived that I was
different and superior to my protectors and companions,
but I knew not how or wherefore. The sense of injury,
associated with the name of king and noble, clung to
me; but I could draw no conclusions from such feelings,
to serve as a guide to action. My first real knowledge
of myself was as an unprotected orphan among the
valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the service
of a farmer; and with crook in hand, my dog at my side,
I shepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I
cannot say much in praise of such a life; and its pains
far exceeded its pleasures. There was freedom in it, a
companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness;
but these, romantic as they were, did not accord with
the love of action and desire of human sympathy,
characteristic of youth. Neither the care of my flock,
nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my
eager spirit; my out-door life and unemployed time were
the temptations that led me early into lawless habits.
I associated with others friendless like myself; I
formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain.
All shepherd-boys alike, while our flocks were spread
over the pastures, we schemed and executed many a
mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and
revenge of the rustics. I was the leader and protector
of my comrades, and as I became distinguished among
them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon me. But
while I endured punishment and pain in their defence
with the spirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward
their praise and obedience.
In such a school my disposition became rugged, but
firm. The appetite for admiration and small capacity
for self-controul which I inherited from my father,
nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was
rough as the elements, and unlearned as the animals I
tended. I often compared myself to them, and finding
that my chief superiority consisted in power, I soon
persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was
inferior to the chiefest potentates of the earth. Thus
untaught in refined philosophy, and pursued by a
restless feeling of degradation from my true station in
society, I wandered among the hills of civilized
England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred founder of
old Rome. I owned but one law, it was that of the
strongest, and my greatest deed of virtue was never to
submit.
Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have
passed on myself. My mother, when dying, had, in
addition to her other half-forgotten and misapplied
lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other
child to my fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I
performed to the best of my ability, with all the zeal
and affection of which my nature was capable. My
sister was three years younger than myself; I had
nursed her as an infant, and when the difference of our
sexes, by giving us various occupations, in a great
measure divided us, yet she continued to be the object
of my careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of
the term, we were poorest among the poor, and despised
among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage
obtained for me a kind of respectful aversion, her
youth and sex, since they did not excite tenderness, by
proving her to be weak, were the causes of numberless
mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not
so constituted as to diminish the evil effects of her
lowly station.
She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much
of the peculiar disposition of our father. Her
countenance was all expression; her eyes were not dark,
but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space
after space in their intellectual glance, and to feel
that the soul which was their soul, comprehended an
universe of thought in its ken. She was pale and fair,
and her golden hair clustered on her temples,
contrasting its rich hue with the living marble
beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little consonant
apparently with the refinement of feeling which her
face expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with
it. She was like one of Guido's saints, with heaven in
her heart and in her look, so that when you saw her you
only thought of that within, and costume and even
feature were secondary to the mind that beamed in her
countenance.
Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor
Perdita (for this was the fanciful name my sister had
received from her dying parent), was not altogether
saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and
repulsive. If she had been nurtured by those who had
regarded her with affection, she might have been
different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want
of kindness with distrust and silence. She was
submissive to those who held authority over her, but a
perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as if
she expected enmity from every one who approached her,
and her actions were instigated by the same feeling.
All the time she could command she spent in solitude.
She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and
scale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots
she might wrap herself in loneliness. Often she passed
whole hours walking up and down the paths of the woods;
she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the
flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves;
sometimes she sat beside a stream, and as her thoughts
paused, threw flowers or pebbles into the waters,
watching how those swam and these sank; or she would
set afloat boats formed of bark of trees or leaves,
with a feather for a sail, and intensely watch the
navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows
of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a
thousand combinations; she dreamt "of moving accidents
by flood and field"--she lost herself delightedly in
these self-created wanderings, and returned with
unwilling spirit to the dull detail of common life.
Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excellencies, and
all that was good in her seemed about to perish from
want of the genial dew of affection. She had not even
the same advantage as I in the recollection of her
parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her only
friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste
that her protectors felt for her; and every error was
magnified by them into crimes. If she had been bred in
that sphere of life to which by inheritance the
delicate framework of her mind and person was adapted,
she would have been the object almost of adoration, for
her virtues were as eminent as her defects. All the
genius that ennobled the blood of her father
illustrated hers; a generous tide flowed in her veins;
artifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes of
her nature; her countenance, when enlightened by
amiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of
nations; her eyes were bright; her look fearless.
Although by our situation and dispositions we were
almost equally cut off from the usual forms of social
intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to each other.
I always required the stimulants of companionship and
applause. Perdita was all-sufficient to herself.
Notwithstanding my lawless habits, my disposition was
sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among
tangible realities, hers was a dream. I might be said
even to love my enemies, since by exciting me they in a
sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost
disliked her friends, for they interfered with her
visionary moods. All my feelings, even of exultation
and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if
unparticipated; Perdita, even in joy, fled to
loneliness, and could go on from day to day, neither
expressing her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling
in another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with
tenderness on the look and voice of her friend, while
her demeanour expressed the coldest reserve. A
sensation with her became a sentiment, and she never
spoke until she had mingled her perceptions of outward
objects with others which were the native growth of her
own mind. She was like a fruitful soil that imbibed
the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth again
to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but
then she was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked
up, and new sown with unseen seed.
She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped
down to the waters of the lake of Ulswater; a beech
wood stretched up the hill behind, and a purling brook
gently falling from the acclivity ran through
poplar-shaded banks into the lake. I lived with a
farmer whose house was built higher up among the hills:
a dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the north,
the snow lay in its crevices the summer through. Before
dawn I led my flock to the sheep-walks, and guarded
them through the day. It was a life of toil; for rain
and cold were more frequent than sunshine; but it was
my pride to contemn the elements. My trusty dog
watched the sheep as I slipped away to the rendezvous
of my comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our
schemes. At noon we met again, and we threw away in
contempt our peasant fare, as we built our fire-place
and kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the
game stolen from the neighbouring preserves. Then came
the tale of hair-breadth escapes, combats with dogs,
ambush and flight, as gipsey-like we encompassed our
pot. The search after a stray lamb, or the devices by
which we elude or endeavoured to elude punishment,
filled up the hours of afternoon; in the evening my
flock went to its fold, and I to my sister.
It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an
old-fashioned phrase, scot free. Our dainty fare was
often exchanged for blows and imprisonment. Once, when
thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month to the
county jail. I came out, my morals unimproved, my
hatred to my oppressors encreased tenfold. Bread and
water did not tame my blood, nor solitary confinement
inspire me with gentle thoughts. I was angry,
impatient, miserable; my only happy hours were those
during which I devised schemes of revenge; these were
perfected in my forced solitude, so that during the
whole of the following season, and I was freed early in
September, I never failed to provide excellent and
plenteous fare for myself and my comrades. This was a
glorious winter. The sharp frost and heavy snows tamed
the animals, and kept the country gentlemen by their
firesides; we got more game than we could eat, and my
faithful dog grew sleek upon our refuse.
Thus years passed on; and years only added fresh love
of freedom, and contempt for all that was not as wild
and rude as myself. At the age of sixteen I had shot up
in appearance to man's estate; I was tall and athletic;
I was practised to feats of strength, and inured to the
inclemency of the elements. My skin was embrowned by
the sun; my step was firm with conscious power. I
feared no man, and loved none. In after life I looked
back with wonder to what I then was; how utterly
worthless I should have become if I had pursued my
lawless career. My life was like that of an animal,
and my mind was in danger of degenerating into that
which informs brute nature. Until now, my savage
habits had done me no radical mischief; my physical
powers had grown up and flourished under their
influence, and my mind, undergoing the same
discipline, was imbued with all the hardy virtues. But
now my boasted independence was daily instigating me to
acts of tyranny, and freedom was becoming
licentiousness. I stood on the brink of manhood;
passions, strong as the trees of a forest, had already
taken root within me, and were about to shadow with
their noxious overgrowth, my path of life.
I panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits,
and formed distempered dreams of future action. I
avoided my ancient comrades, and I soon lost them. They
arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil their
destined situations in life; while I, an outcast, with
none to lead or drive me forward, paused. The old began
to point at me as an example, the young to wonder at me
as a being distinct from themselves; I hated them, and
began, last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I
clung to my ferocious habits, yet half despised them; I
continued my war against civilization, and yet
entertained a wish to belong to it.
I revolved again and again all that I remembered my
mother to have told me of my father's former life; I
contemplated the few relics I possessed belonging to
him, which spoke of greater refinement than could be
found among the mountain cottages; but nothing in all
this served as a guide to lead me to another and
pleasanter way of life. My father had been connected
with nobles, but all I knew of such connection was
subsequent neglect. The name of the king,--he to whom
my dying father had addressed his latest prayers, and
who had barbarously slighted them, was associated only
with the ideas of unkindness, injustice, and consequent
resentment. I was born for something greater than I
was--and greater I would become; but greatness, at
least to my distorted perceptions, was no necessary
associate of goodness, and my wild thoughts were
unchecked by moral considerations when they rioted in
dreams of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a
sea of evil rolled at my feet; I was about to
precipitate myself into it, and rush like a torrent
over all obstructions to the object of my wishes--when
a stranger influence came over the current of my
fortunes, and changed their boisterous course to what
was in comparison like the gentle meanderings of a
meadow-encircling streamlet.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER II.
I LIVED far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour
of wars or political changes came worn to a mere sound,
to our mountain abodes. England had been the scene of
momentous struggles, during my early boyhood. In the
year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient friend of
my father, had abdicated in compliance with the gentle
force of the remonstrances of his subjects, and a
republic was instituted. Large estates were secured to
the dethroned monarch and his family; he received the
title of Earl of Windsor, and Windsor Castle, an
ancient royalty, with its wide demesnes were a part of
his allotted wealth. He died soon after, leaving two
children, a son and a daughter.
The ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had
long impelled her husband to withstand the necessity of
the times. She was haughty and fearless; she cherished
a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him who had
despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her children's sake
alone she consented to remain, shorn of regality, a
member of the English republic. When she became a
widow, she turned all her thoughts to the educating her
son Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accomplish
her ambitious ends; and with his mother's milk he
imbibed, and was intended to grow up in the steady
purpose of re-acquiring his lost crown. Adrian was now
fifteen years of age. He was addicted to study, and
imbued beyond his years with learning and talent:
report said that he had already begun to thwart his
mother's views, and to entertain republican principles.
However this might be, the haughty Countess entrusted
none with the secrets of her family-tuition. Adrian
was bred up in solitude, and kept apart from the
natural companions of his age and rank. Some unknown
circumstance now induced his mother to send him from
under her immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was
about to visit Cumberland. A thousand tales were rife,
explanatory of the Countess of Windsor's conduct; none
true probably; but each day it became more certain that
we should have the noble scion of the late regal house
of England among us.
There was a large estate with a mansion attached to it,
belonging to this family, at Ulswater. A large park was
one of its appendages, laid out with great taste, and
plentifully stocked with game. I had often made
depredations on these preserves; and the neglected
state of the property facilitated my incursions. When
it was decided that the young Earl of Windsor should
visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the house and
grounds in order for his reception. The apartments were
restored to their pristine splendour, and the park, all
disrepairs restored, was guarded with unusual care.
I was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It
roused all my dormant recollections, my suspended
sentiments of injury, and gave rise to the new one of
revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations;
all my plans and devices were forgotten; I seemed about
to begin life anew, and that under no good auspices.
The tug of war, I thought, was now to begin. He would
come triumphantly to the district to which my parent
had fled broken-hearted; he would find the ill-fated
offspring, bequeathed with such vain confidence to his
royal father, miserable paupers. That he should know of
our existence, and treat us, near at hand, with the
same contumely which his father had practised in
distance and absence, appeared to me the certain
consequence of all that had gone before. Thus then I
should meet this titled stripling--the son of my
father's friend. He would be hedged in by servants;
nobles, and the sons of nobles, were his companions;
all England rang with his name; and his coming, like a
thunderstorm, was heard from far: while I, unlettered
and unfashioned, should, if I came in contact with him,
in the judgment of his courtly followers, bear evidence
in my very person to the propriety of that ingratitude
which had made me the degraded being I appeared.
With my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be
said as if fascinated, to haunt the destined abode of
the young Earl. I watched the progress of the
improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as
various articles of luxury, brought from London, were
taken forth and conveyed into the mansion. It was part
of the Ex-Queen's plan, to surround her son with
princely magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and silken
hangings, ornaments of gold, richly embossed metals,
emblazoned furniture, and all the appendages of high
rank arranged, so that nothing but what was regal in
splendour should reach the eye of one of royal descent.
I looked on these; I turned my gaze to my own mean
dress.--Whence sprung this difference? Whence but from
ingratitude, from falsehood, from a dereliction on the
part of the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and
generous feeling. Doubtless, he also, whose blood
received a mingling tide from his proud mother--he, the
acknowledged focus of the kingdom's wealth and
nobility, had been taught to repeat my father's name
with disdain, and to scoff at my just claims to
protection. I strove to think that all this grandeur
was but more glaring infamy, and that, by planting his
gold-enwoven flag beside my tarnished and tattered
banner, he proclaimed not his superiority, but his
debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud of beautiful
horses, his arms of costly workmanship, the praise that
attended him, the adoration, ready servitor, high place
and high esteem,--I considered them as forcibly
wrenched from me, and envied them all with novel and
tormenting bitterness.
To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary
Perdita, seemed to awake to real life with transport,
when she told me that the Earl of Windsor was about to
arrive.
"And this pleases you?" I observed, moodily.
"Indeed it does, Lionel," she replied; "I quite long to
see him; he is the descendant of our kings, the first
noble of the land: every one admires and loves him, and
they say that his rank is his least merit; he is
generous, brave, and affable."
"You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita," said I,
"and repeat it so literally, that you forget the while
the proofs we have of the Earl's virtues; his
generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his bravery
in the protection he affords us, his affability in the
notice he takes of us. His rank his least merit, do you
say? Why, all his virtues are derived from his station
only; because he is rich, he is called generous;
because he is powerful, brave; because he is well
served, he is affable. Let them call him so, let all
England believe him to be thus--we know him--he is our
enemy--our penurious, dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he
were gifted with one particle of the virtues you call
his, he would do justly by us, if it were only to shew,
that if he must strike, it should not be a fallen foe.
His father injured my father--his father, unassailable
on his throne, dared despise him who only stooped
beneath himself, when he deigned to associate with the
royal ingrate. We, descendants from the one and the
other, must be enemies also. He shall find that I can
feel my injuries; he shall learn to dread my revenge!"
A few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the
most miserable cottage, went to swell the stream of
population that poured forth to meet him: even Perdita,
in spite of my late philippic, crept near the highway,
to behold this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad,
as I met party after party of the country people, in
their holiday best, descending the hills, escaped to
their cloud-veiled summits, and looking on the sterile
rocks about me, exclaimed--" They do not cry,
long live the Earl!" Nor, when night came, accompanied
by drizzling rain and cold, would I return home; for I
knew that each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian;
as I felt my limbs grow numb and chill, my pain served
as food for my insane aversion; nay, I almost triumphed
in it, since it seemed to afford me reason and excuse
for my hatred of my unheeding adversary. All was
attributed to him, for I confounded so entirely the
idea of father and son, that I forgot that the latter
might be wholly unconscious of his parent's neglect of
us; and as I struck my aching head with my hand, I
cried: "He shall hear of this! I will be revenged! I
will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know, beggar
and friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit
to injury!"
Each day, each hour added to these exaggerated wrongs.
His praises were so many adder's stings infixed in my
vulnerable breast. If I saw him at a distance, riding a
beautiful horse, my blood boiled with rage; the air
seemed poisoned by his presence, and my very native
English was changed to a vile jargon, since every
phrase I heard was coupled with his name and honour. I
panted to relieve this painful heart-burning by some
misdeed that should rouse him to a sense of my
antipathy. It was the height of his offending, that he
should occasion in me such intolerable sensations, and
not deign himself to afford any demonstration that he
was aware that I even lived to feel them.
It soon became known that Adrian took great delight in
his park and preserves. He never sported, but spent
hours in watching the tribes of lovely and almost tame
animals with which it was stocked, and ordered that
greater care should be taken of them than ever. Here
was an opening for my plans of offence, and I made use
of it with all the brute impetuosity I derived from my
active mode of life. I proposed the enterprize of
poaching on his demesne to my few remaining comrades,
who were the most determined and lawless of the crew;
but they all shrunk from the peril; so I was left to
achieve my revenge myself. At first my exploits were
unperceived; I increased in daring; footsteps on the
dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of slaughter, at
length betrayed me to the game-keepers. They kept
better watch; I was taken, and sent to prison. I
entered its gloomy walls in a fit of triumphant extasy:
"He feels me now," I cried, "and shall, again and
again!"--I passed but one day in confinement; in the
evening I was liberated, as I was told, by the order of
the Earl himself. This news precipitated me from my
self-raised pinnacle of honour. He despises me, I
thought; but he shall learn that I despise him, and
hold in equal contempt his punishments and his
clemency. On the second night after my release, I was
again taken by the gamekeepers--again imprisoned, and
again released; and again, such was my pertinacity, did
the fourth night find me in the forbidden park. The
gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my
obstinacy. They had received orders that if I were
again taken, I should be brought to the Earl; and his
lenity made them expect a conclusion which they
considered ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had
been from the first the leader among those who had
seized me, resolved to satisfy his own resentment,
before he made me over to the higher powers.
The late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I
was obliged to use in this my third expedition,
consumed so much time, that something like a qualm of
fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to
twilight. I crept along by the fern, on my hands and
knees, seeking the shadowy coverts of the underwood,
while the birds awoke with unwelcome song above, and
the fresh morning wind, playing among the boughs, made
me suspect a footfall at each turn. My heart beat quick
as I approached the palings; my hand was on one of
them, a leap would take me to the other side, when two
keepers sprang from an ambush upon me: one knocked me
down, and proceeded to inflict a severe
horse-whipping. I started up--a knife was in my grasp;
I made a plunge at his raised right arm, and inflicted
a deep, wide wound in his hand. The rage and yells of
the wounded man, the howling execrations of his
comrade, which I answered with equal bitterness and
fury, echoed through the dell; morning broke more and
more, ill accordant in its celestial beauty with our
brute and noisy contest. I and my enemy were still
struggling, when the wounded man exclaimed, "The Earl!"
I sprang out of the herculean hold of the keeper,
panting from my exertions; I cast furious glances on my
persecutors, and placing myself with my back to a tree,
resolved to defend myself to the last. My garments were
torn, and they, as well as my hands, were stained with
the blood of the man I had wounded; one hand grasped
the dead birds--my hard-earned prey, the other held the
knife; my hair was matted; my face besmeared with the
same guilty signs that bore witness against me on the
dripping instrument I clenched; my whole appearance was
haggard and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in
form, I must have looked like, what indeed I was, the
merest ruffian that ever trod the earth.
The name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the
indignant blood that warmed my heart to rush into my
cheeks; I had never seen him before; I figured to
myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take me to
task, if he deigned to speak to me, with all the
arrogance of superiority. My reply was ready; a
reproach I deemed calculated to sting his very heart.
He came up the while; and his appearance blew aside,
with gentle western breath, my cloudy wrath: a tall,
slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the
excess of sensibility and refinement stood before me;
the morning sunbeams tinged with gold his silken hair,
and spread light and glory over his beaming
countenance. "How is this?" he cried. The men eagerly
began their defence; he put them aside, saying, "Two of
you at once on a mere lad--for shame!" He came up to
me: "Verney," he cried, "Lionel Verney, do we meet thus
for the first time? We were born to be friends to each
other; and though ill fortune has divided us, will you
not acknowledge the hereditary bond of friendship which
I trust will hereafter unite us?"
As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to
read my very soul: my heart, my savage revengeful
heart, felt the influence of sweet benignity sink upon
it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest melody,
awoke a mute echo within me, stirring to its depths the
life-blood in my frame. I desired to reply, to
acknowledge his goodness, accept his proffered
friendship; but words, fitting words, were not afforded
to the rough mountaineer; I would have held out my
hand, but its guilty stain restrained me. Adrian took
pity on my faltering mien: "Come with me," he said, "I
have much to say to you; come home with me--you know
who I am?"
"Yes," I exclaimed, "I do believe that I now know you,
and that you will pardon my mistakes--my crime."
Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to
the gamekeepers, he came up to me; putting his arm in
mine, we walked together to the mansion.
It was not his rank--after all that I have said, surely
it will not be suspected that it was Adrian's rank,
that, from the first, subdued my heart of hearts, and
laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor was it
I alone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His
sensibility and courtesy fascinated every one. His
vivacity, intelligence, and active spirit of
benevolence, completed the conquest. Even at this early
age, he was deep read and imbued with the spirit of
high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of
irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with others,
so that he seemed like an inspired musician, who
struck, with unerring skill, the "lyre of mind," and
produced thence divine harmony. In person, he hardly
appeared of this world; his slight frame was
overinformed by the soul that dwelt within; he was all
mind; "Man but a rush against" his breast, and it would
have conquered his strength; but the might of his smile
would have tamed an hungry lion, or caused a legion of
armed men to lay their weapons at his feet.
I spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to
the past, or indeed to any personal occurrences. He
wished probably to inspire me with confidence, and give
me time to gather together my scattered thoughts. He
talked of general subjects, and gave me ideas I had
never before conceived. We sat in his library, and he
spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the power which
they had acquired over the minds of men, through the
force of love and wisdom only. The room was decorated
with the busts of many of them, and he described their
characters to me. As he spoke, I felt subject to him;
and all my boasted pride and strength were subdued by
the honeyed accents of this blue-eyed boy. The trim and
paled demesne of civilization, which I had before
regarded from my wild jungle as inaccessible, had its
wicket opened by him; I stepped within, and felt, as I
entered, that I trod my native soil.
As evening came on, he reverted to the past. "I have a
tale to relate," he said, "and much explanation to give
concerning the past; perhaps you can assist me to
curtail it. Do you remember your father? I had never
the happiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my
earliest recollections: he stands written in my mind's
tablets as the type of all that was gallant, amiable,
and fascinating in man. His wit was not more
conspicuous than the overflowing goodness of his heart,
which he poured in such full measure on his friends, as
to leave, alas! small remnant for himself."
Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to
his inquiries, to relate what I remembered of my
parent; and he gave an account of those circumstances
which had brought about a neglect of my father's
testamentary letter. When, in after times, Adrian's
father, then king of England, felt his situation become
more perilous, his line of conduct more embarrassed,
again and again he wished for his early friend, who
might stand a mound against the impetuous anger of his
queen, a mediator between him and the parliament. From
the time that he had quitted London, on the fatal night
of his defeat at the gaming-table, the king had
received no tidings concerning him; and when, after the
lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover him,
every trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever, he
clung to his memory; and gave it in charge to his son,
if ever he should meet this valued friend, in his name
to bestow every succour, and to assure him that, to the
last, his attachment survived separation and silence.
A short time before Adrian's visit to Cumberland, the
heir of the nobleman to whom my father had confided his
last appeal to his royal master, put this letter, its
seal unbroken, into the young Earl's hands. It had been
found cast aside with a mass of papers of old date, and
accident alone brought it to light. Adrian read it with
deep interest; and found there that living spirit of
genius and wit he had so often heard commemorated. He
discovered the name of the spot whither my father had
retreated, and where he died; he learnt the existence
of his orphan children; and during the short interval
between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting in the
park, he had been occupied in making inquiries
concerning us, and arranging a variety of plans for our
benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to our
notice.
The mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying
to my vanity; the veil which he delicately cast over
his benevolence, in alledging a duteous fulfilment of
the king's latest will, was soothing to my pride. Other
feelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his
conciliating manner and the generous warmth of his
expressions, respect rarely before experienced,
admiration, and love--he had touched my rocky heart
with his magic power, and the stream of affection
gushed forth, imperishable and pure. In the evening we
parted; he pressed my hand: "We shall meet again; come
to me to-morrow." I clasped that kind hand; I tried to
answer; a fervent "God bless you!" was all my ignorance
could frame of speech, and I darted away, oppressed by
my new emotions.
I could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept
them, and the stars glittered above. I ran on, careless
of outward objects, but trying to master the struggling
spirit within me by means of bodily fatigue. "This," I
thought, "is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard of
heart, ferocious, and daring; but kind, compassionate
and soft."--Stopping short, I clasped my hands, and
with the fervour of a new proselyte, cried, "Doubt me
not, Adrian, I also will become wise and good!" and
then quite overcome, I wept aloud.
As this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more
composed. I lay on the ground, and giving the reins to
my thoughts, repassed in my mind my former life; and
began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my
heart, and to discover how brutish, savage, and
worthless I had hitherto been. I could not however at
that time feel remorse, for methought I was born anew;
my soul threw off the burthen of past sin, to commence
a new career in innocence and love. Nothing harsh or
rough remained to jar with the soft feelings which the
transactions of the day had inspired; I was as a child
lisping its devotions after its mother, and my plastic
soul was remoulded by a master hand, which I neither
desired nor was able to resist.
This was the first commencement of my friendship with
Adrian, and I must commemorate this day as the most
fortunate of my life. I now began to be human. I was
admitted within that sacred boundary which divides the
intellectual and moral nature of man from that which
characterizes animals. My best feelings were called
into play to give fitting responses to the generosity,
wisdom, and amenity of my new friend. He, with a noble
goodness all his own, took infinite delight in
bestowing to prodigality the treasures of his mind and
fortune on the long-neglected son of his father's
friend, the offspring of that gifted being whose
excellencies and talents he had heard commemorated from
infancy.
After his abdication the late king had retreated from
the sphere of politics, yet his domestic circle
afforded him small content. The ex-queen had none of
the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage and
daring which she possessed were rendered null by the
secession of her husband: she despised him, and did not
care to conceal her sentiments. The king had, in
compliance with her exactions, cast off his old
friends, but he had acquired no new ones under her
guidance. In this dearth of sympathy, he had recourse
to his almost infant son; and the early development of
talent and sensibility rendered Adrian no unfitting
depository of his father's confidence. He was never
weary of listening to the latter's often repeated
accounts of old times, in which my father had played a
distinguished part; his keen remarks were repeated to
the boy, and remembered by him; his wit, his
fascinations, his very faults were hallowed by the
regret of affection; his loss was sincerely deplored.
Even the queen's dislike of the favourite was
ineffectual to deprive him of his son's admiration: it
was bitter, sarcastic, contemptuous--but as she
bestowed her heavy censure alike on his virtues as his
errors, on his devoted friendship and his ill-bestowed
loves, on his disinterestedness and his prodigality, on
his pre-possessing grace of manner, and the facility
with which he yielded to temptation, her double shot
proved too heavy, and fell short of the mark. Nor did
her angry dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my
father, as he had said, the type of all that was
gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It was not
strange therefore, that when he heard of the existence
of the offspring of this celebrated person, he should
have formed the plan of bestowing on them all the
advantages his rank made him rich to afford. When he
found me a vagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher,
an unlettered savage, still his kindness did not fail.
In addition to the opinion he entertained that his
father was to a degree culpable of neglect towards us,
and that he was bound to every possible reparation, he
was pleased to say that under all my ruggedness there
glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be
distinguished from mere animal courage, and that I
inherited a similarity of countenance to my father,
which gave proof that all his virtues and talents had
not died with him. Whatever those might be which
descended to me, my noble young friend resolved should
not be lost for want of culture.
Acting upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he
led me to wish to participate in that cultivation which
graced his own intellect. My active mind, when once it
seized upon this new idea, fastened on it with extreme
avidity. At first it was the great object of my
ambition to rival the merits of my father, and render
myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian. But
curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love of knowledge,
which caused me to pass days and nights in reading and
study. I was already well acquainted with what I may
term the panorama of nature, the change of seasons, and
the various appearances of heaven and earth. But I was
at once startled and enchanted by my sudden extension
of vision, when the curtain, which had been drawn
before the intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw
the universe, not only as it presented itself to my
outward senses, but as it had appeared to the wisest
among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy and its
researches and classifications, alike awoke the
sleeping ideas in my mind, and gave me new ones.
I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first
discovered the shore of America; and like him I
hastened to tell my companions of my discoveries in
unknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any
breast the same craving appetite for knowledge that
existed in mine. Even Perdita was unable to understand
me. I had lived in what is generally called the world
of reality, and it was awakening to a new country to
find that there was a deeper meaning in all I saw,
besides that which my eyes conveyed to me. The
visionary Perdita beheld in all this only a new gloss
upon an old reading, and her own was sufficiently
inexhaustible to content her. She listened to me as she
had done to the narration of my adventures, and
sometimes took an interest in this species of
information; but she did not, as I did, look on it as
an integral part of her being, which having obtained, I
could no more put off than the universal sense of
touch.
We both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not
having yet escaped from childhood could not appreciate
as I did the extent of his merits, or feel the same
sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever
with him. There was a sensibility and sweetness in his
disposition, that gave a tender and unearthly tone to
our converse. Then he was gay as a lark carolling from
its skiey tower, soaring in thought as an eagle,
innocent as the mild-eyed dove. He could dispel the
seriousness of Perdita, and take the sting from the
torturing activity of my nature. I looked back to my
restless desires and painful struggles with my fellow
beings as to a troubled dream, and felt myself as much
changed as if I had transmigrated into another form,
whose fresh sensorium and mechanism of nerves had
altered the reflection of the apparent universe in the
mirror of mind. But it was not so; I was the same in
strength, in earnest craving for sympathy, in my
yearning for active exertion. My manly virtues did not
desert me, for the witch Urania spared the locks of
Sampson, while he reposed at her feet; but all was
softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian instruct me only
in the cold truths of history and philosophy. At the
same time that he taught me by their means to subdue my
own reckless and uncultured spirit, he opened to my
view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to
feel and understand its wondrous character.
The ex-queen of England had, even during infancy,
endeavoured to implant daring and ambitious designs in
the mind of her son. She saw that he was endowed with
genius and surpassing talent; these she cultivated for
the sake of afterwards using them for the furtherance
of her own views. She encouraged his craving for
knowledge and his impetuous courage; she even tolerated
his tameless love of freedom, under the hope that this
would, as is too often the case, lead to a passion for
command. She endeavoured to bring him up in a sense of
resentment towards, and a desire to revenge himself
upon, those who had been instrumental in bringing about
his father's abdication. In this she did not succeed.
The accounts furnished him, however distorted, of a
great and wise nation asserting its right to govern
itself, excited his admiration: in early days he became
a republican from principle. Still his mother did not
despair. To the love of rule and haughty pride of birth
she added determined ambition,patience, and
self-control. She devoted herself to the study of her
son's disposition. By the application of praise,
censure, and exhortation, she tried to seek and strike
the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed
her touch seemed discord to her, she built her hopes on
his talents, and felt sure that she would at last win
him. The kind of banishment he now experienced arose
from other causes.
The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of
age; his fairy sister, Adrian was wont to call her; a
lovely, animated, little thing, all sensibility and
truth. With these, her children, the noble widow
constantly resided at Windsor; and admitted no
visitors, except her own partizans, travellers from her
native Germany, and a few of the foreign ministers.
Among these, and highly distinguished by her, was
Prince Zaimi, ambassador to England from the free
States of Greece; and his daughter, the young Princess
Evadne, passed much of her time at Windsor Castle. In
company with this sprightly and clever Greek girl, the
Countess would relax from her usual state. Her views
with regard to her own children, placed all her words
and actions relative to them under restraint:
but Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear;
nor were her talents and vivacity slight alleviations
to the monotony of the Countess's life.
Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent
much time together at Windsor, the extreme youth of
Adrian prevented any suspicion as to the nature of
their intercourse. But he was ardent and tender of
heart beyond the common nature of man, and had already
learnt to love, while the beauteous Greek smiled
benignantly on the boy. It was strange to me, who,
though older than Adrian, had never loved, to witness
the whole heart's sacrifice of my friend. There was
neither jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust in his
sentiment; it was devotion and faith. His life was
swallowed up in the existence of his beloved; and his
heart beat only in unison with the pulsations that
vivified hers. This was the secret law of his life--he
loved and was beloved. The universe was to him a
dwelling, to inhabit with his chosen one; and not
either a scheme of society or an enchainment of events,
that could impart to him either happiness or misery.
What, though life and the system of social intercourse
were a wilderness, a tiger-haunted jungle! Through the
midst of its errors, in the depths of its savage
recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery pathway,
through which they might journey in safety and delight.
Their track would be like the passage of the Red Sea,
which they might traverse with unwet feet, though a
wall of destruction were impending on either side.
Alas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this
matchless specimen of humanity? What is there in our
nature that is for ever urging us on towards pain and
misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however
we may be attuned to the reception of pleasureable
emotion, disappointment is the never-failing pilot of
our life's bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the
shoals. Who was better framed than this highly-gifted
youth to love and be beloved, and to reap unalienable
joy from an unblamed passion? If his heart had slept
but a few years longer, he might have been saved; but
it awoke in its infancy; it had power, but no
knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a too
early-blowing bud is nipt by the killing frost.
I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to
deceive her lover; but the first letter that I saw of
hers convinced me that she did not love him; it was
written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with
great command of language. The hand-writing itself was
exquisitely beautiful; there was something in her very
paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love,
and was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern
as being tasteful. There was much kindness, gratitude,
and sweetness in her expression, but no love. Evadne
was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen,
ever loved one so much their junior? I compared her
placid epistles with the burning ones of Adrian. His
soul seemed to distil itself into the words he wrote;
and they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a
portion of the life of love, which was his life. The
very writing used to exhaust him; and he would weep
over them, merely from the excess of emotion they
awakened in his heart.
Adrian's soul was painted in his countenance, and
concealment or deceit were at the antipodes to the
dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made it her
earnest request that the tale of their loves should not
be revealed to his mother; and after for a while
contesting the point, he yielded it to her. A vain
concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret
to the quick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary
prudence that characterized her whole conduct, she
concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her son
from the sphere of the attractive Greek. He was sent to
Cumberland; but the plan of correspondence between the
lovers, arranged by Evadne, was effectually hidden from
her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the
purpose of separating, united them in firmer bonds than
ever. To me he discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved
Ionian. Her country, its ancient annals, its late
memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her
glory and excellence. He submitted to be away from her,
because she commanded this submission; but for her
influence, he would have declared his attachment before
all England, and resisted, with unshaken constancy, his
mother's opposition. Evadne's feminine prudence
perceived how useless any assertion of his resolves
would be, till added years gave weight to his power.
Perhaps there was besides a lurking dislike to bind
herself in the face of the world to one whom she did
not love--not love, at least, with that passionate
enthusiasm which her heart told her she might one day
feel towards another. He obeyed her injunctions, and
passed a year in exile in Cumberland.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER III.
HAPPY, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and
hours of that year. Friendship, hand in hand with
admiration, tenderness and respect, built a bower of
delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in
America, as the homeless wind or herbless sea.
Insatiate thirst for knowledge, and boundless affection
for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart and
understanding occupied, and I was consequently happy.
What happiness is so true and unclouded, as the
overflowing and talkative delight of young people. In
our boat, upon my native lake, beside the streams and
the pale bordering poplars--in valley and over hill, my
crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to tend than silly
sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I read or
listened to Adrian; and his discourse, whether it
concerned his love or his theories for the improvement
of man, alike entranced me. Sometimes my lawless mood
would return, my love of peril, my resistance to
authority; but this was in his absence; under the mild
sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and good as a boy
of five years old, who does his mother's bidding.
After a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian
visited London, and came back full of plans for our
benefit. You must begin life, he said: you are
seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary
apprenticeship more and more irksome. He foresaw that
his own life would be one of struggle, and I must
partake his labours with him. The better to fit me for
this task, we must now separate. He found my name a
good passport to preferment, and he had procured for me
the situation of private secretary to the Ambassador at
Vienna, where I should enter on my career under the
best auspices. In two years, I should return to my
country, with a name well known and a reputation
already founded.
And Perdita?--Perdita was to become the pupil, friend
and younger sister of Evadne. With his usual
thoughtfulness, he had provided for her independence in
this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous
friend?--I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart
of hearts, I made a vow to devote life, knowledge, and
power, all of which, in as much as they were of any
value, he had bestowed on me--all, all my capacities
and hopes, to him alone I would devote.
Thus I promised myself, as I journied towards my
destination with roused and ardent expectation:
expectation of the fulfilment of all that in boyhood we
promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in maturity.
Methought the time was now arrived, when, childish
occupations laid aside, I should enter into life. Even
in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes the souls of
the happy as eager to drink of the wave which was to
restore them to this mortal coil. The young are seldom
in Elysium, for their desires, outstripping
possibility, leave them as poor as a moneyless debtor.
We are told by the wisest philosophers of the dangers
of the world, the deceits of men, and the treason of
our own hearts: but not the less fearlessly does each
put off his frail bark from the port, spread the sail,
and strain his oar, to attain the multitudinous streams
of the sea of life. How few in youth's prime, moor
their vessels on the "golden sands," and collect the
painted shells that strew them. But all at close of
day, with riven planks and rent canvas make for shore,
and are either wrecked ere they reach it, or find some
wave-beaten haven, some desart strand, whereon to cast
themselves and die unmourned.
A truce to philosophy!--Life is before me, and I rush
into possession. Hope, glory, love, and blameless
ambition are my guides, and my soul knows no dread.
What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is
good only because it is about to change, and the to
come is all my own. Do I fear, that my heart
palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of my
blood; my eyes seem to penetrate the cloudy midnight of
time, and to discern within the depths of its darkness,
the fruition of all my soul desires.
Now pause!--During my journey I might dream, and with
buoyant wings reach the summit of life's high edifice.
Now that I am arrived at its base, my pinions are
furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step by
step I must ascend the wondrous fane--
Speak!--What door is opened?
Behold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among
the pleasure-seeking society of a gay city; a youth of
promise; favourite of the Ambassador. All was strange
and admirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With
breathless amaze I entered on the gay scene, whose
actors were
--the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin.
Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting
my studious hours, and the companionship of Adrian.
Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent pursuit for a
wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of
beauty entranced me, and attractive manners in man or
woman won my entire confidence. I called it rapture,
when a smile made my heart beat; and I felt the life's
blood tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol
which for awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of animal
spirits was Paradise, and at night's close I only
desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The
dazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely forms
arrayed in splendid dresses; the motions of a dance,
the voluptuous tones of exquisite music, cradled my
senses in one delightful dream.
And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to
moralists and sages. I ask if in the calm of their
measured reveries, if in the deep meditations which
fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful
tyro in the school of pleasure? Can the calm beams of
their heaven-seeking eyes equal the flashes of mingling
passion which blind his, or does the influence of cold
philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal to his,
engaged
In this dear work of youthful revelry.
But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the
hermit, nor the tumultuous raptures of the reveller,
are capable of satisfying man's heart. From the one we
gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The
mind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in
the heartless intercourse of those whose sole aim is
amusement. There is no fruition in their vacant
kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling
ripples of these shallow waters.
Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and
solitude drove me back upon my heart, to gather thence
the joy of which it had become barren. My flagging
spirits asked for something to speak to the affections;
and not finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding
the thoughtless delight that waited on its
commencement, the impression I have of my life at
Vienna is melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth
we cannot be happy unless we love. I did not love; but
I was devoured by a restless wish to be something to
others. I became the victim of ingratitude and cold
coquetry--then I desponded, and imagined that my
discontent gave me a right to hate the world. I receded
to solitude; I had recourse to my books, and my desire
again to enjoy the society of Adrian became a burning
thirst.
Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the
venomous properties of envy, gave a sting to these
feelings. At this period the name and exploits of one
of my countrymen filled the world with admiration.
Relations of what he had done, conjectures concerning
his future actions, were the never-failing topics of
the hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I
felt as if the praises which this idol received were
leaves torn from laurels destined for Adrian. But I
must enter into some account of this darling of
fame--this favourite of the wonder-loving world.
Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but
impoverished family. From early youth he had considered
his pedigree with complacency, and bitterly lamented
his want of wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement;
and the means that led towards this end were secondary
considerations. Haughty, yet trembling to every
demonstration of respect; ambitious, but too proud to
shew his ambition; willing to achieve honour, yet a
votary of pleasure,--he entered upon life. He was met
on the threshold by some insult, real or imaginary;
some repulse, where he least expected it; some
disappointment, hard for his pride to bear. He writhed
beneath an injury he was unable to revenge; and he
quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good
time should arrive, when she might feel the power of
him she now despised.
He became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless
courage and comprehensive genius brought him into
notice. He became the darling hero of this rising
people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw off
his allegiance to his native country, alone prevented
him from filling the first offices in the state. But,
though others might rank higher in title and ceremony,
Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond all this.
He led the Greek armies to victory; their triumphs were
all his own. When he appeared, whole towns poured forth
their population to meet him; new songs were adapted to
their national airs, whose themes were his glory,
valour, and munificence.
A truce was concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At
the same time, Lord Raymond, by some unlooked-for
chance, became the possessor of an immense fortune in
England, whither he returned, crowned with glory, to
receive the meed of honour and distinction before
denied to his pretensions. His proud heart rebelled
against this change. In what was the despised Raymond
not the same? If the acquisition of power in the shape
of wealth caused this alteration, that power should
they feel as an iron yoke. Power therefore was the aim
of all his endeavours; aggrandizement the mark at which
he for ever shot. In open ambition or close intrigue,
his end was the same--to attain the first station in
his own country.
This account filled me with curiosity. The events that
in succession followed his return to England, gave me
keener feelings. Among his other advantages, Lord
Raymond was supremely handsome; every one admired him;
of women he was the idol. He was courteous,
honey-tongued--an adept in fascinating arts. What could
not this man achieve in the busy English world? Change
succeeded to change; the entire history did not reach
me; for Adrian had ceased to write, and Perdita was a
laconic correspondent. The rumour went that Adrian had
become--how write the fatal word--mad: that Lord
Raymond was the favourite of the ex-queen, her
daughter's destined husband. Nay, more, that this
aspiring noble revived the claim of the house of
Windsor to the crown, and that, on the event of
Adrian's incurable disorder and his marriage with the
sister, the brow of the ambitious Raymond might be
encircled with the magic ring of regality.
Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame;
such a tale rendered my longer stay at Vienna, away
from the friend of my youth, intolerable. Now I must
fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side, and be his
ally and support till death. Farewell to courtly
pleasure; to politic intrigue; to the maze of passion
and folly! All hail, England! Native England, receive
thy child! thou art the scene of all my hopes, the
mighty theatre on which is acted the only drama that
can, heart and soul, bear me along with it in its
development. A voice most irresistible, a power
omnipotent, drew me thither. After an absence of two
years I landed on its shores, not daring to make any
inquiries, fearful of every remark. My first visit
would be to my sister, who inhabited a little cottage,
a part of Adrian's gift, on the borders of Windsor
Forest. From her I should learn the truth concerning
our protector; I should hear why she had withdrawn from
the protection of the Princess Evadne, and be
instructed as to the influence which this overtopping
and towering Raymond exercised over the fortunes of my
friend.
I had never before been in the neighbourhood of
Windsor; the fertility and beauty of the country around
now struck me with admiration, which encreased as I
approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks
which had grown, flourished, and decayed during the
progress of centuries, marked where the limits of the
forest once reached, while the shattered palings and
neglected underwood shewed that this part was deserted
for the younger plantations, which owed their birth to
the beginning of the nineteenth century, and now stood
in the pride of maturity. Perdita's humble dwelling was
situated on the skirts of the most ancient portion;
before it was stretched Bishopgate Heath, which towards
the east appeared interminable, and was bounded to the
west by Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water.
Behind, the cottage was shadowed by the venerable
fathers of the forest, under which the deer came to
graze, and which for the most part hollow and decayed,
formed fantastic groups that contrasted with the
regular beauty of the younger trees. These, the
offspring of a later period, stood erect and seemed
ready to advance fearlessly into coming time; while
those out worn stragglers, blasted and broke, clung to
each other, their weak boughs sighing as the wind
buffetted them--a weather-beaten crew.
A light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage,
which, low-roofed, seemed to submit to the majesty of
nature, and cower amidst the venerable remains of
forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the spring,
adorned her garden and casements; in the midst of
lowliness there was an air of elegance which spoke the
graceful taste of the inmate. With a beating heart I
entered the enclosure; as I stood at the entrance, I
heard her voice,melodious as it had ever been, which
before I saw her assured me of her welfare.
A moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me
in the fresh bloom of youthful womanhood, different
from and yet the same as the mountain girl I had left.
Her eyes could not be deeper than they were in
childhood, nor her countenance more expressive; but the
expression was changed and improved; intelligence sat
on her brow; when she smiled her face was embellished
by the softest sensibility, and her low, modulated
voice seemed tuned by love. Her person was formed in
the most feminine proportions; she was not tall, but
her mountain life had given freedom to her motions, so
that her light step scarce made her foot-fall heard as
she tript across the hall to meet me. When we had
parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with unrestrained
warmth; we met again, and new feelings were awakened;
when each beheld the other, childhood passed, as full
grown actors on this changeful scene. The pause was but
for a moment; the flood of association and natural
feeling which had been checked, again rushed in full
tide upon our hearts, and with tenderest emotion we
were swiftly locked in each other's embrace.
This burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed
thoughts we sat together, talking of the past and
present. I alluded to the coldness of her letters; but
the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently
explained the origin of this. New feelings had arisen
within her, which she was unable to express in writing
to one whom she had only known in childhood; but we saw
each other again, and our intimacy was renewed as if
nothing had intervened to check it. I detailed the
incidents of my sojourn abroad, and then questioned her
as to the changes that had taken place at home, the
causes of Adrian's absence, and her secluded life.
The tears that suffused my sister's eyes when I
mentioned our friend, and her heightened colour seemed
to vouch for the truth of the reports that had reached
me. But their import was too terrible for me to give
instant credit to my suspicion. Was there indeed
anarchy in the sublime universe of Adrian's thoughts,
did madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and was
he no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend,
this ill world was no clime for your gentle spirit; you
delivered up its governance to false humanity, which
stript it of its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare
its quivering life to the evil ministration of
roughest winds. Have those gentle eyes, those "channels
of the soul" lost their meaning, or do they only in
their glare disclose the horrible tale of its
aberrations? Does that voice no longer "discourse
excellent music?" Horrible, most horrible! I veil my
eyes in terror of the change, and gushing tears bear
witness to my sympathy for this unimaginable ruin.
In obedience to my request Perdita detailed the
melancholy circumstances that led to this event.
The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it
was by every natural grace, endowed with transcendant
powers of intellect, unblemished by the shadow of
defect (unless his dreadless independence of thought
was to be construed into one), was devoted, even as a
victim to sacrifice, to his love for Evadne. He
entrusted to her keeping the treasures of his soul, his
aspirations after excellence, and his plans for the
improvement of mankind. As manhood dawned upon him, his
schemes and theories, far from being changed by
personal and prudential motives, acquired new strength
from the powers he felt arise within him; and his love
for Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day became
more certain that the path he pursued was full of
difficulty, and that he must seek his reward, not in
the applause or gratitude of his fellow creatures,
hardly in the success of his plans, but in the
approbation of his own heart, and in her love and
sympathy, which was to lighten every toil and
recompence every sacrifice.
In solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the
haunts of men, he matured his views for the reform of
the English government, and the improvement of the
people. It would have been well if he had concealed his
sentiments, until he had come into possession of the
power which would secure their practical development.
But he was impatient of the years that must
intervene, he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave
not only a brief denial to his mother's schemes, but
published his intention of using his influence to
diminish the power of the aristocracy, to effect a
greater equalization of wealth and privilege, and to
introduce a perfect system of republican government
into England. At first his mother treated his theories
as the wild ravings of inexperience. But they were so
systematically arranged, and his arguments so well
supported, that though still in appearance incredulous,
she began to fear him. She tried to reason with him,
and finding him inflexible, learned to hate him.
Strange to say, this feeling was infectious. His
enthusiasm for good which did not exist; his contempt
for the sacredness of authority; his ardour and
imprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual
routine of life; the worldly feared him; the young and
inexperienced did not understand the lofty severity of
his moral views, and disliked him as a being different
from themselves. Evadne entered but coldly into his
systems. She thought he did well to assert his own
will, but she wished that will to have been more
intelligible to the multitude. She had none of the
spirit of a martyr, and did not incline to share the
shame and defeat of a fallen patriot. She was aware of
the purity of his motives, the generosity of his
disposition, his true and ardent attachment to her; and
she entertained a great affection for him. He repaid
this spirit of kindness with the fondest gratitude, and
made her the treasure-house of all his hopes.
At this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two
persons could be more opposite than Adrian and he. With
all the incongruities of his character, Raymond was
emphatically a man of the world. His passions were
violent; as these often obtained the mastery over him,
he could not always square his conduct to the obvious
line of self-interest, but self-gratification at least
was the paramount object with him. He looked on the
structure of society as but a part of the machinery
which supported the web on which his life was traced.
The earth was spread out as an highway for him; the
heavens built up as a canopy for him.
Adrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He
owned affinity not only with mankind, but all nature
was akin to him; the mountains and sky were his
friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth
his playmates; while he the focus only of this mighty
mirror, felt his life mingle with the universe of
existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedicated to the
worship of beauty and excellence. Adrian and Raymond
now came into contact, and a spirit of aversion rose
between them. Adrian despised the narrow views of the
politician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt the
benevolent visions of the philanthropist.
With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that
laid waste at one fell blow the gardens of delight and
sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that he had
secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and
contumely. Raymond, the deliverer of Greece, the
graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge of all
that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as
most dear--Raymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered by
her new sensations, she did not pause to examine them,
or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except the
tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her
heart. She yielded to its influence, and the too
natural consequence in a mind unattuned to soft
emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became
distasteful to her. She grew capricious; her gentle
conduct towards him was exchanged for asperity and
repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild or
pathetic appeal of his expressive countenance, she
would relent, and for a while resume her ancient
kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its depths
the soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed
the world subject to him, because he possessed Evadne's
love; he felt in every nerve that the dire storms of
the mental universe were about to attack his fragile
being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent.
Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture
that Adrian endured. She loved him as a kind elder
brother; a relation to guide, protect, and instruct
her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental
authority. She adored his virtues, and with mixed
contempt and indignation she saw Evadne pile drear
sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly
marked her. In his solitary despair Adrian would often
seek my sister, and in covered terms express his
misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of
his mind. Soon, alas! was one to conquer. Anger made no
part of his emotion. With whom should he be angry? Not
with Raymond, who was unconscious of the misery he
occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul wept
tears of blood--poor, mistaken girl, slave not tyrant
was she, and amidst his own anguish he grieved for her
future destiny. Once a writing of his fell into
Perdita's hands; it was blotted with tears--well might
any blot it with the like--
"Life"--it began thus--"is not the thing romance
writers describe it; going through the measures of a
dance, and after various evolutions arriving at a
conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose.
While there is life there is action and change. We go
on, each thought linked to the one which was its
parent, each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow
dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and
generating, weaves the chain that make our life:
Un dia llama a otro dia
y ass i llama, y encadena
llanto a llanto, y pena a pena.
Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human
life; she sits at the threshold of unborn time, and
marshals the events as they come forth. Once my heart
sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the world
was doubly beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed
from my own soul. O wherefore are love and ruin for
ever joined in this our mortal dream? So that when we
make our hearts a lair for that gently seeming beast,
its companion enters with it, and pitilessly lays waste
what might have been an home and a shelter."
By degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and
then his intellect yielded to the same tyranny. His
manners grew wild; he was sometimes ferocious,
sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly
Evadne quitted London for Paris; he followed, and
overtook her when the vessel was about to sail; none
knew what passed between them, but Perdita had never
seen him since; he lived in seclusion, no one knew
where, attended by such persons as his mother selected
for that purpose.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV.
THE next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita's cottage,
on his way to Windsor Castle. My sister's heightened
colour and sparkling eyes half revealed her secret to
me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted us
both with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into
our feelings, and to make one with us. I scanned his
physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet was
beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his
eyes was soft, though at times he could make them even
glare with ferocity; his complexion was colourless; and
every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was
pleasing, though disdain too often curled his
lips--lips which to female eyes were the very throne of
beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, often
startled you by a sharp discordant note, which shewed
that his usual low tone was rather the work of study
than nature. Thus full of contradictions, unbending yet
haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again
neglectful, he by some strange art found easy entrance
to the admiration and affection of women; now caressing
and now tyrannizing over them according to his mood,
but in every change a despot.
At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear
amiable. Wit, hilarity, and deep observation were
mingled in his talk, rendering every sentence that he
uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered my
latent distaste; I endeavoured to watch him and
Perdita, and to keep in mind every thing I had heard to
his disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous, and
all was so fascinating, that I forgot everything except
the pleasure his society afforded me. Under the idea of
initiating me in the scene of English politics and
society, of which I was soon to become a part, he
narrated a number of anecdotes, and sketched many
characters; his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on,
pervading all my senses with pleasure. But for one
thing he would have been completely triumphant. He
alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with that
disparagement that the worldly wise always attach to
enthusiasm. He perceived the cloud gathering, and tried
to dissipate it; but the strength of my feelings would
not permit me to pass thus lightly over this sacred
subject; so I said emphatically, "Permit me to remark,
that I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor; he
is my best friend and benefactor. I reverence his
goodness, I accord with his opinions, and bitterly
lament his present, and I trust temporary, illness.
That illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to
me beyond words to hear him mentioned, unless in terms
of respect and affection."
Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in
his reply. I saw that in his heart he despised those
dedicated to any but worldly idols. "Every man," he
said, "dreams about something, love, honour, and
pleasure; you dream of friendship, and devote yourself
to a maniac; well, if that be your vocation, doubtless
you are in the right to follow it."--
Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of
pain that for a moment convulsed his countenance,
checked my indignation. "Happy are dreamers," he
continued, "so that they be not awakened! Would I could
dream! but 'broad and garish day' is the element in
which I live; the dazzling glare of reality inverts the
scene for me. Even the ghost of friendship has
departed, and love"---- He broke off; nor could I guess
whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed
against the passion, or against himself for being its
slave.
This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse
with Lord Raymond. I became intimate with him, and each
day afforded me occasion to admire more and more his
powerful and versatile talents, that together with his
eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his wealth
now immense, caused him to be feared, loved, and hated
beyond any other man in England.
My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my
former connection with Adrian, the favour of the
ambassador, whose secretary I had been, and now my
intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to the
fashionable and political circles of England. To my
inexperience we at first appeared on the eve of a civil
war; each party was violent, acrimonious, and
unyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions,
aristocrats, democrats, and royalists. After Adrian's
declared predeliction to the republican form of
government, the latter party had nearly died away,
chiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came
forward as its leader, it revived with redoubled force.
Some were royalists from prejudice and ancient
affection, and there were many moderately inclined who
feared alike the capricious tyranny of the popular
party, and the unbending despotism of the
aristocrats. More than a third of the members ranged
themselves under Raymond, and their number was
perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built their
hopes on their preponderant wealth and influence; the
reformers on the force of the nation itself; the
debates were violent, more violent the discourses held
by each knot of politicians as they assembled to
arrange their measures. Opprobrious epithets were
bandied about, resistance even to the death threatened;
meetings of the populace disturbed the quiet order of
the country; except in war, how could all this end?
Even as the destructive flames were ready to break
forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed by the absence
of the military, by the aversion entertained by every
one to any violence, save that of speech, and by the
cordial politeness and even friendship of the hostile
leaders when they met in private society. I was from a
thousand motives induced to attend minutely to the
course of events, and watch each turn with intense
anxiety.
I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond;
methought also that he regarded the fair daughter of
Verney with admiration and tenderness. Yet I knew that
he was urging forward his marriage with the presumptive
heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen
expectation of the advantages that would thence accrue
to him. All the ex-queen's friends were his friends; no
week passed that he did not hold consultations with her
at Windsor.
I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that
she was lovely, amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore
should I see her? There are times when we have an
indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or
for worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for
better or for worse, we fear the change, and shun the
event. For this reason I avoided this high-born damsel.
To me she was everything and nothing; her very name
mentioned by another made me start and tremble; the
endless discussion concerning her union with Lord
Raymond was real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian
withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a
victim probably to her mother's ambitious schemes, I
ought to come forward to protect her from undue
influence, guard her from unhappiness, and secure to
her freedom of choice, the right of every human being.
Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my
interference. Since then I must be an object of
indifference or contempt to her, better, far better
avoid her, nor expose myself before her and the
scornful world to the chance of playing the mad game of
a fond, foolish Icarus.
One day, several months after my return to England, I
quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my
chief solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at
the expectation of seeing her. Her conversation was
full of pointed remark and discernment; in her pleasant
alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by
magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the
finest pictures of Raphael, Correggio, and Claude,
painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy retreat
untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions
of politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor could I
fail to recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till
now unseen object of my mad idolatry.
In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what
choice expression and soft flow of language, can I
usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in poor
assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that
surrounded her, the thousand graces that waited
unwearied on her. The first thing that struck you on
beholding that charming countenance was its perfect
goodness and frankness; candour sat upon her brow,
simplicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her
smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar
to the breezy west, and her gait,goddess-like, was as
that of a winged angel new alit from heaven's high
floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion was
stained by a pure suffusion; her voice resembled the
low, subdued tenor of a flute. It is easiest perhaps to
describe by contrast. I have detailed the perfections
of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.
Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid;
Idris was frank and confiding. The one recoiled to
solitude, that she might there entrench herself from
disappointment and injury; the other walked forth in
open day, believing that none would harm her.
Wordsworth has compared a beloved female to two fair
objects in nature; but his lines always appeared to me
rather a contrast than a similitude:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust
herself to the very air, cowering from observation, yet
betrayed by her excellences; and repaying with a
thousand graces the labour of those who sought her in
her lonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in
single splendour in the dim anadem of balmy evening;
ready to enlighten and delight the subject world,
shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined
distance from all that was not like herself akin to
heaven.
I found this vision of beauty in Perdita's alcove, in
earnest conversation with its inmate. When my sister
saw me, she rose, and taking my hand, said, "He is
here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my brother."
Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial
blue, and with grace peculiar said--"You hardly need an
introduction; we have a picture, highly valued by my
father, which declares at once your name. Verney, you
will acknowledge this tie, and as my brother's friend,
I feel that I may trust you."
Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice,
she continued--"Dear friends, do not think it strange
that now, visiting you for the first time, I ask your
assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to you. To
you alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended
by impartial spectators; you are my brother's friends,
therefore you must be mine. What can I say? if you
refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!" She cast up her
eyes, while wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if
carried away by her feelings, she cried--"My brother!
beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your
misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard the current
tale; perhaps believe the slander; but he is not mad!
Were an angel from the foot of God's throne to assert
it, never, never would I believe it. He is wronged,
betrayed, imprisoned--save him! Verney, you must do
this; seek him out in whatever part of the island he is
immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors,
restore him to himself, to me--on the wide earth I have
none to love but only him!"
Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately
expressed, filled me with wonder and sympathy; and,
when she added, with thrilling voice and look, "Do you
consent to undertake this enterprize?" I vowed, with
energy and truth, to devote myself in life and death to
the restoration and welfare of Adrian. We then
conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed
the probable means of discovering his residence. While
we were in earnest discourse, Lord Raymond entered
unannounced: I saw Perdita tremble and grow deadly
pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes.
He must have been astonished at our conclave, disturbed
by it I should have thought; but nothing of this
appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me
with a cordial greeting. Idris appeared suspended for a
moment, and then with extreme sweetness, she said,
"Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and honour."
Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with
emphasis, "Do you indeed confide, Lady Idris?"
She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered
with dignity, "As you please. It is certainly best not
to compromise oneself by any concealment."
"Pardon me," he replied, "if I have offended. Whether
you trust me or not, rely on my doing my utmost to
further your wishes, whatever they may be."
Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord
Raymond requested permission to accompany her to
Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and they
quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were
left--truly like two fools, who fancied that they had
obtained a golden treasure, till daylight shewed it to
be lead--two silly, luckless flies, who had played in
sunbeams and were caught in a spider's web. I leaned
against the casement, and watched those two glorious
creatures, till they disappeared in the forest-glades;
and then I turned. Perdita had not moved; her eyes
fixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips
white, motionless and rigid, every feature stamped by
woe, she sat. Half frightened, I would have taken her
hand; but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to
collect herself. I entreated her to speak to me: "Not
now," she replied, "nor do you speak to me, my dear
Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know
nothing. I will see you to-morrow; in the meantime,
adieu!" She rose, and walked from the room; but pausing
at the door, and leaning against it, as if her
over-busy thoughts had taken from her the power of
supporting herself, she said, "Lord Raymond will
probably return. Will you tell him that he must excuse
me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow
if he wishes it, and you also. You had better return to
London with him; you can there make the enquiries
agreed upon, concerning the Earl of Windsor and visit
me again to-morrow, before you proceed on your
journey--till then, farewell!"
She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh.
I gave my assent to her request; and she left me. I
felt as if, from the order of the systematic world, I
had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary,
unintelligible. That Raymond should marry Idris was
more than ever intolerable; yet my passion, though a
giant from its birth, was too strange, wild, and
impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery I
perceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not
confided in me; I could not demand an explanation from
Raymond without the hazard of betraying what was
perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain the
truth from her the following day--in the mean
time--But, while I was occupied by multiplying
reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked for my
sister; and I delivered her message. After musing on it
for a moment, he asked me if I were about to return to
London, and if I would accompany him: I consented. He
was full of thought, and remained silent during a
considerable part of our ride; at length he said, "I
must apologize to you for my abstraction; the truth is,
Ryland's motion comes on to-night, and I am considering
my reply."
Ryland was the leader of the popular party, a
hard-headed man, and in his way eloquent; he had
obtained leave to bring in a bill making it treason to
endeavour to change the present state of the English
government and the standing laws of the republic. This
attack was directed against Raymond and his
machinations for the restoration of the monarchy.
Raymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House
that evening. I remembered my pursuit for intelligence
concerning Adrian; and, knowing that my time would be
fully occupied, I excused myself. "Nay," said my
companion, "I can free you from your present
impediment. You are going to make enquiries
concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at
once, he is at the Duke of Athol's seat at Dunkeld. On
the first approach of his disorder, he travelled about
from one place to another; until, arriving at that
romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and we made
arrangements with the Duke for his continuing there."
I was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed
this information, and replied coldly: "I am obliged to
you for your intelligence, and will avail myself of
it."
"You shall, Verney," said he, "and if you continue of
the same mind, I will facilitate your views. But first
witness, I beseech you, the result of this night's
contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if I
may so call it, while I fear that victory is to me
defeat. What can I do? My dearest hopes appear to be
near their fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris;
Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom,
and that earldom in my hands becomes a kingdom. By the
reigning God it is true; the paltry earldom of Windsor
shall no longer content him, who will inherit the
rights which must for ever appertain to the person who
possesses it. The Countess can never forget that she
has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a
diminished inheritance to her children; her power and
my wit will rebuild the throne, and this brow will be
clasped by a kingly diadem.--I can do this--I can marry
Idris."---
He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its
expression changed again and again under the influence
of internal passion. I asked, "Does Lady Idris love
you?"
"What a question," replied he laughing. "She will of
course, as I shall her, when we are married."
"You begin late," said I, ironically, "marriage is
usually considered the grave, and not the cradle of
love. So you are about to love her, but do not
already?"
"Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her,
be assured. Love! I must steel my heart against
that; expel it from its tower of strength,
barricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to
play, its waters be dried up, and all passionate
thoughts attendant on it die--that is to say, the love
which would rule me, not that which I rule. Idris is a
gentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible not
to have an affection for her, and I have a very sincere
one; only do not speak of love--love, the tyrant and
the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror, now
my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable beast, the
fanged snake---no--no--I will have nothing to do with
that love. Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I
should marry this young lady?"
He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable
heart swelled in my bosom. I replied in a calm
voice--but how far from calm was the thought imaged by
my still words--"Never! I can never consent that Lady
Idris should be united to one who does not love her."
"Because you love her yourself."
"Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not,
dare not love her. "
"At least," he continued haughtily, "she does not love
you. I would not marry a reigning sovereign, were I not
sure that her heart was free. But, O, Lionel! a kingdom
is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms
that compose the style of royalty. Were not the
mightiest men of the olden times kings? Alexander was a
king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king; Napoleon
was a king; Caesar died in his attempt to become one,
and Cromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to
regality. The father of Adrian yielded up the already
broken sceptre of England; but I will rear the fallen
plant, join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above
all the flowers of the field.
"You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian's
abode. Do not suppose that I am wicked or foolish
enough to found my purposed sovereignty on a fraud, and
one so easily discovered as the truth or falsehood of
the Earl's insanity. I am just come from him. Before I
decided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to see
him myself again, and to judge of the probability of
his recovery.--He is irrecoverably mad."
I gasped for breath--
"I will not detail to you," continued Raymond, "the
melancholy particulars. You shall see him, and judge
for yourself; although I fear this visit, useless to
him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has
weighed on my spirits ever since. Excellent and gentle
as he is even in the downfall of his reason, I do not
worship him as you do, but I would give all my hopes of
a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him restored
to himself."
His voice expressed the deepest compassion: "Thou most
unaccountable being," I cried, "whither will thy
actions tend, in all this maze of purpose in which thou
seemest lost?"
"Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown,
I hope; and yet I dare not trust and though I dream of
a crown and wake for one, ever and anon a busy devil
whispers to me, that it is but a fool's cap that I
seek, and that were I wise, I should trample on it, and
take in its stead, that which is worth all the crowns
of the east and presidentships of the west."
"And what is that?"
"If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at
present I dare not speak, even think of it."
Again he was silent, and after a pause turned to me
laughingly. When scorn did not inspire his mirth, when
it was genuine gaiety that painted his features with a
joyous expression, his beauty became super-eminent,
divine. "Verney," said he, "my first act when I become
King of England, will be to unite with the Greeks, take
Constantinople, and subdue all Asia. I intend to be a
warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon's name shall vail to
mine; and enthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky
grave, and exalting the merits of the fallen, shall
adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious
achievements."
I listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be
other than all ear, to one who seemed to govern the
whole earth in his grasping imagination, and who only
quailed when he attempted to rule himself. Then on his
word and will depended my own happiness--the fate of
all dear to me. I endeavoured to divine the concealed
meaning of his words. Perdita's name was not mentioned;
yet I could not doubt that love for her caused the
vacillation of purpose that he exhibited. And who was
so worthy of love as my noble-minded sister? Who
deserved the hand of this self-exalted king more than
she whose glance belonged to a queen of nations? who
loved him, as he did her; notwithstanding that
disappointment quelled her passion, and ambition held
strong combat with his.
We went together to the House in the evening. Raymond,
while he knew that his plans and prospects were to be
discussed and decided during the expected debate, was
gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten thousand
hives of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the
coffee-room. Knots of politicians were assembled with
anxious brows and loud or deep voices. The
aristocratical party, the richest and most influential
men in England, appeared less agitated than the others,
for the question was to be discussed without their
interference. Near the fire was Ryland and his
supporters. Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of
immense wealth, inherited from his father, who had been
a manufacturer. He had witnessed, when a young man, the
abdication of the king, and the amalgamation of the two
houses of Lords and Commons; he had sympathized with
these popular encroachments, and it had been the
business of his life to consolidate and encrease them.
Since then, the influence of the landed proprietors had
augmented; and at first Ryland was not sorry to observe
the machinations of Lord Raymond, which drew off many
of his opponent's partizans. But the thing was now
going too far. The poorer nobility hailed the return of
sovereignty, as an event which would restore them to
their power and rights, now lost. The half extinct
spirit of royalty roused itself in the minds of men;
and they, willing slaves, self-constituted
subjects, were ready to bend their necks to the yoke.
Some erect and manly spirits still remained, pillars of
state; but the word republic had grown stale to the
vulgar ear; and many--the event would prove whether it
was a majority--pined for the tinsel and show of
royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance; he asserted
that his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of
this party; but the time for indulgence was passed, and
with one motion of his arm he would sweep away the
cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.
When Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was
hailed by his friends almost with a shout. They
gathered round him, counted their numbers, and detailed
the reasons why they were now to receive an addition of
such and such members, who had not yet declared
themselves. Some trifling business of the House having
been gone through, the leaders took their seats in the
chamber; the clamour of voices continued, till Ryland
arose to speak, and then the slightest whispered
observation was audible. All eyes were fixed upon him
as he stood--ponderous of frame, sonorous of voice, and
with a manner which, though not graceful, was
impressive. I turned from his marked, iron countenance
to Raymond, whose face, veiled by a smile, would not
betray his care; yet his lips quivered somewhat, and
his hand clasped the bench on which he sat, with a
convulsive strength that made the muscles start again.
Ryland began by praising the present state of the
British empire. He recalled past years to their memory;
the miserable contentions which in the time of our
fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of
the late king, and the foundation of the republic. He
described this republic; shewed how it gave privilege
to each individual in the state, to rise to
consequence, and even to temporary sovereignty. He
compared the royal and republican spirit; shewed how
the one tended to enslave the minds of men; while all
the institutions of the other served to raise even the
meanest among us to something great and good. He shewed
how England had become powerful, and its inhabitants
valiant and wise, by means of the freedom they enjoyed.
As he spoke, every heart swelled with pride, and every
cheek glowed with delight to remember, that each one
there was English, and that each supported and
contributed to the happy state of things now
commemorated. Ryland's fervour increased--his eyes
lighted up--his voice assumed the tone of passion.
There was one man, he continued, who wished to alter
all this, and bring us back to our days of impotence
and contention: --one man, who would dare arrogate the
honour which was due to all who claimed England as
their birthplace, and set his name and style above the
name and style of his country. I saw at this juncture
that Raymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn
from the orator, and cast on the ground; the listeners
turned from one to the other; but in the meantime the
speaker's voice filled their ears--the thunder of his
denunciations influenced their senses. The very
boldness of his language gave him weight; each knew
that he spoke truth--a truth known, but not
acknowledged. He tore from reality the mask with which
she had been clothed; and the purposes of Raymond,
which before had crept around, ensnaring by stealth,
now stood a hunted stag--even at bay--as all perceived
who watched the irrepressible changes of his
countenance. Ryland ended by moving, that any attempt
to re-erect the kingly power should be declared
treason, and he a traitor who should endeavour to
change the present form of government. Cheers and loud
acclamations followed the close of his speech.
After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond
rose,--his countenance bland, his voice softly
melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and sweetness
came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the
loud, organ-like voice of his adversary. He rose, he
said, to speak in favour of the honourable member's
motion, with one slight amendment subjoined. He was
ready to go back to old times, and commemorate the
contests of our fathers, and the monarch's abdication.
Nobly and greatly, he said, had the illustrious and
last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the
apparent good of his country, and divested himself of a
power which could only be maintained by the blood of
his subjects--these subjects named so no more, these,
his friends and equals, had in gratitude conferred
certain favours and distinctions on him and his family
for ever. An ample estate was allotted to them, and
they took the first rank among the peers of Great
Britain. Yet it might be conjectured that they had not
forgotten their ancient heritage; and it was hard that
his heir should suffer alike with any other pretender,
if he attempted to regain what by ancient right and
inheritance belonged to him. He did not say that he
should favour such an attempt; but he did say that such
an attempt would be venial; and, if the aspirant did
not go so far as to declare war, and erect a standard
in the kingdom, his fault ought to be regarded with an
indulgent eye. In his amendment he proposed, that an
exception should be made in the bill in favour of any
person who claimed the sovereign power in right of the
earls of Windsor.
Nor did Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid
and glowing colours, the splendour of a kingdom, in
opposition to the commercial spirit of republicanism.
He asserted, that each individual under the English
monarchy, was then as now, capable of attaining high
rank and power--with one only exception, that of the
function of chief magistrate; higher and nobler rank,
than a bartering, timorous commonwealth could afford.
And for this one exception, to what did it amount? The
nature of riches and influence forcibly confined the
list of candidates to a few of the wealthiest; and it
was much to be feared, that the ill-humour and
contention generated by this triennial struggle, would
counterbalance its advantages in impartial eyes. I can
ill record the flow of language and graceful turns of
expression, the wit and easy raillery that gave vigour
and influence to his speech. His manner, timid at
first, became firm--his changeful face was lit up to
superhuman brilliancy; his voice, various as music, was
like that enchanting.
It were useless to record the debate that followed this
harangue. Party speeches were delivered, which clothed
the question in cant, and veiled its simple meaning in
a woven wind of words. The motion was lost; Ryland
withdrew in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and
exulting, retired to dream of his future kingdom.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV[a].
IS there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if
there be, in what does its nature differ from love
founded in long observation and slow growth? Perhaps
its effects are not so permanent; but they are, while
they last, as violent and intense. We walk the pathless
mazes of society, vacant of joy, till we hold this
clue, leading us through that labyrinth to paradise.
Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch, sleeps in
formless blank till the fire attain it; this life of
life, this light to moon, and glory to the sun. What
does it matter, whether the fire be struck from flint
and steel, nourished with care into a flame, slowly
communicated to the dark wick, or whether swiftly the
radiant power of light and warmth passes from a kindred
power, and shines at once the beacon and the hope. In
the deepest fountain of my heart the pulses were
stirred; around, above, beneath, the clinging Memory as
a cloak enwrapt me. In no one moment of coming time did
I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit of
Idris hovered in the air I breathed; her eyes were ever
and for ever bent on mine; her remembered smile blinded
my faint gaze, and caused me to walk as one, not in
eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy--but in a new and
brilliant light, too novel, too dazzling for my human
senses. On every leaf, on every small division of the
universe, (as on the hyacinth ai is engraved)
was imprinted the talisman of my existence--SHE LIVES!
SHE IS!--I had not time yet to analyze my feeling, to
take myself to task, and leash in the tameless passion;
all was one idea, one feeling, one knowledge--it was my
life!
But the die was cast--Raymond would marry Idris. The
merry marriage bells rung in my ears; I heard the
nation's gratulation which followed the union; the
ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from
the lowly ground to regal supremacy--and to the love of
Idris. Yet, not so! She did not love him; she had
called me her friend; she had smiled on me; to me she
had entrusted her heart's dearest hope, the welfare of
Adrian. This reflection thawed my congealing blood, and
again the tide of life and love flowed impetuously
onward, again to ebb as my busy thoughts changed.
The debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul
was in tumults; I traversed the streets with eager
rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night--love--which I
have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with
despair! My heart, the field of combat, was wounded by
the iron heel of the one, watered by the gushing tears
of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned; I retreated
to my lodgings--I threw myself on a couch--I slept--was
it sleep?--for thought was still alive--love and
despair struggled still, and I writhed with unendurable
pain.
I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on
me, but knew not wherefore; I entered, as it were, the
council-chamber of my brain, and questioned the various
ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon I
remembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the
tormenting power; soon, too soon, I knew myself a
slave!
Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my
apartment. He came in gaily, singing the Tyrolese song
of liberty; noticed me with a gracious nod, and threw
himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the
Apollo Belvidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to
which I sullenly replied, he suddenly cried, looking at
the bust, "I am called like that victor! Not a bad
idea; the head will serve for my new coinage, and be an
omen to all dutiful subjects of my future success."
He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner,
and smiled, not disdainfully, but in playful mockery of
himself. Then his countenance suddenly darkened, and in
that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he cried, "I
fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the
plains of Greece never saw me achieve. Now I am the
first man in the state, burthen of every ballad, and
object of old women's mumbled devotions. What are your
meditations? You, who fancy that you can read the human
soul, as your native lake reads each crevice and
folding of its surrounding hills--say what you think of
me; king-expectant, angel or devil, which?"
This ironical tone was discord to my bursting,
over-boiling-heart; I was nettled by his insolence, and
replied with bitterness; "There is a spirit, neither
angel or devil, damned to limbo merely." I saw his
cheeks become pale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his
anger served but to enkindle mine, and I answered with
a determined look his eyes which glared on me; suddenly
they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I thought,
wetted the dark lashes; I was softened, and with
involuntary emotion added, "Not that you are such, my
dear lord."
I paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; "Yes,"
he said at length, rising and biting his lip, as he
strove to curb his passion; "Such am I! You do not know
me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience of last
night, nor does universal England know aught of me. I
stand here, it would seem, an elected king; this hand
is about to grasp a sceptre; these brows feel in each
nerve the coming diadem. I appear to have strength,
power, victory; standing as a dome-supporting column
stands; and I am--a reed! I have ambition, and that
attains its aim; my nightly dreams are realized, my
waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my
acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But here," and
he struck his heart with violence, "here is the rebel,
here the stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which
I may drain of its living blood; but, while one
fluttering pulsation remains, I am its slave."
He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and,
hiding his face in his hands, wept. I was still
smarting from my own disappointment; yet this scene
oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his
access of passion. It subsided at length; and, throwing
himself on the couch, he remained silent and
motionless, except that his changeful features shewed a
strong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said in
his usual tone of voice, "The time grows on us, Verney,
I must away. Let me not forget my chiefest errand here.
Will you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow? You will
not be dishonoured by my society, and as this is
probably the last service, or disservice you can do me,
will you grant my request?"
He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly
I thought--Yes, I will witness the last scene of the
drama. Beside which, his mien conquered me, and an
affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled my
heart--I bade him command me. "Aye, that I will," said
he gaily, "that's my cue now; be with me to-morrow
morning by seven; be secret and faithful; and you shall
be groom of the stole ere long."
So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and
with a gesture as if he gave me his hand to kiss, bade
me another laughing adieu. Left to myself, I strove
with painful intensity to divine the motive of his
request and foresee the events of the coming day. The
hours passed on unperceived; my head ached with
thought, the nerves seemed teeming with the over full
fraught--I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered
hand could medicine its pain.
I was punctual to the appointed hour on the following
day, and found Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into
his carriage, and proceeded towards Windsor. I had
tutored myself, and was resolved by no outward sign to
disclose my internal agitation.
"What a mistake Ryland made," said Raymond, "when he
thought to overpower me the other night. He spoke well,
very well; such an harangue would have succeeded better
addressed to me singly, than to the fools and knaves
assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have
listened to him with a wish to hear reason, but when he
endeavoured to vanquish me in my own territory, with my
own weapons, he put me on my mettle, and the event was
such as all might have expected."
I smiled incredulously, and replied: "I am of Ryland's
way of thinking, and will, if you please, repeat all
his arguments; we shall see how far you will be induced
by them, to change the royal for the patriotic style."
"The repetition would be useless," said Raymond, "since
I well remember them, and have many others,
self-suggested, which speak with unanswerable
persuasion."
He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark
on his reply. Our silence endured for some miles, till
the country with open fields, or shady woods and parks,
presented pleasant objects to our view. After some
observations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said:
"Philosophers have called man a microcosm of nature,
and find a reflection in the internal mind for all this
machinery visibly at work around us. This theory has
often been a source of amusement to me; and many an
idle hour have I spent, exercising my ingenuity in
finding resemblances. Does not Lord Bacon say that,
'the falling from a discord to a concord, which maketh
great sweetness in music, hath an agreement with the
affections, which are re-integrated to the better after
some dislikes?' What a sea is the tide of passion,
whose fountains are in our own nature! Our virtues are
the quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm and low
water; but let the waves arise and the winds buffet
them, and the poor devil whose hope was in their
durability, finds them sink from under him. The
fashions of the world, its exigencies, educations and
pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like clouds all
one way; but let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of
love, hate, or ambition, and the rack goes backward,
stemming the opposing air in triumph."
"Yet," replied I, "nature always presents to our eyes
the appearance of a patient: while there is an active
principle in man which is capable of ruling fortune,
and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in
some mode conquers it."
"There is more of what is specious than true in your
distinction," said my companion. "Did we form
ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and our powers? I
find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with
chords and stops--but I have no power to turn the pegs,
or pitch my thoughts to a higher or lower key."
"Other men," I observed, "may be better musicians."
"I talk not of others, but myself," replied Raymond,
"and I am as fair an example to go by as another. I
cannot set my heart to a particular tune, or run
voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose
neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated
by others, or by the world's circumstance, and this
cultivation, mingling with our innate disposition, is
the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives
grow."
"There is much truth in what you say," said I, "and yet
no man ever acts upon this theory. Who, when he makes a
choice, says, Thus I choose, because I am necessitated?
Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will
within him, which, though you may call it fallacious,
still actuates him as he decides?"
"Exactly so," replied Raymond, "another link of the
breakless chain. Were I now to commit an act which
would annihilate my hopes, and pluck the regal garment
from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary weeds,
would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my
part?"
As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going
the ordinary road to Windsor, but through Englefield
Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I began to divine that
Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was
brought to witness the scene that was to decide the
fate of Raymond--and of Perdita. Raymond had evidently
vacillated during his journey, and irresolution was
marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita's
cottage. I watched him curiously, determined that, if
this hesitation should continue, I would assist Perdita
to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the
wavering love of him, who balanced between the
possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence and
affection transcended the worth of a kingdom.
We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was
reading the newspaper report of the debate in
parliament, that apparently doomed her to hopelessness.
That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes
and spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and
frequent sighs were tokens of her distress. This sight
had an instantaneous effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed
with tenderness, and remorse clothed his manners with
earnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking
the paper from her hand, said, "Not a word more shall
my sweet Perdita read of this contention of madmen and
fools. I must not permit you to be acquainted with the
extent of my delusion, lest you despise me; although,
believe me, a wish to appear before you, not
vanquished, but as a conqueror, inspired me during my
wordy war."
Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive
countenance shone for a moment with tenderness; to see
him only was happiness. But a bitter thought swiftly
shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground,
endeavouring to master the passion of tears that
threatened to overwhelm her. Raymond continued, "I will
not act a part with you, dear girl, or appear other
than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite
your disdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel
and know that you do, and thence I draw my most
cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even reason,
you might well reject me. Do so; if your high heart,
incapable of my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend
to the lowness of mine. Turn from me, if you will,--if
you can. If your whole soul does not urge you to
forgive me--if your entire heart does not open wide its
door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me, never
speak to me again. I, though sinning against you almost
beyond remission, I also am proud; there must be no
reserve in your pardon--no drawback to the gift of your
affection."
Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence
embarrassed her; so that she dared not turn to meet her
lover's eye, or trust her voice to assure him of her
affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her
disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of
deep-felt joy. Raymond encircled her waist with his
arm, and continued, "I do not deny that I have balanced
between you and the highest hope that mortal men can
entertain; but I do so no longer. Take me--mould me to
your will, possess my heart and soul to all eternity.
If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I quit
England to-night, and will never set foot in it again.
"Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister
to forgive the injury I have done her; persuade her to
be mine."
"There needs no persuasion," said the blushing Perdita,
"except your own dear promises, and my ready heart,
which whispers to me that they are true."
That same evening we all three walked together in the
forest, and, with the garrulity which happiness
inspires, they detailed to me the history of their
loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and
reserved Perdita changed through happy love into
prattling, playful children, both losing their
characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual
contentment. A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a
brow of care, and a heart oppressed with thought, bent
all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators
of England that a sceptre was not too weighty for his
hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph
floated before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy
sporting under his mother's approving eye, the hopes of
his ambition were complete, when he pressed the small
fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant
with delight, looked on the still pool, not truly
admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the
reflection there made of the form of herself and her
lover, shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.
I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured
sympathy was theirs, I enjoyed that of restored hope. I
looked on the regal towers of Windsor. High is the wall
and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of
Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few
more years dwell in thy native garden, sweet flower,
till I by toil and time acquire a right to gather thee.
Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now?
First I must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.
Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall
recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is
mad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be
unjustly imprisoned.
After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in
the alcove. Truly it was a fairy's supper; for though
the air was perfumed by the scent of fruits and wine,
we none of us either ate or drank--even the beauty of
the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be
increased by outward objects, and I was wrapt in
reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took leave of
my sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps
of songs fell from his lips; every thought of his
mind--every object about us, gleamed under the sunshine
of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of
ill-humour and envy.
"Not so," said I, "though I confess that my thoughts
are not occupied as pleasantly as yours are. You
promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I conjure
you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I
long to soothe--perhaps to cure the malady of my first
and best friend. I shall immediately depart for
Dunkeld."
"Thou bird of night," replied Raymond, "what an eclipse
do you throw across my bright thoughts, forcing me to
call to mind that melancholy ruin, which stands in
mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of
a carved column in a weed-grown field. You dream that
you can restore him? Daedalus never wound so
inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has
woven about his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any
other Theseus, can thread the labyrinth, to which
perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue."
"You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in
England."
"And were she," said Raymond, "I would not advise her
seeing him. Better to decay in absolute delirium, than
to be the victim of the methodical unreason of
ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his malady has
probably erased from his mind all vestige of her; and
it were well that it should never again be imprinted.
You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and tractable he
wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits
listening beside the waterfall. You may see him--his
hair stuck with wild flowers--his eyes full of
untraceable meaning--his voice broken--his person
wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and
weaves chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and
bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their safety,
or weeping at their wreck. The very memory half unmans
me. By Heaven! the first tears I have shed since
boyhood rushed scalding into my eyes when I saw him."
It needed not this last account to spur me on to visit
him. I only doubted whether or not I should endeavour
to see Idris again, before I departed. This doubt was
decided on the following day. Early in the morning
Raymond came to me; intelligence had arrived that
Adrian was dangerously ill, and it appeared
impossible that his failing strength should surmount
the disorder. "To-morrow," said Raymond, "his mother
and sister set out for Scotland to see him once again."
"And I go to-day," I cried; "this very hour I will
engage a sailing balloon; I shall be there in
forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in less, if the
wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having
chosen the better part in life. This turn of fortune
revives me. I feared madness, not sickness--I have a
presentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps this
illness is a crisis, and he may recover."
Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about
half a mile from the earth, and with a favourable wind
it hurried through the air, its feathered vans cleaving
the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the
melancholy object of my journey, my spirits were
exhilarated by reviving hope, by the swift motion of
the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny
air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and
the slender mechanism of the wings, wide unfurled, gave
forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the sense. Plain
and hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible
below, while we unimpeded sped on swift and secure, as
a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The machine
obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind
blowing steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our
course. Such was the power of man over the elements; a
power long sought, and lately won; yet foretold in
by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I
quoted much to the astonishment of my pilot, when I
told him how many hundred years ago they had been
written:--
Oh! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill,
Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,
An heavy man like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty heavens find a way?
I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a
constant exposure to the air for many hours, I would
not rest, but merely altering my mode of conveyance, I
went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was
rising as I entered the opening of the hills. After the
revolution of ages Birnam hill was again covered with a
young forest, while more aged pines, planted at the
very commencement of the nineteenth century by the then
Duke of Athol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene.
The rising sun first tinged the pine tops; and my mind,
rendered through my mountain education deeply
susceptible of the graces of nature, and now on the eve
of again beholding my beloved and perhaps dying friend,
was strangely influenced by the sight of those distant
beams: surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded
them, good omens for Adrian, on whose life my happiness
depended.
Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his
cheeks glowing with the hues of fever, his eyes half
closed, his breath irregular and difficult. Yet it was
less painful to see him thus, than to find him
fulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his
mind sick the while. I established myself at his
bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter task
was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and
life: to see his warm cheek, and know that the very
fire which burned too fiercely there, was consuming the
vital fuel; to hear his moaning voice, which might
never again articulate words of love and wisdom; to
witness the ineffectual motions of his limbs, soon to
be wrapt in their mortal shroud. Such for three days
and nights appeared the consummation which fate had
decreed for my labours, and I became haggard and
spectre-like, through anxiety and watching. At length
his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a look of returning
life; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his
features was softened by approaching convalescence. He
knew me. What a brimful cup of joyful agony it was,
when his face first gleamed with the glance of
recognition--when he pressed my hand, now more fevered
than his own, and when he pronounced my name! No trace
of his past insanity remained, to dash my joy with
sorrow.
This same evening his mother and sister arrived. The
Countess of Windsor was by nature full of energetic
feeling; but she had very seldom in her life permitted
the concentrated emotions of her heart to shew
themselves on her features. The studied
immovability of her countenance; her slow, equable
manner, and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask,
hiding her fiery passions, and the impatience of her
disposition. She did not in the least resemble either
of her children; her black and sparkling eye, lit up by
pride, was totally unlike the blue lustre, and frank,
benignant expression of either Adrian or Idris. There
was something grand and majestic in her motions, but
nothing persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall, thin, and
strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair hardly
tinged with grey, her forehead arched and beautiful,
had not the eye-brows been somewhat scattered--it was
impossible not to be struck by her, almost to fear her.
Idris appeared to be the only being who could resist
her mother, notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her
character. But there was a fearlessness and frankness
about her, which said that she would not encroach on
another's liberty, but held her own sacred and
unassailable.
The Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out
frame, though afterwards she thanked me coldly for my
attentions. Not so Idris; her first glance was for her
brother; she took his hand, she kissed his eye-lids,
and hung over him with looks of compassion and love.
Her eyes glistened with tears when she thanked me, and
the grace of her expressions was enhanced, not
diminished, by the fervour, which caused her almost to
falter as she spoke. Her mother, all eyes and ears,
soon interrupted us; and I saw, that she wished to
dismiss me quietly, as one whose services, now that his
relatives had arrived, were of no use to her son. I was
harassed and ill, resolved not to give up my post, yet
doubting in what way I should assert it; when Adrian
called me, and clasping my hand, bade me not leave him.
His mother, apparently inattentive, at once understood
what was meant, and seeing the hold we had upon her,
yielded the point to us.
The days that followed were full of pain to me; so that
I sometimes regretted that I had not yielded at once to
the haughty lady, who watched all my motions, and
turned my beloved task of nursing my friend to a work
of pain and irritation. Never did any woman appear so
entirely made of mind, as the Countess of
Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appetites, even
her natural wants; she slept little, and hardly ate at
all; her body was evidently considered by her as a mere
machine, whose health was necessary for the
accomplishment of her schemes, but whose senses formed
no part of her enjoyment. There is something fearful in
one who can thus conquer the animal part of our nature,
if the victory be not the effect of consummate virtue;
nor was it without a mixture of this feeling, that I
beheld the figure of the Countess awake when others
slept, fasting when I, abstemious naturally, and
rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was forced
to recruit myself with food. She resolved to prevent or
diminish my opportunities of acquiring influence over
her children, and circumvented my plans by a hard,
quiet, stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong
to flesh and blood. War was at last tacitly
acknowledged between us. We had many pitched battles,
during which no word was spoken, hardly a look was
interchanged, but in which each resolved not to submit
to the other. The Countess had the advantage of
position; so I was vanquished, though I would not
yield.
I became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with
the hues of ill health and vexation. Adrian and Idris
saw this; they attributed it to my long watching and
anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of
myself, while I most truly assured them, that my best
medicine was their good wishes; those, and the assured
convalescence of my friend, now daily more apparent.
The faint rose again blushed on his cheek; his brow and
lips lost the ashy paleness of threatened dissolution;
such was the dear reward of my unremitting
attention--and bounteous heaven added
overflowing recompence, when it gave me also the thanks
and smiles of Idris.
After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris
and her mother returned immediately to Windsor, while
Adrian and I followed by slow journies and frequent
stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness. As we
traversed the various counties of fertile England, all
wore an exhilarating appearance to my companion, who
had been so long secluded by disease from the
enjoyments of weather and scenery. We passed through
busy towns and cultivated plains. The husbandmen were
getting in their plenteous harvests, and the women and
children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed
groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very sight of
whom carried cheerfulness to the heart. One
evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down a shady
lane, then up a grassy slope, till we came to an
eminence, that commanded an extensive view of hill and
dale, meandering rivers, dark woods, and shining
villages. The sun was setting; and the clouds,
straying, like new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields
of sky, received the golden colour of his parting
beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy hum
of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear.
Adrian, who felt all the fresh spirit infused by
returning health, clasped his hands in delight, and
exclaimed with transport:
"O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A
stately palace has God built for you, O man! and worthy
are you of your dwelling! Behold the verdant carpet
spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the
fields of earth which generate and nurture all things,
and the track of heaven, which contains and clasps all
things. Now, at this evening hour, at the period of
repose and refection, methinks all hearts breathe one
hymn of love and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of
old on the mountain-tops, give a voice to their
sentiment.
"Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic
fabric we inhabit, and framed the laws by which it
endures. If mere existence, and not happiness, had been
the final end of our being, what need of the profuse
luxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place
be so lovely, and why should the instincts of nature
minister pleasurable sensations? The very sustaining of
our animal machine is made delightful; and our
sustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted with
transcendant hues, endued with grateful odours, and
palatable to our taste. Why should this be, if HE were
not good? We need houses to protect us from the
seasons, and behold the materials with which we are
provided; the growth of trees with their adornment of
leaves; while rocks of stone piled above the plains
variegate the prospect with their pleasant
irregularity.
"Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the
Spirit of Good. Look into the mind of man, where wisdom
reigns enthroned; where imagination, the painter, sits,
with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of
sunset, adorning familiar life with glowing tints. What
a noble boon, worthy the giver, is the imagination ! it
takes from reality its leaden hue: it envelopes all
thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an
hand of beauty beckons us from the sterile seas of
life, to her gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss.
And is not love a gift of the divinity? Love, and her
child, Hope, which can bestow wealth on poverty,
strength on the weak, and happiness on the sorrowing.
"My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long
with grief, entered the gloomy labyrinth of madness,
and emerged, but half alive. Yet I thank God that I
have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his throne,
the heavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad that I
have seen the changes of his day; to behold the sun,
fountain of light, and the gentle pilgrim moon; to have
seen the fire bearing flowers of the sky, and the
flowery stars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing
and the harvest. I am glad that I have loved, and have
experienced sympathetic joy and sorrow with my
fellow-creatures. I am glad now to feel the current of
thought flow through my mind, as the blood through the
articulations of my frame; mere existence is pleasure;
and I thank God that I live!
"And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not
echo my words? Ye who are linked by the affectionate
ties of nature, companions, friends, lovers! fathers,
who toil with joy for their offspring; women, who while
gazing on the living forms of their children, forget
the pains of maternity; children, who neither toil nor
spin, but love and are loved!
"Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our
earthly home! that hatred, tyranny, and fear could no
longer make their lair in the human heart! that each
man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of
repose amid the wide plains of his
inheritance! that the source of tears were dry, and
that lips might no longer form expressions of sorrow.
Sleeping thus under the beneficent eye of heaven, can
evil visit thee, O Earth, or grief cradle to their
graves thy luckless children? Whisper it not, let the
demons hear and rejoice! The choice is with us; let us
will it, and our habitation becomes a paradise. For the
will of man is omnipotent, blunting the arrows of
death, soothing the bed of disease, and wiping away the
tears of agony. And what is each human being worth, if
he do not put forth his strength to aid his
fellow-creatures? My soul is a fading spark, my nature
frail as a spent wave; but I dedicate all of intellect
and strength that remains to me, to that one work, and
take upon me the task, as far as I am able, of
bestowing blessings on my fellow-men!"
His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands
clasped, and his fragile person was bent, as it were,
with excess of emotion. The spirit of life seemed to
linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar
flickers on the embers of an accepted sacrifice.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER V.
WHEN we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and
Perdita had departed for the continent. I took
possession of my sister's cottage, and blessed myself
that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a
curious fact, that at this period, when by the marriage
of Perdita I was allied to one of the richest
individuals in England, and was bound by the most
intimate friendship to its chiefest noble, I
experienced the greatest excess of poverty that I had
ever known. My knowledge of the worldly principles of
Lord Raymond, would have ever prevented me from
applying to him, however deep my distress might have
been. It was in vain that I repeated to myself with
regard to Adrian, that his purse was open to me; that
one in soul, as we were, our fortunes ought also to be
common. I could never, while with him, think of his
bounty as a remedy to my poverty; and I even put aside
hastily his offers of supplies, assuring him of a
falsehood, that I needed them not. How could I say to
this generous being, "Maintain me in idleness. You who
have dedicated your powers of mind and fortune to the
benefit of your species, shall you so misdirect your
exertions, as to support in uselessness the strong,
healthy, and capable?"
And yet I dared not request him to use his influence
that I might obtain an honourable provision for
myself--for then I should have been obliged to leave
Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its
Castle, beneath its enshadowing thickets; my sole
companions were my books and my loving thoughts. I
studied the wisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the
happy walls that sheltered the beloved of my soul. My
mind was nevertheless idle. I pored over the poetry of
old times; I studied the metaphysics of Plato and
Berkeley. I read the histories of Greece and Rome, and
of England's former periods, and I watched the
movements of the lady of my heart. At night I could see
her shadow on the walls of her apartment; by day I
viewed her in her flower-garden, or riding in the park
with her usual companions. Methought the charm would be
broken if I were seen, but I heard the music of her
voice and was happy. I gave to each heroine of whom I
read, her beauty and matchless excellences--such was
Antigone, when she guided the blind Oedipus to the
grove of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral
rites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the unvisited
cave of Prospero; such Haidee, on the sands of the
Ionian island. I was mad with excess of passionate
devotion; but pride, tameless as fire, invested my
nature, and prevented me from betraying myself by word
or look.
In the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with
rich mental repasts, a peasant would have disdained my
scanty fare, which I sometimes robbed from the
squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often tempted to
recur to the lawless feats of my boy-hood, and knock
down the almost tame pheasants that perched upon the
trees, and bent their bright eyes on me. But they were
the property of Adrian, the nurslings of Idris; and so,
although my imagination rendered sensual by privation,
made me think that they would better become the spit in
my kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest,
Nathelesse,
I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;
but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of "such
morsels sweet," as I might not waking attain.
But, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence
was about to change. The orphan and neglected son of
Verney, was on the eve of being linked to the mechanism
of society by a golden chain, and to enter into all the
duties and affections of life. Miracles were to be
wrought in my favour, the machine of social life pushed
with vast effort backward. Attend, O reader! while I
narrate this tale of wonders!
One day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the
forest, with their mother and accustomed companions,
Idris, drawing her brother aside from the rest of the
cavalcade, suddenly asked him, "What had become of his
friend, Lionel Verney?"
"Even from this spot," replied Adrian, pointing to my
sister's cottage, "you can see his dwelling."
"Indeed!" said Idris, "and why, if he be so near, does
he not come to see us, and make one of our society?"
"I often visit him," replied Adrian; "but you may
easily guess the motives, which prevent him from coming
where his presence may annoy any one among us."
"I do guess them," said Idris, "and such as they are, I
would not venture to combat them. Tell me, however, in
what way he passes his time; what he is doing and
thinking in his cottage retreat?"
"Nay, my sweet sister," replied Adrian, "you ask me
more than I can well answer; but if you feel interest
in him, why not visit him? He will feel highly
honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the
obligation I owe him, and compensate for the injuries
fortune has done him."
"I will most readily accompany you to his abode," said
the lady, "not that I wish that either of us should
unburthen ourselves of our debt, which, being no less
than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But let us
go; to-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and
proceeding towards that part of the forest, call upon
him."
The next evening therefore, though the autumnal change
had brought on cold and rain, Adrian and Idris entered
my cottage. They found me Curius-like, feasting on
sorry fruits for supper; but they brought gifts richer
than the golden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I
refuse the invaluable store of friendship and delight
which they bestowed. Surely the glorious twins of
Latona were not more welcome, when, in the infancy of
the world, they were brought forth to beautify and
enlighten this "sterile promontory," than were this
angelic pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart.
We sat like one family round my hearth. Our talk was on
subjects, unconnected with the emotions that evidently
occupied each; but we each divined the other's thought,
and as our voices spoke of indifferent matters, our
eyes, in mute language, told a thousand things no
tongue could have uttered.
They left me in an hour's time. They left me happy--how
unspeakably happy. It did not require the measured
sounds of human language to syllable the story of my
extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should again and
again see--my imagination did not wander beyond the
completeness of this knowledge. I trod air; no doubt,
no fear, no hope even, disturbed me; I clasped with my
soul the fulness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring,
beatified.
For many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me
thus. In this dear intercourse, love, in the guise of
enthusiastic friendship, infused more and more of his
omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of the
world, I read your characters in her looks and gesture;
I heard your melodious voice echoed by her--you
prepared for us a soft and flowery path, all gentle
thoughts adorned it--your name, O Love, was not spoken,
but you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time,
but no mortal hand, might raise the curtain. Organs of
articulate sound did not proclaim the union of our
hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed no
opportunity for the expression that hovered on our
lips.
Oh my pen! haste thou to write what was, before the
thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee.
If I lift up my eyes and see the desart earth, and feel
that those dear eyes have spent their mortal lustre,
and that those beauteous lips are silent, their
"crimson leaves" faded, for ever I am mute!
But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me!
There was a glade, O reader! a grassy opening in the
wood; the retiring trees left its velvet expanse as a
temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one
side, and a willow bending down dipt in the water its
Naiad hair, dishevelled by the wind's viewless hand.
The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear
prime, is by my side--remember, I am just twenty-two,
and seventeen summers have scarcely passed over the
beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal
rains, deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his
favourite boat is employed in the dangerous pastime of
plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are
you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with
danger?--
He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat
through the flood; our eyes were fixed on him
fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us; he
was forced to land far lower down, and to make a
considerable circuit before he could join us. "He is
safe!" said Idris, as he leapt on shore, and waved the
bough over his head in token of success; "we will wait
for him here."
We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of
the nightingales began; the evening star shone distinct
in the flood of light, which was yet unfaded in the
west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on
this sweet emblem of herself: "How the light
palpitates," she said, "which is that star's life. Its
vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state,
even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant;
it fears, methinks, and it loves."
"Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend," I cried,
"read not love in its trembling rays; look not
upon distant worlds; speak not of the mere imagination
of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to
sickness have I desired to speak to you, and submit my
soul, my life, my entire being to you. Look not on the
star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal spark
plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate,
silent as it shines--love is to me as light to the
star; even so long as that is uneclipsed by
annihilation, so long shall I love you."
Veiled for ever to the world's callous eye must be the
transport of that moment. Still do I feel her graceful
form press against my full-fraught heart--still does
sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and fail, at the
remembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we
went to meet Adrian, whom we heard approaching.
I entreated Adrian to return to me after he had
conducted his sister home. And that same evening,
walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I poured forth
my whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my
friend. For a moment he looked disturbed--"I might have
foreseen this," he said, "what strife will now ensue!
Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expectation of
contest with my mother should jar me, when else I
should delightedly confess that my best hopes are
fulfilled, in confiding my sister to your protection.
If you do not already know it, you will soon learn the
deep hate my mother bears to the name Verney. I will
converse with Idris; then all that a friend can do, I
will do; to her it must belong to play the lover's
part, if she be capable of it."
While the brother and sister were still hesitating in
what manner they could best attempt to bring their
mother over to their party, she, suspecting our
meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair
daughter with deceit, and an unbecoming attachment for
one whose only merit was being the son of the
profligate favourite of her imprudent father; and who
was doubtless as worthless as he from whom he boasted
his descent. The eyes of Idris flashed at this
accusation; she replied, "I do not deny that I love
Verney; prove to me that he is worthless; and I will
never see him more."
"Dear Madam," said Adrian, "let me entreat you to see
him, to cultivate his friendship. You will wonder then,
as I do, at the extent of his accomplishments, and the
brilliancy of his talents." (Pardon me, gentle reader,
this is not futile vanity;--not futile, since to know
that Adrian felt thus, brings joy even now to my lone
heart).
"Mad and foolish boy!" exclaimed the angry lady, "you
have chosen with dreams and theories to overthrow my
schemes for your own aggrandizement; but you shall not
do the same by those I have formed for your sister. I
but too well understand the fascination you both labour
under; since I had the same struggle with your father,
to make him cast off the parent of this youth, who hid
his evil propensities with the smoothness and subtlety
of a viper. In those days how often did I hear of his
attractions, his wide spread conquests, his wit, his
refined manners. It is well when flies only are caught
by such spiders' webs; but is it for the high-born and
powerful to bow their necks to the flimsy yoke of these
unmeaning pretensions? Were your sister indeed the
insignificant person she deserves to be, I would
willingly leave her to the fate, the wretched fate, of
the wife of a man, whose very person, resembling as it
does his wretched father, ought to remind you of the
folly and vice it typifies--but remember, Lady Idris,
it is not alone the once royal blood of England that
colours your veins, you are a Princess of Austria, and
every life-drop is akin to emperors and kings. Are you
then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-boy, whose
only inheritance is his father's tarnished name?"
"I can make but one defence," replied Idris, "the same
offered by my brother; see Lionel, converse with my
shepherd-boy"---
The Countess interrupted her indignantly--"Yours!"--she
cried: and then, smoothing her impassioned features to
a disdainful smile, she continued--"We will talk of
this another time. All I now ask, all your mother,
Idris, requests is, that you will not see this upstart
during the interval of one month."
"I dare not comply," said Idris, "it would pain him too
much. I have no right to play with his feelings, to
accept his proffered love, and then sting him with
neglect."
"This is going too far," her mother answered, with
quivering lips, and eyes again instinct by anger.
"Nay, Madam," said Adrian, "unless my sister consent
never to see him again, it is surely an useless torment
to separate them for a month."
"Certainly," replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn,
"his love, and her love, and both their childish
flutterings, are to be put in fit comparison with my
years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the
offspring of kings, with the high and dignified conduct
which one of her descent ought to pursue. But it is
unworthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to promise me not to marry during
that interval?"
This was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered
why her mother should extort from her a solemn vow not
to do, what she had never dreamed of doing--but the
promise was required and given.
All went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked
without dread of our future plans. The Countess was so
gentle, and even beyond her wont, amiable with her
children, that they began to entertain hopes of her
ultimate consent. She was too unlike them, too utterly
alien to their tastes, for them to find delight in her
society, or in the prospect of its continuance, but it
gave them pleasure to see her conciliating and kind.
Once even, Adrian ventured to propose her receiving me.
She refused with a smile, reminding him that for the
present his sister had promised to be patient.
One day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian
received a letter from a friend in London, requesting
his immediate presence for the furtherance of some
important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared no
deceit. I rode with him as far as Staines: he was in
high spirits; and, since I could not see Idris during
his absence, he promised a speedy return. His gaiety,
which was extreme, had the strange effect of awakening
in me contrary feelings; a presentiment of evil hung
over me; I loitered on my return; I counted the hours
that must elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore
should this be? What evil might not happen in the mean
time? Might not her mother take advantage of Adrian's
absence to urge her beyond her sufferance, perhaps to
entrap her? I resolved, let what would befall, to see
and converse with her the following day. This
determination soothed me. To-morrow, loveliest and
best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will see
thee--Fool, to dream of a moment's delay!
I went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a
violent knocking. It was now deep winter; it had
snowed, and was still snowing; the wind whistled in the
leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as
they fell; its drear moaning, and the continued
knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams--at length I
was wide awake; hastily dressing myself, I hurried to
discover the cause of this disturbance, and to open my
door to the unexpected visitor. Pale as the snow that
showered about her, with clasped hands, Idris stood
before me. "Save me!" she exclaimed, and would have
sunk to the ground had I not supported her. In a moment
however she revived, and, with energy, almost with
violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her
away, away to London--to her brother--at least to save
her. I had no horses--she wrung her hands. "What can I
do?" she cried, "I am lost--we are both for ever lost!
But come--come with me, Lionel; here I must not
stay,--we can get a chaise at the nearest
post-house; yet perhaps we have time! come, O come with
me to save and protect me!"
When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered
dress, dishevelled hair, and aghast looks, she wrung
her hands--the idea shot across me is she also
mad?--"Sweet one," and I folded her to my heart,
"better repose than wander further;--rest--my beloved,
I will make a fire--you are chill."
"Rest!" she cried, "repose! you rave, Lionel! If you
delay we are lost; come, I pray you, unless you would
cast me off for ever."
That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and
luxury, should have come through the tempestuous
winter-night from her regal abode, and standing at my
lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness
and storm--was surely a dream--again her plaintive
tones, the sight of her loveliness assured me that it
was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if she feared
to be overheard, she whispered: "I have
discovered--to-morrow-- that is, to-day--already the
to-morrow is come--before dawn, foreigners, Austrians,
my mother's hirelings, are to carry me off to Germany,
to prison, to marriage--to anything, except you and my
brother--take me away, or soon they will be here!"
I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some
mistake in her incoherent tale; but I no longer
hesitated to obey her. She had come by herself from the
Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the
heavy snow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and
a half further, before we could obtain a chaise. She
told me, that she had kept up her strength and courage
till her arrival at my cottage, and then both failed.
Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as I did,
still she lagged: and at the distance of half a mile,
after many stoppages, shivering fits, and half
faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm on the
snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must
be taken, for that she could not proceed. I lifted her
up in my arms; her light form rested on my breast.--I
felt no burthen, except the internal one of contrary
and contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested
me. Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and
I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright. Her
head lay on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her
heart beat near mine, transport made me tremble,
blinded me, annihilated me--till a suppressed groan,
bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth,
which she strove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of
suffering she evinced, recalled me to the necessity of
speed and succour. At last I said to her, "There is
Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen
thus strangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your
enemies may learn your flight too soon: were it not
better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put you in
safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately."
She answered that I was right, and might do with her as
I pleased. I observed the door of a small out-house
a-jar. I pushed it open; and, with some hay strewed
about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted
frame on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared
to leave her, she looked so wan and faint--but in a
moment she re-acquired animation, and, with that, fear;
and again she implored me not to delay. To call up the
people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and horses,
even though I harnessed them myself, was the work of
many minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight
of ages. I caused the chaise to advance a little,
waited till the people of the inn had retired, and then
made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot
where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat recovered,
stood waiting for me. I lifted her into the chaise; I
assured her that with our four horses we should arrive
in London before five o'clock, the hour when she would
be sought and missed. I besought her to calm herself; a
kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she
related her tale of fear and peril.
That same night after Adrian's departure, her mother
had warmly expostulated with her on the subject of her
attachment to me. Every motive, every threat, every
angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed to consider
that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil
influence of her life; I was even accused of
encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy of
Adrian from all views of advancement and grandeur; and
now this miserable mountaineer was to steal her
daughter. Never, Idris related, did the angry lady
deign to recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she
had, the task of resistance would have been exquisitely
painful. As it was, the sweet girl's generous nature
was roused to defend, and ally herself with, my
despised cause. Her mother ended with a look of
contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment
awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they parted for
the night, the Countess said, "To-morrow I trust your
tone will be changed: be composed; I have agitated you;
go to rest; and I will send you a medicine I always
take when unduly restless--it will give you a quiet
night."
By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her
fair cheek upon her pillow, her mother's servant
brought a draught; a suspicion again crossed her at
this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to
determine her not to take the potion; but dislike of
contention, and a wish to discover whether there was
any just foundation for her conjectures, made her, she
said, almost instinctively, and in contradiction to her
usual frankness, pretend to swallow the medicine. Then,
agitated as she had been by her mother's violence, and
now by unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep,
starting at every sound. Soon her door opened softly,
and on her springing up, she heard a whisper, "Not
asleep yet," and the door again closed. With a beating
heart she expected another visit, and when after an
interval her chamber was again invaded, having first
assured herself that the
intruders were her mother and an attendant, she
composed herself to feigned sleep. A step approached
her bed, she dared not move, she strove to calm her
palpitations, which became more violent, when she heard
her mother say mutteringly, "Pretty simpleton, little
do you think that your game is already at an end for
ever."
For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother
believed that she had drank poison: she was on the
point of springing up; when the Countess, already at a
distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to her
companion, and again Idris listened: "Hasten," said
she, "there is no time to lose--it is long past eleven;
they will be here at five; take merely the clothes
necessary for her journey, and her jewel-casket." The
servant obeyed; few words were spoken on either side;
but those were caught at with avidity by the intended
victim. She heard the name of her own maid
mentioned;--"No, no," replied her mother, "she does not
go with us; Lady Idris must forget England, and all
belonging to it." And again she heard, "She will not
wake till late to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea."
---- "All is ready," at length the woman announced. The
Countess again came to her daughter's bedside: "In
Austria at least," she said, "you will obey. In
Austria, where obedience can be enforced, and no choice
left but between an honourable prison and a fitting
marriage."
Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess
said, "Softly; all sleep; though all have not been
prepared for sleep, like her. I would not have any one
suspect, or she might be roused to resistance, and
perhaps escape. Come with me to my room; we will remain
there till the hour agreed upon." They went. Idris,
panic-struck, but animated and strengthened even by her
excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and going
down a flight of back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of
her mother's apartment, she contrived to escape from
the castle by a low window, and came through snow,
wind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor lost her
courage, until she arrived, and, depositing her fate in
my hands, gave herself up to the desperation and
weariness that overwhelmed her.
I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation,
were mine, to possess, and to save her. Yet not to
excite fresh agitation in her, "per non turbar quel
bel viso sereno," I curbed my delight. I strove to
quiet the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her
my eyes, beaming with too much tenderness, and proudly,
to dark night, and the inclement atmosphere, murmured
the expressions of my transport. We reached London,
methought, all too soon; and yet I could not regret our
speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with which
my beloved girl found herself in her brother's arms,
safe from every evil, under his unblamed protection.
Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her
that Idris was under his care and guardianship. Several
days elapsed, and at last an answer came, dated from
Cologne. "It was useless," the haughty and disappointed
lady wrote, "for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to
address again the injured parent, whose only
expectation of tranquillity must be derived from
oblivion of their existence. Her desires had been
blasted, her schemes overthrown. She did not complain;
in her brother's court she would find, not compensation
for their disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of
none), but such a state of things and mode of life, as
might best reconcile her to her fate. Under such
circumstances, she positively declined any
communication with them."
Such were the strange and incredible events, that
finally brought about my union with the sister of my
best friend, with my adored Idris. With simplicity and
courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition
which were obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to
give her hand, where she had given her heart. To be
worthy of her, to raise myself to her height through
the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her love
with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were the only
thanks I could offer for the matchless gift.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VI.
AND now let the reader, passing over some short period
of time, be introduced to our happy circle. Adrian,
Idris and I, were established in Windsor Castle; Lord
Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which the
former had built on the borders of the Great Park, near
Perdita's cottage, as was still named the low-roofed
abode, where we two, poor even in hope, had each
received the assurance of our felicity. We had our
separate occupations and our common amusements.
Sometimes we passed whole days under the leafy covert
of the forest with our books and music. This occurred
during those rare days in this country, when the sun
mounts his etherial throne in unclouded majesty, and
the windless atmosphere is as a bath of pellucid and
grateful water, wrapping the senses in tranquillity.
When the clouds veiled the sky, and the wind scattered
them there and here, rending their woof, and strewing
its fragments through the aerial plains--then we rode
out, and sought new spots of beauty and repose. When
the frequent rains shut us within doors, evening
recreation followed morning study, ushered in by music
and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her
voice, which had been carefully cultivated, was full
and sweet. Raymond and I made a part of the concert,
and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners. Then we
were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we
ever met one another with smiles, and read content and
joy in each other's countenances. Our prime festivals
were held in Perdita's cottage; nor were we ever weary
of talking of the past or dreaming of the future.
Jealousy and disquiet were unknown among us; nor did a
fear or hope of change ever disturb our tranquillity.
Others said, We might be happy--we said--We are.
When any separation took place between us, it generally
so happened, that Idris and Perdita would ramble away
together, and we remained to discuss the affairs of
nations, and the philosophy of life. The very
difference of our dispositions gave zest to these
conversations. Adrian had the superiority in learning
and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a quick
penetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which
usually displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and
thus kept up the ball of discussion. At other times we
made excursions of many days' duration, and crossed the
country to visit any spot noted for beauty or
historical association. Sometimes we went up to London,
and entered into the amusements of the busy throng;
sometimes our retreat was invaded by visitors from
among them. This change made us only the more sensible
to the delights of the intimate intercourse of our own
circle, the tranquillity of our divine forest, and our
happy evenings in the halls of our beloved Castle.
The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft,
and affectionate. Her temper was unalterably sweet; and
although firm and resolute on any point that touched
her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The
nature of Perdita was less perfect; but tenderness and
happiness improved her temper, and softened her natural
reserve. Her understanding was clear and comprehensive,
her imagination vivid; she was sincere, generous, and
reasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of my soul,
the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all, and
beloved by all, yet seemed destined not to find the
half of himself, which was to complete his happiness.
He often left us, and wandered by himself in the woods,
or sailed in his little skiff, his books his only
companions. He was often the gayest of our party, at
the same time that he was the only one visited by fits
of despondency; his slender frame seemed overcharged
with the weight of life, and his soul appeared rather
to inhabit his body than unite with it. I was hardly
more devoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she
loved him as her teacher, her friend, the benefactor
who had secured to her the fulfilment of her dearest
wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless Raymond,
reposed midway on the great high-road of life, and was
content to give up all his schemes of sovereignty and
fame, to make one of us, the flowers of the field. His
kingdom was the heart of Perdita, his subjects her
thoughts; by her he was loved, respected as a superior
being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no devotion, no
watching was irksome to her, as it regarded him. She
would sit apart from us and watch him; she would weep
for joy to think that he was hers. She erected a temple
for him in the depth of her being, and each faculty was
a priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might
be wayward and capricious; but her repentance was
bitter, her return entire, and even this inequality of
temper suited him who was not formed by nature to float
idly down the stream of life.
During the first year of their marriage, Perdita
presented Raymond with a lovely girl. It was curious to
trace in this miniature model the very traits of its
father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of
triumph, the same intelligent eyes, the same brow and
chestnut hair; her very hands and taper fingers
resembled his. How very dear she was to Perdita! In
progress of time, I also became a father, and our
little darlings, our playthings and delights, called
forth a thousand new and delicious feelings.
Years passed thus,--even years. Each month brought
forth its successor, each year one like to that gone
by; truly, our lives were a living comment on that
beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that "our souls have a
natural inclination to love, being born as much to
love, as to feel, to reason, to understand and
remember." We talked of change and active pursuits, but
still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the
charm that attached us to our secluded life.
Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto
Che fra mortali in piu parte si rimembra.
Now also that our children gave us occupation, we found
excuses for our idleness, in the idea of bringing them
up to a more splendid career. At length our
tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events,
which for five years had flowed on in hushing
tranquillity, was broken by breakers and obstacles,
that woke us from our pleasant dream.
A new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and,
at Raymond's request, we removed to London, to witness,
and even take a part in the election. If Raymond had
been united to Idris, this post had been his
stepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for
power and fame had been crowned with fullest measure.
He had exchanged a sceptre for a lute, a kingdom for
Perdita.
Did he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I
watched him, but could make but little of him. He was
particularly gay, playing with his child, and turning
to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did
this because he saw a cloud upon Perdita's brow. She
tried to rouse herself, but her eyes every now and then
filled with tears, and she looked wistfully on Raymond
and her girl, as if fearful that some evil would betide
them. And so she felt. A presentiment of ill hung over
her. She leaned from the window looking on the forest,
and the turrets of the Castle, and as these became hid
by intervening objects, she passionately
exclaimed--"Scenes of happiness! scenes sacred to
devoted love, when shall I see you again! and when I
see ye, shall I be still the beloved and joyous
Perdita, or shall I, heart-broken and lost, wander
among your groves, the ghost of what I am!"
"Why, silly one," cried Raymond, "what is your little
head pondering upon, that of a sudden you have become
so sublimely dismal? Cheer up, or I shall make you over
to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I see
by his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits."
Adrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage,
and his gaiety, in addition to that of Raymond,
dispelled my sister's melancholy. We entered London in
the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde
Park.
The following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. "I
come to you," he said, "only half assured that you will
assist me in my project, but resolved to go through
with it, whether you concur with me or not. Promise me
secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my
success, at least you must not baffle me."
"Well, I promise. And now---"
"And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to
London? To be present at the election of a Protector,
and to give our yea or nay for his shuffling Grace
of ----? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe,
Verney, that I brought you to town for that? No, we
will have a Protector of our own. We will set up a
candidate, and ensure his success. We will nominate
Adrian, and do our best to bestow on him the power to
which he is entitled by his birth, and which he merits
through his virtues.
"Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will
reply to them in order. First, Whether he will or will
not consent to become a great man? Leave the task of
persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you to
assist me there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange
his employment of plucking blackberries, and nursing
wounded partridges in the forest, for the command of a
nation? My dear Lionel, we are married men, and
find employment sufficient in amusing our wives, and
dancing our children. But Adrian is alone, wifeless,
childless, unoccupied. I have long observed him. He
pines for want of some interest in life. His heart,
exhausted by his early sufferings, reposes like a
new-healed limb, and shrinks from all excitement. But
his understanding, his charity, his virtues, want a
field for exercise and display; and we will procure it
for him. Besides, is it not a shame, that the genius of
Adrian should fade from the earth like a flower in an
untrod mountain-path, fruitless? Do you think Nature
composed his surpassing machine for no purpose? Believe
me, he was destined to be the author of infinite good
to his native England. Has she not bestowed on him
every gift in prodigality?--birth, wealth, talent,
goodness? Does not every one love and admire him? and
does he not delight singly in such efforts as manifest
his love to all? Come, I see that you are already
persuaded, and will second me when I propose him
to-night in parliament."
"You have got up all your arguments in excellent
order," I replied; "and, if Adrian consent, they are
unanswerable. One only condition I would make,--that
you do nothing without his
concurrence."
"I believe you are in the right," said Raymond;
"although I had thought at first to arrange the affair
differently. Be it so. I will go instantly to Adrian;
and, if he inclines to consent, you will not destroy my
labour by persuading him to return, and turn squirrel
again in Windsor Forest. Idris, you will not act the
traitor towards me?"
"Trust me," replied she, "I will preserve a strict
neutrality."
"For my part," said I, "I am too well convinced of the
worth of our friend, and the rich harvest of benefits
that all England would reap from his Protectorship, to
deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if he consent
to bestow it on them."
In the evening Adrian visited us.--"Do you cabal also
against me," said he, laughing; "and will you make
common cause with Raymond, in dragging a poor visionary
from the clouds to surround him with the fire-works and
blasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays
and airs? I thought you knew me better."
"I do know you better," I replied "than to think that
you would be happy in such a situation; but the good
you would do to others may be an inducement, since the
time is probably arrived when you can put your theories
into practice, and you may bring about such reformation
and change, as will conduce to that perfect system of
government which you delight to portray."
"You speak of an almost-forgotten dream," said Adrian,
his countenance slightly clouding as he spoke; "the
visions of my boyhood have long since faded in the
light of reality; I know now that I am not a man fitted
to govern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in
wholesome rule the little kingdom of my own
mortality.
"But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble
friend; a drift, perhaps, unknown to himself, but
apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never born to be a
drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral
life. He thinks, that he ought to be satisfied; he
imagines, that his present situation precludes the
possibility of aggrandisement; he does not therefore,
even in his own heart, plan change for himself. But do
you not see, that, under the idea of exalting me, he is
chalking out a new path for himself; a path of action
from which he has long wandered?
"Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the
great in every quality that can adorn the mind and
person of man; he is fitted to be the Protector of
England. If I--that is, if we propose
him, he will assuredly be elected, and will find, in
the functions of that high office, scope for the
towering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will rejoice.
Perdita, in whom ambition was a covered fire until she
married Raymond, which event was for a time the
fulfilment of her hopes; Perdita will rejoice in the
glory and advancement of her lord--and, coyly and
prettily, not be discontented with her share. In the
mean time, we, the wise of the land, will return to our
Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual
labours, until our friend shall require our presence
and assistance here."
The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more
feasible it appeared. His own determination never to
enter into public life was insurmountable, and the
delicacy of his health was a sufficient argument
against it. The next step was to induce Raymond to
confess his secret wishes for dignity and fame. He
entered while we were speaking. The way in which Adrian
had received his project for setting him up as a
candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies, had
already awakened in his mind, the view of the subject
which we were now discussing. His countenance and
manner betrayed irresolution and anxiety; but the
anxiety arose from a fear that we should not prosecute,
or not succeed in our idea; and his irresolution, from
a doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A few words
from us decided him, and hope and joy sparkled in his
eyes; the idea of embarking in a career, so congenial
to his early habits and cherished wishes, made him as
before energetic and bold. We discussed his chances,
the merits of the other candidates, and the
dispositions of the voters.
After all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of
his popularity, and was deserted by his peculiar
partizans. Absence from the busy stage had caused him
to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary
supporters were principally composed of royalists, who
had been willing to make an idol of him when he
appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Windsor; but who
were indifferent to him, when he came forward with no
other attributes and distinctions than they conceived
to be common to many among themselves. Still he had
many friends, admirers of his transcendent talents; his
presence in the house, his eloquence, address and
imposing beauty, were calculated to produce an electric
effect. Adrian also, notwithstanding his recluse habits
and theories, so adverse to the spirit of party, had
many friends, and they were easily induced to vote for
a candidate of his selection.
The Duke of ----, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond's old
antagonist, were the other candidates. The Duke was
supported by all the aristocrats of the republic, who
considered him their proper representative. Ryland was
the popular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first
added to the list, his chance of success appeared
small. We retired from the debate which had followed on
his nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he
dispirited to excess. Perdita reproached us bitterly.
Her expectations had been strongly excited; she had
urged nothing against our project, on the contrary, she
was evidently pleased by it; but its evident ill
success changed the current of her ideas. She felt,
that, once awakened, Raymond would never return
unrepining to Windsor. His habits were unhinged; his
restless mind roused from its sleep, ambition must now
be his companion through life; and if he did not
succeed in his present attempt, she foresaw that
unhappiness and cureless discontent would follow.
Perhaps her own disappointment added a sting to her
thoughts and words; she did not spare us, and our own
reflections added to our disquietude.
It was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to
persuade Raymond to present himself to the electors on
the following evening. For a long time he was
obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail
for a distant quarter of the world, where his name and
humiliation were unknown. But this was useless; his
attempt was registered; his purpose published to the
world; his shame could never be erased from the
memories of men. It was as well to fail at last after a
struggle, as to fly now at the beginning of his
enterprise.
From the moment that he adopted this idea, he was
changed. His depression and anxiety fled; he became all
life and activity. The smile of triumph shone on his
countenance; determined to pursue his object to the
uttermost, his manner and expression seem ominous of
the accomplishment of his wishes. Not so Perdita. She
was frightened by his gaiety, for she dreaded a greater
revulsion at the end. If his appearance even inspired
us with hope, it only rendered the state of her mind
more painful. She feared to lose sight of him; yet she
dreaded to remark any change in the temper of his mind.
She listened eagerly to him, yet tantalized herself by
giving to his words a meaning foreign to their true
interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She dared not
be present at the contest; yet she remained at home a
prey to double solicitude. She wept over her little
girl; she looked, she spoke, as if she dreaded the
occurrence of some frightful calamity. She was half mad
from the effects of uncontrollable agitation.
Lord Raymond presented himself to the house with
fearless confidence and insinuating address. After the
Duke of ---- and Mr. Ryland had finished their
speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his
lesson; and at first he hesitated, pausing in his
ideas, and in the choice of his expressions. By degrees
he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his language was
full of vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He
reverted to his past life, his successes in Greece, his
favour at home. Why should he lose this, now that added
years, prudence, and the pledge which his marriage gave
to his country, ought to encrease, rather than diminish
his claims to confidence? He spoke of the state of
England; the necessary measures to be taken to ensure
its security, and confirm its prosperity. He drew a
glowing picture of its present situation. As he spoke,
every sound was hushed, every thought suspended by
intense attention. His graceful elocution enchained the
senses of his hearers. In some degree also he was
fitted to reconcile all parties. His birth pleased the
aristocracy; his being the candidate recommended by
Adrian, a man intimately allied to the popular party,
caused a number, who had no great reliance either on
the Duke or Mr. Ryland, to range on his side.
The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor
myself would have been so anxious, if our own success
had depended on our exertions; but we had egged our
friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to ensure
his triumph. Idris, who entertained the highest opinion
of his abilities, was warmly interested in the event:
and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and to whom
fear was misery, was plunged into a fever of
disquietude.
Day after day passed while we discussed our projects
for the evening, and each night was occupied by debates
which offered no conclusion. At last the crisis came:
the night when parliament, which had so long delayed
its choice, must decide: as the hour of twelve passed,
and the new day began, it was by virtue of the
constitution dissolved, its power extinct.
We assembled at Raymond's house, we and our partizans.
At half past five o'clock we proceeded to the House.
Idris endeavoured to calm Perdita; but the poor girl's
agitation deprived her of all power of self-command.
She walked up and down the room,--gazed wildly when any
one entered, fancying that they might be the announcers
of her doom. I must do justice to my sweet sister: it
was not for herself that she was thus agonized. She
alone knew the weight which Raymond attached to his
success. Even to us he assumed gaiety and hope, and
assumed them so well, that we did not divine the secret
workings of his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling, a
sharp dissonance of voice, and momentary fits of
absence revealed to Perdita the violence he did
himself; but we, intent on our plans, observed only his
ready laugh, his joke intruded on all occasions, the
flow of his spirits which seemed incapable of ebb.
Besides, Perdita was with him in his
retirement; she saw the moodiness that succeeded to
this forced hilarity; she marked his disturbed sleep,
his painful irritability--once she had seen his tears--
hers had scarce ceased to flow, since she had beheld
the big drops which disappointed pride had caused to
gather in his eye, but which pride was unable to
dispel. What wonder then, that her feelings were
wrought to this pitch! I thus accounted to myself for
her agitation; but this was not all, and the sequel
revealed another excuse.
One moment we seized before our departure, to take
leave of our beloved girls. I had small hope of
success, and entreated Idris to watch over my sister.
As I approached the latter, she seized my hand, and
drew me into another apartment; she threw herself into
my arms, and wept and sobbed bitterly and long. I tried
to soothe her; I bade her hope; I asked what tremendous
consequences would ensue even on our failure. "My
brother," she cried, "protector of my childhood, dear,
most dear Lionel, my fate hangs by a thread. I have you
all about me now--you, the companion of my infancy;
Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of blood;
Idris, the sister of my heart, and her lovely
offspring. This, O this may be the last time that you
will surround me thus!"
Abruptly she stopped, and then cried: "What have I
said?--foolish false girl that I am!" She looked wildly
on me, and then suddenly calming herself, apologized
for what she called her unmeaning words, saying that
she must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived,
she must be happy; and then, though she still wept, she
suffered me tranquilly to depart. Raymond only took her
hand when he went, and looked on her expressively; she
answered by a look of intelligence and assent.
Poor girl! what she then suffered! I could never
entirely forgive Raymond for the trials he imposed on
her, occasioned as they were by a selfish feeling on
his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his present
attempt, without taking leave of any of us, to embark
for Greece, and never again to revisit England. Perdita
acceded to his wishes; for his contentment was the
chief object of her life, the crown of her enjoyment;
but to leave us all, her companions, the beloved
partners of her happiest years, and in the interim to
conceal this frightful determination, was a task that
almost conquered her strength of mind. She had been
employed in arranging for their departure; she had
promised Raymond during this decisive evening, to take
advantage of our absence, to go one stage of the
journey, and he, after his defeat was
ascertained, would slip away from us, and join her.
Although, when I was informed of this scheme, I was
bitterly offended by the small attention which Raymond
paid to my sister's feelings, I was led by reflection
to consider, that he acted under the force of such
strong excitement, as to take from him the
consciousness, and, consequently, the guilt of a fault.
If he had permitted us to witness his agitation, he
would have been more under the guidance of reason; but
his struggles for the shew of composure, acted with
such violence on his nerves, as to destroy his power of
self-command. I am convinced that, at the worst, he
would have returned from the seashore to take leave of
us, and to make us the partners of his council. But the
task imposed on Perdita was not the less painful. He
had extorted from her a vow of secrecy; and her part of
the drama, since it was to be performed alone, was the
most agonizing that could be devised. But to return to
my narrative.
The debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had
often been protracted merely for the sake of delay. But
now each seemed fearful lest the fatal moment should
pass, while the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted
silence reigned in the house, the members spoke in
whispers, and the ordinary business was transacted with
celerity and quietness. During the first stage of the
election, the Duke of ---- had been thrown out; the
question therefore lay between Lord Raymond and Mr.
Ryland. The latter had felt secure of victory, until
the appearance of Raymond; and, since his name had been
inserted as a candidate, he had canvassed with
eagerness. He had appeared each evening, impatience and
anger marked in his looks, scowling on us from the
opposite side of St. Stephen's, as if his mere frown
would cast eclipse on our hopes.
Every thing in the English constitution had been
regulated for the better preservation of peace. On the
last day, two candidates only were allowed to remain;
and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle between
these, a bribe was offered to him who should
voluntarily resign his pretensions; a place of great
emolument and honour was given him, and his success
facilitated at a future election. Strange to say
however, no instance had yet occurred, where either
candidate had had recourse to this expedient; in
consequence the law had become obsolete, nor had been
referred to by any of us in our discussions. To our
extreme surprise, when it was moved that we should
resolve ourselves into a committee for the election of
the Lord Protector, the member who had nominated
Ryland, rose and informed us that this
candidate had resigned his pretensions. His information
was at first received with silence; a confused murmur
succeeded; and, when the chairman declared Lord Raymond
duly chosen, it amounted to a shout of applause and
victory. It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat
even if Mr. Ryland had not resigned, every voice would
have been united in favour of our candidate. In fact,
now that the idea of contest was dismissed, all hearts
returned to their former respect and admiration of our
accomplished friend. Each felt, that England had never
seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling the arduous
duties of that high office. One voice made of many
voices, resounded through the chamber; it syllabled the
name of Raymond.
He entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw
him walk up the passage to the table of the speaker.
The native modesty of his disposition conquered the joy
of his triumph. He looked round timidly; a mist seemed
before his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to
him, and jumping down the benches, was at his side in a
moment. His appearance re-animated our friend; and,
when he came to speak and act, his hesitation vanished,
and he shone out supreme in majesty and victory. The
former Protector tendered him the oaths, and presented
him with the insignia of office, performing the
ceremonies of installation. The house then dissolved.
The chief members of the state crowded round the new
magistrate, and conducted him to the palace of
government. Adrian suddenly vanished; and, by the time
that Raymond's supporters were reduced to our intimate
friends merely, returned leading Idris to congratulate
her friend on his success.
But where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an
unobserved retreat in case of failure, Raymond had
forgotten to arrange the mode by which she was to hear
of his success; and she had been too much agitated to
revert to this circumstance. When Idris entered, so far
had Raymond forgotten himself, that he asked for my
sister; one word, which told of her mysterious
disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true had
already gone to seek the fugitive, imagining that her
tameless anxiety had led her to the purlieus of the
House, and that some sinister event detained her. But
Raymond, without explaining himself, suddenly quitted
us, and in another moment we heard him gallop down the
street, in spite of the wind and rain that scattered
tempest over the earth. We did not know how far he had
to go, and soon separated, supposing that in a short
time he would return to the palace with Perdita, and
that they would not be sorry to find themselves alone.
Perdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping
and inconsolable. She directed everything to be
prepared for the continuance of their journey, and
placing her lovely sleeping charge on a bed, passed
several hours in acute suffering. Sometimes she
observed the war of elements, thinking that they also
declared against her, and listened to the pattering of
the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes she hung over her
child, tracing her resemblance to the father, and
fearful lest in after life she should display the same
passions and uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him
unhappy. Again, with a gush of pride and delight, she
marked in the features of her little girl, the same
smile of beauty that often irradiated Raymond's
countenance. The sight of it soothed her. She thought
of the treasure she possessed in the affections of her
lord; of his accomplishments, surpassing those of his
contemporaries, his genius, his devotion to her.--Soon
she thought, that all she possessed in the world,
except him, might well be spared, nay, given with
delight, a propitiatory offering, to secure the supreme
good she retained in him. Soon she imagined, that fate
demanded this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was
devoted to Raymond, and that it must be made with
cheerfulness. She figured to herself their life in the
Greek isle he had selected for their retreat; her task
of soothing him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her
rides in his company, her dedication of herself to his
consolation. The picture then presented itself to her
in such glowing colours, that she feared the reverse,
and a life of magnificence and power in London; where
Raymond would no longer be hers only, nor she the sole
source of happiness to him. So far as she merely was
concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it was
only on his account that her feelings vacillated, as
she heard him gallop into the court-yard of the inn.
That he should come to her alone, wetted by the storm,
careless of every thing except speed, what else could
it mean, than that, vanquished and solitary, they were
to take their way from native England, the scene of
shame, and hide themselves in the myrtle groves of the
Grecian isles?
In a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his
success had become so much a part of himself, that he
forgot that it was necessary to impart it to his
companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear
assurance that while he possessed her, he would not
despair. "This is kind," she cried; "this is noble, my
own beloved! O fear not disgrace or lowly fortune,
while you have your Perdita; fear not sorrow, while our
child lives and smiles. Let us go even where you will;
the love that accompanies us will prevent our regrets."
Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back
her head, seeking an assent to her words in his
eyes--they were sparkling with ineffable delight. "Why,
my little Lady Protectress," said he, playfully, "what
is this you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven
of exile and obscurity, while a brighter web, a
gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, you ought
to contemplate?"
He kissed her brow--but the wayward girl, half sorry at
his triumph, agitated by swift change of thought, hid
her face in his bosom and wept. He comforted her; he
instilled into her his own hopes and desires; and soon
her countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy
were they that night! How full even to bursting was
their sense of joy!
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VII.
HAVING seen our friend properly installed in his new
office, we turned our eyes towards Windsor. The
nearness of this place to London was such, as to take
away the idea of painful separation, when we quitted
Raymond and Perdita. We took leave of them in the
Protectoral Palace. It was pretty enough to see my
sister enter as it were into the spirit of the drama,
and endeavour to fill her station with becoming
dignity. Her internal pride and humility of manner were
now more than ever at war. Her timidity was not
artificial, but arose from that fear of not being
properly appreciated, that slight estimation of the
neglect of the world, which also characterized Raymond.
But then Perdita thought more constantly of others than
he; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish to
take from those around her a sense of inferiority; a
feeling which never crossed her mind. From the
circumstances of her birth and education, Idris would
have been better fitted for the formulae of ceremony;
but the very ease which accompanied such actions with
her, arising from habit, rendered them tedious; while,
with every drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her
situation. She was too full of new ideas to feel much
pain when we departed; she took an affectionate leave
of us, and promised to visit us soon; but she did not
regret the circumstances that caused our separation.
The spirits of Raymond were unbounded; he did not know
what to do with his new got power; his head was full of
plans; he had as yet decided on none--but he promised
himself, his friends, and the world, that the aera of
his Protectorship should be signalized by some act of
surpassing glory.
Thus, we talked of them, and moralized, as with
diminished numbers we returned to Windsor Castle. We
felt extreme delight at our escape from political
turmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled zest.
We did not want for occupation; but my eager
disposition was now turned to the field of intellectual
exertion only; and hard study I found to be an
excellent medicine to allay a fever of spirit with
which in indolence, I should doubtless have been
assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back
with us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants
were perpetual sources of interest and amusement.
The only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the
health of Adrian. It evidently declined, without any
symptom which could lead us to suspect his disease,
unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated look, and
flustering cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he
was without pain or fear. He betook himself to books
with ardour, and reposed from study in the society he
best loved, that of his sister and myself. Sometimes he
went up to London to visit Raymond, and watch the
progress of events. Clara often accompanied him in
these excursions; partly that she might see her
parents, partly because Adrian delighted in the
prattle, and intelligent looks of this lovely child.
Meanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections
were finished; parliament met, and Raymond was occupied
in a thousand beneficial schemes. Canals, aqueducts,
bridges, stately buildings, and various edifices for
public utility, were entered upon; he was continually
surrounded by projectors and projects, which were to
render England one scene of fertility and
magnificence; the state of poverty was to be abolished;
men were to be transported from place to place almost
with the same facility as the Princes Houssain, Ali,
and Ahmed, in the Arabian Nights. The physical state of
man would soon not yield to the beatitude of angels;
disease was to be banished; labour lightened of its
heaviest burden. Nor did this seem extravagant. The
arts of life, and the discoveries of science had
augmented in a ratio which left all calculation behind;
food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously--machines
existed to supply with facility every want of the
population. An evil direction still survived; and men
were not happy, not because they could not, but because
they would not rouse themselves to vanquish self-raised
obstacles. Raymond was to inspire them with his
beneficial will, and the mechanism of society, once
systematised according to faultless rules, would never
again swerve into disorder. For these hopes he
abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being
enregistered in the annals of nations as a successful
warrior; laying aside his sword, peace and its enduring
glories became his aim--the title he coveted was that
of the benefactor of his country.
Among other works of art in which he was engaged, he
had projected the erection of a national gallery for
statues and pictures. He possessed many himself, which
he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the
edifice was to be the great ornament of his
Protectorship, he was very fastidious in his choice of
the plan on which it would be built. Hundreds were
brought to him and rejected. He sent even to Italy and
Greece for drawings; but, as the design was to be
characterized by originality as well as by perfect
beauty, his endeavours were for a time without avail.
At length a drawing came, with an address where
communications might be sent, and no artist's name
affixed. The design was new and elegant, but faulty; so
faulty, that although drawn with the hand and eye of
taste, it was evidently the work of one who was not an
architect. Raymond contemplated it with delight; the
more he gazed, the more pleased he was; and yet the
errors multiplied under inspection. He wrote to the
address given, desiring to see the draughtsman, that
such alterations might be made, as should be suggested
in a consultation between him and the original
conceiver.
A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence
of manner, but with so common-place a physiognomy, that
Raymond could scarcely believe that he was the
designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect;
but the idea of the building had struck him, though he
had sent it without the smallest hope of its being
accepted. He was a man of few words. Raymond questioned
him; but his reserved answers soon made him turn from
the man to the drawing. He pointed out the errors, and
the alterations that he wished to be made; he offered
the Greek a pencil that he might correct the sketch on
the spot; this was refused by his visitor, who said
that he perfectly understood, and would work at it at
home. At length Raymond suffered him to depart.
The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn;
but many defects still remained, and several of the
instructions given had been misunderstood. "Come," said
Raymond, "I yielded to you yesterday, now comply with
my request--take the pencil."
The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like
way; at length he said: "I must confess to you, my
Lord, that I did not make this drawing. It is
impossible for you to see the real designer; your
instructions must pass through me. Condescend therefore
to have patience with my ignorance, and to explain your
wishes to me; in time I am certain that you will be
satisfied."
Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would
say no more. Would an architect be permitted to see the
artist? This also was refused. Raymond repeated his
instructions, and the visitor retired. Our friend
resolved however not to be foiled in his wish. He
suspected, that unaccustomed poverty was the cause of
the mystery, and that the artist was unwilling to be
seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond was only
the more excited by this consideration to discover him;
impelled by the interest he took in obscure talent, he
therefore ordered a person skilled in such matters, to
follow the Greek the next time he came, and observe the
house in which he should enter. His emissary obeyed,
and brought the desired intelligence. He had traced the
man to one of the most penurious streets in the
metropolis. Raymond did not wonder, that, thus
situated, the artist had shrunk from notice, but he did
not for this alter his resolve.
On the same evening, he went alone to the house named
to him. Poverty, dirt, and squalid misery characterized
its appearance. Alas! thought Raymond, I have much to
do before England becomes a Paradise. He knocked; the
door was opened by a string from above--the broken,
wretched staircase was immediately before him, but no
person appeared; he knocked again, vainly--and then,
impatient of further delay, he ascended the dark,
creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly now
that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the artist,
was to relieve one, possessed of talent, but depressed
by want. He pictured to himself a youth, whose eyes
sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated by
famine. He half feared to displease him; but he trusted
that his generous kindness would be administered so
delicately, as not to excite repulse. What human heart
is shut to kindness? and though poverty, in its excess,
might render the sufferer unapt to submit to the
supposed degradation of a benefit, the zeal of the
benefactor must at last relax him into thankfulness.
These thoughts encouraged Raymond, as he stood at the
door of the highest room of the house. After trying
vainly to enter the other apartments, he perceived just
within the threshold of this one, a pair of small
Turkish slippers; the door was ajar, but all was silent
within. It was probable that the inmate was absent, but
secure that he had found the right person, our
adventurous Protector was tempted to enter, to leave a
purse on the table, and silently depart. In pursuance
of this idea, he pushed open the door gently--but the
room was inhabited.
Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and
the scene that now presented itself struck him to the
heart. The floor was sunk in many places; the walls
ragged and bare--the ceiling weather-stained--a
tattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two
chairs in the room, and a rough broken table, on which
was a light in a tin candlestick;--yet in the midst of
such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was an
air of order and cleanliness that surprised him. The
thought was fleeting; for his attention was instantly
drawn towards the inhabitant of this wretched abode. It
was a female. She sat at the table; one small hand
shaded her eyes from the candle; the other held a
pencil; her looks were fixed on a drawing before her,
which Raymond recognized as the design presented to
him. Her whole appearance awakened his deepest
interest. Her dark hair was braided and twined in thick
knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue; her garb
was mean, but her attitude might have been selected as
a model of grace. Raymond had a confused remembrance
that he had seen such a form before; he walked across
the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely asking in
Romaic, who is there? "A friend," replied Raymond in
the same dialect. She looked up wondering, and he saw
that it was Evadne Zaimi. Evadne, once the idol of
Adrian's affections; and who, for the sake of her
present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and
then, neglected by him she loved, with crushed hopes
and a stinging sense of misery, had returned to her
native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have
brought her to England, and housed her thus?
Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from
polite beneficence to the warmest protestations of
kindness and sympathy. The sight of her, in her present
situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He sat
by her, he took her hand, and said a thousand things
which breathed the deepest spirit of compassion and
affection. Evadne did not answer; her large dark eyes
were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the
lashes. "Thus," she cried, "kindness can do, what no
want, no misery ever effected; I weep." She shed indeed
many tears; her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder
of Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed her sunken
tear-stained cheek. He told her, that her sufferings
were now over: no one possessed the art of consoling
like Raymond; he did not reason or declaim, but his
look shone with sympathy; he brought pleasant images
before the sufferer; his caresses excited no distrust,
for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a
mother to kiss her wounded child; a desire to
demonstrate in every possible way the truth of his
feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm
into the lacerated mind of the unfortunate.
As Evadne regained her composure, his manner became
even gay; he sported with the idea of her poverty.
Something told him that it was not its real evils that
lay heavily at her heart, but the debasement and
disgrace attendant on it; as he talked, he
divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her
fortitude with energetic praise; then, alluding to her
past state, he called her his Princess in disguise. He
made her warm offers of service; she was too much
occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept
or reject them; at length he left her, making a promise
to repeat his visit the next day. He returned home,
full of mingled feelings, of pain excited by Evadne's
wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of relieving
it. Some motive for which he did not account, even to
himself, prevented him from relating his
adventure to Perdita.
The next day he threw such disguise over his person as
a cloak afforded, and revisited Evadne. As he went, he
bought a basket of costly fruits, such as were natives
of her own country, and throwing over these various
beautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
garret of his friend. "Behold," cried he, as he
entered, "what bird's food I have brought for my
sparrow on the house-top."
Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her
father, though of high rank, had in the end dissipated
his fortune, and even destroyed his reputation and
influence through a course of dissolute indulgence. His
health was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became
his earnest wish, before he died, to preserve his
daughter from the poverty which would be the portion of
her orphan state. He therefore accepted for her, and
persuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage,
from a wealthy Greek merchant settled at
Constantinople. She quitted her native Greece; her
father died; by degrees she was cut off from all the
companions and ties of her youth.
The war, which about a year before the present time had
broken out between Greece and Turkey, brought about
many reverses of fortune. Her husband became bankrupt,
and then in a tumult and threatened massacre on the
part of the Turks, they were obliged to fly at
midnight, and reached in an open boat an English vessel
under sail, which brought them immediately to this
island. The few jewels they had saved, supported them
awhile. The whole strength of Evadne's mind was exerted
to support the failing spirits of her husband. Loss of
property, hopelessness as to his future prospects, the
inoccupation to which poverty condemned him, combined
to reduce him to a state bordering on insanity. Five
months after their arrival in England, he committed
suicide.
"You will ask me," continued Evadne, "what I have done
since; why I have not applied for succour to the rich
Greeks resident here; why I have not returned to my
native country? My answer to these questions must needs
appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to
lead me on, day after day, enduring every
wretchedness, rather than by such means to seek relief.
Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal Zaimi,
appear a beggar before her compeers or
inferiors--superiors she had none. Shall I bow my head
before them, and with servile gesture sell my
nobility for life? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me
to existence, I might descend to this--but, as it
is--the world has been to me a harsh step-mother; fain
would I leave the abode she seems to grudge, and in the
grave forget my pride, my struggles, my despair. The
time will soon come; grief and famine have already
sapped the foundations of my being; a very short time,
and I shall have passed away; unstained by the crime of
self-destruction, unstung by the memory of degradation,
my spirit will throw aside the miserable coil, and find
such recompense as fortitude and resignation may
deserve. This may seem madness to you, yet you also
have pride and resolution; do not then wonder that my
pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable."
Having thus finished her tale, and given such an
account as she deemed fit, of the motives of her
abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid from her
countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more
to say, to which she was unable to give words. In the
mean time Raymond was eloquent. His desire of restoring
his lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her
lost prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth with
energy, all his wishes and intentions on that subject.
But he was checked; Evadne exacted a promise, that he
should conceal from all her friends her existence in
England. "The relatives of the Earl of Windsor," said
she haughtily, "doubtless think that I injured him;
perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to acquit
me, but probably I do not deserve acquittal. I acted
then, as I ever must, from impulse. This abode of
penury may at least prove the disinterestedness of my
conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause
before any of them, not even before your Lordship, had
you not first discovered me. The tenor of my actions
will prove that I had rather die, than be a mark for
scorn--behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on
the beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the
thought--promise me that my secret shall not be
violated by you."
Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued.
Evadne required another engagement on his part, that he
would not without her concurrence enter into any
project for her benefit, nor himself offer relief. "Do
not degrade me in my own eyes," she said; "poverty has
long been my nurse; hard-visaged she is, but honest. If
dishonour, or what I conceive to be dishonour, come
near me, I am lost." Raymond adduced many arguments and
fervent persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she
remained unconvinced; and, agitated by the discussion,
she wildly and passionately made a solemn vow, to fly
and hide herself where he never could discover her,
where famine would soon bring death to conclude her
woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing offers.
She could support herself, she said. And then she
shewed him how, by executing various designs and
paintings, she earned a pittance for her support.
Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after
he had for awhile humoured her self-will, that in the
end friendship and reason would gain the day.
But the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in
the depths of her being, and were such in their growth
as he had no means of understanding. Evadne loved
Raymond. He was the hero of her imagination, the image
carved by love in the unchanged texture of her heart.
Seven years ago, in her youthful prime, she had become
attached to him; he had served her country against the
Turks; he had in her own land acquired that military
glory peculiarly dear to the Greeks, since they were
still obliged inch by inch to fight for their security.
Yet when he returned thence, and first appeared in
public life in England, her love did not purchase his,
which then vacillated between Perdita and a crown.
While he was yet undecided, she had quitted England;
the news of his marriage reached her, and her hopes,
poorly nurtured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory
of life was gone for her; the roseate halo of love,
which had imbued every object with its own colour,
faded;--she was content to take life as it was, and to
make the best of leaden-coloured reality. She married;
and, carrying her restless energy of character with her
into new scenes, she turned her thoughts to ambition,
and aimed at the title and power of Princess of
Wallachia; while her patriotic feelings were soothed by
the idea of the good she might do her country, when her
husband should be chief of this principality. She lived
to find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her
intrigues with Russia for the furtherance of her
object, excited the jealousy of the Porte, and the
animosity of the Greek government. She was considered a
traitor by both, the ruin of her husband followed; they
avoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the
height of her desires to penury in England. Much of
this tale she concealed from Raymond; nor did she
confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal
convicted of the worst of crimes, that of bringing the
scythe of foreign despotism to cut away the new
springing liberties of her country, would have followed
her application to any among the Greeks.
She knew that she was the cause of her husband's utter
ruin; and she strung herself to bear the consequences.
The reproaches which agony extorted; or worse,
cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind was
sunk in a torpor, not the less painful because it was
silent and moveless. She reproached herself with the
crime of his death; guilt and its punishments appeared
to surround her; in vain she endeavoured to allay
remorse by the memory of her real integrity; the rest
of the world, and she among them, judged of her
actions, by their consequences. She prayed for her
husband's soul; she conjured the Supreme to place on
her head the crime of his self-destruction--she vowed
to live to expiate his fault.
In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have
destroyed her, one thought only was matter of
consolation. She lived in the same country, breathed
the same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the
burthen of every tongue; his achievements, projects,
and magnificence, the argument of every story. Nothing
is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory and
excellence of him she loves; thus in every horror
Evadne revelled in his fame and prosperity. While her
husband lived, this feeling was
regarded by her as a crime, repressed, repented of.
When he died, the tide of love resumed its ancient
flow, it deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves,
and she gave herself up a prey to its uncontrollable
power.
But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded
state. Never should he behold her fallen, as she
deemed, from her pride of beauty, the poverty-stricken
inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a
reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though
impenetrably veiled from him, his public office
permitted her to become acquainted with all his
actions, his daily course of life, even his
conversation. She allowed herself one luxury, she saw
the newspapers every day, and feasted on the praise and
actions of the Protector. Not that this indulgence was
devoid of accompanying grief. Perdita's name was for
ever joined with his; their conjugal felicity was
celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts.
They were continually together, nor could the
unfortunate Evadne read the monosyllable that
designated his name, without, at the same time, being
presented with the image of her who was the faithful
companion of all his labours and pleasures. They,
their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line,
mingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood.
It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement
for the design for a national gallery. Combining with
taste her remembrance of the edifices which she had
seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing
them with unity of design, she executed the plan which
had been sent to the Protector. She triumphed in the
idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as she was, a
benefit upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride
looked forward to the accomplishment of a work of hers,
which, immortalized in stone, would go down to
posterity stamped with the name of Raymond. She awaited
with eagerness the return of her messenger from the
palace; she listened insatiate to his account of each
word, each look of the Protector; she felt bliss in
this communication with her beloved, although he knew
not to whom he addressed his instructions. The drawing
itself became ineffably dear to her. He had seen it,
and praised it; it was again retouched by her, each
stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music,
and bore to her the idea of a temple raised to
celebrate the deepest and most unutterable emotions of
her soul. These contemplations engaged her, when the
voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once
heard, never to be forgotten; she mastered her gush of
feelings, and welcomed him with quiet gentleness.
Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made
a compromise together. She would see Raymond, since
destiny had led him to her, and her constancy and
devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights with
regard to him, and her cherished independence, should
not be injured by the idea of interest, or the
intervention of the complicated feelings attendant on
pecuniary obligation, and the relative situations of
the benefactor, and benefited. Her mind was of uncommon
strength; she could subdue her sensible wants to her
mental wishes, and suffer cold, hunger and misery,
rather than concede to fortune a contested point. Alas!
that in human nature such a pitch of mental discipline,
and disdainful negligence of nature itself, should not
have been allied to the extreme of moral excellence!
But the resolution that permitted her to resist the
pains of privation, sprung from the too great energy of
her passions; and the concentrated self-will of which
this was a sign, was destined to destroy even the very
idol, to preserve whose respect she submitted to this
detail of wretchedness.
Their intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related
to her friend the whole of her story, the stain her
name had received in Greece, the weight of sin which
had accrued to her from the death of her husband. When
Raymond offered to clear her reputation, and
demonstrate to the world her real patriotism, she
declared that it was only through her present
sufferings that she hoped for any relief to the stings
of conscience; that, in her state of mind, diseased as
he might think it, the necessity of occupation was
salutary medicine; she ended by extorting a promise
that for the space of one month he would refrain from
the discussion of her interests, engaging after that
time to yield in part to his wishes. She could not
disguise to herself that any change would separate her
from him; now she saw him each day. His connection with
Adrian and Perdita was never mentioned; he was to her a
meteor, a companionless star, which at its appointed
hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought
felicity, and which, although it set, was never
eclipsed. He came each day to her abode of penury, and
his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with
sweets, radiant with heaven's own light; he partook of
her delirium. "They built a wall between them and the
world"--Without, a thousand harpies raved, remorse and
misery, expecting the destined moment for their
invasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence,
reckless blindless, deluding joy, hope, whose still
anchor rested on placid but unconstant water.
Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power
and fame, while he looked forward to entire dominion
over the elements and the mind of man, the territory of
his own heart escaped his notice; and from that
unthought of source arose the mighty torrent that
overwhelmed his will, and carried to the oblivious sea,
fame, hope, and happiness.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VIII.
IN the mean time what did Perdita?
During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond
and she had been inseparable; each project was
discussed with her, each plan approved by her. I never
beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister.
Her expressive eyes were two stars whose beams were
love; hope and light-heartedness sat on her cloudless
brow. She fed even to tears of joy on the praise and
glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one
sacrifice to him, and if in the humility of her heart
she felt self-complacency, it arose from the
reflection that she had won the distinguished hero of
the age, and had for years preserved him, even after
time had taken from love its usual nourishment. Her own
feeling was as entire as at its birth. Five years had
failed to destroy the dazzling unreality of passion.
Most men ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which
the female heart is wont to adorn the idol of its
affections. Not so Raymond; he was an enchanter, whose
reign was for ever undiminished; a king whose power
never was suspended: follow him through the details of
common life, still the same charm of grace and majesty
adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the innate
deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita
grew in beauty and excellence under his eye; I no
longer recognised my reserved abstracted sister in the
fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond. The
genius that enlightened her countenance, was now united
to an expression of benevolence, which gave divine
perfection to her beauty.
Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of
goodness. Suffering and amiability may exist together,
and writers have loved to depict their conjunction;
there is a human and touching harmony in the picture.
But perfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and
those who possess it, appear angelic. Fear has been
said to be the parent of religion: even of that
religion is it the generator, which leads its votaries
to sacrifice human victims at its altars; but the
religion which springs from happiness is a lovelier
growth; the religion which makes the heart breathe
forth fervent thanksgiving, and causes us to pour out
the overflowings of the soul before the author of our
being; that which is the parent of the imagination and
the nurse of poetry; that which bestows benevolent
intelligence on the visible mechanism of the world, and
makes earth a temple with heaven for its cope. Such
happiness, goodness, and religion inhabited the mind of
Perdita.
During the five years we had spent together, a knot of
happy human beings at Windsor Castle, her blissful lot
had been the frequent theme of my sister's
conversation. From early habit, and natural affection,
she selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be
the partner in her overflowings of delight; perhaps,
though apparently much unlike, some secret point of
resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, induced
this preference. Often at sunset, I have walked with
her, in the sober, enshadowed forest paths, and
listened with joyful sympathy. Security gave dignity to
her passion; the certainty of a full return, left her
with no wish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter,
embryo copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of
her content, and produced a sacred and indissoluble tie
between them. Sometimes she felt proud that he had
preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she
remembered that she had suffered keen anguish, when he
hesitated in his choice. But this memory of past
discontent only served to enhance her present joy. What
had been hardly won, was now, entirely possessed,
doubly dear. She would look at him at a distance with
the same rapture, (O, far more exuberant rapture!) that
one might feel, who after the perils of a tempest,
should find himself in the desired port; she would
hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his arms,
the reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection,
added to the depth of her understanding, and the
brilliancy of her imagination, made her beyond words
dear to Raymond.
If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it
arose from the idea that he was not perfectly happy.
Desire of renown, and presumptuous ambition, had
characterized his youth. The one he had acquired in
Greece; the other he had sacrificed to love. His
intellect found sufficient field for exercise in his
domestic circle, whose members, all adorned by
refinement and literature, were many of them, like
himself, distinguished by genius. Yet active life was
the genuine soil for his virtues; and he
sometimes suffered tedium from the monotonous
succession of events in our retirement. Pride made him
recoil from complaint; and gratitude and affection to
Perdita, generally acted as an opiate to all desire,
save that of meriting her love. We all observed the
visitation of these feelings, and none regretted them
so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a
slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that
sufficient--Did he need any gratification that she was
unable to bestow? This was the only cloud in the azure
of her happiness.
His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He
however attained his wish; he filled the situation for
which nature seemed to have moulded him. His activity
was fed in wholesome measure, without either exhaustion
or satiety; his taste and genius found worthy
expression in each of the modes human beings have
invented to encage and manifest the spirit of beauty;
the goodness of his heart made him never weary of
conducing to the well-being of his fellow-creatures;
his magnificent spirit, and aspirations for the respect
and love of mankind, now received fruition; true, his
exaltation was temporary; perhaps it were better that
it should be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and
defeat await the end of that which would expire at its
maturity. He determined to extract and condense all of
glory, power, and achievement, which might have
resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his
Protectorate.
Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed
would have been devoid of pleasure to him, had it been
unparticipated. But in Perdita he possessed all that
his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to
sympathy; her intelligence made her understand him at a
word; her powers of intellect enabled her to assist and
guide him. He felt her worth. During the early years of
their union, the inequality of her temper, and yet
unsubdued self-will which tarnished her character, had
been a slight drawback to the fulness of his sentiment.
Now that unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance were
added to her other qualifications, his respect equalled
his love. Years added to the strictness of their union.
They did not now guess at, and totter on the pathway,
divining the mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the
continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty
to their emotions, though it did not rob them of their
etherial nature. It had given them a child; but it had
not detracted from the personal attractions of my
sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to
awkwardness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of
manner; frankness, instead of reserve, characterized
her physiognomy; and her voice was attuned to thrilling
softness. She was now three and twenty, in the pride of
womanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and
mother, possessed of all her heart had ever coveted.
Raymond was ten years older; to his previous beauty,
noble mien, and commanding aspect, he now added
gentlest benevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and
unwearied attention to the wishes of another.
The first secret that had existed between them was the
visits of Raymond to Evadne. He had been struck by the
fortitude and beauty of the ill-fated Greek; and, when
her constant tenderness towards him unfolded itself, he
asked with astonishment, by what act of his he had
merited this passionate and unrequited love. She was
for a while the sole object of his reveries; and
Perdita became aware that his thoughts and time were
bestowed on a subject unparticipated by her. My sister
was by nature destitute of the common feelings of
anxious, petulant jealousy. The treasure which she
possessed in the affections of Raymond, was more
necessary to her being, than the life-blood that
animated her veins--more truly than Othello she might
say,
To be once in doubt,
Is--once to be resolved.
On the present occasion she did not suspect any
alienation of affection; but she conjectured that some
circumstance connected with his high place, had
occasioned this mystery. She was startled and pained.
She began to count the long days, and months, and years
which must elapse, before he would be restored to a
private station, and unreservedly to her. She was not
content that, even for a time, he should practice
concealment with her. She often repined; but her trust
in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed;
and, when they were together, unchecked by fear, she
opened her heart to the fullest delight.
Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild
career, paused suddenly to think of consequences. Two
results presented themselves in the view he took of the
future. That his intercourse with Evadne should
continue a secret to, or that finally it should be
discovered by Perdita. The destitute condition, and
highly wrought feelings of his friend prevented him
from adverting to the possibility of exiling himself
from her. In the first event he had bidden an eternal
farewell to open-hearted converse, and entire sympathy
with the companion of his life. The veil must be
thicker than that invented by Turkish jealousy; the
wall higher than the unscaleable tower of Vathek, which
should conceal from her the workings of his heart, and
hide from her view the secret of his actions. This idea
was intolerably painful to him. Frankness and social
feelings were the essence of Raymond's nature; without
them his qualities became common-place; without these
to spread glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his
vaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak
and empty as the rainbow hues which vanish when the sun
is down. But there was no remedy. Genius, devotion, and
courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies
of his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch,
could not roll back one hair's breadth the wheel of
time's chariot; that which had been was written with
the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting
volume of the past; nor could agony and tears suffice
to wash out one iota from the act fulfilled.
But this was the best side of the question. What, if
circumstance should lead Perdita to suspect, and
suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his frame
became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at
this idea. Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read
the future; and the peace of Perdita was too dear to
him, her speechless agony too certain, and too fearful,
not to unman him. His course was speedily decided upon.
If the worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would
neither stand her reproaches, or the anguish of her
altered looks. He would forsake her, England, his
friends, the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming
time, he would seek another country, and in other
scenes begin life again. Having resolved on this, he
became calmer. He endeavoured to guide with prudence
the steeds of destiny through the devious road which he
had chosen, and bent all his efforts the better to
conceal what he could not alter.
The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita
and him, rendered every communication common between
them. They opened each other's letters, even as, until
now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed
to the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it.
Had it contained confirmation, she must have been
annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold, and pale, she
sought Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions
lately presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa
opposite to him, and gazed on him with a look of such
despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans would have
been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to the living
incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her.
At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when
he raised them, he was struck by the wretchedness
manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment he forgot
his own acts and fears, and asked with
consternation--"Dearest girl, what is the matter; what
has happened?"
"Nothing," she replied at first; "and yet not so," she
continued, hurrying on in her speech; "you have
secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately, whom have
you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I
banished from your confidence? Yet this is not it--I do
not intend to entrap you with questions--one will
suffice--am I completely a wretch?"
With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat
white and motionless looking at him while he read it.
He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne, and the
colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he
conceived the contents of the letter; all was now cast
on one die; falsehood and artifice were trifles in
comparison with the impending ruin. He would either
entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or quit her for
ever. "My dear girl," he said, "I have been to blame;
but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong to commence
a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of
sparing you pain; and each day has rendered it more
difficult for me to alter my plan. Besides, I was
instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of
these few lines."
Perdita gasped: "Well," she cried, "well, go on!"
"That is all--this paper tells all. I am placed in the
most difficult circumstances. I have done my best,
though perhaps I have done wrong. My love for you is
inviolate."
Perdita shook her head doubtingly: "It cannot be," she
cried, "I know that it is not. You would deceive me,
but I will not be deceived. I have lost you, myself, my
life!"
"Do you not believe me?" said Raymond haughtily.
"To believe you," she exclaimed, "I would give up all,
and expire with joy, so that in death I could feel that
you were true--but that cannot be!"
"Perdita," continued Raymond, "you do not see the
precipice on which you stand. You may believe that I
did not enter on my present line of conduct without
reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that
your suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my
simple word would cause them to disappear. I built my
hope on your confidence. Do you think that I will be
questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do
you think that I will be suspected, perhaps watched,
cross-questioned, and disbelieved? I am not yet fallen
so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished. You have
loved me; I adored you. But all human
sentiments come to an end. Let our affection
expire--but let it not be exchanged for distrust and
recrimination. Heretofore we have been
friends--lovers--let us not become enemies, mutual
spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion--you
cannot believe me--let us part!"
"Exactly so," cried Perdita, "I knew that it would come
to this! Are we not already parted? Does not a stream,
boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn between us?"
Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features
convulsed, his manner calm as the earthquake-cradling
atmosphere, he replied: "I am rejoiced that you take my
decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play
the part of the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes
you may be stung with the feeling that you have wronged
me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of
the world, the complacency which the consciousness of
your own immaculate innocence will bestow, will be
excellent balm;--me you will never see more!"
Raymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each
word he spoke was false. He personated his assumption
of innocence even to self-deception. Have not actors
wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more
intense feeling of the reality of fiction
possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride; he felt
injured. Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance;
his hand was on the lock of the door. She started up,
she threw herself on his neck, she gasped and sobbed;
he took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down
near her. Her head fell on his shoulder, she trembled,
alternate changes of fire and ice ran through her
limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with softened
accents:
"The blow is given. I will not part from you in
anger;--I owe you too much. I owe you six years of
unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I will not
live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I
love you too well. In an eternal separation only can
either of us hope for dignity and propriety of action.
We shall not then be degraded from our true characters.
Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of
our intercourse;--these lost, let us not cling to the
seedless husk of life, the unkernelled shell. You have
your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian"---
"And you," cried Perdita, "the writer of that letter."
Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of
Raymond. He knew that this accusation at least was
false. "Entertain this belief," he cried, "hug it to
your heart--make it a pillow to your head, an opiate
for your eyes--I am content. But, by the God that made
me, hell is not more false than the word you have
spoken!"
Perdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of
his asseverations. She replied with earnestness, "I do
not refuse to believe you, Raymond; on the contrary I
promise to put implicit faith in your simple word. Only
assure me that your love and faith towards me have
never been violated; and suspicion, and doubt, and
jealousy will at once be dispersed. We shall continue
as we have ever done, one heart, one hope, one life."
"I have already assured you of my fidelity," said
Raymond with disdainful coldness, "triple assertions
will avail nothing where one is despised. I will say no
more; for I can add nothing to what I have already
said, to what you before contemptuously set aside. This
contention is unworthy of both of us; and I confess
that I am weary of replying to charges at once
unfounded and unkind."
Perdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily
averted. There was so much of truth and nature in his
resentment, that her doubts were dispelled. Her
countenance, which for years had not expressed a
feeling unallied to affection, became again radiant and
satisfied. She found it however no easy task to soften
and reconcile Raymond. At first he refused to stay to
hear her. But she would not be put off; secure of his
unaltered love, she was willing to undertake any
labour, use any entreaty, to dispel his anger. She
obtained an hearing, he sat in haughty silence, but he
listened. She first assured him of her boundless
confidence; of this he must be conscious, since but for
that she would not seek to detain him. She enumerated
their years of happiness; she brought before him past
scenes of intimacy and happiness; she pictured their
future life, she mentioned their child--tears unbidden
now filled her eyes. She tried to disperse them, but
they refused to be checked--her utterance was choaked.
She had not wept before. Raymond could not resist these
signs of distress: he felt perhaps somewhat ashamed of
the part he acted of the injured man, he who was in
truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita;
the bend of her head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of
her form were to him subjects of deep tenderness and
admiration; as she spoke, her melodious tones entered
his soul; he soon softened towards her, comforting and
caressing her, and endeavouring to cheat himself into
the belief that he had never wronged her.
Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might
do, who had been just put to the torture, and looked
forward to when it would be again inflicted. He had
sinned against his own honour, by affirming, swearing
to, a direct falsehood; true this he had palmed on a
woman, and it might therefore be deemed less base--by
others--not by him;--for whom had he deceived?--his own
trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita, whose generous
belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade
of innocence with which it had been exacted. The mind
of Raymond was not so rough cast, nor had been so
rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as to make
him proof to these considerations--on the contrary, he
was all nerve; his spirit was as a pure fire, which
fades and shrinks from every contagion of foul
atmosphere: but now the contagion had become
incorporated with its essence, and the change was the
more painful. Truth and falsehood, love and hate lost
their eternal boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle
with hell; while his sensitive mind, turned to a field
for such battle, was stung to madness. He heartily
despised himself, he was angry with Perdita, and the
idea of Evadne was attended by all that was hideous and
cruel. His passions, always his masters, acquired fresh
strength, from the long sleep in which love had cradled
them, the clinging weight of destiny bent him down; he
was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of that worst
of miseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state
yielded by degrees, to sullen animosity, and depression
of spirits. His dependants, even his equals, if in his
present post he had any, were startled to find anger,
derision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished
for suavity and benevolence of manner. He transacted
public business with distaste, and hastened from it to
the solitude which was at once his bane and relief. He
mounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him forward
to victory in Greece; he fatigued himself with
deadening exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled mind
in animal sensation.
He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might
from the effects of poison, he lifted his head from
above the vapours of fever and passion into the still
atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated on what was
best to be done. He was first struck by the space of
time that had elapsed, since madness, rather than any
reasonable impulse, had regulated his actions. A month
had gone by, and during that time he had not seen
Evadne. Her power, which was linked to few of the
enduring emotions of his heart, had greatly decayed. He
was no longer her slave--no longer her lover: he would
never see her more, and by the completeness of his
return, deserve the confidence of Perdita.
Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the
miserable abode of the Greek girl. An abode, which from
noble and lofty principle, she had refused to exchange
for one of greater luxury. He thought of the splendour
of her situation and appearance when he first knew her;
he thought of her life at Constantinople, attended by
every circumstance of oriental magnificence; of her
present penury, her daily task of industry, her lorn
state, her faded, famine-struck cheek. Compassion
swelled his breast; he would see her once again; he
would devise some plan for restoring her to society,
and the enjoyment of her rank; their separation would
then follow, as a matter of course.
Again he thought, how during this long month, he had
avoided Perdita, flying from her as from the stings of
his own conscience. But he was awake now; all this
should be remedied; and future devotion erase the
memory of this only blot on the serenity of their life.
He became cheerful, as he thought of this, and soberly
and resolutely marked out the line of conduct he would
adopt. He remembered that he had promised Perdita to be
present this very evening (the 19th of October,
anniversary of his election as Protector) at a festival
given in his honour. Good augury should this festival
be of the happiness of future years. First, he would
look in on Evadne; he would not stay; but he owed her
some account, some compensation for his long and
unannounced absence; and then to Perdita, to the
forgotten world, to the duties of society, the
splendour of rank, the enjoyment of power.
After the scene sketched in the preceding pages,
Perdita had contemplated an entire change in the
manners and conduct of Raymond. She expected freedom of
communication, and a return to those habits of
affectionate intercourse which had formed the delight
of her life. But Raymond did not join her in any of her
avocations. He transacted the business of the day apart
from her; he went out, she knew not whither. The pain
inflicted by this disappointment was tormenting and
keen. She looked on it as a deceitful dream, and tried
to throw off the consciousness of it; but like the
shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very flesh, and ate
with sharp agony into her vital principle. She
possessed that (though such an assertion may appear a
paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity of happiness.
Her delicate organization and creative imagination
rendered her peculiarly susceptible of pleasurable
emotion. The overflowing warmth of her heart, by making
love a plant of deep root and stately growth, had
attuned her whole soul to the reception of happiness,
when she found in Raymond all that could adorn love and
satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which
the fabric of her existence was founded, became common
place through participation, the endless succession of
attentions and graceful action snapt by transfer, his
universe of love wrested from her, happiness must
depart, and then be exchanged for its opposite. The
same peculiarities of character rendered her sorrows
agonies; her fancy magnified them, her sensibility made
her for ever open to their renewed impression; love
envenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was neither
submission, patience, nor self-abandonment in her
grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath it, and
rendered every pang more sharp by resistance. Again and
again the idea recurred, that he loved another. She did
him justice; she believed that he felt a tender
affection for her; but give a paltry prize to him who
in some life-pending lottery has calculated on the
possession of tens of thousands, and it will disappoint
him more than a blank. The affection and amity of a
Raymond might be inestimable; but, beyond that
affection, embosomed deeper than friendship, was the
indivisible treasure of love. Take the sum in its
completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its
price; take from it the smallest portion, give it but
the name of parts, separate it into degrees and
sections, and like the magician's coin, the valueless
gold of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There
is a meaning in the eye of love; a cadence in its
voice, an irradiation in its smile, the talisman of
whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit is
elemental, its essence single, its divinity an unit.
The very heart and soul of Raymond and Perdita had
mingled, even as two mountain brooks that join in their
descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over shining
pebbles, beside starry flowers; but let one desert its
primal course, or be dammed up by choaking obstruction,
and the other shrinks in its altered banks. Perdita was
sensible of the failing of the tide that fed her life.
Unable to support the slow withering of her hopes, she
suddenly formed a plan, resolving to terminate at once
the period of misery, and to bring to an happy
conclusion the late disastrous events.
The anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of
Raymond to the office of Protector; and it was
customary to celebrate this day by a splendid festival.
A variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double
magnificence over the scene; yet, as she arrayed
herself for the evening gala, she wondered herself at
the pains she took, to render sumptuous the celebration
of an event which appeared to her the beginning of her
sufferings. Woe befall the day, she thought, woe,
tears, and mourning betide the hour, that gave Raymond
another hope than love, another wish than my
devotion; and thrice joyful the moment when he shall be
restored to me! God knows, I put my trust in his vows,
and believe his asserted faith--but for that, I would
not seek what I am now resolved to attain. Shall two
years more be thus passed, each day adding to our
alienation, each act being another stone piled on the
barrier which separates us? No, my Raymond, my only
beloved, sole possession of Perdita! This night, this
splendid assembly, these sumptuous apartments, and this
adornment of your tearful girl, are all united to
celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you
relinquished the prospect of a crown. That was in days
of early love, when I could only hold out the hope, not
the assurance of happiness. Now you have the experience
of all that I can give, the heart's devotion, taintless
love, and unhesitating subjection to you. You must
choose between these and your protectorate. This, proud
noble, is your last night! Perdita has bestowed on it
all of magnificent and dazzling that your heart best
loves--but, from these gorgeous rooms, from this
princely attendance, from power and elevation, you must
return with to-morrow's sun to our rural abode; for I
would not buy an immortality of joy, by the endurance
of one more week sister to the last.
Brooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should
come, to propose, and insist upon its accomplishment,
secure of his consent, the heart of Perdita was
lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was flushed by
the expectation of struggle; her eyes sparkled with the
hope of triumph. Having cast her fate upon a die, and
feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have named as
bearing the stamp of queen of nations on her noble
brow, now rose superior to humanity, and seemed in calm
power, to arrest with her finger, the wheel of destiny.
She had never before looked so supremely lovely.
We, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to
be present at this festivity, but Perdita wrote to
entreat us not to come, or to absent ourselves from
Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her scheme
to us) resolved the next morning to return with Raymond
to our dear circle, there to renew a course of life in
which she had found entire felicity. Late in the
evening she entered the apartments appropriated to the
festival. Raymond had quitted the palace the night
before; he had promised to grace the assembly, but he
had not yet returned. Still she felt sure that he would
come at last; and the wider the breach might appear at
this crisis, the more secure she was of closing it for
ever.
It was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn
was far advanced and dreary. The wind howled; the half
bare trees were despoiled of the remainder of their
summer ornament; the state of the air which induced the
decay of vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or
hope. Raymond had been exalted by the determination he
had made; but with the declining day his spirits
declined. First he was to visit Evadne, and then to
hasten to the palace of the Protectorate. As he walked
through the wretched streets in the neighbourhood of
the luckless Greek's abode, his heart smote him for the
whole course of his conduct towards her. First, his
having entered into any engagement that should permit
her to remain in such a state of degradation; and then,
after a short wild dream, having left her to drear
solitude, anxious conjecture, and bitter,
still--disappointed expectation. What had she done the
while, how supported his absence and neglect? Light
grew dim in these close streets, and when the well
known door was opened, the staircase was shrouded in
perfect night. He groped his way up, he entered the
garret, he found Evadne stretched speechless, almost
lifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people
of the house, but could learn nothing from them, except
that they knew nothing. Her story was plain to him,
plain and distinct as the remorse and horror that
darted their fangs into him. When she found herself
forsaken by him, she lost the heart to pursue her usual
avocations; pride forbade every application to him;
famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of
death, within whose opening folds she should now,
without sin, quickly repose. No creature came near her,
as her strength failed.
If she died, where could there be found on record a
murderer, whose cruel act might compare with his? What
fiend more wanton in his mischief, what damned soul
more worthy of perdition! But he was not reserved for
this agony of self-reproach. He sent for medical
assistance; the hours passed, spun by suspense into
ages; the darkness of the long autumnal night yielded
to day, before her life was secure. He had her then
removed to a more commodious dwelling, and hovered
about her, again and again to assure himself that she
was safe.
In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to
the event, he remembered the festival given in his
honour, by Perdita; in his honour then, when misery and
death were affixing indelible disgrace to his name,
honour to him whose crimes deserved a scaffold; this
was the worst mockery. Still Perdita would expect him;
he wrote a few incoherent words on a scrap of paper,
testifying that he was well, and bade the woman of the
house take it to the palace, and deliver it into the
hands of the wife of the Lord Protector. The woman, who
did not know him, contemptuously asked, how he thought
she should gain admittance, particularly on a festal
night, to that lady's presence? Raymond gave her his
ring to ensure the respect of the menials. Thus, while
Perdita was entertaining her guests, and anxiously
awaiting the arrival of her lord, his ring was brought
her; and she was told that a poor woman had a note to
deliver to her from its wearer.
The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her
commission, which, after all, she did not understand,
since she had no suspicion, even now that Evadne's
visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from
his horse, or some similar accident--till the woman's
answers woke other fears. From a feeling of cunning
blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant
messenger, did not speak of Evadne's illness; but she
garrulously gave an account of Raymond's frequent
visits, adding to her narration such circumstances, as,
while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated
the unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all,
his absence now from the festival, his message wholly
unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints of the
woman, appeared the deadliest insult. Again she looked
at the ring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped,
which she had herself given him. She looked at the
hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and repeated
to herself the words--"Do not, I charge you, I entreat
you, permit your guests to wonder at my absence :" the
while the old crone going on with her talk, filled her
ear with a strange medley of truth and falsehood. At
length Perdita dismissed her.
The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her
presence had not been missed. She glided into a recess
somewhat obscured, and leaning against an ornamental
column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her
faculties were palsied. She gazed on some flowers that
stood near in a carved vase: that morning she had
arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even
now all aghast as she was, she observed their brilliant
colours and starry shapes.--"Divine infoliations of the
spirit of beauty," she exclaimed, "Ye droop not,
neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart,
has not spread contagion over you!--Why am I not a
partner of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm!"
She paused. "To my task," she continued mentally, "my
guests must not perceive the reality, either as it
regards him or me. I obey; they shall not, though I die
the moment they are gone. They shall behold the
antipodes of what is real--for I will appear to
live--while I am--dead." It required all her
self-command, to suppress the gush of tears self-pity
caused at this idea. After many struggles, she
succeeded, and turned to join the company.
All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling
her internal conflict. She had to play the part of a
courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine the focus
of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this, while in
deep woe she sighed for loneliness, and would gladly
have exchanged her crowded rooms for dark forest
depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath. But she
became gay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be,
as was usual with her, placidly content. Every one
remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions
appear graceful in the eye of rank, her guests
surrounded her applaudingly, although there was a
sharpness in her laugh, and an abruptness in her
sallies, which might have betrayed her secret to an
attentive observer. She went on, feeling that, if she
had paused for a moment, the checked waters of misery
would have deluged her soul, that her wrecked hopes
would raise their wailing voices, and that those who
now echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would
have shrunk in fear from her convulsive despair. Her
only consolation during the violence which she did
herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated
clock, and internally count the moments which must
elapse before she could be alone.
At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own
desires, she rallied her guests on their early
departure. One by one they left her--at length she
pressed the hand of her last visitor. "How cold and
damp your hand is," said her friend; "you are over
fatigued, pray hasten to rest." Perdita smiled
faintly--her guest left her; the carriage rolling down
the street assured the final departure. Then, as if
pursued by an enemy, as if wings had been at her feet,
she flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her
attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself
wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even to blood to
suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey to the
vulture of despair, striving not to think, while
multitudinous ideas made a home of her heart; and
ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and poured in
with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle
and wound each other, while they worked her up to
madness.
At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable.
She stood before a large mirror--she gazed on her
reflected image; her light and graceful dress, the
jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her
beauteous arms and neck, her small feet shod in satin,
her profuse and glossy tresses, all were to her clouded
brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame
to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. "Vase am I," she
thought, "vase brimful of despair's direst essence.
Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor girl! never again
will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no
longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may
envy the homeless beggar; most truly am I without a
home! I live on a barren desart, which, wide and
interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in
the midst is a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita,
art chained, and thou seest the dreary level stretch
far away."
She threw open her window, which looked on the
palace-garden. Light and darkness were struggling
together, and the orient was streaked by roseate and
golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the
kindling atmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly
over the dewy plants, rushed into the heated room. "All
things go on," thought Perdita, "all things proceed,
decay, and perish! When noontide has passed, and the
weary day has driven her team to their western stalls,
the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their
accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey
hill. When their course is fulfilled, the dial begins
to cast westward an uncertain shadow; the eye-lids of
day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length
appears, and in majestic procession climbs the capitol
of heaven. All proceeds, changes and dies, except the
sense of misery in my bursting heart.
"Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that
love has journied on to its setting, and that the lord
of my life has changed? We call the supernal lights
fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I
look again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the
eternal heavens is altered. The silly moon and
inconstant planets vary nightly their erratic dance;
the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon
deserts his throne, and leaves his dominion to night
and winter. Nature grows old, and shakes in her
decaying limbs,--creation has become bankrupt! What
wonder then, that eclipse and death have led to
destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!"
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IX.
THUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor
sister, when she became assured of the infidelity of
Raymond. All her virtues and all her defects tended to
make the blow incurable. Her affection for me, her
brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were
to the reigning passion of her heart; even her maternal
tenderness borrowed half its force from the delight she
had in tracing Raymond's features and expression in the
infant's countenance. She had been reserved and even
stern in childhood; but love had softened the
asperities of her character, and her union with Raymond
had caused her talents and affections to unfold
themselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost, she
in some degree returned to her ancient disposition. The
concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her
blissful dream, awoke, and with its adder's sting
pierced her heart; her humility of spirit augmented the
power of the venom; she had been exalted in her own
estimation, while distinguished by his love: of what
worth was she, now that he thrust her from this
preferment? She had been proud of having won and
preserved him--but another had won him from her, and
her exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember.
We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of
her misfortune. Soon after the festival she had sent
for her child, and then she seemed to have forgotten
us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he
afterward paid them; but he could not tell its extent,
or divine the cause. They still appeared in public
together, and lived under the same roof. Raymond was as
usual courteous, though there was, on occasions, an
unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his
manners, which startled his gentle friend; his brow was
not clouded but disdain sat on his lips, and his voice
was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention to
her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She
had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with
tears. Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to
say--That it should be so! At others her countenance
expressed--I will still do all I can to make you happy.
But Adrian read with uncertain aim the charactery of
her face, and might mistake.--Clara was always with
her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure
corner, she could sit holding her child's hand, silent
and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the truth;
he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they
promised to come during the following month.
It was May before they arrived: the season had decked
the forest trees with leaves, and its paths with a
thousand flowers. We had notice of their intention the
day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived
with her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said;
he had been detained by business. According to Adrian's
account, I had expected to find her sad; but, on the
contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true,
she had grown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and
her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright glow. She
was delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised
their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to
meet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of
childish games were entered into, in which Perdita
joined. She communicated her gaiety to us, and as we
amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared
that a happier, less care-worn party could not have
been assembled. "This is better, Mamma," said Clara,
"than being in that dismal London, where you often cry,
and never laugh as you do now."--"Silence, little
foolish thing," replied her mother, "and remember any
one that mentions London is sent to Coventry for an
hour."
Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual
in the playful spirit of the rest; but, entering into
conversation with Adrian and myself, by degrees we
seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only
remained with the children. Raymond talked of his new
buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the
better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he
entered into argument, and the time slipped away
unperceived.
We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita
insisted on our having recourse to music. She wanted,
she said, to give us a specimen of her new
accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she
had applied herself to music, and sang, without much
power, but with a great deal of sweetness. We were not
permitted by her to select any but light-hearted
melodies; and all the Operas of Mozart were called into
service, that we might choose the most exhilarating of
his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of
Mozart's music, it possesses more than any other that
of appearing to come from the heart; you enter into the
passions expressed by him, and are transported with
grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul's
master, chooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit
of hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita
receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the
trio of" Taci ingiusto core," in Don Giovanni,
whose arch entreaty was softened by him into
tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of the
changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the
self-same sounds and words, which often before she had
received, as the homage of love to her--no longer was
it that; and this concord of sound with its dissonance
of expression penetrated her with regret and despair.
Soon after Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that
passionate and sorrowful air in Figaro, "Porgi,
amor, qualche risforo," in which the deserted
Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva.
The soul of tender sorrow is breathed forth in this
strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by the
mournful chords of her instrument, added to the
expression of the words. During the pathetic appeal
with which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our
attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music
recalled her to herself, she hastened out of the
hall--I followed her. At first, she seemed to wish to
shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning,
she threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:--"Once
more," she cried, "once more on your friendly breast,
my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her
sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and
for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now,
and greater wrong in giving words to my grief. I will
not speak! Be it enough for you to know that I am
miserable--be it enough for you to know, that the
painted veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever
shrouded in darkness and gloom, that grief is my
sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!"
I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her!
but I caressed her, assured her of my deepest affection
and my intense interest in the changes of her
fortune:--"Dear words," she cried, "expressions of love
come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of
forgotten music, that had been dear to me. They are
vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe
or comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I
have suffered during these long months. I have read of
mourners in ancient days, who clothed themselves in
sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their
bread mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on
the bleak mountain tops, reproaching heaven and earth
aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the very
luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day
contriving new extravagances, revelling in the
paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appurtenances
of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the
wretchedness that consumes me. I must weave a veil of
dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes,
smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful
smiles--even in solitude I dare not think how lost I
am, lest I become insane and rave."
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered
her unfit to return to the circle we had left--so I
persuaded her to let me drive her through the park;
and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale
of her unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it
would lighten the burthen, and certain that, if there
were a remedy, it should be found and secured to her.
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the
anniversary, and she had been unable to calm her mind,
or to subdue her thoughts to any regular train.
Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too
bitterly to heart, that which many would esteem an
imaginary evil; but this was no subject for reason;
and, ignorant as she was of the motives and true
conduct of Raymond, things assumed for her even a worse
appearance, than the reality warranted. He was seldom
at the palace; never, but when he was assured that his
public duties would prevent his remaining alone with
Perdita. They seldom addressed each other, shunning
explanation, each fearing any communication the other
might make. Suddenly, however, the manners of Raymond
changed; he appeared to desire to find opportunities of
bringing about a return to kindness and intimacy with
my sister. The tide of love towards her appeared to
flow again; he could never forget, how once he had been
devoted to her, making her the shrine and storehouse
wherein to place every thought and every sentiment.
Shame seemed to hold him back; yet he evidently wished
to establish a renewal of confidence and affection.
From the moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered
herself to form any plan of action, she had laid one
down, which now she prepared to follow. She received
these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did
not shun his company; but she endeavoured to place a
barrier in the way of familiar intercourse or painful
discussion, which mingled pride and shame prevented
Raymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew
signs of angry impatience, and Perdita became aware
that the system she had adopted could not continue; she
must explain herself to him; she could not summon
courage to speak--she wrote thus:--
"Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will
contain no reproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word:
for what should I reproach you?
"Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without
that, we shall both grope in the dark, mistaking one
another; erring from the path which may conduct, one of
us at least, to a more eligible mode of life than that
led by either during the last few weeks.
"I loved you--I love you--neither anger nor pride
dictates these lines; but a feeling beyond, deeper, and
more unalterable than either. My affections are
wounded; it is impossible to heal them:--cease then the
vain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours
tend. Forgiveness! Return! Idle words are these! I
forgive the pain I endure; but the trodden path cannot
be retraced.
"Common affection might have been satisfied with common
usages. I believed that you read my heart, and knew its
devotion, its unalienable fidelity towards you. I never
loved any but you. You came the embodied image of my
fondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high
aspirations attended your career. Love for you invested
the world for me in enchanted light; it was no longer
the earth I trod--the earth, common mother, yielding
only trite and stale repetition of objects and
circumstances old and worn out. I lived in a temple
glorified by intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I
walked, a consecrated being, contemplating only your
power, your excellence;
For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Cloathing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
'The bloom has vanished from my life'--there is no
morning to this all investing night; no rising to the
set-sun of love. In those days the rest of the world
was nothing to me: all other men--I never considered
nor felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one
of them. Separated from them; exalted in my heart; sole
possessor of my affections; single object of my hopes,
the best half of myself.
"Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on
any, who could enjoy its light with purer and more
intense bliss? It was not--it is not a common
infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an
whole which may not have parts; it is the carelessness
with which you have shaken off the mantle of election
with which to me you were invested, and have become one
among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not love a
divinity, because it is immortal? Did not I appear
sanctified, even to myself, because this love had for
its temple my heart? I have gazed on you as you slept,
melted even to tears, as the idea filled my mind, that
all I possessed lay cradled in those idolized, but
mortal lineaments before me. Yet, even then, I have
checked thick-coming fears with one thought; I would
not fear death, for the emotions that linked us must be
immortal.
"And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased
to close my eyes, never more to open them again. And
yet I fear it; even as I fear all things; for in any
state of being linked by the chain of memory with this,
happiness would not return--even in Paradise, I must
feel that your love was less enduring than the mortal
beatings of my fragile heart, every pulse of which
knells audibly,
The funeral note
Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.
No--no--me miserable; for love extinct there is no
resurrection!
"Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute
all I possess to your welfare. On account of a tattling
world; for the sake of my--of our child, I would remain
by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake your
counsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor
can I call myself a friend to any; since, lost as I am,
I have no thought to spare from my own wretched,
engrossing self. But it will please me to see you each
day! to listen to the public voice praising you; to
keep up your paternal love for our girl; to hear your
voice; to know that I am near you, though you are no
longer mine.
"If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the
word, and it shall be done--I will take all the blame
on myself, of harshness or unkindness, in the world's
eye.
"Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at
least for the present, to live under the same roof with
you. When the fever of my young life is spent; when
placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me,
friendship may come, love and hope being dead. May this
be true? Can my soul, inextricably linked to this
perishable frame, become lethargic and cold, even as
this sensitive mechanism shall lose its youthful
elasticity? Then, with lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs,
and wrinkled brow, though now the words sound hollow
and meaningless, then, tottering on the grave's extreme
edge, I may be--your affectionate and true friend,
"PERDITA."
Raymond's answer was brief. What indeed could he reply
to her complaints, to her griefs which she jealously
paled round, keeping out all thought of remedy.
"Notwithstanding your bitter letter," he wrote, "for
bitter I must call it, you are the chief person in my
estimation, and it is your happiness that I would
principally consult. Do that which seems best to you:
and if you can receive gratification from one mode of
life in preference to another, do not let me be any
obstacle. I foresee that the plan which you mark out in
your letter will not endure long; but you are mistress
of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to contribute as
far as you will permit me to your happiness."
"Raymond has prophesied well," said Perdita, "alas,
that it should be so! our present mode of life cannot
continue long, yet I will not be the first to propose
alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has injured
even unto death; and I derive no hope from his
kindness; no change can possibly be brought about even
by his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra have
worn as an ornament the vinegar which contained her
dissolved pearl, as I be content with the love that
Raymond can now offer me."
I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same
eyes as Perdita. At all events methought that the wound
could be healed; and, if they remained together, it
would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and
soften her mind; and it was not until after many
endeavours that I gave up the task as impracticable.
Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with
some asperity:--"Do you think that any of your
arguments are new to me? or that my own burning wishes
and intense anguish have not suggested them all a
thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety
than you can put into them? Lionel, you cannot
understand what woman's love is. In days of happiness I
have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart
and exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for
me. I was a poor, uneducated, unbefriended, mountain
girl, raised from nothingness by him. All that I
possessed of the luxuries of life came from him. He
gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the
world's respect reflected from his own glory: all this
joined to his own undying love, inspired me with
sensations towards him, akin to those with which we
regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I
devoted myself to him: imperfect creature that I was, I
took myself to task, that I might become worthy of him.
I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my burning
impatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing
thoughts, educating myself to the best perfection I
might attain, that the fruit of my exertions might be
his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He
deserved it all--all labour, all devotion, all
sacrifice; I would have toiled up a scaleless Alp, to
pluck a flower that would please him. I was ready to
quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to
live only with him, for him. I could not do otherwise,
even if I had wished; for if we are said to have two
souls, he was my better soul, to which the other was a
perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even
fidelity. I earned that; I deserved it. Because I was
mountain bred, unallied to the noble and wealthy, shall
he think to repay me by an empty name and station? Let
him take them back; without his love they are nothing
to me. Their only merit in my eyes was that they were
his."
Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to
the question of their entire separation, she replied:
"Be it so! One day the period will arrive; I know it,
and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect
companionship, and our masquerade of union, are
strangely dear to me. It is painful, I allow,
destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual
fever in my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is
instinct with poison. Yet I must cling to it; perhaps
it will kill me soon, and thus perform a thankful
office."
In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and
Idris. He was naturally frank; the continued absence of
Perdita and myself became remarkable; and Raymond soon
found relief from the constraint of months, by an
unreserved confidence with his two friends. He related
to them the situation in which he had found Evadne. At
first, from delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name;
but it was divulged in the course of his narrative, and
her former lover heard with the most acute agitation
the history of her sufferings. Idris had shared
Perdita's ill opinion of the Greek; but Raymond's
account softened and interested her. Evadne's
constancy, fortitude, even her ill-fated and
ill-regulated love, were matter of admiration and pity;
especially when, from the detail of the events of the
nineteenth of October, it was apparent that she
preferred suffering and death to any in her eyes
degrading application for the pity and assistance of
her lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish this
interest. At first, relieved from famine and the grave,
watched over by Raymond with the tenderest assiduity,
with that feeling of repose peculiar to convalescence,
Evadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love.
But reflection returned with health. She questioned him
with regard to the motives which had occasioned his
critical absence. She framed her enquiries with Greek
subtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision
and firmness peculiar to her disposition. She could not
divine, that the breach which she had occasioned
between Raymond and Perdita was already irreparable:
but she knew, that under the present system it would be
widened each day, and that its result must be to
destroy her lover's happiness, and to implant the fangs
of remorse in his heart. From the moment that she
perceived the right line of conduct, she resolved to
adopt it, and to part from Raymond for ever.
Conflicting passions, long-cherished love, and
self-inflicted disappointment, made her regard death
alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. But the same
feelings and opinions which had before restrained her,
acted with redoubled force; for she knew that the
reflection that he had occasioned her death, would
pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every enjoyment,
clouding every prospect. Besides, though the violence
of her anguish made life hateful, it had not yet
produced that monotonous, lethargic sense of changeless
misery which for the most part produces suicide. Her
energy of character induced her still to combat with
the ills of life; even those attendant on hopeless love
presented themselves, rather in the shape of an
adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she
must submit. Besides, she had memories of past
tenderness to cherish, smiles, words, and even tears,
to con over, which, though remembered in desertion and
sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of
the grave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of
her plan. Her letter to Raymond gave no clue for
discovery; it assured him, that she was in no danger of
wanting the means of life; she promised in it to
preserve herself, and some future day perhaps to
present herself to him in a station not unworthy of
her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of despair
and of unalterable love, a last farewell.
All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and
Idris. Raymond then lamented the cureless evil of his
situation with Perdita. He declared, notwithstanding
her harshness, he even called it coldness, that he
loved her. He had been ready once with the humility of
a penitent, and the duty of a vassal, to surrender
himself to her; giving up his very soul to her
tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her bondsman.
She had rejected these advances; and the time for such
exuberant submission, which must be founded on love and
nourished by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes
and endeavours were directed towards her peace, and his
chief discomfort arose from the perception that he
exerted himself in vain. If she were to continue
inflexible in the line of conduct she now pursued, they
must part. The combinations and occurrences of this
senseless mode of intercourse were maddening to him.
Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted
by the fear of causing the death of one or other of the
beings implicated in these events; and he could not
persuade himself to undertake to direct the course of
events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he
should lead those attached to the car into irremediable
ruin.
After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for
several hours, he took leave of his friends, and
returned to town, unwilling to meet Perdita before us,
conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts uppermost
in the minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him
with her child. Idris endeavoured to persuade her to
remain. My poor sister looked at the counsellor with
affright. She knew that Raymond had conversed with her;
had he instigated this request?--was this to be the
prelude to their eternal separation?--I have said, that
the defects of her character awoke and acquired vigour
from her unnatural position. She regarded with
suspicion the invitation of Idris; she embraced me, as
if she were about to be deprived of my affection also:
calling me her more than brother, her only friend, her
last hope, she pathetically conjured me not to cease to
love her; and with encreased anxiety she departed for
London, the scene and cause of all her misery.
The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had
not yet fathomed the obscure gulph into which she had
plunged. Her unhappiness assumed every day a new shape;
every day some unexpected event seemed to close, while
in fact it led onward, the train of calamities which
now befell her.
The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was
ambition. Readiness of talent, a capacity of entering
into, and leading the dispositions of men; earnest
desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of
his ambition. But other ingredients mingled with these,
and prevented him from becoming the calculating,
determined character, which alone forms a successful
hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his
first movements; harsh and reckless when provoked.
Above all, he was remorseless and unyielding in the
pursuit of any object of desire, however lawless. Love
of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
nature, made a prominent part of his character,
conquering the conqueror; holding him in at the moment
of acquisition; sweeping away ambition's web; making
him forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of one
moment's indulgence of the new and actual object of his
wishes. Obeying these impulses, he had become the
husband of Perdita: egged on by them, he found himself
the lover of Evadne. He had now lost both. He had
neither the ennobling self-gratulation, which constancy
inspires, to console him, nor the voluptuous sense of
abandonment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion.
His heart was exhausted by the recent events; his
enjoyment of life was destroyed by the resentment of
Perdita, and the flight of Evadne; and the
inflexibility of the former, set the last seal upon the
annihilation of his hopes. As long as their disunion
remained a secret, he cherished an expectation of
re-awakening past tenderness in her bosom; now that we
were all made acquainted with these occurrences, and
that Perdita, by declaring her resolves to others, in a
manner pledged herself to their accomplishment, he gave
up the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only,
since he was unable to influence her to change, to
reconcile himself to the present state of things. He
made a vow against love and its train of struggles,
disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual
enjoyment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of
passion.
Debasement of character is the certain follower of such
pursuits. Yet this consequence would not have been
immediately remarkable, if Raymond had continued to
apply himself to the execution of his plans for the
public benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as
Protector. But, extreme in all things, given up to
immediate impressions, he entered with ardour into this
new pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the
incongruous intimacies occasioned by it without
reflection or foresight. The council-chamber was
deserted; the crowds which attended on him as agents to
his various projects were neglected. Festivity, and
even libertinism, became the order of the day.
Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder.
For a moment she thought that she could stem the
torrent, and that Raymond could be induced to hear
reason from her.--Vain hope! The moment of her
influence was passed. He listened with haughtiness,
replied disdainfully; and, if in truth, she succeeded
in awakening his conscience, the sole effect was that
he sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot.
With the energy natural to her, Perdita then
endeavoured to supply his place. Their still apparent
union permitted her to do much; but no woman could, in
the end, present a remedy to the encreasing negligence
of the Protector; who, as if seized with a paroxysm of
insanity, trampled on all ceremony, all order, all
duty, and gave himself up to license.
Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we
were undecided what method to adopt to restore our
friend to himself and his country, when Perdita
suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress
of the mournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself
to go up to London, and endeavour to remedy the
encreasing evil:--"Tell him," she cried, "tell Lord
Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him.
That he need not plunge into this destructive
dissipation for the sake of disgusting me, and causing
me to fly. This purpose is now accomplished; he will
never see me more. But let me, it is my last entreaty,
let me in the praises of his countrymen and the
prosperity of England, find the choice of my youth
justified."
During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and
argued upon Raymond's conduct, and his falling off from
the hopes of permanent excellence on his part, which he
had before given us cause to entertain. My friend and I
had both been educated in one school, or rather I was
his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
principle was the only road to honour; a ceaseless
observance of the laws of general utility, the only
conscientious aim of human ambition. But though we both
entertained these ideas, we differed in their
application. Resentment added also a sting to my
censure; and I reprobated Raymond's conduct in severe
terms. Adrian was more benign, more considerate. He
admitted that the principles that I laid down were the
best; but he denied that they were the only ones.
Quoting the text, there are many mansions in my
father's house, he insisted that the modes of
becoming good or great, varied as much as the
dispositions of men, of whom it might be said, as of
the leaves of the forest, there were no two alike.
We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We
conjectured, notwithstanding what we had heard, that we
should find Raymond in St. Stephen's: thither we sped.
The chamber was full--but there was no Protector; and
there was an austere discontent manifest on the
countenances of the leaders, and a whispering and busy
tattle among the underlings, not less ominous. We
hastened to the palace of the Protectorate. We found
Raymond in his dining room with six others: the bottle
was being pushed about merrily, and had made
considerable inroads on the understanding of one or
two. He who sat near Raymond was telling a story, which
convulsed the rest with laughter.
Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into
the spirit of the hour, his natural dignity never
forsook him. He was gay, playful, fascinating--but
never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the
respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I
own, that considering the task which Raymond had taken
on himself as Protector of England, and the cares to
which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly
provoked to observe the worthless fellows on whom his
time was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken spirit
which seemed on the point of robbing him of his better
self. I stood watching the scene, while Adrian flitted
like a shadow in among them, and, by a word and look of
sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly.
Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him,
declaring that he should make one in the festivity of
the night.
This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that
he should sit at the same table with the companions of
Raymond--men of abandoned characters, or rather without
any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the disgrace of
their country. "Let me entreat Adrian," I cried, "not
to comply: rather join with me in endeavouring to
withdraw Lord Raymond from this scene, and restore him
to other society."
"My good fellow," said Raymond, "this is neither the
time nor place for the delivery of a moral lecture:
take my word for it that my amusements and society are
not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or
fools--for the rest, 'Dost thou think because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?'"
I turned angrily away: "Verney," said Adrian, "you are
very cynical: sit down; or if you will not, perhaps, as
you are not a frequent visitor, Lord Raymond will
humour you, and accompany us, as we had previously
agreed upon, to parliament."
Raymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity
only in his gentle lineaments; he turned to me,
observing with scorn my moody and stern demeanour.
"Come," said Adrian, "I have promised for you, enable
me to keep my engagement. Come with us."-- Raymond made
an uneasy movement, and laconically replied--"I won't!"
The party in the mean time had broken up. They looked
at the pictures, strolled into the other apartments,
talked of billiards, and one by one vanished. Raymond
strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to
receive and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned
against the wall. "This is infinitely ridiculous," he
cried, "if you were school-boys, you could not conduct
yourselves more unreasonably."
"You do not understand," said Raymond. "This is only
part of a system:--a scheme of tyranny to which I will
never submit. Because I am Protector of England, am I
to be the only slave in its empire? My privacy invaded,
my actions censured, my friends insulted? But I will
get rid of the whole together.--Be you witnesses," and
he took the star, insignia of office, from his
breast, and threw it on the table. "I renounce my
office, I abdicate my power--assume it who will!"---
"Let him assume it," exclaimed Adrian, "who can
pronounce himself, or whom the world will pronounce to
be your superior. There does not exist the man in
England with adequate presumption. Know yourself,
Raymond, and your indignation will cease; your
complacency return. A few months ago, whenever we
prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own,
we at the same time prayed for the life and welfare of
the Protector, as indissolubly linked to it. Your hours
were devoted to our benefit, your ambition was to
obtain our commendation. You decorated our towns with
edifices, you bestowed on us useful establishments, you
gifted the soil with abundant fertility. The powerful
and unjust cowered at the steps of your judgment-seat,
and the poor and oppressed arose like morn-awakened
flowers under the sunshine of your protection.
"Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when
this appears changed? But, come, this splenetic fit is
already passed; resume your functions; your partizans
will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our love,
honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you.
Master yourself, Raymond, and the world is subject to
you."
"All this would be very good sense, if addressed to
another," replied Raymond, moodily, "con the lesson
yourself, and you, the first peer of the land, may
become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just,
may rule all hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my
own happiness, too late for England's good, that I
undertook a task to which I am unequal. I cannot rule
myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse
my tyrant. Do you think that I renounced the
Protectorate (and I have renounced it) in a fit of
spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never to take up
that bauble again; never again to burthen myself with
the weight of care and misery, of which that is the
visible sign.
"Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of
youth, in the pride of boyish folly. I knew myself when
I renounced it. I renounced it to gain--no matter
what--for that also I have lost. For many months I have
submitted to this mock majesty--this solemn jest. I am
its dupe no longer. I will be free.
"I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life;
that which linked me to other men. Again I am a
solitary man; and I will become again, as in my early
years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My friends,
for Verney, I feel that you are my friend, do not
endeavour to shake my resolve. Perdita, wedded to an
imagination, careless of what is behind the veil, whose
charactery is in truth faulty and vile, Perdita has
renounced me. With her it was pretty enough to play a
sovereign's part; and, as in the recesses of your
beloved forest we acted masques, and imagined ourselves
Arcadian shepherds, to please the fancy of the
moment--so was I content, more for Perdita's sake than
my own, to take on me the character of one of the great
ones of the earth; to lead her behind the scenes of
grandeur, to vary her life with a short act of
magnificence and power. This was to be the colour; love
and confidence the substance of our existence. But we
must live, and not act our lives; pursuing the shadow,
I lost the reality--now I renounce both.
"Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become
again a soldier, perhaps a conqueror. Will you
accompany me? You will behold new scenes; see a new
people; witness the mighty struggle there going forward
between civilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps
direct the efforts of a young and vigorous population,
for liberty and order. Come with me. I have expected
you. I waited for this moment; all is prepared;--will
you accompany me?"
"I will," replied Adrian.
"Immediately?"
"To-morrow if you will."
"Reflect!" I cried.
"Wherefore?" asked Raymond--"My dear fellow, I have
done nothing else than reflect on this step the
live-long summer; and be assured that Adrian has
condensed an age of reflection into this little moment.
Do not talk of reflection; from this moment I abjure
it; this is my only happy moment during a long interval
of time. I must go, Lionel--the Gods will it; and I
must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion,
the out-cast's friend.
"One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a
time, I thought that, by watching a complying moment,
fostering the still warm ashes, I might relume in her
the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than a
fire left by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers
crowned by a pyramid of snow. Then, in endeavouring to
do violence to my own disposition, I made all worse
than before. Still I think, that time, and even
absence, may restore her to me. Remember, that I love
her still, that my dearest hope is that she will again
be mine. I know, though she does not, how false the
veil is which she has spread over the reality--do not
endeavour to rend this deceptive covering, but by
degrees withdraw it. Present her with a mirror, in
which she may know herself; and, when she is an adept
in that necessary but difficult science, she will
wonder at her present mistake, and hasten to restore to
me, what is by right mine, her forgiveness, her kind
thoughts, her love."
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER X.
AFTER these events, it was long before we were able to
attain any degree of composure. A moral tempest had
wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we, remnants
of the diminished crew, were aghast at the losses and
changes which we had undergone. Idris passionately
loved her brother, and could ill brook an absence
whose duration was uncertain; his society was dear and
necessary to me--I had followed up my chosen literary
occupations with delight under his tutorship and
assistance; his mild philosophy, unerring reason, and
enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the
exalted spirit of our circle; even the children
bitterly regretted the loss of their kind playfellow.
Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment,
by day and night she figured to herself the toils and
dangers of the wanderers. Raymond absent, struggling
with difficulties, lost to the power and rank of the
Protectorate, exposed to the perils of war, became an
object of anxious interest; not that she felt any
inclination to recall him, if recall must imply a
return to their former union. Such return she felt to
be impossible; and while she believed it to be thus,
and with anguish regretted that so it should be, she
continued angry and impatient with him, who occasioned
her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused her
to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce
her in person and in mind to the shadow of what she had
been. She sought solitude, and avoided us when in
gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a family
circle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and
solemn music were her only pastimes. She neglected even
her child; shutting her heart against all tenderness,
she grew reserved towards me, her first and fast
friend.
I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself
to remedy the evil--remediless I knew, if I could not
in the end bring her to reconcile herself to Raymond.
Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion
to induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one
with a gush of tears--telling me that to be
persuaded--life and the goods of life were a cheap
exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the
capacity; again and again she declared, it were as easy
to enchain the sea, to put reins on the wind's viewless
courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit
for honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding
love. She answered my reasonings more briefly,
declaring with disdain, that the reason was hers; and,
until I could persuade her that the past could be
unacted, that maturity could go back to the cradle, and
that all that was could become as though it had never
been, it was useless to assure her that no real change
had taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride
she suffered him to go, though her very heart-strings
cracked at the fulfilling of the act, which rent from
her all that made life valuable.
To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves,
all unhinged by the cloud that had come over us, I
persuaded my two remaining companions that it were
better that we should absent ourselves for a time from
Windsor. We visited the north of England, my native
Ulswater, and lingered in scenes dear from a thousand
associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland,
that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence
we crossed to Ireland, and passed several weeks in the
neighbourhood of Killarney. The change of scene
operated to a great degree as I expected; after a
year's absence, Perdita returned in gentler and more
docile mood to Windsor. The first sight of this place
for a time unhinged her. Here every spot was distinct
with associations now grown bitter. The forest glades,
the ferny dells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated and
cheerful country spread around the silver pathway of
ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one
choral voice, inspired by memory, instinct with
plaintive regret.
But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of
her own situation, did not end here. Perdita was still
to a great degree uneducated. When first she left her
peasant life, and resided with the elegant and
cultivated Evadne, the only accomplishment she brought
to any perfection was that of painting, for which she
had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had
occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted
her Greek friend's protection. Her pallet and easel
were now thrown aside; did she try to paint, thronging
recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with
tears. With this occupation she gave up almost every
other; and her mind preyed upon itself almost to
madness.
For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me
from my selvatic wilderness to his own paradise of
order and beauty, I had been wedded to literature. I
felt convinced that however it might have been in
former times, in the present stage of the world, no
man's faculties could be developed, no man's moral
principle be enlarged and liberal, without an extensive
acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place
of an active career, of ambition, and those palpable
excitements necessary to the multitude. The collation
of philosophical opinions, the study of historical
facts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my
recreation, and the serious aim of my life. I turned
author myself. My productions however were sufficiently
unpretending; they were confined to the biography of
favourite historical characters, especially those whom
I believed to have been traduced, or about whom clung
obscurity and doubt.
As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies
and pleasures. I found another and a valuable link to
enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my point of sight
was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of
all human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings
have been called the fathers of their people. Suddenly
I became as it were the father of all mankind.
Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to
enrich the treasure house of man's intellectual
possessions; each sentiment was a precious gift I
bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be
attributed to vanity. They were not expressed in words,
nor even reduced to form in my own mind; but they
filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of
enthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which
I before walked, into the bright noon-enlightened
highway of mankind, making me, citizen of the world, a
candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the
praise and sympathy of my fellow men.
No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of
composition more intensely than I. If I left the woods,
the solemn music of the waving branches, and the
majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of
the Castle, and looked over wide, fertile England,
spread beneath our regal mount, and listened the while
to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn
harmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my
lagging thoughts, permitting them, methought, to
penetrate the last veil of nature and her God, and to
display the highest beauty in visible expression to the
understandings of men. As the music went on, my ideas
seemed to quit their mortal dwelling house; they shook
their pinions and began a flight, sailing on the placid
current of thought, filling the creation with new
glory, and rousing sublime imagery that else had slept
voiceless. Then I would hasten to my desk, weave the
new-found web of mind in firm texture and brilliant
colours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a
calmer moment.
But this account, which might as properly belong to a
former period of my life as to the present moment,
leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I took in
literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from
it, that made me eager to lead Perdita to the same
pursuits. I began with light hand and gentle
allurement; first exciting her curiosity, and then
satisfying it in such a way as might occasion her, at
the same time that she half forgot her sorrows in
occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a
reaction of benevolence and toleration.
Intellectual activity, though not directed towards
books, had always been my sister's characteristic. It
had been displayed early in life, leading her out to
solitary musing among her native mountains, causing her
to form innumerous combinations from common objects,
giving strength to her perceptions, and swiftness to
their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod of the
master-prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity.
Love had doubled all her excellencies, and placed a
diadem on her genius. Was she to cease to love? Take
the colours and odour from the rose, change the sweet
nutriment of mother's milk to gall and poison; as
easily might you wean Perdita from love. She grieved
for the loss of Raymond with an anguish, that exiled
all smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her
brow of beauty. But each day seemed to change the
nature of her suffering, and every succeeding hour
forced her to alter (if so I may style it) the fashion
of her soul's mourning garb. For a time music was able
to satisfy the cravings of her mental hunger, and her
melancholy thoughts renewed themselves in each change
of key, and varied with every alteration in the strain.
My schooling first impelled her towards books; and, if
music had been the food of sorrow, the productions of
the wise became its medicine.
The acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an
occupation, for one who referred every expression to
the universe within, and read not, as many do, for the
mere sake of filling up time; but who was still
questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea
in a thousand ways, ardently desirous for the discovery
of truth in every sentence. She sought to improve her
understanding; mechanically her heart and dispositions
became soft and gentle under this benign discipline.
After awhile she discovered, that amidst all her newly
acquired knowledge, her own character, which formerly
she fancied that she thoroughly understood, became the
first in rank among the terrae incognitae, the pathless
wilds of a country that had no chart. Erringly and
strangely she began the task of self-examination with
self-condemnation. And then again she became aware of
her own excellencies, and began to balance with juster
scales the shades of good and evil. I, who longed
beyond words, to restore her to the happiness it was
still in her power to enjoy, watched with anxiety the
result of these internal proceedings.
But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his
forces like that of an engine; and, though an impulse
draw with a forty-horse power at what appears willing
to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the
movement is not effected. Neither grief, philosophy,
nor love could make Perdita think with mildness of the
dereliction of Raymond. She now took pleasure in my
society; towards Idris she felt and displayed a full
and affectionate sense of her worth--she restored to
her child in abundant measure her tenderness and care.
But I could discover, amidst all her repinings, deep
resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense of
injury, that plucked from me my hope, when I appeared
nearest to its fulfilment. Among other painful
restrictions, she has occasioned it to become a law
among us, never to mention Raymond's name before her.
She refused to read any communications from Greece,
desiring me only to mention when any arrived, and
whether the wanderers were well. It was curious that
even little Clara observed this law towards her mother.
This lovely child was nearly eight years of age.
Formerly she had been a light-hearted infant, fanciful,
but gay and childish. After the departure of her
father, thought became impressed on her young brow.
Children, unadepts in language, seldom find words to
express their thoughts, nor could we tell in what
manner the late events had impressed themselves on her
mind. But certainly she had made deep observations
while she noted in silence the changes that passed
around her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita,
she appeared half afraid when she spoke of him to me,
and though I tried to draw her out on the subject, and
to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas
concerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign
post-day she watched for the arrival of letters-- knew
the post mark, and watched me as I read. I found her
often poring over the article of Greek intelligence in
the newspaper.
There is no more painful sight than that of untimely
care in children, and it was particularly observable in
one whose disposition had heretofore been mirthful. Yet
there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara,
that your admiration was excited; and if the moods of
mind are calculated to paint the cheek with beauty, and
endow motions with grace, surely her contemplations
must have been celestial; since every lineament was
moulded into loveliness, and her motions were more
harmonious than the elegant boundings of the fawns of
her native forest. I sometimes expostulated with
Perdita on the subject of her reserve; but she rejected
my counsels, while her daughter's sensibility excited
in her a tenderness still more passionate.
After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned
from Greece.
When our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in
existence between the Turks and Greeks; a truce that
was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal of renewed
activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia,
with all of warlike stores, ships, and military
engines, that wealth and power could command, the Turks
at once resolved to crush an enemy, which creeping on
by degrees, had from their stronghold in the Morea,
acquired Thrace and Macedonia, and had led their armies
even to the gates of Constantinople, while their
extensive commercial relations gave every European
nation an interest in their success. Greece prepared
for a vigorous resistance; it rose to a man; and the
women, sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred
their sons for the war, and bade them conquer or die
with the spirit of the Spartan mother. The talents and
courage of Raymond were highly esteemed among the
Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her
own, and by giving him the command of her peculiar
division in the army, the commander-in-chief only
possessed superior power. He was numbered among her
citizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian
heroes. His judgment, activity, and consummate bravery,
justified their choice. The Earl of Windsor became a
volunteer under his friend.
"It is well," said Adrian, "to prate of war in these
pleasant shades, and with much ill-spent oil make a
show of joy, because many thousand of our
fellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and
natal earth. I shall not be suspected of being averse
to the Greek cause; I know and feel its necessity; it
is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it
with my sword, and was willing that my spirit should be
breathed out in its defence; freedom is of more worth
than life, and the Greeks do well to defend their
privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves.
The Turks are men; each fibre, each limb is as feeling
as our own, and every spasm, be it mental or bodily, is
as truly felt in a Turk's heart or brain, as in a
Greek's. The last action at which I was present was the
taking of ---- . The Turks resisted to the last, the
garrison perished on the ramparts, and we entered by
assault. Every breathing creature within the walls was
massacred. Think you, amidst the shrieks of violated
innocence and helpless infancy, I did not feel in every
nerve the cry of a fellow being? They were men and
women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans, and
when they rise turbanless from the grave, in what
except their good or evil actions will they be the
better or worse than we? Two soldiers contended for a
girl, whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the
brutal appetites of these wretches, who, perhaps good
men among their families, were changed by the fury of
the moment into incarnated evils. An old man, with a
silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be her
grandfather, interposed to save her; the battle axe of
one of them clove his skull. I rushed to her defence,
but rage made them blind and deaf; they did not
distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words--words
were blunt weapons then, for while war cried "havoc,"
and murder gave fit echo, how could I--
Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong
With mild accost of soothing eloquence?
One of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck
me with his bayonet in the side, and I fell senseless.
"This wound will probably shorten my life, having
shattered a frame, weak of itself. But I am content to
die. I have learnt in Greece that one man, more or
less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to
fill up the thinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the
identity of an individual may be overlooked, so that
the muster roll contain its full numbers. All this has
a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to
contemplate the ideal of war, while I am sensible only
to its realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can
influence the blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist
their propensities vainly. The cause is simple. Burke
has said that, 'in all bodies those who would lead,
must also, in a considerable degree, follow.'--I cannot
follow; for I do not sympathize in their dreams of
massacre and glory--to follow and to lead in such a
career, is the natural bent of Raymond's mind. He is
always successful, and bids fair, at the same time that
he acquires high name and station for himself, to
secure liberty, probably extended empire, to the
Greeks."
Perdita's mind was not softened by this account. He,
she thought, can be great and happy without me. Would
that I also had a career! Would that I could freight
some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and
desires, and launch it forth into the ocean of
life--bound for some attainable point, with ambition or
pleasure at the helm! But adverse winds detain me on
shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water's edge and
weep. But my nerveless hands can neither fell the
trees, nor smooth the planks. Under the influence of
these melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in
love with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presence did some good;
he at once broke through the law of silence observed
concerning Raymond. At first she started from the
unaccustomed sound; soon she got used to it and to love
it, and she listened with avidity to the account of his
achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint;
Adrian and she had been old playfellows; and now, as
they walked or rode together, he yielded to her earnest
entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time, some
tale of her father's bravery, munificence, or justice.
Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating
tidings from Greece. The presence of a friend in its
armies and councils made us enter into the details with
enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from
Raymond told us how he was engrossed by the interests
of his adopted country. The Greeks were strongly
attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have
been satisfied with their present acquisitions, had not
the Turks roused them by invasion. The patriots were
victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; and
already they looked on Constantinople as their own.
Raymond rose perpetually in their estimation; but one
man held a superior command to him in their armies. He
was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position
in a battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the
banks of the Hebrus, which was to decide the fate of
Islam. The Mahometans were defeated, and driven
entirely from the country west of this river. The
battle was sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently
irreparable; the Greeks, in losing one man, forgot the
nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody field, and they
ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them--Raymond.
At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of
cavalry, and pursued the fugitives even to the banks of
the Hebrus. His favourite horse was found grazing by
the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question
whether he had fallen among the unrecognized; but no
broken ornament or stained trapping betrayed his fate.
It was suspected that the Turks, finding themselves
possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to
satisfy their cruelty rather than their avarice, and
fearful of the interference of England, had come to the
determination of concealing for ever the cold-blooded
murder of the soldier they most hated and feared in the
squadrons of their enemy.
Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of
the Protectorate had caused an unexampled sensation;
and, when his magnificent and manly system was
contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding
politicians, the period of his elevation was referred
to with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name,
joined to most honourable testimonials, in the Greek
gazettes, kept up the interest he had excited. He
seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his untimely
loss eclipsed the world, and shewed forth the remnant
of mankind with diminished lustre. They clung with
eagerness to the hope held out that he might yet be
alive. Their minister at Constantinople was urged to
make the necessary perquisitions, and should his
existence be ascertained, to demand his release. It was
to be hoped that their efforts would succeed, and that
though now a prisoner, the sport of cruelty and the
mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and
restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he
deserved.
The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was
striking. She never for a moment credited the story of
his death; she resolved instantly to go to Greece.
Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she
would endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced
for a truth, that, if argument or entreaty can turn any
one from a desperate purpose, whose motive and end
depends on the strength of the affections only, then it
is right so to turn them, since their docility shews,
that neither the motive nor the end were of sufficient
force to bear them through the obstacles attendant on
their undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof
against expostulation, this very steadiness is an omen
of success; and it becomes the duty of those who love
them, to assist in smoothing the obstructions in their
path. Such sentiments actuated our little circle.
Finding Perdita immoveable, we consulted as to the best
means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone
to a country where she had no friends, where she might
arrive only to hear the dreadful news, which must
overwhelm her with grief and remorse. Adrian, whose
health had always been weak, now suffered considerable
aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound.
Idris could not endure to leave him in this state; nor
was it right either to quit or take with us a young
family for a journey of this description. I resolved at
length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my
Idris was painful--but necessity reconciled us to it in
some degree: necessity and the hope of saving Raymond,
and restoring him again to happiness and Perdita. No
delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our
determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked.
The season was May, the weather stormless; we were
promised a prosperous voyage. Cherishing the most
fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw with
delight the receding shore of Britain, and on the wings
of desire outspeeded our well filled sails towards the
South. The light curling waves bore us onward, and old
ocean smiled at the freight of love and hope committed
to his charge; it stroked gently its tempestuous
plains, and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night
the wind right aft, gave steady impulse to our
keel--nor did rough gale, or treacherous sand, or
destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my
sister and the land which was to restore her to her
first beloved,
Her dear heart's confessor--a heart within that heart.
END OF VOL. I.
[Volume II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER I.
DURING this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed
on deck, watching the glancing of the waves and the
changeful appearances of the sky, I discovered the
total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had
wrought in the mind of my sister. Were they the same
waters of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice,
repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen
chains, flowed through the regions of her soul in
gushing and grateful exuberance? She did not believe
that he was dead, but she knew that he was in danger,
and the hope of assisting in his liberation, and the
idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that he might
have undergone, elevated and harmonized the late
jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as
she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
sanguine, but secure; and the expectation of seeing the
lover she had banished, the husband, friend, heart's
companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt
her senses in delight, her mind in placidity. It was
beginning life again; it was leaving barren sands for
an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after a
tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy
waking from a terrible dream.
Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not
well understand what was going forward. She heard that
we were bound for Greece, that she would see her
father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of
him to her mother.
On landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease
upon us: nor could the storied earth or balmy
atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure,
while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had
ever excited so strong an interest in the public mind;
this was apparent even among the phlegmatic English,
from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had
expected their hero to return in triumph; the women had
taught their children to lisp his name joined to
thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage, his
devotion to their cause, made him appear in their eyes
almost as one of the ancient deities of the soil
descended from their native Olympus to defend them.
When they spoke of his probable death and certain
captivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even as the
women of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and
mothers of Greece lament our English Raymond--Athens
was a city of mourning.
All these shews of despair struck Perdita with
affright. With that sanguine but confused expectation,
which desire engendered while she was at a distance
from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of
instantaneous change, when she should set her foot on
Grecian shores. She fancied that Raymond would already
be free, and that her tender attentions would come to
entirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance.
But his fate was still uncertain; she began to fear the
worst, and to feel that her soul's hope was cast on a
chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely
child of Lord Raymond became objects of intense
interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were
besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his
restoration; all these circumstances added to the
dismay and fears of Perdita.
My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left
Athens, and joined the army stationed at Kishan in
Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon discovered
the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner,
suffering the most rigorous confinement and wanton
cruelties. We put in movement every impulse of policy
and money to redeem him from their hands.
The impatience of my sister's disposition now returned
on her, awakened by repentance, sharpened by remorse.
The very beauty of the Grecian climate, during the
season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The
unexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth--the
genial sunshine and grateful shade--the melody of the
birds--the majesty of the woods--the splendour of the
marble ruins--the clear effulgence of the stars by
night--the combination of all that was exciting and
voluptuous in this transcending land, by inspiring a
quicker spirit of life and an added sensitiveness to
every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and
"He suffers" was the burthen of all her
thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay on the bare
earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments,
endeavoured to hold communion with his distant pain. I
remembered in one of her harshest moments a quotation
of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. "Perdita,"
I had said, "some day you will discover that you have
done wrong in again casting Raymond on the thorns of
life. When disappointment has sullied his beauty, when
a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and
loneliness made even triumph bitter to him, then you
will repent; and regret for the irreparable change
"will move
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."*
The stinging "remorse of love" now pierced her heart.
She accused herself of his journey to Greece--his
dangers--his imprisonment. She pictured to herself the
anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager
delight he had in former days made her the partner of
his joyful hopes--with what grateful affection he
received her sympathy in his cares. She called to mind
how often he had declared that solitude was to him the
greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him
more full of fear and pain when he pictured to himself
a lonely grave. "My best girl," he had said, "relieves
me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in
her dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of
finding myself alone. Even if I die before you, my
Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle
with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not
a materialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I
may feel that my inanimate dust mingles with yours, and
thus have a companion in decay." In her resentful mood,
these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and
disdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking
sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest from her uneasy
mind.
[*Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.]
Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a
promise of Raymond's release. Confinement and hardship
had undermined his health; the Turks feared an
accomplishment of the threats of the English
government, if he died under their hands; they looked
upon his recovery as impossible; they delivered him up
as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites
of burial.
He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind,
favourable to him, blew so strongly in shore, that we
were unable, as we had at first intended, to meet him
on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was
besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out
for; till on the first of May the gallant frigate bore
in sight, freighted with treasure more invaluable than
the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed
Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At early
dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore; it was
conjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles
from land. The news spread through Athens, and the
whole city poured out at the gate of the Piraeus, down
the roads, through the vineyards, the olive woods and
plantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The
noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of their
dress, the tumult of carriages and horses, the march of
soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of
martial music added to the high excitement of the
scene; while round us reposed in solemn majesty the
relics of antient time. To our right the Acropolis rose
high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient
glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of
dear-bought liberty; tombs and cenotaphs were strewed
thick around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation; the
mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in
our enthusiasm and congregated numbers a renewal of the
scenes in which they had been the actors. Perdita and
Clara rode in a close carriage; I attended them on
horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was
agitated by the outward swell of the sea; the beach, as
far could be discerned, was covered by a moving
multitude, which, urged by those behind toward the sea,
again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar
burst close to them. I applied my glass, and could
discern that the frigate had already cast anchor,
fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee
shore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I saw that
Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's side; he was
let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the
bottom of the boat.
I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were
rowing about the harbour to pull up, and take me into
their skiff; Perdita at the same moment alighted from
her carriage--she seized my arm--"Take me with you,"
she cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to
her--"You must not," I said, "the sea is rough--he will
soon be here--do you not see his boat?" The little bark
to which I had beckoned had now pulled up; before I
could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in
it--Clara followed her mother--a loud shout echoed from
the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour; while
my sister at the prow, had caught hold of one of the
men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions,
careless of the spray that broke over her, deaf,
sightless to all, except the little speck that, just
visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We
approached with all the speed six rowers could give;
the orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on
the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the stirring
breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of
the eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were
purely eastern; the sight of temple-crowned rock, the
white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun,
and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of
lofty mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the
splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my soul
in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course
of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to
look through the glass with which I had watched the
motion of the crew, when the frigate's boat had first
been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at length
the number and forms of those within could be
discerned; its dark sides grew big, and the splash of
its oars became audible: I could distinguish the
languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at
our approach.
Perdita's questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm,
panting with emotions too acute for tears--our men
pulled alongside the other boat. As a last effort, my
sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped
from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she
sprang towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing
her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by
her long hair, gave herself up to tears.
Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach,
but it was with difficulty that he exerted himself even
thus much. With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale and
gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita? I
continued awe-struck and mute--he looked smilingly on
the poor girl; the smile was his. A day of sunshine
falling on a dark valley, displays its before hidden
characteristics; and now this smile, the same with
which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had
welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered
countenance, made me in my heart's core feel that this
was Raymond.
He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the
trace of manacles on his bared wrist. I heard my
sister's sobs, and thought, happy are women who can
weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the
oppression of their feelings; shame and habitual
restraint hold back a man. I would have given worlds to
have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to
my breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over
him; my swelling heart choked me; the natural current
would not be checked; the big rebellious tears gathered
in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the
sea--they came fast and faster;--yet I could hardly be
ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors were not
unmoved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from among
our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which
convalescence always induces, enjoying in secure
tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he
adored. Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion,
and rose,--she looked round for Clara; the child
frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected
by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she came
at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to Raymond;
her first words were: "Beloved, embrace our child:"
"Come hither, sweet one," said her father, "do you not
know me?" she knew his voice, and cast herself in his
arms with half bashful but uncontrollable emotion.
Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill
consequences from the pressure of the crowd on his
landing. But they were awed as I had been, at the
change of his appearance. The music died away, the
shouts abruptly ended; the soldiers had cleared a space
in which a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it;
Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort
closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring
of the near waves, went through the multitude; they
fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of
injuring him they had come to welcome, by loud
testimonies of joy, they satisfied themselves with
bending in a low salaam as the carriage passed; it went
slowly along the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique
temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the
citadel. The sound of the waves was left behind; that
of the multitude continued at intervals, supressed and
hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches,
and public buildings were decorated with tapestry and
banners--though the soldiery lined the streets, and the
inhabitants in thousands were assembled to give him
hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery
presented arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand
waved a streamer, and vainly sought to discern the hero
in the vehicle, which, closed and encompassed by the
city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his
abode.
Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he
perceived to be excited on his account, filled him with
proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with kindness. It
is true, the populace retained themselves; but there
arose a perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round
the palace, which added to the noise of fireworks, the
frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of
horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was
the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired awhile
to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care added each
day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous
attention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the
causes which induced his rapid recovery; but the second
was surely the delight he felt in the affection and
good will of the Greeks. We are said to love much those
whom we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and
conquered for the Athenians; he had suffered, on their
account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their
gratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to
unite his fate for ever to that of a people so
enthusiastically devoted to him.
Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked
feature in my disposition. In early youth, the living
drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul into its
vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I
hoped, I enjoyed; but there was something besides this.
I was inquisitive as to the internal principles of
action of those around me: anxious to read their
thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining
their inmost mind. All events, at the same time that
they deeply interested me, arranged themselves in
pictures before me. I gave the right place to every
personage in the groupe, the just balance to every
sentiment. This undercurrent of thought, often soothed
me amidst distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to
that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul would
have revolted: it bestowed pictorial colours on misery
and disease, and not unfrequently relieved me from
despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or
instinct, was now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened
devotion of my sister; Clara's timid, but concentrated
admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite for
renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of
affection of the Athenians. Attentively perusing this
animated volume, I was the less surprised at the tale I
read on the new-turned page.
The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto;
and the Greeks, hastening their preparations, and
sending each day reinforcements, were on the eve of
forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the
coming struggle as that which would be to a great
degree decisive; as, in case of victory, the next step
would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks.
Raymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to
re-assume his command in the army.
Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination.
She only stipulated to be permitted to accompany him.
She had set down no rule of conduct for herself; but
for her life she could not have opposed his slightest
wish, or do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his
projects. One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than
battles or sieges, during which she trusted Raymond's
high command would exempt him from danger. That word,
as yet it was not more to her, was PLAGUE. This enemy
to the human race had begun early in June to raise its
serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of Asia,
not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was
in Constantinople; but as each year that city
experienced a like visitation, small attention was paid
to those accounts which declared more people to have
died there already, than usually made up the accustomed
prey of the whole of the hotter months. However it
might be, neither plague nor war could prevent Perdita
from following her lord, or induce her to utter one
objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near
him, to be loved by him, to feel him again her own, was
the limit of her desires. The object of her life was to
do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a
difference. In past times, without thought or foresight
she had made him happy, being so herself, and in any
question of choice, consulted her own wishes, as being
one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the
question, sacrificing even her anxiety for his health
and welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his
desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory,
and hatred of the barbarian government under which he
had suffered even to the approach of death, stimulated
him. He wished to repay the kindness of the Athenians,
to keep alive the splendid associations connected with
his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power which,
while every other nation advanced in civilization,
stood still, a monument of antique barbarism. Having
effected the reunion of Raymond and Perdita, I was
eager to return to England; but his earnest request,
added to awakening curiosity, and an indefinable
anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now apparently at
hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish
warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the
autumn, the period of my residence in Greece.
As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently
re-established, he prepared to join the Grecian camp,
hear Kishan, a town of some importance, situated to the
east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to
remain until the event of the expected battle. We
quitted Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had
recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If
I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured
countenance, if care had besieged his brow,
"And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field,"*
if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look,
considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs of added
years and past sufferings, yet there was something
irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately
snatched from the grave, renewing his career, untamed
by sickness or disaster. The Athenians saw in him, not
as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man, who was
ready to die for them; but the prudent commander, who
for their sakes was careful of his life, and could make
his own warrior-propensities second to the scheme of
conduct policy might point out.
[*Shakspeare's Sonnets.]
All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he
had landed a month ago, the noisy populace had been
hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a festival day
to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their
picturesque costume, and the gay colours of which it
was composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild
appearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the
hope of each wife, mother or betrothed bride, whose
husband, child, or lover, making a part of the Greek
army, were to be conducted to victory by him.
Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it
was full of romantic interest, as we passed through the
vallies, and over the hills, of this divine country.
Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of
recovered health; he felt that in being general of the
Athenians, he filled a post worthy of his ambition;
and, in his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he
counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the
waste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals of
man; when a city of grand historic association, the
beauty of whose site was the wonder of the world, which
for many hundred years had been the strong hold of the
Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism,
and restored to a people illustrious for genius,
civilization, and a spirit of liberty. Perdita rested
on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and
fame, even as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every
thought was transport, each emotion bathed as it were
in a congenial and balmy element.
We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather
during our journey had been serene. Each day, before
dawn, we left our night's encampment, and watched the
shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the
golden splendour of the sun's approach. The
accompanying soldiers received, with national vivacity,
enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful
nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by
triumphant strains, while the birds, heard by snatches,
filled up the intervals of the music. At noon, we
pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering
wood among the mountains, while a stream prattling over
pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening march, more
calm, was yet more delightful than the morning
restlessness of spirit. If the band played,
involuntarily they chose airs of moderated passion; the
farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed
and closed by some solemn hymn, which harmonized with
the tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the
soul to grand and religious thought. Often all sounds
were suspended, that we might listen to the
nightingale, while the fire-flies danced in bright
measure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of
fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a valley?
Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with
beauteous hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a
living map, was spread beneath, her renowned pinnacles
cleaving the ether; her rivers threading in silver line
the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English
travellers surveyed with extasy this splendid
landscape, so different from the sober hues and
melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we
quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace
afforded fewer beauties; yet our journey continued to
be interesting. An advanced guard gave information of
our approach, and the country people were quickly in
motion to do honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were
decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by day, and
lamps by night; tapestry waved from the windows, the
ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of
Raymond, joined to that of Greece, was echoed in the
Evive of the peasant crowd.
When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing
of the advance of Lord Raymond and his detachment, the
Turkish army had retreated from Rodosto; but meeting
with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In
the meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief,
had advanced, so as to be between the Turks and
Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable. Perdita
and her child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked
me, if I would not continue with them. "Now by the
fells of Cumberland," I cried, "by all of the vagabond
and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at your
side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed
as a victor along with you!"
All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of
sixteen leagues, was alive with troops, or with the
camp-followers, all in motion at the approach of a
battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various
towns and fortresses, and went to swell the main army.
We met baggage waggons, and many females of high and
low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to wait
the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at
Rodosto, we found that the field had been taken, and
the scheme of the battle arranged. The sound of firing,
early on the following morning, informed us that
advanced posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment
after regiment advanced, their colours flying and bands
playing. They planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole
elevations in this level country, and formed themselves
into column and hollow square; while the pioneers threw
up small mounds for their protection.
These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the
battle itself; far different from any thing the
imagination had pictured. We read of centre and wing in
Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a
table, and soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth,
so that the most ignorant of the game can discover
science and order in the disposition of the forces.
When I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off
to the left far out of sight, fields intervening
between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently
near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of
understanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching
myself to Raymond attended with intense interest to his
actions. He shewed himself collected, gallant and
imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of
the events of the day to me miraculous. In the mean
time the cannon roared; the music lifted up its
enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of
the mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the
fallen sheaves which death gathered into his
storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in smoke,
now banners and staves peering above the cloud, while
shout and clamour drowned every sound.
Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously,
and Raymond assumed the command of the whole army. He
made few remarks, till, on observing through his glass
the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded
for awhile with doubt, became radiant. "The day is
ours," he cried, "the Turks fly from the bayonet. And
then swiftly he dispatched his aides-de-camp to command
the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat
became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry
rallied, and horse pursued the flying Turks along the
dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was dispersed in
various directions, to make observations, and bear
commands. Even I was dispatched to a distant part of
the field.
The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level
plain--so level, that from the tumuli you saw the
waving line of mountains on the wide-stretched horizon;
yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least
irregularity, save such undulations as resembled the
waves of the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had
been so long a scene of contest, that it had remained
uncultivated, and presented a dreary, barren
appearance. The order I had received, was to make an
observation of the direction which a detachment of the
enemy might have taken, from a northern tumulus; the
whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had poured
eastward; none but the dead remained in the direction
of my side. From the top of the mound, I looked far
round--all was silent and deserted.
The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from
behind the far summit of Mount Athos; the sea of
Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while the
Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low
cloud. Many a casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen
from unnerved arms, reflected the departing ray; they
lay scattered far and near. From the east, a band of
ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came
sailing along towards their harvest; the sun
disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet sweet, has
always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally
led to commune with higher powers; our mortal sternness
departs, and gentle complacency invests the soul. But
now, in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could
a thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity
possess one of the murderers? During the busy day, my
mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the state of
things presented to it by its fellow-beings; historical
association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm
had held dominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening
star, as softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the
orange hues of sunset. I turned to the corse-strewn
earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were
the placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in
mist, and in this change assisted the swift
disappearance of twilight usual in the south; heavy
masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red
and turbid lightning shot from their dark edges; the
rushing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and
was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness
gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct,
I descended from my station, and with difficulty guided
my horse, so as to avoid the slain.
Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to
rise from the earth; it flew swiftly towards me,
sinking to the ground again as it drew near. All this
passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my
horse, so that it should not trample on the prostrate
being. The dress of this person was that of a soldier,
but the bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks
discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her
aid, while she, with heavy groans, and her hand placed
on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the
hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and
in my native accents endeavoured to soothe the
sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations did the
lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) recognize the
language of her lover; pain and fever from her wound
had deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries
and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me with
compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the name
of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from
her, while the Turks with fearful instruments of
torture were about to take his life. Then again she
sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a
woman's heart and sensibility, should be driven by
hopeless love and vacant hopes to take up the trade of
arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man privation,
labour, and pain--the while her dry, hot hand pressed
mine, and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire.
As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the
ground; her emaciated form hung over my arm, her sunken
cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral voice she
murmured:--"This is the end of love!--Yet not the
end!"--and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm
up to heaven: "there is the end! there we meet again.
Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O Raymond,
and now I expire, thy victim!--By my death I purchase
thee--lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are
my servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now!
I have sold myself to death, with the sole condition
that thou shouldst follow me--Fire, and war, and
plague, unite for thy destruction--O my Raymond, there
is no safety for thee!"
With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her
delirium; I made her a bed of cloaks; her violence
decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as the
paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I
placed her on the cloaks. She continued to rave of her
speedy meeting with her beloved in the grave, of his
death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared
that he was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard
destiny. Her voice grew feebler, her speech
interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her
muscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more to be
sustained, one deep sigh, and life was gone.
I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead;
wrapt in cloaks, I placed her beneath a tree. Once more
I looked on her altered face; the last time I saw her
she was eighteen; beautiful as poet's vision, splendid
as a Sultana of the East--Twelve years had past; twelve
years of change, sorrow and hardship; her brilliant
complexion had become worn and dark, her limbs had lost
the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk
deep,
Crushed and o'erworn,
The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow
With lines and wrinkles.
With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human
passion and human misery; I heaped over her all of
flags and heavy accoutrements I could find, to guard
her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow
on her a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my
course from among the heaps of slain, and, guided by
the twinkling lights of the town, at length reached
Rodosto.
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER II.
ON my arrival, I found that an order had already gone
forth for the army to proceed immediately towards
Constantinople; and the troops which had suffered least
in the battle were already on their way. The town was
full of tumult. The wound, and consequent inability of
Argyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in command.
He rode through the town, visiting the wounded, and
giving such orders as were necessary for the siege he
meditated. Early in the morning the whole army was in
motion. In the hurry I could hardly find an opportunity
to bestow the last offices on Evadne. Attended only by
my servant, I dug a deep grave for her at the foot of
the tree, and without disturbing her warrior shroud, I
placed her in it, heaping stones upon the grave. The
dazzling sun and glare of daylight, deprived the scene
of solemnity; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Raymond
and his staff, now on their way to the Golden City.
Constantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances
made. The whole Greek fleet blockaded it by sea; on
land from the river Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet Waters,
to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the
Propontis, along the whole line of the ancient walls,
the trenches of the siege were drawn. We already
possessed Pera; the Golden Horn itself, the city,
bastioned by the sea, and the ivy-mantled walls of the
Greek emperors was all of Europe that the Mahometans
could call theirs. Our army looked on her as certain
prey. They counted the garrison; it was impossible that
it should be relieved; each sally was a victory; for,
even when the Turks were triumphant, the loss of men
they sustained was an irreparable injury.
I rode one morning with Raymond to the lofty mound, not
far from the Top Kapou, (Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud
planted his standard, and first saw the city. Still the
same lofty domes and minarets towered above the
verdurous walls, where Constantine had died, and the
Turk had entered the city. The plain around was
interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and
Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees; and other
woods of more cheerful aspect, diversified the scene.
Among them the Greek army was encamped, and their
squadrons moved to and fro--now in regular march, now
in swift career.
Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. "I have counted
the hours of her life," said he; "one month, and she
falls. Remain with me till then; wait till you see the
cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your peaceful
glades."
"You then," I asked, "still remain in Greece?"
"Assuredly," replied Raymond. "Yet Lionel, when I say
this, believe me I look back with regret to our
tranquil life at Windsor. I am but half a soldier; I
love the renown, but not the trade of war. Before the
battle of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to
conquer there, and afterwards to take Constantinople,
was the hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my
ambition. This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not why;
I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulph; the
ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture
of triumph null."
He paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien
recalled, by some association, the half-forgotten
Evadne to my mind, and I seized this opportunity to
make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I
asked him, if he had ever seen among the troops any one
resembling her; if since he had returned to Greece he
had heard of her?
He started at her name,--he looked uneasily on me.
"Even so," he cried, "I knew you would speak of her.
Long, long I had forgotten her. Since our encampment
here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am
addressed, her name is the sound I expect: in every
communication, I imagine that she will form a part. At
length you have broken the spell; tell me what you know
of her."
I related my meeting with her; the story of her death
was told and re-told. With painful earnestness he
questioned me concerning her prophecies with regard to
him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. "No,
no," he said, "do not deceive yourself,--me you cannot.
She has said nothing but what I knew before--though
this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and plague! They
may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may
they fall!"
From this day Raymond's melancholy increased. He
secluded himself as much as the duties of his station
permitted. When in company, sadness would in spite of
every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent
and mute among the busy crowd that thronged about him.
Perdita rejoined him, and before her he forced himself
to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror, changed
as he changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she
solicitously inquired concerning, and endeavoured to
remove the cause of his seriousness. She resided at the
palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the
Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding scenery,
undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made
this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief,
received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth.
He often left Perdita, to wander in the grounds alone;
or in a light shallop he floated idly on the pure
waters, musing deeply. Sometimes I joined him; at such
times his countenance was invariably solemn, his air
dejected. He seemed relieved on seeing me, and would
talk with some degree of interest on the affairs of the
day. There was evidently something behind all this;
yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was
nearest his heart, he would abruptly turn away, and
with a sigh endeavour to deliver the painful idea to
the winds.
It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond
quitted Perdita's drawing-room, Clara came up to me,
and gently drawing me aside, said, "Papa is gone; shall
we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see you."
And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused
her request. One evening a numerous assembly of Greek
chieftains were gathered together in the palace. The
intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike
Ypsilanti, were among the principal. They talked of the
events of the day; the skirmish at noon; the diminished
numbers of the Infidels; their defeat and flight: they
contemplated, after a short interval of time, the
capture of the Golden City. They endeavoured to picture
forth what would then happen, and spoke in lofty terms
of the prosperity of Greece, when Constantinople should
become its capital. The conversation then reverted to
Asiatic intelligence, and the ravages the plague made
in its chief cities; conjectures were hazarded as to
the progress that disease might have made in the
besieged city.
Raymond had joined in the former part of the
discussion. In lively terms he demonstrated the
extremities to which Constantinople was reduced; the
wasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the
troops; famine and pestilence was at work for them, he
observed, and the infidels would soon be obliged to
take refuge in their only hope--submission. Suddenly in
the midst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung by
some painful thought; he rose uneasily, and I perceived
him at length quit the hall, and through the long
corridor seek the open air. He did not return; and soon
Clara crept round to me, making the accustomed
invitation. I consented to her request, and taking her
little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about
to embark in his boat, and he readily agreed to receive
us as companions. After the heats of the day, the
cooling land-breeze ruffled the river, and filled our
little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while
numerous lights along the near shores, and the
beautiful aspect of the banks reposing in placid night,
the waters keenly reflecting the heavenly lights, gave
to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that
might have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our
single boatman attended to the sail; Raymond steered;
Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her
arms, and laying her head on them. Raymond began the
conversation somewhat abruptly.
"This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall
have an opportunity of conversing freely; my plans are
now in full operation, and my time will become more and
more occupied. Besides, I wish at once to tell you my
wishes and expectations, and then never again to revert
to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you,
Lionel, for having remained here at my request. Vanity
first prompted me to ask you: vanity, I call it; yet
even in this I see the hand of fate--your presence will
soon be necessary; you will become the last resource of
Perdita, her protector and consoler. You will take her
back to Windsor."--
"Not without you," I said. "You do not mean to separate
again?"
"Do not deceive yourself," replied Raymond, "the
separation at hand is one over which I have no control;
most near at hand is it; the days are already counted.
May I trust you? For many days I have longed to
disclose the mysterious presentiments that weigh on me,
although I fear that you will ridicule them. Yet do
not, my gentle friend; for, all childish and unwise as
they are, they have become a part of me, and I dare not
expect to shake them off.
"Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You
are of this world; I am not. You hold forth your hand;
it is even as a part of yourself; and you do not yet
divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form
that shapes forth Lionel. How then can you understand
me? Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a vault,
shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have
stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I
meet appears a corse, which will soon be deserted of
its animating spark, on the eve of decay and
corruption.
Cada piedra un piramide levanta,
y cada flor costruye un monumento,
cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."*
His accent was mournful,--he sighed deeply. "A few
months ago," he continued, "I was thought to be dying;
but life was strong within me. My affections were
human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life.
Now--they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the
infidel faith are about to be encircled by triumphant
laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of title,
power, and wealth--all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let
them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may
stand even when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.
[*Calderon de la Barca.]
"Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of
hope; but when first I saw Constantinople, that
feeling, with every other joyful one, departed. The
last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of
my death. Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood
by any particular event. All I can say is, that it is
so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps
I have imbibed its effluvia--perhaps disease is the
real cause of my prognostications. It matters little
why or wherefore I am affected, no power can avert the
stroke, and the shadow of Fate's uplifted hand already
darkens me.
"To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child.
Never mention to her the fatal name of Evadne. She
would doubly sorrow over the strange link that enchains
me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice,
following her, as it is about to do, to the unknown
country."
I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad
demeanour and solemn utterance assured me of the truth
and intensity of his feelings, I should with light
derision have attempted to dissipate his fears.
Whatever I was about to reply, was interrupted by the
powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond had spoken,
thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard
with terror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her
father was moved by her violent grief; he took her in
his arms and soothed her, but his very soothings were
solemn and fearful. "Weep not, sweet child," said he,
"the coming death of one you have hardly known. I may
die, but in death I can never forget or desert my own
Clara. In after sorrow or joy, believe that you
father's spirit is near, to save or sympathize with
you. Be proud of me, and cherish your infant
remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear
to die. One thing you must promise,--not to speak to
any one but your uncle, of the conversation you have
just overheard. When I am gone, you will console your
mother, and tell her that death was only bitter because
it divided me from her; that my last thoughts will be
spent on her. But while I live, promise not to betray
me; promise, my child."
With faltering accents Clara promised, while she still
clung to her father in a transport of sorrow. Soon we
returned to shore, and I endeavoured to obviate the
impression made on the child's mind, by treating
Raymond's fears lightly. We heard no more of them; for,
as he had said, the siege, now drawing to a conclusion,
became paramount in interest, engaging all his time and
attention.
The empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its
close. The Greek fleet blockading every port of
Stamboul, prevented the arrival of succour from Asia;
all egress on the side towards land had become
impracticable, except to such desperate sallies, as
reduced the numbers of the enemy without making any
impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much
diminished, that it was evident that the city could
easily have been carried by storm; but both humanity
and policy dictated a slower mode of proceeding. We
could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the utmost, its
palaces, its temples and store of wealth would be
destroyed in the fury of contending triumph and defeat.
Already the defenceless citizens had suffered through
the barbarity of the Janisaries; and, in time of storm,
tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decrepitude,
would have alike been sacrificed to the brutal ferocity
of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were certain means
of conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of
victory.
Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our
advanced posts, and impeded the accomplishment of our
works. Fire-boats were launched from the various ports,
while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted
courage of men who did not seek to live, but to sell
their lives dearly. These contests were aggravated by
the season: they took place during summer, when the
southern Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat,
when the streams were dried up in their shallow beds,
and the vast basin of the sea appeared to glow under
the unmitigated rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did
night refresh the earth. Dew was denied; herbage and
flowers there were none; the very trees drooped; and
summer assumed the blighted appearance of winter, as it
went forth in silence and flame to abridge the means of
sustenance to man. In vain did the eye strive to find
the wreck of some northern cloud in the stainless
empyrean, which might bring hope of change and moisture
to the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was
serene, burning, annihilating. We the besiegers were in
the comparison little affected by these evils. The
woods around afforded us shade,--the river secured to
us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were
employed in furnishing the army with ice, which had
been laid up on Haemus, and Athos, and the mountains of
Macedonia, while cooling fruits and wholesome food
renovated the strength of the labourers, and made us
bear with less impatience the weight of the
unrefreshing air. But in the city things wore a
different face. The sun's rays were refracted from the
pavement and buildings--the stoppage of the public
fountains--the bad quality of the food, and scarcity
even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was
aggravated by the scourge of disease; while the
garrison arrogated every superfluity to themselves,
adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils of the
time. Still they would not capitulate.
Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. We
experienced no more assaults; and by night and day we
continued our labours unimpeded. Stranger still, when
the troops advanced near the city, the walls were
vacant, and no cannon was pointed against the
intruders. When these circumstances were reported to
Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to
what was doing within the walls, and when his scouts
returned, reporting only the continued silence and
desolation of the city, he commanded the army to be
drawn out before the gates. No one appeared on the
walls; the very portals, though locked and barred,
seemed unguarded; above, the many domes and glittering
crescents pierced heaven; while the old walls,
survivors of ages, with ivy-crowned tower and
weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in an uninhabited
waste. From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor
aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke the
noon-day stillness. Even our soldiers were awed to
silence; the music paused; the clang of arms was
hushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers, the
meaning of this sudden peace; while Raymond from an
height endeavoured, by means of glasses, to discover
and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form could
be discerned on the terraces of the houses; in the
higher parts of the town no moving shadow bespoke the
presence of any living being: the very trees waved not,
and mocked the stability of architecture with like
immovability.
The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence,
was at length discerned. It was a troop sent by
Karazza, the Admiral; they bore dispatches to the Lord
General. The contents of these papers were important.
The night before, the watch, on board one of the
smaller vessels anchored near the seraglio wall, was
roused by a slight splashing as of muffled oars; the
alarm was given: twelve small boats, each containing
three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to make
their way through the fleet to the opposite shore of
Scutari. When they found themselves discovered they
discharged their muskets, and some came to the front to
cover the others, whose crews, exerting all their
strength, endeavoured to escape with their light barks
from among the dark hulls that environed them. They
were in the end all sunk, and, with the exception of
two or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could
be got from the survivors; but their cautious answers
caused it to be surmised that several expeditions had
preceded this last, and that several Turks of rank and
importance had been conveyed to Asia. The men
disdainfully repelled the idea of having deserted the
defence of their city; and one, the youngest among
them, in answer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed,
"Take it, Christian dogs! take the palaces, the
gardens, the mosques, the abode of our fathers--take
plague with them; pestilence is the enemy we fly; if
she be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The curse
of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate."
Such was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond: but a
tale full of monstrous exaggerations, though founded on
this, was spread by the accompanying troop among our
soldiers. A murmur arose, the city was the prey of
pestilence; already had a mighty power subjugated the
inhabitants; Death had become lord of Constantinople.
I have heard a picture described, wherein all the
inhabitants of earth were drawn out in fear to stand
the encounter of Death. The feeble and decrepid fled;
the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in
flight. Wolves and lions, and various monsters of the
desert roared against him; while the grim Unreality
hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but
invincible assailant. Even so was it with the army of
Greece. I am convinced, that had the myriad troops of
Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders
of the Golden City, each and every Greek would have
marched against the overwhelming numbers, and have
devoted himself with patriotic fury for his country.
But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no
death-dealing artillery, no formidable array of brave
soldiers--the unguarded walls afforded easy
entrance--the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but
above the dome of St. Sophia the superstitious Greek
saw Pestilence, and shrunk in trepidation from her
influence.
Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. He
descended the hill with a face beaming with triumph,
and pointing with his sword to the gates, commanded his
troops to--down with those barricades--the only
obstacles now to completest victory. The soldiers
answered his cheerful words with aghast and awe-struck
looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode
in the front of the lines:--"By my sword I swear," he
cried, "that no ambush or stratagem endangers you. The
enemy is already vanquished; the pleasant places, the
noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already
yours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats of
your ancestors, your own inheritance! "
An universal shudder and fearful whispering passed
through the lines; not a soldier moved. "Cowards!"
exclaimed their general, exasperated, "give me an
hatchet! I alone will enter! I will plant your
standard; and when you see it wave from yon highest
minaret, you may gain courage, and rally round it!"
One of the officers now came forward: "General," he
said, "we neither fear the courage, nor arms, the open
attack, nor secret ambush of the Moslems. We are ready
to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times
before, to the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and
to fall gloriously for Greece. But we will not die in
heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the
pestilential air of that city--we dare not go against
the Plague!"
A multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a
voice, a leader; give them that, and they regain the
strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts from a
thousand voices now rent the air--the cry of applause
became universal. Raymond saw the danger; he was
willing to save his troops from the crime of
disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun
between the commander and his army, each act and word
added to the weakness of the former, and bestowed power
on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to be
sounded, and the regiments repaired in good order to
the camp.
I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange
proceedings to Perdita; and we were soon joined by
Raymond. He looked gloomy and perturbed. My sister was
struck by my narrative: "How beyond the imagination of
man," she exclaimed, "are the decrees of heaven,
wondrous and inexplicable!"
"Foolish girl," cried Raymond angrily, "are you like my
valiant soldiers, panic-struck? What is there
inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so very natural an
occurrence? Does not the plague rage each year in
Stamboul? What wonder, that this year, when as we are
told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it
should have occasioned double havoc in that city? What
wonder then, in time of siege, want, extreme heat, and
drought, that it should make unaccustomed ravages? Less
wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing of
being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of
the negligence of our fleet to escape at once from
siege and capture. It is not pestilence--by the God
that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger
that makes us, like birds in harvest-time, terrified by
a scarecrow, abstain from the ready prey--it is base
superstition--And thus the aim of the valiant is made
the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the
high-souled, the plaything of these tamed hares ! But
yet Stamboul shall be ours! By my past labours, by
torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by my
victories, by my sword, I swear--by my hopes of fame,
by my former deserts now awaiting their reward, I
deeply vow, with these hands to plant the cross on
yonder mosque!"
"Dearest Raymond!" interrupted Perdita, in a
supplicating accent.
He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of
the seraglio; his very lips were pale with rage, while,
quivering, they shaped his angry words--his eyes shot
fire--his gestures seemed restrained by their very
vehemence. "Perdita," he continued, impatiently, "I
know what you would say; I know that you love me, that
you are good and gentle; but this is no woman's
work--nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane
which tears me!"
He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly
quitted the hall: a look from Perdita shewed me her
distress, and I followed him. He was pacing the garden:
his passions were in a state of inconceivable
turbulence. "Am I for ever," he cried, "to be the sport
of fortune! Must man, the heaven-climber, be for ever
the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species!
Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of
life, to a succession of love-enlightened days, to
refined enjoyments and fresh-springing hopes, I might
yield, and breaking my General's staff, seek repose in
the glades of Windsor. But I am about to die!--nay,
interrupt me not--soon I shall die. From the
many-peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from
the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my
friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita,
I am about to be removed. Such is the will of fate!
Such the decree of the High Ruler from whom there is no
appeal: to whom I submit. But to lose all--to lose with
life and love, glory also! It shall not be!
"I, and in a few brief years, all you,--this
panic-struck army, and all the population of fair
Greece, will no longer be. But other generations will
arise, and ever and for ever will continue, to be made
happier by our present acts, to be glorified by our
valour. The prayer of my youth was to be one among
those who render the pages of earth's history splendid;
who exalt the race of man, and make this little globe a
dwelling of the mighty. Alas, for Raymond! the prayer
of his youth is wasted--the hopes of his manhood are
null!
"From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, soon I will be
thy lord! When Evadne pronounced my death, I thought
that the title of Victor of Constantinople would be
written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I
stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call
myself a conqueror. So shall it not be! Did not
Alexander leap from the walls of the city of the
Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the way to
victory, encountering alone the swords of its
defenders? Even so will I brave the plague--and though
no man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard on the
height of St. Sophia."
Reason came unavailing to such high-wrought feelings.
In vain I shewed him, that when winter came, the cold
would dissipate the pestilential air, and restore
courage to the Greeks. "Talk not of other season than
this!" he cried. "I have lived my last winter, and the
date of this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb.
Already do I see," he continued, looking up mournfully,
"the bourne and precipitate edge of my existence, over
which I plunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to
come. I am prepared, so that I leave behind a trail of
light so radiant, that my worst enemies cannot cloud
it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving
Perdita, and to myself, the victim of ambition."
We were interrupted by an attendant, who announced,
that the staff of Raymond was assembled in the
council-chamber. He requested me in the meantime to
ride through the camp, and to observe and report to him
the dispositions of the soldiers; he then left me. I
had been excited to the utmost by the proceedings of
the day, and now more than ever by the passionate
language of Raymond. Alas! for human reason! He accused
the Greeks of superstition: what name did he give to
the faith he lent to the predictions of Evadne? I
passed from the palace of Sweet Waters to the plain on
which the encampment lay, and found its inhabitants in
commotion. The arrival of several with fresh stories of
marvels, from the fleet; the exaggerations bestowed on
what was already known; tales of old prophecies, of
fearful histories of whole regions which had been laid
waste during the present year by pestilence, alarmed
and occupied the troops. Discipline was lost; the army
disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part of a
great whole moving only in unison with others, now
became resolved into the unit nature had made him, and
thought of himself only. They stole off at first by
ones and twos, then in larger companies, until,
unimpeded by the officers, whole battalions sought the
road that led to Macedonia.
About midnight I returned to the palace and sought
Raymond; he was alone, and apparently composed; such
composure, at least, was his as is inspired by a
resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He
heard my account of the self-dissolution of the army
with calmness, and then said, "You know, Verney, my
fixed determination not to quit this place, until in
the light of day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If the
men I have about me shrink from following me, others,
more courageous, are to be found. Go you before break
of day, bear these dispatches to Karazza, add to them
your own entreaties that he send me his marines and
naval force; if I can get but one regiment to second
me, the rest would follow of course. Let him send me
this regiment. I shall expect your return by to-morrow
noon."
Methought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured
him of my obedience and zeal. I quitted him to take a
few hours rest. With the breaking of morning I was
accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of
taking leave of Perdita, and from my window observed
the approach of the sun. The golden splendour arose,
and weary nature awoke to suffer yet another day of
heat and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up their
dew-laden cups to meet the dawn; the dry grass had
withered on the plains; the burning fields of air were
vacant of birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun,
began their shrill and deafening song among the
cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond's coal-black
charger brought to the palace gate; a small company of
officers arrived soon after; care and fear was painted
on each cheek, and in each eye, unrefreshed by sleep. I
found Raymond and Perdita together. He was watching the
rising sun, while with one arm he encircled his
beloved's waist; she looked on him, the sun of her
life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety and
tenderness. Raymond started angrily when he saw me.
"Here still?" he cried. "Is this your promised zeal?"
"Pardon me," I said, "but even as you speak, I am
gone."
"Nay, pardon me," he replied; "I have no right to
command or reproach; but my life hangs on your
departure and speedy return. Farewell!"
His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark
cloud still hung on his features. I would have delayed;
I wished to recommend watchfulness to Perdita, but his
presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my
hesitation; and on his repeating his farewell, I
clasped his outstretched hand; it was cold and clammy.
"Take care of yourself, my dear Lord," I said.
"Nay," said Perdita, "that task shall be mine. Return
speedily, Lionel."
With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn
locks, while she leaned on him; twice I turned back,
only to look again on this matchless pair. At last,
with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the hall,
and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew
towards me; clasping my knee she cried, "Make haste
back, uncle! Dear uncle, I have such fearful dreams; I
dare not tell my mother. Do not be long away!" I
assured her of my impatience to return, and then, with
a small escort rode along the plain towards the tower
of Marmora.
I fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was
somewhat surprised; he would see, he said, what could
be done; but it required time; and Raymond had ordered
me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect any
thing in so short a time. I must stay till the next
day; or come back, after having reported the present
state of things to the general. My choice was easily
made. A restlessness, a fear of what was about to
betide, a doubt as to Raymond's purposes, urged me to
return without delay to his quarters. Quitting the
Seven Towers, I rode eastward towards the Sweet Waters.
I took a circuitous path, principally for the sake of
going to the top of the mount before mentioned, which
commanded a view of the city. I had my glass with me.
The city basked under the noon-day sun, and the
venerable walls formed its picturesque boundary.
Immediately before me was the Top Kapou, the gate near
which Mahomet had made the breach by which he entered
the city. Trees gigantic and aged grew near; before the
gate I discerned a crowd of moving human figures--with
intense curiosity I lifted my glass to my eye. I saw
Lord Raymond on his charger; a small company of
officers had gathered about him; and behind was a
promiscuous concourse of soldiers and subalterns, their
discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no music
sounded, no banners streamed. The only flag among them
was one which Raymond carried; he pointed with it to
the gate of the city. The circle round him fell back.
With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and
seizing a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went
with the apparent intention of battering down the
opposing gate. A few men came to aid him; their numbers
increased; under their united blows the obstacle was
vanquished, gate, portcullis, and fence were
demolished; and the wide sun-lit way, leading to the
heart of the city, now lay open before them. The men
shrank back; they seemed afraid of what they had
already done, and stood as if they expected some Mighty
Phantom to stalk in offended majesty from the opening.
Raymond sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the
standard, and with words which I could not hear (but
his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were
marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to adjure their
assistance and companionship; even as he spoke, the
crowd receded from him. Indignation now transported
him; his words I guessed were fraught with
disdain--then turning from his coward followers, he
addressed himself to enter the city alone. His very
horse seemed to back from the fatal entrance; his dog,
his faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in his
path--in a moment more, he had plunged the rowels into
the sides of the stung animal, who bounded forward, and
he, the gateway passed, was galloping up the broad and
desart street.
Until this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I
had gazed with wonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm.
The latter feeling now predominated. I forgot the
distance between us: "I will go with thee, Raymond!" I
cried; but, my eye removed from the glass, I could
scarce discern the pigmy forms of the crowd, which
about a mile from me surrounded the gate; the form of
Raymond was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my
horse with force of spur and loosened reins down the
acclivity, that, before danger could arrive, I might be
at the side of my noble, godlike friend. A number of
buildings and trees intervened, when I had reached the
plain, hiding the city from my view. But at that moment
a crash was heard. Thunderlike it reverberated through
the sky, while the air was darkened. A moment more and
the old walls again met my sight, while over them
hovered a murky cloud; fragments of buildings whirled
above, half seen in smoke, while flames burst out
beneath, and continued explosions filled the air with
terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin
which leapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy
towers, a crowd of soldiers made for the road by which
I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable to
get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I
stretched out my hands to the men; I conjured them to
turn back and save their General, the conqueror of
Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye tears, in
warm flow gushed from my eyes--I would not believe in
his destruction; yet every mass that darkened the air
seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred
Raymond. Horrible sights were shaped to me in the
turbid cloud that hovered over the city; and my only
relief was derived from the struggles I made to
approach the gate. Yet when I effected my purpose, all
I could discern within the precincts of the massive
walls was a city of fire: the open way through which
Raymond had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame.
After an interval the explosions ceased, but the flames
still shot up from various quarters; the dome of St.
Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the result
perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the
blowing up of the city) huge, white thunder clouds
lifted themselves up from the southern horizon, and
gathered over-head; they were the first blots on the
blue expanse that I had seen for months, and amidst
this havoc and despair they inspired pleasure. The
vault above became obscured, lightning flashed from the
heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing
thunder; then the big rain fell. The flames of the city
bent beneath it; and the smoke and dust arising from
the ruins was dissipated.
I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than,
hurried on by an irresistible impulse, I endeavoured to
penetrate the town. I could only do this on foot, as
the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had
never entered the city before, and its ways were
unknown to me. The streets were blocked up, the ruins
smoking; I climbed up one heap, only to view others in
succession; and nothing told me where the centre of the
town might be, or towards what point Raymond might have
directed his course. The rain ceased; the clouds sunk
behind the horizon; it was now evening, and the sun
descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled on,
until I came to a street, whose wooden houses,
half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, and were
fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up this I
hurried--until now I had not seen a vestige of man. Yet
none of the defaced human forms which I distinguished,
could be Raymond; so I turned my eyes away, while my
heart sickened within me. I came to an open space--a
mountain of ruin in the midst, announced that some
large mosque had occupied the space--and here,
scattered about, I saw various articles of luxury and
wealth, singed, destroyed--but shewing what they had
been in their ruin--jewels, strings of pearls,
embroidered robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries,
and oriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected
here in a pile destined for destruction; but the rain
had stopped the havoc midway.
Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for
Raymond. Insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed
themselves; the still burning fires scorched me. The
sun set; the atmosphere grew dim--and the evening star
no longer shone companionless. The glare of flames
attested the progress of destruction, while, during
mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me took
gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I
could yield to the creative power of the imagination,
and for a moment was soothed by the sublime fictions it
presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me
back to blank reality. Where, in this wilderness of
death, art thou, O Raymond--ornament of England,
deliverer of Greece, "hero of unwritten story," where
in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I
called aloud for him--through the darkness of night,
over the scorching ruins of fallen Constantinople, his
name was heard; no voice replied--echo even was mute.
I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my
spirits. The sultry air impregnated with dust, the heat
and smoke of burning palaces, palsied my limbs. Hunger
suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had
hitherto sustained me was lost; as a building, whose
props are loosened, and whose foundations rock, totters
and falls, so when enthusiasm and hope deserted me, did
my strength fail. I sat on the sole remaining step of
an edifice, which even in its downfall, was huge and
magnificent; a few broken walls, not dislodged by
gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame
glimmered at intervals on the summit of the pile. For a
time hunger and sleep contended, till the
constellations reeled before my eyes and then were
lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids closed, my
limbs over-wearied, claimed repose--I rested my head on
the stone, I yielded to the grateful sensation of utter
forgetfulness; and in that scene of desolation, on that
night of despair--I slept.
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER III.
THE stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus
high in the southern heaven shewed that it was
midnight. I awoke from disturbed dreams. Methought I
had been invited to Timon's last feast; I came with
keen appetite, the covers were removed, the hot water
sent up its unsatisfying steams, while I fled before
the anger of the host, who assumed the form of Raymond;
while to my diseased fancy, the vessels hurled by him
after me, were surcharged with fetid vapour, and my
friend's shape, altered by a thousand distortions,
expanded into a gigantic phantom, bearing on its brow
the sign of pestilence. The growing shadow rose and
rose, filling, and then seeming to endeavour to burst
beyond, the adamantine vault that bent over, sustaining
and enclosing the world. The night-mare became torture;
with a strong effort I threw off sleep, and recalled
reason to her wonted functions. My first thought was
Perdita; to her I must return; her I must support,
drawing such food from despair as might best sustain
her wounded heart; recalling her from the wild excesses
of grief, by the austere laws of duty, and the soft
tenderness of regret.
The position of the stars was my only guide. I turned
from the awful ruin of the Golden City, and, after
great exertion, succeeded in extricating myself from
its enclosure. I met a company of soldiers outside the
walls; I borrowed a horse from one of them, and
hastened to my sister. The appearance of the plain was
changed during this short interval; the encampment was
broken up; the relics of the disbanded army met in
small companies here and there; each face was clouded;
every gesture spoke astonishment and dismay.
With an heavy heart I entered the palace, and stood
fearful to advance, to speak, to look. In the midst of
the hall was Perdita; she sat on the marble pavement,
her head fallen on her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her
fingers twined busily one within the other; she was
pale as marble, and every feature was contracted by
agony. She perceived me, and looked up enquiringly; her
half glance of hope was misery; the words died before I
could articulate them; I felt a ghastly smile wrinkle
my lips. She understood my gesture; again her head
fell; again her fingers worked restlessly. At last I
recovered speech, but my voice terrified her; the
hapless girl had understood my look, and for worlds she
would not that the tale of her heavy misery should have
been shaped out and confirmed by hard, irrevocable
words. Nay, she seemed to wish to distract my thoughts
from the subject: she rose from the floor: "Hush!" she
said, whisperingly; "after much weeping, Clara sleeps;
we must not disturb her." She seated herself then on
the same ottoman where I had left her in the morning
resting on the beating heart of her Raymond; I dared
not approach her, but sat at a distant corner, watching
her starting and nervous gestures. At length, in an
abrupt manner she asked, "Where is he?"
"O, fear not," she continued, "fear not that I should
entertain hope! Yet tell me, have you found him? To
have him once more in my arms, to see him, however
changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be
heaped above him as a tomb, yet I must find him--then
cover us with the city's weight, with a mountain piled
above--I care not, so that one grave hold Raymond and
his Perdita." Then weeping, she clung to me: "Take me
to him," she cried, "unkind Lionel, why do you keep me
here? Of myself I cannot find him--but you know where
he lies--lead me thither."
At first these agonizing plaints filled me with
intolerable compassion. But soon I endeavoured to
extract patience for her from the ideas she suggested.
I related my adventures of the night, my endeavours to
find our lost one, and my disappointment. Turning her
thoughts this way, I gave them an object which rescued
them from insanity. With apparent calmness she
discussed with me the probable spot where he might be
found, and planned the means we should use for that
purpose. Then hearing of my fatigue and abstinence, she
herself brought me food. I seized the favourable
moment, and endeavoured to awaken in her something
beyond the killing torpor of grief. As I spoke, my
subject carried me away; deep admiration; grief, the
offspring of truest affection, the overflowing of a
heart bursting with sympathy for all that had been
great and sublime in the career of my friend, inspired
me as I poured forth the praises of Raymond.
"Alas, for us," I cried, "who have lost this latest
honour of the world! Beloved Raymond! He is gone to the
nations of the dead; he has become one of those, who
render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious
by dwelling there. He has journied on the road that
leads to it, and joined the mighty of soul who went
before him. When the world was in its infancy death
must have been terrible, and man left his friends and
kindred to dwell, a solitary stranger, in an unknown
country. But now, he who dies finds many companions
gone before to prepare for his reception. The great of
past ages people it, the exalted hero of our own days
is counted among its inhabitants, while life becomes
doubly 'the desart and the solitude.'
"What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the
men of our time. By the grandeur of his conceptions,
the graceful daring of his actions, by his wit and
beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only
fault he might have been accused; but his death has
cancelled that. I have heard him called inconstant of
purpose--when he deserted, for the sake of love, the
hope of sovereignty, and when he abdicated the
protectorship of England, men blamed his infirmity of
purpose. Now his death has crowned his life, and to the
end of time it will be remembered, that he devoted
himself, a willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such
was his choice: he expected to die. He foresaw that he
should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome sky,
and thy love, Perdita; yet he neither hesitated or
turned back, going right onward to his mark of fame.
While the earth lasts, his actions will be recorded
with praise. Grecian maidens will in devotion strew
flowers on his tomb, and make the air around it
resonant with patriotic hymns, in which his name will
find high record."
I saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of
grief yielded to tenderness--I continued:--"Thus to
honour him, is the sacred duty of his survivors. To
make his name even as an holy spot of ground, enclosing
it from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on
it the blossoms of love and regret, guarding it from
decay, and bequeathing it untainted to posterity. Such
is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs to
you, Perdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in
her infancy, with what transport you beheld Clara,
recognizing in her the united being of yourself and
Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a
manifestation of your eternal loves. Even such is she
still. You say that you have lost Raymond. O, no!--yet
he lives with you and in you there. From him she
sprung, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone--and not,
as heretofore, are you content to trace in her downy
cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to Raymond, but
in her enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities
of her mind, you may still find him living, the good,
the great, the beloved. Be it your care to foster this
similarity--be it your care to render her worthy of
him, so that, when she glory in her origin, she take
not shame for what she is."
I could perceive that, when I recalled my sister's
thoughts to her duties in life, she did not listen with
the same patience as before. She appeared to suspect a
plan of consolation on my part, from which she,
cherishing her new-born grief, revolted. "You talk of
the future," she said, "while the present is all to me.
Let me find the earthly dwelling of my beloved; let us
rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come
men may point to the sacred tomb, and name it his--then
to other thoughts, and a new course of life, or what
else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked out
for me."
After a short repose I prepared to leave her, that I
might endeavour to accomplish her wish. In the mean
time we were joined by Clara, whose pallid cheek and
scared look shewed the deep impression grief had made
on her young mind. She seemed to be full of something
to which she could not give words; but, seizing an
opportunity afforded by Perdita's absence, she
preferred to me an earnest prayer, that I would take
her within view of the gate at which her father had
entered Constantinople. She promised to commit no
extravagance, to be docile, and immediately to return.
I could not refuse; for Clara was not an ordinary
child; her sensibility and intelligence seemed already
to have endowed her with the rights of womanhood. With
her therefore, before me on my horse, attended only by
the servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode to the
Top Kapou. We found a party of soldiers gathered round
it. They were listening. "They are human cries," said
one: "More like the howling of a dog," replied another;
and again they bent to catch the sound of regular
distant moans, which issued from the precincts of the
ruined city. "That, Clara," I said, "is the gate, that
the street which yestermorn your father rode up."
Whatever Clara's intention had been in asking to be
brought hither, it was balked by the presence of the
soldiers. With earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth
of smoking piles which had been a city, and then
expressed her readiness to return home. At this moment
a melancholy howl struck on our ears; it was repeated;
"Hark!" cried Clara, "he is there; that is Florio, my
father's dog." It seemed to me impossible that she
could recognise the sound, but she persisted in her
assertion till she gained credit with the crowd about.
At least it would be a benevolent action to rescue the
sufferer, whether human or brute, from the desolation
of the town; so, sending Clara back to her home, I
again entered Constantinople. Encouraged by the
impunity attendant on my former visit, several soldiers
who had made a part of Raymond's body guard, who had
loved him, and sincerely mourned his loss, accompanied
me.
It is impossible to conjecture the strange enchainment
of events which restored the lifeless form of my friend
to our hands. In that part of the town where the fire
had most raged the night before, and which now lay
quenched, black and cold, the dying dog of Raymond
crouched beside the mutilated form of its lord. At such
a time sorrow has no voice; affliction, tamed by it is
very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal recognised me,
licked my hand, crept close to its lord, and died. He
had been evidently thrown from his horse by some
falling ruin, which had crushed his head, and defaced
his whole person. I bent over the body, and took in my
hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in appearance
than the human frame it clothed. I pressed it to my
lips, while the rough soldiers gathered around,
mourning over this worthiest prey of death, as if
regret and endless lamentation could re-illumine the
extinguished spark, or call to its shattered
prison-house of flesh the liberated spirit. Yesterday
those limbs were worth an universe; they then enshrined
a transcendant power, whose intents, words, and actions
were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold; now the
superstition of affection alone could give value to the
shattered mechanism, which, incapable and clod-like, no
more resembled Raymond, than the fallen rain is like
the former mansion of cloud in which it climbed the
highest skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all
eyes, and satiated the sense by its excess of beauty.
Such as he had now become, such as was his terrene
vesture, defaced and spoiled, we wrapt it in our
cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our arms, bore it
from this city of the dead. The question arose as to
where we should deposit him. In our road to the palace,
we passed through the Greek cemetery; here on a tablet
of black marble I caused him to be laid; the cypresses
waved high above, their death-like gloom accorded with
his state of nothingness. We cut branches of the
funereal trees and placed them over him, and on these
again his sword. I left a guard to protect this
treasure of dust; and ordered perpetual torches to be
burned around.
When I returned to Perdita, I found that she had
already been informed of the success of my undertaking.
He, her beloved, the sole and eternal object of her
passionate tenderness, was restored her. Such was the
maniac language of her enthusiasm. What though those
limbs moved not, and those lips could no more frame
modulated accents of wisdom and love! What though like
a weed flung from the fruitless sea, he lay the prey of
corruption--still that was the form she had caressed,
those the lips that meeting hers, had drank the spirit
of love from the commingling breath; that was the
earthly mechanism of dissoluble clay she had called her
own. True, she looked forward to another life; true,
the burning spirit of love seemed to her
unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet at this time,
with human fondness, she clung to all that her human
senses permitted her to see and feel to be a part of
Raymond.
Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that, she heard my
tale, and enquired concerning the spot where he had
been deposited. Her features had lost the distortion of
grief; her eyes were brightened, her very person seemed
dilated; while the excessive whiteness and even
transparency of her skin, and something hollow in her
voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but excess
of excitement, occasioned the treacherous calm that
settled on her countenance. I asked her where he should
be buried. She replied, "At Athens; even at the Athens
which he loved. Without the town, on the acclivity of
Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he pointed out
to me as the spot where he would wish to repose."
My own desire certainly was that he should not be
removed from the spot where he now lay. But her wish
was of course to be complied with; and I entreated her
to prepare without delay for our departure.
Behold now the melancholy train cross the flats of
Thrace, and wind through the defiles, and over the
mountains of Macedonia, coast the clear waves of the
Peneus, cross the Larissean plain, pass the straits of
Thermopylae, and ascending in succession Oeta and
Parnassus, descend to the fertile plain of Athens.
Women bear with resignation these long drawn ills, but
to a man's impatient spirit, the slow motion of our
cavalcade, the melancholy repose we took at noon, the
perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous though it was,
that wrapt the rifled casket which had contained
Raymond, the monotonous recurrence of day and night,
unvaried by hope or change, all the circumstances of
our march were intolerable. Perdita, shut up in
herself, spoke little. Her carriage was closed; and,
when we rested, she sat leaning her pale cheek on her
white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground,
indulging thoughts which refused communication or
sympathy.
We descended from Parnassus, emerging from its many
folds, and passed through Livadia on our road to
Attica. Perdita would not enter Athens; but reposing at
Marathon on the night of our arrival, conducted me on
the following day, to the spot selected by her as the
treasure house of Raymond's dear remains. It was in a
recess near the head of the ravine to the south of
Hymettus. The chasm, deep, black, and hoary, swept from
the summit to the base; in the fissures of the rock
myrtle underwood grew and wild thyme, the food of many
nations of bees; enormous crags protruded into the
cleft, some beetling over, others rising
perpendicularly from it. At the foot of this sublime
chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached from sea to
sea, and beyond was spread the blue Aegean, sprinkled
with islands, the light waves glancing beneath the sun.
Close to the spot on which we stood, was a solitary
rock, high and conical, which, divided on every side
from the mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid; with
little labour this block was reduced to a perfect
shape; the narrow cell was scooped out beneath in which
Raymond was placed, and a short inscription, carved in
the living stone, recorded the name of its tenant, the
cause and aera of his death.
Every thing was accomplished with speed under my
directions. I agreed to leave the finishing and
guardianship of the tomb to the head of the religious
establishment at Athens, and by the end of October
prepared for my return to England. I mentioned this to
Perdita. It was painful to appear to drag her from the
last scene that spoke of her lost one; but to linger
here was vain, and my very soul was sick with its
yearning to rejoin my Idris and her babes. In reply, my
sister requested me to accompany her the following
evening to the tomb of Raymond. Some days had passed
since I had visited the spot. The path to it had been
enlarged, and steps hewn in the rock led us less
circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the
platform on which the pyramid stood was enlarged, and
looking towards the south, in a recess overshadowed by
the straggling branches of a wild fig-tree, I saw
foundations dug, and props and rafters fixed, evidently
the commencement of a cottage; standing on its
unfinished threshold, the tomb was at our right-hand,
the whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea immediately
before us; the dark rocks received a glow from the
descending sun, which glanced along the cultivated
valley, and dyed in purple and orange the placid waves;
we sat on a rocky elevation, and I gazed with rapture
on the beauteous panorama of living and changeful
colours, which varied and enhanced the graces of earth
and ocean.
"Did I not do right," said Perdita, "in having my loved
one conveyed hither? Hereafter this will be the
cynosure of Greece. In such a spot death loses half its
terrors, and even the inanimate dust appears to partake
of the spirit of beauty which hallows this region.
Lionel, he sleeps there; that is the grave of Raymond,
he whom in my youth I first loved; whom my heart
accompanied in days of separation and anger; to whom I
am now joined for ever. Never--mark me--never will I
leave this spot. Methinks his spirit remains here as
well as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it be,
is more precious in its nothingness than aught else
widowed earth clasps to her sorrowing bosom. The myrtle
bushes, the thyme, the little cyclamen, which peep from
the fissures of the rock, all the produce of the place,
bear affinity to him; the light that invests the hills
participates in his essence, and sky and mountains, sea
and valley, are imbued by the presence of his spirit. I
will live and die here!
"Go you to England, Lionel; return to sweet Idris and
dearest Adrian; return, and let my orphan girl be as a
child of your own in your house. Look on me as dead;
and truly if death be a mere change of state, I am
dead. This is another world, from that which late I
inhabited, from that which is now your home. Here I
hold communion only with the has been, and to come. Go
you to England, and leave me where alone I can consent
to drag out the miserable days which I must still
live."
A shower of tears terminated her sad harangue. I had
expected some extravagant proposition, and remained
silent awhile, collecting my thoughts that I might the
better combat her fanciful scheme. "You cherish dreary
thoughts, my dear Perdita," I said, "nor do I wonder
that for a time your better reason should be influenced
by passionate grief and a disturbed imagination. Even I
am in love with this last home of Raymond's;
nevertheless we must quit it."
"I expected this," cried Perdita; "I supposed that you
would treat me as a mad, foolish girl. But do not
deceive yourself; this cottage is built by my order;
and here I shall remain, until the hour arrives when I
may share his happier dwelling."
"My dearest girl!"
"And what is there so strange in my design? I might
have deceived you; I might have talked of remaining
here only a few months; in your anxiety to reach
Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or
contention, I might have pursued my plan. But I
disdained the artifice; or rather in my wretchedness it
was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my
brother, my only friend. You will not dispute with me?
You know how wilful your poor, misery-stricken sister
is. Take my girl with you; wean her from sights and
thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her
heart, and animate her eyes; so could it never be, were
she near me; it is far better for all of you that you
should never see me again. For myself, I will not
voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while I
can command myself; and I can here. But drag me from
this country; and my power of self control vanishes,
nor can I answer for the violence my agony of grief may
lead me to commit."
"You clothe your meaning, Perdita," I replied, "in
powerful words, yet that meaning is selfish and
unworthy of you. You have often agreed with me that
there is but one solution to the intricate riddle of
life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the
happiness of others: and now, in the very prime of
life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up
in useless solitude. Will you think of Raymond less at
Windsor, the scene of your early happiness? Will you
commune less with his departed spirit, while you watch
over and cultivate the rare excellence of his child?
You have been sadly visited; nor do I wonder that a
feeling akin to insanity should drive you to bitter and
unreasonable imaginings. But a home of love awaits you
in your native England. My tenderness and affection
must soothe you; the society of Raymond's friends will
be of more solace than these dreary speculations. We
will all make it our first care, our dearest task, to
contribute to your happiness."
Perdita shook her head; "If it could be so," she
replied, "I were much in the wrong to disdain your
offers. But it is not a matter of choice; I can live
here only. I am a part of this scene; each and all its
properties are a part of me. This is no sudden fancy; I
live by it. The knowledge that I am here, rises with me
in the morning, and enables me to endure the light; it
is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it
walks, it sleeps with me, for ever it accompanies me.
Here I may even cease to repine, and may add my tardy
consent to the decree which has taken him from me. He
would rather have died such a death, which will be
recorded in history to endless time, than have lived to
old age unknown, unhonoured. Nor can I desire better,
than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart,
here, in youth's prime, before added years can tarnish
the best feelings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and
speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.
"So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, wishing to
persuade you that I do right. If you are unconvinced, I
can add nothing further by way of argument, and I can
only declare my fixed resolve. I stay here; force only
can remove me. Be it so; drag me away--I return;
confine me, imprison me, still I escape, and come here.
Or would my brother rather devote the heart-broken
Perdita to the straw and chains of a maniac, than
suffer her to rest in peace beneath the shadow of His
society, in this my own selected and beloved recess?"--
All this appeared to me, I own, methodized madness. I
imagined, that it was my imperative duty to take her
from scenes that thus forcibly reminded her of her
loss. Nor did I doubt, that in the tranquillity of our
family circle at Windsor, she would recover some degree
of composure, and in the end, of happiness. My
affection for Clara also led me to oppose these fond
dreams of cherished grief; her sensibility had already
been too much excited; her infant heedlessness too soon
exchanged for deep and anxious thought. The strange and
romantic scheme of her mother, might confirm and
perpetuate the painful view of life, which had intruded
itself thus early on her contemplation.
On returning home, the captain of the steam packet with
whom I had agreed to sail, came to tell me, that
accidental circumstances hastened his departure, and
that, if I went with him, I must come on board at five
on the following morning. I hastily gave my consent to
this arrangement, and as hastily formed a plan through
which Perdita should be forced to become my companion.
I believe that most people in my situation would have
acted in the same manner. Yet this consideration does
not, or rather did not in after time, diminish the
reproaches of my conscience. At the moment, I felt
convinced that I was acting for the best, and that all
I did was right and even necessary.
I sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my seeming
assent to her wild scheme. She received my concurrence
with pleasure, and a thousand times over thanked her
deceiving, deceitful brother. As night came on, her
spirits, enlivened by my unexpected concession,
regained an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to
be alarmed by the feverish glow in her cheek; I
entreated her to take a composing draught; I poured out
the medicine, which she took docilely from me. I
watched her as she drank it. Falsehood and artifice are
in themselves so hateful, that, though I still thought
I did right, a feeling of shame and guilt came
painfully upon me. I left her, and soon heard that she
slept soundly under the influence of the opiate I had
administered. She was carried thus unconscious on
board; the anchor weighed, and the wind being
favourable, we stood far out to sea; with all the
canvas spread, and the power of the engine to assist,
we scudded swiftly and steadily through the chafed
element.
It was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a
longer time elapsed before recovering from the torpor
occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived her change of
situation. She started wildly from her couch, and flew
to the cabin window. The blue and troubled sea sped
past the vessel, and was spread shoreless around: the
sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift motion
shewed how speedily she was borne away. The creaking of
the masts, the clang of the wheels, the tramp above,
all persuaded her that she was already far from the
shores of Greece.--"Where are we?" she cried, "where
are we going?"--
The attendant whom I had stationed to watch her,
replied, "to England."--
"And my brother?"--
"Is on deck, Madam."
"Unkind! unkind!" exclaimed the poor victim, as with a
deep sigh she looked on the waste of waters. Then
without further remark, she threw herself on her couch,
and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but
for the deep sighs that burst from her, it would have
seemed that she slept.
As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to
her, that the sight of the lovely innocent might
inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts. But neither
the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from
me, could rouse my sister. She looked on Clara with a
countenance of woful meaning, but she did not speak.
When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my
enquiries, only said, "You know not what you have
done!"--I trusted that this sullenness betokened merely
the struggle between disappointment and natural
affection, and that in a few days she would be
reconciled to her fate.
When night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep
in a separate cabin. Her servant, however, remained
with her. About midnight she spoke to the latter,
saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to
her daughter, and bring word whether she rested
quietly. The woman obeyed.
The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose
again. I was on deck, enjoying our swift progress. The
quiet was disturbed only by the rush of waters as they
divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the
moveless and full sails, the wind whistling in the
shrouds, and the regular motion of the engine. The sea
was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and now
resuming an uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared;
and dark ether clipt the broad ocean, in which the
constellations vainly sought their accustomed mirror.
Our rate could not have been less than eight knots.
Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The sailors on
watch rushed to the side of the vessel, with the
cry--some one gone overboard. "It is not from deck,"
said the man at the helm, "something has been thrown
from the aft cabin." A call for the boat to be lowered
was echoed from the deck. I rushed into my sister's
cabin; it was empty.
With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel remained
unwillingly stationary, until, after an hour's search,
my poor Perdita was brought on board. But no care could
re-animate her, no medicine cause her dear eyes to
open, and the blood to flow again from her pulseless
heart. One clenched hand contained a slip of paper, on
which was written, "To Athens." To ensure her removal
thither, and prevent the irrecoverable loss of her body
in the wide sea, she had had the precaution to fasten a
long shawl round her waist, and again to the
staunchions of the cabin window. She had drifted
somewhat under the keel of the vessel, and her being
out of sight occasioned the delay in finding her. And
thus the ill-starred girl died a victim to my senseless
rashness. Thus, in early day, she left us for the
company of the dead, and preferred to share the rocky
grave of Raymond, before the animated scene this
cheerful earth afforded, and the society of loving
friends. Thus in her twenty-ninth year she died; having
enjoyed some few years of the happiness of paradise,
and sustaining a reverse to which her impatient spirit
and affectionate disposition were unable to submit. As
I marked the placid expression that had settled on her
countenance in death, I felt, in spite of the pangs of
remorse, in spite of heart-rending regret, that it was
better to die so, than to drag on long, miserable years
of repining and inconsolable grief.
Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic Gulph; and,
our vessel being hardly fitted to weather a storm, we
took refuge in the port of Ancona. Here I met Georgio
Palli, the vice-admiral of the Greek fleet, a former
friend and warm partizan of Raymond. I committed the
remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the purpose
of having them transported to Hymettus, and placed in
the cell her Raymond already occupied beneath the
pyramid. This was all accomplished even as I wished.
She reposed beside her beloved, and the tomb above was
inscribed with the united names of Raymond and Perdita.
I then came to a resolution of pursuing our journey to
England overland. My own heart was racked by regrets
and remorse. The apprehension, that Raymond had
departed for ever, that his name, blended eternally
with the past, must be erased from every anticipation
of the future, had come slowly upon me. I had always
admired his talents; his noble aspirations; his grand
conceptions of the glory and majesty of his ambition:
his utter want of mean passions; his fortitude and
daring. In Greece I had learnt to love him; his very
waywardness, and self-abandonment to the impulses of
superstition, attached me to him doubly; it might be
weakness, but it was the antipodes of all that was
grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were added the
loss of Perdita, lost through my own accursed self-will
and conceit. This dear one, my sole relation; whose
progress I had marked from tender childhood through the
varied path of life, and seen her throughout
conspicuous for integrity, devotion, and true
affection; for all that constitutes the peculiar graces
of the female character, and beheld her at last the
victim of too much loving, too constant an attachment
to the perishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty
and life, had thrown aside the pleasant perception of
the apparent world for the unreality of the grave, and
had left poor Clara quite an orphan. I concealed from
this beloved child that her mother's death was
voluntary, and tried every means to awaken cheerfulness
in her sorrow-stricken spirit.
One of my first acts for the recovery even of my own
composure, was to bid farewell to the sea. Its hateful
splash renewed again and again to my sense the death of
my sister; its roar was a dirge; in every dark hull
that was tossed on its inconstant bosom, I imaged a
bier, that would convey to death all who trusted to its
treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea! Come, my
Clara, sit beside me in this aerial bark; quickly and
gently it cleaves the azure serene, and with soft
undulation glides upon the current of the air; or, if
storm shake its fragile mechanism, the green earth is
below; we can descend, and take shelter on the stable
continent. Here aloft, the companions of the
swift-winged birds, we skim through the unresisting
element, fleetly and fearlessly. The light boat heaves
not, nor is opposed by death-bearing waves; the ether
opens before the prow, and the shadow of the globe that
upholds it, shelters us from the noon-day sun. Beneath
are the plains of Italy, or the vast undulations of the
wave-like Apennines: fertility reposes in their many
folds, and woods crown the summits. The free and happy
peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, bears the double
harvest to the garner; and the refined citizens rear
without dread the long blighted tree of knowledge in
this garden of the world. We were lifted above the
Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines
entered the plain of fair France, and after an airy
journey of six days, we landed at Dieppe, furled the
feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our
little pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of
travelling now incommodious; so we embarked in a
steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at
Portsmouth.
A strange story was rife here. A few days before, a
tempest-struck vessel had appeared off the town: the
hull was parched-looking and cracked, the sails rent,
and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the
shrouds tangled and broken. She drifted towards the
harbour, and was stranded on the sands at the entrance.
In the morning the custom-house officers, together with
a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only of the crew
appeared to have arrived with her. He had got to shore,
and had walked a few paces towards the town, and then,
vanquished by malady and approaching death, had fallen
on the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his
hands clenched, and pressed against his breast. His
skin, nearly black, his matted hair and bristly beard,
were signs of a long protracted misery. It was
whispered that he had died of the plague. No one
ventured on board the vessel, and strange sights were
averred to be seen at night, walking the deck, and
hanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to
pieces; I was shewn where she had been, and saw her
disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The body of the
man who had landed, had been buried deep in the sands;
and none could tell more, than that the vessel was
American built, and that several months before the
Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no
tidings were afterwards received.
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV.
I RETURNED to my family estate in the autumn of the
year 2092. My heart had long been with them; and I felt
sick with the hope and delight of seeing them again.
The district which contained them appeared the abode of
every kindly spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked
the forest paths, and tempered the atmosphere. After
all the agitation and sorrow I had endured in Greece, I
sought Windsor, as the storm-driven bird does the nest
in which it may fold its wings in tranquillity.
How unwise had the wanderers been, who had deserted its
shelter, entangled themselves in the web of society,
and entered on what men of the world call "life,"--that
labyrinth of evil, that scheme of mutual torture. To
live, according to this sense of the word, we must not
only observe and learn, we must also feel; we must not
be mere spectators of action, we must act; we must not
describe, but be subjects of description. Deep sorrow
must have been the inmate of our bosoms; fraud must
have lain in wait for us; the artful must have deceived
us; sickening doubt and false hope must have chequered
our days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in
ecstasy, must at times have possessed us. Who that
knows what "life" is, would pine for this feverish
species of existence? I have lived. I have spent days
and nights of festivity; I have joined in ambitious
hopes, and exulted in victory: now,--shut the door on
the world, and build high the wall that is to separate
me from the troubled scene enacted within its
precincts. Let us live for each other and for
happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home, near the
inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of
trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sublime
pageantry of the skies. Let us leave "life," that we
may live.
Idris was well content with this resolve of mine. Her
native sprightliness needed no undue excitement, and
her placid heart reposed contented on my love, the
well-being of her children, and the beauty of
surrounding nature. Her pride and blameless ambition
was to create smiles in all around her, and to shed
repose on the fragile existence of her brother. In
spite of her tender nursing, the health of Adrian
perceptibly declined. Walking, riding, the common
occupations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain, but
seemed to tremble for ever on the verge of
annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months nearly
in the same state, he did not inspire us with any
immediate fear; and, though he talked of death as an
event most familiar to his thoughts, he did not cease
to exert himself to render others happy, or to
cultivate his own astonishing powers of mind.
Winter passed away; and spring, led by the months,
awakened life in all nature. The forest was dressed in
green; the young calves frisked on the new-sprung
grass; the wind-winged shadows of light clouds sped
over the green cornfields; the hermit cuckoo repeated
his monotonous all-hail to the season; the nightingale,
bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled the
woods with song; while Venus lingered in the warm
sunset, and the young green of the trees lay in gentle
relief along the clear horizon.
Delight awoke in every heart, delight and exultation;
for there was peace through all the world; the temple
of Universal Janus was shut, and man died not that year
by the hand of man.
"Let this last but twelve months," said Adrian; "and
earth will become a Paradise. The energies of man were
before directed to the destruction of his species: they
now aim at its liberation and preservation. Man cannot
repose, and his restless aspirations will now bring
forth good instead of evil. The favoured countries of
the south will throw off the iron yoke of servitude;
poverty will quit us, and with that, sickness. What may
not the forces, never before united, of liberty and
peace achieve in this dwelling of man?"
"Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor!" said Ryland,
the old adversary of Raymond, and candidate for the
Protectorate at the ensuing election. "Be assured that
earth is not, nor ever can be heaven, while the seeds
of hell are natives of her soil. When the seasons have
become equal, when the air breeds no disorders, when
its surface is no longer liable to blights and
droughts, then sickness will cease; when men's passions
are dead, poverty will depart. When love is no longer
akin to hate, then brotherhood will exist: we are very
far from that state at present."
"Not so far as you may suppose," observed a little old
astronomer, by name Merrival, "the poles precede
slowly, but securely; in an hundred thousand years--"
"We shall all be underground," said Ryland.
"The pole of the earth will coincide with the pole of
the ecliptic," continued the astronomer, "an universal
spring will be produced, and earth become a paradise."
"And we shall of course enjoy the benefit of the
change," said Ryland, contemptuously.
"We have strange news here," I observed. I had the
newspaper in my hand, and, as usual, had turned to the
intelligence from Greece. "It seems that the total
destruction of Constantinople, and the supposition that
winter had purified the air of the fallen city, gave
the Greeks courage to visit its site, and begin to
rebuild it. But they tell us that the curse of God is
on the place, for every one who has ventured within the
walls has been tainted by the plague; that this disease
has spread in Thrace and Macedonia; and now, fearing
the virulence of infection during the coming heats, a
cordon has been drawn on the frontiers of Thessaly, and
a strict quarantine exacted."
This intelligence brought us back from the prospect of
paradise, held out after the lapse of an hundred
thousand years, to the pain and misery at present
existent upon earth. We talked of the ravages made last
year by pestilence in every quarter of the world; and
of the dreadful consequences of a second visitation. We
discussed the best means of preventing infection, and
of preserving health and activity in a large city thus
afflicted--London, for instance. Merrival did not join
in this conversation; drawing near Idris, he proceeded
to assure her that the joyful prospect of an earthly
paradise after an hundred thousand years, was clouded
to him by the knowledge that in a certain period of
time after, an earthly hell or purgatory, would occur,
when the ecliptic and equator would be at right
angles.* Our party at length broke up; "We are all
dreaming this morning," said Ryland, "it is as wise to
discuss the probability of a visitation of the plague
in our well-governed metropolis, as to calculate the
centuries which must escape before we can grow
pine-apples here in the open air."
[* See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The Mythological
Astronomy of the Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a
shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822]
But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon the
arrival of the plague in London, I could not reflect
without extreme pain on the desolation this evil would
cause in Greece. The English for the most part talked
of Thrace and Macedonia, as they would of a lunar
territory, which, unknown to them, presented no
distinct idea or interest to the minds. I had trod the
soil. The faces of many of the inhabitants were
familiar to me; in the towns, plains, hills, and
defiles of these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable
delight, as I journied through them the year before.
Some romantic village, some cottage, or elegant abode
there situated, inhabited by the lovely and the good,
rose before my mental sight, and the question haunted
me, is the plague there also?--That same invincible
monster, which hovered over and devoured
Constantinople--that fiend more cruel than tempest,
less tame than fire, is, alas, unchained in that
beautiful country--these reflections would not allow me
to rest.
The political state of England became agitated as the
time drew near when the new Protector was to be
elected. This event excited the more interest, since it
was the current report, that if the popular candidate
(Ryland) should be chosen, the question of the
abolition of hereditary rank, and other feudal relics,
would come under the consideration of parliament. Not a
word had been spoken during the present session on any
of these topics. Every thing would depend upon the
choice of a Protector, and the elections of the ensuing
year. Yet this very silence was awful, shewing the deep
weight attributed to the question; the fear of either
party to hazard an ill-timed attack, and the
expectation of a furious contention when it should
begin.
But although St. Stephen's did not echo with the voice
which filled each heart, the newspapers teemed with
nothing else; and in private companies the conversation
however remotely begun, soon verged towards this
central point, while voices were lowered and chairs
drawn closer. The nobles did not hesitate to express
their fear; the other party endeavoured to treat the
matter lightly. "Shame on the country," said Ryland,
"to lay so much stress upon words and frippery; it is a
question of nothing; of the new painting of
carriage-pannels and the embroidery of footmen's
coats."
Yet could England indeed doff her lordly trappings, and
be content with the democratic style of America? Were
the pride of ancestry, the patrician spirit, the gentle
courtesies and refined pursuits, splendid attributes of
rank, to be erased among us? We were told that this
would not be the case; that we were by nature a
poetical people, a nation easily duped by words, ready
to array clouds in splendour, and bestow honour on the
dust. This spirit we could never lose; and it was to
diffuse this concentrated spirit of birth, that the new
law was to be brought forward. We were assured that,
when the name and title of Englishman was the sole
patent of nobility, we should all be noble; that when
no man born under English sway, felt another his
superior in rank, courtesy and refinement would become
the birth-right of all our countrymen. Let not England
be so far disgraced, as to have it imagined that it can
be without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear
their patent in their mien, who are from their cradle
elevated above the rest of their species, because they
are better than the rest. Among a race of independent,
and generous, and well educated men, in a country where
the imagination is empress of men's minds, there needs
be no fear that we should want a perpetual succession
of the high-born and lordly. That party, however, could
hardly yet be considered a minority in the kingdom, who
extolled the ornament of the column, "the Corinthian
capital of polished society;" they appealed to
prejudices without number, to old attachments and young
hopes; to the expectation of thousands who might one
day become peers; they set up as a scarecrow, the
spectre of all that was sordid, mechanic and base in
the commercial republics.
The plague had come to Athens. Hundreds of English
residents returned to their own country. Raymond's
beloved Athenians, the free, the noble people of the
divinest town in Greece, fell like ripe corn before the
merciless sickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places
were deserted; its temples and palaces were converted
into tombs; its energies, bent before towards the
highest objects of human ambition, were now forced to
converge to one point, the guarding against the
innumerous arrows of the plague.
At any other time this disaster would have excited
extreme compassion among us; but it was now passed
over, while each mind was engaged by the coming
controversy. It was not so with me; and the question of
rank and right dwindled to insignificance in my eyes,
when I pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I heard
of the death of only sons; of wives and husbands most
devoted; of the rending of ties twisted with the
heart's fibres, of friend losing friend, and young
mothers mourning for their first born; and these moving
incidents were grouped and painted in my mind by the
knowledge of the persons, by my esteem and affection
for the sufferers. It was the admirers, friends, fellow
soldiers of Raymond, families that had welcomed Perdita
to Greece, and lamented with her the loss of her lord,
that were swept away, and went to dwell with them in
the undistinguishing tomb.
The plague at Athens had been preceded and caused by
the contagion from the East; and the scene of havoc and
death continued to be acted there, on a scale of
fearful magnitude. A hope that the visitation of the
present year would prove the last, kept up the spirits
of the merchants connected with these countries; but
the inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a
resignation which, arising from fanaticism, assumed the
same dark hue. America had also received the taint;
and, were it yellow fever or plague, the epidemic was
gifted with a virulence before unfelt. The devastation
was not confined to the towns, but spread throughout
the country; the hunter died in the woods, the peasant
in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his native
waters.
A strange story was brought to us from the East, to
which little credit would have been given, had not the
fact been attested by a multitude of witnesses, in
various parts of the world. On the twenty-first of
June, it was said that an hour before noon, a black sun
arose: an orb, the size of that luminary, but dark,
defined, whose beams were shadows, ascended from the
west; in about an hour it had reached the meridian, and
eclipsed the bright parent of day. Night fell upon
every country, night, sudden, rayless, entire. The
stars came out, shedding their ineffectual glimmerings
on the light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb passed
from over the sun, and lingered down the eastern
heaven. As it descended, its dusky rays crossed the
brilliant ones of the sun, and deadened or distorted
them. The shadows of things assumed strange and ghastly
shapes. The wild animals in the woods took fright at
the unknown shapes figured on the ground. They fled
they knew not whither; and the citizens were filled
with greater dread, at the convulsion which "shook
lions into civil streets;"--birds, strong-winged
eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in the market-places,
while owls and bats shewed themselves welcoming the
early night. Gradually the object of fear sank beneath
the horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy beams into
the otherwise radiant air. Such was the tale sent us
from Asia, from the eastern extremity of Europe, and
from Africa as far west as the Golden Coast.
Whether this story were true or not, the effects were
certain. Through Asia, from the banks of the Nile to
the shores of the Caspian, from the Hellespont even to
the sea of Oman, a sudden panic was driven. The men
filled the mosques; the women, veiled, hastened to the
tombs, and carried offerings to the dead, thus to
preserve the living. The plague was forgotten, in this
new fear which the black sun had spread; and, though
the dead multiplied, and the streets of Ispahan, of
Pekin, and of Delhi were strewed with pestilence-struck
corpses, men passed on, gazing on the ominous sky,
regardless of the death beneath their feet. The
christians sought their churches,--christian maidens,
even at the feast of roses, clad in white, with shining
veils, sought, in long procession, the places
consecrated to their religion, filling the air with
their hymns; while, ever and anon, from the lips of
some poor mourner in the crowd, a voice of wailing
burst, and the rest looked up, fancying they could
discern the sweeping wings of angels, who passed over
the earth, lamenting the disasters about to fall on
man.
In the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded cities of
China, amidst the aromatic groves of Cashmere, and
along the southern shores of the Mediterranean, such
scenes had place. Even in Greece the tale of the sun of
darkness encreased the fears and despair of the dying
multitude. We, in our cloudy isle, were far removed
from danger, and the only circumstance that brought
these disasters at all home to us, was the daily
arrival of vessels from the east, crowded with
emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems, though the
fear of death was spread keenly among them, still clung
together; that, if they were to die (and if they were,
death would as readily meet them on the homeless sea,
or in far England, as in Persia,)--if they were to die,
their bones might rest in earth made sacred by the
relics of true believers. Mecca had never before been
so crowded with pilgrims; yet the Arabs neglected to
pillage the caravans, but, humble and weaponless, they
joined the procession, praying Mahomet to avert plague
from their tents and deserts.
I cannot describe the rapturous delight with which I
turned from political brawls at home, and the physical
evils of distant countries, to my own dear home, to the
selected abode of goodness and love; to peace, and the
interchange of every sacred sympathy. Had I never
quitted Windsor, these emotions would not have been so
intense; but I had in Greece been the prey of fear and
deplorable change; in Greece, after a period of anxiety
and sorrow, I had seen depart two, whose very names
were the symbol of greatness and virtue. But such
miseries could never intrude upon the domestic circle
left to me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we
passed our lives in tranquillity. Some small change
indeed the progress of years brought here; and time, as
it is wont, stamped the traces of mortality on our
pleasures and expectations.
Idris, the most affectionate wife, sister and friend,
was a tender and loving mother. The feeling was not
with her as with many, a pastime; it was a passion. We
had had three children; one, the second in age, died
while I was in Greece. This had dashed the triumphant
and rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and
fear. Before this event, the little beings, sprung from
herself, the young heirs of her transient life, seemed
to have a sure lease of existence; now she dreaded that
the pitiless destroyer might snatch her remaining
darlings, as it had snatched their brother. The least
illness caused throes of terror; she was miserable if
she were at all absent from them; her treasure of
happiness she had garnered in their fragile being, and
kept forever on the watch, lest the insidious thief
should as before steal these valued gems. She had
fortunately small cause for fear. Alfred, now nine
years old, was an upright, manly little fellow, with
radiant brow, soft eyes, and gentle, though independent
disposition. Our youngest was yet in infancy; but his
downy cheek was sprinkled with the roses of health, and
his unwearied vivacity filled our halls with innocent
laughter.
Clara had passed the age which, from its mute
ignorance, was the source of the fears of Idris. Clara
was dear to her, to all. There was so much intelligence
combined with innocence, sensibility with forbearance,
and seriousness with perfect good-humour, a beauty so
transcendant, united to such endearing simplicity, that
she hung like a pearl in the shrine of our possessions,
a treasure of wonder and excellence.
At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now nine years
of age, first went to school at Eton. This appeared to
him the primary step towards manhood, and he was
proportionably pleased. Community of study and
amusement developed the best parts of his character,
his steady perseverance, generosity, and well-governed
firmness. What deep and sacred emotions are excited in
a father's bosom, when he first becomes convinced that
his love for his child is not a mere instinct, but
worthily bestowed, and that others, less akin,
participate his approbation! It was supreme happiness
to Idris and myself, to find that the frankness which
Alfred's open brow indicated, the intelligence of his
eyes, the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not
delusions, but indications of talents and virtues,
which would "grow with his growth, and strengthen with
his strength." At this period, the termination of an
animal's love for its offspring,--the true affection of
the human parent commences. We no longer look on this
dearest part of ourselves, as a tender plant which we
must cherish, or a plaything for an idle hour. We build
now on his intellectual faculties, we establish our
hopes on his moral propensities. His weakness still
imparts anxiety to this feeling, his ignorance prevents
entire intimacy; but we begin to respect the future
man, and to endeavour to secure his esteem, even as if
he were our equal. What can a parent have more at heart
than the good opinion of his child? In all our
transactions with him our honour must be inviolate, the
integrity of our relations untainted: fate and
circumstance may, when he arrives at maturity, separate
us for ever--but, as his aegis in danger, his
consolation in hardship, let the ardent youth for ever
bear with him through the rough path of life, love and
honour for his parents.
We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, that its
population of young folks was well known to us. Many of
them had been Alfred's playmates, before they became
his school-fellows. We now watched this youthful
congregation with redoubled interest. We marked the
difference of character among the boys, and endeavoured
to read the future man in the stripling. There is
nothing more lovely, to which the heart more yearns
than a free-spirited boy, gentle, brave, and generous.
Several of the Etonians had these characteristics; all
were distinguished by a sense of honour, and spirit of
enterprize; in some, as they verged towards manhood,
this degenerated into presumption; but the younger
ones, lads a little older than our own, were
conspicuous for their gallant and sweet dispositions.
Here were the future governors of England; the men,
who, when our ardour was cold, and our projects
completed or destroyed for ever, when, our drama acted,
we doffed the garb of the hour, and assumed the uniform
of age, or of more equalizing death; here were the
beings who were to carry on the vast machine of
society; here were the lovers, husbands, fathers; here
the landlord, the politician, the soldier; some fancied
that they were even now ready to appear on the stage,
eager to make one among the dramatis personae of active
life. It was not long since I was like one of these
beardless aspirants; when my boy shall have obtained
the place I now hold, I shall have tottered into a
grey-headed, wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle
of the Sphynx, most awe-striking! that thus man
remains, while we the individuals pass away. Such is,
to borrow the words of an eloquent and philosophic
writer, "the mode of existence decreed to a permanent
body composed of transitory parts; wherein, by the
disposition of a stupendous wisdom, moulding together
the great mysterious incorporation of the human race,
the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged,
or young, but, in a condition of unchangeable
constancy, moves on through the varied tenour of
perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression."*
[* Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution]
Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred!
advance, offspring of tender love, child of our hopes;
advance a soldier on the road to which I have been the
pioneer! I will make way for thee. I have already put
off the carelessness of childhood, the unlined brow,
and springy gait of early years, that they may adorn
thee. Advance; and I will despoil myself still further
for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the graces of
maturity, shall take the fire from my eyes, and agility
from my limbs, shall steal the better part of life,
eager expectation and passionate love, and shower them
in double portion on thy dear head. Advance! avail
thyself of the gift, thou and thy comrades; and in the
drama you are about to act, do not disgrace those who
taught you to enter on the stage, and to pronounce
becomingly the parts assigned to you! May your progress
be uninterrupted and secure; born during the
spring-tide of the hopes of man, may you lead up the
summer to which no winter may succeed!
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER V.
SOME disorder had surely crept into the course of the
elements, destroying their benignant influence. The
wind, prince of air, raged through his kingdom, lashing
the sea into fury, and subduing the rebel earth into
some sort of obedience.
The God sends down his angry plagues from high,
Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.
Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls
On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering
walls;
Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain,
And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.*
Their deadly power shook the flourishing countries of
the south, and during winter, even, we, in our northern
retreat, began to quake under their ill effects.
[* Elton's translation of Hesiod's Works]
That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority to
the sun over the wind. Who has not seen the lightsome
earth, the balmy atmosphere, and basking nature become
dark, cold and ungenial, when the sleeping wind has
awoke in the east? Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil
the sky, while exhaustless stores of rain are poured
down, until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe the
superabundant moisture, it lies in pools on the
surface; when the torch of day seems like a meteor, to
be quenched; who has not seen the cloud-stirring north
arise, the streaked blue appear, and soon an opening
made in the vapours in the eye of the wind, through
which the bright azure shines? The clouds become thin;
an arch is formed for ever rising upwards, till, the
universal cope being unveiled, the sun pours forth its
rays, re-animated and fed by the breeze.
Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned above all
other vicegerents of nature's power; whether thou
comest destroying from the east, or pregnant with
elementary life from the west; thee the clouds obey;
the sun is subservient to thee; the shoreless ocean is
thy slave! Thou sweepest over the earth, and oaks, the
growth of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe; the
snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the Alps,
the avalanche thunders down their vallies. Thou holdest
the keys of the frost, and canst first chain and then
set free the streams; under thy gentle governance the
buds and leaves are born, they flourish nursed by thee.
Why dost thou howl thus, O wind? By day and by night
for four long months thy roarings have not ceased--the
shores of the sea are strewn with wrecks, its
keel-welcoming surface has become impassable, the earth
has shed her beauty in obedience to thy command; the
frail balloon dares no longer sail on the agitated air;
thy ministers, the clouds, deluge the land with rain;
rivers forsake their banks; the wild torrent tears up
the mountain path; plain and wood, and verdant dell are
despoiled of their loveliness; our very cities are
wasted by thee. Alas, what will become of us? It seems
as if the giant waves of ocean, and vast arms of the
sea, were about to wrench the deep-rooted island from
its centre; and cast it, a ruin and a wreck, upon the
fields of the Atlantic.
What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least among
the many that people infinite space? Our minds embrace
infinity; the visible mechanism of our being is subject
to merest accident. Day by day we are forced to believe
this. He whom a scratch has disorganized, he who
disappears from apparent life under the influence of
the hostile agency at work around us, had the same
powers as I--I also am subject to the same laws. In the
face of all this we call ourselves lords of the
creation, wielders of the elements, masters of life and
death, and we allege in excuse of this arrogance, that
though the individual is destroyed, man continues for
ever.
Thus, losing our identity, that of which we are chiefly
conscious, we glory in the continuity of our species,
and learn to regard death without terror. But when any
whole nation becomes the victim of the destructive
powers of exterior agents, then indeed man shrinks into
insignificance, he feels his tenure of life insecure,
his inheritance on earth cut off.
I remember, after having witnessed the destructive
effects of a fire, I could not even behold a small one
in a stove, without a sensation of fear. The mounting
flames had curled round the building, as it fell, and
was destroyed. They insinuated themselves into the
substances about them, and the impediments to their
progress yielded at their touch. Could we take integral
parts of this power, and not be subject to its
operation? Could we domesticate a cub of this wild
beast, and not fear its growth and maturity?
Thus we began to feel, with regard to many-visaged
death let loose on the chosen districts of our fair
habitation, and above all, with regard to the plague.
We feared the coming summer. Nations, bordering on the
already infected countries, began to enter upon serious
plans for the better keeping out of the enemy. We, a
commercial people, were obliged to bring such schemes
under consideration; and the question of contagion
became matter of earnest disquisition.
That the plague was not what is commonly called
contagious, like the scarlet fever, or extinct
small-pox, was proved. It was called an epidemic. But
the grand question was still unsettled of how this
epidemic was generated and increased. If infection
depended upon the air, the air was subject to
infection. As for instance, a typhus fever has been
brought by ships to one sea-port town; yet the very
people who brought it there, were incapable of
communicating it in a town more fortunately situated.
But how are we to judge of airs, and pronounce--in such
a city plague will die unproductive; in such another,
nature has provided for it a plentiful harvest? In the
same way, individuals may escape ninety-nine times, and
receive the death-blow at the hundredth; because bodies
are sometimes in a state to reject the infection of
malady, and at others, thirsty to imbibe it. These
reflections made our legislators pause, before they
could decide on the laws to be put in force. The evil
was so wide-spreading, so violent and immedicable, that
no care, no prevention could be judged superfluous,
which even added a chance to our escape.
These were questions of prudence; there was no
immediate necessity for an earnest caution. England was
still secure. France, Germany, Italy and Spain, were
interposed, walls yet without a breach, between us and
the plague. Our vessels truly were the sport of winds
and waves, even as Gulliver was the toy of the
Brobdignagians; but we on our stable abode could not be
hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature. We
could not fear--we did not. Yet a feeling of awe, a
breathless sentiment of wonder, a painful sense of the
degradation of humanity, was introduced into every
heart. Nature, our mother, and our friend, had turned
on us a brow of menace. She shewed us plainly, that,
though she permitted us to assign her laws and subdue
her apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a
finger, we must quake. She could take our globe,
fringed with mountains, girded by the atmosphere,
containing the condition of our being, and all that
man's mind could invent or his force achieve; she could
take the ball in her hand, and cast it into space,
where life would be drunk up, and man and all his
efforts for ever annihilated.
These speculations were rife among us; yet not the less
we proceeded in our daily occupations, and our plans,
whose accomplishment demanded the lapse of many years.
No voice was heard telling us to hold! When foreign
distresses came to be felt by us through the channels
of commerce, we set ourselves to apply remedies.
Subscriptions were made for the emigrants, and
merchants bankrupt by the failure of trade. The English
spirit awoke to its full activity, and, as it had ever
done, set itself to resist the evil, and to stand in
the breach which diseased nature had suffered chaos and
death to make in the bounds and banks which had
hitherto kept them out.
At the commencement of summer, we began to feel, that
the mischief which had taken place in distant countries
was greater than we had at first suspected. Quito was
destroyed by an earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the
united effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds
of emigrants inundated the west of Europe; and our
island had become the refuge of thousands. In the mean
time Ryland had been chosen Protector. He had sought
this office with eagerness, under the idea of turning
his whole forces to the suppression of the privileged
orders of our community. His measures were thwarted,
and his schemes interrupted by this new state of
things. Many of the foreigners were utterly destitute;
and their increasing numbers at length forbade a
recourse to the usual modes of relief. Trade was
stopped by the failure of the interchange of cargoes
usual between us, and America, India, Egypt and Greece.
A sudden break was made in the routine of our lives. In
vain our Protector and his partizans sought to conceal
this truth; in vain, day after day, he appointed a
period for the discussion of the new laws concerning
hereditary rank and privilege; in vain he endeavoured
to represent the evil as partial and temporary. These
disasters came home to so many bosoms, and, through the
various channels of commerce, were carried so entirely
into every class and division of the community, that of
necessity they became the first question in the state,
the chief subjects to which we must turn our attention.
Can it be true, each asked the other with wonder and
dismay, that whole countries are laid waste, whole
nations annihilated, by these disorders in nature? The
vast cities of America, the fertile plains of
Hindostan, the crowded abodes of the Chinese, are
menaced with utter ruin. Where late the busy multitudes
assembled for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of
wailing and misery is heard. The air is empoisoned, and
each human being inhales death, even while in youth and
health, their hopes are in the flower. We called to
mind the plague of 1348, when it was calculated that a
third of mankind had been destroyed. As yet western
Europe was uninfected; would it always be so?
O, yes, it would--Countrymen, fear not! In the still
uncultivated wilds of America, what wonder that among
its other giant destroyers, Plague should be numbered!
It is of old a native of the East, sister of the
tornado, the earthquake, and the simoon. Child of the
sun, and nursling of the tropics, it would expire in
these climes. It drinks the dark blood of the
inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts on the
pale-faced Celt. If perchance some stricken Asiatic
come among us, plague dies with him, uncommunicated and
innoxious. Let us weep for our brethren, though we can
never experience their reverse. Let us lament over and
assist the children of the garden of the earth. Late we
envied their abodes, their spicy groves, fertile
plains, and abundant loveliness. But in this mortal
life extremes are always matched; the thorn grows with
the rose, the poison tree and the cinnamon mingle their
boughs. Persia, with its cloth of gold, marble halls,
and infinite wealth, is now a tomb. The tent of the
Arab is fallen in the sands, and his horse spurns the
ground unbridled and unsaddled. The voice of
lamentation fills the valley of Cashmere; its dells and
woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses, are
polluted by the dead; in Circassia and Georgia the
spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin of its favourite
temple--the form of woman.
Our own distresses, though they were occasioned by the
fictitious reciprocity of commerce, encreased in due
proportion. Bankers, merchants, and manufacturers,
whose trade depended on exports and interchange of
wealth, became bankrupt. Such things, when they happen
singly, affect only the immediate parties; but the
prosperity of the nation was now shaken by frequent and
extensive losses. Families, bred in opulence and
luxury, were reduced to beggary. The very state of
peace in which we gloried was injurious; there were no
means of employing the idle, or of sending any overplus
of population out of the country. Even the source of
colonies was dried up, for in New Holland, Van Diemen's
Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, plague raged. O, for
some medicinal vial to purge unwholesome nature, and
bring back the earth to its accustomed health!
Ryland was a man of strong intellects and quick and
sound decision in the usual course of things, but he
stood aghast at the multitude of evils that gathered
round us. Must he tax the landed interest to assist our
commercial population? To do this, he must gain the
favour of the chief land-holders, the nobility of the
country; and these were his vowed enemies--he must
conciliate them by abandoning his favourite scheme of
equalization; he must confirm them in their manorial
rights; he must sell his cherished plans for the
permanent good of his country, for temporary relief. He
must aim no more at the dear object of his ambition;
throwing his arms aside, he must for present ends give
up the ultimate object of his endeavours. He came to
Windsor to consult with us. Every day added to his
difficulties; the arrival of fresh vessels with
emigrants, the total cessation of commerce, the
starving multitude that thronged around the palace of
the Protectorate, were circumstances not to be tampered
with. The blow was struck; the aristocracy obtained all
they wished, and they subscribed to a twelvemonths'
bill, which levied twenty per cent on all the
rent-rolls of the country.
Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and to the
populous cities, before driven to desperation; and we
returned to the consideration of distant calamities,
wondering if the future would bring any alleviation to
their excess. It was August; so there could be small
hope of relief during the heats. On the contrary, the
disease gained virulence, while starvation did its
accustomed work. Thousands died unlamented; for beside
the yet warm corpse the mourner was stretched, made
mute by death.
On the eighteenth of this month news arrived in London
that the plague was in France and Italy. These tidings
were at first whispered about town; but no one dared
express aloud the soul-quailing intelligence. When any
one met a friend in the street, he only cried as he
hurried on, "You know!"-- while the other, with an
ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer,--"What
will become of us?" At length it was mentioned in the
newspapers. The paragraph was inserted in an obscure
part: "We regret to state that there can be no longer a
doubt of the plague having been introduced at Leghorn,
Genoa, and Marseilles." No word of comment followed;
each reader made his own fearful one. We were as a man
who hears that his house is burning, and yet hurries
through the streets, borne along by a lurking hope of a
mistake, till he turns the corner, and sees his
sheltering roof enveloped in a flame. Before it had
been a rumour; but now in words uneraseable, in
definite and undeniable print, the knowledge went
forth. Its obscurity of situation rendered it the more
conspicuous: the diminutive letters grew gigantic to
the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed graven with a
pen of iron, impressed by fire, woven in the clouds,
stamped on the very front of the universe.
The English, whether travellers or residents, came
pouring in one great revulsive stream, back on their
own country; and with them crowds of Italians and
Spaniards. Our little island was filled even to
bursting. At first an unusual quantity of specie made
its appearance with the emigrants; but these people had
no means of receiving back into their hands what they
spent among us. With the advance of summer, and the
increase of the distemper, rents were unpaid, and their
remittances failed them. It was impossible to see these
crowds of wretched, perishing creatures, late nurslings
of luxury, and not stretch out a hand to save them. As
at the conclusion of the eighteenth century, the
English unlocked their hospitable store, for the relief
of those driven from their homes by political
revolution; so now they were not backward in affording
aid to the victims of a more wide-spreading calamity.
We had many foreign friends whom we eagerly sought out,
and relieved from dreadful penury. Our Castle became an
asylum for the unhappy. A little population occupied
its halls. The revenue of its possessor, which had
always found a mode of expenditure congenial to his
generous nature, was now attended to more
parsimoniously, that it might embrace a wider portion
of utility. It was not however money, except partially,
but the necessaries of life, that became scarce. It was
difficult to find an immediate remedy. The usual one of
imports was entirely cut off. In this emergency, to
feed the very people to whom we had given refuge, we
were obliged to yield to the plough and the mattock our
pleasure-grounds and parks. Live stock diminished
sensibly in the country, from the effects of the great
demand in the market. Even the poor deer, our antlered
proteges, were obliged to fall for the sake of worthier
pensioners. The labour necessary to bring the lands to
this sort of culture, employed and fed the offcasts of
the diminished manufactories.
Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he could
make with regard to his own possessions. He addressed
himself to the wealthy of the land; he made proposals
in parliament little adapted to please the rich; but
his earnest pleadings and benevolent eloquence were
irresistible. To give up their pleasure-grounds to the
agriculturist, to diminish sensibly the number of
horses kept for the purposes of luxury throughout the
country, were means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet, to
the honour of the English be it recorded, that,
although natural disinclination made them delay awhile,
yet when the misery of their fellow-creatures became
glaring, an enthusiastic generosity inspired their
decrees. The most luxurious were often the first to
part with their indulgencies. As is common in
communities, a fashion was set. The high-born ladies of
the country would have deemed themselves disgraced if
they had now enjoyed, what they before called a
necessary, the ease of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden
time, and Indian palanquins were introduced for the
infirm; but else it was nothing singular to see females
of rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort.
It was more common, for all who possessed landed
property to secede to their estates, attended by whole
troops of the indigent, to cut down their woods to
erect temporary dwellings, and to portion out their
parks, parterres and flower-gardens, to necessitous
families. Many of these, of high rank in their own
countries, now, with hoe in hand, turned up the soil.
It was found necessary at last to check the spirit of
sacrifice, and to remind those whose generosity
proceeded to lavish waste, that, until the present
state of things became permanent, of which there was no
likelihood, it was wrong to carry change so far as to
make a reaction difficult. Experience demonstrated that
in a year or two pestilence would cease; it were well
that in the mean time we should not have destroyed our
fine breeds of horses, or have utterly changed the face
of the ornamented portion of the country.
It may be imagined that things were in a bad state
indeed, before this spirit of benevolence could have
struck such deep roots. The infection had now spread in
the southern provinces of France. But that country had
so many resources in the way of agriculture, that the
rush of population from one part of it to another, and
its increase through foreign emigration, was less felt
than with us. The panic struck appeared of more injury,
than disease and its natural concomitants.
Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing
physician. The embrowning woods, and swollen rivers,
the evening mists, and morning frosts, were welcomed
with gratitude. The effects of purifying cold were
immediately felt; and the lists of mortality abroad
were curtailed each week. Many of our visitors left us:
those whose homes were far in the south, fled
delightedly from our northern winter, and sought their
native land, secure of plenty even after their fearful
visitation. We breathed again. What the coming summer
would bring, we knew not; but the present months were
our own, and our hopes of a cessation of pestilence
were high.
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VI.
I HAVE lingered thus long on the extreme bank, the
wasting shoal that stretched into the stream of life,
dallying with the shadow of death. Thus long, I have
cradled my heart in retrospection of past happiness,
when hope was. Why not for ever thus? I am not
immortal; and the thread of my history might be spun
out to the limits of my existence. But the same
sentiment that first led me to pourtray scenes replete
with tender recollections, now bids me hurry on. The
same yearning of this warm, panting heart, that has
made me in written words record my vagabond youth, my
serene manhood, and the passions of my soul, makes me
now recoil from further delay. I must complete my work.
Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet waters
of the flowing years, and now away! Spread the sail,
and strain with oar, hurrying by dark impending crags,
adown steep rapids, even to the sea of desolation I
have reached. Yet one moment, one brief interval before
I put from shore--once, once again let me fancy myself
as I was in 2094 in my abode at Windsor, let me close
my eyes, and imagine that the immeasurable boughs of
its oaks still shadow me, its castle walls anear. Let
fancy pourtray the joyous scene of the twentieth of
June, such as even now my aching heart recalls it.
Circumstances had called me to London; here I heard
talk that symptoms of the plague had occurred in
hospitals of that city. I returned to Windsor; my brow
was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little Park,
as was my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to
the Castle. A great part of these grounds had been
given to cultivation, and strips of potatoe-land and
corn were scattered here and there. The rooks cawed
loudly in the trees above; mixed with their hoarse
cries I heard a lively strain of music. It was Alfred's
birthday. The young people, the Etonians, and children
of the neighbouring gentry, held a mock fair, to which
all the country people were invited. The park was
speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy
flags, waving in the sunshine, added to the gaiety of
the scene. On a platform erected beneath the terrace, a
number of the younger part of the assembly were
dancing. I leaned against a tree to observe them. The
band played the wild eastern air of Weber introduced in
Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave wings to the feet
of the dancers, while the lookers-on unconsciously beat
time. At first the tripping measure lifted my spirit
with it, and for a moment my eyes gladly followed the
mazes of the dance. The revulsion of thought passed
like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, I
thought; already your tomb is built up around you.
Awhile, because you are gifted with agility and
strength, you fancy that you live: but frail is the
"bower of flesh" that encaskets life; dissoluble the
silver cord than binds you to it. The joyous soul,
charioted from pleasure to pleasure by the graceful
mechanism of well-formed limbs, will suddenly feel the
axle-tree give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in
dust. Not one of you, O! fated crowd, can escape--not
one! not my own ones! not my Idris and her babes!
Horror and misery! Already the gay dance vanished, the
green sward was strewn with corpses, the blue air above
became fetid with deathly exhalations. Shriek, ye
clarions! ye loud trumpets, howl! Pile dirge on dirge;
rouse the funereal chords; let the air ring with dire
wailing; let wild discord rush on the wings of the
wind! Already I hear it, while guardian angels,
attendant on humanity, their task achieved, hasten
away, and their departure is announced by melancholy
strains; faces all unseemly with weeping, forced open
my lids; faster and faster many groups of these
woe-begone countenances thronged around, exhibiting
every variety of wretchedness--well known faces mingled
with the distorted creations of fancy. Ashy pale,
Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking on with sad
smiles. Adrian's countenance flitted across, tainted by
death--Idris, with eyes languidly closed and livid
lips, was about to slide into the wide grave. The
confusion grew--their looks of sorrow changed to
mockery; they nodded their heads in time to the music,
whose clang became maddening.
I felt that this was insanity--I sprang forward to
throw it off; I rushed into the midst of the crowd.
Idris saw me: with light step she advanced; as I folded
her in my arms, feeling, as I did, that I thus enclosed
what was to me a world, yet frail as the waterdrop
which the noon-day sun will drink from the water lily's
cup; tears filled my eyes, unwont to be thus moistened.
The joyful welcome of my boys, the soft gratulation of
Clara, the pressure of Adrian's hand, contributed to
unman me. I felt that they were near, that they were
safe, yet methought this was all deceit;--the earth
reeled, the firm-enrooted trees moved--dizziness came
over me--I sank to the ground.
My beloved friends were alarmed--nay, they expressed
their alarm so anxiously, that I dared not pronounce
the word plague, that hovered on my lips, lest
they should construe my perturbed looks into a symptom,
and see infection in my languor. I had scarcely
recovered, and with feigned hilarity had brought back
smiles into my little circle, when we saw Ryland
approach.
Ryland had something the appearance of a farmer; of a
man whose muscles and full grown stature had been
developed under the influence of vigorous exercise and
exposure to the elements. This was to a great degree
the case: for, though a large landed proprietor, yet,
being a projector, and of an ardent and industrious
disposition, he had on his own estate given himself up
to agricultural labours. When he went as ambassador to
the Northern States of America, he, for some time,
planned his entire migration; and went so far as to
make several journies far westward on that immense
continent, for the purpose of choosing the site of his
new abode. Ambition turned his thoughts from these
designs--ambition, which labouring through various lets
and hindrances, had now led him to the summit of his
hopes, in making him Lord Protector of England.
His countenance was rough but intelligent--his ample
brow and quick grey eyes seemed to look out, over his
own plans, and the opposition of his enemies. His voice
was stentorian: his hand stretched out in debate,
seemed by its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his
hearers that words were not his only weapons. Few
people had discovered some cowardice and much infirmity
of purpose under this imposing exterior. No man could
crush a "butterfly on the wheel" with better effect; no
man better cover a speedy retreat from a powerful
adversary. This had been the secret of his secession at
the time of Lord Raymond's election. In the unsteady
glance of his eye, in his extreme desire to learn the
opinions of all, in the feebleness of his hand-writing,
these qualities might be obscurely traced, but they
were not generally known. He was now our Lord
Protector. He had canvassed eagerly for this post. His
protectorate was to be distinguished by every kind of
innovation on the aristocracy. This his selected task
was exchanged for the far different one of encountering
the ruin caused by the convulsions of physical nature.
He was incapable of meeting these evils by any
comprehensive system; he had resorted to expedient
after expedient, and could never be induced to put a
remedy in force, till it came too late to be of use.
Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards us now, bore
small resemblance to the powerful, ironical, seemingly
fearless canvasser for the first rank among Englishmen.
Our native oak, as his partisans called him, was
visited truly by a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared
half his usual height; his joints were unknit, his
limbs would not support him; his face was contracted,
his eye wandering; debility of purpose and dastard fear
were expressed in every gesture.
In answer to our eager questions, one word alone fell,
as it were involuntarily, from his convulsed lips:
The Plague.--"Where?"--"Every where--we must
fly--all fly--but whither? No man can tell--there is no
refuge on earth, it comes on us like a thousand packs
of wolves--we must all fly--where shall you go? Where
can any of us go?"
These words were syllabled trembling by the iron man.
Adrian replied, "Whither indeed would you fly? We must
all remain; and do our best to help our suffering
fellow-creatures."
"Help!" said Ryland, "there is no help!--great God, who
talks of help! All the world has the plague!"
"Then to avoid it, we must quit the world," observed
Adrian, with a gentle smile.
Ryland groaned; cold drops stood on his brow. It was
useless to oppose his paroxysm of terror: but we
soothed and encouraged him, so that after an interval
he was better able to explain to us the ground of his
alarm. It had come sufficiently home to him. One of his
servants, while waiting on him, had suddenly fallen
down dead. The physician declared that he died of the
plague. We endeavoured to calm him--but our own hearts
were not calm. I saw the eye of Idris wander from me to
her children, with an anxious appeal to my judgment.
Adrian was absorbed in meditation. For myself, I own
that Ryland's words rang in my ears; all the world was
infected;--in what uncontaminated seclusion could I
save my beloved treasures, until the shadow of death
had passed from over the earth? We sunk into silence: a
silence that drank in the doleful accounts and
prognostications of our guest.
We had receded from the crowd; and ascending the steps
of the terrace, sought the Castle. Our change of cheer
struck those nearest to us; and, by means of Ryland's
servants, the report soon spread that he had fled from
the plague in London. The sprightly parties broke
up--they assembled in whispering groups. The spirit of
gaiety was eclipsed; the music ceased; the young people
left their occupations and gathered together. The
lightness of heart which had dressed them in masquerade
habits, had decorated their tents, and assembled them
in fantastic groups, appeared a sin against, and a
provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid its
palsying hand upon hope and life. The merriment of the
hour was an unholy mockery of the sorrows of man. The
foreigners whom we had among us, who had fled from the
plague in their own country, now saw their last asylum
invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they
described to eager listeners the miseries they had
beheld in cities visited by the calamity, and gave
fearful accounts of the insidious and irremediable
nature of the disease.
We had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a window that
over-looked the park; her maternal eyes sought her own
children among the young crowd. An Italian lad had got
an audience about him, and with animated gestures was
describing some scene of horror. Alfred stood
immoveable before him, his whole attention absorbed.
Little Evelyn had endeavoured to draw Clara away to
play with him; but the Italian's tale arrested her, she
crept near, her lustrous eyes fixed on the speaker.
Either watching the crowd in the park, or occupied by
painful reflection, we were all silent; Ryland stood by
himself in an embrasure of the window; Adrian paced the
hall, revolving some new and overpowering
idea--suddenly he stopped and said: "I have long
expected this; could we in reason expect that this
island should be exempt from the universal visitation?
The evil is come home to us, and we must not shrink
from our fate. What are your plans, my Lord Protector,
for the benefit of our country?"
"For heaven's love! Windsor," cried Ryland, "do not
mock me with that title. Death and disease level all
men. I neither pretend to protect nor govern an
hospital--such will England quickly become."
"Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to recede
from your duties?"
"Duties! speak rationally, my Lord!--when I am a
plague-spotted corpse, where will my duties be? Every
man for himself! the devil take the protectorship, say
I, if it expose me to danger!"
"Faint-hearted man!" cried Adrian indignantly--"Your
countrymen put their trust in you, and you betray
them!"
"I betray them!" said Ryland, "the plague betrays me.
Faint-hearted! It is well, shut up in your castle, out
of danger, to boast yourself out of fear. Take the
Protectorship who will; before God I renounce it!"
"And before God," replied his opponent, fervently, "do
I receive it! No one will canvass for this honour
now--none envy my danger or labours. Deposit your
powers in my hands. Long have I fought with death, and
much" (he stretched out his thin hand) "much have I
suffered in the struggle. It is not by flying, but by
facing the enemy, that we can conquer. If my last
combat is now about to be fought, and I am to be
worsted--so let it be!"
"But come, Ryland, recollect yourself! Men have
hitherto thought you magnanimous and wise, will you
cast aside these titles? Consider the panic your
departure will occasion. Return to London. I will go
with you. Encourage the people by your presence. I will
incur all the danger. Shame! shame! if the first
magistrate of England be foremost to renounce his
duties."
Meanwhile among our guests in the park, all thoughts of
festivity had faded. As summer-flies are scattered by
rain, so did this congregation, late noisy and happy,
in sadness and melancholy murmurs break up, dwindling
away apace. With the set sun and the deepening twilight
the park became nearly empty. Adrian and Ryland were
still in earnest discussion. We had prepared a banquet
for our guests in the lower hall of the castle; and
thither Idris and I repaired to receive and entertain
the few that remained. There is nothing more melancholy
than a merry-meeting thus turned to sorrow: the gala
dresses--the decorations, gay as they might otherwise
be, receive a solemn and funereal appearance. If such
change be painful from lighter causes, it weighed with
intolerable heaviness from the knowledge that the
earth's desolator had at last, even as an arch-fiend,
lightly over-leaped the boundaries our precautions
raised, and at once enthroned himself in the full and
beating heart of our country. Idris sat at the top of
the half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she almost
forgot her duties as hostess; her eyes were fixed on
her children. Alfred's serious air shewed that he still
revolved the tragic story related by the Italian boy.
Evelyn was the only mirthful creature present: he sat
on Clara's lap; and, making matter of glee from his own
fancies, laughed aloud. The vaulted roof echoed again
his infant tone. The poor mother who had brooded long
over, and suppressed the expression of her anguish, now
burst into tears, and folding her babe in her arms,
hurried from the hall. Clara and Alfred followed. While
the rest of the company, in confused murmur, which grew
louder and louder, gave voice to their many fears.
The younger part gathered round me to ask my advice;
and those who had friends in London were anxious beyond
the rest, to ascertain the present extent of disease in
the metropolis. I encouraged them with such thoughts of
cheer as presented themselves. I told them exceedingly
few deaths had yet been occasioned by pestilence, and
gave them hopes, as we were the last visited, so the
calamity might have lost its most venomous power before
it had reached us. The cleanliness, habits of order,
and the manner in which our cities were built, were all
in our favour. As it was an epidemic, its chief force
was derived from pernicious qualities in the air, and
it would probably do little harm where this was
naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken only to
those nearest me; but the whole assembly gathered about
me, and I found that I was listened to by all. "My
friends," I said, "our risk is common; our precautions
and exertions shall be common also. If manly courage
and resistance can save us, we will be saved. We will
fight the enemy to the last. Plague shall not find us a
ready prey; we will dispute every inch of ground; and,
by methodical and inflexible laws, pile invincible
barriers to the progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part
of the world has she met with so systematic and
determined an opposition. Perhaps no country is
naturally so well protected against our invader; nor
has nature anywhere been so well assisted by the hand
of man. We will not despair. We are neither cowards nor
fatalists; but, believing that God has placed the means
for our preservation in our own hands, we will use
those means to our utmost. Remember that cleanliness,
sobriety, and even good-humour and benevolence, are our
best medicines."
There was little I could add to this general
exhortation; for the plague, though in London, was not
among us. I dismissed the guests therefore; and they
went thoughtful, more than sad, to await the events in
store for them.
I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the result of his
discussion with Ryland. He had in part prevailed; the
Lord Protector consented to return to London for a few
weeks; during which time things should be so arranged,
as to occasion less consternation at his departure.
Adrian and Idris were together. The sadness with which
the former had first heard that the plague was in
London had vanished; the energy of his purpose informed
his body with strength, the solemn joy of enthusiasm
and self-devotion illuminated his countenance; and the
weakness of his physical nature seemed to pass from
him, as the cloud of humanity did, in the ancient
fable, from the divine lover of Semele. He was
endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to bring her
to look on his intent in a less tragic light than she
was prepared to do; and with passionate eloquence he
unfolded his designs to her.
"Let me, at the first word," he said, "relieve your
mind from all fear on my account. I will not task
myself beyond my powers, nor will I needlessly seek
danger. I feel that I know what ought to be done, and
as my presence is necessary for the accomplishment of
my plans, I will take especial care to preserve my
life.
"I am now going to undertake an office fitted for me. I
cannot intrigue, or work a tortuous path through the
labyrinth of men's vices and passions; but I can bring
patience, and sympathy, and such aid as art affords, to
the bed of disease; I can raise from earth the
miserable orphan, and awaken to new hopes the shut
heart of the mourner. I can enchain the plague in
limits, and set a term to the misery it would occasion;
courage, forbearance, and watchfulness, are the forces
I bring towards this great work.
"O, I shall be something now! From my birth I have
aspired like the eagle--but, unlike the eagle, my wings
have failed, and my vision has been blinded.
Disappointment and sickness have hitherto held dominion
over me; twin born with me, my would, was for
ever enchained by the shall not, of these my
tyrants. A shepherd-boy that tends a silly flock on the
mountains, was more in the scale of society than I.
Congratulate me then that I have found fitting scope
for my powers. I have often thought of offering my
services to the pestilence-stricken towns of France and
Italy; but fear of paining you, and expectation of this
catastrophe, withheld me. To England and to Englishmen
I dedicate myself. If I can save one of her mighty
spirits from the deadly shaft; if I can ward disease
from one of her smiling cottages, I shall not have
lived in vain."
Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian. He appeared
given up to contemplation, averse to excitement, a
lowly student, a man of visions--but afford him worthy
theme, and--
Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.*
so did he spring up from listlessness and unproductive
thought, to the highest pitch of virtuous action.
[* Shakespeare's Sonnets.]
With him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought resolve, the
eye that without blenching could look at death. With us
remained sorrow, anxiety, and unendurable expectation
of evil. The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife and
children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain was all
philosophical reasoning--vain all fortitude--vain,
vain, a reliance on probable good. I might heap high
the scale with logic, courage, and resignation--but let
one fear for Idris and our children enter the opposite
one, and, over-weighed, it kicked the beam.
The plague was in London! Fools that we were not long
ago to have foreseen this. We wept over the ruin of the
boundless continents of the east, and the desolation of
the western world; while we fancied that the little
channel between our island and the rest of the earth
was to preserve us alive among the dead. It were no
mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover. The eye
easily discerns the sister land; they were united once;
and the little path that runs between looks in a map
but as a trodden footway through high grass. Yet this
small interval was to save us: the sea was to rise a
wall of adamant--without, disease and misery--within, a
shelter from evil, a nook of the garden of paradise--a
particle of celestial soil, which no evil could
invade--truly we were wise in our generation, to
imagine all these things!
But we are awake now. The plague is in London; the air
of England is tainted, and her sons and daughters strew
the unwholesome earth. And now, the sea, late our
defence, seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its
gulphs, we shall die like the famished inhabitants of a
besieged town. Other nations have a fellowship in
death; but we, shut out from all neighbourhood, must
bury our own dead, and little England become a wide,
wide tomb.
This feeling of universal misery assumed concentration
and shape, when I looked on my wife and children; and
the thought of danger to them possessed my whole being
with fear. How could I save them? I revolved a thousand
and a thousand plans. They should not die--first I
would be gathered to nothingness, ere infection should
come anear these idols of my soul. I would walk
barefoot through the world, to find an uninfected spot;
I would build my home on some wave-tossed plank,
drifted about on the barren, shoreless ocean. I would
betake me with them to some wild beast's den, where a
tyger's cubs, which I would slay, had been reared in
health. I would seek the mountain eagle's eirie, and
live years suspended in some inaccessible recess of a
sea-bounding cliff--no labour too great, no scheme too
wild, if it promised life to them. O! ye heart-strings
of mine, could ye be torn asunder, and my soul not
spend itself in tears of blood for sorrow!
Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion of
fortitude. She studiously shut out all prospect of the
future, and cradled her heart in present blessings. She
never for a moment lost sight of her children. But
while they in health sported about her, she could
cherish contentment and hope. A strange and wild
restlessness came over me--the more intolerable,
because I was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian
were ceaseless; August had come; and the symptoms of
plague encreased rapidly in London. It was deserted by
all who possessed the power of removing; and he, the
brother of my soul, was exposed to the perils from
which all but slaves enchained by circumstance fled. He
remained to combat the fiend--his side unguarded, his
toils unshared--infection might even reach him, and he
die unattended and alone. By day and night these
thoughts pursued me. I resolved to visit London, to see
him; to quiet these agonizing throes by the sweet
medicine of hope, or the opiate of despair.
It was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I
perceived much change in the face of the country. The
better sort of houses were shut up; the busy trade of
the town palsied; there was an air of anxiety among the
few passengers I met, and they looked wonderingly at my
carriage--the first they had seen pass towards London,
since pestilence sat on its high places, and possessed
its busy streets. I met several funerals; they were
slenderly attended by mourners, and were regarded by
the spectators as omens of direst import. Some gazed on
these processions with wild eagerness--others fled
timidly--some wept aloud.
Adrian's chief endeavour, after the immediate succour
of the sick, had been to disguise the symptoms and
progress of the plague from the inhabitants of London.
He knew that fear and melancholy forebodings were
powerful assistants to disease; that desponding and
brooding care rendered the physical nature of man
peculiarly susceptible of infection. No unseemly sights
were therefore discernible: the shops were in general
open, the concourse of passengers in some degree kept
up. But although the appearance of an infected town was
avoided, to me, who had not beheld it since the
commencement of the visitation, London appeared
sufficiently changed. There were no carriages, and
grass had sprung high in the streets; the houses had a
desolate look; most of the shutters were closed; and
there was a ghast and frightened stare in the persons I
met, very different from the usual business-like
demeanour of the Londoners. My solitary carriage
attracted notice, as it rattled along towards the
Protectoral Palace--and the fashionable streets leading
to it wore a still more dreary and deserted appearance.
I found Adrian's anti-chamber crowded--it was his hour
for giving audience. I was unwilling to disturb his
labours, and waited, watching the ingress and egress of
the petitioners. They consisted of people of the
middling and lower classes of society, whose means of
subsistence failed with the cessation of trade, and of
the busy spirit of money-making in all its branches,
peculiar to our country. There was an air of anxiety,
sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly
contrasted with the resigned and even satisfied mien of
those who had had audience. I could read the influence
of my friend in their quickened motions and cheerful
faces. Two o'clock struck, after which none were
admitted; those who had been disappointed went sullenly
or sorrowfully away, while I entered the
audience-chamber.
I was struck by the improvement that appeared in the
health of Adrian. He was no longer bent to the ground,
like an over-nursed flower of spring, that, shooting up
beyond its strength, is weighed down even by its own
coronal of blossoms. His eyes were bright, his
countenance composed, an air of concentrated energy was
diffused over his whole person, much unlike its former
languor. He sat at a table with several secretaries,
who were arranging petitions, or registering the notes
made during that day's audience. Two or three
petitioners were still in attendance. I admired his
justice and patience. Those who possessed a power of
living out of London, he advised immediately to quit
it, affording them the means of so doing. Others, whose
trade was beneficial to the city, or who possessed no
other refuge, he provided with advice for better
avoiding the epidemic; relieving overloaded families,
supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order,
comfort, and even health, rose under his influence, as
from the touch of a magician's wand.
"I am glad you are come," he said to me, when we were
at last alone; "I can only spare a few minutes, and
must tell you much in that time. The plague is now in
progress--it is useless closing one's eyes to the
fact--the deaths encrease each week. What will come I
cannot guess. As yet, thank God, I am equal to the
government of the town; and I look only to the present.
Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has stipulated
that I shall suffer him to depart before the end of
this month. The deputy appointed by parliament is dead;
another therefore must be named; I have advanced my
claim, and I believe that I shall have no competitor.
To-night the question is to be decided, as there is a
call of the house for the purpose. You must nominate
me, Lionel; Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but
you, my friend, will do me this service?"
How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally
sprung, bred in luxury, by nature averse to the usual
struggles of a public life, and now, in time of danger,
at a period when to live was the utmost scope of the
ambitious, he, the beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in
sweet simplicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the
public good. The very idea was generous and
noble,--but, beyond this, his unpretending manner, his
entire want of the assumption of a virtue, rendered his
act ten times more touching. I would have withstood his
request; but I had seen the good he diffused; I felt
that his resolves were not to be shaken, so, with an
heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He grasped
my hand affectionately:--"Thank you," he said, "you
have relieved me from a painful dilemma, and are, as
you ever were, the best of my friends. Farewell--I must
now leave you for a few hours. Go you and converse with
Ryland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may
be of the greatest service in the north of England, by
receiving and assisting travellers, and contributing to
supply the metropolis with food. Awaken him, I entreat
you, to some sense of duty."
Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily
task of visiting the hospitals, and inspecting the
crowded parts of London. I found Ryland much altered,
even from what he had been when he visited Windsor.
Perpetual fear had jaundiced his complexion, and
shrivelled his whole person. I told him of the business
of the evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted
muscles. He desired to go; each day he expected to be
infected by pestilence, each day he was unable to
resist the gentle violence of Adrian's detention. The
moment Adrian should be legally elected his deputy, he
would escape to safety. Under this impression he
listened to all I said; and, elevated almost to joy by
the near prospect of his departure, he entered into a
discussion concerning the plans he should adopt in his
own county, forgetting, for the moment, his cherished
resolution of shutting himself up from all
communication in the mansion and grounds of his estate.
In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster.
As we went he reminded me of what I was to say and do,
yet, strange to say, I entered the chamber without
having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian remained in
the coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his
desire, took my seat in St. Stephen's. There reigned
unusual silence in the chamber. I had not visited it
since Raymond's protectorate; a period conspicuous for
a numerous attendance of members, for the eloquence of
the speakers, and the warmth of the debate. The benches
were very empty, those by custom occupied by the
hereditary members were vacant; the city members were
there--the members for the commercial towns, few landed
proprietors, and not many of those who entered
parliament for the sake of a career. The first subject
that occupied the attention of the house was an address
from the Lord Protector, praying them to appoint a
deputy during a necessary absence on his part.
A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to
me, whispered that the Earl of Windsor had sent him
word that I was to move his election, in the absence of
the person who had been first chosen for this office.
Now for the first time I saw the full extent of my
task, and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought on
myself. Ryland had deserted his post through fear of
the plague: from the same fear Adrian had no
competitor. And I, the nearest kinsman of the Earl of
Windsor, was to propose his election. I was to thrust
this selected and matchless friend into the post of
danger--impossible! the die was cast--I would offer
myself as candidate.
The few members who were present, had come more for the
sake of terminating the business by securing a legal
attendance, than under the idea of a debate. I had
risen mechanically--my knees trembled; irresolution
hung on my voice, as I uttered a few words on the
necessity of choosing a person adequate to the
dangerous task in hand. But, when the idea of
presenting myself in the room of my friend intruded,
the load of doubt and pain was taken from off me. My
words flowed spontaneously--my utterance was firm and
quick. I adverted to what Adrian had already done--I
promised the same vigilance in furthering all his
views. I drew a touching picture of his vacillating
health; I boasted of my own strength. I prayed them to
save even from himself this scion of the noblest family
in England. My alliance with him was the pledge of my
sincerity, my union with his sister, my children, his
presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.
This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly
communicated to Adrian. He hurried in, and witnessed
the termination of my impassioned harangue. I did not
see him: my soul was in my words,--my eyes could not
perceive that which was; while a vision of Adrian's
form, tainted by pestilence, and sinking in death,
floated before them. He seized my hand, as I
concluded-- "Unkind!" he cried, "you have betrayed me!"
then, springing forwards, with the air of one who had a
right to command, he claimed the place of deputy as his
own. He had bought it, he said, with danger, and paid
for it with toil. His ambition rested there; and, after
an interval devoted to the interests of his country,
was I to step in, and reap the profit? Let them
remember what London had been when he arrived: the
panic that prevailed brought famine, while every moral
and legal tie was loosened. He had restored order--this
had been a work which required perseverance, patience,
and energy; and he had neither slept nor waked but for
the good of his country.--Would they dare wrong him
thus? Would they wrest his hard-earned reward from him,
to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled in
public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in which
he was an adept. He demanded the place of deputy as his
right. Ryland had shewn that he preferred him. Never
before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of
the throne of England, never had he asked favour or
honour from those now his equals, but who might have
been his subjects. Would they refuse him? Could they
thrust back from the path of distinction and laudable
ambition, the heir of their ancient kings, and heap
another disappointment on a fallen house.
No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the
rights of his ancestors. None had ever before
suspected, that power, or the suffrage of the many,
could in any manner become dear to him. He had begun
his speech with vehemence; he ended with unassuming
gentleness, making his appeal with the same humility,
as if he had asked to be the first in wealth, honour,
and power among Englishmen, and not, as was the truth,
to be the foremost in the ranks of loathsome toils and
inevitable death. A murmur of approbation rose after
his speech. "Oh, do not listen to him," I cried, "he
speaks false--false to himself,"--I was interrupted:
and, silence being restored, we were ordered, as was
the custom, to retire during the decision of the house.
I fancied that they hesitated, and that there was some
hope for me--I was mistaken--hardly had we quitted the
chamber, before Adrian was recalled, and installed in
his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector.
We returned together to the palace. "Why, Lionel," said
Adrian, "what did you intend? you could not hope to
conquer, and yet you gave me the pain of a triumph over
my dearest friend."
"This is mockery," I replied, "you devote
yourself,--you, the adored brother of Idris, the being,
of all the world contains, dearest to our hearts--you
devote yourself to an early death. I would have
prevented this; my death would be a small evil--or
rather I should not die; while you cannot hope to
escape."
"As to the likelihood of escaping," said Adrian, "ten
years hence the cold stars may shine on the graves of
all of us; but as to my peculiar liability to
infection, I could easily prove, both logically and
physically, that in the midst of contagion I have a
better chance of life than you.
"This is my post: I was born for this--to rule England
in anarchy, to save her in danger--to devote myself for
her. The blood of my forefathers cries aloud in my
veins, and bids me be first among my countrymen. Or, if
this mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my
mother, the proud queen, instilled early into me a love
of distinction, and all that, if the weakness of my
physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not
prevented such a design, might have made me long since
struggle for the lost inheritance of my race. But now
my mother, or, if you will, my mother's lessons, awaken
within me. I cannot lead on to battle; I cannot,
through intrigue and faithlessness rear again the
throne upon the wreck of English public spirit. But I
can be the first to support and guard my country, now
that terrific disasters and ruin have laid strong hands
upon her.
"That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I
will protect the first--the latter I commit to your
charge. If I survive, and she be lost, I were far
better dead. Preserve her--for her own sake I know that
you will--if you require any other spur, think that, in
preserving her, you preserve me. Her faultless nature,
one sum of perfections, is wrapt up in her
affections--if they were hurt, she would droop like an
unwatered floweret, and the slightest injury they
receive is a nipping frost to her. Already she fears
for us. She fears for the children she adores, and for
you, the father of these, her lover, husband,
protector; and you must be near her to support and
encourage her. Return to Windsor then, my brother; for
such you are by every tie--fill the double place my
absence imposes on you, and let me, in all my
sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that dear
seclusion, and say--There is peace."
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VII.
I DID proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of
remaining there. I went but to obtain the consent of
Idris, and then to return and take my station beside my
unequalled friend; to share his labours, and save him,
if so it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I
dreaded to witness the anguish which my resolve might
excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart never to
shadow her countenance even with transient grief, and
should I prove recreant at the hour of greatest need? I
had begun my journey with anxious haste; now I desired
to draw it out through the course of days and months. I
longed to avoid the necessity of action; I strove to
escape from thought--vainly--futurity, like a dark
image in a phantasmagoria, came nearer and more near,
till it clasped the whole earth in its shadow.
A slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual
route, and to return home by Egham and Bishopgate. I
alighted at Perdita's ancient abode, her cottage; and,
sending forward the carriage, determined to walk across
the park to the castle. This spot, dedicated to
sweetest recollections, the deserted house and
neglected garden were well adapted to nurse my
melancholy. In our happiest days, Perdita had adorned
her cottage with every aid art might bring, to that
which nature had selected to favour. In the same spirit
of exaggeration she had, on the event of her separation
from Raymond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It
was now in ruin: the deer had climbed the broken
palings, and reposed among the flowers; grass grew on
the threshold, and the swinging lattice creaking to the
wind, gave signal of utter desertion. The sky was blue
above, and the air impregnated with fragrance by the
rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees moved
overhead, awakening nature's favourite melody--but the
melancholy appearance of the choaked paths, and
weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed even this gay summer
scene. The time when in proud and happy security we
assembled at this cottage, was gone--soon the present
hours would join those past, and shadows of future ones
rose dark and menacing from the womb of time, their
cradle and their bier. For the first time in my life I
envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure
of one's bed under the sod, where grief and fear have
no power. I passed through the gap of the broken
paling--I felt, while I disdained, the choaking
tears--I rushed into the depths of the forest. O death
and change, rulers of our life, where are ye, that I
may grapple with you! What was there in our
tranquillity, that excited your envy--in our happiness,
that ye should destroy it? We were happy, loving, and
beloved; the horn of Amalthea contained no blessing
unshowered upon us, but, alas!
la fortuna
deidad barbara importuna,
oy cadaver y ayer flor,
no permanece jamas!*
[* Calderon de la Barca.]
As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country
people passed me. They seemed full of careful thought,
and a few words of their conversation that reached me,
induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A
party of people flying from London, as was frequent in
those days, had come up the Thames in a boat. No one at
Windsor would afford them shelter; so, going a little
further up, they remained all night in a deserted hut
near Bolter's lock. They pursued their way the
following morning, leaving one of their company behind
them, sick of the plague. This circumstance once spread
abroad, none dared approach within half a mile of the
infected neighbourhood, and the deserted wretch was
left to fight with disease and death in solitude, as he
best might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to the
hut, for the purpose of ascertaining his situation, and
administering to his wants.
As I advanced I met knots of country-people talking
earnestly of this event: distant as they were from the
apprehended contagion, fear was impressed on every
countenance. I passed by a group of these terrorists,
in a lane in the direct road to the hut. One of them
stopped me, and, conjecturing that I was ignorant of
the circumstance, told me not to go on, for that an
infected person lay but at a short distance.
"I know it," I replied, "and I am going to see in what
condition the poor fellow is."
A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the
assembly. I continued:--"This poor wretch is deserted,
dying, succourless; in these unhappy times, God knows
how soon any or all of us may be in like want. I am
going to do, as I would be done by."
"But you will never be able to return to the
Castle--Lady Idris--his children--" in confused speech
were the words that struck my ear.
"Do you not know, my friends," I said, "that the Earl
himself, now Lord Protector, visits daily, not only
those probably infected by this disease, but the
hospitals and pest houses, going near, and even
touching the sick? yet he was never in better health.
You labour under an entire mistake as to the nature of
the plague; but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to
accompany me, nor to believe me, until I return safe
and sound from my patient."
So I left them, and hurried on. I soon arrived at the
hut: the door was ajar. I entered, and one glance
assured me that its former inhabitant was no more--he
lay on a heap of straw, cold and stiff; while a
pernicious effluvia filled the room, and various stains
and marks served to shew the virulence of the disorder.
I had never before beheld one killed by pestilence.
While every mind was full of dismay at its effects, a
craving for excitement had led us to peruse De Foe's
account, and the masterly delineations of the author of
Arthur Mervyn. The pictures drawn in these books were
so vivid, that we seemed to have experienced the
results depicted by them. But cold were the sensations
excited by words, burning though they were, and
describing the death and misery of thousands, compared
to what I felt in looking on the corpse of this unhappy
stranger. This indeed was the plague. I raised his
rigid limbs, I marked the distortion of his face, and
the stony eyes lost to perception. As I was thus
occupied, chill horror congealed my blood, making my
flesh quiver and my hair to stand on end. Half insanely
I spoke to the dead. So the plague killed you, I
muttered. How came this? Was the coming painful? You
look as if the enemy had tortured, before he murdered
you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and escaped from
the hut, before nature could revoke her laws, and
inorganic words be breathed in answer from the lips of
the departed.
On returning through the lane, I saw at a distance the
same assemblage of persons which I had left. They
hurried away, as soon as they saw me; my agitated mien
added to their fear of coming near one who had entered
within the verge of contagion.
At a distance from facts one draws conclusions which
appear infallible, which yet when put to the test of
reality, vanish like unreal dreams. I had ridiculed the
fears of my countrymen, when they related to others;
now that they came home to myself, I paused. The
Rubicon, I felt, was passed; and it behoved me well to
reflect what I should do on this hither side of disease
and danger. According to the vulgar superstition, my
dress, my person, the air I breathed, bore in it mortal
danger to myself and others. Should I return to the
Castle, to my wife and children, with this taint upon
me? Not surely if I were infected; but I felt certain
that I was not--a few hours would determine the
question--I would spend these in the forest, in
reflection on what was to come, and what my future
actions were to be. In the feeling communicated to me
by the sight of one struck by the plague, I forgot the
events that had excited me so strongly in London; new
and more painful prospects, by degrees were cleared of
the mist which had hitherto veiled them. The question
was no longer whether I should share Adrian's toils and
danger; but in what manner I could, in Windsor and the
neighbourhood, imitate the prudence and zeal which,
under his government, produced order and plenty in
London, and how, now pestilence had spread more widely,
I could secure the health of my own family.
I spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no
one spot of its surface could I put my finger and say,
here is safety. In the south, the disease, virulent and
immedicable, had nearly annihilated the race of man;
storm and inundation, poisonous winds and blights,
filled up the measure of suffering. In the north it was
worse--the lesser population gradually declined, and
famine and plague kept watch on the survivors, who,
helpless and feeble, were ready to fall an easy prey
into their hands.
I contracted my view to England. The overgrown
metropolis, the great heart of mighty Britain, was
pulseless. Commerce had ceased. All resort for ambition
or pleasure was cut off--the streets were
grass-grown--the houses empty--the few, that from
necessity remained, seemed already branded with the
taint of inevitable pestilence. In the larger
manufacturing towns the same tragedy was acted on a
smaller, yet more disastrous scale. There was no Adrian
to superintend and direct, while whole flocks of the
poor were struck and killed.
Yet we were not all to die. No truly, though thinned,
the race of man would continue, and the great plague
would, in after years, become matter of history and
wonder. Doubtless this visitation was for extent
unexampled--more need that we should work hard to
dispute its progress; ere this men have gone out in
sport, and slain their thousands and tens of thousands;
but now man had become a creature of price; the life of
one of them was of more worth than the so called
treasures of kings. Look at his thought-endued
countenance, his graceful limbs, his majestic brow, his
wondrous mechanism--the type and model of this best
work of God is not to be cast aside as a broken
vessel--he shall be preserved, and his children and his
children's children carry down the name and form of man
to latest time.
Above all I must guard those entrusted by nature and
fate to my especial care. And surely, if among all my
fellow-creatures I were to select those who might stand
forth examples of the greatness and goodness of man, I
could choose no other than those allied to me by the
most sacred ties. Some from among the family of man
must survive, and these should be among the survivors;
that should be my task--to accomplish it my own life
were a small sacrifice. There then in that castle--in
Windsor Castle, birth-place of Idris and my babes,
should be the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark of
human society. Its forest should be our world--its
garden afford us food; within its walls I would
establish the shaken throne of health. I was an outcast
and a vagabond, when Adrian gently threw over me the
silver net of love and civilization, and linked me
inextricably to human charities and human excellence. I
was one, who, though an aspirant after good, and an
ardent lover of wisdom, was yet unenrolled in any list
of worth, when Idris, the princely born, who was
herself the personification of all that was divine in
woman, she who walked the earth like a poet's dream, as
a carved goddess endued with sense, or pictured saint
stepping from the canvas-- she, the most worthy, chose
me, and gave me herself--a priceless gift.
During several hours I continued thus to meditate, till
hunger and fatigue brought me back to the passing hour,
then marked by long shadows cast from the descending
sun. I had wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west
of Windsor. The feeling of perfect health which I
enjoyed, assured me that I was free from contagion. I
remembered that Idris had been kept in ignorance of my
proceedings. She might have heard of my return from
London, and my visit to Bolter's Lock, which, connected
with my continued absence, might tend greatly to alarm
her. I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and
passing through the town towards the Castle, I found it
in a state of agitation and disturbance.
"It is too late to be ambitious," says Sir Thomas
Browne. "We cannot hope to live so long in our names as
some have done in their persons; one face of Janus
holds no proportion to the other." Upon this text many
fanatics arose, who prophesied that the end of time was
come. The spirit of superstition had birth, from the
wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and dangerous were
played on the great theatre, while the remaining
particle of futurity dwindled into a point in the eyes
of the prognosticators. Weak-spirited women died of
fear as they listened to their denunciations; men of
robust form and seeming strength fell into idiotcy and
madness, racked by the dread of coming eternity. A man
of this kind was now pouring forth his eloquent despair
among the inhabitants of Windsor. The scene of the
morning, and my visit to the dead, which had been
spread abroad, had alarmed the country-people, so they
had become fit instruments to be played upon by a
maniac.
The poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely
infant by the plague. He was a mechanic; and, rendered
unable to attend to the occupation which supplied his
necessities, famine was added to his other miseries. He
left the chamber which contained his wife and
child--wife and child no more, but "dead earth upon the
earth"--wild with hunger, watching and grief, his
diseased fancy made him believe himself sent by heaven
to preach the end of time to the world. He entered the
churches, and foretold to the congregations their
speedy removal to the vaults below. He appeared like
the forgotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and
bade the spectators go home and die. He had been seized
and confined; he had escaped and wandered from London
among the neighbouring towns, and, with frantic
gestures and thrilling words, he unveiled to each their
hidden fears, and gave voice to the soundless thought
they dared not syllable. He stood under the arcade of
the town-hall of Windsor, and from this elevation
harangued a trembling crowd.
"Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth," he cried, "hear
thou, all seeing, but most pitiless Heaven! hear thou
too, O tempest-tossed heart, which breathes out these
words, yet faints beneath their meaning! Death is among
us! The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she
is our grave! The clouds of heaven weep for us--the
pageantry of the stars is but our funeral torchlight.
Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a few years in your
long-known abode--but the lease is up, you must
remove--children, ye will never reach maturity, even
now the small grave is dug for ye--mothers, clasp them
in your arms, one death embraces you!"
Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast
up, seemed bursting from their sockets, while he
appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible, in the
yielding air--"There they are," he cried, "the dead!
They rise in their shrouds, and pass in silent
procession towards the far land of their doom--their
bloodless lips move not--their shadowy limbs are void
of motion, while still they glide onwards. We come,"
he exclaimed, springing forwards, "for what should we
wait? Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves in the
court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you to his
presence. Why thus long? they, the good, the wise, and
the beloved, are gone before. Mothers, kiss you
last--husbands, protectors no more, lead on the
partners of your death! Come, O come! while the dear
ones are yet in sight, for soon they will pass away,
and we never never shall join them more."
From such ravings as these, he would suddenly become
collected, and with unexaggerated but terrific words,
paint the horrors of the time; describe with minute
detail, the effects of the plague on the human frame,
and tell heart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear
affinities--the gasping horror of despair over the
death-bed of the last beloved--so that groans and even
shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in particular
stood in front, his eyes fixt on the prophet, his mouth
open, his limbs rigid, while his face changed to
various colours, yellow, blue, and green, through
intense fear. The maniac caught his glance, and turned
his eye on him--one has heard of the gaze of the
rattle-snake, which allures the trembling victim till
he falls within his jaws. The maniac became composed;
his person rose higher; authority beamed from his
countenance. He looked on the peasant, who began to
tremble, while he still gazed; his knees knocked
together; his teeth chattered. He at last fell down in
convulsions. "That man has the plague," said the maniac
calmly. A shriek burst from the lips of the poor
wretch; and then sudden motionlessness came over him;
it was manifest to all that he was dead.
Cries of horror filled the place--every one endeavoured
to effect his escape--in a few minutes the market place
was cleared--the corpse lay on the ground; and the
maniac, subdued and exhausted, sat beside it, leaning
his gaunt cheek upon his thin hand. Soon some people,
deputed by the magistrates, came to remove the body;
the unfortunate being saw a jailor in each--he fled
precipitately, while I passed onwards to the Castle.
Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these beloved
walls. An old servant, who had nursed Idris in infancy,
and who lived with us more on the footing of a revered
relative than a domestic, had gone a few days before to
visit a daughter, married, and settled in the
neighbourhood of London. On the night of her return she
sickened of the plague. From the haughty and unbending
nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris had few tender
filial associations with her. This good woman had stood
in the place of a mother, and her very deficiencies of
education and knowledge, by rendering her humble and
defenceless, endeared her to us--she was the especial
favourite of the children. I found my poor girl, there
is no exaggeration in the expression, wild with grief
and dread. She hung over the patient in agony, which
was not mitigated when her thoughts wandered towards
her babes, for whom she feared infection. My arrival
was like the newly discovered lamp of a lighthouse to
sailors, who are weathering some dangerous point. She
deposited her appalling doubts in my hands; she relied
on my judgment, and was comforted by my participation
in her sorrow. Soon our poor nurse expired; and the
anguish of suspense was changed to deep regret, which
though at first more painful, yet yielded with greater
readiness to my consolations. Sleep, the sovereign
balm, at length steeped her tearful eyes in
forgetfulness.
She slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle, whose
inhabitants were hushed to repose. I was awake, and
during the long hours of dead night, my busy thoughts
worked in my brain, like ten thousand mill-wheels,
rapid, acute, untameable. All slept--all England slept;
and from my window, commanding a wide prospect of the
star-illumined country, I saw the land stretched out in
placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the brother of
death possessed my race. What, if the more potent of
these fraternal deities should obtain dominion over it?
The silence of midnight, to speak truly, though
apparently a paradox, rung in my ears. The solitude
became intolerable--I placed my hand on the beating
heart of Idris, I bent my head to catch the sound of
her breath, to assure myself that she still
existed--for a moment I doubted whether I should not
awake her; so effeminate an horror ran through my
frame.--Great God! would it one day be thus? One day
all extinct, save myself, should I walk the earth
alone? Were these warning voices, whose inarticulate
and oracular sense forced belief upon me?
Yet I would not call them
Voices of warning, that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere--so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.*
[* Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein.]
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER a long interval, I am again impelled by the
restless spirit within me to continue my narration; but
I must alter the mode which I have hitherto adopted.
The details contained in the foregoing pages,
apparently trivial, yet each slightest one weighing
like lead in the depressed scale of human afflictions;
this tedious dwelling on the sorrows of others, while
my own were only in apprehension; this slowly laying
bare of my soul's wounds: this journal of death; this
long drawn and tortuous path, leading to the ocean of
countless tears, awakens me again to keen grief. I had
used this history as an opiate; while it described my
beloved friends, fresh with life and glowing with hope,
active assistants on the scene, I was soothed; there
will be a more melancholy pleasure in painting the end
of all. But the intermediate steps, the climbing the
wall, raised up between what was and is, while I still
looked back nor saw the concealed desert beyond, is a
labour past my strength. Time and experience have
placed me on an height from which I can comprehend the
past as a whole; and in this way I must describe it,
bringing forward the leading incidents, and disposing
light and shade so as to form a picture in whose very
darkness there will be harmony.
It would be needless to narrate those disastrous
occurrences, for which a parallel might be found in any
slighter visitation of our gigantic calamity. Does the
reader wish to hear of the pest-houses, where death is
the comforter--of the mournful passage of the
death-cart--of the insensibility of the worthless, and
the anguish of the loving heart--of harrowing shrieks
and silence dire--of the variety of disease, desertion,
famine, despair, and death? There are many books which
can feed the appetite craving for these things; let
them turn to the accounts of Boccaccio, De Foe, and
Browne. The vast annihilation that has swallowed all
things--the voiceless solitude of the once busy
earth--the lonely state of singleness which hems me in,
has deprived even such details of their stinging
reality, and mellowing the lurid tints of past anguish
with poetic hues, I am able to escape from the mosaic
of circumstance, by perceiving and reflecting back the
grouping and combined colouring of the past.
I had returned from London possessed by the idea, with
the intimate feeling that it was my first duty to
secure, as well as I was able, the well-being of my
family, and then to return and take my post beside
Adrian. The events that immediately followed on my
arrival at Windsor changed this view of things. The
plague was not in London alone, it was every where--it
came on us, as Ryland had said, like a thousand packs
of wolves, howling through the winter night, gaunt and
fierce. When once disease was introduced into the rural
districts, its effects appeared more horrible, more
exigent, and more difficult to cure, than in towns.
There was a companionship in suffering there, and, the
neighbours keeping constant watch on each other, and
inspired by the active benevolence of Adrian, succour
was afforded, and the path of destruction smoothed. But
in the country, among the scattered farm-houses, in
lone cottages, in fields, and barns, tragedies were
acted harrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard,
unnoticed. Medical aid was less easily procured, food
was more difficult to obtain, and human beings,
unwithheld by shame, for they were unbeheld of their
fellows, ventured on deeds of greater wickedness, or
gave way more readily to their abject fears.
Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose very mention
swells the heart and brings tears into the eyes. Such
is human nature, that beauty and deformity are often
closely linked. In reading history we are chiefly
struck by the generosity and self-devotion that follow
close on the heels of crime, veiling with supernal
flowers the stain of blood. Such acts were not wanting
to adorn the grim train that waited on the progress of
the plague.
The inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had been long
aware that the plague was in London, in Liverpool,
Bristol, Manchester, York, in short, in all the more
populous towns of England. They were not however the
less astonished and dismayed when it appeared among
themselves. They were impatient and angry in the midst
of terror. They would do something to throw off the
clinging evil, and, while in action, they fancied that
a remedy was applied. The inhabitants of the smaller
towns left their houses, pitched tents in the fields,
wandering separate from each other careless of hunger
or the sky's inclemency, while they imagined that they
avoided the death-dealing disease. The farmers and
cottagers, on the contrary, struck with the fear of
solitude, and madly desirous of medical assistance,
flocked into the towns.
But winter was coming, and with winter, hope. In
August, the plague had appeared in the country of
England, and during September it made its ravages.
Towards the end of October it dwindled away, and was in
some degree replaced by a typhus, of hardly less
virulence. The autumn was warm and rainy: the infirm
and sickly died off--happier they: many young people
flushed with health and prosperity, made pale by
wasting malady, became the inhabitants of the grave.
The crop had failed, the bad corn, and want of foreign
wines, added vigour to disease. Before Christmas half
England was under water. The storms of the last winter
were renewed; but the diminished shipping of this year
caused us to feel less the tempests of the sea. The
flood and storms did more harm to continental Europe
than to us--giving, as it were, the last blow to the
calamities which destroyed it. In Italy the rivers were
unwatched by the diminished peasantry; and, like wild
beasts from their lair when the hunters and dogs are
afar, did Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and destroy
the fertility of the plains. Whole villages were
carried away. Rome, and Florence, and Pisa were
overflowed, and their marble palaces, late mirrored in
tranquil streams, had their foundations shaken by their
winter-gifted power. In Germany and Russia the injury
was still more momentous.
But frost would come at last, and with it a renewal of
our lease of earth. Frost would blunt the arrows of
pestilence, and enchain the furious elements; and the
land would in spring throw off her garment of snow,
released from her menace of destruction. It was not
until February that the desired signs of winter
appeared. For three days the snow fell, ice stopped the
current of the rivers, and the birds flew out from
crackling branches of the frost-whitened trees. On the
fourth morning all vanished. A south-west wind brought
up rain--the sun came out, and mocking the usual laws
of nature, seemed even at this early season to burn
with solsticial force. It was no consolation, that with
the first winds of March the lanes were filled with
violets, the fruit trees covered with blossoms, that
the corn sprung up, and the leaves came out, forced by
the unseasonable heat. We feared the balmy air--we
feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered earth, and
delightful woods, for we looked on the fabric of the
universe no longer as our dwelling, but our tomb, and
the fragrant land smelled to the apprehension of fear
like a wide church-yard.
Pisando la tierra dura
de continuo el hombre esta
y cada passo que da
es sobre su sepultura.*
[* Calderon de la Barca.]
Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages winter was
breathing time; and we exerted ourselves to make the
best of it. Plague might not revive with the summer;
but if it did, it should find us prepared. It is a part
of man's nature to adapt itself through habit even to
pain and sorrow. Pestilence had become a part of our
future, our existence; it was to be guarded against,
like the flooding of rivers, the encroachments of
ocean, or the inclemency of the sky. After long
suffering and bitter experience, some panacea might be
discovered; as it was, all that received infection
died--all however were not infected; and it became our
part to fix deep the foundations, and raise high the
barrier between contagion and the sane; to introduce
such order as would conduce to the well-being of the
survivors, and as would preserve hope and some portion
of happiness to those who were spectators of the still
renewed tragedy. Adrian had introduced systematic modes
of proceeding in the metropolis, which, while they were
unable to stop the progress of death, yet prevented
other evils, vice and folly, from rendering the awful
fate of the hour still more tremendous. I wished to
imitate his example, but men are used to
--move all together, if they move at all,*
and I could find no means of leading the inhabitants of
scattered towns and villages, who forgot my words as
soon as they heard them not, and veered with every
baffling wind, that might arise from an apparent change
of circumstance.
[* Wordsworth.]
I adopted another plan. Those writers who have imagined
a reign of peace and happiness on earth, have generally
described a rural country, where each small township
was directed by the elders and wise men. This was the
key of my design. Each village, however small, usually
contains a leader, one among themselves whom they
venerate, whose advice they seek in difficulty, and
whose good opinion they chiefly value. I was
immediately drawn to make this observation by
occurrences that presented themselves to my personal
experience.
In the village of Little Marlow an old woman ruled the
community. She had lived for some years in an
alms-house, and on fine Sundays her threshold was
constantly beset by a crowd, seeking her advice and
listening to her admonitions. She had been a soldier's
wife, and had seen the world; infirmity, induced by
fevers caught in unwholesome quarters, had come on her
before its time, and she seldom moved from her little
cot. The plague entered the village; and, while fright
and grief deprived the inhabitants of the little wisdom
they possessed, old Martha stepped forward and
said--"Before now I have been in a town where there was
the plague."--"And you escaped?"--"No, but I
recovered."--After this Martha was seated more firmly
than ever on the regal seat, elevated by reverence and
love. She entered the cottages of the sick; she
relieved their wants with her own hand; she betrayed no
fear, and inspired all who saw her with some portion of
her own native courage. She attended the markets--she
insisted upon being supplied with food for those who
were too poor to purchase it. She shewed them how the
well-being of each included the prosperity of all. She
would not permit the gardens to be neglected, nor the
very flowers in the cottage lattices to droop from want
of care. Hope, she said, was better than a doctor's
prescription, and every thing that could sustain and
enliven the spirits, of more worth than drugs and
mixtures.
It was the sight of Little Marlow, and my conversations
with Martha, that led me to the plan I formed. I had
before visited the manor houses and gentlemen's seats,
and often found the inhabitants actuated by the purest
benevolence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the
welfare of their tenants. But this was not enough. The
intimate sympathy generated by similar hopes and fears,
similar experience and pursuits, was wanting here. The
poor perceived that the rich possessed other means of
preservation than those which could be partaken of by
themselves, seclusion, and, as far as circumstances
permitted, freedom from care. They could not place
reliance on them, but turned with tenfold dependence to
the succour and advice of their equals. I resolved
therefore to go from village to village, seeking out
the rustic archon of the place, and by systematizing
their exertions, and enlightening their views, encrease
both their power and their use among their
fellow-cottagers. Many changes also now occurred in
these spontaneous regal elections: depositions and
abdications were frequent, while, in the place of the
old and prudent, the ardent youth would step forward,
eager for action, regardless of danger. Often too, the
voice to which all listened was suddenly silenced, the
helping hand cold, the sympathetic eye closed, and the
villagers feared still more the death that had selected
a choice victim, shivering in dust the heart that had
beat for them, reducing to incommunicable annihilation
the mind for ever occupied with projects for their
welfare.
Whoever labours for man must often find ingratitude,
watered by vice and folly, spring from the grain which
he has sown. Death, which had in our younger days
walked the earth like "a thief that comes in the
night," now, rising from his subterranean vault, girt
with power, with dark banner floating, came a
conqueror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal
throne, a supreme Providence, who directed his shafts,
and guided his progress, and they bowed their heads in
resignation, or at least in obedience. Others perceived
only a passing casualty; they endeavoured to exchange
terror for heedlessness, and plunged into
licentiousness, to avoid the agonizing throes of worst
apprehension. Thus, while the wise, the good, and the
prudent were occupied by the labours of benevolence,
the truce of winter produced other effects among the
young, the thoughtless, and the vicious. During the
colder months there was a general rush to London in
search of amusement--the ties of public opinion were
loosened; many were rich, heretofore poor--many had
lost father and mother, the guardians of their morals,
their mentors and restraints. It would have been
useless to have opposed these impulses by barriers,
which would only have driven those actuated by them to
more pernicious indulgencies. The theatres were open
and thronged; dance and midnight festival were
frequented--in many of these decorum was violated, and
the evils, which hitherto adhered to an advanced state
of civilization, were doubled. The student left his
books, the artist his study: the occupations of life
were gone, but the amusements remained; enjoyment might
be protracted to the verge of the grave. All factitious
colouring disappeared--death rose like night, and,
protected by its murky shadows the blush of modesty,
the reserve of pride, the decorum of prudery were
frequently thrown aside as useless veils.
This was not universal. Among better natures, anguish
and dread, the fear of eternal separation, and the
awful wonder produced by unprecedented calamity, drew
closer the ties of kindred and friendship. Philosophers
opposed their principles, as barriers to the inundation
of profligacy or despair, and the only ramparts to
protect the invaded territory of human life; the
religious, hoping now for their reward, clung fast to
their creeds, as the rafts and planks which over the
tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would bear them in
safety to the harbour of the Unknown Continent. The
loving heart, obliged to contract its view, bestowed
its overflow of affection in triple portion on the few
that remained. Yet, even among these, the present, as
an unalienable possession, became all of time to which
they dared commit the precious freight of their hopes.
The experience of immemorial time had taught us
formerly to count our enjoyments by years, and extend
our prospect of life through a lengthened period of
progression and decay; the long road threaded a vast
labyrinth, and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in
which it terminated, was hid by intervening objects.
But an earthquake had changed the scene--under our very
feet the earth yawned--deep and precipitous the gulph
below opened to receive us, while the hours charioted
us towards the chasm. But it was winter now, and months
must elapse before we are hurled from our security. We
became ephemera, to whom the interval between the
rising and setting sun was as a long drawn year of
common time. We should never see our children ripen
into maturity, nor behold their downy cheeks roughen,
their blithe hearts subdued by passion or care; but we
had them now--they lived, and we lived--what more could
we desire? With such schooling did my poor Idris try to
hush thronging fears, and in some measure succeeded. It
was not as in summer-time, when each hour might bring
the dreaded fate--until summer, we felt sure; and this
certainty, short lived as it must be, yet for awhile
satisfied her maternal tenderness. I know not how to
express or communicate the sense of concentrated,
intense, though evanescent transport, that imparadized
us in the present hour. Our joys were dearer because we
saw their end; they were keener because we felt, to its
fullest extent, their value; they were purer because
their essence was sympathy--as a meteor is brighter
than a star, did the felicity of this winter contain in
itself the extracted delights of a long, long life.
How lovely is spring! As we looked from Windsor Terrace
on the sixteen fertile counties spread beneath,
speckled by happy cottages and wealthier towns, all
looked as in former years, heart-cheering and fair. The
land was ploughed, the slender blades of wheat broke
through the dark soil, the fruit trees were covered
with buds, the husbandman was abroad in the fields, the
milk-maid tripped home with well-filled pails, the
swallows and martins struck the sunny pools with their
long, pointed wings, the new dropped lambs reposed on
the young grass, the tender growth of leaves--
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.*
Man himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the frost of
winter yield to an elastic and warm renewal of
life--reason told us that care and sorrow would grow
with the opening year--but how to believe the ominous
voice breathed up with pestiferous vapours from fear's
dim cavern, while nature, laughing and scattering from
her green lap flowers, and fruits, and sparkling
waters, invited us to join the gay masque of young life
she led upon the scene?
[* Keats.]
Where was the plague? "Here--every where!" one voice of
horror and dismay exclaimed, when in the pleasant days
of a sunny May the Destroyer of man brooded again over
the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic
chrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life. With one
mighty sweep of its potent weapon, all caution, all
care, all prudence were levelled low: death sat at the
tables of the great, stretched itself on the cottager's
pallet, seized the dastard who fled, quelled the brave
man who resisted: despondency entered every heart,
sorrow dimmed every eye.
Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and were I to
tell all of anguish and pain that I witnessed, of the
despairing moans of age, and the more terrible smiles
of infancy in the bosom of horror, my reader, his limbs
quivering and his hair on end, would wonder how I did
not, seized with sudden frenzy, dash myself from some
precipice, and so close my eyes for ever on the sad end
of the world. But the powers of love, poetry, and
creative fancy will dwell even beside the sick of the
plague, with the squalid, and with the dying. A feeling
of devotion, of duty, of a high and steady purpose,
elevated me; a strange joy filled my heart. In the
midst of saddest grief I seemed to tread air, while the
spirit of good shed round me an ambrosial atmosphere,
which blunted the sting of sympathy, and purified the
air of sighs. If my wearied soul flagged in its career,
I thought of my loved home, of the casket that
contained my treasures, of the kiss of love and the
filial caress, while my eyes were moistened by purest
dew, and my heart was at once softened and refreshed by
thrilling tenderness.
Maternal affection had not rendered Idris selfish; at
the beginning of our calamity she had, with thoughtless
enthusiasm, devoted herself to the care of the sick and
helpless. I checked her; and she submitted to my rule.
I told her how the fear of her danger palsied my
exertions, how the knowledge of her safety strung my
nerves to endurance. I shewed her the dangers which her
children incurred during her absence; and she at length
agreed not to go beyond the inclosure of the forest.
Indeed, within the walls of the Castle we had a colony
of the unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and in
themselves helpless, sufficient to occupy her time and
attention, while ceaseless anxiety for my welfare and
the health of her children, however she strove to curb
or conceal it, absorbed all her thoughts, and
undermined the vital principle. After watching over and
providing for their safety, her second care was to hide
from me her anguish and tears. Each night I returned to
the Castle, and found there repose and love awaiting
me. Often I waited beside the bed of death till
midnight, and through the obscurity of rainy, cloudy
nights rode many miles, sustained by one circumstance
only, the safety and sheltered repose of those I loved.
If some scene of tremendous agony shook my frame and
fevered my brow, I would lay my head on the lap of
Idris, and the tumultuous pulses subsided into a
temperate flow--her smile could raise me from
hopelessness, her embrace bathe my sorrowing heart in
calm peace.
Summer advanced, and, crowned with the sun's potent
rays, plague shot her unerring shafts over the earth.
The nations beneath their influence bowed their heads,
and died. The corn that sprung up in plenty, lay in
autumn rotting on the ground, while the melancholy
wretch who had gone out to gather bread for his
children, lay stiff and plague-struck in the furrow.
The green woods waved their boughs majestically, while
the dying were spread beneath their shade, answering
the solemn melody with inharmonious cries. The painted
birds flitted through the shades; the careless deer
reposed unhurt upon the fern--the oxen and the horses
strayed from their unguarded stables, and grazed among
the wheat, for death fell on man alone.
With summer and mortality grew our fears. My poor love
and I looked at each other, and our babes.--"We will
save them, Idris," I said, "I will save them. Years
hence we shall recount to them our fears, then passed
away with their occasion. Though they only should
remain on the earth, still they shall live, nor shall
their cheeks become pale nor their sweet voices
languish." Our eldest in some degree understood the
scenes passing around, and at times, he with serious
looks questioned me concerning the reason of so vast a
desolation. But he was only ten years old; and the
hilarity of youth soon chased unreasonable care from
his brow. Evelyn, a laughing cherub, a gamesome infant,
without idea of pain or sorrow, would, shaking back his
light curls from his eyes, make the halls re-echo with
his merriment, and in a thousand artless ways attract
our attention to his play. Clara, our lovely gentle
Clara, was our stay, our solace, our delight. She made
it her task to attend the sick, comfort the sorrowing,
assist the aged, and partake the sports and awaken the
gaiety of the young. She flitted through the rooms,
like a good spirit, dispatched from the celestial
kingdom, to illumine our dark hour with alien
splendour. Gratitude and praise marked where her
footsteps had been. Yet, when she stood in unassuming
simplicity before us, playing with our children, or
with girlish assiduity performing little kind offices
for Idris, one wondered in what fair lineament of her
pure loveliness, in what soft tone of her thrilling
voice, so much of heroism, sagacity and active goodness
resided.
The summer passed tediously, for we trusted that winter
would at least check the disease. That it would vanish
altogether was an hope too dear--too heartfelt, to be
expressed. When such a thought was heedlessly uttered,
the hearers, with a gush of tears and passionate sobs,
bore witness how deep their fears were, how small their
hopes. For my own part, my exertions for the public
good permitted me to observe more closely than most
others, the virulence and extensive ravages of our
sightless enemy. A short month has destroyed a village,
and where in May the first person sickened, in June the
paths were deformed by unburied corpses--the houses
tenantless, no smoke arising from the chimneys; and the
housewife's clock marked only the hour when death had
been triumphant. From such scenes I have sometimes
saved a deserted infant--sometimes led a young and
grieving mother from the lifeless image of her first
born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from childish
weeping over his extinct family.
July is gone. August must pass, and by the middle of
September we may hope. Each day was eagerly counted;
and the inhabitants of towns, desirous to leap this
dangerous interval, plunged into dissipation, and
strove, by riot, and what they wished to imagine to be
pleasure, to banish thought and opiate despair. None
but Adrian could have tamed the motley population of
London, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds rushing
to their pastures, had thrown aside all minor fears,
through the operation of the fear paramount. Even
Adrian was obliged in part to yield, that he might be
able, if not to guide, at least to set bounds to the
license of the times. The theatres were kept open;
every place of public resort was frequented; though he
endeavoured so to modify them, as might best quiet the
agitation of the spectators, and at the same time
prevent a reaction of misery when the excitement was
over. Tragedies deep and dire were the chief
favourites. Comedy brought with it too great a contrast
to the inner despair: when such were attempted, it was
not unfrequent for a comedian, in the midst of the
laughter occasioned by his disporportioned buffoonery,
to find a word or thought in his part that jarred with
his own sense of wretchedness, and burst from mimic
merriment into sobs and tears, while the spectators,
seized with irresistible sympathy, wept, and the
pantomimic revelry was changed to a real exhibition of
tragic passion.
It was not in my nature to derive consolation from such
scenes; from theatres, whose buffoon laughter and
discordant mirth awakened distempered sympathy, or
where fictitious tears and wailings mocked the
heart-felt grief within; from festival or crowded
meeting, where hilarity sprung from the worst feelings
of our nature, or such enthralment of the better ones,
as impressed it with garish and false varnish; from
assemblies of mourners in the guise of revellers. Once
however I witnessed a scene of singular interest at one
of the theatres, where nature overpowered art, as an
overflowing cataract will tear away the puny
manufacture of a mock cascade, which had before been
fed by a small portion of its waters.
I had come to London to see Adrian. He was not at the
palace; and, though the attendants did not know whither
he had gone, they did not expect him till late at
night. It was between six and seven o'clock, a fine
summer afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a
ramble through the empty streets of London; now turning
to avoid an approaching funeral, now urged by curiosity
to observe the state of a particular spot; my
wanderings were instinct with pain, for silence and
desertion characterized every place I visited, and the
few beings I met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked
with care and depressed by fear, that weary of
encountering only signs of misery, I began to retread
my steps towards home.
I was now in Holborn, and passed by a public house
filled with uproarious companions, whose songs,
laughter, and shouts were more sorrowful than the pale
looks and silence of the mourner. Such an one was near,
hovering round this house. The sorry plight of her
dress displayed her poverty, she was ghastly pale, and
continued approaching, first the window and then the
door of the house, as if fearful, yet longing to enter.
A sudden burst of song and merriment seemed to sting
her to the heart; she murmured, "Can he have the
heart?" and then mustering her courage, she stepped
within the threshold. The landlady met her in the
passage; the poor creature asked, "Is my husband here?
Can I see George?"
"See him," cried the woman, "yes, if you go to him;
last night he was taken with the plague, and we sent
him to the hospital."
The unfortunate inquirer staggered against a wall, a
faint cry escaped her--"O! were you cruel enough," she
exclaimed, "to send him there?"
The landlady meanwhile hurried away; but a more
compassionate bar-maid gave her a detailed account, the
sum of which was, that her husband had been taken ill,
after a night of riot, and sent by his boon companions
with all expedition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I
had watched this scene, for there was a gentleness
about the poor woman that interested me; she now
tottered away from the door, walking as well as she
could down Holborn Hill; but her strength soon failed
her; she leaned against a wall, and her head sunk on
her bosom, while her pallid cheek became still more
white. I went up to her and offered my services. She
hardly looked up--"You can do me no good," she replied;
"I must go to the hospital; if I do not die before I
get there."
There were still a few hackney-coaches accustomed to
stand about the streets, more truly from habit than for
use. I put her in one of these, and entered with her
that I might secure her entrance into the hospital. Our
way was short, and she said little; except interrupted
ejaculations of reproach that he had left her,
exclamations on the unkindness of some of his friends,
and hope that she would find him alive. There was a
simple, natural earnestness about her that interested
me in her fate, especially when she assured me that her
husband was the best of men,--had been so, till want of
business during these unhappy times had thrown him into
bad company. "He could not bear to come home," she
said, "only to see our children die. A man cannot have
the patience a mother has, with her own flesh and
blood."
We were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and entered the
wretched precincts of the house of disease. The poor
creature clung closer to me, as she saw with what
heartless haste they bore the dead from the wards, and
took them into a room, whose half-opened door displayed
a number of corpses, horrible to behold by one
unaccustomed to such scenes. We were directed to the
ward where her husband had been first taken, and still
was, the nurse said, if alive. My companion looked
eagerly from one bed to the other, till at the end of
the ward she espied, on a wretched bed, a squalid,
haggard creature, writhing under the torture of
disease. She rushed towards him, she embraced him,
blessing God for his preservation.
The enthusiasm that inspired her with this strange joy,
blinded her to the horrors about her; but they were
intolerably agonizing to me. The ward was filled with
an effluvia that caused my heart to heave with painful
qualms. The dead were carried out, and the sick brought
in, with like indifference; some were screaming with
pain, others laughing from the influence of more
terrible delirium; some were attended by weeping,
despairing relations, others called aloud with
thrilling tenderness or reproach on the friends who had
deserted them, while the nurses went from bed to bed,
incarnate images of despair, neglect, and death. I gave
gold to my luckless companion; I recommended her to the
care of the attendants; I then hastened away; while the
tormentor, the imagination, busied itself in picturing
my own loved ones, stretched on such beds, attended
thus. The country afforded no such mass of horrors;
solitary wretches died in the open fields; and I have
found a survivor in a vacant village, contending at
once with famine and disease; but the assembly of
pestilence, the banqueting hall of death, was spread
only in London.
I rambled on, oppressed, distracted by painful
emotions--suddenly I found myself before Drury Lane
Theatre. The play was Macbeth--the first actor of the
age was there to exert his powers to drug with
irreflection the auditors; such a medicine I yearned
for, so I entered. The theatre was tolerably well
filled. Shakspeare, whose popularity was established by
the approval of four centuries, had not lost his
influence even at this dread period; but was still "Ut
magus," the wizard to rule our hearts and govern our
imaginations. I came in during the interval between the
third and fourth act. I looked round on the audience;
the females were mostly of the lower classes, but the
men were of all ranks, come hither to forget awhile the
protracted scenes of wretchedness, which awaited them
at their miserable homes. The curtain drew up, and the
stage presented the scene of the witches' cave. The
wildness and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was a
pledge that it could contain little directly connected
with our present circumstances. Great pains had been
taken in the scenery to give the semblance of reality
to the impossible. The extreme darkness of the stage,
whose only light was received from the fire under the
cauldron, joined to a kind of mist that floated about
it, rendered the unearthly shapes of the witches
obscure and shadowy. It was not three decrepid old hags
that bent over their pot throwing in the grim
ingredients of the magic charm, but forms frightful,
unreal, and fanciful. The entrance of Hecate, and the
wild music that followed, took us out of this world.
The cavern shape the stage assumed, the beetling rocks,
the glare of the fire, the misty shades that crossed
the scene at times, the music in harmony with all
witch-like fancies, permitted the imagination to revel,
without fear of contradiction, or reproof from reason
or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth did not destroy
the illusion, for he was actuated by the same feelings
that inspired us, and while the work of magic proceeded
we sympathized in his wonder and his daring, and gave
ourselves up with our whole souls to the influence of
scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of such
excitement, in a renewal of those pleasing flights of
fancy to which I had long been a stranger. The effect
of this scene of incantation communicated a portion of
its power to that which followed. We forgot that
Malcolm and Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon
by such simple passions as warmed our own breasts. By
slow degrees however we were drawn to the real interest
of the scene. A shudder like the swift passing of an
electric shock ran through the house, when Rosse
exclaimed, in answer to "Stands Scotland where it did?"
Alas, poor country;
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be called our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the
air,
Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems
A modern extasy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce asked, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.
Each word struck the sense, as our life's passing bell;
we feared to look at each other, but bent our gaze on
the stage, as if our eyes could fall innocuous on that
alone. The person who played the part of Rosse,
suddenly became aware of the dangerous ground he trod.
He was an inferior actor, but truth now made him
excellent; as he went on to announce to Macduff the
slaughter of his family, he was afraid to speak,
trembling from apprehension of a burst of grief from
the audience, not from his fellow-mime. Each word was
drawn out with difficulty; real anguish painted his
features; his eyes were now lifted in sudden horror,
now fixed in dread upon the ground. This shew of terror
encreased ours, we gasped with him, each neck was
stretched out, each face changed with the actor's
changes--at length while Macduff, who, attending to his
part, was unobservant of the high wrought sympathy of
the house, cried with well acted passion:
All my pretty ones?
Did you say all?--O hell kite! All?
What! all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop!
A pang of tameless grief wrenched every heart, a burst
of despair was echoed from every lip.--I had entered
into the universal feeling--I had been absorbed by the
terrors of Rosse--I re-echoed the cry of Macduff, and
then rushed out as from an hell of torture, to find
calm in the free air and silent street.
Free the air was not, or the street silent. Oh, how I
longed then for the dear soothings of maternal Nature,
as my wounded heart was still further stung by the roar
of heartless merriment from the public-house, by the
sight of the drunkard reeling home, having lost the
memory of what he would find there in oblivious
debauch, and by the more appalling salutations of those
melancholy beings to whom the name of home was a
mockery. I ran on at my utmost speed until I found
myself I knew not how, close to Westminster Abbey, and
was attracted by the deep and swelling tone of the
organ. I entered with soothing awe the lighted chancel,
and listened to the solemn religious chaunt, which
spoke peace and hope to the unhappy. The notes,
freighted with man's dearest prayers, re-echoed through
the dim aisles, and the bleeding of the soul's wounds
was staunched by heavenly balm. In spite of the misery
I deprecated, and could not understand; in spite of the
cold hearths of wide London, and the corpse-strewn
fields of my native land; in spite of all the variety
of agonizing emotions I had that evening experienced, I
thought that in reply to our melodious adjurations, the
Creator looked down in compassion and promise of
relief; the awful peal of the heaven-winged music
seemed fitting voice wherewith to commune with the
Supreme; calm was produced by its sound, and by the
sight of many other human creatures offering up prayers
and submission with me. A sentiment approaching
happiness followed the total resignation of one's being
to the guardianship of the world's ruler. Alas! with
the failing of this solemn strain, the elevated spirit
sank again to earth. Suddenly one of the choristers
died--he was lifted from his desk, the vaults below
were hastily opened--he was consigned with a few
muttered prayers to the darksome cavern, abode of
thousands who had gone before--now wide yawning to
receive even all who fulfilled the funeral rites. In
vain I would then have turned from this scene, to
darkened aisle or lofty dome, echoing with melodious
praise. In the open air alone I found relief; among
nature's beauteous works, her God reassumed his
attribute of benevolence, and again I could trust that
he who built up the mountains, planted the forests, and
poured out the rivers, would erect another state for
lost humanity, where we might awaken again to our
affections, our happiness, and our faith.
Fortunately for me those circumstances were of rare
occurrence that obliged me to visit London, and my
duties were confined to the rural district which our
lofty castle overlooked; and here labour stood in the
place of pastime, to occupy such of the country people
as were sufficiently exempt from sorrow or disease. My
endeavours were directed towards urging them to their
usual attention to their crops, and to the acting as if
pestilence did not exist. The mower's scythe was at
times heard; yet the joyless haymakers after they had
listlessly turned the grass, forgot to cart it; the
shepherd, when he had sheared his sheep, would let the
wool lie to be scattered by the winds, deeming it
useless to provide clothing for another winter. At
times however the spirit of life was awakened by these
employments; the sun, the refreshing breeze, the sweet
smell of the hay, the rustling leaves and prattling
rivulets brought repose to the agitated bosom, and
bestowed a feeling akin to happiness on the
apprehensive. Nor, strange to say, was the time without
its pleasures. Young couples, who had loved long and
hopelessly, suddenly found every impediment removed,
and wealth pour in from the death of relatives. The
very danger drew them closer. The immediate peril urged
them to seize the immediate opportunity; wildly and
passionately they sought to know what delights
existence afforded, before they yielded to death, and
Snatching their pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life,*
they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy what
had been, or to erase even from their death-bed
thoughts the sentiment of happiness which had been
theirs.
[* Andrew Marvell.]
One instance of this kind came immediately under our
notice, where a high-born girl had in early youth given
her heart to one of meaner extraction. He was a
schoolfellow and friend of her brother's, and usually
spent a part of the holidays at the mansion of the duke
her father. They had played together as children, been
the confidants of each other's little secrets, mutual
aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow. Love had
crept in, noiseless, terrorless at first, till each
felt their life bound up in the other, and at the same
time knew that they must part. Their extreme youth, and
the purity of their attachment, made them yield with
less resistance to the tyranny of circumstances. The
father of the fair Juliet separated them; but not until
the young lover had promised to remain absent only till
he had rendered himself worthy of her, and she had
vowed to preserve her virgin heart, his treasure, till
he returned to claim and possess it.
Plague came, threatening to destroy at once the aim of
the ambitious and the hopes of love. Long the Duke of
L---- derided the idea that there could be danger while
he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion; and he so
far succeeded, that it was not till this second summer,
that the destroyer, at one fell stroke, overthrew his
precautions, his security, and his life. Poor Juliet
saw one by one, father, mother, brothers, and
sisters,sicken and die. Most of the servants fled on
the first appearance of disease, those who remained
were infected mortally; no neighbour or rustic ventured
within the verge of contagion. By a strange fatality
Juliet alone escaped, and she to the last waited on her
relatives, and smoothed the pillow of death. The moment
at length came, when the last blow was given to the
last of the house: the youthful survivor of her race
sat alone among the dead. There was no living being
near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this hideous
company. With the declining heat of a September night,
a whirlwind of storm, thunder, and hail, rattled round
the house, and with ghastly harmony sung the dirge of
her family. She sat upon the ground absorbed in
wordless despair, when through the gusty wind and
bickering rain she thought she heard her name called.
Whose could that familiar voice be? Not one of her
relations, for they lay glaring on her with stony eyes.
Again her name was syllabled, and she shuddered as she
asked herself, am I becoming mad, or am I dying, that I
hear the voices of the departed? A second thought
passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain; she rushed
to the window; and a flash of lightning shewed to her
the expected vision, her lover in the shrubbery
beneath; joy lent her strength to descend the stairs,
to open the door, and then she fainted in his
supporting arms.
A thousand times she reproached herself, as with a
crime, that she should revive to happiness with him.
The natural clinging of the human mind to life and joy
was in its full energy in her young heart; she gave
herself impetuously up to the enchantment: they were
married; and in their radiant features I saw incarnate,
for the last time, the spirit of love, of rapturous
sympathy, which once had been the life of the world.
I envied them, but felt how impossible it was to imbibe
the same feeling, now that years had multiplied my ties
in the world. Above all, the anxious mother, my own
beloved and drooping Idris, claimed my earnest care; I
could not reproach the anxiety that never for a moment
slept in her heart, but I exerted myself to distract
her attention from too keen an observation of the truth
of things, of the near and nearer approaches of
disease, misery, and death, of the wild look of our
attendants as intelligence of another and yet another
death reached us; for to the last something new
occurred that seemed to transcend in horror all that
had gone before. Wretched beings crawled to die under
our succouring roof; the inhabitants of the Castle
decreased daily, while the survivors huddled together
in fear, and, as in a famine-struck boat, the sport of
the wild, interminable waves, each looked in the
other's face, to guess on whom the death-lot would next
fall. All this I endeavoured to veil, so that it might
least impress my Idris; yet, as I have said, my courage
survived even despair: I might be vanquished, but I
would not yield.
One day, it was the ninth of September, seemed devoted
to every disaster, to every harrowing incident. Early
in the day, I heard of the arrival of the aged
grandmother of one of our servants at the Castle. This
old woman had reached her hundredth year; her skin was
shrivelled, her form was bent and lost in extreme
decrepitude; but as still from year to year she
continued in existence, out-living many younger and
stronger, she began to feel as if she were to live for
ever. The plague came, and the inhabitants of her
village died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the
aged, to the remnant of her spent life, she had, on
hearing that the pestilence had come into her
neighbourhood, barred her door, and closed her
casement, refusing to communicate with any. She would
wander out at night to get food, and returned home,
pleased that she had met no one, that she was in no
danger from the plague. As the earth became more
desolate, her difficulty in acquiring sustenance
increased; at first, her son, who lived near, had
humoured her by placing articles of food in her way: at
last he died. But, even though threatened by famine,
her fear of the plague was paramount; and her greatest
care was to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew weaker
each day, and each day she had further to go. The night
before, she had reached Datchet; and, prowling about,
had found a baker's shop open and deserted. Laden with
spoil, she hastened to return, and lost her way. The
night was windless, hot, and cloudy; her load became
too heavy for her; and one by one she threw away her
loaves, still endeavouring to get along, though her
hobbling fell into lameness, and her weakness at last
into inability to move.
She lay down among the tall corn, and fell asleep. Deep
in midnight, she was awaked by a rustling near her; she
would have started up, but her stiff joints refused to
obey her will. A low moan close to her ear followed,
and the rustling increased; she heard a smothered voice
breathe out, Water, Water! several times; and then
again a sigh heaved from the heart of the sufferer. The
old woman shuddered, she contrived at length to sit
upright; but her teeth chattered, and her knees knocked
together--close, very close, lay a half-naked figure,
just discernible in the gloom, and the cry for water
and the stifled moan were again uttered. Her motions at
length attracted the attention of her unknown
companion; her hand was seized with a convulsive
violence that made the grasp feel like iron, the
fingers like the keen teeth of a trap.--"At last you
are come!" were the words given forth--but this
exertion was the last effort of the dying--the joints
relaxed, the figure fell prostrate, one low moan, the
last, marked the moment of death. Morning broke; and
the old woman saw the corpse, marked with the fatal
disease, close to her; her wrist was livid with the
hold loosened by death. She felt struck by the plague;
her aged frame was unable to bear her away with
sufficient speed; and now, believing herself infected,
she no longer dreaded the association of others; but,
as swiftly as she might, came to her grand-daughter, at
Windsor Castle, there to lament and die. The sight was
horrible; still she clung to life, and lamented her
mischance with cries and hideous groans; while the
swift advance of the disease shewed, what proved to be
the fact, that she could not survive many hours.
While I was directing that the necessary care should be
taken of her, Clara came in; she was trembling and
pale; and, when I anxiously asked her the cause of her
agitation, she threw herself into my arms weeping and
exclaiming--"Uncle, dearest uncle, do not hate me for
ever! I must tell you, for you must know, that Evelyn,
poor little Evelyn"--her voice was choked by sobs. The
fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of our adored
infant made the current of my blood pause with chilly
horror; but the remembrance of the mother restored my
presence of mind. I sought the little bed of my
darling; he was oppressed by fever; but I trusted, I
fondly and fearfully trusted, that there were no
symptoms of the plague. He was not three years old, and
his illness appeared only one of those attacks incident
to infancy. I watched him long--his heavy half-closed
lids, his burning cheeks and restless twining of his
small fingers--the fever was violent, the torpor
complete--enough, without the greater fear of
pestilence, to awaken alarm. Idris must not see him in
this state. Clara, though only twelve years old, was
rendered, through extreme sensibility, so prudent and
careful, that I felt secure in entrusting the charge of
him to her, and it was my task to prevent Idris from
observing their absence. I administered the fitting
remedies, and left my sweet niece to watch beside him,
and bring me notice of any change she should observe.
I then went to Idris, contriving in my way, plausible
excuses for remaining all day in the Castle, and
endeavouring to disperse the traces of care from my
brow. Fortunately she was not alone. I found Merrival,
the astronomer, with her. He was far too long sighted
in his view of humanity to heed the casualties of the
day, and lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of
its existence. This poor man, learned as La Place,
guileless and unforeseeing as a child, had often been
on the point of starvation, he, his pale wife and
numerous offspring, while he neither felt hunger, nor
observed distress. His astronomical theories absorbed
him; calculations were scrawled with coal on the bare
walls of his garret: a hard-earned guinea, or an
article of dress, was exchanged for a book without
remorse; he neither heard his children cry, nor
observed his companion's emaciated form, and the excess
of calamity was merely to him as the occurrence of a
cloudy night, when he would have given his right hand
to observe a celestial phenomenon. His wife was one of
those wondrous beings, to be found only among women,
with affections not to be diminished by misfortune. Her
mind was divided between boundless admiration for her
husband, and tender anxiety for her children--she
waited on him, worked for them, and never complained,
though care rendered her life one long-drawn,
melancholy dream.
He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a request he
made to observe some planetary motions from his glass.
His poverty was easily detected and relieved. He often
thanked us for the books we lent him, and for the use
of our instruments, but never spoke of his altered
abode or change of circumstances. His wife assured us,
that he had not observed any difference, except in the
absence of the children from his study, and to her
infinite surprise he complained of this unaccustomed
quiet.
He came now to announce to us the completion of his
Essay on the Pericyclical Motions of the Earth's Axis,
and the precession of the equinoctial points. If an old
Roman of the period of the Republic had returned to
life, and talked of the impending election of some
laurel-crowned consul, or of the last battle with
Mithridates, his ideas would not have been more alien
to the times, than the conversation of Merrival. Man,
no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed his
thoughts in visible signs; nor were there any readers
left: while each one, having thrown away his sword with
opposing shield alone, awaited the plague, Merrival
talked of the state of mankind six thousand years
hence. He might with equal interest to us, have added a
commentary, to describe the unknown and unimaginable
lineaments of the creatures, who would then occupy the
vacated dwelling of mankind. We had not the heart to
undeceive the poor old man; and at the moment I came
in, he was reading parts of his book to Idris, asking
what answer could be given to this or that position.
Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she listened;
she had already gathered from him that his family was
alive and in health; though not apt to forget the
precipice of time on which she stood, yet I could
perceive that she was amused for a moment, by the
contrast between the contracted view we had so long
taken of human life, and the seven league strides with
which Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was glad to
see her smile, because it assured me of her total
ignorance of her infant's danger: but I shuddered to
think of the revulsion that would be occasioned by a
discovery of the truth. While Merrival was talking,
Clara softly opened a door behind Idris, and beckoned
me to come with a gesture and look of grief. A mirror
betrayed the sign to Idris--she started up. To suspect
evil, to perceive that, Alfred being with us, the
danger must regard her youngest darling, to fly across
the long chambers into his apartment, was the work but
of a moment. There she beheld her Evelyn lying
fever-stricken and motionless. I followed her, and
strove to inspire more hope than I could myself
entertain; but she shook her head mournfully. Anguish
deprived her of presence of mind; she gave up to me and
Clara the physician's and nurse's parts; she sat by the
bed, holding one little burning hand, and, with glazed
eyes fixed on her babe, passed the long day in one
unvaried agony. It was not the plague that visited our
little boy so roughly; but she could not listen to my
assurances; apprehension deprived her of judgment and
reflection; every slight convulsion of her child's
features shook her frame--if he moved, she dreaded the
instant crisis; if he remained still, she saw death in
his torpor, and the cloud on her brow darkened.
The poor little thing's fever encreased towards night.
The sensation is most dreary, to use no stronger term,
with which one looks forward to passing the long hours
of night beside a sick bed, especially if the patient
be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose
flickering life resembles the wasting flame of the
watch-light,
Whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
Devouring darkness hovers.*
With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry
impatience one marks the unchequered darkness; the
crowing of a cock, that sound of glee during day-time,
comes wailing and untuneable--the creaking of rafters,
and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt
as the signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome
by weariness, had seated herself at the foot of her
cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts slumber
weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she shook it
off; but at length she was conquered and slept. Idris
sat at the bedside, holding Evelyn's hand; we were
afraid to speak to each other; I watched the stars--I
hung over my child--I felt his little pulse--I drew
near the mother--again I receded. At the turn of
morning a gentle sigh from the patient attracted me,
the burning spot on his cheek faded--his pulse beat
softly and regularly--torpor yielded to sleep. For a
long time I dared not hope; but when his unobstructed
breathing and the moisture that suffused his forehead,
were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the departure
of mortal malady, I ventured to whisper the news of the
change to Idris, and at length succeeded in persuading
her that I spoke truth.
[* The Cenci]
But neither this assurance, nor the speedy
convalescence of our child could restore her, even to
the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her fear had
been too deep, too absorbing, too entire, to be changed
to security. She felt as if during her past calm she
had dreamed, but was now awake; she was
As one
In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened
From soothing visions of the home he loves,
Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;*
as one who has been cradled by a storm, and awakes to
find the vessel sinking. Before, she had been visited
by pangs of fear--now, she never enjoyed an interval of
hope. No smile of the heart ever irradiated her fair
countenance; sometimes she forced one, and then gushing
tears would flow, and the sea of grief close above
these wrecks of past happiness. Still while I was near
her, she could not be in utter despair--she fully
confided herself to me--she did not seem to fear my
death, or revert to its possibility; to my guardianship
she consigned the full freight of her anxieties,
reposing on my love, as a wind-nipped fawn by the side
of a doe, as a wounded nestling under its mother's
wing, as a tiny, shattered boat, quivering still,
beneath some protecting willow-tree. While I, not
proudly as in days of joy, yet tenderly, and with glad
consciousness of the comfort I afforded, drew my
trembling girl close to my heart, and tried to ward
every painful thought or rough circumstance from her
sensitive nature.
[* The Brides' Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq.]
One other incident occurred at the end of this summer.
The Countess of Windsor, Ex-Queen of England, returned
from Germany. She had at the beginning of the season
quitted the vacant city of Vienna; and, unable to tame
her haughty mind to anything like submission, she had
delayed at Hamburgh, and, when at last she came to
London, many weeks elapsed before she gave Adrian
notice of her arrival. In spite of her coldness and
long absence, he welcomed her with sensibility,
displaying such affection as sought to heal the wounds
of pride and sorrow, and was repulsed only by her total
apparent want of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother's
return with pleasure. Her own maternal feelings were so
ardent, that she imagined her parent must now, in this
waste world, have lost pride and harshness, and would
receive with delight her filial attentions. The first
check to her duteous demonstrations was a formal
intimation from the fallen majesty of England, that I
was in no manner to be intruded upon her. She
consented, she said, to forgive her daughter, and
acknowledge her grandchildren; larger concessions must
not be expected.
To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a term may
be permitted) extremely whimsical. Now that the race of
man had lost in fact all distinction of rank, this
pride was doubly fatuitous; now that we felt a kindred,
fraternal nature with all who bore the stamp of
humanity, this angry reminiscence of times for ever
gone, was worse than foolish. Idris was too much taken
up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry, hardly
grieved; for she judged that insensibility must be the
source of this continued rancour. This was not
altogether the fact: but predominant self-will assumed
the arms and masque of callous feeling; and the haughty
lady disdained to exhibit any token of the struggle she
endured; while the slave of pride, she fancied that she
sacrificed her happiness to immutable principle.
False was all this--false all but the affections of our
nature, and the links of sympathy with pleasure or
pain. There was but one good and one evil in the
world--life and death. The pomp of rank, the assumption
of power, the possessions of wealth vanished like
morning mist. One living beggar had become of more
worth than a national peerage of dead lords--alas the
day!--than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of genius.
There was much of degradation in this: for even vice
and virtue had lost their attributes--life--life--the
continuation of our animal mechanism--was the Alpha and
Omega of the desires, the prayers, the prostrate
ambition of human race.
[Vol. II]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IX.
HALF England was desolate, when October came, and the
equinoctial winds swept over the earth, chilling the
ardours of the unhealthy season. The summer, which was
uncommonly hot, had been protracted into the beginning
of this month, when on the eighteenth a sudden change
was brought about from summer temperature to winter
frost. Pestilence then made a pause in her
death-dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name our
hopes, yet full even to the brim with intense
expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor stands
on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, watching a
distant vessel, fancying that now it nears, and then
again that it is bearing from sight. This promise of a
renewed lease of life turned rugged natures to melting
tenderness, and by contrast filled the soft with harsh
and unnatural sentiments. When it seemed destined that
all were to die, we were reckless of the how and
when--now that the virulence of the disease was
mitigated, and it appeared willing to spare some, each
was eager to be among the elect, and clung to life with
dastard tenacity. Instances of desertion became more
frequent; and even murders, which made the hearer sick
with horror, where the fear of contagion had armed
those nearest in blood against each other. But these
smaller and separate tragedies were about to yield to a
mightier interest--and, while we were promised calm
from infectious influences, a tempest arose wilder than
the winds, a tempest bred by the passions of man,
nourished by his most violent impulses, unexampled and
dire.
A number of people from North America, the relics of
that populous continent, had set sail for the East with
mad desire of change, leaving their native plains for
lands not less afflicted than their own. Several
hundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of
November, and took possession of such vacant
habitations as they could find; seizing upon the
superabundant food, and the stray cattle. As they
exhausted the produce of one spot, they went on to
another. At length they began to interfere with the
inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated numbers,
ejected the natives from their dwellings, and robbed
them of their winter store. A few events of this kind
roused the fiery nature of the Irish; and they attacked
the invaders. Some were destroyed; the major part
escaped by quick and well ordered movements; and danger
made them careful. Their numbers ably arranged; the
very deaths among them concealed; moving on in good
order, and apparently given up to enjoyment, they
excited the envy of the Irish. The Americans permitted
a few to join their band, and presently the recruits
outnumbered the strangers--nor did they join with them,
nor imitate the admirable order which, preserved by the
Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them at once secure and
formidable. The Irish followed their track in
disorganized multitudes; each day encreasing; each day
becoming more lawless. The Americans were eager to
escape from the spirit they had roused, and, reaching
the eastern shores of the island, embarked for England.
Their incursion would hardly have been felt had they
come alone; but the Irish, collected in unnatural
numbers, began to feel the inroads of famine, and they
followed in the wake of the Americans for England also.
The crossing of the sea could not arrest their
progress. The harbours of the desolate sea-ports of the
west of Ireland were filled with vessels of all sizes,
from the man of war to the small fishers' boat, which
lay sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The
emigrants embarked by hundreds, and unfurling their
sails with rude hands, made strange havoc of buoy and
cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves to the
smaller craft, for the most part achieved their watery
journey in safety. Some, in the true spirit of reckless
enterprise, went on board a ship of an hundred and
twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with the tide out of
the bay, and after many hours its crew of landsmen
contrived to spread a great part of her enormous
canvass--the wind took it, and while a thousand
mistakes of the helmsman made her present her head now
to one point, and now to another, the vast fields of
canvass that formed her sails flapped with a sound like
that of a huge cataract; or such as a sea-like forest
may give forth when buffeted by an equinoctial
north-wind. The port-holes were open, and with every
sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they
received whole tons of water. The difficulties were
increased by a fresh breeze which began to blow,
whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this way
and that, and rending them with horrid split, and such
whir as may have visited the dreams of Milton, when he
imagined the winnowing of the arch-fiend's van-like
wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos. These
sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the
splash of the chafed billows round the vessel's sides,
and the gurgling up of the water in the hold. The crew,
many of whom had never seen the sea before, felt indeed
as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as the
vessel dipped her bows in the waves, or rose high upon
them. Their yells were drowned in the clamour of
elements, and the thunder rivings of their unwieldy
habitation--they discovered at last that the water
gained on them, and they betook themselves to their
pumps; they might as well have laboured to empty the
ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went down, the gale
encreased; the ship seemed to feel her danger, she was
now completely water-logged, and presented other
indications of settling before she went down. The bay
was crowded with vessels, whose crews, for the most
part, were observing the uncouth sportings of this huge
unwieldy machine--they saw her gradually sink; the
waters now rising above her lower decks--they could
hardly wink before she had utterly disappeared, nor
could the place where the sea had closed over her be at
all discerned. Some few of her crew were saved, but the
greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went
down with her, to rise only when death loosened their
hold.
This event caused many of those who were about to sail,
to put foot again on firm land, ready to encounter any
evil rather than to rush into the yawning jaws of the
pitiless ocean. But these were few, in comparison to
the numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high
as Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then
journeying south through Scotland, they were joined by
the poorer natives of that country, and all poured with
one consent into England.
Such incursions struck the English with affright, in
all those towns where there was still sufficient
population to feel the change. There was room enough
indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of
invaders; but their lawless spirit instigated them to
violence; they took a delight in thrusting the
possessors from their houses; in seizing on some
mansion of luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded
themselves in fear of the plague; in forcing these of
either sex to become their servants and purveyors;
till, the ruin complete in one place, they removed
their locust visitation to another. When unopposed they
spread their ravages wide; in cases of danger they
clustered, and by dint of numbers overthrew their weak
and despairing foes. They came from the east and the
north, and directed their course without apparent
motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy metropolis.
Communication had been to a great degree cut off
through the paralyzing effects of pestilence, so that
the van of our invaders had proceeded as far as
Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of
their arrival. They swept the country like a conquering
army, burning--laying
waste--murdering. The lower and vagabond English joined
with them. Some few of the Lords Lieutenant who
remained, endeavoured to collect the militia--but the
ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the
opposition that was made only served to increase the
audacity and cruelty of the enemy. They talked of
taking London, conquering England--calling to mind the
long detail of injuries which had for many years been
forgotten. Such vaunts displayed their weakness, rather
than their strength--yet still they might do extreme
mischief, which, ending in their destruction, would
render them at last objects of compassion and remorse.
We were now taught how, in the beginning of the world,
mankind clothed their enemies in impossible
attributes--and how details proceeding from mouth to
mouth, might, like Virgil's ever-growing Rumour, reach
the heavens with her brow, and clasp Hesperus and
Lucifer with her outstretched hands. Gorgon and
Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion, vast sea-monster
and gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and
appalling accounts brought to London concerning our
invaders. Their landing was long unknown, but having
now advanced within an hundred miles of London, the
country people flying before them arrived in successive
troops, each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and
cruelty of the assailants. Tumult filled the before
quiet streets--women and children deserted their homes,
escaping they knew not whither--fathers, husbands, and
sons, stood trembling, not for themselves, but for
their loved and defenceless relations. As the country
people poured into London, the citizens fled
southwards--they climbed the higher edifices of the
town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and
flames the enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to
a great degree, in the line of march from the west, I
removed my family to London, assigning the Tower for
their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his
Lieutenant in the coming struggle.
We employed only two days in our preparations, and made
good use of them. Artillery and arms were collected;
the remnants of such regiments, as could be brought
through many losses into any show of muster, were put
under arms, with that appearance of military discipline
which might encourage our own party, and seem most
formidable to the disorganized multitude of our
enemies. Even music was not wanting: banners floated in
the air, and the shrill fife and loud trumpet breathed
forth sounds of encouragement and victory. A practised
ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the
soldiers; but this was not occasioned so much by fear
of the adversary, as by disease, by sorrow, and by
fatal prognostications, which often weighed most
potently on the brave, and quelled the manly heart to
abject subjection.
Adrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was
small relief to him that our discipline should gain us
success in such a conflict; while plague still hovered
to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it was not
victory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we
advanced, we were met by bands of peasantry, whose
almost naked condition, whose despair and horror, told
at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy. The
senseless spirit of conquest and thirst of spoil
blinded them, while with insane fury they deluged the
country in ruin. The sight of the military restored
hope to those who fled, and revenge took place of fear.
They inspired the soldiers with the same sentiment.
Languor was changed to ardour, the slow step converted
to a speedy pace, while the hollow murmur of the
multitude, inspired by one feeling, and that deadly,
filled the air, drowning the clang of arms and sound of
music. Adrian perceived the change, and feared that it
would be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their
utmost fury on the Irish. He rode through the lines,
charging the officers to restrain the troops, exhorting
the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some
degree the violent agitation that swelled every bosom.
We first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St.
Albans. They retreated, and, joining others of their
companions, still fell back, till they reached the main
body. Tidings of an armed and regular opposition
recalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham
their head-quarters, and scouts were sent out to
ascertain our situation. We remained for the night at
Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement caused us
each to advance. It was early dawn, and the air,
impregnated with freshest odour, seemed in idle mockery
to play with our banners, and bore onwards towards the
enemy the music of the bands, the neighings of the
horses, and regular step of the infantry. The first
sound of martial instruments that came upon our
undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not unmingled
with dread. It spoke of other days, of days of concord
and order; it was associated with times when plague was
not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent fate.
The pause was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly
clamour, the barbarian shouts, the untimed step of
thousands coming on in disarray. Their troops now came
pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes; a
large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we
advanced to the middle of this, and then made a halt:
being somewhat on superior ground, we could discern the
space they covered. When their leaders perceived us
drawn out in opposition, they also gave the word to
halt, and endeavoured to form their men into some
imitation of military discipline. The first ranks had
muskets; some were mounted, but their arms were such as
they had seized during their advance, their horses
those they had taken from the peasantry; there was no
uniformity, and little obedience, but their shouts and
wild gestures showed the untamed spirit that inspired
them. Our soldiers received the word, and advanced to
quickest time, but in perfect order: their uniform
dresses, the gleam of their polished arms, their
silence, and looks of sullen hate, were more appalling
than the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus
coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and
shouts of the Irish increased; the English proceeded in
obedience to their officers, until they came near
enough to distinguish the faces of their enemies; the
sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent
heaven and was re-echoed by the furthest lines, they
rushed on; they disdained the use of the bullet, but
with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe, while
the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted
the cannon, whose deafening roar and blinding smoke
filled up the horror of the scene.
I was beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given
the word to halt, and had remained a few yards distant
from us in deep meditation: he was forming swiftly his
plan of action, to prevent the effusion of blood; the
noise of cannon, the sudden rush of the troops, and
yell of the foe, startled him: with flashing eyes he
exclaimed, "Not one of these must perish!" and plunging
the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed between
the conflicting bands. We, his staff, followed him to
surround and protect him; obeying his signal, however,
we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving him,
paused in their onset; he did not swerve from the
bullets that passed near him, but rode immediately
between the opposing lines. Silence succeeded to
clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or
dead. Adrian raised his sword in act to speak: "By
whose command," he cried, addressing his own troops,
"do you advance? Who ordered your attack? Fall back;
these misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I
am your general. Sheath your weapons; these are your
brothers, commit not fratricide; soon the plague will
not leave one for you to glut your revenge upon: will
you be more pitiless than pestilence? As you honour
me--as you worship God, in whose image those also are
created--as your children and friends are dear to
you,--shed not a drop of precious human blood."
He spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and
then turning to our invaders, with a severe brow, he
commanded them to lay down their arms: "Do you think,"
he said, "that because we are wasted by plague, you can
overcome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye
are vanquished by famine and disease, the ghosts of
those you have murdered will arise to bid you not hope
in death. Lay down your arms, barbarous and cruel
men--men whose hands are stained with the blood of the
innocent, whose souls are weighed down by the orphan's
cry! We shall conquer, for the right is on our side;
already your cheeks are pale--the weapons fall from
your nerveless grasp. Lay down your arms, fellow men!
brethren! Pardon, succour, and brotherly love await
your repentance. You are dear to us, because you wear
the frail shape of humanity; each one among you will
find a friend and host among these forces. Shall man be
the enemy of man, while plague, the foe to all, even
now is above us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel
than her own?"
Each army paused. On our side the soldiers grasped
their arms firmly, and looked with stern glances on the
foe. These had not thrown down their weapons, more from
fear than the spirit of contest; they looked at each
other, each wishing to follow some example given
him,--but they had no leader. Adrian threw himself from
his horse, and approaching one of those just slain: "He
was a man," he cried, "and he is dead. O quickly bind
up the wounds of the fallen--let not one die; let not
one more soul escape through your merciless gashes, to
relate before the throne of God the tale of fratricide;
bind up their wounds--restore them to their friends.
Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your
breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and hate; in
this pause of exterminating destiny, let each man be
brother, guardian, and stay to the other. Away with
those blood-stained arms, and hasten some of you to
bind up these wounds."
As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and raised in his
arms a man from whose side the warm tide of life
gushed--the poor wretch gasped--so still had either
host become, that his moans were distinctly heard, and
every heart, late fiercely bent on universal massacre,
now beat anxiously in hope and fear for the fate of
this one man. Adrian tore off his military scarf and
bound it round the sufferer--it was too late--the man
heaved a deep sigh, his head fell back, his limbs lost
their sustaining power.--"He is dead!" said Adrian, as
the corpse fell from his arms on the ground, and he
bowed his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the world
seemed bound up in the death of this single man. On
either side the bands threw down their arms, even the
veterans wept, and our party held out their hands to
their foes, while a gush of love and deepest amity
filled every heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed
and hand in hand, talking only how each might assist
the other, the adversaries conjoined; each repenting,
the one side their former cruelties, the other their
late violence, they obeyed the orders of the General to
proceed towards London.
Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost prudence, first
to allay the discord, and then to provide for the
multitude of the invaders. They were marched to various
parts of the southern counties, quartered in deserted
villages,--a part were sent back to their own island,
while the season of winter so far revived our energy,
that the passes of the country were defended, and any
increase of numbers prohibited.
On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after a
separation of nearly a year. Adrian had been occupied
in fulfilling a laborious and painful task. He had been
familiar with every species of human misery, and had
for ever found his powers inadequate, his aid of small
avail. Yet the purpose of his soul, his energy and
ardent resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow.
He seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent than
Medean alchemy, endued him with health and strength.
Idris hardly recognized the fragile being, whose form
had seemed to bend even to the summer breeze, in the
energetic man, whose very excess of sensibility
rendered him more capable of fulfilling his station of
pilot in storm-tossed England.
It was not thus with Idris. She was uncomplaining; but
the very soul of fear had taken its seat in her heart.
She had grown thin and pale, her eyes filled with
involuntary tears, her voice was broken and low. She
tried to throw a veil over the change which she knew
her brother must observe in her, but the effort was
ineffectual; and when alone with him, with a burst of
irrepressible grief she gave vent to her apprehensions
and sorrow. She described in vivid terms the ceaseless
care that with still renewing hunger ate into her soul;
she compared this gnawing of sleepless expectation of
evil, to the vulture that fed on the heart of
Prometheus; under the influence of this eternal
excitement, and of the interminable struggles she
endured to combat and conceal it, she felt, she said,
as if all the wheels and springs of the animal machine
worked at double rate, and were fast consuming
themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking
thoughts, bridled by some remains of reason, and by the
sight of her children happy and in health, were then
transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were
realized, all her fears received their dread
fulfilment. To this state there was no hope, no
alleviation, unless the grave should quickly receive
its destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before
she experienced a thousand living deaths in the loss of
those she loved. Fearing to give me pain, she hid as
best she could the excess of her wretchedness, but
meeting thus her brother after a long absence, she
could not restrain the expression of her woe, but with
all the vividness of imagination with which misery is
always replete, she poured out the emotions of her
heart to her beloved and sympathizing Adrian.
Her present visit to London tended to augment her state
of inquietude, by shewing in its utmost extent the
ravages occasioned by pestilence. It hardly preserved
the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung up
thick in the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the
houses were shut up, while silence and loneliness
characterized the busiest parts of the town. Yet in the
midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order; and
each one continued to live according to law and
custom--human institutions thus surviving as it were
divine ones, and while the decree of population was
abrogated, property continued sacred. It was a
melancholy reflection; and in spite of the diminution
of evil produced, it struck on the heart as a wretched
mockery. All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres
and festivals had passed away. "Next summer," said
Adrian as we parted on our return to Windsor, "will
decide the fate of the human race. I shall not pause in
my exertions until that time; but, if plague revives
with the coming year, all contest with her must cease,
and our only occupation be the choice of a grave."
I must not forget one incident that occurred during
this visit to London. The visits of Merrival to
Windsor, before frequent, had suddenly ceased. At this
time where but a hair's line separated the living from
the dead, I feared that our friend had become a victim
to the all-embracing evil. On this occasion I went,
dreading the worst, to his dwelling, to see if I could
be of any service to those of his family who might have
survived. The house was deserted, and had been one of
those assigned to the invading strangers quartered in
London. I saw his astronomical instruments put to
strange uses, his globes defaced, his papers covered
with abstruse calculations destroyed. The neighbours
could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor woman
who acted as nurse in these perilous times. She told me
that all the family were dead, except Merrival himself,
who had gone mad--mad, she called it, yet on
questioning her further, it appeared that he was
possessed only by the delirium of excessive grief. This
old man, tottering on the edge of the grave, and
prolonging his prospect through millions of calculated
years,--this visionary who had not seen starvation in
the wasted forms of his wife and children, or plague in
the horrible sights and sounds that surrounded
him--this astronomer, apparently dead on earth, and
living only in the motion of the spheres--loved his
family with unapparent but intense affection. Through
long habit they had become a part of himself; his want
of worldly knowledge, his absence of mind and infant
guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on them. It
was not till one of them died that he perceived their
danger; one by one they were carried off by pestilence;
and his wife, his helpmate and supporter, more
necessary to him than his own limbs and frame, which
had hardly been taught the lesson of self-preservation,
the kind companion whose voice always spoke peace to
him, closed her eyes in death. The old man felt the
system of universal nature which he had so long studied
and adored, slide from under him, and he stood among
the dead, and lifted his voice in curses.--No wonder
that the attendant should interpret as phrensy the
harrowing maledictions of the grief-struck old man.
I had commenced my search late in the day, a November
day, that closed in early with pattering rain and
melancholy wind. As I turned from the door, I saw
Merrival, or rather the shadow of Merrival, attenuated
and wild, pass me, and sit on the steps of his home.
The breeze scattered the grey locks on his temples, the
rain drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his
face in his withered hands. I pressed his shoulder to
awaken his attention, but he did not alter his
position. "Merrival," I said, "it is long since we have
seen you--you must return to Windsor with me--Lady
Idris desires to see you, you will not refuse her
request--come home with me."
He replied in a hollow voice, "Why deceive a helpless
old man, why talk hypocritically to one half crazed?
Windsor is not my home; my true home I have found; the
home that the Creator has prepared for me."
His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me--"Do not tempt
me to speak," he continued, "my words would scare
you--in an universe of cowards I dare think--among the
church-yard tombs--among the victims of His merciless
tyranny I dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he
punish me? Let him bare his arm and transfix me with
lightning--this is also one of his attributes"--and the
old man laughed.
He rose, and I followed him through the rain to a
neighbouring church-yard--he threw himself on the wet
earth. "Here they are," he cried, "beautiful
creatures--breathing, speaking, loving creatures. She
who by day and night cherished the age-worn lover of
her youth--they, parts of my flesh, my children--here
they are: call them, scream their names through the
night; they will not answer!" He clung to the little
heaps that marked the graves. "I ask but one thing; I
do not fear His hell, for I have it here; I do not
desire His heaven, let me but die and be laid beside
them; let me but, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it
moulders, mingle with theirs. Promise," and he raised
himself painfully, and seized my arm, "promise to bury
me with them."
"So God help me and mine as I promise," I replied, "on
one condition: return with me to Windsor."
"To Windsor!" he cried with a shriek, "Never!--from
this place I never go--my bones, my flesh, I myself,
are already buried here, and what you see of me is
corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling
here, till rain, and hail, and lightning and storm,
ruining on me, make me one in substance with them
below."
In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was
obliged to leave London, and Adrian undertook to watch
over him; the task was soon fulfilled; age, grief, and
inclement weather, all united to hush his sorrows, and
bring repose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He
died embracing the sod, which was piled above his
breast, when he was placed beside the beings whom he
regretted with such wild despair.
I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed
to think that there was greater safety for her children
at that spot; and because, once having taken on me the
guardianship of the district, I would not desert it
while an inhabitant survived. I went also to act in
conformity with Adrian's plans, which was to congregate
in masses what remained of the population; for he
possessed the conviction that it was only through the
benevolent and social virtues that any safety was to be
hoped for the remnant of mankind.
It was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so
dear to us, as the scene of a happiness rarely before
enjoyed, here to mark the extinction of our species,
and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease
over the fertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the
country had so far changed, that it had been impossible
to enter on the task of sowing seed, and other autumnal
labours. That season was now gone; and winter had set
in with sudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts
and thaws succeeding to floods, rendered the country
impassable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic
appearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses
peeped from the white mass; the lowly cot and stately
mansion, alike deserted, were blocked up, their
thresholds uncleared; the windows were broken by the
hail, while the prevalence of a north-east wind
rendered out-door exertions extremely painful. The
altered state of society made these accidents of
nature, sources of real misery. The luxury of command
and the attentions of servitude were lost. It is true
that the necessaries of life were assembled in such
quantities, as to supply to superfluity the wants of
the diminished population; but still much labour was
required to arrange these, as it were, raw materials;
and depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future,
we had not energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any
system.
I can speak for myself--want of energy was not my
failing. The intense life that quickened my pulses, and
animated my frame, had the effect, not of drawing me
into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my
lowliness, and of bestowing majestic proportions on
insignificant objects--I could have lived the life of a
peasant in the same way--my trifling occupations were
swelled into important pursuits; my affections were
impetuous and engrossing passions, and nature with all
her changes was invested in divine attributes. The very
spirit of the Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I
deified the uplands, glades, and streams, I
Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.*
[* Wordsworth.]
Strange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous
course, I dwelt with ever-renewing wonder on her
antique laws, and now that with excentric wheel she
rushed into an untried path, I should feel this spirit
fade; I struggled with despondency and weariness, but
like a fog, they choked me. Perhaps, after the labours
and stupendous excitement of the past summer, the calm
of winter and the almost menial toils it brought with
it, were by natural re-action doubly irksome. It was
not the grasping passion of the preceding year, which
gave life and individuality to each moment--it was not
the aching pangs induced by the distresses of the
times. The utter inutility that had attended all my
exertions took from them their usual effects of
exhilaration, and despair rendered abortive the balm of
self applause--I longed to return to my old
occupations, but of what use were they? To read were
futile--to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide
circus for the display of dignified exploits, vast
theatre for a magnificent drama, now presented a vacant
space, an empty stage--for actor or spectator there was
no longer aught to say or hear.
Our little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from
the neighbouring counties were chiefly assembled, wore
a melancholy aspect. Its streets were blocked up with
snow--the few passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by
the ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these
evils was the aim and scope of all our exertions.
Families late devoted to exalting and refined pursuits,
rich, blooming, and young, with diminished numbers and
care-fraught hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish
and grovelling through suffering. Without the aid of
servants, it was necessary to discharge all household
duties; hands unused to such labour must knead the
bread, or in the absence of flour, the statesmen or
perfumed courtier must undertake the butcher's office.
Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the poor were
the superior, since they entered on such tasks with
alacrity and experience; while ignorance, inaptitude,
and habits of repose, rendered them fatiguing to the
luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all
whose minds, bent on intellectual improvement, held it
their dearest privilege to be exempt from attending to
mere animal wants.
But in every change goodness and affection can find
field for exertion and display. Among some these
changes produced a devotion and sacrifice of self at
once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers
of the human race to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient
times, the patriarchal modes in which the variety of
kindred and friendship fulfilled their duteous and
kindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land, performed
for the sake of mother or sister, the services of
menials with amiable cheerfulness. They went to the
river to break the ice, and draw water: they assembled
on foraging expeditions, or axe in hand felled the
trees for fuel. The females received them on their
return with the simple and affectionate welcome known
before only to the lowly cottage--a clean hearth and
bright fire; the supper ready cooked by beloved hands;
gratitude for the provision for to-morrow's meal:
strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they
were now their sole, hard earned, and dearly prized
luxuries.
None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission
to circumstances, noble humility, and ingenious fancy
to adorn such acts with romantic colouring, than our
own Clara. She saw my despondency, and the aching cares
of Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us from
labour and to spread ease and even elegance over our
altered mode of life. We still had some attendants
spared by disease, and warmly attached to us. But Clara
was jealous of their services; she would be sole
handmaid of Idris, sole minister to the wants of her
little cousins; nothing gave her so much pleasure as
our employing her in this way; she went beyond our
desires, earnest, diligent, and unwearied,--
Abra was ready ere we called her name,
And though we called another, Abra came.*
[* Prior's "Solomon."]
It was my task each day to visit the various families
assembled in our town, and when the weather permitted,
I was glad to prolong my ride, and to muse in solitude
over every changeful appearance of our destiny,
endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the
experience of the past. The impatience with which,
while in society, the ills that afflicted my species
inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when
individual suffering was merged in the general
calamity, strange to say, less afflicting to
contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with difficulty
through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the
bridge and passed through Eton. No youthful
congregation of gallant-hearted boys thronged the
portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy
school-room and noisy playground. I extended my ride
towards Salt Hill, on every side impeded by the snow.
Were those the fertile fields I loved--was that the
interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale, once
covered with waving corn, diversified by stately trees,
watered by the meandering Thames? One sheet of white
covered it, while bitter recollection told me that cold
as the winter-clothed earth, were the hearts of the
inhabitants. I met troops of horses, herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing down
a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which
afforded them shelter and food--there having taken
possession of a vacant cottage.
Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless
unsatisfying reflections, I sought a favourite haunt, a
little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A bubbling
spring prattles over stones on one side, and a
plantation of a few elms and beeches, hardly deserve,
and yet continue the name of wood. This spot had for me
peculiar charms. It had been a favourite resort of
Adrian; it was secluded; and he often said that in
boyhood, his happiest hours were spent here; having
escaped the stately bondage of his mother, he sat on
the rough hewn steps that led to the spring, now
reading a favourite book, now musing, with speculation
beyond his years, on the still unravelled skein of
morals or metaphysics. A melancholy foreboding assured
me that I should never see this place more; so with
careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding of
the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I
might better call up its idea in absence. A robin
red-breast dropt from the frosty branches of the trees,
upon the congealed rivulet; its panting breast and
half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk
appeared in the air; sudden fear seized the little
creature; it exerted its last strength, throwing itself
on its back, raising its talons in impotent defence
against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it
in my breast. I fed it with a few crumbs from a
biscuit; by degrees it revived; its warm fluttering
heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident--but the scene is still before me;
the snow-clad fields seen through the silvered trunks
of the beeches,--the brook, in days of happiness alive
with sparkling waters, now choked by ice--the leafless
trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost--the shapes
of summer leaves imaged by winter's frozen hand on the
hard ground--the dusky sky, drear cold, and unbroken
silence--while close in my bosom, my feathered nursling
lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light
chirp--painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain
with wild commotion--cold and death-like as the snowy
fields was all earth--misery-stricken the life-tide of
the inhabitants--why should I oppose the cataract of
destruction that swept us away?--why string my nerves
and renew my wearied efforts--ah, why? But that my firm
courage and cheerful exertions might shelter the dear
mate, whom I chose in the spring of my life; though the
throbbings of my heart be replete with pain, though my
hopes for the future are chill, still while your dear
head, my gentlest love, can repose in peace on that
heart, and while you derive from its fostering care,
comfort, and hope, my struggles shall not cease,--I
will not call myself altogether vanquished.
One fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some
of its genial power, I walked in the forest with my
family. It was one of those lovely winter-days which
assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty on
barrenness. The leafless trees spread their fibrous
branches against the pure sky; their intricate and
pervious tracery resembled delicate sea-weed; the deer
were turning up the snow in search of the hidden grass;
the white was made intensely dazzling by the sun, and
trunks of the trees, rendered more conspicuous by the
loss of preponderating foliage, gathered around like
the labyrinthine columns of a vast temple; it was
impossible not to receive pleasure from the sight of
these things. Our children, freed from the bondage of
winter, bounded before us; pursuing the deer, or
rousing the pheasants and partridges from their
coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her sadness yielded to
the present sense of pleasure. We met other families on
the Long Walk, enjoying like ourselves the return of
the genial season. At once, I seemed to awake; I cast
off the clinging sloth of the past months; earth
assumed a new appearance, and my view of the future was
suddenly made clear. I exclaimed, "I have now found out
the secret!"
"What secret?"
In answer to this question, I described our gloomy
winter-life, our sordid cares, our menial
labours:--"This northern country," I said, "is no place
for our diminished race. When mankind were few, it was
not here that they battled with the powerful agents of
nature, and were enabled to cover the globe with
offspring. We must seek some natural Paradise, some
garden of the earth, where our simple wants may be
easily supplied, and the enjoyment of a delicious
climate compensate for the social pleasures we have
lost. If we survive this coming summer, I will not
spend the ensuing winter in England; neither I nor any
of us."
I spoke without much heed, and the very conclusion of
what I said brought with it other thoughts. Should we,
any of us, survive the coming summer? I saw the brow of
Idris clouded; I again felt, that we were enchained to
the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no control.
We could no longer say, This we will do, and this we
will leave undone. A mightier power than the human was
at hand to destroy our plans or to achieve the work we
avoided. It were madness to calculate upon another
winter. This was our last. The coming summer was the
extreme end of our vista; and, when we arrived there,
instead of a continuation of the long road, a gulph
yawned, into which we must of force be precipitated.
The last blessing of humanity was wrested from us; we
might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his
chains, hope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who
when he lays his head on the block, marks the double
shadow of himself and the executioner, whose uplifted
arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner,
who spent with swimming, hears close behind the
splashing waters divided by a shark which pursues him
through the Atlantic, hope? Such hope as theirs, we
also may entertain!
Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from
the box of Pandora, else crammed with evils; but these
were unseen and null, while all admired the inspiriting
loveliness of young Hope; each man's heart became her
home; she was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here
and here-after; she was deified and worshipped,
declared incorruptible and everlasting. But like all
other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her
life has attained its last hour. We have watched over
her; nursed her flickering existence; now she has
fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, from health
to immedicinable disease; even as we spend ourselves in
struggles for her recovery, she dies; to all nations
the voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We are but mourners
in the funeral train, and what immortal essence or
perishable creation will refuse to make one in the sad
procession that attends to its grave the dead comforter
of humanity?
Does not the sun call in his light? and day
Like a thin exhalation melt away--
Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be
Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.*
[* Cleveland's Poems.]
END OF VOL. II
[Volume III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER I.
HEAR YOU not the rushing sound of the coming tempest?
Do you not behold the clouds open, and destruction
lurid and dire pour down on the blasted earth? See you
not the thunderbolt fall, and are deafened by the shout
of heaven that follows its descent? Feel you not the
earth quake and open with agonizing groans, while the
air is pregnant with shrieks and wailings,--all
announcing the last days of man?
No! none of these things accompanied our fall! The
balmy air of spring, breathed from nature's ambrosial
home, invested the lovely earth, which wakened as a
young mother about to lead forth in pride her beauteous
offspring to meet their sire who had been long absent.
The buds decked the trees, the flowers adorned the
land: the dark branches, swollen with seasonable
juices, expanded into leaves, and the variegated
foliage of spring, bending and singing in the breeze,
rejoiced in the genial warmth of the unclouded
empyrean: the brooks flowed murmuring, the sea was
waveless, and the promontories that over-hung it were
reflected in the placid waters; birds awoke in the
woods, while abundant food for man and beast sprung up
from the dark ground. Where was pain and evil? Not in
the calm air or weltering ocean; not in the woods or
fertile fields, nor among the birds that made the woods
resonant with song, nor the animals that in the midst
of plenty basked in the sunshine. Our enemy, like the
Calamity of Homer, trod our hearts, and no sound was
echoed from her steps--
With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea,
Diseases haunt our frail humanity,
Through noon, through night, on casual wing they
glide,
Silent,--a voice the power all-wise denied.*
[* Elton's translation of Hesiod.]
Once man was a favourite of the Creator, as the royal
psalmist sang, "God had made him a little lower than
the angels, and had crowned him with glory and honour.
God made him to have dominion over the works of his
hands, and put all things under his feet." Once it was
so; now is man lord of the creation? Look at him--ha! I
see plague! She has invested his form, is incarnate in
his flesh, has entwined herself with his being, and
blinds his heaven-seeking eyes. Lie down, O man, on the
flower-strown earth; give up all claim to your
inheritance, all you can ever possess of it is the
small cell which the dead require.
Plague is the companion of spring, of sunshine, and
plenty. We no longer struggle with her. We have
forgotten what we did when she was not. Of old navies
used to stem the giant ocean-waves betwixt Indus and
the Pole for slight articles of luxury. Men made
perilous journies to possess themselves of earth's
splendid trifles, gems and gold. Human labour was
wasted--human life set at nought. Now life is all that
we covet; that this automaton of flesh should, with
joints and springs in order, perform its functions,
that this dwelling of the soul should be capable of
containing its dweller. Our minds, late spread abroad
through countless spheres and endless combinations of
thought, now retrenched themselves behind this wall of
flesh, eager to preserve its well-being only. We were
surely sufficiently degraded.
At first the increase of sickness in spring brought
increase of toil to such of us, who, as yet spared to
life, bestowed our time and thoughts on our fellow
creatures. We nerved ourselves to the task: "in the
midst of despair we performed the tasks of hope." We
went out with the resolution of disputing with our foe.
We aided the sick, and comforted the sorrowing; turning
from the multitudinous dead to the rare survivors, with
an energy of desire that bore the resemblance of power,
we bade them--live. Plague sat paramount the while, and
laughed us to scorn.
Have any of you, my readers, observed the ruins of an
anthill immediately after its destruction? At first it
appears entirely deserted of its former inhabitants; in
a little time you see an ant struggling through the
upturned mould; they reappear by twos and threes,
running hither and thither in search of their lost
companions. Such were we upon earth, wondering aghast
at the effects of pestilence. Our empty habitations
remained, but the dwellers were gathered to the shades
of the tomb.
As the rules of order and pressure of laws were lost,
some began with hesitation and wonder to transgress the
accustomed uses of society. Palaces were deserted, and
the poor man dared at length, unreproved, intrude into
the splendid apartments, whose very furniture and
decorations were an unknown world to him. It was found,
that, though at first the stop put to to all
circulation of property, had reduced those before
supported by the factitious wants of society to sudden
and hideous poverty, yet when the boundaries of private
possession were thrown down, the products of human
labour at present existing were more, far more, than
the thinned generation could possibly consume. To some
among the poor this was matter of exultation. We were
all equal now; magnificent dwellings, luxurious
carpets, and beds of down, were afforded to all.
Carriages and horses, gardens, pictures, statues, and
princely libraries, there were enough of these even to
superfluity; and there was nothing to prevent each from
assuming possession of his share. We were all equal
now; but near at hand was an equality still more
levelling, a state where beauty and strength, and
wisdom, would be as vain as riches and birth. The grave
yawned beneath us all, and its prospect prevented any
of us from enjoying the ease and plenty which in so
awful a manner was presented to us.
Still the bloom did not fade on the cheeks of my babes;
and Clara sprung up in years and growth, unsullied by
disease. We had no reason to think the site of Windsor
Castle peculiarly healthy, for many other families had
expired beneath its roof; we lived therefore without
any particular precaution; but we lived, it seemed, in
safety. If Idris became thin and pale, it was anxiety
that occasioned the change; an anxiety I could in no
way alleviate. She never complained, but sleep and
appetite fled from her, a slow fever preyed on her
veins, her colour was hectic, and she often wept in
secret; gloomy prognostications, care, and agonizing
dread, ate up the principle of life within her. I could
not fail to perceive this change. I often wished that I
had permitted her to take her own course, and engage
herself in such labours for the welfare of others as
might have distracted her thoughts. But it was too late
now. Besides that, with the nearly extinct race of man,
all our toils grew near a conclusion, she was too weak;
consumption, if so it might be called, or rather the
over active life within her, which, as with Adrian,
spent the vital oil in the early morning hours,
deprived her limbs of strength. At night, when she
could leave me unperceived, she wandered through the
house, or hung over the couches of her children; and in
the day time would sink into a perturbed sleep, while
her murmurs and starts betrayed the unquiet dreams that
vexed her. As this state of wretchedness became more
confirmed, and, in spite of her endeavours at
concealment more apparent, I strove, though vainly, to
awaken in her courage and hope. I could not wonder at
the vehemence of her care; her very soul was
tenderness; she trusted indeed that she should not
outlive me if I became the prey of the vast calamity,
and this thought sometimes relieved her. We had for
many years trod the highway of life hand in hand, and
still thus linked, we might step within the shades of
death; but her children, her lovely, playful, animated
children--beings sprung from her own dear
side--portions of her own being--depositories of our
loves--even if we died, it would be comfort to know
that they ran man's accustomed course. But it would not
be so; young and blooming as they were, they would die,
and from the hopes of maturity, from the proud name of
attained manhood, they were cut off for ever. Often
with maternal affection she had figured their merits
and talents exerted on life's wide stage. Alas for
these latter days! The world had grown old, and all its
inmates partook of the decrepitude. Why talk of
infancy, manhood, and old age? We all stood equal
sharers of the last throes of time-worn nature. Arrived
at the same point of the world's age--there was no
difference in us; the name of parent and child had lost
their meaning; young boys and girls were level now with
men. This was all true; but it was not less agonizing
to take the admonition home.
Where could we turn, and not find a desolation pregnant
with the dire lesson of example? The fields had been
left uncultivated, weeds and gaudy flowers sprung
up,--or where a few wheat-fields shewed signs of the
living hopes of the husbandman, the work had been left
halfway, the ploughman had died beside the plough; the
horses had deserted the furrow, and no seedsman had
approached the dead; the cattle unattended wandered
over the fields and through the lanes; the tame
inhabitants of the poultry yard, baulked of their daily
food, had become wild--young lambs were dropt in
flower-gardens, and the cow stalled in the hall of
pleasure. Sickly and few, the country people neither
went out to sow nor reap; but sauntered about the
meadows, or lay under the hedges, when the inclement
sky did not drive them to take shelter under the
nearest roof. Many of those who remained, secluded
themselves; some had laid up stores which should
prevent the necessity of leaving their homes;--some
deserted wife and child, and imagined that they secured
their safety in utter solitude. Such had been Ryland's
plan, and he was discovered dead and half-devoured by
insects, in a house many miles from any other, with
piles of food laid up in useless superfluity. Others
made long journies to unite themselves to those they
loved, and arrived to find them dead.
London did not contain above a thousand inhabitants;
and this number was continually diminishing. Most of
them were country people, come up for the sake of
change; the Londoners had sought the country. The busy
eastern part of the town was silent, or at most you saw
only where, half from cupidity, half from curiosity,
the warehouses had been more ransacked than pillaged:
bales of rich India goods, shawls of price, jewels, and
spices, unpacked, strewed the floors. In some places
the possessor had to the last kept watch on his store,
and died before the barred gates. The massy portals of
the churches swung creaking on their hinges; and some
few lay dead on the pavement. The wretched female,
loveless victim of vulgar brutality, had wandered to
the toilet of high-born beauty, and, arraying herself
in the garb of splendour, had died before the mirror
which reflected to herself alone her altered
appearance. Women whose delicate feet had seldom
touched the earth in their luxury, had fled in fright
and horror from their homes, till, losing themselves in
the squalid streets of the metropolis, they had died on
the threshold of poverty. The heart sickened at the
variety of misery presented; and, when I saw a specimen
of this gloomy change, my soul ached with the fear of
what might befall my beloved Idris and my babes. Were
they, surviving Adrian and myself, to find themselves
protectorless in the world? As yet the mind alone had
suffered--could I for ever put off the time, when the
delicate frame and shrinking nerves of my child of
prosperity, the nursling of rank and wealth, who was my
companion, should be invaded by famine, hardship, and
disease? Better die at once--better plunge a poinard in
her bosom, still untouched by drear adversity, and then
again sheathe it in my own! But, no; in times of misery
we must fight against our destinies, and strive not to
be overcome by them. I would not yield, but to the last
gasp resolutely defended my dear ones against sorrow
and pain; and if I were vanquished at last, it should
not be ingloriously. I stood in the gap, resisting the
enemy--the impalpable, invisible foe, who had so long
besieged us--as yet he had made no breach: it must be
my care that he should not, secretly undermining, burst
up within the very threshold of the temple of love, at
whose altar I daily sacrificed.
The hunger of Death was now stung more sharply by the
diminution of his food: or was it that before, the
survivors being many, the dead were less eagerly
counted? Now each life was a gem, each human breathing
form of far, O! far more worth than subtlest imagery of
sculptured stone; and the daily, nay, hourly decrease
visible in our numbers, visited the heart with
sickening misery. This summer extinguished our hopes,
the vessel of society was wrecked, and the shattered
raft, which carried the few survivors over the sea of
misery, was riven and tempest tost. Man existed by twos
and threes; man, the individual who might sleep, and
wake, and perform the animal functions; but man, in
himself weak, yet more powerful in congregated numbers
than wind or ocean; man, the queller of the elements,
the lord of created nature, the peer of demi-gods,
existed no longer.
Farewell to the patriotic scene, to the love of liberty
and well earned meed of virtuous aspiration!--farewell
to crowded senate, vocal with the councils of the wise,
whose laws were keener than the sword blade tempered at
Damascus!--farewell to kingly pomp and warlike
pageantry; the crowns are in the dust, and the wearers
are in their graves!--farewell to the desire of rule,
and the hope of victory; to high vaulting ambition, to
the appetite for praise, and the craving for the
suffrage of their fellows! The nations are no longer!
No senate sits in council for the dead; no scion of a
time honoured dynasty pants to rule over the
inhabitants of a charnel house; the general's hand is
cold, and the soldier has his untimely grave dug in his
native fields, unhonoured, though in youth. The
market-place is empty, the candidate for popular favour
finds none whom he can represent. To chambers of
painted state farewell!--To midnight revelry, and the
panting emulation of beauty, to costly dress and
birth-day shew, to title and the gilded coronet,
farewell!
Farewell to the giant powers of man,--to knowledge that
could pilot the deep-drawing bark through the opposing
waters of shoreless ocean,--to science that directed
the silken balloon through the pathless air,--to the
power that could put a barrier to mighty waters, and
set in motion wheels, and beams, and vast machinery,
that could divide rocks of granite or marble, and make
the mountains plain!
Farewell to the arts,--to eloquence, which is to the
human mind as the winds to the sea, stirring, and then
allaying it;--farewell to poetry and deep philosophy,
for man's imagination is cold, and his enquiring mind
can no longer expatiate on the wonders of life, for
"there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor
wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest!"--to the
graceful building, which in its perfect proportion
transcended the rude forms of nature, the fretted
gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the stupendous arch
and glorious dome, the fluted column with its capital,
Corinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and fair
entablature, whose harmony of form is to the eye as
musical concord to the ear!--farewell to sculpture,
where the pure marble mocks human flesh, and in the
plastic expression of the culled excellencies of the
human shape, shines forth the god!--farewell to
painting, the high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge
of the artists's mind in pictured canvas--to
paradisaical scenes, where trees are ever vernal, and
the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:--to the
stamped form of tempest, and wildest uproar of
universal nature encaged in the narrow frame, O
farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song; to
the marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft
and harsh unites in sweet harmony, and gives wings to
the panting listeners, whereby to climb heaven, and
learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!--Farewell
to the well-trod stage; a truer tragedy is enacted on
the world's ample scene, that puts to shame mimic
grief: to high-bred comedy, and the low buffoon,
farewell!--Man may laugh no more.
Alas! to enumerate the adornments of humanity, shews,
by what we have lost, how supremely great man was. It
is all over now. He is solitary; like our first parents
expelled from Paradise, he looks back towards the scene
he has quitted. The high walls of the tomb, and the
flaming sword of plague, lie between it and him. Like
to our first parents, the whole earth is before him, a
wide desart. Unsupported and weak, let him wander
through fields where the unreaped corn stands in barren
plenty, through copses planted by his fathers, through
towns built for his use. Posterity is no more; fame,
and ambition, and love, are words void of meaning; even
as the cattle that grazes in the field, do thou, O
deserted one, lie down at evening-tide, unknowing of
the past, careless of the future, for from such fond
ignorance alone canst thou hope for ease!
Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought.
The happy do not feel poverty--for delight is as a
gold-tissued robe, and crowns them with priceless gems.
Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and
mingles intoxication with their simple drink. Joy
strews the hard couch with roses, and makes labour
ease.
Sorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down back;
plants thorns in the unyielding pillow; mingles gall
with water; adds saltness to their bitter bread;
cloathing them in rags, and strewing ashes on their
bare heads. To our irremediable distress every small
and pelting inconvenience came with added force; we had
strung our frames to endure the Atlean weight thrown on
us; we sank beneath the added feather chance threw on
us, "the grasshopper was a burthen." Many of the
survivors had been bred in luxury--their servants were
gone, their powers of command vanished like unreal
shadows: the poor even suffered various privations; and
the idea of another winter like the last, brought
affright to our minds. Was it not enough that we must
die, but toil must be added?--must we prepare our
funeral repast with labour, and with unseemly drudgery
heap fuel on our deserted hearths--must we with servile
hands fabricate the garments, soon to be our shroud?
Not so! We are presently to die, let us then enjoy to
its full relish the remnant of our lives. Sordid care,
avaunt! menial labours, and pains, slight in
themselves, but too gigantic for our exhausted
strength, shall make no part of our ephemeral
existences. In the beginning of time, when, as now, man
lived by families, and not by tribes or nations, they
were placed in a genial clime, where earth fed them
untilled, and the balmy air enwrapt their reposing
limbs with warmth more pleasant than beds of down. The
south is the native place of the human race; the land
of fruits, more grateful to man than the hard-earned
Ceres of the north,--of trees, whose boughs are as a
palace-roof, of couches of roses, and of the
thirst-appeasing grape. We need not there fear cold and
hunger.
Look at England! the grass shoots up high in the
meadows; but they are dank and cold, unfit bed for us.
Corn we have none, and the crude fruits cannot support
us. We must seek firing in the bowels of the earth, or
the unkind atmosphere will fill us with rheums and
aches. The labour of hundreds of thousands alone could
make this inclement nook fit habitation for one man. To
the south then, to the sun!--where nature is kind,
where Jove has showered forth the contents of
Amalthea's horn, and earth is garden.
England, late birth-place of excellence and school of
the wise, thy children are gone, thy glory faded! Thou,
England, wert the triumph of man! Small favour was
shewn thee by thy Creator, thou Isle of the North; a
ragged canvas naturally, painted by man with alien
colours; but the hues he gave are faded, never more to
be renewed. So we must leave thee, thou marvel of the
world; we must bid farewell to thy clouds, and cold,
and scarcity for ever! Thy manly hearts are still; thy
tale of power and liberty at its close! Bereft of man,
O little isle! the ocean waves will buffet thee, and
the raven flap his wings over thee; thy soil will be
birth-place of weeds, thy sky will canopy barrenness.
It was not for the rose of Persia thou wert famous, nor
the banana of the east; not for the spicy gales of
India, nor the sugar groves of America; not for thy
vines nor thy double harvests, nor for thy vernal airs,
nor solstitial sun--but for thy children, their
unwearied industry and lofty aspiration. They are
gone, and thou goest with them the oft trodden path
that leads to oblivion,--
Farewell, sad Isle, farewell, thy fatal glory
Is summed, cast up, and cancelled in this story.*
[* Cleveland's Poems.]
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER II.
IN the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of
emigration crept in among the few survivors, who,
congregating from various parts of England, met in
London. This spirit existed as a breath, a wish, a far
off thought, until communicated to Adrian, who imbibed
it with ardour, and instantly engaged himself in plans
for its execution. The fear of immediate death vanished
with the heats of September. Another winter was before
us, and we might elect our mode of passing it to the
best advantage. Perhaps in rational philosophy none
could be better chosen than this scheme of migration,
which would draw us from the immediate scene of our
woe, and, leading us through pleasant and picturesque
countries, amuse for a time our despair. The idea once
broached, all were impatient to put it in execution.
We were still at Windsor; our renewed hopes medicined
the anguish we had suffered from the late tragedies.
The death of many of our inmates had weaned us from the
fond idea, that Windsor Castle was a spot sacred from
the plague; but our lease of life was renewed for some
months, and even Idris lifted her head, as a lily after
a storm, when a last sunbeam tinges its silver cup.
Just at this time Adrian came down to us; his eager
looks shewed us that he was full of some scheme. He
hastened to take me aside, and disclosed to me with
rapidity his plan of emigration from England.
To leave England for ever! to turn from its polluted
fields and groves, and, placing the sea between us, to
quit it, as a sailor quits the rock on which he has
been wrecked, when the saving ship rides by. Such was
his plan.
To leave the country of our fathers, made holy by their
graves!--We could not feel even as a voluntary exile of
old, who might for pleasure or convenience forsake his
native soil; though thousands of miles might divide
him, England was still a part of him, as he of her. He
heard of the passing events of the day; he knew that,
if he returned, and resumed his place in society, the
entrance was still open, and it required but the will,
to surround himself at once with the associations and
habits of boyhood. Not so with us, the remnant. We left
none to represent us, none to repeople the desart land,
and the name of England died, when we left her,
In vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety.
Yet let us go! England is in her shroud,--we may not
enchain ourselves to a corpse. Let us go--the world is
our country now, and we will choose for our residence
its most fertile spot. Shall we, in these desart halls,
under this wintry sky, sit with closed eyes and folded
hands, expecting death? Let us rather go out to meet it
gallantly: or perhaps--for all this pendulous orb, this
fair gem in the sky's diadem, is not surely
plague-striken--perhaps, in some secluded nook, amidst
eternal spring, and waving trees, and purling streams,
we may find Life. The world is vast, and England,
though her many fields and wide spread woods seem
interminable, is but a small part of her. At the close
of a day's march over high mountains and through snowy
vallies, we may come upon health, and committing our
loved ones to its charge, replant the uprooted tree of
humanity, and send to late posterity the tale of the
ante-pestilential race, the heroes and sages of the
lost state of things.
Hope beckons and sorrow urges us, the heart beats high
with expectation, and this eager desire of change must
be an omen of success. O come! Farewell to the dead!
farewell to the tombs of those we loved!--farewell to
giant London and the placid Thames, to river and
mountain or fair district, birth-place of the wise and
good, to Windsor Forest and its antique castle,
farewell! themes for story alone are they,--we must
live elsewhere.
Such were in part the arguments of Adrian, uttered with
enthusiasm and unanswerable rapidity. Something more
was in his heart, to which he dared not give words. He
felt that the end of time was come; he knew that one by
one we should dwindle into nothingness. It was not
adviseable to wait this sad consummation in our native
country; but travelling would give us our object for
each day, that would distract our thoughts from the
swift-approaching end of things. If we went to Italy,
to sacred and eternal Rome, we might with greater
patience submit to the decree, which had laid her
mighty towers low. We might lose our selfish grief in
the sublime aspect of its desolation. All this was in
the mind of Adrian; but he thought of my children, and,
instead of communicating to me these resources of
despair, he called up the image of health and life to
be found, where we knew not-- when we knew not; but if
never to be found, for ever and for ever to be sought.
He won me over to his party, heart and soul.
It devolved on me to disclose our plan to Idris. The
images of health and hope which I presented to her,
made her with a smile consent. With a smile she agreed
to leave her country, from which she had never before
been absent, and the spot she had inhabited from
infancy; the forest and its mighty trees, the woodland
paths and green recesses, where she had played in
childhood, and had lived so happily through youth; she
would leave them without regret, for she hoped to
purchase thus the lives of her children. They were her
life; dearer than a spot consecrated to love, dearer
than all else the earth contained. The boys heard with
childish glee of our removal: Clara asked if we were to
go to Athens. "It is possible," I replied; and her
countenance became radiant with pleasure. There she
would behold the tomb of her parents, and the territory
filled with recollections of her father's glory. In
silence, but without respite, she had brooded over
these scenes. It was the recollection of them that had
turned her infant gaiety to seriousness, and had
impressed her with high and restless thoughts.
There were many dear friends whom we must not leave
behind, humble though they were. There was the spirited
and obedient steed which Lord Raymond had given his
daughter; there was Alfred's dog and a pet eagle, whose
sight was dimmed through age. But this catalogue of
favourites to be taken with us, could not be made
without grief to think of our heavy losses, and a deep
sigh for the many things we must leave behind. The
tears rushed into the eyes of Idris, while Alfred and
Evelyn brought now a favourite rose tree, now a marble
vase beautifully carved, insisting that these must go,
and exclaiming on the pity that we could not take the
castle and the forest, the deer and the birds, and all
accustomed and cherished objects along with us. "Fond
and foolish ones," I said, "we have lost for ever
treasures far more precious than these; and we desert
them, to preserve treasures to which in comparison they
are nothing. Let us not for a moment forget our object
and our hope; and they will form a resistless mound to
stop the overflowing of our regret for trifles."
The children were easily distracted, and again returned
to their prospect of future amusement. Idris had
disappeared. She had gone to hide her weakness;
escaping from the castle, she had descended to the
little park, and sought solitude, that she might there
indulge her tears; I found her clinging round an old
oak, pressing its rough trunk with her roseate lips, as
her tears fell plenteously, and her sobs and broken
exclamations could not be suppressed; with surpassing
grief I beheld this loved one of my heart thus lost in
sorrow! I drew her towards me; and, as she felt my
kisses on her eyelids, as she felt my arms press her,
she revived to the knowledge of what remained to her.
"You are very kind not to reproach me," she said: "I
weep, and a bitter pang of intolerable sorrow tears my
heart. And yet I am happy; mothers lament their
children, wives lose their husbands, while you and my
children are left to me. Yes, I am happy, most happy,
that I can weep thus for imaginary sorrows, and that
the slight loss of my adored country is not dwindled
and annihilated in mightier misery. Take me where you
will; where you and my children are, there shall be
Windsor, and every country will be England to me. Let
these tears flow not for myself, happy and ungrateful
as I am, but for the dead world--for our lost
country--for all of love, and life, and joy, now choked
in the dusty chambers of death."
She spoke quickly, as if to convince herself; she
turned her eyes from the trees and forest-paths she
loved; she hid her face in my bosom, and we--yes, my
masculine firmness dissolved--we wept together
consolatory tears, and then calm--nay, almost cheerful,
we returned to the castle.
The first cold weather of an English October, made us
hasten our preparations. I persuaded Idris to go up to
London, where she might better attend to necessary
arrangements. I did not tell her, that to spare her the
pang of parting from inanimate objects, now the only
things left, I had resolved that we should none of us
return to Windsor. For the last time we looked on the
wide extent of country visible from the terrace, and
saw the last rays of the sun tinge the dark masses of
wood variegated by autumnal tints; the uncultivated
fields and smokeless cottages lay in shadow below; the
Thames wound through the wide plain, and the venerable
pile of Eton college, stood in dark relief, a prominent
object; the cawing of the myriad rooks which inhabited
the trees of the little park, as in column or thick
wedge they speeded to their nests, disturbed the
silence of evening. Nature was the same, as when she
was the kind mother of the human race; now, childless
and forlorn, her fertility was a mockery; her
loveliness a mask for deformity. Why should the breeze
gently stir the trees, man felt not its refreshment?
Why did dark night adorn herself with stars--man saw
them not? Why are there fruits, or flowers, or streams,
man is not here to enjoy them?
Idris stood beside me, her dear hand locked in mine.
Her face was radiant with a smile.--"The sun is alone,"
she said, "but we are not. A strange star, my Lionel,
ruled our birth; sadly and with dismay we may look upon
the annihilation of man; but we remain for each other.
Did I ever in the wide world seek other than thee? And
since in the wide world thou remainest, why should I
complain? Thou and nature are still true to me. Beneath
the shades of night, and through the day, whose garish
light displays our solitude, thou wilt still be at my
side, and even Windsor will not be regretted."
I had chosen night time for our journey to London, that
the change and desolation of the country might be the
less observable. Our only surviving servant drove us.
We past down the steep hill, and entered the dusky
avenue of the Long Walk. At times like these, minute
circumstances assume giant and majestic proportions;
the very swinging open of the white gate that admitted
us into the forest, arrested my thoughts as matter of
interest; it was an every day act, never to occur
again! The setting crescent of the moon glittered
through the massy trees to our right, and when we
entered the park, we scared a troop of deer, that fled
bounding away in the forest shades. Our two boys
quietly slept; once, before our road turned from the
view, I looked back on the castle. Its windows
glistened in the moonshine, and its heavy outline lay
in a dark mass against the sky--the trees near us waved
a solemn dirge to the midnight breeze. Idris leaned
back in the carriage; her two hands pressed mine, her
countenance was placid, she seemed to lose the sense of
what she now left, in the memory of what she still
possessed.
My thoughts were sad and solemn, yet not of unmingled
pain. The very excess of our misery carried a relief
with it, giving sublimity and elevation to sorrow. I
felt that I carried with me those I best loved; I was
pleased, after a long separation to rejoin Adrian;
never again to part. I felt that I quitted what I
loved, not what loved me. The castle walls, and long
familiar trees, did not hear the parting sound of our
carriage-wheels with regret. And, while I felt Idris to
be near, and heard the regular breathing of my
children, I could not be unhappy. Clara was greatly
moved; with streaming eyes, suppressing her sobs, she
leaned from the window, watching the last glimpse of
her native Windsor.
Adrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was all
animation; you could no longer trace in his look of
health, the suffering valetudinarian; from his smile
and sprightly tones you could not guess that he was
about to lead forth from their native country, the
numbered remnant of the English nation, into the
tenantless realms of the south, there to die, one by
one, till the LAST MAN should remain in a voiceless,
empty world.
Adrian was impatient for our departure, and had
advanced far in his preparations. His wisdom guided
all. His care was the soul, to move the luckless crowd,
who relied wholly on him. It was useless to provide
many things, for we should find abundant provision in
every town. It was Adrian's wish to prevent all labour;
to bestow a festive appearance on this funeral train.
Our numbers amounted to not quite two thousand persons.
These were not all assembled in London, but each day
witnessed the arrival of fresh numbers, and those who
resided in the neighbouring towns, had received orders
to assemble at one place, on the twentieth of November.
Carriages and horses were provided for all; captains
and under officers chosen, and the whole assemblage
wisely organized. All obeyed the Lord Protector of
dying England; all looked up to him. His council was
chosen, it consisted of about fifty persons.
Distinction and station were not the qualifications of
their election. We had no station among us, but that
which benevolence and prudence gave; no distinction
save between the living and the dead. Although we were
anxious to leave England before the depth of winter,
yet we were detained. Small parties had been dispatched
to various parts of England, in search of stragglers;
we would not go, until we had assured ourselves that in
all human probability we did not leave behind a single
human being.
On our arrival in London, we found that the aged
Countess of Windsor was residing with her son in the
palace of the Protectorate; we repaired to our
accustomed abode near Hyde Park. Idris now for the
first time for many years saw her mother, anxious to
assure herself that the childishness of old age did not
mingle with unforgotten pride, to make this high-born
dame still so inveterate against me. Age and care had
furrowed her cheeks, and bent her form; but her eye was
still bright, her manners authoritative and unchanged;
she received her daughter coldly, but displayed more
feeling as she folded her grand-children in her arms.
It is our nature to wish to continue our systems and
thoughts to posterity through our own offspring. The
Countess had failed in this design with regard to her
children; perhaps she hoped to find the next remove in
birth more tractable. Once Idris named me casually--a
frown, a convulsive gesture of anger, shook her mother,
and, with voice trembling with hate, she said--"I am of
little worth in this world; the young are impatient to
push the old off the scene; but, Idris, if you do not
wish to see your mother expire at your feet, never
again name that person to me; all else I can bear; and
now I am resigned to the destruction of my cherished
hopes: but it is too much to require that I should love
the instrument that providence gifted with murderous
properties for my destruction."
This was a strange speech, now that, on the empty
stage, each might play his part without impediment from
the other. But the haughty Ex-Queen thought as Octavius
Caesar and Mark Antony,
We could not stall together
In the whole world.
The period of our departure was fixed for the
twenty-fifth of November. The weather was temperate;
soft rains fell at night, and by day the wintry sun
shone out. Our numbers were to move forward in separate
parties, and to go by different routes, all to unite at
last at Paris. Adrian and his division, consisting in
all of five hundred persons, were to take the direction
of Dover and Calais.
On the twentieth of November, Adrian and I rode for the
last time through the streets of London. They were
grass-grown and desert. The open doors of the empty
mansions creaked upon their hinges; rank herbage, and
deforming dirt, had swiftly accumulated on the steps of
the houses; the voiceless steeples of the churches
pierced the smokeless air; the churches were open, but
no prayer was offered at the altars; mildew and damp
had already defaced their ornaments; birds, and tame
animals, now homeless, had built nests, and made their
lairs in consecrated spots. We passed St. Paul's.
London, which had extended so far in suburbs in all
direction, had been somewhat deserted in the midst, and
much of what had in former days obscured this vast
building was removed. Its ponderous mass, blackened
stone, and high dome, made it look, not like a temple,
but a tomb. Methought above the portico was engraved
the Hic jacet of England. We passed on eastwards,
engaged in such solemn talk as the times inspired. No
human step was heard, nor human form discerned. Troops
of dogs, deserted of their masters, passed us; and now
and then a horse, unbridled and unsaddled, trotted
towards us, and tried to attract the attention of those
which we rode, as if to allure them to seek like
liberty. An unwieldy ox, who had fed in an abandoned
granary, suddenly lowed, and shewed his shapeless form
in a narrow door-way; every thing was desert; but
nothing was in ruin. And this medley of undamaged
buildings, and luxurious accommodation, in trim and
fresh youth, was contrasted with the lonely silence of
the unpeopled streets.
Night closed in, and it began to rain. We were about to
return homewards, when a voice, a human voice, strange
now to hear, attracted our attention. It was a child
singing a merry, lightsome air; there was no other
sound. We had traversed London from Hyde Park even to
where we now were in the Minories, and had met no
person, heard no voice nor footstep. The singing was
interrupted by laughing and talking; never was merry
ditty so sadly timed, never laughter more akin to
tears. The door of the house from which these sounds
proceeded was open, the upper rooms were illuminated as
for a feast. It was a large magnificent house, in which
doubtless some rich merchant had lived. The singing
again commenced, and rang through the high-roofed
rooms, while we silently ascended the stair-case.
Lights now appeared to guide us; and a long suite of
splendid rooms illuminated, made us still more wonder.
Their only inhabitant, a little girl, was dancing,
waltzing, and singing about them, followed by a large
Newfoundland dog, who boisterously jumping on her, and
interrupting her, made her now scold, now laugh, now
throw herself on the carpet to play with him. She was
dressed grotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit
for a woman; she appeared about ten years of age. We
stood at the door looking on this strange scene, till
the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child turned
and saw us: her face, losing its gaiety, assumed a
sullen expression: she slunk back, apparently
meditating an escape. I came up to her, and held her
hand; she did not resist, but with a stern brow, so
strange in childhood, so different from her former
hilarity, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the
ground. "What do you do here?" I said gently; "Who are
you?"--she was silent, but trembled violently.--"My
poor child," asked Adrian, "are you alone?" There was a
winning softness in his voice, that went to the heart
of the little girl; she looked at him, then snatching
her hand from me, threw herself into his arms, clinging
round his neck, ejaculating--"Save me! save me!" while
her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.
"I will save you," he replied, "of what are you afraid?
you need not fear my friend, he will do you no harm.
Are you alone ?"
"No, Lion is with me."
"And your father and mother?--"
"I never had any; I am a charity girl. Every body is
gone, gone for a great, great many days; but if they
come back and find me out, they will beat me so!"
Her unhappy story was told in these few words: an
orphan, taken on pretended charity, ill-treated and
reviled, her oppressors had died: unknowing of what had
passed around her, she found herself alone; she had not
dared venture out, but by the continuance of her
solitude her courage revived, her childish vivacity
caused her to play a thousand freaks, and with her
brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing
nothing but the return of the harsh voices and cruel
usage of her protectors. She readily consented to go
with Adrian.
In the mean time, while we descanted on alien sorrows,
and on a solitude which struck our eyes and not our
hearts, while we imagined all of change and suffering
that had intervened in these once thronged streets,
before, tenantless and abandoned, they became mere
kennels for dogs, and stables for cattle:--while we
read the death of the world upon the dark fane, and
hugged ourselves in the remembrance that we possessed
that which was all the world to us--in the meanwhile---
We had arrived from Windsor early in October, and had
now been in London about six weeks. Day by day, during
that time, the health of my Idris declined: her heart
was broken; neither sleep nor appetite, the chosen
servants of health, waited on her wasted form. To watch
her children hour by hour, to sit by me, drinking deep
the dear persuasion that I remained to her, was all her
pastime. Her vivacity, so long assumed, her
affectionate display of cheerfulness, her light-hearted
tone and springy gait were gone. I could not disguise
to myself, nor could she conceal, her life-consuming
sorrow. Still change of scene, and reviving hopes might
restore her; I feared the plague only, and she was
untouched by that.
I had left her this evening, reposing after the
fatigues of her preparations. Clara sat beside her,
relating a story to the two boys. The eyes of Idris
were closed: but Clara perceived a sudden change in the
appearance of our eldest darling; his heavy lids veiled
his eyes, an unnatural colour burnt in his cheeks, his
breath became short. Clara looked at the mother; she
slept, yet started at the pause the narrator made--Fear
of awakening and alarming her, caused Clara to go on at
the eager call of Evelyn, who was unaware of what was
passing. Her eyes turned alternately from Alfred to
Idris; with trembling accents she continued her tale,
till she saw the child about to fall: starting forward
she caught him, and her cry roused Idris. She looked on
her son. She saw death stealing across his features;
she laid him on a bed, she held drink to his parched
lips.
Yet he might be saved. If I were there, he might be
saved; perhaps it was not the plague. Without a
counsellor, what could she do? stay and behold him die!
Why at that moment was I away? "Look to him, Clara,"
she exclaimed, "I will return immediately."
She inquired among those who, selected as the
companions of our journey, had taken up their residence
in our house; she heard from them merely that I had
gone out with Adrian. She entreated them to seek me:
she returned to her child, he was plunged in a
frightful state of torpor; again she rushed down
stairs; all was dark, desert, and silent; she lost all
self-possession; she ran into the street; she called on
my name. The pattering rain and howling wind alone
replied to her. Wild fear gave wings to her feet; she
darted forward to seek me, she knew not where; but,
putting all her thoughts, all her energy, all her being
in speed only, most misdirected speed, she neither
felt, nor feared, nor paused, but ran right on, till
her strength suddenly deserted her so suddenly, that
she had not thought to save herself. Her knees failed
her, and she fell heavily on the pavement.
She was stunned for a time; but at length rose, and
though sorely hurt, still walked on, shedding a
fountain of tears, stumbling at times, going she knew
not whither, only now and then with feeble voice she
called my name, adding with heart-piercing
exclamations, that I was cruel and unkind. Human being
there was none to reply; and the inclemency of the
night had driven the wandering animals to the
habitations they had usurped. Her thin dress was
drenched with rain; her wet hair clung round her neck;
she tottered through the dark streets; till, striking
her foot against an unseen impediment, she again fell;
she could not rise; she hardly strove; but, gathering
up her limbs, she resigned herself to the fury of the
elements, and the bitter grief of her own heart. She
breathed an earnest prayer to die speedily, for there
was no relief but death. While hopeless of safety for
herself, she ceased to lament for her dying child, but
shed kindly, bitter tears for the grief I should
experience in losing her.
While she lay, life almost suspended, she felt a warm,
soft hand on her brow, and a gentle female voice asked
her, with expressions of tender compassion, if she
could not rise? That another human being, sympathetic
and kind, should exist near, roused her; half rising,
with clasped hands, and fresh springing tears, she
entreated her companion to seek for me, to bid me
hasten to my dying child, to save him, for the love of
heaven, to save him!
The woman raised her; she led her under shelter, she
entreated her to return to her home, whither perhaps I
had already returned. Idris easily yielded to her
persuasions, she leaned on the arm of her friend, she
endeavoured to walk on, but irresistible faintness made
her pause again and again.
Quickened by the encreasing storm, we had hastened our
return, our little charge was placed before Adrian on
his horse. There was an assemblage of persons under the
portico of our house, in whose gestures I instinctively
read some heavy change, some new misfortune. With swift
alarm, afraid to ask a single question, I leapt from my
horse; the spectators saw me, knew me, and in awful
silence divided to make way for me. I snatched a light,
and rushing up stairs, and hearing a groan, without
reflection I threw open the door of the first room that
presented itself. It was quite dark; but, as I stept
within, a pernicious scent assailed my senses,
producing sickening qualms, which made their way to my
very heart, while I felt my leg clasped, and a groan
repeated by the person that held me. I lowered my lamp,
and saw a negro half clad, writhing under the agony of
disease, while he held me with a convulsive grasp. With
mixed horror and impatience I strove to disengage
myself, and fell on the sufferer; he wound his naked
festering arms round me, his face was close to mine,
and his breath, death-laden, entered my vitals. For a
moment I was overcome, my head was bowed by aching
nausea; till, reflection returning, I sprung up, threw
the wretch from me, and darting up the staircase,
entered the chamber usually inhabited by my family. A
dim light shewed me Alfred on a couch; Clara trembling,
and paler than whitest snow, had raised him on her arm,
holding a cup of water to his lips. I saw full well
that no spark of life existed in that ruined form, his
features were rigid, his eyes glazed, his head had
fallen back. I took him from her, I laid him softly
down, kissed his cold little mouth, and turned to speak
in a vain whisper, when loudest sound of thunderlike
cannon could not have reached him in his immaterial
abode.
And where was Idris? That she had gone out to seek me,
and had not returned, were fearful tidings, while the
rain and driving wind clattered against the window, and
roared round the house. Added to this, the sickening
sensation of disease gained upon me; no time was to be
lost, if ever I would see her again. I mounted my horse
and rode out to seek her, fancying that I heard her
voice in every gust, oppressed by fever and aching
pain.
I rode in the dark and rain through the labyrinthine
streets of unpeopled London. My child lay dead at home;
the seeds of mortal disease had taken root in my bosom;
I went to seek Idris, my adored, now wandering alone,
while the waters were rushing from heaven like a
cataract to bathe her dear head in chill damp, her fair
limbs in numbing cold. A female stood on the step of a
door, and called to me as I gallopped past. It was not
Idris; so I rode swiftly on, until a kind of second
sight, a reflection back again on my senses of what I
had seen but not marked, made me feel sure that another
figure, thin, graceful and tall, stood clinging to the
foremost person who supported her. In a minute I was
beside the suppliant, in a minute I received the
sinking Idris in my arms. Lifting her up, I placed her
on the horse; she had not strength to support herself;
so I mounted behind her, and held her close to my
bosom, wrapping my riding-cloak round her, while her
companion, whose well known, but changed countenance,
(it was Juliet, daughter of the Duke of L --- ) could
at this moment of horror obtain from me no more than a
passing glance of compassion. She took the abandoned
rein, and conducted our obedient steed homewards. Dare
I avouch it? That was the last moment of my happiness;
but I was happy. Idris must die, for her heart was
broken: I must die, for I had caught the plague; earth
was a scene of desolation; hope was madness; life had
married death; they were one; but, thus supporting my
fainting love, thus feeling that I must soon die, I
revelled in the delight of possessing her once more;
again and again I kissed her, and pressed her to my
heart.
We arrived at our home. I assisted her to dismount, I
carried her up stairs, and gave her into Clara's care,
that her wet garments might be changed. Briefly I
assured Adrian of her safety, and requested that we
might be left to repose. As the miser, who with
trembling caution visits his treasure to count it again
and again, so I numbered each moment, and grudged every
one that was not spent with Idris. I returned swiftly
to the chamber where the life of my life reposed;
before I entered the room I paused for a few seconds;
for a few seconds I tried to examine my state; sickness
and shuddering ever and anon came over me; my head was
heavy, my chest oppressed, my legs bent under me; but I
threw off resolutely the swift growing symptoms of my
disorder, and met Idris with placid and even joyous
looks. She was lying on a couch; carefully fastening
the door to prevent all intrusion; I sat by her, we
embraced, and our lips met in a kiss long drawn and
breathless--would that moment had been my last!
Maternal feeling now awoke in my poor girl's bosom, and
she asked: "And Alfred?" "Idris," I replied, "we are
spared to each other, we are together; do not let any
other idea intrude. I am happy; even on this fatal
night, I declare myself happy, beyond all name, all
thought--what would you more, sweet one?"
Idris understood me: she bowed her head on my shoulder
and wept. "Why," she again asked, "do you tremble,
Lionel, what shakes you thus?"
"Well may I be shaken," I replied, "happy as I am. Our
child is dead, and the present hour is dark and
ominous. Well may I tremble! but, I am happy, mine own
Idris, most happy."
"I understand thee, my kind love," said Idris,
"thus--pale as thou art with sorrow at our loss;
trembling and aghast, though wouldest assuage my grief
by thy dear assurances. I am not happy," (and the tears
flashed and fell from under her down-cast lids), "for
we are inmates of a miserable prison, and there is no
joy for us; but the true love I bear you will render
this and every other loss endurable."
"We have been happy together, at least," I said; "no
future misery can deprive us of the past. We have been
true to each other for years, ever since my sweet
princess-love came through the snow to the lowly
cottage of the poverty-striken heir of the ruined
Verney. Even now, that eternity is before us, we take
hope only from the presence of each other. Idris, do
you think, that when we die, we shall be divided?"
"Die! when we die! what mean you? What secret lies hid
from me in those dreadful words?"
"Must we not all die, dearest?" I asked with a sad
smile.
"Gracious God! are you ill, Lionel, that you speak of
death? My only friend, heart of my heart, speak!"
"I do not think," replied I, "that we have any of us
long to live; and when the curtain drops on this mortal
scene, where, think you, we shall find ourselves?"
Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone and look; she
answered:--"You may easily believe that during this
long progress of the plague, I have thought much on
death, and asked myself, now that all mankind is dead
to this life, to what other life they may have been
borne. Hour after hour, I have dwelt on these thoughts,
and strove to form a rational conclusion concerning the
mystery of a future state. What a scare-crow, indeed,
would death be, if we were merely to cast aside the
shadow in which we now walk, and, stepping forth into
the unclouded sunshine of knowledge and love, revived
with the same companions, the same affections, and
reached the fulfilment of our hopes, leaving our fears
with our earthly vesture in the grave. Alas! the same
strong feeling which makes me sure that I shall not
wholly die, makes me refuse to believe that I shall
live wholly as I do now. Yet, Lionel, never, never, can
I love any but you; through eternity I must desire your
society; and, as I am innocent of harm to others, and
as relying and confident as my mortal nature permits, I
trust that the Ruler of the world will never tear us
asunder."
"Your remarks are like yourself, dear love," replied I,
"gentle and good; let us cherish such a belief, and
dismiss anxiety from our minds. But, sweet, we are so
formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our nature,
to yield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we
must love life, and cling to it; we must love the
living smile, the sympathetic touch, and thrilling
voice, peculiar to our mortal mechanism. Let us not,
through security in hereafter, neglect the present.
This present moment, short as it is, is a part of
eternity, and the dearest part, since it is our own
unalienably. Thou, the hope of my futurity, art my
present joy. Let me then look on thy dear eyes, and,
reading love in them, drink intoxicating pleasure."
Timidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris
looked on me. My eyes were bloodshot, starting from my
head; every artery beat, methought, audibly, every
muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt. Her look of
wild affright told me, that I could no longer keep my
secret:--"So it is, mine own beloved," I said, "the
last hour of many happy ones is arrived, nor can we
shun any longer the inevitable destiny. I cannot live
long--but, again and again, I say, this moment is
ours!"
Paler than marble, with white lips and convulsed
features, Idris became aware of my situation. My arm,
as I sat, encircled her waist. she felt the palm burn
with fever, even on the heart it pressed:--"One
moment," she murmured, scarce audibly, "only one
moment."--
She kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered
a brief, but earnest prayer, that she might fulfil her
duty, and watch over me to the last. While there was
hope, the agony had been unendurable;--all was now
concluded; her feelings became solemn and calm. Even as
Epicharis, unperturbed and firm, submitted to the
instruments of torture, did Idris, suppressing every
sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the endurance of
torments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint
and metaphysical symbols.
I was changed; the tight-drawn cord that sounded so
harshly was loosened, the moment that Idris
participated in my knowledge of our real situation. The
perturbed and passion-tossed waves of thought subsided,
leaving only the heavy swell that kept right on without
any outward manifestation of its disturbance, till it
should break on the remote shore towards which I
rapidly advanced:--"It is true that I am sick," I said,
"and your society, my Idris is my only medicine; come,
and sit beside me."
She made me lie down on the couch, and, drawing a low
ottoman near, sat close to my pillow, pressing my
burning hands in her cold palms. She yielded to my
feverish restlessness, and let me talk, and talked to
me, on subjects strange indeed to beings, who thus
looked the last, and heard the last, of what they loved
alone in the world. We talked of times gone by; of the
happy period of our early love; of Raymond, Perdita,
and Evadne. We talked of what might arise on this
desert earth, if, two or three being saved, it were
slowly re-peopled.--We talked of what was beyond the
tomb; and, man in his human shape being nearly extinct,
we felt with certainty of faith, that other spirits,
other minds, other perceptive beings, sightless to us,
must people with thought and love this beauteous and
imperishable universe.
We talked--I know not how long--but, in the morning I
awoke from a painful heavy slumber; the pale cheek of
Idris rested on my pillow; the large orbs of her eyes
half raised the lids, and shewed the deep blue lights
beneath; her lips were unclosed, and the slight murmurs
they formed told that, even while asleep, she suffered.
"If she were dead," I thought, "what difference? now
that form is the temple of a residing deity; those eyes
are the windows of her soul; all grace, love, and
intelligence are throned on that lovely bosom--were she
dead, where would this mind, the dearer half of mine,
be? For quickly the fair proportion of this edifice
would be more defaced, than are the sand-choked ruins
of the desert temples of Palmyra."
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER III.
IDRIS stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery. She
saw the signs of disease on my countenance, and
wondered how she could permit the long night to pass
without her having sought, not cure, that was
impossible, but alleviation to my sufferings. She
called Adrian; my couch was quickly surrounded by
friends and assistants, and such medicines as were
judged fitting were administered. It was the peculiar
and dreadful distinction of our visitation, that none
who had been attacked by the pestilence had recovered.
The first symptom of the disease was the death-warrant,
which in no single instance had been followed by
pardon or reprieve. No gleam of hope therefore cheered
my friends.
While fever producing torpor, heavy pains, sitting like
lead on my limbs, and making my breast heave, were
upon me; I continued insensible to every thing but
pain, and at last even to that. I awoke on the fourth
morning as from a dreamless sleep. An irritating sense
of thirst, and, when I strove to speak or move, an
entire dereliction of power, was all I felt.
For three days and nights Idris had not moved from my
side. She administered to all my wants, and never slept
nor rested. She did not hope; and therefore she
neither endeavoured to read the physician's
countenance, nor to watch for symptoms of recovery.
All her thought was to attend on me to the last, and
then to lie down and die beside me. On the third night
animation was suspended; to the eye and touch of all I
was dead. With earnest prayer, almost with force,
Adrian tried to draw Idris from me. He exhausted every
adjuration, her child's welfare and his own. She shook
her head, and wiped a stealing tear from her sunk
cheek, but would not yield; she entreated to be
allowed to watch me that one night only, with such
affliction and meek earnestness, that she gained her
point, and sat silent and motionless, except when,
stung by intolerable remembrance, she kissed my closed
eyes and pallid lips, and pressed my stiffening hands
to her beating heart.
At dead of night, when, though it was mid winter, the
cock crowed at three o'clock, as herald of the morning
change, while hanging over me, and mourning in silent,
bitter thought for the loss of all of love towards her
that had been enshrined in my heart; her dishevelled
hair hung over her face, and the long tresses fell on
the bed; she saw one ringlet in motion, and the
scattered hair slightly stirred, as by a breath. It is
not so, she thought, for he will never breathe more.
Several times the same thing occurred, and she only
marked it by the same reflection; till the whole
ringlet waved back, and she thought she saw my breast
heave. Her first emotion was deadly fear, cold dew
stood on her brow; my eyes half opened; and,
re-assured, she would have exclaimed, "He lives!" but
the words were choked by a spasm, and she fell with a
groan on the floor.
Adrian was in the chamber. After long watching, he had
unwillingly fallen into a sleep. He started up, and
beheld his sister senseless on the earth, weltering in
a stream of blood that gushed from her mouth.
Encreasing signs of life in me in some degree
explained her state; the surprise, the burst of joy,
the revulsion of every sentiment, had been too much for
her frame, worn by long months of care, late shattered
by every species of woe and toil. She was now in far
greater danger than I, the wheels and springs of my
life, once again set in motion, acquired elasticity
from their short suspension. For a long time, no one
believed that I should indeed continue to live; during
the reign of the plague upon earth, not one person,
attacked by the grim disease, had recovered. My
restoration was looked on as a deception; every moment
it was expected that the evil symptoms would recur with
redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence,
absence of all fever or pain, and encreasing strength,
brought slow conviction that I had recovered from the
plague.
The restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I
had been attacked by illness, her cheeks were sunk,
her form emaciated; but now, the vessel, which had
broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did not
entirely heal, but was as a channel that drop by drop
drew from her the ruddy stream that vivified her
heart. Her hollow eyes and worn countenance had a
ghastly appearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair
brow, the projection of the mouth, stood fearfully
prominent; you might tell each bone in the thin
anatomy of her frame. Her hand hung powerless; each
joint lay bare, so that the light penetrated through
and through. It was strange that life could exist in
what was wasted and worn into a very type of death.
To take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead
her to forget the world's desolation in the variety of
objects presented by travelling, and to nurse her
failing strength in the mild climate towards which we
had resolved to journey, was my last hope for her
preservation. The preparations for our departure,
which had been suspended during my illness, were
renewed. I did not revive to doubtful convalescence;
health spent her treasures upon me; as the tree in
spring may feel from its wrinkled limbs the fresh
green break forth, and the living sap rise and
circulate, so did the renewed vigour of my frame, the
cheerful current of my blood, the new-born elasticity
of my limbs, influence my mind to cheerful endurance
and pleasurable thoughts. My body, late the heavy
weight that bound me to the tomb, was exuberant with
health; mere common exercises were insufficient for my
reviving strength; methought I could emulate the speed
of the race-horse, discern through the air objects at a
blinding distance, hear the operations of nature in her
mute abodes; my senses had become so refined and
susceptible after my recovery from mortal disease.
Hope, among my other blessings, was not denied to me;
and I did fondly trust that my unwearied attentions
would restore my adored girl. I was therefore eager to
forward our preparations. According to the plan first
laid down, we were to have quitted London on the
twenty-fifth of November; and, in pursuance of this
scheme, two-thirds of our people--thepeople--all
that remained of England, had gone forward, and had
already been some weeks in Paris. First my illness,
and subsequently that of Idris, had detained Adrian
with his division, which consisted of three hundred
persons, so that we now departed on the first of
January, 2098. It was my wish to keep Idris as distant
as possible from the hurry and clamour of the crowd,
and to hide from her those appearances that would
remind her most forcibly of our real situation. We
separated ourselves to a great degree from Adrian, who
was obliged to give his whole time to public business.
The Countess of Windsor travelled with her son. Clara,
Evelyn, and a female who acted as our attendant, were
the only persons with whom we had contact. We occupied
a commodious carriage, our servant officiated as
coachman. A party of about twenty persons preceded us
at a small distance. They had it in charge to prepare
our halting places and our nightly abode. They had
been selected for this service out of a great number
that offered, on account of the superior sagacity of
the man who had been appointed their leader.
Immediately on our departure, I was delighted to find a
change in Idris, which I fondly hoped prognosticated
the happiest results. All the cheerfulness and gentle
gaiety natural to her revived. She was weak, and this
alteration was rather displayed in looks and voice
than in acts; but it was permanent and real. My
recovery from the plague and confirmed health instilled
into her a firm belief that I was now secure from this
dread enemy. She told me that she was sure she should
recover. That she had a presentiment, that the tide of
calamity which deluged our unhappy race had now turned.
That the remnant would be preserved, and among them
the dear objects of her tender affection; and that in
some selected spot we should wear out our lives
together in pleasant society. "Do not let my state of
feebleness deceive you," she said; "I feel that I am
better; there is a quick life within me, and a spirit
of anticipation that assures me, that I shall continue
long to make a part of this world. I shall throw off
this degrading weakness of body, which infects even my
mind with debility, and I shall enter again on the
performance of my duties. I was sorry to leave Windsor:
but now I am weaned from this local attachment; I am
content to remove to a mild climate, which will
complete my recovery. Trust me, dearest, I shall
neither leave you, nor my brother, nor these dear
children; my firm determination to remain with you to
the last, and to continue to contribute to your
happiness and welfare, would keep me alive, even if
grim death were nearer at hand than he really is."
I was only half re-assured by these expressions; I
could not believe that the over-quick flow of her
blood was a sign of health, or that her burning cheeks
denoted convalescence. But I had no fears of an
immediate catastrophe; nay, I persuaded myself that she
would ultimately recover. And thus cheerfulness
reigned in our little society. Idris conversed with
animation on a thousand topics. Her chief desire was to
lead our thoughts from melancholy reflections; so she
drew charming pictures of a tranquil solitude, of a
beauteous retreat, of the simple manners of our little
tribe, and of the patriarchal brotherhood of love,
which would survive the ruins of the populous nations
which had lately existed. We shut out from our thoughts
the present, and withdrew our eyes from the dreary
landscape we traversed. Winter reigned in all its
gloom. The leafless trees lay without motion against
the dun sky; the forms of frost, mimicking the foliage
of summer, strewed the ground; the paths were
overgrown; the unploughed cornfields were patched with
grass and weeds; the sheep congregated at the threshold
of the cottage, the horned ox thrust his head from the
window. The wind was bleak, and frequent sleet or
snow-storms, added to the melancholy appearance wintry
nature assumed.
We arrived at Rochester, and an accident caused us to
be detained there a day. During that time, a
circumstance occurred that changed our plans, and
which, alas! in its result changed the eternal course
of events, turning me from the pleasant new sprung
hope I enjoyed, to an obscure and gloomy desert. But I
must give some little explanation before I proceed with
the final cause of our temporary alteration of plan,
and refer again to those times when man walked the
earth fearless, before Plague had become Queen of the
World.
There resided a family in the neighbourhood of Windsor,
of very humble pretensions, but which had been an
object of interest to us on account of one of the
persons of whom it was composed. The family of the
Claytons had known better days; but, after a series of
reverses, the father died a bankrupt, and the mother
heartbroken, and a confirmed invalid, retired with her
five children to a little cottage between Eton and Salt
Hill. The eldest of these children, who was thirteen
years old, seemed at once from the influence of
adversity, to acquire the sagacity and principle
belonging to a more mature age. Her mother grew worse
and worse in health, but Lucy attended on her, and was
as a tender parent to her younger brothers and sisters,
and in the meantime shewed herself so good-humoured,
social, and benevolent, that she was beloved as well as
honoured, in her little neighbourhood.
Lucy was besides extremely pretty; so when she grew to
be sixteen, it was to be supposed, notwithstanding her
poverty, that she should have admirers. One of these
was the son of a country-curate; he was a generous,
frank-hearted youth, with an ardent love of knowledge,
and no mean acquirements. Though Lucy was
untaught, her mother's conversation and manners gave
her a taste for refinements superior to her present
situation. She loved the youth even without knowing
it, except that in any difficulty she naturally turned
to him for aid, and awoke with a lighter heart every
Sunday, because she knew that she would be met and
accompanied by him in her evening walk with her
sisters. She had another admirer, one of the
head-waiters at the inn at Salt Hill. He also was not
without pretensions to urbane superiority, such as he
learnt from gentlemen's servants and waiting-maids, who
initiating him in all the slang of high life below
stairs, rendered his arrogant temper ten times more
intrusive. Lucy did not disclaim him--she was incapable
of that feeling; but she was sorry when she saw him
approach, and quietly resisted all his endeavours to
establish an intimacy. The fellow soon discovered that
his rival was preferred to him; and this changed what
was at first a chance admiration into a passion, whose
main springs were envy, and a base desire to deprive
his competitor of the advantage he enjoyed over
himself.
Poor Lucy's sad story was but a common one. Her lover's
father died; and he was left destitute. He accepted
the offer of a gentleman to go to India with him,
feeling secure that he should soon acquire an
independence, and return to claim the hand of his
beloved. He became involved in the war carried on
there, was taken prisoner, and years elapsed before
tidings of his existence were received in his native
land. In the meantime disastrous poverty came on Lucy.
Her little cottage, which stood looking from its
trellice, covered with woodbine and jessamine, was
burnt down; and the whole of their little property was
included in the destruction. Whither betake them? By
what exertion of industry could Lucy procure them
another abode? Her mother nearly bed-rid, could not
survive any extreme of famine-struck poverty. At this
time her other admirer stept forward, and renewed his
offer of marriage. He had saved money, and was going to
set up a little inn at Datchet. There was nothing
alluring to Lucy in this offer, except the home it
secured to her mother; and she felt more sure of this,
since she was struck by the apparent generosity which
occasioned the present offer. She accepted it; thus
sacrificing herself for the comfort and welfare of her
parent.
It was some years after her marriage that we became
acquainted with her. The accident of a storm caused us
to take refuge in the inn, where we witnessed the
brutal and quarrelsome behaviour of her husband, and
her patient endurance. Her lot was not a fortunate one.
Her first lover had returned with the hope of making
her his own, and met her by accident, for the first
time, as the mistress of his country inn, and the wife
of another. He withdrew despairingly to foreign parts;
nothing went well with him; at last he enlisted, and
came back again wounded and sick, and yet Lucy was
debarred from nursing him. Her husband's brutal
disposition was aggravated by his yielding to the many
temptations held out by his situation, and the
consequent disarrangement of his affairs. Fortunately
she had no children; but her heart was bound up in her
brothers and sisters, and these his avarice and ill
temper soon drove from the house; they were dispersed
about the country, earning their livelihood with toil
and care. He even shewed an inclination to get rid of
her mother--but Lucy was firm here--she had sacrificed
herself for her; she lived for her--she would not part
with her--if the mother went, she would also go beg
bread for her, die with her, but never desert her. The
presence of Lucy was too necessary in keeping up the
order of the house, and in preventing the whole
establishment from going to wreck, for him to permit
her to leave him. He yielded the point; but in all
accesses of anger, or in his drunken fits, he recurred
to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy's heart by
opprobrious epithets bestowed on her parent.
A passion however, if it be wholly pure, entire, and
reciprocal, brings with it its own solace. Lucy was
truly, and from the depth of heart, devoted to her
mother; the sole end she proposed to herself in life,
was the comfort and preservation of this parent.
Though she grieved for the result, yet she did not
repent of her marriage, even when her lover returned to
bestow competence on her. Three years had intervened,
and how, in their pennyless state, could her mother
have existed during this time? This excellent woman
was worthy of her child's devotion. A perfect
confidence and friendship existed between them;
besides, she was by no means illiterate; and Lucy,
whose mind had been in some degree cultivated by her
former lover, now found in her the only person who
could understand and appreciate her. Thus, though
suffering, she was by no means desolate, and when,
during fine summer days, she led her mother into the
flowery and shady lanes near their abode, a gleam of
unmixed joy enlightened her countenance; she saw that
her parent was happy, and she knew that this happiness
was of her sole creating.
Meanwhile her husband's affairs grew more and more
involved; ruin was near at hand, and she was about to
lose the fruit of all her labours, when pestilence came
to change the aspect of the world. Her husband reaped
benefit from the universal misery; but, as the disaster
encreased, the spirit of lawlessness seized him; he
deserted his home to revel in the luxuries promised
him in London, and found there a grave. Her former
lover had been one of the first victims of the disease.
But Lucy continued to live for and in her mother. Her
courage only failed when she dreaded peril for her
parent, or feared that death might prevent her from
performing those duties to which she was unalterably
devoted.
When we had quitted Windsor for London, as the previous
step to our final emigration, we visited Lucy, and
arranged with her the plan of her own and her mother's
removal. Lucy was sorry at the necessity which forced
her to quit her native lanes and village, and to drag
an infirm parent from her comforts at home, to the
homeless waste of depopulate earth; but she was too
well disciplined by adversity, and of too sweet a
temper, to indulge in repinings at what was
inevitable.
Subsequent circumstances, my illness and that of Idris,
drove her from our remembrance; and we called her to
mind at last, only to conclude that she made one of
the few who came from Windsor to join the emigrants,
and that she was already in Paris. When we arrived at
Rochester therefore, we were surprised to receive, by a
man just come from Slough, a letter from this exemplary
sufferer. His account was, that, journeying from his
home, and passing through Datchet, he was surprised to
see smoke issue from the chimney of the inn, and
supposing that he should find comrades for his journey
assembled there, he knocked and was admitted. There was
no one in the house but Lucy, and her mother; the
latter had been deprived of the use of her limbs by an
attack of rheumatism, and so, one by one, all the
remaining inhabitants of the country set forward,
leaving them alone. Lucy intreated the man to stay with
her; in a week or two her mother would be better, and
they would then set out; but they must perish, if they
were left thus helpless and forlorn. The man said, that
his wife and children were already among the emigrants,
and it was therefore, according to his notion,
impossible for him to remain. Lucy, as a last resource,
gave him a letter for Idris, to be delivered to her
wherever he should meet us. This commission at least
he fulfilled, and Idris received with emotion the
following letter:--
"HONOURED LADY,
"I am sure that you will remember and pity me, and I
dare hope that you will assist me; what other hope
have I? Pardon my manner of writing, I am so
bewildered. A month ago my dear mother was deprived of
the use of her limbs. She is already better, and in
another month would I am sure be able to travel, in
the way you were so kind as to say you would arrange
for us. But now everybody is gone--everybody--as they
went away, each said, that perhaps my mother would be
better, before we were quite deserted. But three days
ago I went to Samuel Woods, who, on account of his
new-born child, remained to the last; and there being a
large family of them, I thought I could persuade them
to wait a little longer for us; but I found the house
deserted. I have not seen a soul since, till this good
man came.--What will become of us? My mother does not
know our state; she is so ill, that I have hidden it
from her.
"Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must
perish miserably as we are. If I were to try to move my
mother now, she would die on the road; and if, when she
gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to find
out the roads, and get on so many many miles to the
sea, you would all be in France, and the great ocean
would be between us, which is so terrible even to
sailors. What would it be to me, a woman, who never saw
it? We should be imprisoned by it in this country,
all, all alone, with no help; better die where we are.
I can hardly write--I cannot stop my tears--it is not
for myself; I could put my trust in God; and let the
worst come, I think I could bear it, if I were alone.
But my mother, my sick, my dear, dear mother, who
never, since I was born, spoke a harsh word to me, who
has been patient in many sufferings; pity her, dear
Lady, she must die a miserable death if you do not pity
her. People speak carelessly of her, because she is
old and infirm, as if we must not all, if we are
spared, become so; and then, when the young are old
themselves, they will think that they ought to be
taken care of. It is very silly of me to write in this
way to you; but, when I hear her trying not to groan,
and see her look smiling on me to comfort me, when I
know she is in pain; and when I think that she does not
know the worst, but she soon must; and then she will
not complain; but I shall sit guessing at all that she
is dwelling upon, of famine and misery--I feel as if
my heart must break, and I do not know what I say or
do; my mother--mother for whom I have borne much, God
preserve you from this fate! Preserve her, Lady, and
He will bless you; and I, poor miserable creature as I
am, will thank you and pray for you while I live.
"Your unhappy and dutiful servant,
"Dec. 30th, 2097. LUCY MARTIN."
This letter deeply affected Idris, and she instantly
proposed, that we should return to Datchet, to assist
Lucy and her mother. I said that I would without delay
set out for that place, but entreated her to join her
brother, and there await my return with the children.
But Idris was in high spirits, and full of hope. She
declared that she could not consent even to a temporary
separation from me, but that there was no need of this,
the motion of the carriage did her good, and the
distance was too trifling to be considered. We could
dispatch messengers to Adrian, to inform him of our
deviation from the original plan. She spoke with
vivacity, and drew a picture after her own dear heart,
of the pleasure we should bestow upon Lucy, and
declared, if I went, she must accompany me, and that
she should very much dislike to entrust the charge of
rescuing them to others, who might fulfil it with
coldness or inhumanity. Lucy's life had been one act
of devotion and virtue; let her now reap the small
reward of finding her excellence appreciated, and her
necessity assisted, by those whom she respected and
honoured.
These, and many other arguments, were urged with gentle
pertinacity, and the ardour of a wish to do all the
good in her power, by her whose simple expression of a
desire and slightest request had ever been a law with
me. I, of course, consented, the moment that I saw that
she had set her heart upon this step. We sent half our
attendant troop on to Adrian; and with the other half
our carriage took a retrograde course back to Windsor.
I wonder now how I could be so blind and senseless, as
thus to risk the safety of Idris; for, if I had eyes,
surely I could see the sure, though deceitful, advance
of death in her burning cheek and encreasing weakness.
But she said she was better; and I believed her.
Extinction could not be near a being, whose vivacity
and intelligence hourly encreased, and whose frame was
endowed with an intense, and I fondly thought, a strong
and permanent spirit of life. Who, after a great
disaster, has not looked back with wonder at his
inconceivable obtuseness of understanding, that could
not perceive the many minute threads with which fate
weaves the inextricable net of our destinies, until he
is inmeshed completely in it?
The cross roads which we now entered upon, were even in
a worse state than the long neglected high-ways; and
the inconvenience seemed to menace the perishing frame
of Idris with destruction. Passing through Dartford, we
arrived at Hampton on the second day. Even in this
short interval my beloved companion grew sensibly
worse in health, though her spirits were still light,
and she cheered my growing anxiety with gay sallies;
sometimes the thought pierced my brain--Is she
dying?--as I saw her fair fleshless hand rest on mine,
or observed the feebleness with which she performed the
accustomed acts of life. I drove away the idea, as if
it had been suggested by insanity; but it occurred
again and again, only to be dispelled by the continued
liveliness of her manner.
About mid-day, after quitting Hampton, our carriage
broke down: the shock caused Idris to faint, but on her
reviving no other ill consequence ensued; our party of
attendants had as usual gone on before us, and our
coachman went in search of another vehicle, our former
one being rendered by this accident unfit for service.
The only place near us was a poor village, in which he
found a kind of caravan, able to hold four people, but
it was clumsy and ill hung; besides this he found a
very excellent cabriolet: our plan was soon arranged; I
would drive Idris in the latter; while the children
were conveyed by the servant in the former. But these
arrangements cost time; we had agreed to proceed that
night to Windsor, and thither our purveyors had gone:
we should find considerable difficulty in getting
accommodation, before we reached this place; after all,
the distance was only ten miles; my horse was a good
one; I would go forward at a good pace with Idris,
leaving the children to follow at a rate more consonant
to the uses of their cumberous machine.
Evening closed in quickly, far more quickly than I was
prepared to expect. At the going down of the sun it
began to snow heavily. I attempted in vain to defend
my beloved companion from the storm; the wind drove
the snow in our faces; and it lay so high on the
ground, that we made but small way; while the night was
so dark, that but for the white covering on the ground
we should not have been able to see a yard before us.
We had left our accompanying caravan far behind us; and
now I perceived that the storm had made me
unconsciously deviate from my intended route. I had
gone some miles out of my way. My knowledge of the
country enabled me to regain the right road; but,
instead of going, as at first agreed upon, by a cross
road through Stanwell to Datchet, I was obliged to take
the way of Egham and Bishopgate. It was certain
therefore that I should not be rejoined by the other
vehicle, that I should not meet a single
fellow-creature till we arrived at Windsor.
The back of our carriage was drawn up, and I hung a
pelisse before it, thus to curtain the beloved
sufferer from the pelting sleet. She leaned on my
shoulder, growing every moment more languid and feeble;
at first she replied to my words of cheer with
affectionate thanks; but by degrees she sunk into
silence; her head lay heavily upon me; I only knew that
she lived by her irregular breathing and frequent
sighs. For a moment I resolved to stop, and, opposing
the back of the cabriolet to the force of the tempest,
to expect morning as well as I might. But the wind was
bleak and piercing, while the occasional shudderings of
my poor Idris, and the intense cold I felt myself,
demonstrated that this would be a dangerous experiment.
At length methought she slept--fatal sleep, induced by
frost: at this moment I saw the heavy outline of a
cottage traced on the dark horizon close to us:
"Dearest love," I said, "support yourself but one
moment, and we shall have shelter; let us stop here,
that I may open the door of this blessed dwelling."
As I spoke, my heart was transported, and my senses
swam with excessive delight and thankfulness; I placed
the head of Idris against the carriage, and, leaping
out, scrambled through the snow to the cottage, whose
door was open. I had apparatus about me for procuring
light, and that shewed me a comfortable room, with a
pile of wood in one corner, and no appearance of
disorder, except that, the door having been left partly
open, the snow, drifting in, had blocked up the
threshold. I returned to the carriage, and the sudden
change from light to darkness at first blinded me. When
I recovered my sight--eternal God of this lawless
world! O supreme Death! I will not disturb thy silent
reign, or mar my tale with fruitless exclamations of
horror--I saw Idris, who had fallen from the seat to
the bottom of the carriage; her head, its long hair
pendent, with one arm, hung over the side. --Struck by
a spasm of horror, I lifted her up; her heart was
pulseless, her faded lips unfanned by the slightest
breath.
I carried her into the cottage; I placed her on the
bed. Lighting a fire, I chafed her stiffening limbs;
for two long hours I sought to restore departed life;
and, when hope was as dead as my beloved, I closed with
trembling hands her glazed eyes. I did not doubt what I
should now do. In the confusion attendant on my
illness, the task of interring our darling Alfred had
devolved on his grandmother, the Ex-Queen, and she,
true to her ruling passion, had caused him to be
carried to Windsor, and buried in the family vault, in
St. George's Chapel. I must proceed to Windsor, to
calm the anxiety of Clara, who would wait anxiously
for us--yet I would fain spare her the heart-breaking
spectacle of Idris, brought in by me lifeless from the
journey. So first I would place my beloved beside her
child in the vault, and then seek the poor children who
would be expecting me.
I lighted the lamps of my carriage; I wrapt her in
furs, and placed her along the seat; then taking the
reins, made the horses go forward. We proceeded through
the snow, which lay in masses impeding the way, while
the descending flakes, driving against me with
redoubled fury, blinded me. The pain occasioned by the
angry elements, and the cold iron of the shafts of
frost which buffetted me, and entered my aching flesh,
were a relief to me; blunting my mental suffering. The
horses staggered on, and the reins hung loosely in my
hands. I often thought I would lay my head close to the
sweet, cold face of my lost angel, and thus resign
myself to conquering torpor. Yet I must not leave her a
prey to the fowls of the air; but, in pursuance of my
determination place her in the tomb of her forefathers,
where a merciful God might permit me to rest also.
The road we passed through Egham was familiar to me;
but the wind and snow caused the horses to drag their
load slowly and heavily. Suddenly the wind veered from
south-west to west, and then again to north-west. As
Sampson with tug and strain stirred from their bases
the columns that supported the Philistine temple, so
did the gale shake the dense vapours propped on the
horizon, while the massy dome of clouds fell to the
south, disclosing through the scattered web the clear
empyrean, and the little stars, which were set at an
immeasurable distance in the crystalline fields,
showered their small rays on the glittering snow. Even
the horses were cheered, and moved on with renovated
strength. We entered the forest at Bishopgate, and at
the end of the Long Walk I saw the Castle, "the proud
Keep of Windsor, rising in the majesty of proportion,
girt with the double belt of its kindred and coeval
towers." I looked with reverence on a structure,
ancient almost as the rock on which it stood, abode of
kings, theme of admiration for the wise. With greater
reverence and, tearful affection I beheld it as the
asylum of the long lease of love I had enjoyed there
with the perishable, unmatchable treasure of dust,
which now lay cold beside me. Now indeed, I could have
yielded to all the softness of my nature, and wept;
and, womanlike, have uttered bitter plaints; while the
familiar trees, the herds of living deer, the sward
oft prest by her fairy-feet, one by one with sad
association presented themselves. The white gate at the
end of the Long Walk was wide open, and I rode up the
empty town through the first gate of the feudal tower;
and now St. George's Chapel, with its blackened fretted
sides, was right before me. I halted at its door, which
was open; I entered, and placed my lighted lamp on the
altar; then I returned, and with tender caution I bore
Idris up the aisle into the chancel, and laid her
softly down on the carpet which covered the step
leading to the communion table. The banners of the
knights of the garter, and their half drawn swords,
were hung in vain emblazonry above the stalls. The
banner of her family hung there, still surmounted by
its regal crown. Farewell to the glory and heraldry
of England!--I turned from such vanity with a slight
feeling of wonder, at how mankind could have ever been
interested in such things. I bent over the lifeless
corpse of my beloved; and, while looking on her
uncovered face, the features already contracted by the
rigidity of death, I felt as if all the visible
universe had grown as soulless, inane, and comfortless
as the clay-cold image beneath me. I felt for a moment
the intolerable sense of struggle with, and
detestation for, the laws which govern the world; till
the calm still visible on the face of my dead love
recalled me to a more soothing tone of mind, and I
proceeded to fulfil the last office that could now be
paid her. For her I could not lament, so much I envied
her enjoyment of "the sad immunities of the grave."
The vault had been lately opened to place our Alfred
therein. The ceremony customary in these latter days
had been cursorily performed, and the pavement of the
chapel, which was its entrance, having been removed,
had not been replaced. I descended the steps, and
walked through the long passage to the large vault
which contained the kindred dust of my Idris. I
distinguished the small coffin of my babe. With hasty,
trembling hands I constructed a bier beside it,
spreading it with the furs and Indian shawls, which
had wrapt Idris in her journey thither. I lighted the
glimmering lamp, which flickered in this damp abode of
the dead; then I bore my lost one to her last bed,
decently composing her limbs, and covering them with a
mantle, veiling all except her face, which remained
lovely and placid. She appeared to rest like one
over-wearied, her beauteous eyes steeped in sweet
slumber. Yet, so it was not--she was dead! How
intensely I then longed to lie down beside her, to gaze
till death should gather me to the same repose.
But death does not come at the bidding of the
miserable. I had lately recovered from mortal illness,
and my blood had never flowed with such an even
current, nor had my limbs ever been so instinct with
quick life, as now. I felt that my death must be
voluntary. Yet what more natural than famine, as I
watched in this chamber of mortality, placed in a world
of the dead, beside the lost hope of my life?
Meanwhile as I looked on her, the features, which bore
a sisterly resemblance to Adrian, brought my thoughts
back again to the living, to this dear friend, to
Clara, and to Evelyn, who were probably now in
Windsor, waiting anxiously for our arrival.
Methought I heard a noise, a step in the far chapel,
which was re-echoed by its vaulted roof, and borne to
me through the hollow passages. Had Clara seen my
carriage pass up the town, and did she seek me here? I
must save her at least from the horrible scene the
vault presented. I sprung up the steps, and then saw a
female figure, bent with age, and clad in long
mourning robes, advance through the dusky chapel,
supported by a slender cane, yet tottering even with
this support. She heard me, and looked up; the lamp I
held illuminated my figure, and the moon-beams,
struggling through the painted glass, fell upon her
face, wrinkled and gaunt, yet with a piercing eye and
commanding brow--I recognized the Countess of Windsor.
With a hollow voice she asked, "Where is the princess?"
I pointed to the torn up pavement: she walked to the
spot, and looked down into the palpable darkness; for
the vault was too distant for the rays of the small
lamp I had left there to be discernible.
"Your light," she said. I gave it her; and she regarded
the now visible, but precipitous steps, as if
calculating her capacity to descend. Instinctively I
made a silent offer of my assistance. She motioned me
away with a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as
she pointed downwards, "There at least I may have her
undisturbed."
She walked deliberately down, while I, overcome,
miserable beyond words, or tears, or groans, threw
myself on the pavement near--the stiffening form of
Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance
hushed in eternal repose beneath. That was to me the
end of all! The day before, I had figured to my self
various adventures, and communion with my friends in
after time--now I had leapt the interval, and reached
the utmost edge and bourne of life. Thus wrapt in
gloom, enclosed, walled up, vaulted over by the
omnipotent present, I was startled by the sound of feet
on the steps of the tomb, and I remembered her whom I
had utterly forgotten, my angry visitant; her tall form
slowly rose upwards from the vault, a living statue,
instinct with hate, and human, passionate strife: she
seemed to me as having reached the pavement of the
aisle; she stood motionless, seeking with her eyes
alone, some desired object--till, perceiving me close
to her, she placed her wrinkled hand on my arm,
exclaiming with tremulous accents, "Lionel Verney, my
son!" This name, applied at such a moment by my
angel's mother, instilled into me more respect than I
had ever before felt for this disdainful lady. I bowed
my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand, and, remarking
that she trembled violently, supported her to the end
of the chancel, where she sat on the steps that led to
the regal stall. She suffered herself to be led, and
still holding my hand, she leaned her head back against
the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with various
colours by the painted glass, fell on her glistening
eyes; aware of her weakness, again calling to mind her
long cherished dignity, she dashed the tears away; yet
they fell fast, as she said, for excuse, "She is so
beautiful and placid, even in death. No harsh feeling
ever clouded her serene brow; how did I treat her?
wounding her gentle heart with savage coldness; I had
no compassion on her in past years, does she forgive me
now? Little, little does it boot to talk of repentance
and forgiveness to the dead, had I during her life once
consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged
nature to do her pleasure, I should not feel thus."
Idris and her mother were unlike in person. The dark
hair, deep-set black eyes, and prominent features of
the Ex-Queen were in entire contrast to the golden
tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines and
contour of her daughter's countenance. Yet, in latter
days, illness had taken from my poor girl the full
outline of her face, and reduced it to the inflexible
shape of the bone beneath. In the form of her brow, in
her oval chin, there was to be found a resemblance to
her mother; nay in some moods, their gestures were not
unlike; nor, having lived so long together, was this
wonderful.
There is a magic power in resemblance. When one we love
dies, we hope to see them in another state, and half
expect that the agency of mind will inform its new
garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture. But
these are ideas of the mind only. We know that the
instrument is shivered, the sensible image lies in
miserable fragments, dissolved to dusty nothingness; a
look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs similar
to the dead in a living person, touches a thrilling
chord, whose sacred harmony is felt in the heart's
dearest recess. Strangely moved, prostrate before this
spectral image, and enslaved by the force of blood
manifested in likeness of look and movement, I remained
trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and till
now unloved mother of Idris.
Poor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she
had cherished the idea, that a word, a look of
reconciliation from her, would be received with joy,
and repay long years of severity. Now that the time was
gone for the exercise of such power, she fell at once
upon the thorny truth of things, and felt that neither
smile nor caress could penetrate to the unconscious
state, or influence the happiness of her who lay in the
vault beneath. This conviction, together with the
remembrance of soft replies to bitter speeches, of
gentle looks repaying angry glances; the perception of
the falsehood, paltryness and futility of her cherished
dreams of birth and power; the overpowering knowledge,
that love and life were the true emperors of our
mortal state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul
with stormy and bewildering confusion. It fell to my
lot, to come as the influential power, to allay the
fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I spoke to
her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really
been, and how her virtues and numerous excellencies
had found scope and estimation in her past career. I
praised her, the idol of my heart's dear worship, the
admired type of feminine perfection. With ardent and
overflowing eloquence, I relieved my heart from its
burthen, and awoke to the sense of a new pleasure in
life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy. Then I
referred to Adrian, her loved brother, and to her
surviving child. I declared, which I had before almost
forgotten, what my duties were with regard to these
valued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy
repentant mother reflect, how she could best expiate
unkindness towards the dead, by redoubled love of the
survivors. Consoling her, my own sorrows were assuaged;
my sincerity won her entire conviction.
She turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting
woman, turned with a mild expression of face, and said,
"If our beloved angel sees us now, it will delight her
to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were
worthy of her; and from my heart I am glad that you
won her away from me. Pardon, my son, the many wrongs I
have done you; forget my bitter words and unkind
treatment--take me, and govern me as you will."
I seized this docile moment to propose our departure
from the church. "First," she said, "let us replace
the pavement above the vault."
We drew near to it; "Shall we look on her again?" I
asked.
"I cannot," she replied, "and, I pray you, neither do
you. We need not torture ourselves by gazing on the
soulless body, while her living spirit is buried quick
in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is so
deeply carved there, that sleeping or waking she must
ever be present to us."
For a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the
open vault. I consecrated my future life, to the
embalming of her dear memory; I vowed to serve her
brother and her child till death. The convulsive sob
of my companion made me break off my internal orisons.
I next dragged the stones over the entrance of the
tomb, and closed the gulph that contained the life of
my life. Then, supporting my decrepid fellow-mourner,
we slowly left the chapel. I felt, as I stepped into
the open air, as if I had quitted an happy nest of
repose, for a dreary wilderness, a tortuous path, a
bitter, joyless, hopeless pilgrimage.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV.
OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for
the night at the inn, opposite the ascent to the
Castle. We could not again visit the halls and
familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had
already left for ever the glades of Windsor, and all
of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and murmuring stream,
which gave shape and intensity to the love of our
country, and the almost superstitious attachment with
which we regarded native England. It had been our
intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling in
Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises of
aid and protection before we repaired to our quarters
for the night. Now, as the Countess of Windsor and I
turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we
saw the children, who had just stopped in their
caravan, at the inn-door. They had passed through
Datchet without halting. I dreaded to meet them, and to
be the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were
still occupied in the hurry of arrival, I suddenly left
them, and through the snow and clear moon-light air,
hastened along the well known road to Datchet.
Well known indeed it was. Each cottage stood on its
accustomed site, each tree wore its familiar
appearance. Habit had graven uneraseably on my memory,
every turn and change of object on the road. At a short
distance beyond the Little Park, was an elm half blown
down by a storm, some ten years ago; and still, with
leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched across the
pathway, which wound through a meadow, beside a shallow
brook, whose brawling was silenced by frost--that
stile, that white gate, that hollow oak tree, which
doubtless once belonged to the forest, and which now
shewed in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose
fanciful appearance, tricked out by the dusk into a
resemblance of the human form, the children had given
the name of Falstaff;--all these objects were as well
known to me as the cold hearth of my deserted home,
and every moss-grown wall and plot of orchard ground,
alike as twin lambs are to each other in a stranger's
eye, yet to my accustomed gaze bore differences,
distinction, and a name. England remained, though
England was dead--it was the ghost of merry England
that I beheld, under those greenwood shade passing
generations had sported in security and ease. To this
painful recognition of familiar places, was added a
feeling experienced by all, understood by none--a
feeling as if in some state, less visionary than a
dream, in some past real existence, I had seen all I
saw, with precisely the same feelings as I now beheld
them--as if all my sensations were a duplex mirror of a
former revelation. To get rid of this oppressive sense
I strove to imagine change in this tranquil spot--this
augmented my mood, by causing me to bestow more
attention on the objects which occasioned me pain.
I reached Datchet and Lucy's humble abode--once noisy
with Saturday night revellers, or trim and neat on
Sunday morning it had borne testimony to the labours
and orderly habits of the housewife. The snow lay high
about the door, as if it had remained unclosed for many
days.
"What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?"
I muttered to myself as I looked at the dark casements.
At first I thought I saw a light in one of them, but it
proved to be merely the refraction of the moon-beams,
while the only sound was the crackling branches as the
breeze whirred the snow flakes from them--the moon
sailed high and unclouded in the interminable ether,
while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the
garden behind. I entered this by the open wicket, and
anxiously examined each window. At length I detected a
ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one
of the upper rooms--it was a novel feeling, alas! to
look at any house and say there dwells its usual
inmate--the door of the house was merely on the latch:
so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The
door of the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw
Lucy sitting as at work at the table on which the light
stood; the implements of needlework were about her,
but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed
on the ground, shewed by their vacancy that her
thoughts wandered. Traces of care and watching had
diminished her former attractions--but her simple dress
and cap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle
that cast its light upon her, gave for a moment a
picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful reality
recalled me from the thought--a figure lay stretched
on the bed covered by a sheet--her mother was dead,
and Lucy, apart from all the world, deserted and alone,
watched beside the corpse during the weary night. I
entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first
drew a scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation;
but she recognised me, and recovered herself, with the
quick exercise of self-control habitual to her. "Did
you not expect me?" I asked, in that low voice which
the presence of the dead makes us as it were
instinctively assume.
"You are very good," replied she, "to have come
yourself; I can never thank you sufficiently; but it is
too late."
"Too late," cried I, "what do you mean? It is not too
late to take you from this deserted place, and conduct
you to---"
My own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made
me turn away, while choking grief impeded my speech. I
threw open the window, and looked on the cold, waning,
ghastly, misshaped circle on high, and the chill white
earth beneath--did the spirit of sweet Idris sail along
the moon-frozen crystal air?--No, no, a more genial
atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely hers!
I indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then
again addressed the mourner, who stood leaning against
the bed with that expression of resigned despair, of
complete misery, and a patient sufferance of it, which
is far more touching than any of the insane ravings or
wild gesticulation of untamed sorrow. I desired to draw
her from this spot; but she opposed my wish. That class
of persons whose imagination and sensibility have never
been taken out of the narrow circle immediately in
view, if they possess these qualities to any extent,
are apt to pour their influence into the very
realities which appear to destroy them, and to cling to
these with double tenacity from not being able to
comprehend any thing beyond. Thus Lucy, in desert
England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the usual
ceremonies of the dead, such as were customary to the
English country people, when death was a rare
visitant, and gave us time to receive his dreaded
usurpation with pomp and circumstance--going forth in
procession to deliver the keys of the tomb into his
conquering hand. She had already, alone as she was,
accomplished some of these, and the work on which I
found her employed, was her mother's shroud. My heart
sickened at such detail of woe, which a female can
endure, but which is more painful to the masculine
spirit than deadliest struggle, or throes of
unutterable but transient agony.
This must not be, I told her; and then, as further
inducement, I communicated to her my recent loss, and
gave her the idea that she must come with me to take
charge of the orphan children, whom the death of Idris
had deprived of a mother's care. Lucy never resisted
the call of a duty, so she yielded, and closing the
casements and doors with care, she accompanied me back
to Windsor. As we went she communicated to me the
occasion of her mother's death. Either by some
mischance she had got sight of Lucy's letter to Idris,
or she had overheard her conversation with the
countryman who bore it; however it might be, she
obtained a knowledge of the appalling situation of
herself and her daughter, her aged frame could not
sustain the anxiety and horror this discovery
instilled--she concealed her knowledge from Lucy, but
brooded over it through sleepless nights, till fever
and delirium, swift forerunners of death, disclosed the
secret. Her life, which had long been hovering on its
extinction, now yielded at once to the united effects
of misery and sickness, and that same morning she had
died.
After the tumultuous emotions of the day, I was glad to
find on my arrival at the inn that my companions had
retired to rest. I gave Lucy in charge to the
Countess's attendant, and then sought repose from my
various struggles and impatient regrets. For a few
moments the events of the day floated in disastrous
pageant through my brain, till sleep bathed it in
forgetfulness; when morning dawned and I awoke, it
seemed as if my slumber had endured for years.
My companions had not shared my oblivion. Clara's
swollen eyes shewed that she has passed the night in
weeping. The Countess looked haggard and wan. Her firm
spirit had not found relief in tears, and she suffered
the more from all the painful retrospect and agonizing
regret that now occupied her. We departed from Windsor,
as soon as the burial rites had been performed for
Lucy's mother, and, urged on by an impatient desire to
change the scene, went forward towards Dover with
speed, our escort having gone before to provide horses;
finding them either in the warm stables they
instinctively sought during the cold weather, or
standing shivering in the bleak fields ready to
surrender their liberty in exchange for offered corn.
During our ride the Countess recounted to me the
extraordinary circumstances which had brought her so
strangely to my side in the chancel of St. George's
chapel. When last she had taken leave of Idris, as she
looked anxiously on her faded person and pallid
countenance, she had suddenly been visited by a
conviction that she saw her for the last time. It was
hard to part with her while under the dominion of this
sentiment, and for the last time she endeavoured to
persuade her daughter to commit herself to her nursing,
permitting me to join Adrian. Idris mildly refused,
and thus they separated. The idea that they should
never again meet grew on the Countess's mind, and
haunted her perpetually; a thousand times she had
resolved to turn back and join us, and was again and
again restrained by the pride and anger of which she
was the slave. Proud of heart as she was, she bathed
her pillow with nightly tears, and through the day was
subdued by nervous agitation and expectation of the
dreaded event, which she was wholly incapable of
curbing. She confessed that at this period her hatred
of me knew no bounds, since she considered me as the
sole obstacle to the fulfilment of her dearest wish,
that of attending upon her daughter in her last
moments. She desired to express her fears to her son,
and to seek consolation from his sympathy with, or
courage from his rejection of, her auguries.
On the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked
with him on the sea beach, and with the timidity
characteristic of passionate and exaggerated feeling
was by degrees bringing the conversation to the desired
point, when she could communicate her fears to him,
when the messenger who bore my letter announcing our
temporary return to Windsor, came riding down to them.
He gave some oral account of how he had left us, and
added, that notwithstanding the cheerfulness and good
courage of Lady Idris, he was afraid that she would
hardly reach Windsor alive.
"True," said the Countess, "your fears are just, she is
about to expire!"
As she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow
of the cliff, and she saw, she averred the same to me
with solemnity, Idris pacing slowly towards this cave.
She was turned from her, her head was bent down, her
white dress was such as she was accustomed to wear,
except that a thin crape-like veil covered her golden
tresses, and concealed her as a dim transparent mist.
She looked dejected, as docilely yielding to a
commanding power; she submissively entered, and was
lost in the dark recess.
"Were I subject to visionary moods," said the venerable
lady, as she continued her narrative, "I might doubt my
eyes, and condemn my credulity; but reality is the
world I live in, and what I saw I doubt not had
existence beyond myself. From that moment I could not
rest; it was worth my existence to see her once again
before she died; I knew that I should not accomplish
this, yet I must endeavour. I immediately departed for
Windsor; and, though I was assured that we travelled
speedily, it seemed to me that our progress was
snail-like, and that delays were created solely for my
annoyance. Still I accused you, and heaped on your head
the fiery ashes of my burning impatience. It was no
disappointment, though an agonizing pang, when you
pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express
the abhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the
triumphant impediment to my dearest wishes. I saw her,
and anger, and hate, and injustice died at her bier,
giving place at their departure to a remorse (Great
God, that I should feel it!) which must last while
memory and feeling endure."
To medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and
new-born mildness from producing the same bitter fruit
that hate and harshness had done, I devoted all my
endeavours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our party
was a melancholy one; each was possessed by regret for
what was remediless; for the absence of his mother
shadowed even the infant gaiety of Evelyn. Added to
this was the prospect of the uncertain future. Before
the final accomplishment of any great voluntary change
the mind vacillates, now soothing itself by fervent
expectation, now recoiling from obstacles which seem
never to have presented themselves before with so
frightful an aspect. An involuntary tremor ran through
me when I thought that in another day we might have
crossed the watery barrier, and have set forward on
that hopeless, interminable, sad wandering, which but a
short time before I regarded as the only relief to
sorrow that our situation afforded.
Our approach to Dover was announced by the loud
roarings of the wintry sea. They were borne miles
inland by the sound-laden blast, and by their
unaccustomed uproar, imparted a feeling of insecurity
and peril to our stable abode. At first we hardly
permitted ourselves to think that any unusual eruption
of nature caused this tremendous war of air and water,
but rather fancied that we merely listened to what we
had heard a thousand times before, when we had watched
the flocks of fleece-crowned waves, driven by the
winds, come to lament and die on the barren sands and
pointed rocks. But we found upon advancing farther,
that Dover was overflowed--many of the houses were
overthrown by the surges which filled the streets, and
with hideous brawlings sometimes retreated leaving the
pavement of the town bare, till again hurried forward
by the influx of ocean, they returned with
thunder-sound to their usurped station.
Hardly less disturbed than the tempestuous world of
waters was the assembly of human beings, that from the
cliff fearfully watched its ravings. On the morning of
the arrival of the emigrants under the conduct of
Adrian, the sea had been serene and glassy, the slight
ripples refracted the sunbeams, which shed their
radiance through the clear blue frosty air. This
placid appearance of nature was hailed as a good
augury for the voyage, and the chief immediately
repaired to the harbour to examine two steamboats which
were moored there. On the following midnight, when all
were at rest, a frightful storm of wind and clattering
rain and hail first disturbed them, and the voice of
one shrieking in the streets, that the sleepers must
awake or they would be drowned; and when they rushed
out, half clothed, to discover the meaning of this
alarm, they found that the tide, rising above every
mark, was rushing into the town. They ascended the
cliff, but the darkness permitted only the white crest
of waves to be seen, while the roaring wind mingled its
howlings in dire accord with the wild surges. The
awful hour of night, the utter inexperience of many who
had never seen the sea before, the wailing of women
and cries of children added to the horror of the
tumult.
All the following day the same scene continued. When
the tide ebbed, the town was left dry; but on its flow,
it rose even higher than on the preceding night. The
vast ships that lay rotting in the roads were whirled
from their anchorage, and driven and jammed against the
cliff, the vessels in the harbour were flung on land
like sea-weed, and there battered to pieces by the
breakers. The waves dashed against the cliff, which if
in any place it had been before loosened, now gave way,
and the affrighted crowd saw vast fragments of the near
earth fall with crash and roar into the deep. This
sight operated differently on different persons. The
greater part thought it a judgment of God, to prevent
or punish our emigration from our native land. Many
were doubly eager to quit a nook of ground now become
their prison, which appeared unable to resist the
inroads of ocean's giant waves.
When we arrived at Dover, after a fatiguing day's
journey, we all required rest and sleep; but the scene
acting around us soon drove away such ideas. We were
drawn, along with the greater part of our companions,
to the edge of the cliff, there to listen to and make
a thousand conjectures. A fog narrowed our horizon to
about a quarter of a mile, and the misty veil, cold
and dense, enveloped sky and sea in equal obscurity.
What added to our inquietude was the circumstance that
two-thirds of our original number were now waiting for
us in Paris, and clinging, as we now did most
painfully, to any addition to our melancholy remnant,
this division, with the tameless impassable ocean
between, struck us with affright. At length, after
loitering for several hours on the cliff, we retired
to Dover Castle, whose roof sheltered all who breathed
the English air, and sought the sleep necessary to
restore strength and courage to our worn frames and
languid spirits.
Early in the morning Adrian brought me the welcome
intelligence that the wind had changed: it had been
south-west; it was now north-east. The sky was stripped
bare of clouds by the increasing gale, while the tide
at its ebb seceded entirely from the town. The change
of wind rather increased the fury of the sea, but it
altered its late dusky hue to a bright green; and in
spite of its unmitigated clamour, its more cheerful
appearance instilled hope and pleasure. All day we
watched the ranging of the mountainous waves, and
towards sunset a desire to decypher the promise for the
morrow at its setting, made us all gather with one
accord on the edge of the cliff. When the mighty
luminary approached within a few degrees of the
tempest-tossed horizon, suddenly, a wonder! three other
suns, alike burning and brilliant, rushed from various
quarters of the heavens towards the great orb; they
whirled round it. The glare of light was intense to
our dazzled eyes; the sun itself seemed to join in the
dance, while the sea burned like a furnace, like all
Vesuvius a-light, with flowing lava beneath. The horses
broke loose from their stalls in terror--a herd of
cattle, panic struck, raced down to the brink of the
cliff, and blinded by light, plunged down with
frightful yells in the waves below. The time occupied
by the apparition of these meteors was comparatively
short; suddenly the three mock suns united in one, and
plunged into the sea. A few seconds afterwards, a
deafening watery sound came up with awful peal from the
spot where they had disappeared.
Meanwhile the sun, disencumbered from his strange
satellites, paced with its accustomed majesty towards
its western home. When--we dared not trust our eyes
late dazzled, but it seemed that--the sea rose to meet
it--it mounted higher and higher, till the fiery globe
was obscured, and the wall of water still ascended the
horizon; it appeared as if suddenly the motion of
earth was revealed to us--as if no longer we were ruled
by ancient laws, but were turned adrift in an unknown
region of space. Many cried aloud, that these were no
meteors, but globes of burning matter, which had set
fire to the earth, and caused the vast cauldron at our
feet to bubble up with its measureless waves; the day
of judgment was come they averred, and a few moments
would transport us before the awful countenance of the
omnipotent judge; while those less given to visionary
terrors, declared that two conflicting gales had
occasioned the last phaenomenon. In support of this
opinion they pointed out the fact that the east wind
died away, while the rushing of the coming west
mingled its wild howl with the roar of the advancing
waters. Would the cliff resist this new battery? Was
not the giant wave far higher than the precipice?
Would not our little island be deluged by its
approach? The crowd of spectators fled. They were
dispersed over the fields, stopping now and then, and
looking back in terror. A sublime sense of awe calmed
the swift pulsations of my heart--I awaited the
approach of the destruction menaced, with that solemn
resignation which an unavoidable necessity instils.
The ocean every moment assumed a more terrific aspect,
while the twilight was dimmed by the rack which the
west wind spread over the sky. By slow degrees however,
as the wave advanced, it took a more mild appearance;
some under current of air, or obstruction in the bed
of the waters, checked its progress, and it sank
gradually; while the surface of the sea became
uniformly higher as it dissolved into it. This change
took from us the fear of an immediate catastrophe,
although we were still anxious as to the final result.
We continued during the whole night to watch the fury
of the sea and the pace of the driving clouds, through
whose openings the rare stars rushed impetuously; the
thunder of conflicting elements deprived us of all
power to sleep.
This endured ceaselessly for three days and nights. The
stoutest hearts quailed before the savage enmity of
nature; provisions began to fail us, though every day
foraging parties were dispersed to the nearer towns. In
vain we schooled ourselves into the belief, that there
was nothing out of the common order of nature in the
strife we witnessed; our disasterous and overwhelming
destiny turned the best of us to cowards. Death had
hunted us through the course of many months, even to
the narrow strip of time on which we now stood; narrow
indeed, and buffeted by storms, was our footway
overhanging the great sea of calamity--
As an unsheltered northern shore
Is shaken by the wintry wave--
And frequent storms for evermore,
(While from the west the loud winds rave,
Or from the east, or mountains hoar)
The struck and tott'ring sand-bank lave.*
It required more than human energy to bear up against
the menaces of destruction that every where surrounded
us.
[* Chorus in Oedipus Coloneus.]
After the lapse of three days, the gale died away, the
sea-gull sailed upon the calm bosom of the windless
atmosphere, and the last yellow leaf on the topmost
branch of the oak hung without motion. The sea no
longer broke with fury; but a swell setting in steadily
for shore, with long sweep and sullen burst replaced
the roar of the breakers. Yet we derived hope from the
change, and we did not doubt that after the interval of
a few days the sea would resume its tranquillity. The
sunset of the fourth day favoured this idea; it was
clear and golden. As we gazed on the purple sea,
radiant beneath, we were attracted by a novel
spectacle; a dark speck--as it neared, visibly a
boat--rode on the top of the waves, every now and then
lost in the steep vallies between. We marked its course
with eager questionings; and, when we saw that it
evidently made for shore, we descended to the only
practicable landing place, and hoisted a signal to
direct them. By the help of glasses we distinguished
her crew; it consisted of nine men, Englishmen,
belonging in truth to the two divisions of our people,
who had preceded us, and had been for several weeks at
Paris. As countryman was wont to meet countryman in
distant lands, did we greet our visitors on their
landing, with outstretched hands and gladsome welcome.
They were slow to reciprocate our gratulations. They
looked angry and resentful; not less than the chafed
sea which they had traversed with imminent peril,
though apparently more displeased with each other than
with us. It was strange to see these human beings, who
appeared to be given forth by the earth like rare and
inestimable plants, full of towering passion, and the
spirit of angry contest. Their first demand was to be
conducted to the Lord Protector of England, so they
called Adrian, though he had long discarded the empty
title, as a bitter mockery of the shadow to which the
Protectorship was now reduced. They were speedily led
to Dover Castle, from whose keep Adrian had watched the
movements of the boat. He received them with the
interest and wonder so strange a visitation created.
In the confusion occasioned by their angry demands for
precedence, it was long before we could discover the
secret meaning of this strange scene. By degrees, from
the furious declamations of one, the fierce
interruptions of another, and the bitter scoffs of a
third, we found that they were deputies from our colony
at Paris, from three parties there formed, who, each
with angry rivalry, tried to attain a superiority over
the other two. These deputies had been dispatched by
them to Adrian, who had been selected arbiter; and they
had journied from Paris to Calais, through the vacant
towns and desolate country, indulging the while violent
hatred against each other; and now they pleaded their
several causes with unmitigated party-spirit.
By examining the deputies apart, and after much
investigation, we learnt the true state of things at
Paris. Since parliament had elected him Ryland's
deputy, all the surviving English had submitted to
Adrian. He was our captain to lead us from our native
soil to unknown lands, our lawgiver and our preserver.
On the first arrangement of our scheme of emigration,
no continued separation of our members was
contemplated, and the command of the whole body in
gradual ascent of power had its apex in the Earl of
Windsor. But unforeseen circumstances changed our plans
for us, and occasioned the greater part of our numbers
to be divided for the space of nearly two months, from
the supreme chief. They had gone over in two distinct
bodies; and on their arrival at Paris dissension arose
between them.
They had found Paris a desert. When first the plague
had appeared, the return of travellers and merchants,
and communications by letter, informed us regularly of
the ravages made by disease on the continent. But with
the encreased mortality this intercourse declined and
ceased. Even in England itself communication from one
part of the island to the other became slow and rare.
No vessel stemmed the flood that divided Calais from
Dover; or if some melancholy voyager, wishing to assure
himself of the life or death of his relatives, put
from the French shore to return among us, often the
greedy ocean swallowed his little craft, or after a day
or two he was infected by the disorder, and died before
he could tell the tale of the desolation of France. We
were therefore to a great degree ignorant of the state
of things on the continent, and were not without some
vague hope of finding numerous companions in its wide
track. But the same causes that had so fearfully
diminished the English nation had had even greater
scope for mischief in the sister land. France was a
blank; during the long line of road from Calais to
Paris not one human being was found. In Paris there
were a few, perhaps a hundred, who, resigned to their
coming fate, flitted about the streets of the capital
and assembled to converse of past times, with that
vivacity and even gaiety that seldom deserts the
individuals of this nation.
The English took uncontested possession of Paris. Its
high houses and narrow streets were lifeless. A few
pale figures were to be distinguished at the accustomed
resort at the Tuileries; they wondered wherefore the
islanders should approach their ill-fated city--for in
the excess of wretchedness, the sufferers always
imagine, that their part of the calamity is the
bitterest, as, when enduring intense pain, we would
exchange the particular torture we writhe under, for
any other which should visit a different part of the
frame. They listened to the account the emigrants gave
of their motives for leaving their native land, with a
shrug almost of disdain--"Return," they said, "return
to your island, whose sea breezes, and division from
the continent gives some promise of health; if
Pestilence among you has slain its hundreds, with us it
has slain its thousands. Are you not even now more
numerous than we are?--A year ago you would have found
only the sick burying the dead; now we are happier; for
the pang of struggle has passed away, and the few you
find here are patiently waiting the final blow. But
you, who are not content to die, breathe no longer the
air of France, or soon you will only be a part of her
soil."
Thus, by menaces of the sword, they would have driven
back those who had escaped from fire. But the peril
left behind was deemed imminent by my countrymen; that
before them doubtful and distant; and soon other
feelings arose to obliterate fear, or to replace it by
passions, that ought to have had no place among a
brotherhood of unhappy survivors of the expiring world.
The more numerous division of emigrants, which arrived
first at Paris, assumed a superiority of rank and
power; the second party asserted their independence. A
third was formed by a sectarian, a self-erected
prophet, who, while he attributed all power and rule to
God, strove to get the real command of his comrades
into his own hands. This third division consisted of
fewest individuals, but their purpose was more one,
their obedience to their leader more entire, their
fortitude and courage more unyielding and active.
During the whole progress of the plague, the teachers
of religion were in possession of great power; a power
of good, if rightly directed, or of incalculable
mischief, if fanaticism or intolerance guided their
efforts. In the present instance, a worse feeling than
either of these actuated the leader. He was an
impostor in the most determined sense of the term. A
man who had in early life lost, through the indulgence
of vicious propensities, all sense of rectitude or
self-esteem; and who, when ambition was awakened in
him, gave himself up to its influence unbridled by any
scruple. His father had been a methodist preacher, an
enthusiastic man with simple intentions; but whose
pernicious doctrines of election and special grace had
contributed to destroy all conscientious feeling in his
son. During the progress of the pestilence he had
entered upon various schemes, by which to acquire
adherents and power. Adrian had discovered and defeated
these attempts; but Adrian was absent; the wolf
assumed the shepherd's garb, and the flock admitted
the deception: he had formed a party during the few
weeks he had been in Paris, who zealously propagated
the creed of his divine mission, and believed that
safety and salvation were to be afforded only to those
who put their trust in him.
When once the spirit of dissension had arisen, the most
frivolous causes gave it activity. The first party, on
arriving at Paris, had taken possession of the
Tuileries; chance and friendly feeling had induced the
second to lodge near to them. A contest arose
concerning the distribution of the pillage; the chiefs
of the first division demanded that the whole should be
placed at their disposal; with this assumption the
opposite party refused to comply. When next the latter
went to forage, the gates of Paris were shut on them.
After overcoming this difficulty, they marched in a
body to the Tuileries. They found that their enemies
had been already expelled thence by the Elect, as the
fanatical party designated themselves, who refused to
admit any into the palace who did not first abjure
obedience to all except God, and his delegate on
earth, their chief. Such was the beginning of the
strife, which at length proceeded so far, that the
three divisions, armed, met in the Place Vendome, each
resolved to subdue by force the resistance of its
adversaries. They assembled, their muskets were loaded,
and even pointed at the breasts of their so called
enemies. One word had been sufficient; and there the
last of mankind would have burthened their souls with
the crime of murder, and dipt their hands in each
other's blood. A sense of shame, a recollection that
not only their cause, but the existence of the whole
human race was at stake, entered the breast of the
leader of the more numerous party. He was aware, that
if the ranks were thinned, no other recruits could fill
them up; that each man was as a priceless gem in a
kingly crown, which if destroyed, the earth's deep
entrails could yield no paragon. He was a young man,
and had been hurried on by presumption, and the notion
of his high rank and superiority to all other
pretenders; now he repented his work, he felt that all
the blood about to be shed would be on his head; with
sudden impulse therefore he spurred his horse between
the bands, and, having fixed a white handkerchief on
the point of his uplifted sword, thus demanded parley;
the opposite leaders obeyed the signal. He spoke with
warmth; he reminded them of the oath all the chiefs had
taken to submit to the Lord Protector; he declared
their present meeting to be an act of treason and
mutiny; he allowed that he had been hurried away by
passion, but that a cooler moment had arrived; and he
proposed that each party should send deputies to the
Earl of Windsor, inviting his interference and offering
submission to his decision. His offer was accepted so
far, that each leader consented to command a retreat,
and moreover agreed, that after the approbation of
their several parties had been consulted, they should
meet that night on some neutral spot to ratify the
truce. At the meeting of the chiefs, this plan was
finally concluded upon. The leader of the fanatics
indeed refused to admit the arbitration of Adrian; he
sent ambassadors, rather than deputies, to assert his
claim, not plead his cause.
The truce was to continue until the first of February,
when the bands were again to assemble on the Place
Vendome; it was of the utmost consequence therefore
that Adrian should arrive in Paris by that day, since
an hair might turn the scale, and peace, scared away by
intestine broils, might only return to watch by the
silent dead. It was now the twenty-eighth of January;
every vessel stationed near Dover had been beaten to
pieces and destroyed by the furious storms I have
commemorated. Our journey however would admit of no
delay. That very night, Adrian, and I, and twelve
others, either friends or attendants, put off from the
English shore, in the boat that had brought over the
deputies. We all took our turn at the oar; and the
immediate occasion of our departure affording us
abundant matter for conjecture and discourse, prevented
the feeling that we left our native country,
depopulate England, for the last time, to enter deeply
into the minds of the greater part of our number. It
was a serene starlight night, and the dark line of the
English coast continued for some time visible at
intervals, as we rose on the broad back of the waves.
I exerted myself with my long oar to give swift impulse
to our skiff; and, while the waters splashed with
melancholy sound against its sides, I looked with sad
affection on this last glimpse of sea-girt England, and
strained my eyes not too soon to lose sight of the
castellated cliff, which rose to protect the land of
heroism and beauty from the inroads of ocean, that,
turbulent as I had lately seen it, required such
cyclopean walls for its repulsion. A solitary sea-gull
winged its flight over our heads, to seek its nest in
a cleft of the precipice. Yes, thou shalt revisit the
land of thy birth, I thought, as I looked invidiously
on the airy voyager; but we shall, never more! Tomb of
Idris, farewell! Grave, in which my heart lies
sepultured, farewell for ever!
We were twelve hours at sea, and the heavy swell
obliged us to exert all our strength. At length, by
mere dint of rowing, we reached the French coast. The
stars faded, and the grey morning cast a dim veil over
the silver horns of the waning moon--the sun rose broad
and red from the sea, as we walked over the sands to
Calais. Our first care was to procure horses, and
although wearied by our night of watching and toil,
some of our party immediately went in quest of these
in the wide fields of the unenclosed and now barren
plain round Calais. We divided ourselves, like seamen,
into watches, and some reposed, while others prepared
the morning's repast. Our foragers returned at noon
with only six horses--on these, Adrian and I, and four
others, proceeded on our journey towards the great
city, which its inhabitants had fondly named the
capital of the civilized world. Our horses had become,
through their long holiday, almost wild, and we crossed
the plain round Calais with impetuous speed. From the
height near Boulogne, I turned again to look on
England; nature had cast a misty pall over her, her
cliff was hidden--there was spread the watery barrier
that divided us, never again to be crossed; she lay on
the ocean plain,
In the great pool a swan's nest.
Ruined the nest, alas! the swans of Albion had passed
away for ever--an uninhabited rock in the wide Pacific,
which had remained since the creation uninhabited,
unnamed, unmarked, would be of as much account in the
world's future history, as desert England.
Our journey was impeded by a thousand obstacles. As our
horses grew tired, we had to seek for others; and hours
were wasted, while we exhausted our artifices to allure
some of these enfranchised slaves of man to resume the
yoke; or as we went from stable to stable through the
towns, hoping to find some who had not forgotten the
shelter of their native stalls. Our ill success in
procuring them, obliged us continually to leave some
one of our companions behind; and on the first of
February, Adrian and I entered Paris, wholly
unaccompanied. The serene morning had dawned when we
arrived at Saint Denis, and the sun was high, when the
clamour of voices, and the clash, as we feared, of
weapons, guided us to where our countrymen had
assembled on the Place Vendome. We passed a knot of
Frenchmen, who were talking earnestly of the madness of
the insular invaders, and then coming by a sudden turn
upon the Place, we saw the sun glitter on drawn swords
and fixed bayonets, while yells and clamours rent the
air. It was a scene of unaccustomed confusion in these
days of depopulation. Roused by fancied wrongs, and
insulting scoffs, the opposite parties had rushed to
attack each other; while the elect, drawn up apart,
seemed to wait an opportunity to fall with better
advantage on their foes, when they should have
mutually weakened each other. A merciful power
interposed, and no blood was shed; for, while the
insane mob were in the very act of attack, the females,
wives, mothers and daughters, rushed between; they
seized the bridles; they embraced the knees of the
horsemen, and hung on the necks, or enweaponed arms of
their enraged relatives; the shrill female scream was
mingled with the manly shout, and formed the wild
clamour that welcomed us on our arrival.
Our voices could not be heard in the tumult; Adrian
however was eminent for the white charger he rode;
spurring him, he dashed into the midst of the throng:
he was recognized, and a loud cry raised for England
and the Protector. The late adversaries, warmed to
affection at the sight of him, joined in heedless
confusion, and surrounded him; the women kissed his
hands, and the edges of his garments; nay, his horse
received tribute of their embraces; some wept their
welcome; he appeared an angel of peace descended among
them; and the only danger was, that his mortal nature
would be demonstrated, by his suffocation from the
kindness of his friends. His voice was at length heard,
and obeyed; the crowd fell back; the chiefs alone
rallied round him. I had seen Lord Raymond ride
through his lines; his look of victory, and majestic
mien obtained the respect and obedience of all: such
was not the appearance or influence of Adrian. His
slight figure, his fervent look, his gesture, more of
deprecation than rule, were proofs that love, unmingled
with fear, gave him dominion over the hearts of a
multitude, who knew that he never flinched from danger,
nor was actuated by other motives than care for the
general welfare. No distinction was now visible
between the two parties, late ready to shed each
other's blood, for, though neither would submit to the
other, they both yielded ready obedience to the Earl
of Windsor.
One party however remained, cut off from the rest,
which did not sympathize in the joy exhibited on
Adrian's arrival, or imbibe the spirit of peace, which
fell like dew upon the softened hearts of their
countrymen. At the head of this assembly was a
ponderous, dark-looking man, whose malign eye surveyed
with gloating delight the stern looks of his followers.
They had hitherto been inactive, but now, perceiving
themselves to be forgotten in the universal jubilee,
they advanced with threatening gestures: our friends
had, as it were in wanton contention, attacked each
other; they wanted but to be told that their cause was
one, for it to become so: their mutual anger had been
a fire of straw, compared to the slow-burning hatred
they both entertained for these seceders, who seized a
portion of the world to come, there to entrench and
incastellate themselves, and to issue with fearful
sally, and appalling denunciations, on the mere common
children of the earth. The first advance of the little
army of the elect reawakened their rage; they grasped
their arms, and waited but their leader's signal to
commence the attack, when the clear tones of Adrian's
voice were heard, commanding them to fall back; with
confused murmur and hurried retreat, as the wave ebbs
clamorously from the sands it lately covered, our
friends obeyed. Adrian rode singly into the space
between the opposing bands; he approached the hostile
leader, as requesting him to imitate his example, but
his look was not obeyed, and the chief advanced,
followed by his whole troop. There were many women
among them, who seemed more eager and resolute than
their male companions. They pressed round their leader,
as if to shield him, while they loudly bestowed on him
every sacred denomination and epithet of worship.
Adrian met them half way; they halted: "What," he
said, "do you seek? Do you require any thing of us that
we refuse to give, and that you are forced to acquire
by arms and warfare?"
His questions were answered by a general cry, in which
the words election, sin, and red right arm of God,
could alone be heard.
Adrian looked expressly at their leader, saying, "Can
you not silence your followers? Mine, you perceive,
obey me."
The fellow answered by a scowl; and then, perhaps
fearful that his people should become auditors of the
debate he expected to ensue, he commanded them to fall
back, and advanced by himself. "What, I again ask,"
said Adrian, "do you require of us?"
"Repentance," replied the man, whose sinister brow
gathered clouds as he spoke. "Obedience to the will of
the Most High, made manifest to these his Elected
People. Do we not all die through your sins, O
generation of unbelief, and have we not a right to
demand of you repentance and obedience?"
"And if we refuse them, what then?" his opponent
inquired mildly.
"Beware," cried the man, "God hears you, and will smite
your stony heart in his wrath; his poisoned arrows
fly, his dogs of death are unleashed! We will not
perish unrevenged--and mighty will our avenger be, when
he descends in visible majesty, and scatters
destruction among you."
"My good fellow," said Adrian, with quiet scorn, "I
wish that you were ignorant only, and I think it would
be no difficult task to prove to you, that you speak of
what you do not understand. On the present occasion
however, it is enough for me to know that you seek
nothing of us; and, heaven is our witness, we seek
nothing of you. I should be sorry to embitter by strife
the few days that we any of us may have here to live;
when there," he pointed downwards, "we shall not be
able to contend, while here we need not. Go home, or
stay; pray to your God in your own mode; your friends
may do the like. My orisons consist in peace and good
will, in resignation and hope. Farewell! "
He bowed slightly to the angry disputant who was about
to reply; and, turning his horse down Rue Saint Honore,
called on his friends to follow him. He rode slowly, to
give time to all to join him at the Barrier, and then
issued his orders that those who yielded obedience to
him, should rendezvous at Versailles. In the meantime
he remained within the walls of Paris, until he had
secured the safe retreat of all. In about a fortnight
the remainder of the emigrants arrived from England,
and they all repaired to Versailles; apartments were
prepared for the family of the Protector in the Grand
Trianon, and there, after the excitement of these
events, we reposed amidst the luxuries of the departed
Bourbons.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER V.
AFTER the repose of a few days, we held a council, to
decide on our future movements. Our first plan had
been to quit our wintry native latitude, and seek for
our diminished numbers the luxuries and delights of a
southern climate. We had not fixed on any precise spot
as the termination of our wanderings; but a vague
picture of perpetual spring, fragrant groves, and
sparkling streams, floated in our imagination to entice
us on. A variety of causes had detained us in England,
and we had now arrived at the middle of February; if
we pursued our original project, we should find
ourselves in a worse situation than before, having
exchanged our temperate climate for the intolerable
heats of a summer in Egypt or Persia. We were therefore
obliged to modify our plan, as the season continued to
be inclement; and it was determined that we should
await the arrival of spring in our present abode, and
so order our future movements as to pass the hot months
in the icy vallies of Switzerland, deferring our
southern progress until the ensuing autumn, if such a
season was ever again to be beheld by us.
The castle and town of Versailles afforded our numbers
ample accommodation, and foraging parties took it by
turns to supply our wants. There was a strange and
appalling motley in the situation of these the last of
the race. At first I likened it to a colony, which
borne over the far seas, struck root for the first
time in a new country. But where was the bustle and
industry characteristic of such an assemblage; the
rudely constructed dwelling, which was to suffice till
a more commodious mansion could be built; the marking
out of fields; the attempt at cultivation; the eager
curiosity to discover unknown animals and herbs; the
excursions for the sake of exploring the country? Our
habitations were palaces our food was ready stored in
granaries--there was no need of labour, no
inquisitiveness, no restless desire to get on. If we
had been assured that we should secure the lives of our
present numbers, there would have been more vivacity
and hope in our councils. We should have discussed as
to the period when the existing produce for man's
sustenance would no longer suffice for us, and what
mode of life we should then adopt. We should have
considered more carefully our future plans, and
debated concerning the spot where we should in future
dwell. But summer and the plague were near, and we
dared not look forward. Every heart sickened at the
thought of amusement; if the younger part of our
community were ever impelled, by youthful and untamed
hilarity, to enter on any dance or song, to cheer the
melancholy time, they would suddenly break off,
checked by a mournful look or agonizing sigh from any
one among them, who was prevented by sorrows and losses
from mingling in the festivity. If laughter echoed
under our roof, yet the heart was vacant of joy; and,
when ever it chanced that I witnessed such attempts at
pastime, they encreased instead of diminishing my sense
of woe. In the midst of the pleasure-hunting throng, I
would close my eyes, and see before me the obscure
cavern, where was garnered the mortality of Idris, and
the dead lay around, mouldering in hushed repose. When
I again became aware of the present hour, softest
melody of Lydian flute, or harmonious maze of graceful
dance, was but as the demoniac chorus in the Wolf's
Glen, and the caperings of the reptiles that surrounded
the magic circle.
My dearest interval of peace occurred, when, released
from the obligation of associating with the crowd, I
could repose in the dear home where my children lived.
Children I say, for the tenderest emotions of paternity
bound me to Clara. She was now fourteen; sorrow, and
deep insight into the scenes around her, calmed the
restless spirit of girlhood; while the remembrance of
her father whom she idolized, and respect for me and
Adrian, implanted an high sense of duty in her young
heart. Though serious she was not sad; the eager
desire that makes us all, when young, plume our wings,
and stretch our necks, that we may more swiftly alight
tiptoe on the height of maturity, was subdued in her by
early experience. All that she could spare of
overflowing love from her parents' memory, and
attention to her living relatives, was spent upon
religion. This was the hidden law of her heart, which
she concealed with childish reserve, and cherished the
more because it was secret. What faith so entire, what
charity so pure, what hope so fervent, as that of early
youth? and she, all love, all tenderness and trust,
who from infancy had been tossed on the wide sea of
passion and misfortune, saw the finger of apparent
divinity in all, and her best hope was to make herself
acceptable to the power she worshipped. Evelyn was
only five years old; his joyous heart was incapable of
sorrow, and he enlivened our house with the innocent
mirth incident to his years.
The aged Countess of Windsor had fallen from her dream
of power, rank and grandeur; she had been suddenly
seized with the conviction, that love was the only
good of life, virtue the only ennobling distinction and
enriching wealth. Such a lesson had been taught her by
the dead lips of her neglected daughter; and she
devoted herself, with all the fiery violence of her
character, to the obtaining the affection of the
remnants of her family. In early years the heart of
Adrian had been chilled towards her; and, though he
observed a due respect, her coldness, mixed with the
recollection of disappointment and madness, caused him
to feel even pain in her society. She saw this, and
yet determined to win his love; the obstacle served the
rather to excite her ambition. As Henry, Emperor of
Germany, lay in the snow before Pope Leo's gate for
three winter days and nights, so did she in humility
wait before the icy barriers of his closed heart, till
he, the servant of love, and prince of tender courtesy,
opened it wide for her admittance, bestowing, with
fervency and gratitude, the tribute of filial affection
she merited. Her understanding, courage, and presence
of mind, became powerful auxiliaries to him in the
difficult task of ruling the tumultuous crowd, which
were subjected to his control, in truth by a single
hair.
The principal circumstances that disturbed our
tranquillity during this interval, originated in the
vicinity of the impostor-prophet and his followers.
They continued to reside at Paris; but missionaries
from among them often visited Versailles--and such was
the power of assertions, however false, yet vehemently
iterated, over the ready credulity of the ignorant and
fearful, that they seldom failed in drawing over to
their party some from among our numbers. An instance
of this nature coming immediately under our notice, we
were led to consider the miserable state in which we
should leave our countrymen, when we should, at the
approach of summer, move on towards Switzerland, and
leave a deluded crew behind us in the hands of their
miscreant leader. The sense of the smallness of our
numbers, and expectation of decrease, pressed upon us;
and, while it would be a subject of congratulation to
ourselves to add one to our party, it would be doubly
gratifying to rescue from the pernicious influence of
superstition and unrelenting tyranny, the victims that
now, though voluntarily enchained, groaned beneath it.
If we had considered the preacher as sincere in a
belief of his own denunciations, or only moderately
actuated by kind feeling in the exercise of his assumed
powers, we should have immediately addressed ourselves
to him, and endeavoured with our best arguments to
soften and humanize his views. But he was instigated by
ambition, he desired to rule over these last
stragglers from the fold of death; his projects went so
far, as to cause him to calculate that, if, from these
crushed remains, a few survived, so that a new race
should spring up, he, by holding tight the reins of
belief, might be remembered by the post-pestilential
race as a patriarch, a prophet, nay a deity; such as of
old among the post-diluvians were Jupiter the
conqueror, Serapis the lawgiver, and Vishnou the
preserver. These ideas made him inflexible in his
rule, and violent in his hate of any who presumed to
share with him his usurped empire.
It is a strange fact, but incontestible, that the
philanthropist, who ardent in his desire to do good,
who patient, reasonable and gentle, yet disdains to
use other argument than truth, has less influence over
men's minds, than he who, grasping and selfish,
refuses not to adopt any means, nor awaken any
passion, nor diffuse any falsehood, for the advancement
of his cause. If this from time immemorial has been
the case, the contrast was infinitely greater, now that
the one could bring harrowing fears and transcendent
hopes into play; while the other had few hopes to hold
forth, nor could influence the imagination to diminish
the fears which he himself was the first to entertain.
The preacher had persuaded his followers, that their
escape from the plague, the salvation of their
children, and the rise of a new race of men from their
seed, depended on their faith in, and their submission
to him. They greedily imbibed this belief; and their
over-weening credulity even rendered them eager to make
converts to the same faith.
How to seduce any individuals from such an alliance of
fraud, was a frequent subject of Adrian's meditations
and discourse. He formed many plans for the purpose;
but his own troop kept him in full occupation to
ensure their fidelity and safety; beside which the
preacher was as cautious and prudent, as he was cruel.
His victims lived under the strictest rules and laws,
which either entirely imprisoned them within the
Tuileries, or let them out in such numbers, and under
such leaders, as precluded the possibility of
controversy. There was one among them however whom I
resolved to save; she had been known to us in happier
days; Idris had loved her; and her excellent nature
made it peculiarly lamentable that she should be
sacrificed by this merciless cannibal of souls.
This man had between two and three hundred persons
enlisted under his banners. More than half of them were
women; there were about fifty children of all ages; and
not more than eighty men. They were mostly drawn from
that which, when such distinctions existed, was
denominated the lower rank of society. The exceptions
consisted of a few high-born females, who,
panic-struck, and tamed by sorrow, had joined him.
Among these was one, young, lovely, and enthusiastic,
whose very goodness made her a more easy victim. I
have mentioned her before: Juliet, the youngest
daughter, and now sole relic of the ducal house of
L ---. There are some beings, whom fate seems to
select on whom to pour, in unmeasured portion, the
vials of her wrath, and whom she bathes even to the
lips in misery. Such a one was the ill-starred Juliet.
She had lost her indulgent parents, her brothers and
sisters, companions of her youth; in one fell swoop
they had been carried off from her. Yet she had again
dared to call herself happy; united to her admirer, to
him who possessed and filled her whole heart, she
yielded to the lethean powers of love, and knew and
felt only his life and presence. At the very time when
with keen delight she welcomed the tokens of
maternity, this sole prop of her life failed, her
husband died of the plague. For a time she had been
lulled in insanity; the birth of her child restored
her to the cruel reality of things, but gave her at
the same time an object for whom to preserve at once
life and reason. Every friend and relative had died
off, and she was reduced to solitude and penury; deep
melancholy and angry impatience distorted her judgment,
so that she could not persuade herself to disclose her
distress to us. When she heard of the plan of
universal emigration, she resolved to remain behind
with her child, and alone in wide England to live or
die, as fate might decree, beside the grave of her
beloved. She had hidden herself in one of the many
empty habitations of London; it was she who rescued my
Idris on the fatal twentieth of November, though my
immediate danger, and the subsequent illness of Idris,
caused us to forget our hapless friend. This
circumstance had however brought her again in contact
with her fellow-creatures; a slight illness of her
infant, proved to her that she was still bound to
humanity by an indestructible tie; to preserve this
little creature's life became the object of her being,
and she joined the first division of migrants who went
over to Paris.
She became an easy prey to the methodist; her
sensibility and acute fears rendered her accessible to
every impulse; her love for her child made her eager
to cling to the merest straw held out to save him. Her
mind, once unstrung, and now tuned by roughest
inharmonious hands, made her credulous: beautiful as
fabled goddess, with voice of unrivalled sweetness,
burning with new lighted enthusiasm, she became a
stedfast proselyte, and powerful auxiliary to the
leader of the elect. I had remarked her in the crowd,
on the day we met on the Place Vendome; and,
recollecting suddenly her providential rescue of my
lost one, on the night of the twentieth of November, I
reproached myself for my neglect and ingratitude, and
felt impelled to leave no means that I could adopt
untried, to recall her to her better self, and rescue
her from the fangs of the hypocrite destroyer.
I will not, at this period of my story, record the
artifices I used to penetrate the asylum of the
Tuileries, or give what would be a tedious account of
my stratagems, disappointments, and perseverance. I at
last succeeded in entering these walls, and roamed its
halls and corridors in eager hope to find my selected
convert. In the evening I contrived to mingle
unobserved with the congregation, which assembled in
the chapel to listen to the crafty and eloquent
harangue of their prophet. I saw Juliet near him. Her
dark eyes, fearfully impressed with the restless glare
of madness, were fixed on him; she held her infant,
not yet a year old, in her arms; and care of it alone
could distract her attention from the words to which
she eagerly listened. After the sermon was over, the
congregation dispersed; all quitted the chapel except
she whom I sought; her babe had fallen asleep; so she
placed it on a cushion, and sat on the floor beside,
watching its tranquil slumber.
I presented myself to her; for a moment natural feeling
produced a sentiment of gladness, which disappeared
again, when with ardent and affectionate exhortation I
besought her to accompany me in flight from this den
of superstition and misery. In a moment she relapsed
into the delirium of fanaticism, and, but that her
gentle nature forbade, would have loaded me with
execrations. She conjured me, she commanded me to leave
her--"Beware, O beware," she cried, "fly while yet your
escape is practicable. Now you are safe; but strange
sounds and inspirations come on me at times, and if
the Eternal should in awful whisper reveal to me his
will, that to save my child you must be sacrificed, I
would call in the satellites of him you call the
tyrant; they would tear you limb from limb; nor would I
hallow the death of him whom Idris loved, by a single
tear."
She spoke hurriedly, with tuneless voice, and wild
look; her child awoke, and, frightened, began to cry;
each sob went to the ill-fated mother's heart, and she
mingled the epithets of endearment she addressed to her
infant, with angry commands that I should leave her.
Had I had the means, I would have risked all, have
torn her by force from the murderer's den, and trusted
to the healing balm of reason and affection. But I had
no choice, no power even of longer struggle; steps
were heard along the gallery, and the voice of the
preacher drew near. Juliet, straining her child in a
close embrace, fled by another passage. Even then I
would have followed her; but my foe and his satellites
entered; I was surrounded, and taken prisoner.
I remembered the menace of the unhappy Juliet, and
expected the full tempest of the man's vengeance, and
the awakened wrath of his followers, to fall instantly
upon me. I was questioned. My answers were simple and
sincere. "His own mouth condemns him," exclaimed the
impostor; "he confesses that his intention was to
seduce from the way of salvation our well-beloved
sister in God; away with him to the dungeon; to-morrow
he dies the death; we are manifestly called upon to
make an example, tremendous and appalling, to scare the
children of sin from our asylum of the saved."
My heart revolted from his hypocritical jargon: but it
was unworthy of me to combat in words with the
ruffian; and my answer was cool; while, far from being
possessed with fear, methought, even at the worst, a
man true to himself, courageous and determined, could
fight his way, even from the boards of the scaffold,
through the herd of these misguided maniacs.
"Remember," I said, "who I am; and be well assured that
I shall not die unavenged. Your legal magistrate, the
Lord Protector, knew of my design, and is aware that I
am here; the cry of blood will reach him, and you and
your miserable victims will long lament the tragedy you
are about to act."
My antagonist did not deign to reply, even by a
look;--"You know your duty," he said to his
comrades,--"obey."
In a moment I was thrown on the earth, bound,
blindfolded, and hurried away--liberty of limb and
sight was only restored to me, when, surrounded by
dungeon-walls, dark and impervious, I found myself a
prisoner and alone.
Such was the result of my attempt to gain over the
proselyte of this man of crime; I could not conceive
that he would dare put me to death.--Yet I was in his
hands; the path of his ambition had ever been dark and
cruel; his power was founded upon fear; the one word
which might cause me to die, unheard, unseen, in the
obscurity of my dungeon, might be easier to speak than
the deed of mercy to act. He would not risk probably a
public execution; but a private assassination would at
once terrify any of my companions from attempting a
like feat, at the same time that a cautious line of
conduct might enable him to avoid the enquiries and the
vengeance of Adrian.
Two months ago, in a vault more obscure than the one I
now inhabited, I had revolved the design of quietly
laying me down to die; now I shuddered at the approach
of fate. My imagination was busied in shaping forth the
kind of death he would inflict. Would he allow me to
wear out life with famine; or was the food
administered to me to be medicined with death? Would
he steal on me in my sleep; or should I contend to the
last with my murderers, knowing, even while I
struggled, that I must be overcome? I lived upon an
earth whose diminished population a child's arithmetic
might number; I had lived through long months with
death stalking close at my side, while at intervals
the shadow of his skeleton-shape darkened my path. I
had believed that I despised the grim phantom, and
laughed his power to scorn.
Any other fate I should have met with courage, nay,
have gone out gallantly to encounter. But to be
murdered thus at the midnight hour by cold-blooded
assassins, no friendly hand to close my eyes, or
receive my parting blessing--to die in combat, hate
and execration--ah, why, my angel love, didst thou
restore me to life, when already I had stepped within
the portals of the tomb, now that so soon again I was
to be flung back a mangled corpse!
Hours passed--centuries. Could I give words to the many
thoughts which occupied me in endless succession
during this interval, I should fill volumes. The air
was dank, the dungeon-floor mildewed and icy cold;
hunger came upon me too, and no sound reached me from
without. To-morrow the ruffian had declared that I
should die. When would to-morrow come? Was it not
already here?
My door was about to be opened. I heard the key turn,
and the bars and bolts slowly removed. The opening of
intervening passages permitted sounds from the interior
of the palace to reach me; and I heard the clock
strike one. They come to murder me, I thought; this
hour does not befit a public execution. I drew myself
up against the wall opposite the entrance; I collected
my forces, I rallied my courage, I would not fall a
tame prey. Slowly the door receded on its hinges--I
was ready to spring forward to seize and grapple with
the intruder, till the sight of who it was changed at
once the temper of my mind. It was Juliet herself; pale
and trembling she stood, a lamp in her hand, on the
threshold of the dungeon, looking at me with wistful
countenance. But in a moment she re-assumed her
self-possession; and her languid eyes recovered their
brilliancy. She said, "I am come to save you, Verney."
"And yourself also," I cried: "dearest friend, can we
indeed be saved?"
"Not a word," she replied, "follow me!"
I obeyed instantly. We threaded with light steps many
corridors, ascended several flights of stairs, and
passed through long galleries; at the end of one she
unlocked a low portal; a rush of wind extinguished our
lamp; but, in lieu of it, we had the blessed
moon-beams and the open face of heaven. Then first
Juliet spoke:--"You are safe," she said, "God bless
you!--farewell!"
I seized her reluctant hand--"Dear friend," I cried,
"misguided victim, do you not intend to escape with
me? Have you not risked all in facilitating my flight?
and do you think, that I will permit you to return, and
suffer alone the effects of that miscreant's rage?
Never!"
"Do not fear for me," replied the lovely girl
mournfully, "and do not imagine that without the
consent of our chief you could be without these walls.
It is he that has saved you; he assigned to me the part
of leading you hither, because I am best acquainted
with your motives for coming here, and can best
appreciate his mercy in permitting you to depart."
"And are you," I cried, "the dupe of this man? He
dreads me alive as an enemy, and dead he fears my
avengers. By favouring this clandestine escape he
preserves a shew of consistency to his followers; but
mercy is far from his heart. Do you forget his
artifices, his cruelty, and fraud? As I am free, so
are you. Come, Juliet, the mother of our lost Idris
will welcome you, the noble Adrian will rejoice to
receive you; you will find peace and love, and better
hopes than fanaticism can afford. Come, and fear not;
long before day we shall be at Versailles; close the
door on this abode of crime--come, sweet Juliet, from
hypocrisy and guilt to the society of the affectionate
and good."
I spoke hurriedly, but with fervour: and while with
gentle violence I drew her from the portal, some
thought, some recollection of past scenes of youth and
happiness, made her listen and yield to me; suddenly
she broke away with a piercing shriek:--"My child, my
child! he has my child; my darling girl is my hostage."
She darted from me into the passage; the gate closed
between us--she was left in the fangs of this man of
crime, a prisoner, still to inhale the pestilential
atmosphere which adhered to his demoniac nature; the
unimpeded breeze played on my cheek, the moon shone
graciously upon me, my path was free. Glad to have
escaped, yet melancholy in my very joy, I retrod my
steps to Versailles.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VI.
EVENTFUL winter passed; winter, the respite of our
ills. By degrees the sun, which with slant beams had
before yielded the more extended reign to night,
lengthened his diurnal journey, and mounted his highest
throne, at once the fosterer of earth's new beauty, and
her lover. We who, like flies that congregate upon a
dry rock at the ebbing of the tide, had played
wantonly with time, allowing our passions, our hopes,
and our mad desires to rule us, now heard the
approaching roar of the ocean of destruction, and
would have fled to some sheltered crevice, before the
first wave broke over us. We resolved without delay,
to commence our journey to Switzerland; we became eager
to leave France. Under the icy vaults of the glaciers,
beneath the shadow of the pines, the swinging of whose
mighty branches was arrested by a load of snow; beside
the streams whose intense cold proclaimed their origin
to be from the slow-melting piles of congelated waters,
amidst frequent storms which might purify the air, we
should find health, if in truth health were not herself
diseased.
We began our preparations at first with alacrity. We
did not now bid adieu to our native country, to the
graves of those we loved, to the flowers, and streams,
and trees, which had lived beside us from infancy.
Small sorrow would be ours on leaving Paris. A scene
of shame, when we remembered our late contentions, and
thought that we left behind a flock of miserable,
deluded victims, bending under the tyranny of a selfish
impostor. Small pangs should we feel in leaving the
gardens, woods, and halls of the palaces of the
Bourbons at Versailles, which we feared would soon be
tainted by the dead, when we looked forward to vallies
lovelier than any garden, to mighty forests and halls,
built not for mortal majesty, but palaces of nature's
own, with the Alp of marmoreal whiteness for their
walls, the sky for their roof.
Yet our spirits flagged, as the day drew near which we
had fixed for our departure. Dire visions and evil
auguries, if such things were, thickened around us, so
that in vain might men say--
These are their reasons, they are natural,*
we felt them to be ominous, and dreaded the future
event enchained to them. That the night owl should
screech before the noon-day sun, that the hard-winged
bat should wheel around the bed of beauty, that
muttering thunder should in early spring startle the
cloudless air, that sudden and exterminating blight
should fall on the tree and shrub, were unaccustomed,
but physical events, less horrible than the mental
creations of almighty fear. Some had sight of funeral
processions, and faces all begrimed with tears, which
flitted through the long avenues of the gardens, and
drew aside the curtains of the sleepers at dead of
night. Some heard wailing and cries in the air; a
mournful chaunt would stream through the dark
atmosphere, as if spirits above sang the requiem of the
human race. What was there in all this, but that fear
created other senses within our frames, making us see,
hear, and feel what was not? What was this, but the
action of diseased imaginations and childish credulity?
So might it be; but what was most real, was the
existence of these very fears; the staring looks of
horror, the faces pale even to ghastliness, the voices
struck dumb with harrowing dread, of those among us
who saw and heard these things. Of this number was
Adrian, who knew the delusion, yet could not cast off
the clinging terror. Even ignorant infancy appeared
with timorous shrieks and convulsions to acknowledge
the presence of unseen powers. We must go: in change
of scene, in occupation, and such security as we still
hoped to find, we should discover a cure for these
gathering horrors.
[* Shakespeare--Julius Caesar.]
On mustering our company, we found them to consist of
fourteen hundred souls, men, women, and children. Until
now therefore, we were undiminished in numbers, except
by the desertion of those who had attached themselves
to the impostor-prophet, and remained behind in Paris.
About fifty French joined us. Our order of march was
easily arranged; the ill success which had attended our
division, determined Adrian to keep all in one body. I,
with an hundred men, went forward first as purveyor,
taking the road of the Cote d'Or, through Auxerre,
Dijon, Dole, over the Jura to Geneva. I was to make
arrangements, at every ten miles, for the accommodation
of such numbers as I found the town or village would
receive, leaving behind a messenger with a written
order, signifying how many were to be quartered there.
The remainder of our tribe was then divided into bands
of fifty each, every division containing eighteen men,
and the remainder, consisting of women and children.
Each of these was headed by an officer, who carried
the roll of names, by which they were each day to be
mustered. If the numbers were divided at night, in the
morning those in the van waited for those in the rear.
At each of the large towns before mentioned, we were
all to assemble; and a conclave of the principal
officers would hold council for the general weal. I
went first, as I said; Adrian last. His mother, with
Clara and Evelyn under her protection, remained also
with him. Thus our order being determined, I departed.
My plan was to go at first no further than
Fontainebleau, where in a few days I should be joined
by Adrian, before I took flight again further
eastward.
My friend accompanied me a few miles from Versailles.
He was sad; and, in a tone of unaccustomed despondency,
uttered a prayer for our speedy arrival among the Alps,
accompanied with an expression of vain regret that we
were not already there. "In that case," I observed, "we
can quicken our march; why adhere to a plan whose
dilatory proceeding you already disapprove?"
"Nay," replied he, "it is too late now. A month ago,
and we were masters of ourselves; now,--" he turned
his face from me; though gathering twilight had
already veiled its expression, he turned it yet more
away, as he added--"a man died of the plague last
night!"
He spoke in a smothered voice, then suddenly clasping
his hands, he exclaimed, "Swiftly, most swiftly
advances the last hour for us all; as the stars vanish
before the sun, so will his near approach destroy us. I
have done my best; with grasping hands and impotent
strength, I have hung on the wheel of the chariot of
plague; but she drags me along with it, while, like
Juggernaut, she proceeds crushing out the being of all
who strew the high road of life. Would that it were
over--would that her procession achieved, we had all
entered the tomb together!"
Tears streamed from his eyes. "Again and again," he
continued, "will the tragedy be acted; again I must
hear the groans of the dying, the wailing of the
survivors; again witness the pangs, which, consummating
all, envelope an eternity in their evanescent
existence. Why am I reserved for this? Why the tainted
wether of the flock, am I not struck to earth among
the first? It is hard, very hard, for one of woman born
to endure all that I endure!"
Hitherto, with an undaunted spirit, and an high feeling
of duty and worth, Adrian had fulfilled his
self-imposed task. I had contemplated him with
reverence, and a fruitless desire of imitation. I now
offered a few words of encouragement and sympathy. He
hid his face in his hands, and while he strove to calm
himself, he ejaculated, "For a few months, yet for a
few months more, let not, O God, my heart fail, or my
courage be bowed down; let not sights of intolerable
misery madden this half-crazed brain, or cause this
frail heart to beat against its prison-bound, so that
it burst. I have believed it to be my destiny to guide
and rule the last of the race of man, till death
extinguish my government; and to this destiny I submit.
"Pardon me, Verney, I pain you, but I will no longer
complain. Now I am myself again, or rather I am better
than myself. You have known how from my childhood
aspiring thoughts and high desires have warred with
inherent disease and overstrained sensitiveness, till
the latter became victors. You know how I placed this
wasted feeble hand on the abandoned helm of human
government. I have been visited at times by intervals
of fluctuation; yet, until now, I have felt as if a
superior and indefatigable spirit had taken up its
abode within me or rather incorporated itself with my
weaker being. The holy visitant has for a time slept,
perhaps to show me how powerless I am without its
inspiration. Yet, stay for a while, O Power of goodness
and strength; disdain not yet this rent shrine of
fleshly mortality, O immortal Capability! While one
fellow creature remains to whom aid can be afforded,
stay by and prop your shattered, falling engine!"
His vehemence, and voice broken by irrepressible sighs,
sunk to my heart; his eyes gleamed in the gloom of
night like two earthly stars; and, his form dilating,
his countenance beaming, truly it almost seemed as if
at his eloquent appeal a more than mortal spirit
entered his frame, exalting him above humanity.
He turned quickly towards me, and held out his hand.
"Farewell, Verney," he cried, "brother of my love,
farewell; no other weak expression must cross these
lips, I am alive again: to our tasks, to our combats
with our unvanquishable foe, for to the last I will
struggle against her."
He grasped my hand, and bent a look on me, more fervent
and animated than any smile; then turning his horse's
head, he touched the animal with the spur, and was out
of sight in a moment.
A man last night had died of the plague. The quiver was
not emptied, nor the bow unstrung. We stood as marks,
while Parthian Pestilence aimed and shot, insatiated by
conquest, unobstructed by the heaps of slain. A
sickness of the soul, contagious even to my physical
mechanism, came over me. My knees knocked together, my
teeth chattered, the current of my blood, clotted by
sudden cold, painfully forced its way from my heavy
heart. I did not fear for myself, but it was misery to
think that we could not even save this remnant. That
those I loved might in a few days be as clay-cold as
Idris in her antique tomb; nor could strength of body
or energy of mind ward off the blow. A sense of
degradation came over me. Did God create man, merely
in the end to become dead earth in the midst of
healthful vegetating nature? Was he of no more account
to his Maker, than a field of corn blighted in the ear?
Were our proud dreams thus to fade? Our name was
written "a little lower than the angels;" and, behold,
we were no better than ephemera. We had called
ourselves the "paragon of animals," and, lo! we were a
"quint-essence of dust." We repined that the pyramids
had outlasted the embalmed body of their builder. Alas!
the mere shepherd's hut of straw we passed on the road,
contained in its structure the principle of greater
longevity than the whole race of man. How reconcile
this sad change to our past aspirations, to our
apparent powers!
Sudden an internal voice, articulate and clear, seemed
to say:--Thus from eternity, it was decreed: the
steeds that bear Time onwards had this hour and this
fulfilment enchained to them, since the void brought
forth its burthen. Would you read backwards the
unchangeable laws of Necessity?
Mother of the world! Servant of the Omnipotent!
eternal, changeless Necessity! who with busy fingers
sittest ever weaving the indissoluble chain of
events!--I will not murmur at thy acts. If my human
mind cannot acknowledge that all that is, is right;
yet since what is, must be, I will sit amidst the ruins
and smile. Truly we were not born to enjoy, but to
submit, and to hope.
Will not the reader tire, if I should minutely describe
our long-drawn journey from Paris to Geneva? If, day
by day, I should record, in the form of a journal, the
thronging miseries of our lot, could my hand write, or
language afford words to express, the variety of our
woe; the hustling and crowding of one deplorable event
upon another? Patience, oh reader! whoever thou art,
wherever thou dwellest, whether of race spiritual, or,
sprung from some surviving pair, thy nature will be
human, thy habitation the earth; thou wilt here read
of the acts of the extinct race, and wilt ask
wonderingly, if they, who suffered what thou findest
recorded, were of frail flesh and soft organization
like thyself. Most true, they were--weep therefore; for
surely, solitary being, thou wilt be of gentle
disposition; shed compassionate tears; but the while
lend thy attention to the tale, and learn the deeds
and sufferings of thy predecessors.
Yet the last events that marked our progress through
France were so full of strange horror and gloomy
misery, that I dare not pause too long in the
narration. If I were to dissect each incident, every
small fragment of a second would contain an harrowing
tale, whose minutest word would curdle the blood in thy
young veins. It is right that I should erect for thy
instruction this monument of the foregone race; but not
that I should drag thee through the wards of an
hospital, nor the secret chambers of the
charnel-house. This tale, therefore, shall be rapidly
unfolded. Images of destruction, pictures of despair,
the procession of the last triumph of death, shall be
drawn before thee, swift as the rack driven by the
north wind along the blotted splendour of the sky.
Weed-grown fields, desolate towns, the wild approach of
riderless horses had now become habitual to my eyes;
nay, sights far worse, of the unburied dead, and human
forms which were strewed on the road side, and on the
steps of once frequented habitations, where,
Through the flesh that wastes away
Beneath the parching sun, the whitening bones
Start forth, and moulder in the sable dust.*
Sights like these had become--ah, woe the while! so
familiar, that we had ceased to shudder, or spur our
stung horses to sudden speed, as we passed them.
France in its best days, at least that part of France
through which we travelled, had been a cultivated
desert, and the absence of enclosures, of cottages, and
even of peasantry, was saddening to a traveller from
sunny Italy, or busy England. Yet the towns were
frequent and lively, and the cordial politeness and
ready smile of the wooden-shoed peasant restored good
humour to the splenetic. Now, the old woman sat no more
at the door with her distaff--the lank beggar no longer
asked charity in courtier-like phrase; nor on holidays
did the peasantry thread with slow grace the mazes of
the dance. Silence, melancholy bride of death, went in
procession with him from town to town through the
spacious region.
[* Elton's Translation of Hesiod's "Shield of
Hercules."]
We arrived at Fontainebleau, and speedily prepared for
the reception of our friends. On mustering our numbers
for the night, three were found missing. When I
enquired for them, the man to whom I spoke, uttered the
word "plague," and fell at my feet in convulsions; he
also was infected. There were hard faces around me;
for among my troop were sailors who had crossed the
line times unnumbered, soldiers who, in Russia and far
America, had suffered famine, cold and danger, and men
still sterner-featured, once nightly depredators in our
over-grown metropolis; men bred from their cradle to
see the whole machine of society at work for their
destruction. I looked round, and saw upon the faces of
all horror and despair written in glaring characters.
We passed four days at Fontainebleau. Several sickened
and died, and in the mean time neither Adrian nor any
of our friends appeared. My own troop was in commotion;
to reach Switzerland, to plunge into rivers of snow,
and to dwell in caves of ice, became the mad desire of
all. Yet we had promised to wait for the Earl; and he
came not. My people demanded to be led
forward--rebellion, if so we might call what was the
mere casting away of straw-formed shackles, appeared
manifestly among them. They would away on the word
without a leader. The only chance of safety, the only
hope of preservation from every form of indescribable
suffering, was our keeping together. I told them this;
while the most determined among them answered with
sullenness, that they could take care of themselves,
and replied to my entreaties with scoffs and menaces.
At length, on the fifth day, a messenger arrived from
Adrian, bearing letters, which directed us to proceed
to Auxerre, and there await his arrival, which would
only be deferred for a few days. Such was the tenor of
his public letters. Those privately delivered to me,
detailed at length the difficulties of his situation,
and left the arrangement of my future plans to my own
discretion. His account of the state of affairs at
Versailles was brief, but the oral communications of
his messenger filled up his omissions, and shewed me
that perils of the most frightful nature were gathering
around him. At first the re-awakening of the plague
had been concealed; but the number of deaths
encreasing, the secret was divulged, and the
destruction already achieved, was exaggerated by the
fears of the survivors. Some emissaries of the enemy
of mankind, the accursed Impostors. were among them
instilling their doctrine, that safety and life could
only be ensured by submission to their chief; and they
succeeded so well, that soon, instead of desiring to
proceed to Switzerland, the major part of the
multitude, weak-minded women, and dastardly men,
desired to return to Paris, and, by ranging themselves
under the banners of the so called prophet, and by a
cowardly worship of the principle of evil, to purchase
respite, as they hoped, from impending death. The
discord and tumult induced by these conflicting fears
and passions, detained Adrian. It required all his
ardour in pursuit of an object, and his patience under
difficulties, to calm and animate such a number of his
followers, as might counterbalance the panic of the
rest, and lead them back to the means from which alone
safety could be derived. He had hoped immediately to
follow me; but, being defeated in this intention, he
sent his messenger urging me to secure my own troop at
such a distance from Versailles, as to prevent the
contagion of rebellion from reaching them; promising,
at the same time, to join me the moment a favourable
occasion should occur, by means of which he could
withdraw the main body of the emigrants from the evil
influence at present exercised over them.
I was thrown into a most painful state of uncertainty
by these communications. My first impulse was that we
should all return to Versailles, there to assist in
extricating our chief from his perils. I accordingly
assembled my troop, and proposed to them this
retrograde movement, instead of the continuation of
our journey to Auxerre. With one voice they refused to
comply. The notion circulated among them was, that the
ravages of the plague alone detained the Protector;
they opposed his order to my request; they came to a
resolve to proceed without me, should I refuse to
accompany them. Argument and adjuration were lost on
these dastards. The continual diminution of their own
numbers, effected by pestilence, added a sting to
their dislike of delay; and my opposition only served
to bring their resolution to a crisis. That same
evening they departed towards Auxerre. Oaths, as from
soldiers to their general, had been taken by them:
these they broke. I also had engaged myself not to
desert them; it appeared to me inhuman to ground any
infraction of my word on theirs. The same spirit that
caused them to rebel against me, would impel them to
desert each other; and the most dreadful sufferings
would be the consequence of their journey in their
present unordered and chiefless array. These feelings
for a time were paramount; and, in obedience to them, I
accompanied the rest towards Auxerre.
We arrived the same night at Villeneuve-la-Guiard, a
town at the distance of four posts from Fontainebleau.
When my companions had retired to rest, and I was left
alone to revolve and ruminate upon the intelligence I
received of Adrian's situation, another view of the
subject presented itself to me. What was I doing, and
what was the object of my present movements?
Apparently I was to lead this troop of selfish and
lawless men towards Switzerland, leaving behind my
family and my selected friend, which, subject as they
were hourly to the death that threatened to all, I
might never see again. Was it not my first duty to
assist the Protector, setting an example of attachment
and duty? At a crisis, such as the one I had reached,
it is very difficult to balance nicely opposing
interests, and that towards which our inclinations
lead us, obstinately assumes the appearance of
selfishness, even when we meditate a sacrifice. We are
easily led at such times to make a compromise of the
question; and this was my present resource. I resolved
that very night to ride to Versailles; if I found
affairs less desperate than I now deemed them, I would
return without delay to my troop; I had a vague idea
that my arrival at that town, would occasion some
sensation more or less strong, of which we might
profit, for the purpose of leading forward the
vacillating multitude--at least no time was to be
lost--I visited the stables, I saddled my favourite
horse, and vaulting on his back, without giving myself
time for further reflection or hesitation, quitted
Villeneuve-la-Guiard on my return to Versailles.
I was glad to escape from my rebellious troop, and to
lose sight for a time, of the strife of evil with
good, where the former for ever remained triumphant. I
was stung almost to madness by my uncertainty
concerning the fate of Adrian, and grew reckless of
any event, except what might lose or preserve my
unequalled friend. With an heavy heart, that sought
relief in the rapidity of my course, I rode through
the night to Versailles. I spurred my horse, who
addressed his free limbs to speed, and tossed his
gallant head in pride. The constellations reeled
swiftly by, swiftly each tree and stone and landmark
fled past my onward career. I bared my head to the
rushing wind, which bathed my brow in delightful
coolness. As I lost sight of Villeneuve-la-Guiard, I
forgot the sad drama of human misery; methought it was
happiness enough to live, sensitive the while of the
beauty of the verdure-clad earth, the star-bespangled
sky, and the tameless wind that lent animation to the
whole. My horse grew tired--and I, forgetful of his
fatigue, still as he lagged, cheered him with my voice,
and urged him with the spur. He was a gallant animal,
and I did not wish to exchange him for any chance
beast I might light on, leaving him never to be
refound. All night we went forward; in the morning he
became sensible that we approached Versailles, to
reach which as his home, he mustered his flagging
strength. The distance we had come was not less than
fifty miles, yet he shot down the long Boulevards
swift as an arrow; poor fellow, as I dismounted at the
gate of the castle, he sunk on his knees, his eyes were
covered with a film, he fell on his side, a few gasps
inflated his noble chest, and he died. I saw him
expire with an anguish, unaccountable even to myself,
the spasm was as the wrenching of some limb in
agonizing torture, but it was brief as it was
intolerable. I forgot him, as I swiftly darted through
the open portal, and up the majestic stairs of this
castle of victories--heard Adrian's voice--O fool! O
woman nurtured, effeminate and contemptible being--I
heard his voice, and answered it with convulsive
shrieks; I rushed into the Hall of Hercules, where he
stood surrounded by a crowd, whose eyes, turned in
wonder on me, reminded me that on the stage of the
world, a man must repress such girlish extacies. I
would have given worlds to have embraced him; I dared
not--Half in exhaustion, half voluntarily, I threw
myself at my length on the ground--dare I disclose the
truth to the gentle offspring of solitude? I did so,
that I might kiss the dear and sacred earth he trod.
I found everything in a state of tumult. An emissary of
the leader of the elect, had been so worked up by his
chief, and by his own fanatical creed, as to make an
attempt on the life of the Protector and preserver of
lost mankind. His hand was arrested while in the act
of poignarding the Earl; this circumstance had caused
the clamour I heard on my arrival at the castle, and
the confused assembly of persons that I found assembled
in the Salle d'Hercule. Although superstition and
demoniac fury had crept among the emigrants, yet
several adhered with fidelity to their noble chieftain;
and many, whose faith and love had been unhinged by
fear, felt all their latent affection rekindled by
this detestable attempt. A phalanx of faithful breasts
closed round him; the wretch, who, although a prisoner
and in bonds, vaunted his design, and madly claimed
the crown of martyrdom, would have been torn to
pieces, had not his intended victim interposed.
Adrian, springing forward, shielded him with his own
person, and commanded with energy the submission of his
infuriate friends--at this moment I had entered.
Discipline and peace were at length restored in the
castle; and then Adrian went from house to house, from
troop to troop, to soothe the disturbed minds of his
followers, and recall them to their ancient obedience.
But the fear of immediate death was still rife amongst
these survivors of a world's destruction; the horror
occasioned by the attempted assassination, past away;
each eye turned towards Paris. Men love a prop so well,
that they will lean on a pointed poisoned spear; and
such was he, the impostor, who, with fear of hell for
his scourge, most ravenous wolf, played the driver to
a credulous flock.
It was a moment of suspense, that shook even the
resolution of the unyielding friend of man. Adrian for
one moment was about to give in, to cease the
struggle, and quit, with a few adherents, the deluded
crowd, leaving them a miserable prey to their passions,
and to the worse tyrant who excited them. But again,
after a brief fluctuation of purpose, he resumed his
courage and resolves, sustained by the singleness of
his purpose, and the untried spirit of benevolence
which animated him. At this moment, as an omen of
excellent import, his wretched enemy pulled destruction
on his head, destroying with his own hands the dominion
he had erected.
His grand hold upon the minds of men, took its rise
from the doctrine inculcated by him, that those who
believed in, and followed him, were the remnant to be
saved, while all the rest of mankind were marked out
for death. Now, at the time of the Flood, the
omnipotent repented him that he had created man, and as
then with water, now with the arrows of pestilence,
was about to annihilate all, except those who obeyed
his decrees, promulgated by the ipse dixit
prophet. It is impossible to say on what foundations
this man built his hopes of being able to carry on such
an imposture. It is likely that he was fully aware of
the lie which murderous nature might give to his
assertions, and believed it to be the cast of a die,
whether he should in future ages be reverenced as an
inspired delegate from heaven, or be recognized as an
impostor by the present dying generation. At any rate
he resolved to keep up the drama to the last act. When,
on the first approach of summer, the fatal disease
again made its ravages among the followers of Adrian,
the impostor exultingly proclaimed the exemption of
his own congregation from the universal calamity. He
was believed; his followers, hitherto shut up in
Paris, now came to Versailles. Mingling with the
coward band there assembled, they reviled their
admirable leader, and asserted their own superiority
and exemption.
At length the plague, slow-footed, but sure in her
noiseless advance, destroyed the illusion, invading the
congregation of the elect, and showering promiscuous
death among them. Their leader endeavoured to conceal
this event; he had a few followers, who, admitted into
the arcana of his wickedness, could help him in the
execution of his nefarious designs. Those who sickened
were immediately and quietly withdrawn, the cord and a
midnight-grave disposed of them for ever; while some
plausible excuse was given for their absence. At last
a female, whose maternal vigilance subdued even the
effects of the narcotics administered to her, became a
witness of their murderous designs on her only child.
Mad with horror, she would have burst among her
deluded fellow-victims, and, wildly shrieking, have
awaked the dull ear of night with the history of the
fiend-like crime; when the Impostor, in his last act
of rage and desperation, plunged a poignard in her
bosom. Thus wounded to death, her garments dripping
with her own life-blood, bearing her strangled infant
in her arms, beautiful and young as she was, Juliet,
(for it was she) denounced to the host of deceived
believers, the wickedness of their leader. He saw the
aghast looks of her auditors, changing from horror to
fury--the names of those already sacrificed were
echoed by their relatives, now assured of their loss.
The wretch with that energy of purpose, which had
borne him thus far in his guilty career, saw his
danger, and resolved to evade the worst forms of it--he
rushed on one of the foremost, seized a pistol from his
girdle, and his loud laugh of derision mingled with
the report of the weapon with which he destroyed
himself.
They left his miserable remains even where they lay;
they placed the corpse of poor Juliet and her babe
upon a bier, and all, with hearts subdued to saddest
regret, in long procession walked towards Versailles.
They met troops of those who had quitted the kindly
protection of Adrian, and were journeying to join the
fanatics. The tale of horror was recounted--all turned
back; and thus at last, accompanied by the undiminished
numbers of surviving humanity, and preceded by the
mournful emblem of their recovered reason, they
appeared before Adrian, and again and for ever vowed
obedience to his commands, and fidelity to his cause.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VII.
THESE events occupied so much time, that June had
numbered more than half its days, before we again
commenced our long-protracted journey. The day after my
return to Versailles, six men, from among those I had
left at Villeneuve-la-Guiard, arrived, with
intelligence, that the rest of the troop had already
proceeded towards Switzerland. We went forward in the
same track.
It is strange, after an interval of time, to look back
on a period, which, though short in itself, appeared,
when in actual progress, to be drawn out interminably.
By the end of July we entered Dijon; by the end of July
those hours, days, and weeks had mingled with the ocean
of forgotten time, which in their passage teemed with
fatal events and agonizing sorrow. By the end of July,
little more than a month had gone by, if man's life
were measured by the rising and setting of the sun:
but, alas! in that interval ardent youth had become
grey-haired; furrows deep and uneraseable were
trenched in the blooming cheek of the young mother; the
elastic limbs of early manhood, paralyzed as by the
burthen of years, assumed the decrepitude of age.
Nights passed, during whose fatal darkness the sun grew
old before it rose; and burning days, to cool whose
baleful heat the balmy eve, lingering far in eastern
climes, came lagging and ineffectual; days, in which
the dial, radiant in its noon-day station, moved not
its shadow the space of a little hour, until a whole
life of sorrow had brought the sufferer to an untimely
grave.
We departed from Versailles fifteen hundred souls. We
set out on the eighteenth of June. We made a long
procession, in which was contained every dear
relationship, or tie of love, that existed in human
society. Fathers and husbands, with guardian care,
gathered their dear relatives around them; wives and
mothers looked for support to the manly form beside
them, and then with tender anxiety bent their eyes on
the infant troop around. They were sad, but not
hopeless. Each thought that someone would be saved;
each, with that pertinacious optimism, which to the
last characterized our human nature, trusted that
their beloved family would be the one preserved.
We passed through France, and found it empty of
inhabitants. Some one or two natives survived in the
larger towns, which they roamed through like ghosts; we
received therefore small encrease to our numbers, and
such decrease through death, that at last it became
easier to count the scanty list of survivors. As we
never deserted any of the sick, until their death
permitted us to commit their remains to the shelter of
a grave, our journey was long, while every day a
frightful gap was made in our troop--they died by
tens, by fifties, by hundreds. No mercy was shewn by
death; we ceased to expect it, and every day welcomed
the sun with the feeling that we might never see it
rise again.
The nervous terrors and fearful visions which had
scared us during the spring, continued to visit our
coward troop during this sad journey. Every evening
brought its fresh creation of spectres; a ghost was
depicted by every blighted tree; and appalling shapes
were manufactured from each shaggy bush. By degrees
these common marvels palled on us, and then other
wonders were called into being. Once it was confidently
asserted, that the sun rose an hour later than its
seasonable time; again it was discovered that he grew
paler and paler; that shadows took an uncommon
appearance. It was impossible to have imagined, during
the usual calm routine of life men had before
experienced, the terrible effects produced by these
extravagant delusions: in truth, of such little worth
are our senses, when unsupported by concurring
testimony, that it was with the utmost difficulty I
kept myself free from the belief in supernatural
events, to which the major part of our people readily
gave credit. Being one sane amidst a crowd of the mad,
I hardly dared assert to my own mind, that the vast
luminary had undergone no change--that the shadows of
night were unthickened by innumerable shapes of awe
and terror; or that the wind, as it sung in the trees,
or whistled round an empty building, was not pregnant
with sounds of wailing and despair. Sometimes
realities took ghostly shapes; and it was impossible
for one's blood not to curdle at the perception of an
evident mixture of what we knew to be true, with the
visionary semblance of all that we feared.
Once, at the dusk of the evening, we saw a figure all
in white, apparently of more than human stature,
flourishing about the road, now throwing up its arms,
now leaping to an astonishing height in the air, then
turning round several times successively, then raising
itself to its full height and gesticulating violently.
Our troop, on the alert to discover and believe in the
supernatural, made a halt at some distance from this
shape; and, as it became darker, there was something
appalling even to the incredulous, in the lonely
spectre, whose gambols, if they hardly accorded with
spiritual dignity, were beyond human powers. Now it
leapt right up in the air, now sheer over a high hedge,
and was again the moment after in the road before us.
By the time I came up, the fright experienced by the
spectators of this ghostly exhibition, began to
manifest itself in the flight of some, and the close
huddling together of the rest. Our goblin now perceived
us; he approached, and, as we drew reverentially back,
made a low bow. The sight was irresistibly ludicrous
even to our hapless band, and his politeness was
hailed by a shout of laughter;--then, again springing
up, as a last effort, it sunk to the ground, and
became almost invisible through the dusky night. This
circumstance again spread silence and fear through the
troop; the more courageous at length advanced, and,
raising the dying wretch, discovered the tragic
explanation of this wild scene. It was an opera-dancer,
and had been one of the troop which deserted from
Villeneuve-la-Guiard: falling sick, he had been
deserted by his companions; in an access of delirium he
had fancied himself on the stage, and, poor fellow, his
dying sense eagerly accepted the last human applause
that could ever be bestowed on his grace and agility.
At another time we were haunted for several days by an
apparition, to which our people gave the appellation of
the Black Spectre. We never saw it except at evening,
when his coal black steed, his mourning dress, and
plume of black feathers, had a majestic and
awe-striking appearance; his face, one said, who had
seen it for a moment, was ashy pale; he had lingered
far behind the rest of his troop, and suddenly at a
turn in the road, saw the Black Spectre coming towards
him; he hid himself in fear, and the horse and his
rider slowly past, while the moonbeams fell on the face
of the latter, displaying its unearthly hue. Sometimes
at dead of night, as we watched the sick, we heard one
galloping through the town; it was the Black Spectre
come in token of inevitable death. He grew giant tall
to vulgar eyes; an icy atmosphere, they said,
surrounded him; when he was heard, all animals
shuddered, and the dying knew that their last hour was
come. It was Death himself, they declared, come
visibly to seize on subject earth, and quell at once
our decreasing numbers, sole rebels to his law. One day
at noon, we saw a dark mass on the road before us,
and, coming up, beheld the Black Spectre fallen from
his horse, lying in the agonies of disease upon the
ground. He did not survive many hours; and his last
words disclosed the secret of his mysterious conduct.
He was a French noble of distinction, who, from the
effects of plague, had been left alone in his district;
during many months, he had wandered from town to town,
from province to province, seeking some survivor for a
companion, and abhorring the loneliness to which he
was condemned. When he discovered our troop, fear of
contagion conquered his love of society. He dared not
join us, yet he could not resolve to lose sight of us,
sole human beings who besides himself existed in wide
and fertile France; so he accompanied us in the
spectral guise I have described, till pestilence
gathered him to a larger congregation, even that of
Dead Mankind.
It had been well, if such vain terrors could have
distracted our thoughts from more tangible evils. But
these were too dreadful and too many not to force
themselves into every thought, every moment, of our
lives. We were obliged to halt at different periods
for days together, till another and yet another was
consigned as a clod to the vast clod which had been
once our living mother. Thus we continued travelling
during the hottest season; and it was not till the
first of August, that we, the emigrants,--reader, there
were just eighty of us in number,--entered the gates of
Dijon.
We had expected this moment with eagerness, for now we
had accomplished the worst part of our drear journey,
and Switzerland was near at hand. Yet how could we
congratulate ourselves on any event thus imperfectly
fulfilled? Were these miserable beings, who, worn and
wretched, passed in sorrowful procession, the sole
remnants of the race of man, which, like a flood, had
once spread over and possessed the whole earth? It had
come down clear and unimpeded from its primal mountain
source in Ararat, and grew from a puny streamlet to a
vast perennial river, generation after generation
flowing on ceaselessly. The same, but diversified, it
grew, and swept onwards towards the absorbing ocean,
whose dim shores we now reached. It had been the mere
plaything of nature, when first it crept out of
uncreative void into light; but thought brought forth
power and knowledge; and, clad with these, the race of
man assumed dignity and authority. It was then no
longer the mere gardener of earth, or the shepherd of
her flocks; "it carried with it an imposing and
majestic aspect; it had a pedigree and illustrious
ancestors; it had its gallery of portraits, its
monumental inscriptions, its records and titles."*
[* Burke's Rreflections on the French Revolution.]
This was all over, now that the ocean of death had
sucked in the slackening tide, and its source was
dried up. We first had bidden adieu to the state of
things which having existed many thousand years, seemed
eternal; such a state of government, obedience,
traffic, and domestic intercourse, as had moulded our
hearts and capacities, as far back as memory could
reach. Then to patriotic zeal, to the arts, to
reputation, to enduring fame, to the name of country,
we had bidden farewell. We saw depart all hope of
retrieving our ancient state--all expectation, except
the feeble one of saving our individual lives from the
wreck of the past. To preserve these we had quitted
England--England, no more; for without her children,
what name could that barren island claim? With
tenacious grasp we clung to such rule and order as
could best save us; trusting that, if a little colony
could be preserved, that would suffice at some remoter
period to restore the lost community of mankind.
But the game is up! We must all die; nor leave survivor
nor heir to the wide inheritance of earth. We must all
die! The species of man must perish; his frame of
exquisite workmanship; the wondrous mechanism of his
senses; the noble proportion of his godlike limbs; his
mind, the throned king of these; must perish. Will the
earth still keep her place among the planets; will she
still journey with unmarked regularity round the sun;
will the seasons change, the trees adorn themselves
with leaves, and flowers shed their fragrance, in
solitude? Will the mountains remain unmoved, and
streams still keep a downward course towards the vast
abyss; will the tides rise and fall, and the winds fan
universal nature; will beasts pasture, birds fly, and
fishes swim, when man, the lord, possessor, perceiver,
and recorder of all these things, has passed away, as
though he had never been? O, what mockery is this!
Surely death is not death, and humanity is not
extinct; but merely passed into other shapes,
unsubjected to our perceptions. Death is a vast
portal, an high road to life: let us hasten to pass;
let us exist no more in this living death, but die
that we may live!
We had longed with inexpressible earnestness to reach
Dijon, since we had fixed on it, as a kind of station
in our progress. But now we entered it with a torpor
more painful than acute suffering. We had come slowly
but irrevocably to the opinion, that our utmost
efforts would not preserve one human being alive. We
took our hands therefore away from the long grasped
rudder; and the frail vessel on which we floated,
seemed, the government over her suspended, to rush,
prow foremost, into the dark abyss of the billows. A
gush of grief, a wanton profusion of tears, and vain
laments, and overflowing tenderness, and passionate but
fruitless clinging to the priceless few that remained,
was followed by languor and recklessness.
During this disastrous journey we lost all those, not
of our own family, to whom we had particularly
attached ourselves among the survivors. It were not
well to fill these pages with a mere catalogue of
losses; yet I cannot refrain from this last mention of
those principally dear to us. The little girl whom
Adrian had rescued from utter desertion, during our
ride through London on the twentieth of November, died
at Auxerre. The poor child had attached herself
greatly to us; and the suddenness of her death added to
our sorrow. In the morning we had seen her apparently
in health--in the evening, Lucy, before we retired to
rest, visited our quarters to say that she was dead.
Poor Lucy herself only survived, till we arrived at
Dijon. She had devoted herself throughout to the
nursing the sick, and attending the friendless. Her
excessive exertions brought on a slow fever, which
ended in the dread disease whose approach soon released
her from her sufferings. She had throughout been
endeared to us by her good qualities, by her ready and
cheerful execution of every duty, and mild acquiescence
in every turn of adversity. When we consigned her to
the tomb, we seemed at the same time to bid a final
adieu to those peculiarly feminine virtues conspicuous
in her; uneducated and unpretending as she was, she
was distinguished for patience, forbearance, and
sweetness. These, with all their train of qualities
peculiarly English, would never again be revived for
us. This type of all that was most worthy of
admiration in her class among my countrywomen, was
placed under the sod of desert France; and it was as a
second separation from our country to have lost sight
of her for ever.
The Countess of Windsor died during our abode at Dijon.
One morning I was informed that she wished to see me.
Her message made me remember, that several days had
elapsed since I had last seen her. Such a circumstance
had often occurred during our journey, when I remained
behind to watch to their close the last moments of some
one of our hapless comrades, and the rest of the troop
past on before me. But there was something in the
manner of her messenger, that made me suspect that all
was not right. A caprice of the imagination caused me
to conjecture that some ill had occurred to Clara or
Evelyn, rather than to this aged lady. Our fears, for
ever on the stretch, demanded a nourishment of horror;
and it seemed too natural an occurrence, too like past
times, for the old to die before the young.
I found the venerable mother of my Idris lying on a
couch, her tall emaciated figure stretched out; her
face fallen away, from which the nose stood out in
sharp profile, and her large dark eyes, hollow and
deep, gleamed with such light as may edge a thunder
cloud at sun-set. All was shrivelled and dried up,
except these lights; her voice too was fearfully
changed, as she spoke to me at intervals. "I am
afraid," said she, "that it is selfish in me to have
asked you to visit the old woman again, before she
dies: yet perhaps it would have been a greater shock to
hear suddenly that I was dead, than to see me first
thus."
I clasped her shrivelled hand: "Are you indeed so ill?"
I asked.
"Do you not perceive death in my face," replied she,
"it is strange; I ought to have expected this, and yet
I confess it has taken me unaware. I never clung to
life, or enjoyed it, till these last months, while
among those I senselessly deserted: and it is hard to
be snatched immediately away. I am glad, however, that
I am not a victim of the plague; probably I should
have died at this hour, though the world had continued
as it was in my youth."
She spoke with difficulty, and I perceived that she
regretted the necessity of death, even more than she
cared to confess. Yet she had not to complain of an
undue shortening of existence; her faded person shewed
that life had naturally spent itself. We had been
alone at first; now Clara entered; the Countess turned
to her with a smile, and took the hand of this lovely
child; her roseate palm and snowy fingers, contrasted
with relaxed fibres and yellow hue of those of her
aged friend; she bent to kiss her, touching her
withered mouth with the warm, full lips of youth.
"Verney," said the Countess, "I need not recommend
this dear girl to you, for your own sake you will
preserve her. Were the world as it was, I should have a
thousand sage precautions to impress, that one so
sensitive, good, and beauteous, might escape the
dangers that used to lurk for the destruction of the
fair and excellent. This is all nothing now.
"I commit you, my kind nurse, to your uncle's care; to
yours I entrust the dearest relic of my better self. Be
to Adrian, sweet one, what you have been to
me--enliven his sadness with your sprightly sallies;
sooth his anguish by your sober and inspired converse,
when he is dying; nurse him as you have done me."
Clara burst into tears; "Kind girl," said the Countess,
"do not weep for me. Many dear friends are left to
you."
"And yet," cried Clara, "you talk of their dying also.
This is indeed cruel--how could I live, if they were
gone? If it were possible for my beloved protector to
die before me, I could not nurse him; I could only die
too."
The venerable lady survived this scene only twenty-four
hours. She was the last tie binding us to the ancient
state of things. It was impossible to look on her, and
not call to mind in their wonted guise, events and
persons, as alien to our present situation as the
disputes of Themistocles and Aristides, or the wars of
the two roses in our native land. The crown of England
had pressed her brow; the memory of my father and his
misfortunes, the vain struggles of the late king, the
images of Raymond, Evadne, and Perdita, who had lived
in the world's prime, were brought vividly before us.
We consigned her to the oblivious tomb with reluctance;
and when I turned from her grave, Janus veiled his
retrospective face; that which gazed on future
generations had long lost its faculty.
After remaining a week at Dijon, until thirty of our
number deserted the vacant ranks of life, we continued
our way towards Geneva. At noon on the second day we
arrived at the foot of Jura. We halted here during the
heat of the day. Here fifty human beings--fifty, the
only human beings that survived of the food-teeming
earth, assembled to read in the looks of each other
ghastly plague, or wasting sorrow, desperation, or
worse, carelessness of future or present evil. Here we
assembled at the foot of this mighty wall of mountain,
under a spreading walnut tree; a brawling stream
refreshed the green sward by its sprinkling; and the
busy grasshopper chirped among the thyme. We clustered
together a group of wretched sufferers. A mother
cradled in her enfeebled arms the child, last of many,
whose glazed eye was about to close for ever. Here
beauty, late glowing in youthful lustre and
consciousness, now wan and neglected, knelt fanning
with uncertain motion the beloved, who lay striving to
paint his features, distorted by illness, with a
thankful smile. There an hard-featured, weather-worn
veteran, having prepared his meal, sat, his head
dropped on his breast, the useless knife falling from
his grasp, his limbs utterly relaxed, as thought of
wife and child, and dearest relative, all lost, passed
across his recollection. There sat a man who for forty
years had basked in fortune's tranquil sunshine; he
held the hand of his last hope, his beloved daughter,
who had just attained womanhood; and he gazed on her
with anxious eyes, while she tried to rally her
fainting spirit to comfort him. Here a servant,
faithful to the last, though dying, waited on one, who,
though still erect with health, gazed with gasping
fear on the variety of woe around.
Adrian stood leaning against a tree; he held a book in
his hand, but his eye wandered from the pages, and
sought mine; they mingled a sympathetic glance; his
looks confessed that his thoughts had quitted the
inanimate print, for pages more pregnant with meaning,
more absorbing, spread out before him. By the margin
of the stream, apart from all, in a tranquil nook,
where the purling brook kissed the green sward gently,
Clara and Evelyn were at play, sometimes beating the
water with large boughs, sometimes watching the
summer-flies that sported upon it. Evelyn now chased a
butterfly--now gathered a flower for his cousin; and
his laughing cherub-face and clear brow told of the
light heart that beat in his bosom. Clara, though she
endeavoured to give herself up to his amusement, often
forgot him, as she turned to observe Adrian and me.
She was now fourteen, and retained her childish
appearance, though in height a woman; she acted the
part of the tenderest mother to my little orphan boy;
to see her playing with him, or attending silently and
submissively on our wants, you thought only of her
admirable docility and patience; but, in her soft eyes,
and the veined curtains that veiled them, in the
clearness of her marmoreal brow, and the tender
expression of her lips, there was an intelligence and
beauty that at once excited admiration and love.
When the sun had sunk towards the precipitate west, and
the evening shadows grew long, we prepared to ascend
the mountain. The attention that we were obliged to
pay to the sick, made our progress slow. The winding
road, though steep, presented a confined view of rocky
fields and hills, each hiding the other, till our
farther ascent disclosed them in succession. We were
seldom shaded from the declining sun, whose slant
beams were instinct with exhausting heat. There are
times when minor difficulties grow gigantic--times,
when as the Hebrew poet expressively terms it, "the
grasshopper is a burthen;" so was it with our ill fated
party this evening. Adrian, usually the first to rally
his spirits, and dash foremost into fatigue and
hardship, with relaxed limbs and declined head, the
reins hanging loosely in his grasp, left the choice of
the path to the instinct of his horse, now and then
painfully rousing himself, when the steepness of the
ascent required that he should keep his seat with
better care. Fear and horror encompassed me. Did his
languid air attest that he also was struck with
contagion? How long, when I look on this matchless
specimen of mortality, may I perceive that his thought
answers mine? how long will those limbs obey the
kindly spirit within? how long will light and life
dwell in the eyes of this my sole remaining friend?
Thus pacing slowly, each hill surmounted, only
presented another to be ascended; each jutting corner
only discovered another, sister to the last, endlessly.
Sometimes the pressure of sickness in one among us,
caused the whole cavalcade to halt; the call for water,
the eagerly expressed wish to repose; the cry of pain,
and suppressed sob of the mourner--such were the
sorrowful attendants of our passage of the Jura.
Adrian had gone first. I saw him, while I was detained
by the loosening of a girth, struggling with the
upward path, seemingly more difficult than any we had
yet passed. He reached the top, and the dark outline of
his figure stood in relief against the sky. He seemed
to behold something unexpected and wonderful; for,
pausing, his head stretched out, his arms for a moment
extended, he seemed to give an All Hail! to some new
vision. Urged by curiosity, I hurried to join him.
After battling for many tedious minutes with the
precipice, the same scene presented itself to me, which
had wrapt him in extatic wonder.
Nature, or nature's favourite, this lovely earth,
presented her most unrivalled beauties in resplendent
and sudden exhibition. Below, far, far below, even as
it were in the yawning abyss of the ponderous globe,
lay the placid and azure expanse of lake Leman;
vine-covered hills hedged it in, and behind dark
mountains in cone-like shape, or irregular cyclopean
wall, served for further defence. But beyond, and high
above all, as if the spirits of the air had suddenly
unveiled their bright abodes, placed in scaleless
altitude in the stainless sky, heaven-kissing,
companions of the unattainable ether, were the
glorious Alps, clothed in dazzling robes of light by
the setting sun. And, as if the world's wonders were
never to be exhausted, their vast immensities, their
jagged crags, and roseate painting, appeared again in
the lake below, dipping their proud heights beneath the
unruffled waves--palaces for the Naiads of the placid
waters. Towns and villages lay scattered at the foot
of Jura, which, with dark ravine, and black
promontories, stretched its roots into the watery
expanse beneath. Carried away by wonder, I forgot the
death of man, and the living and beloved friend near
me. When I turned, I saw tears streaming from his eyes;
his thin hands pressed one against the other, his
animated countenance beaming with admiration; "Why,"
cried he, at last, "Why, oh heart, whisperest thou of
grief to me? Drink in the beauty of that scene, and
possess delight beyond what a fabled paradise could
afford."
By degrees, our whole party surmounting the steep,
joined us, not one among them, but gave visible tokens
of admiration, surpassing any before experienced. One
cried, "God reveals his heaven to us; we may die
blessed." Another and another, with broken
exclamations, and extravagant phrases, endeavoured to
express the intoxicating effect of this wonder of
nature. So we remained awhile, lightened of the
pressing burthen of fate, forgetful of death, into
whose night we were about to plunge; no longer
reflecting that our eyes now and for ever were and
would be the only ones which might perceive the divine
magnificence of this terrestrial exhibition. An
enthusiastic transport, akin to happiness, burst, like
a sudden ray from the sun, on our darkened life.
Precious attribute of woe-worn humanity! that can
snatch extatic emotion, even from under the very share
and harrow, that ruthlessly ploughs up and lays waste
every hope.
This evening was marked by another event. Passing
through Ferney in our way to Geneva, unaccustomed
sounds of music arose from the rural church which stood
embosomed in trees, surrounded by smokeless, vacant
cottages. The peal of an organ with rich swell awoke
the mute air, lingering along, and mingling with the
intense beauty that clothed the rocks and woods, and
waves around.
Music--the language of the immortals, disclosed to us
as testimony of their existence--music, "silver key of
the fountain of tears," child of love, soother of
grief, inspirer of heroism and radiant thoughts, O
music, in this our desolation, we had forgotten thee!
Nor pipe at eve cheered us, nor harmony of voice, nor
linked thrill of string; thou camest upon us now, like
the revealing of other forms of being; and transported
as we had been by the loveliness of nature, fancying
that we beheld the abode of spirits, now we might well
imagine that we heard their melodious communings. We
paused in such awe as would seize on a pale votarist,
visiting some holy shrine at midnight; if she beheld
animated and smiling, the image which she worshipped.
We all stood mute; many knelt. In a few minutes
however, we were recalled to human wonder and sympathy
by a familiar strain. The air was Haydn's "New-Created
World," and, old and drooping as humanity had become,
the world yet fresh as at creation's day, might still
be worthily celebrated by such an hymn of praise.
Adrian and I entered the church; the nave was empty,
though the smoke of incense rose from the altar,
bringing with it the recollection of vast
congregations, in once thronged cathedrals; we went
into the loft. A blind old man sat at the bellows; his
whole soul was ear; and as he sat in the attitude of
attentive listening, a bright glow of pleasure was
diffused over his countenance; for, though his
lack-lustre eye could not reflect the beam, yet his
parted lips, and every line of his face and venerable
brow spoke delight. A young woman sat at the keys,
perhaps twenty years of age. Her auburn hair hung on
her neck, and her fair brow shone in its own beauty;
but her drooping eyes let fall fast-flowing tears,
while the constraint she exercised to suppress her
sobs, and still her trembling, flushed her else pale
cheek; she was thin; languor, and alas! sickness, bent
her form.
We stood looking at the pair, forgetting what we heard
in the absorbing sight; till, the last chord struck,
the peal died away in lessening reverberations. The
mighty voice, inorganic we might call it, for we could
in no way associate it with mechanism of pipe or key,
stilled its sonorous tone, and the girl, turning to
lend her assistance to her aged companion, at length
perceived us.
It was her father; and she, since childhood, had been
the guide of his darkened steps. They were Germans from
Saxony, and, emigrating thither but a few years before,
had formed new ties with the surrounding villagers.
About the time that the pestilence had broken out, a
young German student had joined them. Their simple
history was easily divined. He, a noble, loved the
fair daughter of the poor musician, and followed them
in their flight from the persecutions of his friends;
but soon the mighty leveller came with unblunted
scythe to mow, together with the grass, the tall
flowers of the field. The youth was an early victim.
She preserved herself for her father's sake. His
blindness permitted her to continue a delusion, at
first the child of accident--and now solitary beings,
sole survivors in the land, he remained unacquainted
with the change, nor was aware that when he listened
to his child's music, the mute mountains, senseless
lake, and unconscious trees, were, himself excepted,
her sole auditors.
The very day that we arrived she had been attacked by
symptomatic illness. She was paralyzed with horror at
the idea of leaving her aged, sightless father alone
on the empty earth; but she had not courage to
disclose the truth, and the very excess of her
desperation animated her to surpassing exertions. At
the accustomed vesper hour, she led him to the chapel;
and, though trembling and weeping on his account, she
played, without fault in time, or error in note, the
hymn written to celebrate the creation of the adorned
earth, soon to be her tomb.
We came to her like visitors from heaven itself; her
high-wrought courage; her hardly sustained firmness,
fled with the appearance of relief. With a shriek she
rushed towards us, embraced the knees of Adrian, and
uttering but the words, "O save my father!" with sobs
and hysterical cries, opened the long-shut floodgates
of her woe.
Poor girl!--she and her father now lie side by side,
beneath the high walnut-tree where her lover reposes,
and which in her dying moments she had pointed out to
us. Her father, at length aware of his daughter's
danger, unable to see the changes of her dear
countenance, obstinately held her hand, till it was
chilled and stiffened by death. Nor did he then move or
speak, till, twelve hours after, kindly death took him
to his breakless repose. They rest beneath the sod,
the tree their monument;--the hallowed spot is
distinct in my memory, paled in by craggy Jura, and the
far, immeasurable Alps; the spire of the church they
frequented still points from out the embosoming trees;
and though her hand be cold, still methinks the sounds
of divine music which they loved wander about, solacing
their gentle ghosts.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VIII.
WE had now reached Switzerland, so long the final mark
and aim of our exertions. We had looked, I know not
wherefore, with hope and pleasing expectation on her
congregation of hills and snowy crags, and opened our
bosoms with renewed spirits to the icy Biz, which even
at Midsummer used to come from the northern glacier
laden with cold. Yet how could we nourish expectation
of relief? Like our native England, and the vast extent
of fertile France, this mountain-embowered land was
desolate of its inhabitants. Nor bleak mountain-top,
nor snow-nourished rivulet; not the ice-laden Biz, nor
thunder, the tamer of contagion, had preserved
them--why therefore should we claim exemption?
Who was there indeed to save? What troop had we brought
fit to stand at bay, and combat with the conqueror? We
were a failing remnant, tamed to mere submission to
the coming blow. A train half dead, through fear of
death--a hopeless, unresisting, almost reckless crew,
which, in the tossed bark of life, had given up all
pilotage, and resigned themselves to the destructive
force of ungoverned winds. Like a few furrows of
unreaped corn, which, left standing on a wide field
after the rest is gathered to the garner, are swiftly
borne down by the winter storm. Like a few straggling
swallows, which, remaining after their fellows had, on
the first unkind breath of passing autumn, migrated to
genial climes, were struck to earth by the first frost
of November. Like a stray sheep that wanders over the
sleet-beaten hill-side, while the flock is in the pen,
and dies before morning-dawn. Like a cloud, like one
of many that were spread in impenetrable woof over the
sky, which, when the shepherd north has driven its
companions "to drink Antipodean noon," fades and
dissolves in the clear ether--Such were we!
We left the fair margin of the beauteous lake of
Geneva, and entered the Alpine ravines; tracing to its
source the brawling Arve, through the rock-bound valley
of Servox, beside the mighty waterfalls, and under the
shadow of the inaccessible mountains, we travelled on;
while the luxuriant walnut-tree gave place to the dark
pine, whose musical branches swung in the wind, and
whose upright forms had braved a thousand storms--till
the verdant sod, the flowery dell, and shrubbery hill
were exchanged for the sky-piercing, untrodden,
seedless rock, "the bones of the world, waiting to be
clothed with every thing necessary to give life and
beauty."* Strange that we should seek shelter here!
Surely, if, in those countries where earth was wont,
like a tender mother, to nourish her children, we had
found her a destroyer, we need not seek it here, where
stricken by keen penury she seems to shudder through
her stony veins. Nor were we mistaken in our
conjecture. We vainly sought the vast and ever moving
glaciers of Chamounix, rifts of pendant ice, seas of
congelated waters, the leafless groves of
tempest-battered pines, dells, mere paths for the loud
avalanche, and hill-tops, the resort of
thunder-storms. Pestilence reigned paramount even here.
By the time that day and night, like twin sisters of
equal growth, shared equally their dominion over the
hours, one by one, beneath the ice-caves, beside the
waters springing from the thawed snows of a thousand
winters, another and yet another of the remnant of the
race of Man, closed their eyes for ever to the light.
[* Mary Wollstonecraft's Letters from Norway.]
Yet we were not quite wrong in seeking a scene like
this, whereon to close the drama. Nature, true to the
last, consoled us in the very heart of misery. Sublime
grandeur of outward objects soothed our hapless hearts,
and were in harmony with our desolation. Many sorrows
have befallen man during his chequered course; and
many a woe-stricken mourner has found himself sole
survivor among many. Our misery took its majestic
shape and colouring from the vast ruin, that
accompanied and made one with it. Thus on lovely
earth, many a dark ravine contains a brawling stream,
shadowed by romantic rocks, threaded by mossy
paths--but all, except this, wanted the mighty
back-ground, the towering Alps, whose snowy capes, or
bared ridges, lifted us from our dull mortal abode, to
the palaces of Nature's own.
This solemn harmony of event and situation regulated
our feelings, and gave as it were fitting costume to
our last act. Majestic gloom and tragic pomp attended
the decease of wretched humanity. The funeral
procession of monarchs of old, was transcended by our
splendid shews. Near the sources of the Arveiron we
performed the rites for, four only excepted, the last
of the species. Adrian and I, leaving Clara and Evelyn
wrapt in peaceful unobserving slumber, carried the
body to this desolate spot, and placed it in those
caves of ice beneath the glacier, which rive and split
with the slightest sound, and bring destruction on
those within the clefts--no bird or beast of prey
could here profane the frozen form. So, with hushed
steps and in silence, we placed the dead on a bier of
ice, and then, departing, stood on the rocky platform
beside the river springs. All hushed as we had been,
the very striking of the air with our persons had
sufficed to disturb the repose of this thawless
region; and we had hardly left the cavern, before vast
blocks of ice, detaching themselves from the roof,
fell, and covered the human image we had deposited
within. We had chosen a fair moonlight night, but our
journey thither had been long, and the crescent sank
behind the western heights by the time we had
accomplished our purpose. The snowy mountains and blue
glaciers shone in their own light. The rugged and
abrupt ravine, which formed one side of Mont Anvert,
was opposite to us, the glacier at our side; at our
feet Arveiron, white and foaming, dashed over the
pointed rocks that jutted into it, and, with whirring
spray and ceaseless roar, disturbed the stilly night.
Yellow lightnings played around the vast dome of Mont
Blanc, silent as the snow-clad rock they illuminated;
all was bare, wild, and sublime, while the singing of
the pines in melodious murmurings added a gentle
interest to the rough magnificence. Now the riving and
fall of icy rocks clave the air; now the thunder of the
avalanche burst on our ears. In countries whose
features are of less magnitude, nature betrays her
living powers in the foliage of the trees, in the
growth of herbage, in the soft purling of meandering
streams; here, endowed with giant attributes, the
torrent, the thunder-storm, and the flow of massive
waters, display her activity. Such the church-yard,
such the requiem, such the eternal congregation, that
waited on our companion's funeral!
Nor was it the human form alone which we had placed in
this eternal sepulchre, whose obsequies we now
celebrated. With this last victim Plague vanished from
the earth. Death had never wanted weapons wherewith to
destroy life, and we, few and weak as we had become,
were still exposed to every other shaft with which his
full quiver teemed. But pestilence was absent from
among them. For seven years it had had full sway upon
earth; she had trod every nook of our spacious globe;
she had mingled with the atmosphere, which as a cloak
enwraps all our fellow-creatures--the inhabitants of
native Europe--the luxurious Asiatic--the swarthy
African and free American had been vanquished and
destroyed by her. Her barbarous tyranny came to its
close here in the rocky vale of Chamounix.
Still recurring scenes of misery and pain, the fruits
of this distemper, made no more a part of our
lives--the word plague no longer rung in our ears--the
aspect of plague incarnate in the human countenance no
longer appeared before our eyes. From this moment I
saw plague no more. She abdicated her throne, and
despoiled herself of her imperial sceptre among the
ice rocks that surrounded us. She left solitude and
silence co-heirs of her kingdom.
My present feelings are so mingled with the past, that
I cannot say whether the knowledge of this change
visited us, as we stood on this sterile spot. It seems
to me that it did; that a cloud seemed to pass from
over us, that a weight was taken from the air; that
henceforth we breathed more freely, and raised our
heads with some portion of former liberty. Yet we did
not hope. We were impressed by the sentiment, that our
race was run, but that plague would not be our
destroyer. The coming time was as a mighty river, down
which a charmed boat is driven, whose mortal steersman
knows, that the obvious peril is not the one he needs
fear, yet that danger is nigh; and who floats
awe-struck under beetling precipices, through the dark
and turbid waters--seeing in the distance yet stranger
and ruder shapes, towards which he is irresistibly
impelled. What would become of us? O for some Delphic
oracle, or Pythian maid, to utter the secrets of
futurity! O for some Oedipus to solve the riddle of the
cruel Sphynx! Such Oedipus was I to be--not divining a
word's juggle, but whose agonizing pangs, and
sorrow-tainted life were to be the engines, wherewith
to lay bare the secrets of destiny, and reveal the
meaning of the enigma, whose explanation closed the
history of the human race.
Dim fancies, akin to these, haunted our minds, and
instilled feelings not unallied to pleasure, as we
stood beside this silent tomb of nature, reared by
these lifeless mountains, above her living veins,
choking her vital principle. "Thus are we left," said
Adrian, "two melancholy blasted trees, where once a
forest waved. We are left to mourn, and pine, and die.
Yet even now we have our duties, which we must string
ourselves to fulfil: the duty of bestowing pleasure
where we can, and by force of love, irradiating with
rainbow hues the tempest of grief. Nor will I repine if
in this extremity we preserve what we now possess.
Something tells me, Verney, that we need no longer
dread our cruel enemy, and I cling with delight to the
oracular voice. Though strange, it will be sweet to
mark the growth of your little boy, and the
development of Clara's young heart. In the midst of a
desert world, we are everything to them; and, if we
live, it must be our task to make this new mode of
life happy to them. At present this is easy, for their
childish ideas do not wander into futurity, and the
stinging craving for sympathy, and all of love of
which our nature is susceptible, is not yet awake
within them: we cannot guess what will happen then,
when nature asserts her indefeasible and sacred
powers; but, long before that time, we may all be
cold, as he who lies in yonder tomb of ice. We need
only provide for the present, and endeavour to fill
with pleasant images the inexperienced fancy of your
lovely niece. The scenes which now surround us, vast
and sublime as they are, are not such as can best
contribute to this work. Nature is here like our
fortunes, grand, but too destructive, bare, and rude,
to be able to afford delight to her young imagination.
Let us descend to the sunny plains of Italy. Winter
will soon be here, to clothe this wilderness in double
desolation; but we will cross the bleak hill-tops, and
lead her to scenes of fertility and beauty, where her
path will be adorned with flowers, and the cheery
atmosphere inspire pleasure and hope."
In pursuance of this plan we quitted Chamounix on the
following day. We had no cause to hasten our steps; no
event was transacted beyond our actual sphere to
enchain our resolves, so we yielded to every idle whim,
and deemed our time well spent, when we could behold
the passage of the hours without dismay. We loitered
along the lovely Vale of Servox; passed long hours on
the bridge, which, crossing the ravine of Arve,
commands a prospect of its pine-clothed depths, and the
snowy mountains that wall it in. We rambled through
romantic Switzerland; till, fear of coming winter
leading us forward, the first days of October found us
in the valley of La Maurienne, which leads to Cenis. I
cannot explain the reluctance we felt at leaving this
land of mountains; perhaps it was, that we regarded the
Alps as boundaries between our former and our future
state of existence, and so clung fondly to what of old
we had loved. Perhaps, because we had now so few
impulses urging to a choice between two modes of
action, we were pleased to preserve the existence of
one, and preferred the prospect of what we were to do,
to the recollection of what had been done. We felt
that for this year danger was past; and we believed
that, for some months, we were secured to each other.
There was a thrilling, agonizing delight in the
thought--it filled the eyes with misty tears, it tore
the heart with tumultuous heavings; frailer than the
"snow fall in the river," were we each and all--but we
strove to give life and individuality to the meteoric
course of our several existences, and to feel that no
moment escaped us unenjoyed. Thus tottering on the
dizzy brink, we were happy. Yes! as we sat beneath the
toppling rocks, beside the waterfalls, near
-- Forests, ancient as the hills,
And folding sunny spots of greenery,
where the chamois grazed, and the timid squirrel laid
up its hoard--descanting on the charms of nature,
drinking in the while her unalienable beauties--we
were, in an empty world, happy.
Yet, O days of joy--days, when eye spoke to eye, and
voices, sweeter than the music of the swinging branches
of the pines, or rivulet's gentle murmur, answered
mine--yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved
society--days unutterably dear to me forlorn--pass, O
pass before me, making me in your memory forget what I
am. Behold, how my streaming eyes blot this senseless
paper--behold, how my features are convulsed by
agonizing throes, at your mere recollection, now that,
alone, my tears flow, my lips quiver, my cries fill
the air, unseen, unmarked, unheard! Yet, O yet, days of
delight! let me dwell on your long-drawn hours!
As the cold increased upon us, we passed the Alps, and
descended into Italy. At the uprising of morn, we sat
at our repast, and cheated our regrets by gay sallies
or learned disquisitions. The live-long day we
sauntered on, still keeping in view the end of our
journey, but careless of the hour of its completion.
As the evening star shone out, and the orange sunset,
far in the west, marked the position of the dear land
we had for ever left, talk, thought enchaining, made
the hours fly--O that we had lived thus for ever and
for ever! Of what consequence was it to our four
hearts, that they alone were the fountains of life in
the wide world? As far as mere individual sentiment
was concerned, we had rather be left thus united
together, than if, each alone in a populous desert of
unknown men, we had wandered truly companionless till
life's last term. In this manner, we endeavoured to
console each other; in this manner, true philosophy
taught us to reason.
It was the delight of Adrian and myself to wait on
Clara, naming her the little queen of the world,
ourselves her humblest servitors. When we arrived at a
town, our first care was to select for her its most
choice abode; to make sure that no harrowing relic
remained of its former inhabitants; to seek food for
her, and minister to her wants with assiduous
tenderness. Clara entered into our scheme with
childish gaiety. Her chief business was to attend on
Evelyn; but it was her sport to array herself in
splendid robes, adorn herself with sunny gems, and ape
a princely state. Her religion, deep and pure, did not
teach her to refuse to blunt thus the keen sting of
regret; her youthful vivacity made her enter, heart
and soul, into these strange masquerades.
We had resolved to pass the ensuing winter at Milan,
which, as being a large and luxurious city, would
afford us choice of homes. We had descended the Alps,
and left far behind their vast forests and mighty
crags. We entered smiling Italy. Mingled grass and
corn grew in her plains, the unpruned vines threw
their luxuriant branches around the elms. The grapes,
overripe, had fallen on the ground, or hung purple, or
burnished green, among the red and yellow leaves. The
ears of standing corn winnowed to emptiness by the
spendthrift winds; the fallen foliage of the trees, the
weed-grown brooks, the dusky olive, now spotted with
its blackened fruit; the chestnuts, to which the
squirrel only was harvest-man; all plenty, and yet,
alas! all poverty, painted in wondrous hues and
fantastic groupings this land of beauty. In the towns,
in the voiceless towns, we visited the churches,
adorned by pictures, master-pieces of art, or galleries
of statues--while in this genial clime the animals, in
new found liberty, rambled through the gorgeous
palaces, and hardly feared our forgotten aspect. The
dove-coloured oxen turned their full eyes on us, and
paced slowly by; a startling throng of silly sheep,
with pattering feet, would start up in some chamber,
formerly dedicated to the repose of beauty, and rush,
huddling past us, down the marble staircase into the
street, and again in at the first open door, taking
unrebuked possession of hallowed sanctuary, or kingly
council-chamber. We no longer started at these
occurrences, nor at worse exhibition of change--when
the palace had become a mere tomb, pregnant with fetid
stench, strewn with the dead; and we could perceive how
pestilence and fear had played strange antics, chasing
the luxurious dame to the dank fields and bare
cottage; gathering, among carpets of Indian woof, and
beds of silk, the rough peasant, or the deformed
half-human shape of the wretched beggar.
We arrived at Milan, and stationed ourselves in the
Vice-Roy's palace. Here we made laws for ourselves,
dividing our day, and fixing distinct occupations for
each hour. In the morning we rode in the adjoining
country, or wandered through the palaces, in search of
pictures or antiquities. In the evening we assembled
to read or to converse. There were few books that we
dared read; few, that did not cruelly deface the
painting we bestowed on our solitude, by recalling
combinations and emotions never more to be experienced
by us. Metaphysical disquisition; fiction, which
wandering from all reality, lost itself in self-created
errors; poets of times so far gone by, that to read of
them was as to read of Atlantis and Utopia; or such as
referred to nature only, and the workings of one
particular mind; but most of all, talk, varied and
ever new, beguiled our hours.
While we paused thus in our onward career towards
death, time held on its accustomed course. Still and
for ever did the earth roll on, enthroned in her
atmospheric car, speeded by the force of the invisible
coursers of never-erring necessity. And now, this
dew-drop in the sky, this ball, ponderous with
mountains, lucent with waves, passing from the short
tyranny of watery Pisces and the frigid Ram, entered
the radiant demesne of Taurus and the Twins. There,
fanned by vernal airs, the Spirit of Beauty sprung
from her cold repose; and, with winnowing wings and
soft pacing feet, set a girdle of verdure around the
earth, sporting among the violets, hiding within the
springing foliage of the trees, tripping lightly down
the radiant streams into the sunny deep. "For lo!
winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers
appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds
is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our
land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and
the vines, with the tender grape, give a good smell."*
Thus was it in the time of the ancient regal poet; thus
was it now.
[* Solomon's Song.]
Yet how could we miserable hail the approach of this
delightful season? We hoped indeed that death did not
now as heretofore walk in its shadow; yet, left as we
were alone to each other, we looked in each other's
faces with enquiring eyes, not daring altogether to
trust to our presentiments, and endeavouring to divine
which would be the hapless survivor to the other
three. We were to pass the summer at the lake of Como,
and thither we removed as soon as spring grew to her
maturity, and the snow disappeared from the hill tops.
Ten miles from Como, under the steep heights of the
eastern mountains, by the margin of the lake, was a
villa called the Pliniana, from its being built on the
site of a fountain, whose periodical ebb and flow is
described by the younger Pliny in his letters. The
house had nearly fallen into ruin, till in the year
2090, an English nobleman had bought it, and fitted it
up with every luxury. Two large halls, hung with
splendid tapestry, and paved with marble, opened on
each side of a court, of whose two other sides one
overlooked the deep dark lake, and the other was
bounded by a mountain, from whose stony side gushed,
with roar and splash, the celebrated fountain. Above,
underwood of myrtle and tufts of odorous plants
crowned the rock, while the star-pointing giant
cypresses reared themselves in the blue air, and the
recesses of the hills were adorned with the luxuriant
growth of chestnut-trees. Here we fixed our summer
residence. We had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed,
now stemming the midmost waves, now coasting the
over-hanging and craggy banks, thick sown with
evergreens, which dipped their shining leaves in the
waters, and were mirrored in many a little bay and
creek of waters of translucent darkness. Here orange
plants bloomed, here birds poured forth melodious
hymns; and here, during spring, the cold snake emerged
from the clefts, and basked on the sunny terraces of
rock.
Were we not happy in this paradisiacal retreat? If some
kind spirit had whispered forgetfulness to us, methinks
we should have been happy here, where the precipitous
mountains, nearly pathless, shut from our view the far
fields of desolate earth, and with small exertion of
the imagination, we might fancy that the cities were
still resonant with popular hum, and the peasant still
guided his plough through the furrow, and that we, the
world's free denizens, enjoyed a voluntary exile, and
not a remediless cutting off from our extinct species.
Not one among us enjoyed the beauty of this scenery so
much as Clara. Before we quitted Milan, a change had
taken place in her habits and manners. She lost her
gaiety, she laid aside her sports, and assumed an
almost vestal plainness of attire. She shunned us,
retiring with Evelyn to some distant chamber or silent
nook; nor did she enter into his pastimes with the
same zest as she was wont, but would sit and watch him
with sadly tender smiles, and eyes bright with tears,
yet without a word of complaint. She approached us
timidly, avoided our caresses, nor shook off her
embarrassment till some serious discussion or lofty
theme called her for awhile out of herself. Her beauty
grew as a rose, which, opening to the summer wind,
discloses leaf after leaf till the sense aches with its
excess of loveliness. A slight and variable colour
tinged her cheeks, and her motions seemed attuned by
some hidden harmony of surpassing sweetness. We
redoubled our tenderness and earnest attentions. She
received them with grateful smiles, that fled swift as
sunny beam from a glittering wave on an April day.
Our only acknowledged point of sympathy with her,
appeared to be Evelyn. This dear little fellow was a
comforter and delight to us beyond all words. His
buoyant spirit, and his innocent ignorance of our vast
calamity, were balm to us, whose thoughts and feelings
were over-wrought and spun out in the immensity of
speculative sorrow. To cherish, to caress, to amuse
him was the common task of all. Clara, who felt towards
him in some degree like a young mother, gratefully
acknowledged our kindness towards him. To me, O! to
me, who saw the clear brows and soft eyes of the
beloved of my heart, my lost and ever dear Idris,
re-born in his gentle face, to me he was dear even to
pain; if I pressed him to my heart, methought I clasped
a real and living part of her, who had lain there
through long years of youthful happiness.
It was the custom of Adrian and myself to go out each
day in our skiff to forage in the adjacent country. In
these expeditions we were seldom accompanied by Clara
or her little charge, but our return was an hour of
hilarity. Evelyn ransacked our stores with childish
eagerness, and we always brought some new found gift
for our fair companion. Then too we made discoveries
of lovely scenes or gay palaces, whither in the evening
we all proceeded. Our sailing expeditions were most
divine, and with a fair wind or transverse course we
cut the liquid waves; and, if talk failed under the
pressure of thought, I had my clarionet with me, which
awoke the echoes, and gave the change to our careful
minds. Clara at such times often returned to her
former habits of free converse and gay sally; and
though our four hearts alone beat in the world, those
four hearts were happy.
One day, on our return from the town of Como, with a
laden boat, we expected as usual to be met at the port
by Clara and Evelyn, and we were somewhat surprised to
see the beach vacant. I, as my nature prompted, would
not prognosticate evil, but explained it away as a mere
casual incident. Not so Adrian. He was seized with
sudden trembling and apprehension, and he called to me
with vehemence to steer quickly for land, and, when
near, leapt from the boat, half falling into the water;
and, scrambling up the steep bank, hastened along the
narrow strip of garden, the only level space between
the lake and the mountain. I followed without delay;
the garden and inner court were empty, so was the
house, whose every room we visited. Adrian called
loudly upon Clara's name, and was about to rush up the
near mountain-path, when the door of a summer-house at
the end of the garden slowly opened, and Clara
appeared, not advancing towards us, but leaning
against a column of the building with blanched cheeks,
in a posture of utter despondency. Adrian sprang
towards her with a cry of joy, and folded her
delightedly in his arms. She withdrew from his embrace,
and, without a word, again entered the summer-house.
Her quivering lips, her despairing heart refused to
afford her voice to express our misfortune. Poor
little Evelyn had, while playing with her, been seized
with sudden fever, and now lay torpid and speechless on
a little couch in the summer-house.
For a whole fortnight we unceasingly watched beside the
poor child, as his life declined under the ravages of
a virulent typhus. His little form and tiny lineaments
encaged the embryo of the world-spanning mind of man.
Man's nature, brimful of passions and affections, would
have had an home in that little heart, whose swift
pulsations hurried towards their close. His small
hand's fine mechanism, now flaccid and unbent, would in
the growth of sinew and muscle, have achieved works of
beauty or of strength. His tender rosy feet would have
trod in firm manhood the bowers and glades of
earth--these reflections were now of little use: he
lay, thought and strength suspended, waiting
unresisting the final blow.
We watched at his bedside, and when the access of fever
was on him, we neither spoke nor looked at each other,
marking only his obstructed breath and the mortal glow
that tinged his sunken cheek, the heavy death that
weighed on his eyelids. It is a trite evasion to say,
that words could not express our long drawn agony; yet
how can words image sensations, whose tormenting
keenness throw us back, as it were, on the deep roots
and hidden foundations of our nature, which shake our
being with earthquake-throe, so that we leave to
confide in accustomed feelings which like mother-earth
support us, and cling to some vain imagination or
deceitful hope, which will soon be buried in the ruins
occasioned by the final shock. I have called that
period a fortnight, which we passed watching the
changes of the sweet child's malady--and such it might
have been--at night, we wondered to find another day
gone, while each particular hour seemed endless. Day
and night were exchanged for one another uncounted; we
slept hardly at all, nor did we even quit his room,
except when a pang of grief seized us, and we retired
from each other for a short period to conceal our sobs
and tears. We endeavoured in vain to abstract Clara
from this deplorable scene. She sat, hour after hour,
looking at him, now softly arranging his pillow, and,
while he had power to swallow, administered his drink.
At length the moment of his death came: the blood
paused in its flow--his eyes opened, and then closed
again: without convulsion or sigh, the frail tenement
was left vacant of its spiritual inhabitant.
I have heard that the sight of the dead has confirmed
materialists in their belief. I ever felt otherwise.
Was that my child--that moveless decaying inanimation?
My child was enraptured by my caresses; his dear voice
cloathed with meaning articulations his thoughts,
otherwise inaccessible; his smile was a ray of the
soul, and the same soul sat upon its throne in his
eyes. I turn from this mockery of what he was. Take, O
earth, thy debt! freely and for ever I consign to thee
the garb thou didst afford. But thou, sweet child,
amiable and beloved boy, either thy spirit has sought a
fitter dwelling, or, shrined in my heart, thou livest
while it lives.
We placed his remains under a cypress, the upright
mountain being scooped out to receive them. And then
Clara said, "If you wish me to live, take me from
hence. There is something in this scene of
transcendent beauty, in these trees, and hills and
waves, that for ever whisper to me, leave thy cumbrous
flesh, and make a part of us. I earnestly entreat you
to take me away."
So on the fifteenth of August we bade adieu to our
villa, and the embowering shades of this abode of
beauty; to calm bay and noisy waterfall; to Evelyn's
little grave we bade farewell! and then, with heavy
hearts, we departed on our pilgrimage towards Rome.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IX.
NOW--soft awhile--have I arrived so near the end? Yes!
it is all over now--a step or two over those new made
graves, and the wearisome way is done. Can I
accomplish my task? Can I streak my paper with words
capacious of the grand conclusion? Arise, black
Melancholy! quit thy Cimmerian solitude! Bring with
thee murky fogs from hell, which may drink up the day;
bring blight and pestiferous exhalations, which,
entering the hollow caverns and breathing places of
earth, may fill her stony veins with corruption, so
that not only herbage may no longer flourish, the trees
may rot, and the rivers run with gall--but the
everlasting mountains be decomposed, and the mighty
deep putrify, and the genial atmosphere which clips the
globe, lose all powers of generation and sustenance.
Do this, sad visaged power, while I write, while eyes
read these pages.
And who will read them? Beware, tender offspring of the
re-born world--beware, fair being, with human heart,
yet untamed by care, and human brow, yet unploughed by
time--beware, lest the cheerful current of thy blood
be checked, thy golden locks turn grey, thy sweet
dimpling smiles be changed to fixed, harsh wrinkles!
Let not day look on these lines, lest garish day
waste, turn pale, and die. Seek a cypress grove, whose
moaning boughs will be harmony befitting; seek some
cave, deep embowered in earth's dark entrails, where
no light will penetrate, save that which struggles,
red and flickering, through a single fissure, staining
thy page with grimmest livery of death.
There is a painful confusion in my brain, which refuses
to delineate distinctly succeeding events. Sometimes
the irradiation of my friend's gentle smile comes
before me; and methinks its light spans and fills
eternity--then, again, I feel the gasping throes--
We quitted Como, and in compliance with Adrian's
earnest desire, we took Venice in our way to Rome.
There was something to the English peculiarly
attractive in the idea of this wave-encircled,
island-enthroned city. Adrian had never seen it. We
went down the Po and the Brenta in a boat; and, the
days proving intolerably hot, we rested in the
bordering palaces during the day, travelling through
the night, when darkness made the bordering banks
indistinct, and our solitude less remarkable; when the
wandering moon lit the waves that divided before our
prow, and the night-wind filled our sails, and the
murmuring stream, waving trees, and swelling canvass,
accorded in harmonious strain. Clara, long overcome by
excessive grief, had to a great degree cast aside her
timid, cold reserve, and received our attentions with
grateful tenderness. While Adrian with poetic fervour
discoursed of the glorious nations of the dead, of the
beauteous earth and the fate of man, she crept near
him, drinking in his speech with silent pleasure. We
banished from our talk, and as much as possible from
our thoughts, the knowledge of our desolation. And it
would be incredible to an inhabitant of cities, to one
among a busy throng, to what extent we succeeded. It
was as a man confined in a dungeon, whose small and
grated rift at first renders the doubtful light more
sensibly obscure, till, the visual orb having drunk in
the beam, and adapted itself to its scantiness, he
finds that clear noon inhabits his cell. So we, a
simple triad on empty earth, were multiplied to each
other, till we became all in all. We stood like trees,
whose roots are loosened by the wind, which support one
another, leaning and clinging with encreased fervour
while the wintry storms howl.
Thus we floated down the widening stream of the Po,
sleeping when the cicale sang, awake with the stars.
We entered the narrower banks of the Brenta, and
arrived at the shore of the Laguna at sunrise on the
sixth of September. The bright orb slowly rose from
behind its cupolas and towers, and shed its
penetrating light upon the glassy waters. Wrecks of
gondolas, and some few uninjured ones, were strewed on
the beach at Fusina. We embarked in one of these for
the widowed daughter of ocean, who, abandoned and
fallen, sat forlorn on her propping isles, looking
towards the far mountains of Greece. We rowed lightly
over the Laguna, and entered Canale Grande. The tide
ebbed sullenly from out the broken portals and
violated halls of Venice: sea weed and sea monsters
were left on the blackened marble, while the salt ooze
defaced the matchless works of art that adorned their
walls, and the sea gull flew out from the shattered
window. In the midst of this appalling ruin of the
monuments of man's power, nature asserted her
ascendancy, and shone more beauteous from the
contrast. The radiant waters hardly trembled, while the
rippling waves made many sided mirrors to the sun; the
blue immensity, seen beyond Lido, stretched far,
unspecked by boat, so tranquil, so lovely, that it
seemed to invite us to quit the land strewn with ruins,
and to seek refuge from sorrow and fear on its placid
extent.
We saw the ruins of this hapless city from the height
of the tower of San Marco, immediately under us, and
turned with sickening hearts to the sea, which, though
it be a grave, rears no monument, discloses no ruin.
Evening had come apace. The sun set in calm majesty
behind the misty summits of the Apennines, and its
golden and roseate hues painted the mountains of the
opposite shore. "That land," said Adrian, "tinged with
the last glories of the day, is Greece." Greece! The
sound had a responsive chord in the bosom of Clara.
She vehemently reminded us that we had promised to
take her once again to Greece, to the tomb of her
parents. Why go to Rome? what should we do at Rome? We
might take one of the many vessels to be found here,
embark in it, and steer right for Albania.
I objected the dangers of ocean, and the distance of
the mountains we saw, from Athens; a distance which,
from the savage uncultivation of the country, was
almost impassable. Adrian, who was delighted with
Clara's proposal, obviated these objections. The
season was favourable; the north-west that blew would
take us transversely across the gulph; and then we
might find, in some abandoned port, a light Greek
caique, adapted for such navigation, and run down the
coast of the Morea, and, passing over the Isthmus of
Corinth, without much land-travelling or fatigue, find
ourselves at Athens. This appeared to me wild talk;
but the sea, glowing with a thousand purple hues,
looked so brilliant and safe; my beloved companions
were so earnest, so determined, that, when Adrian said,
"Well, though it is not exactly what you wish, yet
consent, to please me"--I could no longer refuse. That
evening we selected a vessel, whose size just seemed
fitted for our enterprize; we bent the sails and put
the rigging in order, and reposing that night in one
of the city's thousand palaces, agreed to embark at
sunrise the following morning.
When winds that move not its calm surface, sweep
The azure sea, I love the land no more;
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep
Tempt my unquiet mind--
Thus said Adrian, quoting a translation of Moschus's
poem, as in the clear morning light, we rowed over the
Laguna, past Lido, into the open sea--I would have
added in continuation,
But when the roar
Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst--
But my friends declared that such verses were evil
augury; so in cheerful mood we left the shallow waters,
and, when out at sea, unfurled our sails to catch the
favourable breeze. The laughing morning air filled
them, while sun-light bathed earth, sky and ocean--the
placid waves divided to receive our keel, and playfully
kissed the dark sides of our little skiff, murmuring a
welcome; as land receded, still the blue expanse, most
waveless, twin sister to the azure empyrean, afforded
smooth conduct to our bark. As the air and waters were
tranquil and balmy, so were our minds steeped in quiet.
In comparison with the unstained deep, funereal earth
appeared a grave, its high rocks and stately mountains
were but monuments, its trees the plumes of a herse,
the brooks and rivers brackish with tears for departed
man. Farewell to desolate towns--to fields with their
savage intermixture of corn and weeds--to ever
multiplying relics of our lost species. Ocean, we
commit ourselves to thee--even as the patriarch of old
floated above the drowned world, let us be saved, as
thus we betake ourselves to thy perennial flood.
Adrian sat at the helm; I attended to the rigging, the
breeze right aft filled our swelling canvas, and we ran
before it over the untroubled deep. The wind died away
at noon; its idle breath just permitted us to hold our
course. As lazy, fair-weather sailors, careless of the
coming hour, we talked gaily of our coasting voyage,
of our arrival at Athens. We would make our home of
one of the Cyclades, and there in myrtle-groves, amidst
perpetual spring, fanned by the wholesome
sea-breezes--we would live long years in beatific
union--Was there such a thing as death in the world?--
The sun passed its zenith, and lingered down the
stainless floor of heaven. Lying in the boat, my face
turned up to the sky, I thought I saw on its blue
white, marbled streaks, so slight, so immaterial, that
now I said--They are there--and now, It is a mere
imagination. A sudden fear stung me while I gazed;
and, starting up, and running to the prow,--as I stood,
my hair was gently lifted on my brow--a dark line of
ripples appeared to the east, gaining rapidly on
us--my breathless remark to Adrian, was followed by
the flapping of the canvas, as the adverse wind struck
it, and our boat lurched--swift as speech, the web of
the storm thickened over head, the sun went down red,
the dark sea was strewed with foam, and our skiff rose
and fell in its encreasing furrows.
Behold us now in our frail tenement, hemmed in by
hungry, roaring waves, buffeted by winds. In the inky
east two vast clouds, sailing contrary ways, met; the
lightning leapt forth, and the hoarse thunder muttered.
Again in the south, the clouds replied, and the forked
stream of fire running along the black sky, shewed us
the appalling piles of clouds, now met and obliterated
by the heaving waves. Great God! And we alone--we
three--alone--alone--sole dwellers on the sea and on
the earth, we three must perish! The vast universe, its
myriad worlds, and the plains of boundless earth which
we had left--the extent of shoreless sea
around--contracted to my view--they and all that they
contained, shrunk up to one point, even to our tossing
bark, freighted with glorious humanity.
A convulsion of despair crossed the love-beaming face
of Adrian, while with set teeth he murmured, "Yet they
shall be saved!" Clara, visited by an human pang, pale
and trembling, crept near him--he looked on her with an
encouraging smile--"Do you fear, sweet girl? O, do not
fear, we shall soon be on shore!"
The darkness prevented me from seeing the changes of
her countenance; but her voice was clear and sweet, as
she replied, "Why should I fear? neither sea nor storm
can harm us, if mighty destiny or the ruler of destiny
does not permit. And then the stinging fear of
surviving either of you, is not here--one death will
clasp us undivided."
Meanwhile we took in all our sails, save a gib; and, as
soon as we might without danger, changed our course,
running with the wind for the Italian shore. Dark
night mixed everything; we hardly discerned the white
crests of the murderous surges, except when lightning
made brief noon, and drank the darkness, shewing us our
danger, and restoring us to double night. We were all
silent, except when Adrian, as steersman, made an
encouraging observation. Our little shell obeyed the
rudder miraculously well, and ran along on the top of
the waves, as if she had been an offspring of the sea,
and the angry mother sheltered her endangered child.
I sat at the prow, watching our course; when suddenly I
heard the waters break with redoubled fury. We were
certainly near the shore--at the same time I cried,
"About there!" and a broad lightning filling the
concave, shewed us for one moment the level beach
a-head, disclosing even the sands, and stunted,
ooze-sprinkled beds of reeds, that grew at high water
mark. Again it was dark, and we drew in our breath
with such content as one may, who, while fragments of
volcano-hurled rock darken the air, sees a vast mass
ploughing the ground immediately at his feet. What to
do we knew not--the breakers here, there, everywhere,
encompassed us--they roared, and dashed, and flung
their hated spray in our faces. With considerable
difficulty and danger we succeeded at length in
altering our course, and stretched out from shore. I
urged my companions to prepare for the wreck of our
little skiff, and to bind themselves to some oar or
spar which might suffice to float them. I was myself
an excellent swimmer--the very sight of the sea was
wont to raise in me such sensations, as a huntsman
experiences, when he hears a pack of hounds in full
cry; I loved to feel the waves wrap me and strive to
overpower me; while I, lord of myself, moved this way
or that, in spite of their angry buffetings. Adrian
also could swim--but the weakness of his frame
prevented him from feeling pleasure in the exercise,
or acquiring any great expertness. But what power could
the strongest swimmer oppose to the overpowering
violence of ocean in its fury? My efforts to prepare
my companions were rendered nearly futile--for the
roaring breakers prevented our hearing one another
speak, and the waves, that broke continually over our
boat, obliged me to exert all my strength in lading
the water out, as fast as it came in. The while
darkness, palpable and rayless, hemmed us round,
dissipated only by the lightning; sometimes we beheld
thunderbolts, fiery red, fall into the sea, and at
intervals vast spouts stooped from the clouds,
churning the wild ocean, which rose to meet them;
while the fierce gale bore the rack onwards, and they
were lost in the chaotic mingling of sky and sea. Our
gunwales had been torn away, our single sail had been
rent to ribbands, and borne down the stream of the
wind. We had cut away our mast, and lightened the boat
of all she contained--Clara attempted to assist me in
heaving the water from the hold, and, as she turned
her eyes to look on the lightning, I could discern by
that momentary gleam, that resignation had conquered
every fear. We have a power given us in any worst
extremity, which props the else feeble mind of man,
and enables us to endure the most savage tortures with
a stillness of soul which in hours of happiness we
could not have imagined. A calm, more dreadful in
truth than the tempest, allayed the wild beatings of my
heart--a calm like that of the gamester, the suicide,
and the murderer, when the last die is on the point of
being cast--while the poisoned cup is at the lips,--as
the death-blow is about to be given.
Hours passed thus--hours which might write old age on
the face of beardless youth, and grizzle the silky hair
of infancy---hours, while the chaotic uproar continued,
while each dread gust transcended in fury the one
before, and our skiff hung on the breaking wave, and
then rushed into the valley below, and trembled and
spun between the watery precipices that seemed most to
meet above her. For a moment the gale paused, and
ocean sank to comparative silence--it was a breathless
interval; the wind which, as a practised leaper, had
gathered itself up before it sprung, now with terrific
roar rushed over the sea, and the waves struck our
stern. Adrian exclaimed that the rudder was gone;--"We
are lost," cried Clara, "Save yourselves--O save
yourselves!" The lightning shewed me the poor girl half
buried in the water at the bottom of the boat; as she
was sinking in it Adrian caught her up, and sustained
her in his arms. We were without a rudder--we rushed
prow foremost into the vast billows piled up
a-head--they broke over and filled the tiny skiff; one
scream I heard--one cry that we were gone, I uttered; I
found myself in the waters; darkness was around. When
the light of the tempest flashed, I saw the keel of our
upset boat close to me--I clung to this, grasping it
with clenched hand and nails, while I endeavoured
during each flash to discover any appearance of my
companions. I thought I saw Adrian at no great distance
from me, clinging to an oar; I sprung from my hold,
and with energy beyond my human strength, I dashed
aside the waters as I strove to lay hold of him. As
that hope failed, instinctive love of life animated me,
and feelings of contention, as if a hostile will
combated with mine. I breasted the surges, and flung
them from me, as I would the opposing front and
sharpened claws of a lion about to enfang my bosom.
When I had been beaten down by one wave, I rose on
another, while I felt bitter pride curl my lip.
Ever since the storm had carried us near the shore, we
had never attained any great distance from it. With
every flash I saw the bordering coast; yet the
progress I made was small, while each wave, as it
receded, carried me back into ocean's far abysses. At
one moment I felt my foot touch the sand, and then
again I was in deep water; my arms began to lose their
power of motion; my breath failed me under the
influence of the strangling waters--a thousand wild and
delirious thoughts crossed me: as well as I can now
recall them, my chief feeling was, how sweet it would
be to lay my head on the quiet earth, where the surges
would no longer strike my weakened frame, nor the
sound of waters ring in my ears--to attain this repose,
not to save my life, I made a last effort--the
shelving shore suddenly presented a footing for me. I
rose, and was again thrown down by the breakers--a
point of rock to which I was enabled to cling, gave me
a moment's respite; and then, taking advantage of the
ebbing of the waves, I ran forwards--gained the dry
sands, and fell senseless on the oozy reeds that
sprinkled them.
I must have lain long deprived of life; for when first,
with a sickening feeling, I unclosed my eyes, the light
of morning met them. Great change had taken place
meanwhile: grey dawn dappled the flying clouds, which
sped onwards, leaving visible at intervals vast lakes
of pure ether. A fountain of light arose in an
encreasing stream from the east, behind the waves of
the Adriatic, changing the grey to a roseate hue, and
then flooding sky and sea with aerial gold.
A kind of stupor followed my fainting; my senses were
alive, but memory was extinct. The blessed respite was
short--a snake lurked near me to sting me into life--on
the first retrospective emotion I would have started
up, but my limbs refused to obey me; my knees trembled,
the muscles had lost all power. I still believed that I
might find one of my beloved companions cast like me,
half alive, on the beach; and I strove in every way to
restore my frame to the use of its animal functions. I
wrung the brine from my hair; and the rays of the risen
sun soon visited me with genial warmth. With the
restoration of my bodily powers, my mind became in some
degree aware of the universe of misery, henceforth to
be its dwelling. I ran to the water's edge, calling
on the beloved names. Ocean drank in, and absorbed my
feeble voice, replying with pitiless roar. I climbed a
near tree: the level sands bounded by a pine forest,
and the sea clipped round by the horizon, was all that
I could discern. In vain I extended my researches along
the beach; the mast we had thrown overboard, with
tangled cordage, and remnants of a sail, was the sole
relic land received of our wreck. Sometimes I stood
still, and wrung my hands. I accused earth and sky--the
universal machine and the Almighty power that
misdirected it. Again I threw myself on the sands, and
then the sighing wind, mimicking a human cry, roused me
to bitter, fallacious hope. Assuredly if any little
bark or smallest canoe had been near, I should have
sought the savage plains of ocean, found the dear
remains of my lost ones, and clinging round them, have
shared their grave.
The day passed thus; each moment contained eternity;
although when hour after hour had gone by, I wondered
at the quick flight of time. Yet even now I had not
drunk the bitter potion to the dregs; I was not yet
persuaded of my loss; I did not yet feel in every
pulsation, in every nerve, in every thought, that I
remained alone of my race,--that I was the LAST MAN.
The day had clouded over, and a drizzling rain set in
at sunset. Even the eternal skies weep, I thought; is
there any shame then, that mortal man should spend
himself in tears? I remembered the ancient fables, in
which human beings are described as dissolving away
through weeping into ever-gushing fountains. Ah! that
so it were; and then my destiny would be in some sort
akin to the watery death of Adrian and Clara. Oh! grief
is fantastic; it weaves a web on which to trace the
history of its woe from every form and change around;
it incorporates itself with all living nature; it
finds sustenance in every object; as light, it fills
all things, and, like light, it gives its own colours
to all.
I had wandered in my search to some distance from the
spot on which I had been cast, and came to one of
those watch-towers, which at stated distances line the
Italian shore. I was glad of shelter, glad to find a
work of human hands, after I had gazed so long on
nature's drear barrenness; so I entered, and ascended
the rough winding staircase into the guard-room. So
far was fate kind, that no harrowing vestige remained
of its former inhabitants; a few planks laid across
two iron tressels, and strewed with the dried leaves
of Indian corn, was the bed presented to me; and an
open chest, containing some half mouldered biscuit,
awakened an appetite, which perhaps existed before,
but of which, until now, I was not aware. Thirst also,
violent and parching, the result of the sea-water I had
drank, and of the exhaustion of my frame, tormented me.
Kind nature had gifted the supply of these wants with
pleasurable sensations, so that I--even I!--was
refreshed and calmed, as I ate of this sorry fare, and
drank a little of the sour wine which half filled a
flask left in this abandoned dwelling. Then I
stretched myself on the bed, not to be disdained by the
victim of shipwreck. The earthy smell of the dried
leaves was balm to my sense after the hateful odour of
sea-weed. I forgot my state of loneliness. I neither
looked backward nor forward; my senses were hushed to
repose; I fell asleep and dreamed of all dear inland
scenes, of hay-makers, of the shepherd's whistle to his
dog, when he demanded his help to drive the flock to
fold; of sights and sounds peculiar to my boyhood's
mountain life, which I had long forgotten.
I awoke in a painful agony--for I fancied that ocean,
breaking its bounds, carried away the fixed continent
and deep rooted mountains, together with the streams I
loved, the woods, and the flocks--it raged around, with
that continued and dreadful roar which had accompanied
the last wreck of surviving humanity. As my waking
sense returned, the bare walls of the guard room
closed round me, and the rain pattered against the
single window. How dreadful it is, to emerge from the
oblivion of slumber, and to receive as a good morrow
the mute wailing of one's own hapless heart--to return
from the land of deceptive dreams, to the heavy
knowledge of unchanged disaster!--Thus was it with me,
now, and for ever! The sting of other griefs might be
blunted by time; and even mine yielded sometimes
during the day, to the pleasure inspired by the
imagination or the senses; but I never look first upon
the morning-light but with my fingers pressed tight on
my bursting heart, and my soul deluged with the
interminable flood of hopeless misery. Now I awoke for
the first time in the dead world--I awoke alone--and
the dull dirge of the sea, heard even amidst the rain,
recalled me to the reflection of the wretch I had
become. The sound came like a reproach, a scoff--like
the sting of remorse in the soul--I gasped--the veins
and muscles of my throat swelled, suffocating me. I put
my fingers to my ears, I buried my head in the leaves
of my couch, I would have dived to the centre to lose
hearing of that hideous moan.
But another task must be mine--again I visited the
detested beach--again I vainly looked far and
wide--again I raised my unanswered cry, lifting up the
only voice that could ever again force the mute air to
syllable the human thought.
What a pitiable, forlorn, disconsolate being I was! My
very aspect and garb told the tale of my despair. My
hair was matted and wild--my limbs soiled with salt
ooze; while at sea, I had thrown off those of my
garments that encumbered me, and the rain drenched the
thin summer-clothing I had retained--my feet were
bare, and the stunted reeds and broken shells made
them bleed--the while, I hurried to and fro, now
looking earnestly on some distant rock which, islanded
in the sands, bore for a moment a deceptive
appearance--now with flashing eyes reproaching the
murderous ocean for its unutterable cruelty.
For a moment I compared myself to that monarch of the
waste--Robinson Crusoe. We had been both thrown
companionless--he on the shore of a desolate island: I
on that of a desolate world. I was rich in the so
called goods of life. If I turned my steps from the
near barren scene, and entered any of the earth's
million cities, I should find their wealth stored up
for my accommodation--clothes, food, books, and a
choice of dwelling beyond the command of the princes of
former times--every climate was subject to my
selection, while he was obliged to toil in the
acquirement of every necessary, and was the inhabitant
of a tropical island, against whose heats and storms
he could obtain small shelter.--Viewing the question
thus, who would not have preferred the Sybarite
enjoyments I could command, the philosophic leisure,
and ample intellectual resources, to his life of labour
and peril? Yet he was far happier than I: for he could
hope, nor hope in vain--the destined vessel at last
arrived, to bear him to countrymen and kindred, where
the events of his solitude became a fire-side tale. To
none could I ever relate the story of my adversity; no
hope had I. He knew that, beyond the ocean which begirt
his lonely island, thousands lived whom the sun
enlightened when it shone also on him: beneath the
meridian sun and visiting moon, I alone bore human
features; I alone could give articulation to thought;
and, when I slept, both day and night were unbeheld of
any. He had fled from his fellows, and was transported
with terror at the print of a human foot. I would have
knelt down and worshipped the same. The wild and cruel
Caribbee, the merciless Cannibal--or worse than these,
the uncouth, brute, and remorseless veteran in the
vices of civilization, would have been to me a beloved
companion, a treasure dearly prized--his nature would
be kin to mine; his form cast in the same mould; human
blood would flow in his veins; a human sympathy must
link us for ever. It cannot be that I shall never
behold a fellow being more!--never!--never!--not in the
course of years!--Shall I wake, and speak to none,
pass the interminable hours, my soul, islanded in the
world, a solitary point, surrounded by vacuum? Will
day follow day endlessly thus?--No! no! a God rules the
world--providence has not exchanged its golden sceptre
for an aspic's sting. Away! let me fly from the
ocean-grave, let me depart from this barren nook, paled
in, as it is, from access by its own desolateness; let
me tread once again the paved towns; step over the
threshold of man's dwellings, and most certainly I
shall find this thought a horrible vision--a maddening,
but evanescent dream.
I entered Ravenna, (the town nearest to the spot
whereon I had been cast), before the second sun had set
on the empty world; I saw many living creatures; oxen,
and horses, and dogs, but there was no man among them;
I entered a cottage, it was vacant; I ascended the
marble stairs of a palace, the bats and the owls were
nestled in the tapestry; I stepped softly, not to
awaken the sleeping town: I rebuked a dog, that by
yelping disturbed the sacred stillness; I would not
believe that all was as it seemed--The world was not
dead, but I was mad; I was deprived of sight, hearing,
and sense of touch; I was labouring under the force of
a spell, which permitted me to behold all sights of
earth, except its human inhabitants; they were pursuing
their ordinary labours. Every house had its inmate; but
I could not perceive them. If I could have deluded
myself into a belief of this kind, I should have been
far more satisfied. But my brain, tenacious of its
reason, refused to lend itself to such
imaginations--and though I endeavoured to play the
antic to myself, I knew that I, the offspring of man,
during long years one among many--now remained sole
survivor of my species.
The sun sank behind the western hills; I had fasted
since the preceding evening, but, though faint and
weary, I loathed food, nor ceased, while yet a ray of
light remained, to pace the lonely streets. Night came
on, and sent every living creature but me to the bosom
of its mate. It was my solace, to blunt my mental
agony by personal hardship--of the thousand beds
around, I would not seek the luxury of one; I lay down
on the pavement,--a cold marble step served me for a
pillow--midnight came; and then, though not before,
did my wearied lids shut out the sight of the twinkling
stars, and their reflex on the pavement near. Thus I
passed the second night of my desolation.
[Vol. III]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER X.
I AWOKE in the morning, just as the higher windows of
the lofty houses received the first beams of the rising
sun. The birds were chirping, perched on the windows
sills and deserted thresholds of the doors. I awoke,
and my first thought was, Adrian and Clara are dead. I
no longer shall be hailed by their good-morrow--or pass
the long day in their society. I shall never see them
more. The ocean has robbed me of them--stolen their
hearts of love from their breasts, and given over to
corruption what was dearer to me than light, or life,
or hope.
I was an untaught shepherd-boy, when Adrian deigned to
confer on me his friendship. The best years of my life
had been passed with him. All I had possessed of this
world's goods, of happiness, knowledge, or virtue--I
owed to him. He had, in his person, his intellect, and
rare qualities, given a glory to my life, which without
him it had never known. Beyond all other beings he had
taught me, that goodness, pure and single, can be an
attribute of man. It was a sight for angels to
congregate to behold, to view him lead, govern, and
solace, the last days of the human race.
My lovely Clara also was lost to me--she who last of
the daughters of man, exhibited all those feminine and
maiden virtues, which poets, painters, and sculptors,
have in their various languages strove to express. Yet,
as far as she was concerned, could I lament that she
was removed in early youth from the certain advent of
misery? Pure she was of soul, and all her intents were
holy. But her heart was the throne of love, and the
sensibility her lovely countenance expressed, was the
prophet of many woes, not the less deep and drear,
because she would have for ever concealed them.
These two wondrously endowed beings had been spared
from the universal wreck, to be my companions during
the last year of solitude. I had felt, while they were
with me, all their worth. I was conscious that every
other sentiment, regret, or passion had by degrees
merged into a yearning, clinging affection for them. I
had not forgotten the sweet partner of my youth, mother
of my children, my adored Idris; but I saw at least a
part of her spirit alive again in her brother; and
after, that by Evelyn's death I had lost what most
dearly recalled her to me; I enshrined her memory in
Adrian's form, and endeavoured to confound the two dear
ideas. I sound the depths of my heart, and try in vain
to draw thence the expressions that can typify my love
for these remnants of my race. If regret and sorrow
came athwart me, as well it might in our solitary and
uncertain state, the clear tones of Adrian's voice, and
his fervent look, dissipated the gloom; or I was
cheered unaware by the mild content and sweet
resignation Clara's cloudless brow and deep blue eyes
expressed. They were all to me--the suns of my
benighted soul--repose in my weariness--slumber in my
sleepless woe. Ill, most ill, with disjointed words,
bare and weak, have I expressed the feeling with which
I clung to them. I would have wound myself like ivy
inextricably round them, so that the same blow might
destroy us. I would have entered and been a part of
them--so that
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
even now I had accompanied them to their new and
incommunicable abode.
Never shall I see them more. I am bereft of their dear
converse--bereft of sight of them. I am a tree rent by
lightning; never will the bark close over the bared
fibres--never will their quivering life, torn by the
winds, receive the opiate of a moment's balm. I am
alone in the world--but that expression as yet was less
pregnant with misery, than that Adrian and Clara are
dead.
The tide of thought and feeling rolls on for ever the
same, though the banks and shapes around, which govern
its course, and the reflection in the wave, vary. Thus
the sentiment of immediate loss in some sort decayed,
while that of utter, irremediable loneliness grew on me
with time. Three days I wandered through Ravenna--now
thinking only of the beloved beings who slept in the
oozy caves of ocean--now looking forward on the dread
blank before me; shuddering to make an onward
step--writhing at each change that marked the progress
of the hours.
For three days I wandered to and fro in this melancholy
town. I passed whole hours in going from house to
house, listening whether I could detect some lurking
sign of human existence. Sometimes I rang at a bell; it
tinkled through the vaulted rooms, and silence
succeeded to the sound. I called myself hopeless, yet
still I hoped; and still disappointment ushered in the
hours, intruding the cold, sharp steel which first
pierced me, into the aching festering wound. I fed like
a wild beast, which seizes its food only when stung by
intolerable hunger. I did not change my garb, or seek
the shelter of a roof, during all those days. Burning
heats, nervous irritation, a ceaseless, but confused
flow of thought, sleepless nights, and days instinct
with a frenzy of agitation, possessed me during that
time.
As the fever of my blood encreased, a desire of
wandering came upon me. I remember, that the sun had
set on the fifth day after my wreck, when, without
purpose or aim, I quitted the town of Ravenna. I must
have been very ill. Had I been possessed by more or
less of delirium, that night had surely been my last;
for, as I continued to walk on the banks of the
Mantone, whose upward course I followed, I looked
wistfully on the stream, acknowledging to myself that
its pellucid waves could medicine my woes for ever, and
was unable to account to myself for my tardiness in
seeking their shelter from the poisoned arrows of
thought, that were piercing me through and through. I
walked a considerable part of the night, and excessive
weariness at length conquered my repugnance to the
availing myself of the deserted habitations of my
species. The waning moon, which had just risen, shewed
me a cottage, whose neat entrance and trim garden
reminded me of my own England. I lifted up the latch of
the door and entered. A kitchen first presented itself,
where, guided by the moon beams, I found materials for
striking a light. Within this was a bed room; the couch
was furnished with sheets of snowy whiteness; the wood
piled on the hearth, and an array as for a meal, might
almost have deceived me into the dear belief that I had
here found what I had so long sought--one survivor, a
companion for my loneliness, a solace to my despair. I
steeled myself against the delusion; the room itself
was vacant: it was only prudent, I repeated to myself,
to examine the rest of the house. I fancied that I was
proof against the expectation; yet my heart beat
audibly, as I laid my hand on the lock of each door,
and it sunk again, when I perceived in each the same
vacancy. Dark and silent they were as vaults; so I
returned to the first chamber, wondering what sightless
host had spread the materials for my repast, and my
repose. I drew a chair to the table, and examined what
the viands were of which I was to partake. In truth it
was a death feast! The bread was blue and mouldy; the
cheese lay a heap of dust. I did not dare examine the
other dishes; a troop of ants passed in a double line
across the table cloth; every utensil was covered with
dust, with cobwebs, and myriads of dead flies: these
were objects each and all betokening the fallaciousness
of my expectations. Tears rushed into my eyes; surely
this was a wanton display of the power of the
destroyer. What had I done, that each sensitive nerve
was thus to be anatomized? Yet why complain more now
than ever? This vacant cottage revealed no new
sorrow--the world was empty; mankind was dead--I knew
it well--why quarrel therefore with an acknowledged and
stale truth? Yet, as I said, I had hoped in the very
heart of despair, so that every new impression of the
hard-cut reality on my soul brought with it a fresh
pang, telling me the yet unstudied lesson, that neither
change of place nor time could bring alleviation to my
misery, but that, as I now was, I must continue, day
after day, month after month, year after year, while I
lived. I hardly dared conjecture what space of time
that expression implied. It is true, I was no longer in
the first blush of manhood; neither had I declined far
in the vale of years--men have accounted mine the prime
of life: I had just entered my thirty-seventh year;
every limb was as well knit, every articulation as
true, as when I had acted the shepherd on the hills of
Cumberland; and with these advantages I was to commence
the train of solitary life. Such were the reflections
that ushered in my slumber on that night.
The shelter, however, and less disturbed repose which I
enjoyed, restored me the following morning to a greater
portion of health and strength, than I had experienced
since my fatal shipwreck. Among the stores I had
discovered on searching the cottage the preceding
night, was a quantity of dried grapes; these refreshed
me in the morning, as I left my lodging and proceeded
towards a town which I discerned at no great distance.
As far as I could divine, it must have been Forli. I
entered with pleasure its wide and grassy streets. All,
it is true, pictured the excess of desolation; yet I
loved to find myself in those spots which had been the
abode of my fellow creatures. I delighted to traverse
street after street, to look up at the tall houses, and
repeat to myself, once they contained beings similar to
myself--I was not always the wretch I am now. The wide
square of Forli, the arcade around it, its light and
pleasant aspect cheered me. I was pleased with the
idea, that, if the earth should be again peopled, we,
the lost race, would, in the relics left behind,
present no contemptible exhibition of our powers to the
new comers.
I entered one of the palaces, and opened the door of a
magnificent saloon. I started--I looked again with
renewed wonder. What wild-looking, unkempt, half-naked
savage was that before me? The surprise was momentary.
I perceived that it was I myself whom I beheld in a
large mirror at the end of the hall. No wonder that the
lover of the princely Idris should fail to recognize
himself in the miserable object there pourtrayed. My
tattered dress was that in which I had crawled half
alive from the tempestuous sea. My long and tangled
hair hung in elf locks on my brow--my dark eyes, now
hollow and wild, gleamed from under them--my cheeks
were discoloured by the jaundice, which (the effect of
misery and neglect) suffused my skin, and were half hid
by a beard of many days' growth.
Yet why should I not remain thus, I thought; the world
is dead, and this squalid attire is a fitter mourning
garb than the foppery of a black suit. And thus,
methinks, I should have remained, had not hope, without
which I do not believe man could exist, whispered to
me, that, in such a plight, I should be an object of
fear and aversion to the being, preserved I knew not
where, but I fondly trusted, at length, to be found by
me. Will my readers scorn the vanity, that made me
attire myself with some care, for the sake of this
visionary being? Or will they forgive the freaks of a
half crazed imagination? I can easily forgive
myself--for hope, however vague, was so dear to me, and
a sentiment of pleasure of so rare occurrence, that I
yielded readily to any idea, that cherished the one, or
promised any recurrence of the former to my sorrowing
heart.
After such occupation, I visited every street, alley,
and nook of Forli. These Italian towns presented an
appearance of still greater desolation, than those of
England or France. Plague had appeared here earlier--it
had finished its course, and achieved its work much
sooner than with us. Probably the last summer had found
no human being alive, in all the track included between
the shores of Calabria and the northern Alps. My search
was utterly vain, yet I did not despond. Reason
methought was on my side; and the chances were by no
means contemptible, that there should exist in some
part of Italy a survivor like myself--of a wasted,
depopulate land. As therefore I rambled through the
empty town, I formed my plan for future operations. I
would continue to journey on towards Rome. After I
should have satisfied myself, by a narrow search, that
I left behind no human being in the towns through which
I passed, I would write up in a conspicuous part of
each, with white paint, in three languages, that
"Verney, the last of the race of Englishmen, had taken
up his abode in Rome."
In pursuance of this scheme, I entered a painter's
shop, and procured myself the paint. It is strange that
so trivial an occupation should have consoled, and even
enlivened me. But grief renders one childish, despair
fantastic. To this simple inscription, I merely added
the adjuration, "Friend, come! I wait for
thee!--Deh, vieni! ti aspetto!"
On the following morning, with something like hope for
my companion, I quitted Forli on my way to Rome. Until
now, agonizing retrospect, and dreary prospects for the
future, had stung me when awake, and cradled me to my
repose. Many times I had delivered myself up to the
tyranny of anguish--many times I resolved a speedy end
to my woes; and death by my own hands was a remedy,
whose practicability was even cheering to me. What
could I fear in the other world? If there were an hell,
and I were doomed to it, I should come an adept to the
sufferance of its tortures--the act were easy, the
speedy and certain end of my deplorable tragedy. But
now these thoughts faded before the new born
expectation. I went on my way, not as before, feeling
each hour, each minute, to be an age instinct with
incalculable pain.
As I wandered along the plain, at the foot of the
Appennines--through their vallies, and over their bleak
summits, my path led me through a country which had
been trodden by heroes, visited and admired by
thousands. They had, as a tide, receded, leaving me
blank and bare in the midst. But why complain? Did I
not hope?--so I schooled myself, even after the
enlivening spirit had really deserted me, and thus I
was obliged to call up all the fortitude I could
command, and that was not much, to prevent a recurrence
of that chaotic and intolerable despair, that had
succeeded to the miserable shipwreck, that had
consummated every fear, and dashed to annihilation
every joy.
I rose each day with the morning sun, and left my
desolate inn. As my feet strayed through the unpeopled
country, my thoughts rambled through the universe, and
I was least miserable when I could, absorbed in
reverie, forget the passage of the hours. Each evening,
in spite of weariness, I detested to enter any
dwelling, there to take up my nightly abode--I have
sat, hour after hour, at the door of the cottage I had
selected, unable to lift the latch, and meet face to
face blank desertion within. Many nights, though
autumnal mists were spread around, I passed under an
ilex--many times I have supped on arbutus berries and
chestnuts, making a fire, gypsy-like, on the
ground--because wild natural scenery reminded me less
acutely of my hopeless state of loneliness. I counted
the days, and bore with me a peeled willow-wand, on
which, as well as I could remember, I had notched the
days that had elapsed since my wreck, and each night I
added another unit to the melancholy sum.
I had toiled up a hill which led to Spoleto. Around was
spread a plain, encircled by the chestnut-covered
Appennines. A dark ravine was on one side, spanned by
an aqueduct, whose tall arches were rooted in the dell
below, and attested that man had once deigned to bestow
labour and thought here, to adorn and civilize nature.
Savage, ungrateful nature, which in wild sport defaced
his remains, protruding her easily renewed, and fragile
growth of wild flowers and parasite plants around his
eternal edifices. I sat on a fragment of rock, and
looked round. The sun had bathed in gold the western
atmosphere, and in the east the clouds caught the
radiance, and budded into transient loveliness. It set
on a world that contained me alone for its inhabitant.
I took out my wand--I counted the marks. Twenty-five
were already traced--twenty-five days had already
elapsed, since human voice had gladdened my ears, or
human countenance met my gaze. Twenty-five long, weary
days, succeeded by dark and lonesome nights, had
mingled with foregone years, and had become a part of
the past--the never to be recalled--a real, undeniable
portion of my life--twenty-five long, long days.
Why this was not a month!--Why talk of days--or
weeks--or months--I must grasp years in my imagination,
if I would truly picture the future to myself--three,
five, ten, twenty, fifty anniversaries of that fatal
epoch might elapse--every year containing twelve
months, each of more numerous calculation in a diary,
than the twenty-five days gone by--Can it be? Will it
be?--We had been used to look forward to death
tremulously--wherefore, but because its place was
obscure? But more terrible, and far more obscure, was
the unveiled course of my lone futurity. I broke my
wand; I threw it from me. I needed no recorder of the
inch and barley-corn growth of my life, while my
unquiet thoughts created other divisions, than those
ruled over by the planets--and, in looking back on the
age that had elapsed since I had been alone, I
disdained to give the name of days and hours to the
throes of agony which had in truth portioned it out.
I hid my face in my hands. The twitter of the young
birds going to rest, and their rustling among the
trees, disturbed the still evening-air--the crickets
chirped--the aziolo cooed at intervals. My thoughts had
been of death--these sounds spoke to me of life. I
lifted up my eyes--a bat wheeled round--the sun had
sunk behind the jagged line of mountains, and the paly,
crescent moon was visible, silver white, amidst the
orange sunset, and accompanied by one bright star,
prolonged thus the twilight. A herd of cattle passed
along in the dell below, untended, towards their
watering place--the grass was rustled by a gentle
breeze, and the olive-woods, mellowed into soft masses
by the moonlight, contrasted their sea-green with the
dark chestnut foliage. Yes, this is the earth; there is
no change--no ruin--no rent made in her verdurous
expanse; she continues to wheel round and round, with
alternate night and day, through the sky, though man is
not her adorner or inhabitant. Why could I not forget
myself like one of those animals, and no longer suffer
the wild tumult of misery that I endure? Yet, ah! what
a deadly breach yawns between their state and mine!
Have not they companions? Have not they each their
mate--their cherished young, their home, which, though
unexpressed to us, is, I doubt not, endeared and
enriched, even in their eyes, by the society which kind
nature has created for them? It is I only that am
alone--I, on this little hill top, gazing on plain and
mountain recess--on sky, and its starry population,
listening to every sound of earth, and air, and
murmuring wave,--I only cannot express to any companion
my many thoughts, nor lay my throbbing head on any
loved bosom, nor drink from meeting eyes an
intoxicating dew, that transcends the fabulous nectar
of the gods. Shall I not then complain? Shall I not
curse the murderous engine which has mowed down the
children of men, my brethren? Shall I not bestow a
malediction on every other of nature's offspring, which
dares live and enjoy, while I live and suffer?
Ah, no! I will discipline my sorrowing heart to
sympathy in your joys; I will be happy, because ye are
so. Live on, ye innocents, nature's selected darlings;
I am not much unlike to you. Nerves, pulse, brain,
joint, and flesh, of such am I composed, and ye are
organized by the same laws. I have something beyond
this, but I will call it a defect, not an endowment, if
it leads me to misery, while ye are happy. Just then,
there emerged from a near copse two goats and a little
kid, by the mother's side; they began to browze the
herbage of the hill. I approached near to them, without
their perceiving me; I gathered a handful of fresh
grass, and held it out; the little one nestled close to
its mother, while she timidly withdrew. The male
stepped forward, fixing his eyes on me: I drew near,
still holding out my lure, while he, depressing his
head, rushed at me with his horns. I was a very fool; I
knew it, yet I yielded to my rage. I snatched up a huge
fragment of rock; it would have crushed my rash foe. I
poized it--aimed it--then my heart failed me. I hurled
it wide of the mark; it rolled clattering among the
bushes into dell. My little visitants, all aghast,
galloped back into the covert of the wood; while I, my
very heart bleeding and torn, rushed down the hill, and
by the violence of bodily exertion, sought to escape
from my miserable self.
No, no, I will not live among the wild scenes of
nature, the enemy of all that lives. I will seek the
towns--Rome, the capital of the world, the crown of
man's achievements. Among its storied streets, hallowed
ruins, and stupendous remains of human exertion, I
shall not, as here, find every thing forgetful of man;
trampling on his memory, defacing his works,
proclaiming from hill to hill, and vale to vale,--by
the torrents freed from the boundaries which he
imposed--by the vegetation liberated from the laws
which he enforced--by his habitation abandoned to
mildew and weeds, that his power is lost, his race
annihilated for ever.
I hailed the Tiber, for that was as it were an
unalienable possession of humanity. I hailed the wild
Campagna, for every rood had been trod by man; and its
savage uncultivation, of no recent date, only
proclaimed more distinctly his power, since he had
given an honourable name and sacred title to what else
would have been a worthless, barren track. I entered
Eternal Rome by the Porta del Popolo, and saluted with
awe its time-honoured space. The wide square, the
churches near, the long extent of the Corso, the near
eminence of Trinita de' Monti appeared like fairy work,
they were so silent, so peaceful, and so very fair. It
was evening; and the population of animals which still
existed in this mighty city, had gone to rest; there
was no sound, save the murmur of its many fountains,
whose soft monotony was harmony to my soul. The
knowledge that I was in Rome, soothed me; that wondrous
city, hardly more illustrious for its heroes and sages,
than for the power it exercised over the imaginations
of men. I went to rest that night; the eternal burning
of my heart quenched,--my senses tranquil.
The next morning I eagerly began my rambles in search
of oblivion. I ascended the many terraces of the garden
of the Colonna Palace, under whose roof I had been
sleeping; and passing out from it at its summit, I
found myself on Monte Cavallo. The fountain sparkled in
the sun; the obelisk above pierced the clear dark-blue
air. The statues on each side, the works, as they are
inscribed, of Phidias and Praxiteles, stood in
undiminished grandeur, representing Castor and Pollux,
who with majestic power tamed the rearing animal at
their side. If those illustrious artists had in truth
chiselled these forms, how many passing generations had
their giant proportions outlived! and now they were
viewed by the last of the species they were sculptured
to represent and deify. I had shrunk into
insignificance in my own eyes, as I considered the
multitudinous beings these stone demigods had outlived,
but this after-thought restored me to dignity in my own
conception. The sight of the poetry eternized in these
statues, took the sting from the thought, arraying it
only in poetic ideality.
I repeated to myself,--I am in Rome! I behold, and as
it were, familiarly converse with the wonder of the
world, sovereign mistress of the imagination, majestic
and eternal survivor of millions of generations of
extinct men. I endeavoured to quiet the sorrows of my
aching heart, by even now taking an interest in what in
my youth I had ardently longed to see. Every part of
Rome is replete with relics of ancient times. The
meanest streets are strewed with truncated columns,
broken capitals--Corinthian and Ionic, and sparkling
fragments of granite or porphyry. The walls of the most
penurious dwellings enclose a fluted pillar or
ponderous stone, which once made part of the palace of
the Caesars; and the voice of dead time, in still
vibrations, is breathed from these dumb things,
animated and glorified as they were by man.
I embraced the vast columns of the temple of Jupiter
Stator, which survives in the open space that was the
Forum, and leaning my burning cheek against its cold
durability, I tried to lose the sense of present misery
and present desertion, by recalling to the haunted cell
of my brain vivid memories of times gone by. I rejoiced
at my success, as I figured Camillus, the Gracchi,
Cato, and last the heroes of Tacitus, which shine
meteors of surpassing brightness during the murky night
of the empire;--as the verses of Horace and Virgil, or
the glowing periods of Cicero thronged into the opened
gates of my mind, I felt myself exalted by long
forgotten enthusiasm. I was delighted to know that I
beheld the scene which they beheld--the scene which
their wives and mothers, and crowds of the unnamed
witnessed, while at the same time they honoured,
applauded, or wept for these matchless specimens of
humanity. At length, then, I had found a consolation. I
had not vainly sought the storied precincts of Rome--I
had discovered a medicine for my many and vital wounds.
I sat at the foot of these vast columns. The Coliseum,
whose naked ruin is robed by nature in a verdurous and
glowing veil, lay in the sunlight on my right. Not far
off, to the left, was the Tower of the Capitol.
Triumphal arches, the falling walls of many temples,
strewed the ground at my feet. I strove, I resolved, to
force myself to see the Plebeian multitude and lofty
Patrician forms congregated around; and, as the Diorama
of ages passed across my subdued fancy, they were
replaced by the modern Roman; the Pope, in his white
stole, distributing benedictions to the kneeling
worshippers; the friar in his cowl; the dark-eyed girl,
veiled by her mezzera; the noisy, sun-burnt rustic,
leading his heard of buffaloes and oxen to the Campo
Vaccino. The romance with which, dipping our pencils in
the rainbow hues of sky and transcendent nature, we to
a degree gratuitously endow the Italians, replaced the
solemn grandeur of antiquity. I remembered the dark
monk, and floating figures of "The Italian,"and how my
boyish blood had thrilled at the description. I called
to mind Corinna ascending the Capitol to be crowned,
and, passing from the heroine to the author, reflected
how the Enchantress Spirit of Rome held sovereign sway
over the minds of the imaginative, until it rested on
me--sole remaining spectator of its wonders.
I was long wrapt by such ideas; but the soul wearies of
a pauseless flight; and, stooping from its wheeling
circuits round and round this spot, suddenly it fell
ten thousand fathom deep, into the abyss of the
present--into self-knowledge--into tenfold sadness. I
roused myself--I cast off my waking dreams; and I, who
just now could almost hear the shouts of the Roman
throng, and was hustled by countless multitudes, now
beheld the desart ruins of Rome sleeping under its own
blue sky; the shadows lay tranquilly on the ground;
sheep were grazing untended on the Palatine, and a
buffalo stalked down the Sacred Way that led to the
Capitol. I was alone in the Forum; alone in Rome; alone
in the world. Would not one living man--one companion
in my weary solitude, be worth all the glory and
remembered power of this time-honoured city ? Double
sorrow--sadness, bred in Cimmerian caves, robed my soul
in a mourning garb. The generations I had conjured up
to my fancy, contrasted more strongly with the end of
all--the single point in which, as a pyramid, the
mighty fabric of society had ended, while I, on the
giddy height, saw vacant space around me.
From such vague laments I turned to the contemplation
of the minutiae of my situation. So far, I had not
succeeded in the sole object of my desires, the finding
a companion for my desolation. Yet I did not despair.
It is true that my inscriptions were set up for the
most part, in insignificant towns and villages; yet,
even without these memorials, it was possible that the
person, who like me should find himself alone in a
depopulate land, should, like me, come to Rome. The
more slender my expectation was, the more I chose to
build on it, and to accommodate my actions to this
vague possibility.
It became necessary therefore, that for a time I should
domesticate myself at Rome. It became necessary, that I
should look my disaster in the face--not playing the
school-boy's part of obedience without submission;
enduring life, and yet rebelling against the laws by
which I lived.
Yet how could I resign myself? Without love, without
sympathy, without communion with any, how could I meet
the morning sun, and with it trace its oft repeated
journey to the evening shades? Why did I continue to
live--why not throw off the weary weight of time, and
with my own hand, let out the fluttering prisoner from
my agonized breast?--It was not cowardice that withheld
me; for the true fortitude was to endure; and death had
a soothing sound accompanying it, that would easily
entice me to enter its demesne. But this I would not
do. I had, from the moment I had reasoned on the
subject, instituted myself the subject to fate, and the
servant of necessity, the visible laws of the invisible
God--I believed that my obedience was the result of
sound reasoning, pure feeling, and an exalted sense of
the true excellence and nobility of my nature. Could I
have seen in this empty earth, in the seasons and their
change, the hand of a blind power only, most willingly
would I have placed my head on the sod, and closed my
eyes on its loveliness for ever. But fate had
administered life to me, when the plague had already
seized on its prey--she had dragged me by the hair from
out the strangling waves--By such miracles she had
bought me for her own; I admitted her authority, and
bowed to her decrees. If, after mature consideration,
such was my resolve, it was doubly necessary that I
should not lose the end of life, the improvement of my
faculties, and poison its flow by repinings without
end. Yet how cease to repine, since there was no hand
near to extract the barbed spear that had entered my
heart of hearts? I stretched out my hand, and it
touched none whose sensations were responsive to mine.
I was girded, walled in, vaulted over, by seven-fold
barriers of loneliness. Occupation alone, if I could
deliver myself up to it, would be capable of affording
an opiate to my sleepless sense of woe. Having
determined to make Rome my abode, at least for some
months, I made arrangements for my accommodation--I
selected my home. The Colonna Palace was well adapted
for my purpose. Its grandeur--its treasure of
paintings, its magnificent halls were objects soothing
and even exhilarating.
I found the granaries of Rome well stored with grain,
and particularly with Indian corn; this product
requiring less art in its preparation for food, I
selected as my principal support. I now found the
hardships and lawlessness of my youth turn to account.
A man cannot throw off the habits of sixteen years.
Since that age, it is true, I had lived luxuriously, or
at least surrounded by all the conveniences
civilization afforded. But before that time, I had been
"as uncouth a savage, as the wolf-bred founder of old
Rome"--and now, in Rome itself, robber and shepherd
propensities, similar to those of its founder, were of
advantage to its sole inhabitant. I spent the morning
riding and shooting in the Campagna--I passed long
hours in the various galleries--I gazed at each statue,
and lost myself in a reverie before many a fair Madonna
or beauteous nymph. I haunted the Vatican, and stood
surrounded by marble forms of divine beauty. Each stone
deity was possessed by sacred gladness, and the eternal
fruition of love. They looked on me with unsympathizing
complacency, and often in wild accents I reproached
them for their supreme indifference--for they were
human shapes, the human form divine was manifest in
each fairest limb and lineament. The perfect moulding
brought with it the idea of colour and motion; often,
half in bitter mockery, half in self-delusion, I
clasped their icy proportions, and, coming between
Cupid and his Psyche's lips, pressed the unconceiving
marble.
I endeavoured to read. I visited the libraries of Rome.
I selected a volume, and, choosing some sequestered,
shady nook, on the banks of the Tiber, or opposite the
fair temple in the Borghese Gardens, or under the old
pyramid of Cestius, I endeavoured to conceal me from
myself, and immerse myself in the subject traced on the
pages before me. As if in the same soil you plant
nightshade and a myrtle tree, they will each
appropriate the mould, moisture, and air administered,
for the fostering their several properties--so did my
grief find sustenance, and power of existence, and
growth, in what else had been divine manna, to feed
radiant meditation. Ah! while I streak this paper with
the tale of what my so named occupations were--while I
shape the skeleton of my days--my hand trembles--my
heart pants, and my brain refuses to lend expression,
or phrase, or idea, by which to image forth the veil of
unutterable woe that clothed these bare realities. O,
worn and beating heart, may I dissect thy fibres, and
tell how in each unmitigable misery, sadness dire,
repinings, and despair, existed? May I record my many
ravings--the wild curses I hurled at torturing
nature--and how I have passed days shut out from light
and food--from all except the burning hell alive in my
own bosom?
I was presented, meantime, with one other occupation,
the one best fitted to discipline my melancholy
thoughts, which strayed backwards, over many a ruin,
and through many a flowery glade, even to the mountain
recess, from which in early youth I had first emerged.
During one of my rambles through the habitations of
Rome, I found writing materials on a table in an
author's study. Parts of a manuscript lay scattered
about. It contained a learned disquisition on the
Italian language; one page an unfinished dedication to
posterity, for whose profit the writer had sifted and
selected the niceties of this harmonious language--to
whose everlasting benefit he bequeathed his labours.
I also will write a book, I cried--for whom to
read?--to whom dedicated? And then with silly flourish
(what so capricious and childish as despair?) I wrote,
DEDICATION
TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD.
SHADOWS, ARISE, AND READ YOUR FALL!
BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF THE
LAST MAN.
Yet, will not this world be re-peopled, and the
children of a saved pair of lovers, in some to me
unknown and unattainable seclusion, wandering to these
prodigious relics of the ante-pestilential race, seek
to learn how beings so wondrous in their achievements,
with imaginations infinite, and powers godlike, had
departed from their home to an unknown country?
I will write and leave in this most ancient city, this
"world's sole monument," a record of these things. I
will leave a monument of the existence of Verney, the
Last Man. At first I thought only to speak of plague,
of death, and last, of desertion; but I lingered fondly
on my early years, and recorded with sacred zeal the
virtues of my companions. They have been with me during
the fulfilment of my task. I have brought it to an
end--I lift my eyes from my paper--again they are lost
to me. Again I feel that I am alone.
A year has passed since I have been thus occupied. The
seasons have made their wonted round, and decked this
eternal city in a changeful robe of surpassing beauty.
A year has passed; and I no longer guess at my state or
my prospects--loneliness is my familiar, sorrow my
inseparable companion. I have endeavoured to brave the
storm--I have endeavoured to school myself to
fortitude--I have sought to imbue myself with the
lessons of wisdom. It will not do. My hair has become
nearly grey--my voice, unused now to utter sound, comes
strangely on my ears. My person, with its human powers
and features, seem to me a monstrous excrescence of
nature. How express in human language a woe human being
until this hour never knew! How give intelligible
expression to a pang none but I could ever
understand!--No one has entered Rome. None will ever
come. I smile bitterly at the delusion I have so long
nourished, and still more, when I reflect that I have
exchanged it for another as delusive, as false, but to
which I now cling with the same fond trust.
Winter has come again; and the gardens of Rome have
lost their leaves--the sharp air comes over the
Campagna, and has driven its brute inhabitants to take
up their abode in the many dwellings of the deserted
city--frost has suspended the gushing fountains--and
Trevi has stilled her eternal music. I had made a rough
calculation, aided by the stars, by which I endeavoured
to ascertain the first day of the new year. In the old
out-worn age, the Sovereign Pontiff was used to go in
solemn pomp, and mark the renewal of the year by
driving a nail in the gate of the temple of Janus. On
that day I ascended St. Peter's, and carved on its
topmost stone the aera 2100, last year of the world!
My only companion was a dog, a shaggy fellow, half
water and half shepherd's dog, whom I found tending
sheep in the Campagna. His master was dead, but
nevertheless he continued fulfilling his duties in
expectation of his return. If a sheep strayed from the
rest, he forced it to return to the flock, and
sedulously kept off every intruder. Riding in the
Campagna I had come upon his sheep-walk, and for some
time observed his repetition of lessons learned from
man, now useless, though unforgotten. His delight was
excessive when he saw me. He sprung up to my knees; he
capered round and round, wagging his tail, with the
short, quick bark of pleasure: he left his fold to
follow me, and from that day has never neglected to
watch by and attend on me, shewing boisterous gratitude
whenever I caressed or talked to him. His pattering
steps and mine alone were heard, when we entered the
magnificent extent of nave and aisle of St. Peter's. We
ascended the myriad steps together, when on the summit
I achieved my design, and in rough figures noted the
date of the last year. I then turned to gaze on the
country, and to take leave of Rome. I had long
determined to quit it, and I now formed the plan I
would adopt for my future career, after I had left this
magnificent abode.
A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer, and that I
would become. A hope of amelioration always attends on
change of place, which would even lighten the burthen
of my life. I had been a fool to remain in Rome all
this time: Rome noted for Malaria, the famous caterer
for death. But it was still possible, that, could I
visit the whole extent of earth, I should find in some
part of the wide extent a survivor. Methought the
sea-side was the most probable retreat to be chosen by
such a one. If left alone in an inland district, still
they could not continue in the spot where their last
hopes had been extinguished; they would journey on,
like me, in search of a partner for their solitude,
till the watery barrier stopped their further progress.
To that water--cause of my woes, perhaps now to be
their cure, I would betake myself. Farewell,
Italy!--farewell, thou ornament of the world, matchless
Rome, the retreat of the solitary one during long
months!--to civilized life--to the settled home and
succession of monotonous days, farewell! Peril will now
be mine; and I hail her as a friend--death will
perpetually cross my path, and I will meet him as a
benefactor; hardship, inclement weather, and dangerous
tempests will be my sworn mates. Ye spirits of storm,
receive me! ye powers of destruction, open wide your
arms, and clasp me for ever! if a kinder power have not
decreed another end, so that after long endurance I may
reap my reward, and again feel my heart beat near the
heart of another like to me.
Tiber, the road which is spread by nature's own hand,
threading her continent, was at my feet, and many a
boat was tethered to the banks. I would with a few
books, provisions, and my dog, embark in one of these
and float down the current of the stream into the sea;
and then, keeping near land, I would coast the
beauteous shores and sunny promontories of the blue
Mediterranean, pass Naples, along Calabria, and would
dare the twin perils of Scylla and Charybdis; then,
with fearless aim, (for what had I to lose?) skim
ocean's surface towards Malta and the further Cyclades.
I would avoid Constantinople, the sight of whose
well-known towers and inlets belonged to another state
of existence from my present one; I would coast Asia
Minor, and Syria, and, passing the seven-mouthed Nile,
steer northward again, till losing sight of forgotten
Carthage and deserted Lybia, I should reach the pillars
of Hercules. And then--no matter where--the oozy caves,
and soundless depths of ocean may be my dwelling,
before I accomplish this long-drawn voyage, or the
arrow of disease find my heart as I float singly on the
weltering Mediterranean; or, in some place I touch at,
I may find what I seek--a companion; or if this may not
be--to endless time, decrepid and grey headed--youth
already in the grave with those I love--the lone
wanderer will still unfurl his sail, and clasp the
tiller--and, still obeying the breezes of heaven, for
ever round another and another promontory, anchoring in
another and another bay, still ploughing seedless
ocean, leaving behind the verdant land of native
Europe, adown the tawny shore of Africa, having
weathered the fierce seas of the Cape, I may moor my
worn skiff in a creek, shaded by spicy groves of the
odorous islands of the far Indian ocean.
These are wild dreams. Yet since, now a week ago, they
came on me, as I stood on the height of St. Peter's,
they have ruled my imagination. I have chosen my boat,
and laid in my scant stores. I have selected a few
books; the principal are Homer and Shakespeare--But the
libraries of the world are thrown open to me--and in
any port I can renew my stock. I form no expectation of
alteration for the better; but the monotonous present
is intolerable to me. Neither hope nor joy are my
pilots--restless despair and fierce desire of change
lead me on. I long to grapple with danger, to be
excited by fear, to have some task, however slight or
voluntary, for each day's fulfilment. I shall witness
all the variety of appearance, that the elements can
assume--I shall read fair augury in the rainbow--menace
in the cloud--some lesson or record dear to my heart in
everything. Thus around the shores of deserted earth,
while the sun is high, and the moon waxes or wanes,
angels, the spirits of the dead, and the ever-open eye
of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted
with Verney--the LAST MAN.
THE END.