Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                
Scribd Logo
Upload

Welcome to Scribd!

  • 287 views

    Mary Shelley - The Last Man

    Uploaded by

    Cem Avci
    The Last Man is an apocalyptic, dystopian science fiction novel by Mary Shelley, first published in 1826. The narrative concerns Europe in the late 21st century, ravaged by a mysterious plague pandemic that rapidly sweeps across the entire globe, ultimately resulting in the near-extinction of humanity. It also includes discussion of the British state as a republic, for which Shelley sat in meetings of the House of Commons to gain insight to the governmental system of the Romantic era.

    Copyright:

    Public Domain
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Mary Shelley - The Last Man

    Uploaded by

    Cem Avci
    287 views1,062 pages
    The Last Man is an apocalyptic, dystopian science fiction novel by Mary Shelley, first published in 1826. The narrative concerns Europe in the late 21st century, ravaged by a mysterious plague pandemic that rapidly sweeps across the entire globe, ultimately resulting in the near-extinction of humanity. It also includes discussion of the British state as a republic, for which Shelley sat in meetings of the House of Commons to gain insight to the governmental system of the Romantic era.

    Original Title

    Mary Shelley • the Last Man

    Copyright

    © Public Domain

    Available Formats

    PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Did you find this document useful?

    Is this content inappropriate?

    The Last Man is an apocalyptic, dystopian science fiction novel by Mary Shelley, first published in 1826. The narrative concerns Europe in the late 21st century, ravaged by a mysterious plague pandemic that rapidly sweeps across the entire globe, ultimately resulting in the near-extinction of humanity. It also includes discussion of the British state as a republic, for which Shelley sat in meetings of the House of Commons to gain insight to the governmental system of the Romantic era.

    Copyright:

    Public Domain
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    287 views1,062 pages

    Mary Shelley - The Last Man

    Uploaded by

    Cem Avci
    The Last Man is an apocalyptic, dystopian science fiction novel by Mary Shelley, first published in 1826. The narrative concerns Europe in the late 21st century, ravaged by a mysterious plague pandemic that rapidly sweeps across the entire globe, ultimately resulting in the near-extinction of humanity. It also includes discussion of the British state as a republic, for which Shelley sat in meetings of the House of Commons to gain insight to the governmental system of the Romantic era.

    Copyright:

    Public Domain
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    You are on page 1of 1062

    :?J;~:J .

    ~C
    t. /) // .

    [ J! RVl--<-e- h--/l-'2- {'?<---


    ~ H"'jv7 - ~/;t4h/~5 f
    f~j ~~ L-- »/7 p;v<-v ;' ~ dt./~L/£~~
    /,f- • ~_~!J ","_, r "p-r-, ~ t:: , ~
    //1 . (/ .
    ~<-ft-r/r ~d /i(fi.~~. ~~/M£-~J:?:.

    :f~ z-~ ~~7 L..? C ~/".?--Z -U. 9 y~


    ~ ~
    / t/ yr/' f )C-
    '/';?, C'f- Y C
    "I ~/T/- A'
    /; /1:( ~~d;
    I £

    t
    t
    1?2 l- r ~ p;(cy //Z-;-/ a---iJ ~, ;«

    /,1,,- (:c; 'j/-< -- '7?,..-r:1 H 0, ~ /;;'

    j{:OL- ±- /fC:: hXz) £

    t:~:~( ~ CL I JI Jk<- ~ ~,,~c- /:


    /:// /7 ')- ,
    / "'- F~;!/" r7.?L~ r /~ _Z -z

    C
    17;/
    ,/;, A £~'
    //
    ?'t--Z ~ rJ
    ,;
    ,o.,-/}
    ft
    ~/7~
    _

    ~l C-"L ? l <-<
    '~ J 0a~f
    t/l ~ 9-
    , t "'; 1 PJ1bJ - 1 ~4Y~ -n--- ' 'l% , 4/r 'j
    ~;P# fh~ +/,Yh~ ~ #~/'
    --fL ..L
    J
    U--.7 C-~~~ -? t. /J- _ ZC~ ~/9 ,

    ~r ~ ~~~; kY~~/~-'-'
    ~~- ;//(~ ?/jt:J
    ;J (/ '
    Jl- (. CL.~ .r 2-

    f??t::>'J
    /U£L-;#
    l---,y -/"/'/. ~·lC- ~C
    ij
    f
    ~
    ]J C'/)--z~?~# --- .-<

    ~L"/7-!,J/Y/
    - I
    THE LAST MAN.

    BV

    TilE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    Let no mUll<!4'k
    Htnctfortb to ~ forftold "'bat ,ban befall
    IIi .. or lib cIlI14"D.
    Marolt,

    VOL. I.

    SECOND EDITION. .

    LONDON :
    HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
    P -,5 L.

    ~ , I

    j- -~.. I

    L
    1"(;

    "
    INTRODUCTION.

    I VISITED Naples in the yenr 1818. On the


    8th of December of that year, my companion
    a.nd I crossed the Bay, to visit thl! ~nti q uitie~
    which are scattered on the shores of Baire. The
    translucent and shining waters of the calm sea
    covered fragments of old Roman vilins , which
    WCI'C interlaced by sea.weed, and received dia-
    mond tints from the chequcringof the slIn-beams;
    tht! blue and pellucid clement was such as Gala-
    tea might have skimmed in her car of mother
    of pearl; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile,
    h:1\'C chosen as the path of her magic ship.
    'fhough it was winter, the atmosphere seemed
    j, 1NTRODUCTION.

    more appropriate to early spring; and it., genial


    warmth contributed to inspire those sensations
    of placid d(>light, which nrc the portion oC eyery
    traveller, as be lingers, loath to quit the tran4
    quit bays and radiant promontories of Daire.
    'Ve visited the so called Elysian Fielus and
    A vernus; and wandered through various ruined
    temples, baths, and c1as.~c spots; at length we
    entered the gloomy cavern of the Cumrean Sibyl.
    Our Lazzeroni bore flaring torcbes, which shone
    rctI, and almost dusky, in the murky subterra-
    ncan pass.ages, whose darkness thintily surround-
    ing them, seemed eager to imbibe morc and more
    of the element of light. 'Ve passed by a natural
    arclnvay, leading to a second gallery, nnd
    enquired, if we could not enter there also. The
    guides pointed to the rcflt.'Ction of their torches
    on the waler 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,
    :md we insisted upon attempting the passage,
    As is usually the case in the prosecution of such
    enterprizcs, the difficulties decreased nn examiM-
    lion. 'Ve found, on each side of the humid
    pathway, "dry land for the sole of the foot,"
    INTRODUCTION. v

    ,At length we arrived at a large, desert, da.rk


    cavern, whieh the Lazzeroni assured us~ was the
    Sibyl's Cave. 'Ve werc sufficiently disappointed
    - Y ct we examined it with care, as if its blank,
    rocky walls could stilllJear trace of celcstial visi.
    umt. Ou one side was a small opening. 'Vhi.
    thcr docs this lead? we asked: can we entcr
    herc?-U Questa poi, 1Io,"-said the wild look.
    ing su\'agc, who held the torch; "you can
    advance but a short distance, nnd nobody visits
    it."
    H Ncvertheless, I will try it," said my com·

    panion; Ie it may lead to the real c(wern. Shall


    I go alone, or will you accompany me ?'.
    I signified my readiness to proceed, but our
    guides protested against such a measure. 'V ith
    great ,·olubi!ity, in their nativc Neapolitan dia.
    lcct, with which we were not ,'ery familiar, they
    toM us that there were spectres, that the roof
    would fall in, that it was too ourrow to ndmit tiS,
    that there was a deep hole within, filled with
    water, and we might be drowned. My friend
    shortened the harangue, by taking the 1nnn's
    torch from him; and we proceeded alont!.
    1.'he p.'lSSage, which at first scarcely admitted
    us, quickly grew narrower and 10'Ter; we were ft.1.
    a 3
    INTRODUCTION.

    most bcntdouble; yet still we persisted in making


    our way through it A t 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 nonc--our only resource was to re.
    turn as we came. 'Vegropcd round the widened
    space to find the entrance, and after a time fan-
    cied that we had succeeded. This proved
    however to be a second passage, which evidently
    ascended. It tenninated like the (ormer; though
    something approaching to a ray, we could not
    tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the
    spnce. Dy degrees. ollr eyes grew somewhat
    accustomed to this dimness, nnd we perceived that
    there was no direct passage leading us further;
    but thllt it was possible to climb Olle side or 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 illuminatioll, and this
    led to another alcent like the former.
    After a succession of these, which our resolu-
    INTRODUCrlON. ,'U

    lion alone permitted us to surmount, we arrivecl


    at a wide cavern with an arched dome_like roof.
    An aperture in the midst let in the light , of
    hean'n; but this was ov('rgrown with brambles
    and underwoorl, whieh acted as a veil, obscuring
    the day, anfl giving a solemn religious hue to
    the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly
    circular. with a raised scat of stone, about the
    size of a Grecian couch, at one end. 'l'he only
    sign that life had been here, was the perfect
    snow-white skeleton of a goat, whieh had proba-
    bly not perceived the opening as it gra:t.l:d 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 hun-
    dred summers.
    'The rest of tIle furniture of the ctwern con-
    sisted of piles of leaves, fragments of bark, and
    a. white filmy substance, resembling the inner p.'lrt
    of the green hood which shelters the grain of the
    u'nripe Indian corn. ' Ve were fatigul-d by our
    struggles to attain this point, anel scated our-
    selves on the rocky couch, while the sounds oC
    tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of shepherd-boy,
    reached llS from above.
    viii JNTnODUCTIOS.

    At length my friend, who had taken up some


    of the leaves strewed about, exclaimed, U This
    is the Sibyl's cave; these nrc Sibylline leaves.'
    On examination, we found that all the leaVell,
    bark, and other substances, were traced with
    written characters. 'Vhat np.: cared to us more
    astonishing, was that these writings were ex-
    pressed in variolls languages: some unknown
    to my companion, ancient Challlee, and Egyp-
    tian hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramid!'.
    Stranger still, some were in modern dialecu,
    English and Italian. 'Ve 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, bllt 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 ch::l.Ilge was
    not wonderful, though the trnces of ruin were
    effaced by time; and we probably owed the
    preservation oftJlese leaves, to the accident which
    had closed the mouth of the cavern, and the
    swift-growing vegc~1tion which had rendered its
    INTRODUCTION.

    sole opening impervious to the storm. 'Ve made


    :\ hasty sck'Ction of such of the leavcs, whose
    writing one at least of us could understand; and
    theil, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to
    the dim hypMhric cavern, and after much diffi_
    clIh.y succeeded in rejoining our guides.
    During our stay at Naples, we often returned
    to this cave, sometimes alone, skimming the sun-
    lit sen, and each time added to our store. Since
    that period, whenever the world's circumstance
    has not imperiously called me away, or the
    temller of my mind impeded such sttldy~ I have
    l>ccn employed in deciphering these sacred re_
    mains. Their meaning, wondrous and elo-
    quent, has oftell repaid my toil, soothing me in
    sorrow, ~nd exciting my imagination to daring
    flights, through the immensity of nature and the
    mind of man. For awhile my labours were not
    iOlitary; but that time is gone; and, with the
    liil'lcctcd and matchless companion of my toils,
    their dearest reward is also lost to me-

    Di mie teneri frondi IIllro lavoro


    Credea mostrarte; e (Iual fero pilmtta
    Xe' Il,idi{) insieme, 0 mio nobil tesoro?

    I present the public with my latest discoveries


    ISTRODllCTION.

    in the slight Sibylline pages. Scalt~rcd and


    unconnected as they were) I have been obliged
    to add links, and model the work into a con-
    lristent form. Dut the main substance rests on
    the truths containoo in these poetic rhapsodit's,
    and the divine intuition which the Cumrean
    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, ob3cure
    and chaotic as they arc, they owe their prc-
    iCflt form to mc, their deciphert'l'. As if we
    should give to another artist, the painted
    fragments which form the mosaic copy of Ita-
    phael's Transfiguration in St. Peter's; he would
    put them together in II {Onll, whose mode would
    be fashioned by his own peculiar mind and
    talent. Doubtless the leaves of the Cmnrenn
    Sibyl have suffered distortion and diminution of
    interest and excellence in my hands. My only
    e~cuse for thus transforming them, is that they
    were unintelligible in their pristine condition.
    l\Iy labours ha\"e cheered long hours of soli-
    tude, and taken me out of a world, which has
    8,'ertoo its once benignant face from me, to aile-
    glowing with imngination and power. 'ViII
    •
    IxrUOOUCTIO:s'. XI

    my readcrs ask how I could find solace from the


    narration of mi9cry and woeful change ? Thi~
    liS one of the mysteries of our natu rc, which
    holds full sway O\'cr me, and from whose influ-
    cucc 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 faith-
    fully transcribed from my materials. Yet such
    is human nature, that the excitemcnt 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 sorruws and endless regrets, by clothing these
    fictitious oncs in that ideality, which takes the
    mortal sting from pain.
    I hardly know whether this apology is neces-
    sary. For the merits of my adaptation nnel
    translation must decide how far I have well be-
    stowed my time and imperfect powers, in giving
    form and substance to the frail and attenuated
    Leaws of the Sibyl.
    THE L AS T l\I AN.

    CHAPTER J.

    I All the nalh·c of Ll sca.-surroundcd. nook, a


    doud-enshadowro land, which, when the surface
    oCthe globe, with its shoreless ocean and h'ackless
    continents, presents itself to my mind, nppears
    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 a.1one was the creator of
    aU that was good or grent to man, and that
    YOL.I.

    /
    D
    THE L.\ST MAX.

    Nature herself was only his first minister. Eng-


    land, 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, "Then I
    stood on my native l1ills, and saw plain and
    mountain sU'etch out to the utmost limits of my
    l'ision, speckled by the dwellings of my country-
    men, 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 under5tanding aD effort.
    My fortunes have been, from the beginning,
    an exemplification of the power that mutability
    may possess over the vaned tenor of man's life.
    'Vith regard to myself, thi!; came almost by
    inheritance, l\j y fathcl' was one of those men
    on whom nature had bestowed to pl'Odigality
    thc envied gifts of wit and imngination, and
    then left his b.'U'k of life to be impelled by these
    THE LAST MAN. 3

    winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or


    judgment as the pilot for the voyage. lIis ex-
    traction was obscure; but ci rcumstances brought
    him cady 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 YOUD1, he was adored by the
    high-bred triflcrs of the uay, nor least by the
    youthful sovereign, who escaped from the ill-
    trigues of party, and tllC al1.1uous dutics of kingly
    business, to find never_failing amusement and
    exhilaration of spirit in his society. My father's
    .impulses, never under his own controui, per-
    petually led him into difficulties from which his
    ingenuity alone could extricate him j and the
    accumulating pile of'" debts of honour and of
    trade, which would have bent to earth any
    uther, was supported by him with a light spirit
    and lamcless hilarity j while his company waS
    so necessary at the tables and assemblics of the
    rich, that his derelictions were considered ,'e_
    .2
    4 THE LAST iIAN.

    Ilia I, and he himself received with intoxicating


    flattery.
    This kind of popularity, like elo'cry other, is
    evanescent: and the difficultiEs of every kind
    with which he had to contend, increased in II

    frightful ratio compared with his small means


    of extricating himself. At slich times the king,
    in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his
    relief, and then kindly take his fri end to task;
    my father gave the best promises for amend-
    ment, but his social dispoi'ition. 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. 'Vilh the quick sensibi1ity
    p('Culiar to his tempcrnl.lCllt, he perceived his
    •
    power in the brilliant circle to be on the wane.
    The king married; and the haughty pl'inccss
    of Austria, who became, as queen of England,
    the head of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on
    his defects, and wilh COli tempt on the affection
    her royal husband entertained for him. My
    'tHE LAST AlAN.

    father felt that his fall was ncar; but so far


    from profiting by this last cnlm before the
    storm to save himself, he sought to forget nnti-
    cipated evil by making still greater sacrifices to
    the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter
    of his destiny.
    The king, who was n. man of excellent di~

    positions, but easily led, had now become a


    willin€? disciple of his imperious consort. He
    was induced to look with extreme disapproba,
    tion, and at last with distaste~ on my father's
    imprudence and follies. It is true that his pre_
    sence dissipated these clouds; his warm-hearted
    frankness, brilliant sallies~ and confiding de-
    meanour were irresistible: it was only when at a
    distance, while still renewed tales of his erro!"s
    were poured into his royal friend's car, that he
    lost his influence. The quccn's dextrous manage.
    ment was employed to prolong these absences,
    and gather together accusations. At length the
    king was brought to see in him a saurce of per-
    petual disquiet, knowing that he should pay for
    6 TIIF. LAST llAN.

    the short-lived pleasure of his society by tediOlis


    homilies, and more painful narrations of excesses,
    the truth of which he could not disprove. The
    result wns, that he would make onc more attempt
    to reclaim him, and in case of ill success, cast
    him off' for ever.
    Such n scene must have been olle 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 l1i5 great powers on a worthy field, in
    which he, his sovereign. would be his prop, his
    stay, n!lil his pioneer. My father felt this kind-
    ness; for a moment ambitious dreams Rooted
    before him j and he thought that it would be
    well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler
    duties. '\Tith sincerity and fervour he gave the
    required promise: as a pledge of continued fa-
    TilE LAST MAN . 7
    YOUf, he rccei,'ed from his royal master a sum
    of money to defmy pressing debts, and enable
    him to enter under good auspices his new ca·
    reel'. That ,'ery night, willie yet full of grati-
    tude and good resolves, this whole sum, and its
    amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table.
    In his dcsirc to repair his first losses, my father
    risked double Slakes, 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 com-
    panion, buried himself in solitude among the
    hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his
    bon mots, the record of his personal attractions,
    fascinating manncrs, and social talents, were
    long I'CmCmLcl'oo and rcpeated from mouth to
    mouth. A sk where now was this favourite of
    fashion, this companion of the noble, this ex-
    celling beam, which gilt with alien splendouf
    the assemblies of the courtly and the gay-you
    he:u-d that he was under a cloud, a lost man;
    8 THE LAST MAN.

    not one thought it belonged to him to Tf'pay


    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
    l'epeat 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. H e 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 CSl.n it afford astonishment, that the late
    idol of high.brcd beauty should, even in a faHen
    state, appear a being of an elevated and won.
    drous nature to the lowly cottage-.girl. The
    att..'lchment between th em led. to the ill-fated
    marriage, of which I was the offspring.
    TliE LAST ItAN. 9
    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 sup--
    port 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 dcsoJnte situation in which his
    wife and children would be left. His last effort
    was a letter to the king, full of touching cia.
    quencc, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant
    spirit which was an integral part of him. He
    bequeathed his widow and orphans to the friend.
    ship of his royal master, and felt AAlisfied that,
    by this means, their prosperity was better assured
    in his death than in his life. This letter was en.
    closed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did nOl
    .3
    10 TilE LAST MAN.

    doubt, would perform the last and inexpensive


    office of placing it in the king's own band.
    He died in debt, and his little property was
    seized immediately by his creditors. My mo-
    ther, pennyless and bllrthened with two children,
    wailed week after week, and month after month,
    in sickening expectation of a reply, which never
    came. She had no experience beyond her fa-
    ther's cottage; and the mansion of the lord of
    the mallor was the chicfest type of grandeur she
    could conceive. During my father's life, she had
    been made familiar with tlle name of royalty
    and the courtly circle; but such things, ill ac-
    cording with her personal experience, appeared,
    aftef the loss of him who gave substance and
    reality to them, vague and fantastical. If,
    under any circumstances, she could have nc-
    quired sufficicnt courage to address the Doble
    persons mentioned by her husband, the ill suc-
    cess of his own application caused her to banish
    the idea. She saw therefore 110 escape from
    TIlE LAST )tAN. 11

    dire pClltlt'y : perpetual care, joined to &Ol'row


    fot' the loss of the wondrous being, whom she
    continued to contemplate with ardent admira-
    tion, hard labour, and naturally delicate health,
    at length rc1eased her from the snd 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: thcy had no onc rela-
    tion to take them by the hand; they werc out_
    Ctlsts, paupers, ullfriendcd beings, to whom the
    most scanty pittance wns a matter of fa,'our, nnd
    who were treated merely as children of peasants,
    yet poorer tlmn the poorest, who, dying, had
    left them, a thankless bequest, to the clo~­
    handed charity of the lanel.
    I, the elder of the two, was Ih-e years old
    when my mother died. A remembrance of the
    discourses of my parents, and lhe communica-
    tions which my mother ende8"oured to impress
    upon me concerning my father's friend s, in slight
    l~ . TUE LAST HAN.

    hope that I might one day derive benefit from


    the knowledge, floated like an indistinct dream
    through my brain. I conceived that I was dif-
    ferent and superior to my protectors and com-
    panions, 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 S(:rve 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 farm er; and with crook in hand,
    my dog at my side, I shepherded a numerous
    Hock on the near uplands. I cannot say much
    in praise of such a life; and its pains far ex-
    ceeded its pleasures. "There was freedom in it,
    a companionship with nature, and a reckless
    loneliness; but these, romantic as they werc,
    did not accord with thc love of action and desire
    of human sympathy, chnr8ctel'istic of youth.
    Neither the care of my flock, nOlO the change of
    seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager spirit;
    THE LAST llANo 13

    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, whil e
    our flocks were spread over the pastures, we
    schemed and executed many a. mischievous
    prank, which drew on us the anger and re.-
    venge of the rustics. I was the lender and pro-
    tector of my comrades, and as I became di~

    tinguished among them, their misdeeds were.


    usually visited lipan me. Dut while I endured
    pUllisbment 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 rug-
    ged, but finn. The appetite for admiration and
    small capacity for self_controul whirh I in-
    herited from my father, nursed by adversity,
    mad,e me daring and reckle!\s. I was rough as
    the elements, and unlearned as the animals I
    tended. I often compared myself to them, and
    14 THE r.AST MAS.

    finding that my chief superiority consisted in


    power, I soon persuaded myself that it was in
    power only that I was inferior to the chicfest
    potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in re-
    fined philosophy, and pursued by a restless
    feeling of degradation from my true station in
    society, I wandered among the hills of civilized
    England ns uncouth a sav~o-e as the wolf.brro
    founder of old Rome. I owned but onc law, it
    was that of the strongest, and my greatest deed
    of virtue was nevcr to submit.
    Y ct let me a little retract from this sentence
    I have passed on myself. My mother, when
    dying, had, in addition to her other half.for-
    gouen and misapplied lessons, committed, with
    solemn exhortation, hel' other child to my fnt-
    lernal guardianship; and this one duty I per_
    fonned to the best of my ability, with all the
    zeal and affection of which my nature wns ca-
    pable. 1\1y sister was three years younger than
    myself j I had nursed her as an infant, and
    when the difference of our sexes, by giving us
    THE LAST ll.n:. 15

    various occupations, in a gl'cat mcasure dividctl


    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 couragp. obtained for me a kind of rcspect-
    fullwersion, her youth and sex, since they did
    not excite tenderness, by pl'o\·ing her to be
    weak, were the causes of numberless mortifica-
    tions 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, in_
    herited much of thc peculiar disposition of our
    father. Her countenance was all expression;
    her eyes werc not dark, but impenetrably deep;
    you sccmcd to discover space after space in
    their intellectual glance. and to feel that the
    soul which was their soul, com#prehended an
    universe of thought in its ken. She was pal('
    ' and fail', and her golden hair clustered on her
    temples, contrasting its rieh hue with the living

    •
    16 THE LAST WAN.

    marble beneath. Her coarse peasant. dress,


    little consonant apparently with the refinement
    of feeling which her face expres5ed, 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 lllind that
    beamed in her countenancc.
    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 di sposition.
    Her manners were cold and repulsive. If she
    had been nurtured by thO!'c who had regarded
    her with affection, she might have been dif-
    ferent; but unloved and neglected, she repaid
    want of kindness with distrust and siJencc, She
    wns submissive to those who held authority o"er
    her, but a perpetual dolta d welt on her brow;
    she looked as if she expected enmity from evcry
    one who approached her, ,and her actions were
    TnE J••\ST lIAN. 17

    instigated by the same feeling. All the time


    she could command she spent in solitude. She
    would ramble to the most unfrcquentd placl!s,
    and scale dnngerous heights, that in those un_
    visited spots she might wrnp herself in loneli_
    ness. Often she passed whole hours walking
    up and down the paths of the woOOs ; she woye
    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 pausrd, threw flowers or peb-
    bles into the wl\ters,wntching how' those swam
    an"d these sank; ur she would set aflont boats
    fonned of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather
    for a sail, and intensely watch the nnvigation of
    her craft among the rapids and shallows of the
    brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a
    thousand combinations; she dreamt" of moving
    nccidcnts by flood nnd field"-she lost herself
    delightedly in these self-created wanderings, and
    returned with unwilling spirit to the dull detnil
    of common life.
    1M TilE LAST 11A~'.

    Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excel.


    Icncics, and all that was good in her seemed
    about to perish from want of tl,e genial dew of
    affection. She had not even the sallie ad van-
    tage 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 in-
    heritance the delicate framework of her mind
    and person was adapted, she would ha\'c been
    the o~jecl ulmost 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; ar.
    tifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes
    of her nalure; her countenance, when enlight.
    ened by amiable feeling, might have belonged
    to a queen of nations; her eyes were bright; her
    look fearless.
    Although by our situation and dispositions
    TilE LAST }l ..n'.
    we were almost equally cut off from the ullua)
    fonns of socia.l intercourse, we formed a strong
    contrast to each other. I o.lways requited the
    stimulants of companionship and applause. Per-
    dita was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstand-
    ing my lawless habits, my disposition wns socia-
    ble, hers recluse. My life was·spent among
    tangible realities, hers was a dream. I might
    be said even to love my enemies, since by ex-
    citing me they in a sort bestowed happiness
    upon me; Perdita almost disliked her friends,
    for they interlcrcd with her visionary moods.
    All my feelings, even of exultation and triumph,
    were changed to bitterness, if unpnrticipatcd;
    Perdita, cyen In joy, fled to 10neJines~J 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 tenderncss on the look and voice of her
    friend, while her demeanour expressed the
    coldest rescrvf'. A sensation with her became a
    sentiment, and she never .spoke until she had
    20 TllE LAST MAN.

    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 j 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 UIs-
    water; a beech wood stretched up the hill be-
    hind, and a purling brook gently fnlling from
    the acclivity ran through poplar_shaded banks
    into the lake. I lived WitJl 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. Defore 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
    THE LAST llAN' o ~l

    dog watched the sheep as [ slipped away to the


    rendez\'ous of my comrades, (lnd thence to the
    accomplishment of our schemes. At noon we
    mel again, nnd we threw away in contempt our
    peasant fare, as we built our fire-place nnd
    kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the
    game stolen from the neighbouring prcscn'cs.
    Then came the true of hnir. breadth escapes,
    oombats with dogs, ambush 'and flight, as
    gipsey.like we encompassed our pot. The
    search after n stmy lamb, or the del' ices by
    \\ hich we dude or end~voured to dude punish.
    ment, filled up the hours of afternoon; in the
    evening my flock went to its fold, and I to my
    sisler.
    It was seldom indeed that we cscarro, to usc
    an old.fashioned phrase, scot free. Our dainty
    f?rc was often exchanged for blows nnd impri-
    ~nlllent. Once, when thirteen yeau of age,
    was ~ent for a month to the COllllty jail.
    came out, my morals unimpro\'cd, my hatred to
    my oppresc:ors ellcreast..'d tenfold. Dread aud
    THE LAST )'IAN,

    water did not tame my blood, nor solitary


    confinement inspire me with gentlc thoughts.
    I was angry, impatient, miserable; my only
    happy hours were those during which I devised
    schemes of revenbt'C; these were perfected in my
    forced solitude, so that during tIle whole of the
    following season, and I was freed early in Sep-
    tember, I never failed to provide excellent and
    plenteous fare for myself and my comrades,
    This was a glorious winter, The sharp frost
    and heayy snows lamed the animals, and kept
    the country gentlemen by their firesides; we
    got more game than we could eat, and my faith-
    ful dog grew sleek upon our refusc.
    Thus years passed on; and years only added
    fresh lo\'e of freedom, and contempt for a11thal
    was not as wild and rude as myself. At th e
    age of sixteen I haJ shot up in appearance to
    man's estate; I was taU nnd athletic ; I was
    practised to fl'ats of strength, and inurC'd to the
    inclemcncyof the elements. My skin was em-
    browned by the sun; my :step was firm with
    THE LAST llAS.

    consciOll3 power. I fcared no man, amI 10\'00


    nOlle. In after life I looked lmek with wonder
    to what I then was; how utterly worthless I
    shoul d have become if I had pursued my law-
    less career. 1\1y life was like that of an nnilllai,
    and my mind was in danger of degenerating
    into that which informs brute nature. Un-
    til now, Illy savage habits had done me 110

    radical mischief; my physical powers had growil


    up and flouri shed under thcir inl1l1ellee, and my
    mind, undergoing the same discipline, was lIU-

    bued with all the hardy virtues. nut now


    my boasted independence was daily insug'J.ling
    me to acts of tyranny, and freedom was be-
    coming licentiousness. I stood on the brink of
    manhood; passions, strong as the trees of a fo-
    rest, hod already taken root within me, and
    were about to shadow with their nOXIOUS OYI~r­
    growth, tIIy path of life.
    I panted f ... r enterprises beyond Ill)' childish
    exploits, and formed distempered dream!> of fu-
    ture action. I a\'oided my ancient eOIlIl\IUe",
    THE LAST lIAN.

    and I SOOI1 lost them. They arrived at the age


    when they were sent to fulfil their destined
    situations in life; while I, aI!' 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.
    T revolved again and again all that I remem-
    bered 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
    :-.erved as a guidt' 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 namc
    of the king,-he to whom my dying father had
    THE LAST ltAN. 25

    addressed his latest prayers, and who had bar-


    barously slighted them, was associated only
    with the ideas of unkindness, injustice, and
    consequent resentment. I was born for some-
    thing greater than I was-and greater I would
    become; but greatness, at least to my distorted
    perceptions, wru. no necessary associate of good-
    ness, 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 e"il rolled at my feet; I was about to
    precipitate myself into it, and rush like a tor-
    rent onr all obstructions to the object of my
    wishes-when a stranger influence came oyer
    the current of my fortunes, and changed their
    boisterolls COtlt'SC to what was ill comparison
    like the gentle meanderings of n meadow-en-
    circling streamlet.

    "OL. J. c
    THE LAST :,\1.'\N.

    CHAPTER II.

    I LlVI::D far from the busy haunt8 of men,


    and the rllmour of wars or political changes came
    worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes.
    England had been the scenc 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 com-
    pliance with the gentle force of the remon·
    "'tranccs of his subjects, and a republic was in_
    stituted. Large estates were secured to the
    dethroned monarch and his family ; he received
    the title of Earl of 'Vindsor, and 'Yindsor
    Castle, an anciC'nt royalty, with its wide de-
    mesnes werc a part of his allotted wealth. He
    TilL LAs'r l\Lnt.

    died SOOIl nfter, leaving two children, a son


    and a daughter.
    The ex.quccn, a prineess of I.he hOllsc of
    Austria, had long impellcd her husband to
    witostand thc necessity of the timcs. She was
    haughty and fcarlcss; she cherishcd a love of
    power, and a bittcr contempt for him who had
    despoiled himself of a kingdom, For her chil-
    dren's s..'lkc alone she conscntcd to remalll,
    shorn of regnlity, a member of the English
    l'epubJic. 'Vhcll she became a widow, she
    turned all hcr thoughts to thc educating her son
    Adrian, second Earl of 'Vindsor, so as to accom-
    plish her ambitious cnds; and with his mother'~

    milk he imbibcd, and was intended to grow up


    in the steady purpose of l'c-acquiring his lost
    crown. Adrian was now fifteen )'C'al'S of age.
    He was addictcd to study, and imbued beyond
    his years with learning alHI talent: rCp,Jrt &1id •
    that he had already begun to thwart his mother's
    views, and to entertain republican principle:..
    Howcver this might be, the haughty COllntc~<:

    c 2
    28 THE LAST MA~ .

    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 nlllk. 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 tholl!'iand
    tales were rife, explanatory of l1w Countess of
    "'indsor's conduct; none true probably; but
    each day it became more certmn tbat we should
    have the noble scion of the late regal house of
    England among \IS.

    There was a large estate with a mansion nt~

    lached to it, belonging to this family, at VIs-


    water. A large park was one of its appendages,
    laid out with great ta~te, and plentifully stoeken
    with game. I had often made depredations on
    these preserves; and the neglected state of the
    property facilitated DIy incursions. 'Vhcn it
    was decided that the young Earl of , VimIsm·
    should visit Cumberland, workmen nrrind ttl
    put the hOllsc and grounds in order for his rt::•
    c:eption. The apartments were rcslored to their
    pristine splenJour, and the park, all disrcpai rs
    rcstored, was guardcd with unusual care.
    I was beyond I1lcasUl'C disturbed by thi s 1Il_

    telligence. It roused all my dormant rcc.olleo.


    tions, my suspended scllliments of injury, and
    gal'e rise to the ncw one of rcvenge. I could
    no longer attend to my occupations; all Illy
    plans and dcvices wcre forgotten; I seemed
    about to hegin life anew, and that under no
    good auspices. The tug of war, I thought,
    was now to begin. H e would come triumph_
    andy to the district to which my parent had
    Red broken.hearted; he would find the iII_
    fated offspring, bequeathed with such "ain con_
    fidence to his royal fath er, miserable paupers.
    That he should know of our existence, and
    treat us, near at hand, with the samc contumely
    which his father had practised in distance ancl
    absence, appeared to me the ccrtain consequence
    of all that 11ad gone before. Thus then I
    illOUld meet this titled stripling-the son of
    50 TilE .L-A $ T M AN.

    my falher's friend. He would be hedged in


    by servants; nobles, and the SOilS of nobles,
    were his companions; all England rang with
    his nnme; and his coming. like a ulUnderstorm,
    was heard from far: while I, unlettered and
    un fashioned, should, if I came in contact with
    him, in the judgment of his courtly followers,
    bear evidence in my vcry person to the propriety
    of that ingratitude which had made me the de~

    graded being I appeared.


    'V~th 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-Quccn'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,
    THE I,AS T ~IAN. 31

    so that nothing but what was regal ill ~pleu­

    doUl' should reach the eye of one of royal


    descent. I looked on these; I turned my gaze
    to my own mean dress.-'Vhence sprung thi:l
    difference? "'hence but from ingratitude,
    fl'Om falsehood, from a dereliction on the part
    of the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and
    generous feeling. I Doubtless, he also, whose
    blood received a mingling tide from hlS proud
    mother-he, the acknowledged focus of the
    kingdom's wealth and nobility, had been taught
    to repeat my father's uame with disdain, and to
    scoff at my just claims to protection. I strove
    to think that all this grandeur was but more
    glal-ing infamy, and that, by planting his gold-
    en woven flag beside my tarnished and tattered
    banner, he proclaimed not his superiori t y, but
    his debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud
    of beautiful horses, his anns of costly workman-
    ship, the praise that attended him, the adoration,
    ready servitor, 11igh place and high esteem,-I
    considered them as forcibly wrenched from me',
    32 TilE LAST AlA!\'.

    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 '''indsor was about to arrive.
    " And this pleases you?" I obscn'ed,
    moodily.
    H 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 Ilis 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 j his gcnl"fosity to us is manifest in our
    plcnty, his hravery in the protection he affords
    us, his affability in the notice he takes of us.
    His rank his least merit, do you say? \Vhy,
    all his virtues are derived from his. stntiou only;
    TilE r.AST )IA~ .

    bcc~use he is rich, he is called gcnerous; he-


    cnusc he is powerful, brave; he is well
    bcc.'lUSC

    sen-cd, he is affable. Let them call him so,


    let all England bclb-e him tu be thus-w'C
    know him-he is our enemy-our penurioll!>,
    dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he were gifted
    with olle particle of the ,·jrtllcs you call hi s,
    he would do justly by us, if it were only to
    shew, that if he must strike, it should not be a
    fallen foc. His father injured my father-hi"
    father, unassailable on his throne, dared dc-
    $pisc him who ouly stooped beneath himself,
    when he d eigned to associate ,dth the royal
    ingrate. 'Ve, descendants from the one and
    the other, must be enemies also. He shall find
    that I can fed my injuries; he shall lC'arn to
    dread my re"enge!"
    A few days after he arrived. E" cry inha-
    bitant of the most miserable l:Ottngc, went to
    &well the stream of population that poured
    forth to meet him: e,-en Perdita, in spite of my
    late philippic, crept near the highway, to behold
    c3
    34 THE LAST );AN.

    this idol of all hearts. J, driven half mad, as


    I met party after party of the count ry 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
    colt.l , would J relurn home; for I )..new that
    each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian;
    as I felt my limbs grow numb and chill, my
    pai n served as food for my insane aversion;
    nay, I almost triumphed in it, since it seemed
    to afford me reason and excuse for my hatre<l
    of my unheeding adversary. All was attributed
    to him, for I confounded so entirely the idea of
    father and SOil, that I forgot that the latter
    might be wholly unconscious or his parent's ne-
    glect of us; and as I struck my aching 11 (':1(1 with
    my hand, I cried: ., He shall hear of this! 1
    will be revenged! I will not suffer like a
    spaniel! He shall know, beggar anel friclulless a"
    1 am, that J will not tamdy suhmit to injUl"Y !".
    l'HE LAST l(A~,

    Each day, c.:tch hour added to these cxagge.


    rated wrongs, His praises were so many add er'~

    stings infixL"<l in my vulnerable bl·Cast. If I


    saw him at 11 distancc, riding a beautiful horse,
    Illy blood boiled with rage; the air seemed
    poisoned by his prcsence, and my very nati\-e
    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 rou se him
    to a sense of my antipathy, It WIlS the heigh1
    of his offending, that he should occasion in me
    such intolerable scnsations, nnd not deign him.
    self to afford any demonstration lhtlt he ,~·ns

    aware that I even li\·cd to feel them.


    It soon became known that Adrian took great
    delight in his park and prC'sen-cs, He nc,·el'
    'Sported, but spent hours in watching the tribt>S
    of lovely and :tImost tame animals with which
    it was stockrd, and ordered that greater care
    should be taken of them than ever. Here was
    an opening for my plans of offence, and I m~de
    36 1'HE LAST }(A~.

    use of it with all the br~te impetuosity I deri\'cd


    from my Ilctive mode of life. I proposetl the
    enterprize of poaching on his demesne to my
    few remaining comrades, who were the most de-
    tcnnined 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 darin::;-; footsteps
    on the dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of
    slaughter, at length betrayed me to the game.
    keepers. They kept belter watch; I was taken,
    and sent to prison. I entered its gloomy walls
    in a fit ot' triumphant cxtasy: "He feels me
    now," I cried, "and sho.ll, again and again '"
    -1 passed but one day in confinement; in the
    evening I was liberated, as I was told, by the or-
    der of the Earl himself. This news precipitated
    me from my self-raised pinnacle of honour. He
    despises me, I thought; but he shall1earn that I
    despise him, and hold in equal contempt his
    punishments and his clemency. On thc second
    night aftet· my relcase, I was again takcn by
    TUE LASt )'(A~. 37
    the gamekeepers-again imprisoned. nlHI again
    t'ele:lscd; antI ngain, such was my pertinacity,
    did the {oureh night find me in the forbidden
    park. The gamekeepel's were more enraged
    than their lord by my obstinacy. They had re-
    ceived orders that if 1 were again taken, 1 should
    be brought to the Enl'l; and his lenity mude
    them expect a conclusion which they considered
    ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had
    been from the first the leader amoll~ those who
    had seized mc, 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 wns obliged to use in this my third
    expedition, consumed so mueh time, that some-
    thing like a qualm of fcar came ovcr mc when
    I perceived dark night yield to twilight. I
    crept along by the fern, on my hands anti.
    knees, seeking the shadowy covcrts of the un-
    derwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome
    iOng abo,-e, and the fresh morning wind, Pl.."IY-
    S8 TilE LAST lIIAN.

    iog among the boughs, made me SliSpect a foot-


    fall at each turn. My heart beat quick as I
    approached the palings; my hand was Oil 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
    infl ict 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, widl;!
    wound in his hand. The rage and yells of the
    wounded mall, the howling execrations of his
    comrade, which I answered with equal bitter-
    ness and fury, echoed through the dell; morn_
    ing broke more and morc, ill accordant in its
    celestial beauty with our brute and noisy contest.
    I and my enemy were still struggling, when tIle
    wounded man exclaimed, 1\ The Earl ,n 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 werc torn, and they. as well us
    TilE T.AST MAN. 30

    my hands, were staiued with the blood of the


    man I had wOllndcd; one hand grasped the
    dead birds-my hanl-carllcd prey. the other
    held the knife; my hair was matted; my face
    besmeared with the same guilty signs that bore
    witness against Ille on the dripping instrum(>nt
    I clenched; Illy whole nppearance was Ilaggard
    and squalid. Tnll and muscular as I was in
    fonn, I must have looked like, what indeed
    I was, the merest ruffian that ever trod the
    ea rth.
    The nallle of the Earl startled me, and caused
    nil the indignant blood that warmed my heart to
    rush into my checks; I had never sccn him be-
    fore; I figmed to mySC'lf a haughty, assum-
    ing youth, who would take me to task, if he
    deigned to speak to me, with all the arrogance
    uf supcl·jority. My I'eply was ready; a repronch
    I deemed calculated to sting his ,'cry heart. He
    came lip the while; and his nppcaranre bl{'w
    aside, with gentle western brenth, my dondy
    wrath: a tall, slim, fail' boy, with a physiognomy
    THE LAST llA~.

    expressive of the excess of sensibility and refine-


    ment 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 a.o:.ide, saying, "Two of you
    at once on a mere lad-for shame!" He came up
    to me: "Verney,'" he cried, "Lionel Verney.
    do we mcct thus for the first time? 'Ve were
    born to be friends to each other; and though
    ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknow_
    ledge the hereditary bond of friendship which I
    trust will hereafter unite us?"
    A2. 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 thri1ling
    voice, like sweetest melody, awoke a mute echo
    within me, stirring to its depths the life-bl<xxl
    in my frame. I desired to reply, to acknowledge
    his go'Xlncss, accept his proffered friendship;
    put words, fitting words, were not afforded to
    TilE LAST lIAN.

    the rough mountaineer; I would hu, c held olll

    my hand, but its guilty stain r~trained me.


    Adrian took pity on my fa1trring micn: "Come
    with me," he 5.'\id, " I have much to ~ay to you;
    come hOllle with me- you know who I am?"
    H y cs," I exclaimed, " I do bclie\-e that I
    now know you, and that you will pardon my
    misL.'lkes--my crime."
    Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his
    ordcrs to the gamekeepcrs, he came up to me;
    putting his arm in mine, we walked together to
    the mansion,
    It was not his rank- after 0.11 that I have
    said, surely it will not be suspected that it was
    Adrian's rank, that, from the first, subducd my
    heart of hearts, and laid my (,lltirc spil;t pro-
    strate befOl'c him. Nor was it I niollc who f"It
    thus intimately his perfcctions, his scnsibility
    and courtesy fascinated e"ery one. His "imcity,
    intelligence, nod active spirit of bcne\,olencl',
    compietoo the conquest. Even at this carly age-,
    he wns deep read and imbued with the spirit of
    42 THE LAST MAN

    high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of


    irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with
    others, so that he seemed like an inspired mu-
    sician, who struck, widl unerring skill, the" lyre
    of mind," and proouced thence divine harmony.
    In person, he hardly appeared of this world;
    his slight frame was overinformed by the soul
    that dwelt within; he W~ 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 wea_
    pons at his feet.
    1 spent the day with him. At first he did not
    )"CCur to the past, or indeed to any personal 0C-

    currences. He wished probably to inspire me


    with confidence, and give me time to gather to-
    gether my scattered thoughts. He talked of
    ,:,'e neral subjects, and gave me ideas I had ne,-er
    before conceived_ \Ve sat in his library, and he
    "poke of the old Greek sages, and of the power
    which they had acquired over the minds of mCI)~
    TilE LAST ;\lAX.

    thl'Ough the force of lo,'c nnd wi sdom only.


    Th e room was decorated with the busts of UlallY
    of them, and he described their charactC'l's to
    me. A s he spoke, I fel!. subject to him; and
    aU my boosted pride and strength were subdueU
    by thc honcyed acc.:ents of this blue-eyed boy.
    The trim and p3.1cd demesne of civilization,
    which I had before regarded from my wild
    jungle as inaccessible, had its wicket opened
    by him; J stepped witlliu, aud felt, os J entered,
    that I trod my native soil.
    As evening came on, he re\crted to the pa.,t.
    " I have a talc to relate,'" he said, hand mueh
    explanation to give concerning thc l)3st i perhaps
    you can assist mc to curtai l it. Do you rcmem-
    be.' your fath er? I hnd I\c"cr thc happiness of
    sccillg him, but his namc is onc of my eal'lie~t
    rccol1ections: he stands written in my mind's ta·
    blets us thc type of nll that was gnllnnt, aminblc,
    and fnscinating in mau. His wit was not more
    conspicuous thcm the overflowing goodn~<; of
    his heart, whieh he poured in slich full meMure
    44 THE LAST )lAN.

    on his friends, tlS to leave, nIas! smull remnant


    for himself,""
    EncoUl'llgcd by this encomium, I proceeded,
    in answer to his inquiries, to relate what I re-
    membered of my parenl ; and he gave an account
    of those circumstnnces which had brought about
    tl neglect of my father's testamentary letter.
    'Vhen, in :UtC'l' times, Adrian's father, then king
    of England, felt his situation become more peril-
    ous, his line of conduct more embarrassed, again
    and again he wished for his c::trly 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 hnd
    quitted London, on the fatal night of his defeat
    at the gaming-table, the king had received no
    ti&ngs concerning him; and when, after tIle lapse
    of years, he exerted himself to discover him, cyery
    trn.ee was lost. 'Vith fonder regret dum e\·cr,
    he clung to his memory; and ga,·c it in charge
    to his son, if evcr he should meet this yalued
    friend, in his namc to bestow every succour, and
    TJI~: LAST )I.U:. 45

    to assure him that, to the Inst, his attachment


    sun:ivL>(1 scp.'l.rntion ami silence.
    A short time before Adrian's visit to Cum.
    berland, the heir of the nobleman to whom my
    fath er had collfitled his last appeal to his royal
    mastcr, 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 dCl!p intel'est; and found there that
    living spirit of genius and wit he hau so often
    heard commcmorated. I-Ic discovcred the name
    of the spot whither my father had retreated, and
    where he died; he learnt thc existence of his
    orphan children; and during the short inten-al
    between his arrival at Ulswatcr aud our meeting
    in the park, he had been occupied in making
    inquiries couccrning us, and arranging n variety
    of plans for our benefit, prclimillnry to his intro.
    clueing himself to our noticc_
    The mode in which he spoke of my father
    WDoS gratifying to my vanity; the vcil which
    46 'fIlE LAST Ma:>:.

    he delicately en:;t over his benevolence, in alJedg-


    jng a duteous fulfilment of the king's latest will,
    was soothing to my pride. Other feelings, less
    ambiguous, were cnlled into play by his conciliat.
    ing manner and the generous warmth of his ex-
    pressions, respect rarely before expericnccd,admi.
    ration, and love-he had touched my rocky heart
    with his magic power, and the stream of affection
    gushed forth, imperishable and pure. In the
    c\'C'niug we parted; he pressed my hand: H'Ve
    shan meet again; come to me to-morrow." I
    clasped that kind hand; I tried to nnswer; a
    fervent" God bless YOll!" was all my ignorance
    could frame of speech, and I darted away, op-
    pressed by my new emotions.
    I could not rest. I sought the hills; a
    west wind swept them, and the stars glittered
    abOn~. I ran on, careless of outward objects,
    hut 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,
    TilE LAST lIA:s'. 47

    compassionatc and soft:'-Stopping short, I


    claspcd my hand:5, alld \\'ith thc fL'rvour of a
    11CW prosely tc, cried, "Doubt mc not, Adrian,
    I also will bccomc wise and good Jl' and then
    quite overcome, I wept aloud.
    As this gust of passion passed from mc, I
    felt morc composed. I lay on the ground, and
    giving the reins to my thoughts, rcpassed in my
    mind my formel'Jlife; and begun, fold by fold,
    to unwiud the many errors of my heart, and to
    di::.co\'cl' h~w brutish, savnge, nnd worthle~s I
    had hitherto been. I could not howeyer at that
    time feel remorse, for methought 1 was born
    ~mew; my soul threw off the bunhen of ll..'ht
    ~in, to commence a new cnrccr in innocence and
    10\,e. Nothing harsh 01' rough remained to jur
    with the soft feelings "hiell the transactions of
    the dny had inspired; I was as a child lisp_
    IIlg its devotions after its mother, and my
    plastic solll was l'cmoulded by a master hand,
    which I neither desired nor was able to resist.
    This wns the fir!>t commencement of my
    48 THE LAST MAN.

    friendship with Adrian, and I mllst comme-


    morate this day as ·the most fortunate of my
    lif". I now began to be human. I was ad..
    mitted within that sacred boundary which divides
    the intellectual and moral nature of man from
    that which characterizes animals. My best
    fQelings were called into play to give fitting re-
    sponses to the generosity, wisdom, and ameni~y

    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 SOil of his father's
    friend, the offspring of that gifted being whose
    excellencies and talents he had heard comme_
    morated froru infancy.
    .After his abdication the late king had re.
    treated from the sphere of politics, yet his do-
    mestic circ~e afforded him small content. The ex-
    queen had none of the virtues of domestic life,
    • and those of courage !lnd da.rinfl' which she pos.
    sessed were rendert'd null by the secession of
    her husband: she dcslliscd him, !lnd did not

    .
    TlIE LAST ltA)l. -19
    cal'C to conceal her sentiments. The king had,
    in compliance with her exnctions, cn~l olr his
    old friends, hut he Iuu! acquired no new ones
    under her guidance. In this de£l l'th of sympathy,
    hc had rL'Coursc to his almost infant son; nml
    the early development of talellt £lnd sensibility
    rendered Adrian no unfitting depositOl'Y of hi:;
    father"s confidence. He wns neye!' weary of
    listening to the latter's often !'epentf'd nccounts
    of old limcs, in which my fath er hnd played tt

    distinguished part; his keen remarks were re-


    peated to the boy, and remembered by him;
    his wit, his fascinations, his "cry faults w eTC
    hallowed by the regret of affection. his loss
    was sincerely deplored. E"en the qUC'CI\'s dis..
    like of the fa"ourile was ineffectual to tlepri\'e
    him of his SOIl'S admiration: it was bitter, sar-
    castic, contemptuous-but as she bcstowctl her
    he~L\'y censure alike on his virtues ns his errors,
    on his de\'oted friendship nnd hi s ill-bestowed
    lol'{!s, on his disinterestedness and his prodi-
    gality, on his pre_possessing grace of manner,
    \· OL. T. D
    50 THE LAST MAN.

    and the facility with which he yielded to temp-


    tation, her double shot proved too heavy, and
    fell short of tho mark. Nur did her angry
    dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my fa,..
    ther, as he had said, the type of all that was
    g3l1ant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It
    was not strange therefore, that when he' heard
    of the existence of the offspring of this Ct!le-
    brated person, he should have fonned the plan
    of bestowing on them all the advantages his
    rank made him rich to afford. 'Vhen 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 culp..'lble of ne-
    glect towards us, and that he was hound to every
    possible reparation, he was pleased to say that
    under all my ruggedness there glimmered forth
    an elevation of spirit, which could be distin_
    guished from mere animal courage. and that I
    inherited asimihrity of countenance to my father,
    which gave proof that all his virtucs and talcnts
    TilE LAST MA:S-. 51

    had not died with him. 'Vhatevcf t1l0oo might


    be which desccnded to me, my noble young friend
    resolved should not he lost fOf want of culture.
    Acting upon this piau in our subsequent in-
    tercourse, he led me to wish to particip<'lte in
    that culti\'ation which gracro his own intellect.
    My acti\'e mind, when once it sei:c:ed upon this
    !lew idea, fastened on it \\ith eXlreme avidity .
    At first it was the great object of my ambition
    to rival the merits of my father, and render
    myself worthy of the friembhip of Adrian.
    But curiosity soon awoke, and nn earnest 10\'e
    of knowledge, which caused me to pass days
    and ~j~hts in reading and study. I was already
    well acquainted wit,h what I moy term the pa-
    norama of nature, the change of seasons, and
    the various appearances of heaxen and earth.
    But I was at once startl('d and enchanted by
    my sudden extension of vision, when the cur-
    tain, which had been drawn bc~ore the intel-
    lectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the
    uui"erse, not only as it presented itself to my
    D~
    ,

    outward senses, but as it had appeared to the


    wisest among men. Poetry and its creations,
    philosophy :md its researches and classifications,
    alike awoke the sleeping idcns in my mind, und
    gnxc me new ones.
    I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast
    first discoycred the \Ohare of America; and like
    him I hastened to teU my companions of my
    discO\'cries in unknown reg-ions. But I was
    unable to excite. in nny breast the same craving
    appetite for knowledge that existed in mine.
    Even rcrditn was unable to understand me. I
    had lived in what is generally called the world
    of reality, and it wns awakening to n new
    cOllntry to find that there was a deeper meaning
    ill nIl I saw, besides that which my eyes con.
    veyed to me. The visionary Perdita beheld in
    all this only a new gloss upon an old reading,
    and her own was sufficic~tly inexhaust!ble to
    contcnt her. She li~tcn('d to me as she had
    done to the narration of my adn~ntures, and
    sometimcs took 30 interest in this species of
    TilE L.\ST ) 1" :-;'. 53

    infurmation; but she did not, as I did. look on it


    as a.u integral part of her being, whieil ha\'ing
    obtained, I could no more put oft' than the uni.
    \'er~'\ 1 sense of touch.
    "rc both agreed in )o\'ing Adrian: although
    she not having yet escaped from childhood
    could not appreciate as I did the extent of his
    lIlerits, or fccl the same sympathy in his pur-
    suits and upinions. I was for ever with him.
    There was a sensibil ity and swcctness ill his
    disposition, that gave a tender and unearthly
    tonc to our COIl\'Crse. Then he wns gay as a
    lark carolling from its skiey tower, soaring in
    thought as an eagie, innocent ns the mild_eyed
    Jove. H e could dispel the serioll ~ n cs& of Per-
    dita, and take the sting from the torturing ac-
    tivity of my nature. I looked bock to my
    restless d~ires and painrul struggles with my
    fellow beings ns to a troubled dr('nm, and felt
    myself as much changed as if I had tra.nsmi.
    grated into another form, whose fresh scnso_
    rium and mccha.nsim of nerves had altered the rc.
    54 TIlE LAS'l' MAN.

    flection of the apparent universe in Ihe Ilurror


    of mimI. But it was not so; I Wag the ~ame in
    strength, in carnest craving for sympntlly. in
    my yearning for active exertion. 1\1.v manly
    virtues did not desert me, for the witch Urania
    spared the locks of Sampson, while he reposed
    ather feet; but all was soflCned 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 tlleir menns to
    subdue my own reckless and uncultured
    spirit, he opened to my ,·jew the living page
    of his own heart, and gtlYC me to fecI
    and understand its wondrous character.
    'The ex-queen of England had, ("'ell during
    infancy, endeayouroo to implant daring and am-
    bitious designs in the mind of her son. She
    saw that he was endowed with genius and sur-
    passing ta]ent; these she cultivated for the sake
    of afterwards using them for the furtherance of
    her own views. She encouraged his cr(l\'ing for
    knowledge and his impetuous courage; she enm
    lulcl'atro his talllclcss 10\'c of frt -e<lum, unulT
    the hopc that this would, as is too often thc
    case, ll'nd to a passion fol' command. She en.
    dctl\"oun,'{1 to bring him up ill a sense of rcscnt-
    ment towllrds, anti a desire to revenge himsel f
    upon, those who had been instrumental in bring_
    ing about his fathcr's abdication. In this she
    did 1I0t succeed. The accounts furni shed him,
    11Owe\"cr distorted, of a grc.'\t Ilnd wise nation
    asserting its right to go\'ern itself, excited his
    admiration: ill early days he became a rcpubli.
    call from principle. Still his mother did not
    df!8pair. T o the lm'c of rule and haug hty pride
    of birth she added determined ambition, patience,
    a nd self-control. She devoted h~l'S('lf to the
    study of her son's disposition. fly the appliea,..
    tion of praise, censure, and exhortat ion, she tried
    to seek and strike the fitting chords ; and though
    the melody that folloy,ed her touch seemoo dis-
    cord to her, she built her hopes on his talen ts,
    and fel t sure that she would at last win him.
    56 'l'}{E J.AST "UN.

    The kind of banishment he now cxpc:rienced.


    arose from other causes.
    The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve
    years of age; his fairy sister, Adrian was wont
    to cull her; a lovely, animated, little thing, all
    sensibility and truth. '¥ith these, her children,
    the noble widow constantly resided at " Tindsor;
    and admittC'd no visitors, except her own parti-
    zans, travellers from her native Germany, and a
    few of the fOl'eign ministers. Among these, and
    highly distinguished by her, was Prince Zaimi,
    umbassador to England from the fl'ec States
    of Greece ; and his daughter, the young
    ])rineess Evadne, passed much of her time at
    \Vindsor Castle. In company with this sprightly
    and clever Greek girl, the Co~ntess would relax
    from her usual state_ Her views with regard
    to her own children, placed all her words and
    actions rt'lative to them under restraint: but
    Evadne was a plaything she could in no way
    fear; nor were her talents and vimcity sligl,t
    57

    alleyiatio:1S to the monotony uf the Countess'l"


    life.
    Evadne wns eighteen years of age. Although
    they spent much time together at'Vimlsor, the
    extreme youth of Adrian prc,"entcd any suspi_
    cion as to the nature of their intercourse. Dut
    he was ardent and tenderofh(,:1rt beyond the com-
    mon nUlme of man, ami had aJrcad y learnt to lon-,
    while the beauteous Greek smiled benignantly all
    the boy. It wns strange to me, who, though older
    than Adrian, had never loved, to witness the whole
    henrt's sacrifice of my frieud. There was neither
    jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust iu hisscntiment;
    it was de,·otion and faith. His life was swailml't-d
    up in the existence of his belo"ed; and his heart
    beat only in unison with the pulsations that vivi-
    fied hers. This was the secl'et law of his life-
    he loved and was belayed. The uni"erse was to
    him n JwelJing, to inhabit with his chosen one;
    and not either a scheme of society or an ell_
    chainment of events, th:1t could impart to him
    either happiness or misery. \Vhat, though
    D3
    58 THE J.AST lIAN'.

    life and the system of social intercourse were a


    wilderness, a tiger-haunted jungle! Through the
    mid£t of its errors, in the depths of its savage
    recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery
    pathway, through which they miglll 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? 'Vhal
    is there in our nature that is for ever urging us
    on towards pain and misery? 'Ve are not formed
    for enjoyment; and, however we may be attuned
    to the reception of plcasurcable emotion, disap-
    pointment is the nC\'cr-failing pilot of our life's
    bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the shoals.
    ¥lho was better framed than this highly-gifted
    youth to Jove and be beloved, and to reap un-
    alienable joy from an unblamed passion? If his
    heart had slept but a few years longer, he might
    TilE LAST lIAS'. 59
    have been s:lvoo.; but it awoke in it! infancy ~
    it had power, but no knowledge; and it was
    ruined, eycn as n too early_blowing bud is nipt
    by the killing frost.
    I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or n
    wish to dcceh'e her lover ; but the nrsL letter that
    I saw of hers convinced me that she did not
    lm'e him; it was written with elegancc, and,
    foreigner as she was, with great command of
    language, 'rhe hand-writing itself wns exqui-
    sitely beautiful; there was something ill her
    very p.'lpcr 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 expres.
    sion, but no Im'e, E,'adne was two years older
    than Adrian; and who, ilt eighteen, e,'er Im'ed
    one so much their junior? I compared her placid
    epistles with the burning ones of Adrian. His soul
    seemed to distil itself iuto the words he wrote; and
    they breathed on the p:tpcr, bcnring with them a
    l>ortion of the life of love, which was his lift'.
    GO
    The vCl'y writing used to exhaust him; and he
    would weep oyer them, merely from the excess
    of emotion they awakened in his heart.
    Adriau's soul was painted in his countenance,
    and concealment or deceit were at the antipodes
    to the dread less frankn ess of his nature. Evudne
    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. 'Vilh the same waI'y prudence
    that characterized her whole conduct, she can.
    c('aled her discovery, but hastened to remove
    her son from t.hc sphere of the attractive Greek.
    He was sent to Cumberland; but the plan of
    <..'o rrcspondcnce between the loYers, arrangecl by
    Evadne, wa.'! effectually hidden from her. Thus
    the absence of Adrian, concerted for tht-' purpose
    of separati ng. united them in firmer bonds than
    ever. To me h e disconrsed ceaselessly of his
    beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancien t 3 11-
    TilE LAST ll.\S'. 61

    nals, its laic mcmorablc strugRlcs, WCl'e all made


    to pal'tnJ.:c in her g lOl'Y and excellence, Il l' slIh-
    lI1 iUt,tl to bc awny fl'Om her, h ecause she com·
    m nlHlcd thi s suhmissioll; but for her influence,
    he woultl han ueclared his attachment b efol'c
    nIl Engbnc1, nnd resisted, with unshaken con_
    stancy. his 1110ther's opposition, Evndnc's femi-
    nine prudence percci\'oo how useless any asser-
    tion of his resoh·es would be, till uflded years
    gave weight to his power. P erhaps there was
    besides a lurking dislike to bifid herself in the
    fuce of the world to ol1e whom shc did not 10,·c
    -not Io-.'c, nt least, with that passionate enthu-
    siuSlll which her henrt told h er she might one
    day ret.'l towards another. H e obeyed her in_
    junctions, amI passed a )"l'n r in exi le in Cum-
    berhm(l,
    62 THE LAST MAN.

    CHAPTER III.

    HArpy, thrice happy, were the months, and


    weeks, and hours of that year. Friendship,
    hand in hand with admimtion, tenderness
    and respect, built a bower of delight in my
    heart, late rough as an untrod wild in America,
    as tile homeless wind or herbless sea. Insa.tiate
    thirst for knowledge, and boundless affection
    for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart
    and understanding occupied, and I was coose.
    quently happy. 'Vhnt happiness is so true and
    unclouded, as the overflowing and talkati,'c de-
    light of young people. In our boat, upon my
    native lake, beside the streams and the palt:
    bordering poplars-in valley and over hill, my
    THE LAST lIAN.

    crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to tcnd than


    silly sheep, ("ycn a flock of new-born ideas, I
    read or li"tenoo to Adrian; and hi s discourse,
    whether it concerned his }O\'e or his theories for
    the improvement of man, alike entranced me.
    Sometimcs my lawless mood would rcturn,
    my lovc 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
    ItS a boyar five years old, who does his mother's
    bidding.
    After a residence of about a year at Uls-
    water, Adrian visited London, and came baek
    full of plans {or our benefit. You must begin
    life, he said : you are ge\-enleen, and longer de-
    lay would render the necessary apprenticeship
    more amI more irksome. Hc foresaw lhat 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.
    H e found my name a good passport to pre.-
    ferment, and he had procured for me the situa-
    TilE LAST MAN,

    toin of private secretary to the Ambassmlor at.


    Vienna, where I sllOuld 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 wns to become the
    pupil, friend and younger sister oC Evadne.
    \Vith hi:. ustlal thoughtfulness, he had provided
    for her independence in this situation How
    refuse the offers of this generous frier.d?-
    I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart
    of hearts, I made a vow to dcvote life, know-
    I~O'C. and power, all of which, in as much as
    they we're of any \'alue, he had bes~owcd on me
    -all, all my capacities and hopes, to him alone
    I would devote.
    Thus I promised myself, as I journied to-
    wards my destination with roused and ardent
    expectation: expectation of the fulfilment of
    all that in bo)'llOod we promise ourseh'cs of
    power and cnjoyment in maturity. i\Iethought
    the time was now arrin'd, when, childi sh occu-
    TilE L.\'>T ll.\X.

    pat ions laid aside, I should enler into life.


    Even in the Elysian fields, Virgil describe!¥
    the souls of the happy as eager to drink of
    the wave which was to restore them to this
    mortal coil. Thc young arc seldom in Ely-
    sium, for their t!csircs, outstripping pos~ibility,

    INl\'c them as poor as a mOIlt'ylcss debtor. 'Ve


    al'e told by thc wisest philosophers of the
    dangers of the world, the deceits of mell, and
    the treason of our own hcru'l.s: but not the lcs3
    fenrlessly docs each put oft' his fntil bark from
    the pori, sprcaJ the sail, and strain hi!. onr, to
    attain the multitudinous streams of the sea of
    lif", How few in youth's prime, moor their
    vc=-sels on the " goldcn sands," and collcct the
    painted shells that strew them, Dut. all at close
    of day, with riven planks and rent canvas make
    for shore, and are either '\'I'ecked ere they
    reach ii, or find some waye.beaten haven, some
    desart strand, whereon to cast themscln's and
    llie un mourned.
    A truce to philosophy !-Life is before mc,
    66 THE LAST MA)J.

    and I rush into possession. Hope, glory, love,


    and blameless ambition are my guides, and my
    soul knows nn dread. \Vhat has been, though
    sweet, is gone; the present is good only be.
    cause it is about to change, and the to come is
    all mv own. Do I fear, that my heart palpi.
    tates? high aspirations cau~e 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 sum.
    mit of life's high edifice. Now that I am ar-
    rived at its base, my pinions arc furled, the
    mighty stairs are before me, and step by step I
    must ascend the wondrous fane-

    Speak I_What door is opened'

    Behold me in n ,new capacity. A diploma..


    tist: one among he pleasure. seeking society
    of a. gay city; a youth of promise; favourite
    TilE LAliT lUAY. 67
    of the Amuassador. All was strange and ad-
    mirable to th e shepherd of Cu ml>crland. " ' ith
    breathless nmnze I entered on the gay scene)
    whose actors were

    - - the J:lies SlOriOOI as Solomon,


    Who loil n(", neither do they spin.

    Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl;


    forgetting my studious hours, and the compa-
    nionship of Adrian. P a.ssionate desire of sym-
    pathy, and ard ent pursuit for a wished-for ob-
    ject still characterized me. The sight ofbcauty
    entranced me, and llttractive 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 spirit!
    was Paradise, and at night's close I only desired
    a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The
    danling light of ornamented rooms; lovely
    fonns arrayed in splendid dresses; the motions
    68 THE LAST l\IA~.

    of a dance, the voluptuous tones of exqui:.ite


    mUSIC, cradled my senses in one delightful
    dream.
    And is not this in its kind happiness? lap.
    pet'l1 to moralists and sages. I ask if in the
    calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep
    meditations which fill their hOUTS, they feel the
    cxtasy of a youthful tyro in the school of plea-
    sure? Can the calm beams of dlcir hC:lycn-
    seeking eyes equal the Hashes of mingling pas-.
    sian which blind his, or does the influence of
    cold phill)sophy steep their soul in n joy equal
    to his, engaged

    In tlJis dear work of youthful revdry.

    Bnt in truth, neither the lonely meditations


    of the hermit, nor the tumultuolls raptures of
    the reveller, are capable of &'l.tisfying man's
    heart. From the one we gather unquiet specu-
    lation, from the other satiety. The mind
    flags hencath the weight of thought, and droops
    in the heartless intercourse of those whose
    TJlE LAST )L-\~.

    sole ann IS nmuscment. There is no fruition


    in their ytlcnnt kindness, and !;harp rocks lurk
    IJcnca.lh the smiling ripples of thc::.c shalluw
    wale.·1!.
    Thus I felt, when disnppoi ntlllcnl, wC!arincss,
    a nd solitude drove me back upon my heart, to
    gather Ih('nce the joy of wbich it had oc'COme
    barren. My flaggiug spirits asked for something
    to spcnk to the afiet-tions; and not finding it, I
    drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thought.
    less delight that waited on its commencement,
    the impl"t.'Ssion I have of my life at Vienna i:l
    mclancho!y. GOt:the has said, thnt in youth we
    call not be happy unless we love. 1 did not lo,"e;
    bUl I was de"oured by a restless wish to be
    somethi ng to others. I became the victim of
    ingratitude and cold coquetry-then I desponded,
    and imagined that my discontent gave IIl C a right
    to hale the world. I I"t'(..wcd to solitude; I had
    recourse to my books, and my desire again to en·
    joy the society of ,l-\ drian becamen burning thirst.
    Emulation, that in its excess ::t1most assumed
    70 THF. LAST nAN.

    the venomous properties of cnvy, gave :1 sting


    to these feelings. At this period the name and
    exploits of c..ne of my countrymen filled the world
    with admiration. Relations of what he had clone,
    ,
    conjectures concerning his future actions, were
    the nevcr-failing topics of the hour. I was not
    angry on my own nccount, but I felt as if the
    praises which this idol received wefe leaves torn
    from laurels destined for Adriall. Dut 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 b;Jt impoverished family. From carly
    youth he had considered his pedigree with
    complacency, and bitterly lamented his want of
    wealth. His first wish wns nggrandisement; and
    the means that led towards this end were se·
    oondnry consillerations. Haughty, yet trembling
    to every demonstration of respc'~t; ambitious,
    but too proud to shew his ambition; willing to
    achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,-hc
    entered upon life. He was met on the threshold
    TilE LAST MA!'.'. 71

    by sollie insult, real or itnflginary; sollie repulse,


    where he least expected it; some diw.ppoint-
    menl, hard for his pride to bea ... He writhed
    beneath an injury he wns unable to re\'cnge;
    and he quitted England with a \ 'OW not to re-
    turn, till the good time should arrive, when she
    might fLoel the power of him she now tlespiscd .
    He became an adventurer in the Greek wats.
    His recklC'ss courage and comprehensive genius
    brought him into notice. H e became the dar-
    ling hero of this rising people. His fore:gn
    birth, and he refused to throw ofl' his allegiance
    to his nath'e count ry, alone prevented him from
    filling the first offices in the state. Dut, though
    others might rank higher in titl e and ceremony,
    Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond
    all this, H e led the Greek al'mies to victory; their
    triumphs were 311 his own. When he llppcarcd,
    whole towns poured forth their population to
    Uleet him ; new songs were adapted to their na-
    tional airs, whose themes werc his glory, "alour,
    nnd munifi cence.
    THE LAST MAN.

    A truce was concluded betwccn the Greeks


    nnd Turks. At the game time, Lord Raymond,
    by some un looked-for chance, became the po~

    sessor of an immense fortune in England, whi-


    ther he returned, crowned with glory, to recci,"e
    the meed of honour and distinction before de-
    nied to his pretensions. His proud heart rebelled
    again.;;t this change. In what was the despised Ray-
    mond not the same? Tf the acquisition of power
    in the shape of wealth caused this alteration,
    that power should they feel as an iron yoke.
    'rower therefore was the aim of all his endea-
    vours; aggrandizement the mark at which he
    for ever shot. In open ambition or close In-
    trigue, his end was the s..'lroe-to attain tbe 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 llis
    other advantages, Lord Raymond was supremely
    handsome; everyone admired hi:n ; of women he
    wag the idol. He was courteous, honcy-tongue<t-
    TilE LAST ).IAN. 73
    an adept in fascinating arts. \Vhat could not
    this man achie\'e in the busy English world?
    Change succeeded to change; the entire history
    did not reach me; for Adrian had ccased to
    \\Tite, and rerdita 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 eXMqucen,
    her daughter's destined husband. Nay, marc,
    that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the
    house of \Vinclsor to the crown, and that, on the
    C\'cnt of Adrian's incurable disorde1' and l1is
    marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambiM
    tious Haymond might be cllcirclC'd with the
    magic ring of regality.
    SUd1 a talc filled the t1'umpcl of many \'oiced
    fame; such !l tale I'cnders:d my longer stay at
    Vienna, away from the friend of my youth,
    intolerable. Now I must fulfil my \'ow; now
    rtlngc myself at his side, and be hi:i ally and
    support till death. Farewell to courtly plea_
    sures; to politic intrigue; to the maze of
    \'OL. J, E
    74 TilE J,AST MAN.

    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,
    drcw 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 'Vindsor Forest. From her I should
    learn the truth concerning our protector j I
    should hear why she had withdrawn from the
    protection of the Princess Evadne, and be in_
    structed as to the influence which this over-
    topping and towering Haymond exercised oyer
    the fortunes of my friend.
    I had never before been In the neighbour_
    hood of 'Vindsor; the fertility and beauty of
    the country around now stmek me with admi-
    ration, which encl"eased as I approached the
    TilE L.\ST )IXN". 75

    antique wood. The ruins of majc::.tic oaks which


    had gl'own, AOllrished, and decayed during the
    progress of centmics, marked where the limits
    of the forest once reached, while the shattered
    palings and neglected underwood shewed that
    this Plut was deserted for the younger plantations,
    which owed their birth to the beginning of the
    nineteenth century, and now stood in the pride
    of matmity. Perdita's humble dwelling was
    situated 011 the skirts of the most ancient por-
    tion j before it was stretched Dishopgate Heath,
    which towards the cast appeared interminable,
    and was bounded to the west by Chapel ,Vrod
    and the grove of Virginia ,Vatcr. Dehind, 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 bC'auty of the younger trees.
    These, the off~pring of a later period, stood
    erect and seemed ready to adn\llcc fearlessly
    into coming time; while those out \\'orn ~tr:tg-

    E Q
    76 THE LAST MA~.

    glers, blasted and broke, clung to each other,


    their weak bough~ sighing as the wind buffctted
    them- a weather·beaten crew.
    A light railing surrounded tne garden of the
    cottage, which, low_roofed, seemed to submit
    to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst the
    yenerable 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 eleganee which spoke the graceful
    taste of the inmate. "Vith a beating heart I
    entered the enclosure; as I stood at the en-
    trance, I heard her voice, melodious as it had
    eyer been, which before I saw her assured me
    of her welfare.
    A moment more and Perdita appeared; she
    stood before mC' in the fresh bloom of youthful
    womanhood, different from and yet the same as
    Jhe mountain girl I had left. Her eyes could
    llClt be deeper than they were in childhood, nor
    her countenance more expr('5sive; but the ex_
    pression was ~hanged and improved; intclli-
    THE L.\ST I\(.\S'. 77
    gcncc sat on her brow; when she smiled her
    face was embellished by the softest sensibility,
    and her low, modulated ,"oice seemed tuned by
    love. lIer person was formed in the most femi.
    nine 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.
    'Vhen we had p.1.rted, I had clasped hcr to my
    bosom with unrestrained warmth j we met again,
    and new feelings werc awakened; when each
    beheld the other, childhood p.'\SSed, as full grown
    actors on this changeful scene. The pause was
    but for a moment; the flood of association nlld
    natural feeling which had been checked, again
    l ushcd in full tide upon our heart'l, and with
    tenderest amotion we were swiftly locked ill
    each other', 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
    bee letters; but the few minutes we had spent
    78 TilE L:\S'l MAN.

    logetlter sufficiently explained the origin of this.


    New feelings hnd arisen within her, which she
    was unable to express in writing to Olle whom she
    had only known in childhood; but we saw each
    other again, and our intimacy was rCllc\ved as
    if nothing had intcn-cned to check it. I de.
    tailed 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 eyL-'S when
    mentioned our friend, and her heightened
    colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the
    reports that had reached me. But their import
    \,'as too terrible for me to give instant credit to
    my suspicion. 'Vas 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? Be-
    loved friend, this ill world was no c1imc for
    your gentle spirit; you delivered up its go-
    vcrnance to false humanity, which stript it of
    TilE LAST )1.\):. 79
    its lea\-e:; ere winter-time, and laid bare its qui_
    vering life to the e\·il ministration of roughest
    winds. Have those gentle eyes, those "chan-
    nels of the soul'" lost their meaning, or do they
    only in their glare disclose the horrible talc of
    its aberrations? Docs that yoiee no longer
    "discourse excellent music i''' 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 lllat led to this
    event.
    The Crank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian,
    gifted as it was by every natural grace, endow('d
    with transcendant powers of intellect, unblem·
    ished by the shadow of defect (unless his drend-
    less independence of thought was to be construed
    into one), \Vas devoted, even as a victim to 5.1..

    cri6ce, to his Im'e for Evadne. He entrusted to


    her keeping the treasures of his sou}, his aspire_
    dons after excellence, and his plans for the im_
    80 THE LAST )[AN.

    provement of mankind. As manhood dawned


    upon him, his schemes and theories, far from
    being changed by personal and prudential mo-
    tives, acquil'ed new strength from the powers
    he felt arise within him; and his love for
    Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day be-
    came more certain that the path he pursued was
    full of difficulty, and that he must seek his re-
    ward, 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,
    :md in her love and sympathy, which was to
    lighten every toil and rccompence every sa-
    crifice.
    In solitude, and through many wanderings
    afar from the haunts of mell, he matured his
    views for the refor,lll of the English government,
    and the improvement of the people. It would
    have been well if he had concealed his senti-
    ments, until he had come into possession of the
    power which would securc their practical de-
    velopment. Dut he was impatient of the
    THE LAST ;UAN. 81
    years that must intervene, he was frank of
    beart a.nd fC3l'l~ H e gave not only a brief
    denial to his mother's schemes, but published
    his intention of usi ng 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 govern-
    rlaent into England. At first his mother treated
    hi s theories as the wild ravings of inexperience.
    Dut they were so systematicn11y arranged, amI
    his arguments so wen supported, that though
    still in appearance incredulous. she began to
    fear him. She tried to reason with him, and.
    finding him inflexible, lromed to hate him,
    Strange to say, this feeling was infectious.
    His enthusiasm for good which did not C:list;
    his contempt for the sacredness of authority;
    his ardour and imprudence were all at the an·
    tipodes of the usual routine of life; the worldly
    feared him; the young and inexperienced did
    not understand the lofty severity of his moral
    .yic,vs, and disliked him as a being different
    • 3
    82 TilE LAST :81AN.

    from themselves. Evadne ' entered but coldly


    into his system,;. She thought he did wen to
    assert his own will, but she wished that will to
    have been more intelligible to the multitude.
    She hat!. 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 moti,'cs, the generosity of his disposition,
    his true and ardent attachment to her; and she
    entertained a great affection for him. He re.
    paid this spirit of kindness with the fondest gra-
    titude, and made her the treasure· house of all
    his hopes.
    At this t.ime Lord Raymond returned from
    Greece. No two persons could be more oppo.
    site than Adrian. and he. With aU the incon-
    gruities of his character, Raymond was em-
    phatically a man of the world. His passions
    were violent; as tJlese often obtained the mag..
    tcry over him, he could not always square his
    conduct to the obvious line of self-interest, but
    self-grati6catioll at least was the paramount ob-
    THE LAST MAN.

    ject with him. He looked on the structure of


    society as uut 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.
    Amian felt that he made a part of a great
    whole. He owned affinilY not only with man-
    kind, but nll nature was akin to him; the
    mountains and sky were his friend s ; the winds
    of heaven and the offspring of earth his plny-
    mates ; while he the focus only of this mighty
    mirror, felt his life mingle with the universe of
    existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedi-
    cated 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 poli-
    tician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt
    the benevolent visions of the philanthropist.
    'Vith the coming of Raymond was fonned
    the stonn that laid waste at one fell blow the
    gardens of delight and sheltered paths which
    84 THE LAST 1'IAN.

    Adrian fancied that he had secured to himself,


    as a refuge from defeat nnd contumely. Ray.
    mond, the deliverer of Greece, the graceful
    soldier, who bore in his mien a t.inge of all that,
    peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished
    as most dear-Raymond was loved by Evadne.
    O,-crpoweroo by her new sensations, she did
    not pause to examine them, or to regulate her
    conduct by any sentiments except the tyra.ll;nical
    one which suddenly usurped the empire of her
    hCl:ut. She yielded (0 its influence, and the too
    natural consequence in a mind lInattuncd 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 repulsi\'c coldness. 'Vhen she
    perceived the wild or pathetic appeal of his ex-
    pressive 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
    THE LAST )L\)l.

    love; he felt in cycry nen'e that the dire storms


    of thc mcntnluniversc wcre about to attack his
    fragile being, which quh'crcd at thc cxpecta-
    lion of its ach·cnt.
    Perdita, who thcn resided with Evadne, saw
    the torture th<1t Adrian endured. She 10\'00 him
    ns a kind cider brothcr; n relation to guide,
    protect, and instruct her, witlwut the too fre-
    quent tyranny of parental authority. She
    adored his virtues, and with mixed contempt
    and indignation shc saw Evadne pile drear sor-
    row on his head, for the sake of one who hardly
    marked her. In his solitary despair Adrian would
    often seck my sister, and in covered terms ex.
    press his misery, while fortitude and agony
    divided the throne of his mind. Soon, nbs! was
    one to conquer. Anger made no part of his
    emotion. 'Vith whom should he be angry?
    Nut with Raymond, who wa .. unconscious of
    the misery he occasioned; not with Evadne,
    for her his soul wept tears of blood - poor, mis-
    taken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and nmidst
    R6 THE L.\ST )'[A~.

    Ilis own anguish he grieved for her future des.


    tiny. 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 thU5-" is not the thing
    romance writers describe it j going through the
    measures of a dance, and after various evolu-
    tions arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers
    may sit down and repose. 'Vhile there is life
    there is action and change. 'Ve 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 e,ter generated
    and generating, weaves the chain that make our
    life:
    Un dia llama a otro dia
    y ass i llama. y encadena
    llanlO it. l1anto. y pena "' pen!l.

    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;
    THE LAliT MAN. 87

    all the beauty of the world wns doubly beautiful,


    irradiated by the sun-light shcd from my own
    soul. 0 whercfore are love and ruin for c'\'cr
    joined in this our mortal drcam? So that whcn
    we make our hearts a lair for that gcntly seem-
    ing beast, its companion enters with it, and
    pitilessly lays waste what might havc been an
    home and a shelter,"
    By degrees his health was shak en by his
    misery, and then his intellect yieldcd to the
    same tyranny. H is manners grew wild; he
    was sometimes ferociou s, sometimes absorbed in
    speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadnc quilted
    London for Paris; he followed, and overtook her
    when the vessel was about t? sail j none kuew
    what passed between them, but Perdita had
    never seen him since; he lh·ed in seclmion,
    no onc knew where, attended by such persons
    as his mother selected for that purpose.
    88

    CHAPTER IV.

    THE next day Lord Raymond called at Per-


    dita's cottage, on his way to Windsor Castle.
    My sister's heightened colour and sparkling eyes
    half revealed her secret to mc. He was perfectly
    self-possessed; he accosted us both with cour-
    tesy, seemed immediately to cnter into our
    feelings, and to make onc with us. I scanned his
    physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet
    was beautiful in every change. The usual ex-
    pression of his eyes was sort, though at times
    he could make them even glare with ferocity;
    his complexion was colour]e3S; and c,"ery trait
    'Spoke predominate self_will; his smile was
    pleasing, though disdain too often curled his
    TlIF LAST )[.\N.

    lips-lips "hich to female cyes wcre the \"cry


    throne of beau ty and love. Ili s "oice, usually
    gentle, oftcn startled you by a sharp di!oCordant
    notc, which shewed that his usunllow tone was
    mther the work of study than nature. Thus
    full of contradictions, unbending yet haughty,
    gentle yet fierce, tender and ~n-ain neglectful, he
    by some strange art found easy entrance to the
    admiration and affection of women ; now ca-
    ressing and now tyrannizing over them accord-
    ing to his mood, but in evcry change a despot.
    At the present time Raymond eyidently
    wished to appear amiable. 'Vit, hilarity, and
    deep obscn'ation were mingled in his talk, ren-
    dering 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 kccp in mind every thing I had heard to his
    disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous,
    and all was so fascinating, that I forgot el"ery-
    thing except the pleasure his society afforded
    me. Under the idea of initiating me in the
    90 THE L ~'\ST }lAX.

    scene of English politics and society, of which I


    was soon to become a part, he narrated a num_
    ber of anecdotes, and sketched many characters;
    his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on, per-
    vading all my senses with pleasure. But for
    one thing he would have been completely tri_
    umphant. He alluded to Adrian, and spoke of
    him with that disparagement that the worldly
    wise always attach to enthusiasm. He percei"cd
    the cloud gathering, and tried to dissipate it;
    but the strength of my feelings would not per_
    mit me to pass thus lightly oyer this sacred
    subject; so I said emphatically, " Penn it me
    to remark, that I am devotedly attached to the
    Earl of 'Vindsor; he is my best friend and be-
    nefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord
    with his opinions, and bitterly lamcnt his pl'C.
    sent, and 1 trust temporary, iIllle.s, That ill.
    ness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to
    me beyond words to hear him mentioned, unless
    in terms of respect and afiection,"
    Raymond replied; but there was nothing
    TilE L .\ST ll .\S' . D1
    conciliatory ill his reply. I saw that in hi!.
    hcart he despised those dedicated to any but
    worldly idols. "Every man," he said, " dreams
    about somcthing, lovc, honour, and pleasure;
    you dream of friendship, and devote your-
    self to a maniac; well, if that be your yoca-
    tion, doubtless you nl'c in the right to follow
    it." -
    Some reflection sccmed to sting him, and the
    spasm of pain that for a moment conv ulsed his
    countenancc, checked my indignation. "Hap-
    py arc dreamers," he continued, "so that they
    be not awakened! 'Vould I could dream! but
    , broad and garish day' is the clement in which
    Ili\'e; the dazzling glare of reality inverts the
    scene for me. Even the ghost of fri endshi p has
    departed, and love"--He broke off; nor could
    I guess whether the disdain lllat curled his lip
    was directed against the passion, or against him_
    self for being its slavc.
    , This account mny be taken as n sample of
    THE LAST ;\tAN.

    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
    fcared, loved, and hated beyond any other man
    in England.
    :M y 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
    Haymond, gave me ensy access to the fnshion.
    able and political circles of England. To my
    inexperience we at first appeared on the eYe oC
    a civil war; each party was violent, acrimoni.
    ous, and ullyieidillg. 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, chietless, guide..
    THE LAST loIAX . 93
    less; Lut, \\ hen Lord Haymond came forward
    :lS its leader, it revi\'Cd with redoubled forcl'.
    SOllie were royalists from prejudicc :lnd ancient
    affection, and there wcre many moderately in.
    dined. who feared alike the capricious tyrnnny
    of the populttr party, :lnd the unbending des..
    potism of the aristocrnts. More than n third of
    the members ranged themseh'es und er Ray-
    mond, and their number was perpctunil,v ell-
    crcasing. The nribtocrats built their hope~ on
    their preponderaut wealth ami inRucuce; the
    reformers on the force of the nation itself; the
    debates were violent, more ,·iolent the discour~es
    held by each knot. of politicians as they n!...~cm·
    bled to arrange their measures. Opprobriolls
    epithets were bandied about, resistance even tu
    the death threat ened; meetings of the populn<:e
    disturbed the quiet order of the eountl'y; ex·
    cept in wnr, how ('oulil all this end? l~yen as
    the deslrlleti\'e flames were rendy to break
    forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed by the nh.
    senee of the military, by the 3\'ersion entertained
    THE LAST MA)".

    by e\'cry aile to any violence, save that of


    speech, and by the cordial politeness and even
    fricndship of the hostile leaders when they met
    in private society. I was from a thousand mo-
    tives induced to attend minutely to the course
    of events, and watch each turn with intense
    anxiety.
    I could not but perceive that Perdita loved
    Haymond; methought also that he regarded
    the fair daughter of Verney with admiration
    and tenderness. Yet I knew that he was urg-
    ing forward his marriage with the presumptive
    heiress of the Earldom of'Vindsor, with keen
    expectation of thc 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 'Vindsol'.
    I had ncvcr seen the sister of Adrian. I haa
    heard that she was lovely, amiable, and fasci-
    nating. ",Vherefore should I sec her? There
    ~lre times when we have an indcfinable senti_
    ment of impending change for better or for
    Till<: L.-\ST MAS ,

    worse, to nri~ from an event; allll, be it for


    better 01' for wor:.c, we fear the change, and shun
    the event, For this reason I avoided tbis high-
    bol'l1 damsel. To me she was everything and
    nothing; her rery name mentioned by another
    mnde me start and tremble; the endless discus.
    sion concerning her union with Lord Raymond
    was renl ngony to me. l\lcthought that, Adrian
    withdmwn from activc lifc, and this beauteous
    Idris, a victim probably to hel' mother's ambiti-
    OUi; schcmcs, I ought to come forward to protect
    her from undue influence, guard her from UIl-

    happiness, and secure to her freedom of choice,


    the right of e\"ery human being. \' ('t how
    was I to do this? She herself would dis.
    dain my interfcrence. Since then I must be
    an objer.t of indifference 01' contempt to
    her, bettel" far better rn'oid her, 1101' expo~c
    myself before her and the sc01'llful world to tht'
    chance of playing the mad game of a fond, fool.
    ish Ic.u'u:.,
    96 THE LAST MAX.

    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 :tlways rose at the expectation of
    seei ng her. Her conversation was full of pointed
    remark and discernment; in her pleasant al-
    cove. redoltmt with sweetest flowers, adorned
    by magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies
    of the finest pictures of Barhae]. Correggio,
    and Claude, paintt:!d by herself, I fancied myself
    in a fairy retreat untainted by and inaccessible
    to the noisy contentions of politicians and the
    frivololls pursuits of fashion. On this OC'ca-
    !.<oion, my sister was not alone; nor could
    1 fail to recognise her companion: it was
    Jdris, the till now unseen object of my mad
    idolatry.
    In what fitting terms of wonder and delight,
    ill what choice expression and soft flow of Ian.
    gunge, can I usher in the lonliest, wisest, best?
    How in poor assemblage of words com·ev the
    TilE L~\ST .lIAS". 97
    halo of glory that surrounded her, the thousand
    graces llwt waited unwcariC'd all hC'I'. The first
    thing tha.t struck you on beholding that charm.
    iug countenance was its perfect goodness nnd
    frankness; candour sat upon her brow, sirn.
    plicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her
    smile. ncr tall slim figure bent gracefully as
    a poplar to the breezy west, and her gait, god.
    dess·like, was as that of a winged angel new alit
    II'om heaven's high floor; the pearly fnil'lless of
    her complexion was staineu by a pure suffusion;
    her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor of a.
    flute. It is easicst perhaps to describe by con-
    trast. I have detailed thc perfections of my
    sister; and yet she was utterly unlike I dris.
    r erdita, e,'en where sl)e 10\·et!, was re&Cr\"(~d and
    timid; Idris was frank and confiding. The one
    recoiled to sulitude, that she might there en.
    trench he~lf from disappointment and injury;
    the other walkcd forth in open day. believing
    that none would harm her. 'Vordsworth hM
    compared .1 bclcn 'tl f.:~nnle to two fair objccu
    VOL. 1. F
    98 THE I.AST lIIAN.

    in nature; but his lines always appeared to me


    rather a contl'ast th an a simililude:

    A violet Ly a mossy flunc


    Il:tlf hidden from the eye,
    Fair as a slar "hen only one
    Ii ~hinlDg in the ~k y.

    Such a violet was sweet rerdita, trembling ter


    entrtl~t herself to the very n.ir, cowering from
    ohscrvation, yet betrayed by her excellences;
    and repaying with a thousand graecs the labour
    of these who sough t her in her lonely bye-path.
    I dris was as the sta r, set in single splendour in
    the dim anadem of balmy c,'cning; ready to
    enlighten and delight the subject world, shielded
    herself f1'om every taint by her unimaginoo dis-
    tance from all that \\'o.s not like herself akin to
    hcayen.
    I found this vision of beauty in Perdita'S 81-
    ~oye, in earnest conversation with its inmate.
    " Then my sister saw me, she rose, and taking
    my hand, said, H He is here, even at our Wi8h;
    this is Lionel , my brother.'"
    TilE L.\ST )I.\N. !l!J

    Jtlri ~ arose also, and Ucnt on me Il er eyes ur


    celestial hl uC', and with grae<: p<.'C uiinl· said-
    H You hardly need an introductiun; wc ha\'c a
    picture, highly "alued by my fath('r, whi(.'h de_
    clares at once your name. Verney, yun wi \I
    acknowledge this tic, nnd as my brother'!. friend,
    I fee) thal [ mny trust you."
    Then, with lids humid with a t('tl r and trem-
    blin:; ,'uice, she continucd-" Dear fri elllls, do
    not thin k it strange that now, "isili ng you {or
    the first lime, I ask your a3~is ttillCe, all<i confide
    my wiehcs and fears to you. To you alone do I
    dare speak; I have heard you cOllllll ended by
    impartial specttttors; you ntc my broth(T'~

    friend s, therefore you must be mme. " ' h:lt


    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 feclings, she crioo_" ;,\Cy brother!
    bclO\'cd , ill.fnt crl Adrian! how speak of your
    misfortunes? Doubtless you ba\'c both heard
    thc current talc; perhaps believe the slander;
    10' 2
    100 TilE LAST MAN.

    but he is not mad! 'Verc an angel from the


    foot of God's throne to n!isert it, never, never
    woulrl I believe it. He is wronged, betrayed,
    illlprisoned- -Mvc Jlim! Vcmey,you must do
    this; seek him oul in whatever part of the island
    he)s immured; find him) rescue him from his
    persecutors, r~tore him to himself, to me- on
    the wide earth T have none to love but only him !"
    Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately
    expressed, Clled me_ with wonder and sympa_
    thy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice
    and look, H Do you consent to undertake this
    entel'prize?" I ,'owed, with energy and truth,
    to devote myself in life and death to the resto-
    ration and we1f1ll'c of Adrian. ' Ve then con·
    nrscd on the plan I should pursue, ::md dis-
    cUS5cd the probable means of discovering his
    residcm:e. '''hile we were in earnest discourse,
    Lord Raymond entered unannounced: 1 saw
    Perdita tremble and grow deadly pale, and the
    chr.cks of Idris glow with purest blushes. I-Ie
    must have been astonished 2t our conclave, dis-
    TIIY. 1••o\,ST ll.\X. IOJ

    turbctl by it 1 !ohould h:we thought; but nothing


    of this appeared; he saluted my companions, and
    addressed me "ilh a eonlinl g reeting. Iclris
    appeared liuspended for a Inoment, nmllhen with
    extreme sweetness, she said, U Lord Raymond,
    I confide in your goodness and honour,"
    Smiling haughtily, he bent hi ~ head, and re-
    plied, wilh emphasis, "Do you indeed confide,
    Lady Idri s?"
    She endeavoured to read his thought, nnd
    then answered with dignity, "As you please.
    It is certainly best not to compromise ollt'SClf by
    any concenlmcnt. ..
    " Pardon me," he replied, u if I have of-
    fended. 'Vhether 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. I.ord Raymond requested permission to
    aCCOOlpany her to 'Vindsor Cnstle, to which she
    consented, and they quitted the cottage together.
    )Iy sister and I were left-truly like two fools,
    102 THE LA ST ~IAN.

    who fanci ed that they htul obtained a golden


    treasure, till daylight shewed il to be lead-two
    silly, luckl ess fli es, who htul played in sunbeams
    ami w~re caught in a spider's web. I leaned
    agai nst the casemel1t, ami watched those two
    glorious creatures, till thf'y disappeared in the
    forest-glades; and then I turned. Perdita had
    not moved; her eyes fixed on the ground, 11er
    cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless amI
    rigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat.
    Half frightened, I would havc taken her hand;
    but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strovc to
    collect herself. I entreated her to speak to me:
    \( Not now," she replied, II nor do you speak to
    me, my dear Lionel; yOli can say nothing, {oJ:
    JO ll know nothing. I wi]1 sec 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 tuken from her the power of supporting
    herself, she said, "Lord Ibymond will proba-
    bly retUnl. 'ViII you tell him that he must
    excuse Ole to-day, for I am not well. I will
    sec him to-morrow if he wishes it, and you allOo.
    You hacl better return to London with him;
    you can there make the enquiries agreed upon,
    concerning the Earl of'Vintlsor anu visit me
    again to-morrow, before you proceed on your
    joumcy-tillthcn, farewell!"
    She spoke falteringly, amI concluded with a
    hea,·y sigh. I gftve my assent to her request;
    and she left me. I fclt as if, from the order of
    the systematic world, I had plunged into chaos,
    obscure, contrary, unintelligible. That Ray-
    ulOnd JlouJd marry Idris was more th!m e ..er
    iULOlcrable; Jct my passiull, tlluugh a giallt
    from its birth, WllS too strange, wild, and
    impracticable, for me to fccl at once the misery
    I perceived in Perdita. How should I act?
    She had not confided in me; I could not de-
    mand 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 till1e-
    IO~ THE LAST M .\N.

    But. while I was occupied by multiplying re-


    flections, 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 ubstrnclioll ;
    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 stand-
    ing laws of the republic. This attack was di-
    rected against llaymond and his machinations
    fo!" the restoration of the monarchy.
    Raymond. asked me if I would accompany
    him to the House that evening. I remembered
    my pursuit fur intcllig{,llcc concerning Adrian;
    TilE L ,\ ST )'AN. 105

    and, knowing thtt.t my lime would be fully oc-


    cupied, I excused mysdf. "Nay," said my
    companion, " I can free YOII from your present
    impedi:nent. You are going to make enquiries
    concerning the Earl of'Vindsor. I can answer
    them at oncc, he is at the Duke of Atbol"s seat
    at Dunkeld. On the first approach of his dis-
    order, he travelled ahout from one place to
    :mother; until, arri"ing at that romantic seclu-
    sion he refused to quit it, and we made ar-
    rangements 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, H and if you
    continue of the same mind, I will facilitate your
    views. Dut 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. 'Vhat can

    " 3
    lOu TJlt: LAST .M AN.

    I do? ~1'y UC3rcst hopes appear to be lIear their


    fulfilment. The ex-queen gi\tcs me ldris;
    Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the carl.
    dom, and that earldom in my hands becomes a
    kingdom. By the reigning God it is true; the
    pa1try earldom of 'Vindsor shall no longer eon-
    tent him, who will inherit the rights which must
    for ever appertain to t11C person who possesscs it.
    The Countess can nenr forget that she has
    been a queen, and ohc rlisdnins to lca\'c a di.
    minished inheritance to her children; her power
    and my wit will rebuild the throne. and this
    brow will be c1asped by a kingly diaucm.- I can
    do this-I can marry Idris." - -
    He sLopped. abruptly, his countenance dark.
    cned, and its expression changed again and
    again under the inAucnce of internal passion.
    asked, "Does Lady Iuris love you?"
    " ''''hat a question," replied he laughing.
    " She will of course, as I shall her, when we
    are married:'
    H You begin late," said I, ironically, Ie mAr-
    TIH' LAST )'I _\ ~. 107

    loge IS lI sually eonsiJcred the grave, and not


    the cradle of lo\·c. So you arc about to lovc
    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 ceasc to play, its waters be dried up,
    and all passionatc thoughts attendant on it die-
    that is to say, thc love which would rulc me, not
    that which I rule. Idris is a gentle, pretty, sweet
    little girl; it is impossible not to hm'c an affec-
    tion for her, and I have a yery sincere one;
    only do not speak of love-loye, the tyrant and
    the tyrant-queller; love, until noW' my con-
    queror, now my slave; the hungry fire, the
    untruneable beast, the fanged snake-no-
    no-I will have nothing to do with that love.
    Tell me, Lionel, do you cunsent that I should
    marry this young lady '/"
    He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my un.
    controllable heart swelled in my bosom. Ire.
    108 THJ:: LAST lIAN.
    ,
    plied in a calm voice - but how far from calm
    was the thought imaged by my still woros-
    " Never! I can never con!'cnt that Lady Idris
    should be united to onc who docs not lo\'c her."
    " Because you love her yourself."
    " Your Lordship might have spared that
    taunt; I do not, dare not !m'c her."
    "At least," he continued haughtily, "she
    does not iOl'C YOll. I would not marry a
    reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her
    heart was free. But, 0, Lionel! a kingdom is
    a word of might, and gently sounding arc the
    terms that compose the style ofroynlty. 'Vere
    not the mightiest mcn of the oMen limes kings?
    Alexander was a king; Solomon, tIle wisest of
    men, was a king; Kapolcon was a king; Cresar
    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 fCa.r the
    fallen plant, join its dismembered frame, mul
    exalt it above all the flowers of the field.
    THE LAST MAN. 1O!J
    " You need not wonder that I ' freely disco-
    ver Adrian's abode. Do not suppm.e that I am
    wicked or foolish enough to found my purposed
    so\'ercignty on a fraud, and one so easily dis...
    covered as the truth or falsehood of the Earl's
    insanity, I am just come from him. Defore
    I decideJ on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to
    see him myself again, aud to judge t)f the proba-
    bilityof his recovery.-He is irrecoverably mad."
    I gasped for bl'eath-
    " I will not detail to you," continued nay-
    mond, " 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 smce, Excellent and gentle as he is even
    in the downfall of his reason, I do not wor.
    ship 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,
    110 TilE LAS'r l'oIA"!\.

    II whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze


    of purpose in which thou sccmcst lost ?'~
    " 'Vhither indeed? 1'0 n crown, a golden be.
    gemmed crown, I hope; !lnd yet 1 dare not trust
    and though I dream of a crown and wake for
    one, ever and anon a busy devil whispers to mc,
    that it is but a fool's cap that [ 6cck, and that
    were I wise, I should trample on it, llnd take
    in its stead, that which is worth all the crowns
    of the cast Ilnd prcsidentships of the west."
    " And what is that?"
    U If J do make it my choice, then you shall
    know; at present I dare not speak, eyen think
    of it."
    Again he was silent, and after a pause tumro
    to me laughingly. ,:t'hcn scorn did not inspire
    his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that
    painted his features with a joyous expression,
    his beauty became super-emincnt, divine.
    " Verney," said he. "my first net when I be;
    come King of England, will be to unite with
    the Greeks, take Constantinople, nnd suWuc
    TilE LAST ),I.\S. III

    all t,sin. I intend to he n warrior, n eOIlfJlIeror;


    Napoleon's !lalUe shall mil to mine; and en-
    thusiasts, insteml of visiting his rocky grnve,
    ami exnlting the merits of the f:ulen, shall
    adore Illy majcsty, and magnify my illustrious
    acIlie\·elllcnts."
    I listened to Haymond with illtcnsc interest.
    Could I be oLher than all car, to one who seemed
    to govern the whole earth in his grasping ima-
    gination, and who only quailed when he at-
    tempted to rule himself. Then on his word
    and will depended my own happiDl.- ss-the fntc
    of all dear to me. [endeavoured to divine the
    concealed meaning of his words. Perditn's
    name was not mentioned; yet I could not doubt
    that IO\'e for her caused the vacillation of pur-
    pose that he exhibited. And who was 90

    worthy of 10\'e as Diy noble-minded sister?


    Who d('SCr\'ed ule hand of this self-exalted
    king more than she whose gbnec belonged to a
    queen of nations? who loved him, as he did her;
    112 THE LAST MAN.

    notwilhstantiillg that disappointment quelled her


    passion, !lilt) ambition held strong combat with
    his.
    ''''e went together to the House in the e\·en.
    ing Raymond, while he knew that his plans
    and prospects were to be discussed and decided
    during the expected debate, was gay and care.
    less. .An hum, like that of ten thousand hives
    of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the
    coffee-room. Knots of politicians were assem-
    Moo with anxious brows and loud or deep
    voices. The aristocratieal party, the richest and
    most influential men in Engl:md, appeared less
    agitated than the others, for the question was
    to be discussed without their interference.
    Near the fire was Ryland nnd his supporters..
    Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of im-
    mense wealth, inherited from his father, who
    ]uld been a manufacturer. H e had witnessed,
    when a young Ulan, the abdication of the king,
    nnd the amalgamation of the two houses of
    Till:: L.\$T !lIAS. JJS

    Lonls and Commons; he had sympathized


    with these popular encroflc hments, n.nd it had
    been the hu sincss of his life to consolidatc and
    encrcase them. Since then, the inAuencc of the
    landed proprietors had augmented; and at first
    Ryln.nd was not sorry to obsen'c the mnchina,..
    tions of Lord Raymond, which drew off mnny
    of his opponent's partizans. But the thing WAS

    now going \00 far. 'I'hc poorer nobility hailed


    the rctum of sovcrcignty, n.s an c,'ent which
    would restore them to their power anu rights,
    now lost. The half extinct spirit of royruty
    roused itself in the minds of men; and they,
    \\illing slat"es, self. constituted subjects, were
    ready to bend their neeks to the yoke. Some
    erect and manly spirits still remained, pil1ars
    of state; but the word republic had grown stale
    to the vulgar car; and many - the event would
    proye whether it was a majority-pined for tbe
    tinsel and show of royruty. Ryland was rOllse<l
    to resistance; he asserted that his suficrnncc
    114 'rilE LAST 11.\X.

    alone had permitted the encrcasc of this pany ;


    but the time for indulgence was passro, and
    with one motion of his arm he would sweep
    away the cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.
    ,V hen 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 t11C reasons why
    they were now to receive an addition of such
    and such members, who hnd not yet declared
    themsch·es. Some trifling business of the House
    having been gone through, the leaders took
    their seats in the chamber; the clamour of
    \'oices continued, till Ryland arose to speak, and
    then the slightest whispered obscrmtion was
    audible. All eyes were fixed upon him as he
    stood-ponderous of frame, sonorous of ,'oice,
    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 Ijps
    115

    qui,·crcd somewhat, and hi s hUIll! clal>poo the


    hCllch all which he sat, with a convulsive
    streng th that made the muscles start :tgllin.
    R yland l>cgnn by praisillg the pr...-scnt state
    of the Briti!ih em pire. H e recalled past years
    to thei r lI1C'mory; the miserable colltl'ntions
    "hich in the time of our fathers arose almost to
    civil war, the abdication of the latc king, and
    the foundation of the republic. He (!('scribed
    this republic; shewed how it gave pri\'ilege to
    each jndividunl in the state, to rise to conse-
    quencc, and c,'en to temporary sovereignty.
    He compared the royal and republican spirit;
    shewed how the one tended to enslave the minds
    of men; while n.ll the institutions of the olher
    serveJ to raise c"cn the meanest among us to
    something great and good. lIe ~hcwct.l how
    Englund hnd become powerful, and its inhobi.
    mnts ,'alianl and wise, by means of the freedom
    they enjoyed. As he spoke, e"ery heart swelled
    with pride, and e"ery check glowed with delight
    to rcmcmlx-r, that eaeh one there W:tS Engli~ h,
    116 TilE L .\ST :-OIAN.

    and that each supported ruld contributed to the


    happy state of things now commemorated.
    Ryland's fervour increased-his eyes lighted
    up-his voice assumed the tOile of passion.
    There was one mall, be continued, who wished
    to alter a11 this, and bring us back to our days
    of impotence and contention ;-ooc man, who
    would dare arrogate t11e honour which was due
    to all who claimed England as their birthplace,
    and set his name and sty Ie 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 lumed from one to the
    other; but in the meantime the speaker's yoice
    filled their ears-the thunder of his denuncia-
    tions influenced tllcir senses. The ,-ery bold-
    ness of his languogc gave him weight j each
    knew that he spoke truth-a truth known, but
    not acknowlcdg.-d. He tore from reality the
    mru.k with \\ hich she had been c10thed j nnd
    the purposes of Uaymond, which before hnd
    TilE I.AST 301,\}\. 117

    crept nround, ensn~ri ng by stealth, now stood


    a hunted stag-even at bay -as all perceived
    who watched the irrcpressible 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
    endea\'onr to change the prescnt form of go,-ern-
    ment. Cheers and loud acrlamations follo wed
    the close of hi ~ speech.
    After his motion l1a<1 been seconded, Lord
    Haymond rose,- his counteJl[lnce bland. his
    voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his
    ,
    grace and sweetness cam(' like the mild breath.
    ing of a RUle, tifter the land , organ-lik e "oice of
    his ad\'ers.'l.l'y. H e rose, he said, to !'peak in
    fa,-our of the honourable melilber's motion, with
    one slight amendment sulljoined. H e \\'llS ready
    to go back to old times, and commemorate the
    contests of our fathers, and the monnrch's ah-
    dication. Nolllyand g reatly, he said, had the
    illustrious and last so\'creign of England sacri-
    ficed himsclf to the apparent good of his coun-
    118 '.flit; LAST :lIA:s'.

    try, Illul di,'csh,d himself ora power which could


    only ht' maintained by the blood of his subjects
    -these subjects named so no morc, these, his
    friends and C<}urus, had in gratitude conferred
    certain ftl\'ours and distinction:) on him and his
    family for ever.. An ample estate was allotted
    to them, and they took thc first rank nmong thc
    peers of Great Britain. Yet it might be con-
    jccturNI that they had not forgotten their an-
    cient heritage; and it \ras hard that his heir
    ~ho111d suffer alike with any oth ~r pretender, jf
    he attempted to regain what hy ancient right
    and inheritance bclongul to him. He did not
    say that he should fnnlUr such an attempt; but
    he did say that slIch an attempt would be ,-coial;
    and, j f the aspirant did not go so far ns to de-
    clare war, and crect a Handarcl in the ki::gdom,
    his fault ought to be regarded with an indulgent
    (',·c. I n his amcndment he proposed, that tin
    exception should he lIlade in thc bill in favour
    of an)' person who claimed the so"crcign power
    in right ofthc curls of \Vindsor.
    TilE L.\ST MAN. liD
    Nor di,l Haymond make an end \\ ithout
    drnwing- in vivid alld glowing colours, the splen-
    dour of tl I,ill:;!dmll, in opposition to the com-
    mercial spiril of repuhlicani sill. ITe asserted,
    that each imlividunl under the English ' mo-
    narchy, was then as now, cnpnblc of attaining
    high rank and power - with one only exception,
    that of the fUllcLlon of chief magistrate; higher
    and nobler mnk, thM a bartC'ring, timorous
    commonll'enlth could afford. And for this one
    exception, to what did it amollnt? The nnturc
    of riches and inRucncc forcibly confined the
    li~t of candidates to n fe'w of tllc wealthiest; nnd
    it WIlS mllch to be feared, thnt the ill ~humour

    and contention generated by this triennial


    struggle, would ,'ountcrbnlance its ndnmtngcs
    in impartial eyes. I can ill record the Ro\v of
    language and graceful tllrns of expression, the
    ,..it and eMY raillery that gave \'igour and in~
    Alienee to his speech. His manner, timid at
    first, bccnme firm-his changeful face 1\'as lit
    120 TilE r.AST ll.\!\.

    up to superhuman brilliancy; his voice, variou:5


    as music, was like that cHchanting.
    II were useless to record the debate that
    fonowed this harangue. Party speeches were
    deli,·cred. which clothed the question in ('ant,
    and yciled its simple meaning in a woven \\ind
    of words. The mOlion was lost; Ryland with_
    drew in rage amI despnir; and Ravmond, gay
    and exulting, retired to dream of his future
    kingdom.
    TIll:: LAST )lAX. un

    CHAPTER IV.

    Is there sli ch a feeling as love at first sight?


    And if there be, in what does its nature differ
    from love founded ~ in long obsenotion and slow
    growth? P erhaps its effects nre not so penna-
    !lent; but th ey are, while they last, as "iolent
    and intensc. 'Ve walk the pathless mazes of
    society, ,'ncnnt of joy, till we hold thi s ellie,
    It'ading 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 SUllo ,Vhat does it matter, whether the
    VOL. t. G
    12! THE LAST MAX.

    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 kin-
    dred power, and shines at once the heacon and
    the hope. In the deepest fountain of my heart
    the pulses were stirred; around, above, he.
    neath, the clinging Memory as a cloak enwrapt
    me. In 110 one moment of coming time did
    I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit
    of Idris hovcrcd in the air I breathed; her eyes
    wcrc evcr and for ever bent on mine; her remem-
    bered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused
    mc to walk as one, not in eclip£e, not in dark-
    ness and vacancy-but in a Ilew and brilliant
    light, too novel, too dazzling for my human
    senses. On every leaf, on cycry small division
    of the universe, (as on the hyacinth (I., is en-
    graved) was imprinted the talisman of my ex-
    istence-SuE LIVl.S! SHE IS !-I had not time
    yet to analyze my feeling, to takc myself to t.'lsk,
    TliE LAST )IA~ . 12

    ~nd h~ru.h 111 the tarnett'Ss passion; all \Va:. one


    idea, one fr-eiing, one knowledge-it was my
    life!
    Dut the die was cast-Haymond would marry
    ldris. The merry marriage bens rung in my
    cars; 1 heard the nation's gratulation which fol-
    lowed the union; the ambitious noble uprose
    with s ....;ft eagle-flight, from the lowly ground to
    regal suprEmacy- and to the love of Id:is. Yet,
    not so! She did not love him; she had called
    me her f nend; she had smiled on me ; to me she
    had entrusted her heart's dearest hope, the wel-
    fare of Adrian . This reflection thawed my
    congealing blood, and again the tide of life and
    lo\'e flowed impetuously onward, again to ebb
    as my busy thoughts changed.
    T he debate had ended at three ill the morning.
    1\1y soul was in tumults; I traversed the streets
    \\ ith e:lger rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night
    -lo"e-which I have named a giant from ils
    birth. wrestled with despair! 1\1 y heart., the field
    of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the
    62
    124 THE LAST M.%X.

    one, watered by tlle gushing tears of the other.


    Day, hateful to me, oawned; I retreated to my
    lodgings-I threw myself on a couch-l slcpt-
    was it sleep ?-for thought was still nlin-Iove
    and despair struggled still, :md I writhed with
    unendurable pain.
    I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy op-
    pression on me, but knew not wherefore; I en.
    tered, as it were, the council.chamber of my
    brain, and questioned the various ministers of
    thought therein a'>SCmbled; too soon I remem-
    bered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath
    the tormenting power; soon, too soon, I h.-new
    myself a slave!
    Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond ell-
    tered my aPtlrtmcnt. He came in gai ly, singing
    the Tyrolese song of liberty; noticed me with
    a gracious nod, and threw himS<'lf 011 a sapha
    opposite the copy of a bust of the A polIo Bel.
    yidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to
    which I sullenly replied, he suddenly cried,
    looldng at the bust, " I am called like that
    Til}; LA ST l IAN. 125

    victor! Not ct bad idea; the head will !)Cn ·c


    for my new coinage, and be Ull omen to all
    dUliful subjects of my futurc succesS."
    H e said this in his most gay, yet benevolent
    manner, and smil ed; not disdainfully, but in
    playful mockery of himself. Then his coun-
    tennnce 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 mn the first man in the state, burt hen of every
    ballad, and object of old women's mumbled de-
    votions. 'Vhat are your meditations? You,
    who fancy that you can read the human sou l,
    as your nati\"e lake reads each crevice and fold-
    ingof its sW"l"ounding hills -say what you think
    of me; king_expectant, angel Ol' devil, which ?"
    This ironical tone was discord to my burst-
    ing, over_boiling_heart; I was nettled by his
    insolcnce, and replied with bitterness; "There
    is a spirit, neither angel or devil, damned to
    timbo merely. " I saw his cheeks become pale,
    TilE LAST lIfAN.

    and his lips whiten and quiver; his angt.'r'


    served but to enkindle mine, and 1 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 ,,;th inToluntary
    emotion added, U Not tImt you are such, my
    dea.r lord. "
    I pa.used, even awed by the agitation he
    evinced; "Yes,"" he said at length, risiog and
    biting his lip, as he strove to cmb his passion;
    H Such am 1 ! You do not know me, Verney;
    neither you, nor our audience oC 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
    leel in each nerve the coming diadem. I ap-
    pear to have strength. power, victory; standing
    as a dome.supporting column stands; and I am
    -a reed! I have ambition, and tIulL attains
    its aim; my nightly dreams arc rea1ized, my
    waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my
    TilE lAST )rA~. 127

    accephlllce, my enemies arc overthrown. Dut


    here," and he struck his heart with violencc,
    " here is the rebel, here the stumbling_block;
    this over-ruling heart, which T mny drain of
    its living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsa-
    tion remains, I am its slave."
    He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed
    his hend, and, hiding his face in his hands,
    wept. I was still smarting from my own dis-
    appointment j yet this scene oppressed m~ even
    to terror, nor could I interrupt his access of
    pASsion. It subsided at length; and, throwing
    himself on the couch, hc remained silent and
    motionlcs.., except thnt his changeful features
    shewed a strong internal conOict. 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 chicfest errand here. 'Vill
    you accompany me to 'Vindsor to-morrow ?
    You will not be dishonoured by mJ' society,
    and as this is probably the last service, or dis-

    ,
    1:!8 THE LAST )IA~'.

    servlCC you can do me, will you grant my


    request ?,'
    He held out his hand with almost a bashful
    3Jr. Swiftly I thought-Yes, I will witness
    the last scene of the drama. Beside which,
    his mien conquered me, and an affectionate sen-
    timent towards him, again filled my heart- I
    bade him command me. "Aye, thnt I wiD,"
    said he gaily, " that's my cue now; be with me
    la-morrow morning by seven; be secret and faith-
    ful ; and you shall be groom of the stoic ere long.'"
    So saying:hc hastened away, vaulted on his
    horse, and with a gesture as if he gave me his
    hand to kiss, brule 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 holll's 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.
    rHE LAST MAN. 1~9

    I was punctual to the appointed hour Oil the


    followiDg day, and found L ord Raymond wai t.
    ing for me. '" e got into his carriage, and
    pr.occedcd towards 'Vindsor. I had tutored
    myself, and was resolved by no outward sign
    to disclose my intenml agitation.
    " 'Vhat a. mistnkc Ryland made," said Ray-
    mond, "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 assem·
    bled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have lis.-
    tened to him with a wish to heal' reason, but
    when h(' endeavoured to vanquish me in my own
    territory, with my own weapons, he put me on
    Illy 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 aU his arguments; we shall see
    how far you will be induced by them, to change
    t he royal for the patriotic style"
    c 3
    l~O TUE T.AST MAN.

    "The repetition would be useless," said Ray-


    mpnd, H since I well remember them, and have'
    many others, self.suggestcd, which speak with
    unanswerable persuasion,"
    He did not explnin himself, nor did I make
    any remark on his reply. OUf 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 sai4: H Phi.
    losophers have called man a microcosm of naturc,
    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, exercis.-
    ing my ingenuity in finding resemblances. Does
    not Lord Bacoll say that, 'the faIling from a
    discord to a concord, which maketh great sweet·
    ness in music, hath an agreement with the affec-
    tions, which are re.integratcd to the better after
    some dislikes?' '¥hat a sea is the tide of pas-
    sion, whose fountains are in our own nature!
    TIlE LAST MAN. 131

    Our virtues nre the quick-sands, which shew


    themselves nt 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 fmm under him. The fashion s
    of the world, its exigencies, educations and pur-
    suits, arc winds to drh'e our wills, like clouds
    all one way; but let a thunderstorm aiise in the
    shape of love, IUlte, or ambition, and the rack
    goes bnckward, stemming the opposing air in
    triumph."
    "Yet," replied I, "nature always presents to
    our eyes the appearnnr.c of n patient: while
    there is au ncti"e principle in man which is
    capable of ruling fortune, nnd at least of tack-
    ing against the gale, till it in some mode COIl -

    quer.:; it."
    "There IS more of what is specious than
    U'uc in your distinction," said my compa-
    man. "Did we form ourseh'cs, ('hoosing our
    dispositions, and our powers? I find m)''il'lf,
    for onc, as a stringed instnwlent with chords
    132 THE LAST )lAX.

    and stops-but I have no power to tum 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 particu-
    lar tune, or run voluntary changes on my'will.
    vVe are born; \ve choose neither 'our parents,
    nor our stations; we are educated by others,
    or by the world's circumstance, and u1is cultiyl1.-
    tion, 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 1, "and yet no man ever acts upon this
    theory. ''V'ho, when he makes a choice, says,
    Thus I choose, because I am necessitated? Does
    he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will
    withi.n him, which, though you may call it fal-
    lacious, still actuates him as he decldes't'
    THE LAST MAN,

    " Exactly so," rcpli~d Raymond, "another


    link of the bl'eaklcss chain. "'ere I now to
    commit an aet which would annihilate my hopes,
    and pluck the regal garment f!'Om 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 'Vindsor, 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 witne!'!!'! the .'\cene thnt wa" to decide
    the fate of Raymond-and of Perdita. Ray.
    mond had evidently vacillated during his jour-
    ney, and irresolution was marked in cvery ges_
    ture as we entered Perdita's cottage, I watched
    him curiously, dctennincd that, if this hesitation
    should continue, I would assist Perdita to O\'Cl'-

    come l1ersclf, and teach her to disdain the wawr-


    ing love of him. who balanced between ·.the
    possession of a crown, and of het·, whose excel-
    13~ TII.G LAST MAN.

    lcnce and affection transcended the worth of a


    kingdom.
    W"e found her in her :Aower-adorned alcove;
    she was reading the newspaper report of the
    debate in parliament, that apparently doomed
    her to hopelessness. That heart-sinking feel.
    ing was painted in her sunk eyes and spiritless
    attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and fre.
    quent 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 mad-
    men 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 wOHly
    war.'"
    Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her
    TilE 1.AST 1II .\~. 135

    (!x pl'essire countenance shone for :l moment


    with tcmlerness; 10 sec him only was happiness.
    But n bitter thought swiftly shadowed her
    joy; she bent her eyes on the ground, en-
    deavouring to master the passion of tears that
    threatened to oycrwhelm her. Raymond con_
    tinued, H I will not act a part with you, dcar
    g irl, or ap~ar othef than what 1 am, weak and
    unworthy, more fit to excite your disdain than
    your 10,·c. Y ct you do lo,-c me; I fecI and
    know that you do, and thcnce I draw my most
    cheri:.hc<l hopes. If pride guided you, 01' even
    reason, you might well reject me. Do so; if
    your high heart, incapable of my infir mity of
    purpose, refuses to bend to the lowncss of mine.
    Turn from me, if you will,-ifyou can. If your
    whole soul docs not urge you to forgi"e me-
    if your entire heart docs not open wide its door
    to admit me to its vcry centrc, forsake me,
    neyer speak to me again. I, though sinning
    against you almost beyond remi8sion, I also
    136 THE LAST MAN.

    am proud; there must be no reserve In your


    pardon-no drawback to th" gift of your affec-
    tion."
    Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased.
    )1 y presence embarrassed her; so that she dared
    not tum 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 man 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
    hl'r; persuade her to be mine."
    " There needs no persuasion," Gaid the bluiih-
    Tin; LAST MA)/'.

    iug Perdita, "except your own dear promises,


    and my ready heart, whieh whispers to me that
    they are true."
    That same evening we an three walked to-
    gether 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, play-
    ful 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 tosilenceor persuade the legislators
    of England dlat a sceptre was not too weighty
    for his hand, while visions of dominion, war,
    and triumph floo.ted before llim; now, frolicsome
    as a lively boy sporting under his mOlher's ap-
    proving eye, the hopes of his ambition were
    complete, when he pressed the small fair hand of
    Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant with de-
    light, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring
    13S TilE LAST ~IAN.

    herself, but drinking in with rapture the reBection


    there made of the fonn of herself and her loYer,
    shewn (or 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 'Yindsor. High is the wall and strong the
    barrier that separate me from my Star of
    Beauty. But not impassable. She will nOl be
    his. A few more years dwell in thy native gar-
    den, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire
    u right to gather thee. Despair not, nor bid
    me despair! 'Vhat must I do now? First I
    must seck Adrian, and restore him to her.
    Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall
    fecal him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that
    he is mad; energy and courage shaH reSClie
    him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.
    Mter 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 winc, we none of us
    TilE LAST ~t .\N . 19~

    either ate or (k:mk-c\'cn thc beauty of the


    night was lIilobscr\"(~d; thcir ('xta"y could not
    be illcrcas('d by outward ohjects, and I was
    wupt in re\'crie. At about midnight Raymond
    lind I took lcave of my sister, to retum to town.
    He was all gaicty; scraps of songs fell from his
    lips; cv('ry thought of his mind-every object
    about us, gleamed under the sunshine of his
    mirth. IT c accused me of mcln.nchol y, 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 yisit
    to Adrian; I conjure you to perform your pro-
    mise. I cannot linger here; I long: to sooth~

    perhaps to cure the malady of my first :md best


    friend. I shall immediately dep.."lrt for Dunkeld."
    "Thall bird of night," replied Raymond,
    ., \vhat all eclipse do you throw across my bright
    thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melan.
    choly ruin, which stands in mental desolation,
    more irrcparable 1Mn a fragment of n carved
    140 THE LAST )L\!'>.

    column in a weed-grown field. You dream that


    you can restore him? Dredalus never wound
    so inextricable nn error round l\linotaur, as
    madllc5.'i hM woven about his imprisoned rea-
    son. Nor you, nor lllly 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, H I would
    not advise her seeing him. Detter 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; nnd it were
    we1l that it should never again be imprinted.
    You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and
    tractable he wanders up the hills, and through
    the w,?Od, or sits listening beside the waterfall.
    You may see him-his hair stuck with wi1~
    flowers-hi,; eyes full of untraceable meaning-
    his voice broken-his person wasted to a sha~
    TilE LAST ~ I .\!\'. HI

    dol". J £e plucks flowers and wcc<b, and weaves


    chaplds of them, or :)ai ls yellow lcaves and hits
    of bark on the st ream, rej oicing in thei r safety,
    or weeping at their wreck. The "cry memory
    half unmans me. Dy H eaven! the first tcars J
    have shed sin~e boyhood rushed scalding into
    my eyes when I saw him."
    It ncedcd not this last account to spur me 011

    to visit him. I only doubted whcther or not I


    should cndca\'our to sec Idris again, bcforc I de·
    parted. 'l'hi;; doubt was decided on the follo\\'-
    iLlg day. Early in the moming H aymond came
    to mc; intelligcp.cc had arri,'cd that Adrian
    was dangerously ill, and it appeared impossiblc
    that his failing !>trength should surmount the
    disorder , "To-morrow," said R aymond, "his
    mother and sistcr set (lut for Scotland to sec
    him once again."
    U And I go to-day;' I crk'<l ; u this wry
    hOUT I will engage a saili ng balloon; I shaH bc
    there in forty-eight hou rs at furthcst, perhaps
    in less, if the wind is fair. Fnrcwell, Ray-
    THE LAST )fAX.

    mond; be happy in having chosen the better


    part in life. This turn of fortune revives me.
    I feared madness, not sickness~I have a pre~

    sentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps


    this illness i!:l a crisis, and he may recover."
    Everything favoured my journey. The bal.
    loon rose about half a mile from the earth, and
    with a favourable wind it hurried through the
    air, its feathered vans deaving 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
    SUUIIY uir. Th\! pilul hardly moved the plum~

    strerage, 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 llis spring.tide flight. The
    machine obeyed the slightest motion ofthc helm;
    and, the wind blowing steadily, there was no let
    TilE L~ST MAN, 145
    01' obstaclc to our course. Such was the power
    of man o\'cr th~ c1cments; a power long sought,
    and lately won; yet forctold in by-gone time by
    the prince of poets, whose \'erses I quOted much
    to the astonishment of my pilot. when I told him
    how many hundred years ago they had been
    written ;-

    Oil! human wil, thou call'~t iD\'eDl ruurh ill,


    Thou searchest straDge arts: who would thir,k by skill,
    All heavy man like a light bird should stray,
    A nd through the empty heavenll filld a way ~

    I alighted at Perth; nnd, though much fa-


    tigued by n constant exposure to thc air for
    many hours, I \vould not rest, but merely a1.
    tering my mode of cOD\'cyancc, J went by land
    inste:td of nir, to Dunkcld. The sun wns rising
    liS I entered the opening of the hills. After the
    revolution of ages Dil'llam hill was again co-
    vered with a young forest, while Dlore aged
    pines, planted at the yery commencement of the
    nineteenth century by the then Duke of Athol,
    gue solemnity and beauty to the scene. The
    144 'IJIE LAn MAY.

    rising sun first tinged the pine tops; and my


    mind, rendered through my mountain educa-
    tion deeply susceptible of the graces of nature,
    and now on the eve of again beholding my be-
    loved and perhaps dying fri end, was strangel'y
    influenced by the sight of those distant beams:
    surely they were ominous, and as such I re-
    garded them, good omen!'! for Adrian, on whose
    life my happiness depended.
    Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of
    sickness, his cheeks glowing whh the hues of
    fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irre-
    gular and difficult. Yet it was less ~ainful to
    see him thus, than to find hilJl 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 wann cheek, and know that
    the vcry firc which burned too fielcely there, was
    consuming the vital fuel; to hear his moaning
    VO!ce, which might never again articulate words
    145
    of love tlIlll \\i!odom; to witncss 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
    dccreed for my labours, and I becnme haggard
    and spectre-like, through anxiety :lnd wntching.
    At length his eyes unclosed faind)" yet with a
    look of returning life; he becmnc pale and
    weak j but the rigidity of h:s features was
    softened by approaching convaiC'Scencc. lIe knew
    Ille. " rhat 1\ ul·imful cup of joyful agony it
    was, when his facc first gleamed with the glance
    of recognition -\\ hen he pressed my hand, no\\'
    more fe,"croo than his own, and when he pro-
    nounced my name! No trace of his past in-
    sanity rcmained, to dl\Sh my joy with sorrow.
    This samc evening his mother and sister
    arri,·ed. The Countess of \ Vindsor was by
    nature full of encrgetic feeling; but she had
    very seldom in her life permitted the concen-
    trated emotions of her heart to shew themsel\'l;~s

    on her features. The studied immombility of


    YOLo I. H
    146 THE LAST lIIAN.

    her countenance j her slow, equable manner,


    and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask, hid-
    ing her fiery passions, ::mll 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 tot.·llly 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, tllin, 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 appearC'd to be
    the only bdng who could resist her mother,
    notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her
    charactcl·. nut thcre 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 ki:ldness on my
    THE LASt' M ,~'N. ]1.7

    worn-out frame, though afterwards she thankrd


    me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris j hC'r
    lll'st glance wa'i for her brother; she took his
    hand, she kissed his eye-lids, and hung over him
    with looks of eOIl1}xlssion and 10ye. Her eyes ~lis­
    tened with tears when she thanked me, and the
    grace of her expressions was enhanced, not
    diminished, by the fervour, which caused hI'
    almost to falter as she spoke. lIer mother,
    all eyes and ears, soon interrupted us; and I
    saw, that she wished to dismiss me quielly, flS

    one whose sen'ices, now that his rdatiycs had


    arrived, were of no usc to her son. I was
    harassed and ill, resch'cd not to give up my
    post, yet doubting in what way I shollld assert
    it; when Adrian called mc, and clasping my
    hand, bade me nOt leave him, His mothel',
    apparently inattentive, at once understood wlmt
    was meant, and eceing the hold we had upon
    her, yielded the point to us.
    The days that followe.:.l were fun of pnin to
    me; so that I sometimes regretted tllnt J had
    }I~
    148 TilE LAST lIAN.

    110t 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. Ne\'er did any woman appear
    1;0 entirely made of mind; as the Countess of
    \Vindsol" Her passions bad subdued her appe.
    tites, even her natural wants; she slept little,
    and hardly ate at all; her body was c\'idently
    considered by her as a mere machiue, whose
    health was necessary for ~he accomplishment
    of her schemes, but whose senses formed no
    part of her enjoyment. There is something
    fearful in one who can thus conquer the arumal
    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 a\vake when othel's slept, fasting
    when I, abstemious naturally, and. rendered
    so by the fever that preyed on me, was
    forced to recruit myself with food. She resolv~

    ed to prevent or diminish my opportunities of


    acquiring influence o'·cr her children, and cir.
    TilE L.\ ST lIAX. 149

    CUllWCnlcd my plans by a hard, quiet, stubborn


    resolution, that seemed not to belong to fle..,h
    and blood. 'Var was at last tacitly acknow_
    ledged between us. \Vc 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 ndvantage of posltion ; so I
    was yanquished, thoug h I would not yield.
    I became sick at hcart. 1\1y countenance was
    painted with the llues of ill health and vexa.
    tion. Adl;an and ldris saw this; they attri_
    buted it to my long watching and anxiety; they
    urged me to rest, and toke core of myself, while
    I most truly assured tbem, that my best medicine
    was their good wishes; those, and the assured COIiI-
    valescence of my friend, now daily more apparent.
    The faint rose again blushed on hi s cheek; his
    brow and lips lost the ashy paleness of threat-
    ened dissolution; such was the deal' reward of
    DIy unremitting attention-and bounteous hea-
    I bO TilE LAST lIAN.

    ven addt..>d overflowing rccompenc(', when it gave


    me also the thanks and smiles of I dris.
    After the lapse of n few weeks, we left Dun-
    kcld. Idns and her mouler returned imme- ·
    diutely to 'Vindsor, while Addan and I followed
    hy slow jouL"l1tes and frequent stoppages, occa·
    sioncd by his continued weakness. As we tm-
    vel'sed the various counties of fertile England,
    all wore an exbilirating appearance to my com-
    P:lI1i011, who had been so long secluded by dis-
    ease from the enjoyments Ilf weather and
    scenery. 'Ve passed through busy towns and
    cultivated plains. The husbandmen were getting
    in their plenteous harvests, and the w01nen and
    children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed
    h'1'OUPCS of happy J healthful persons, the very
    sight of whom carned cheerfulness to the heart.
    One evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down
    a shady lone, then up a graS!'.y slope, till we
    came to an eminence, that comm::mded an ex-
    tC'ol'; ive view of hill and dale, meandering riveTS,
    TilE I..... ST ;\I.\~ • 1.il

    ..lark \\ OOLIs, and shilling "iIlages. Tile sun


    was setting; a nd the c1uuds, straying, li ke new-
    shorn shC('I'" through the \'3st fields of sky, rc-
    cci \tC(l the golden co:our of his parting Uc:ams;
    the distant uplands shone out, tlml the busy
    11lIm of evening came, harmonized hy distance,
    on our enr. Adrian, who fcll all the fresh
    ~pirit infused by returning health, clasped his
    hands in delight, and exclaimed with transport :
    h 0 Imppy earth, and hnppy inhabitants of
    earth! A stately palace has God built for you,
    o Illan! and worthy are you of your dwelling!
    Behold the I'erillmt carpet spread at our feet,
    .and ilie azure canopy auc)\'e; the fields of earth
    which generate and nurture all things, and the
    track of heucn, which contains and clasps all
    things. Now, at this ~tcning hour, at the pe-
    riod of repose :md refection, lllcthinks all hearls
    breathe one hymn of love and thanksgi \,jng. and
    we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops, gi\'e
    a I'oice to their sentiment.
    H Assuredly " most benignant power built
    152 THE L.AST 11-'1. N.

    up the majestic fabric we inhabit. and


    framed the laws by whieh it endures. If
    mere existence, and not happiness, had been
    the 6nal end of our being. what need of the
    profuse luxuries which we enjoy? Why should
    our dwelling place be so lo\'ely, and why should
    the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sen-
    sations? The very slistaining of our animal.
    machine is made delightful; and our suste-
    nance, the fruits of the field, is painted with
    transcendant hues, endued with grateful odours~

    and palatable to our taste. \Vhy should this


    be, if HE were not good? \V c need hou5es 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.
    " ~Tor are outward objects alone the re-
    ceptacles of the Spirit of Good. Look into the
    mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned;.
    THE LAST MAN. 153

    where imagination, the painter, sits, with his


    pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of SUIl-

    set, ndorning familiar life with glowing tints.


    'Vhat a noble boon, worthy the giver, is the
    imagination! it t..'lkes from reality its leaden
    hue: it envelopes aU thought and sensation in
    a radiant veil, and with an hand of beauty
    beckons us from the sterile scas of lif(>, to her
    gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss. And
    is not love a gift of the divinity? Lo,-e, amI
    her child, Hope, which cnn bestolV wealth on
    poverty, strength on the weak,
    , and happiness
    on the sorrowing.
    " ~ly lot has not been fortunate. I haye
    consorted long with grief, entered the gloomy
    labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half
    aliye. Yet I thank God that 1 have lived! ]
    thank God, that I han:: beheld his thmne, the
    heavens, and earth, his foot stool. I am glad
    that I have SCC'1l the changes of his day; to
    behold t11C stln, fOllntain of light, and the
    gentle pilgrim moon; to hayc sccn the lire
    II 3
    154 THE LAST lIAN.

    LCaring flowers of the sky, and the flowery


    slars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing
    and the harvest. I am glad that I ha\'c 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
    fmme; mere existence is plcasur<'; and I thank
    God that I live!
    " A nd all ye happy nurslings of mother.
    4!arth, do ye not echo my words? Y c who arc
    linked by the affectionate ties of nature; com-
    pamons, friends, lov('rs! 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 !
    u Oh, that death and 8ickncss were banished.
    from our earthly home! that hatred, tyranny,
    and fcar could no longer make their lair in the
    human heart! that each man might find a
    brother in hi.s fellow, and a nest of repose
    TilE L.\ST MAN. 1,j5

    amid the wide plains of his inheritance! thnt


    the source of tcars wcre dry, and that lips
    might no longer form expressions of sorrow.
    Sleeping thus under the bcneficent eye of
    heavcn, can evil "is:t thee, 0 Earth, or grief
    cradle to their graves tliy luckless chiluren?
    \Vhispcl' it not, lest the d~mon s hear and re_
    joice! The choice is with us; let us will it,
    and our habitation becomes a pamdi se. 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 hi s fellow_ crea_
    tures? My soul iii a fading spn1'k, my nature
    frail as a spent wave; but I dedicate all of in-
    tellect and strength that remains to me, to that
    one work, and L.1.ke upon me the task, as far as
    I am able, of bestowing blessings on my fellow.
    men !~

    His ,'oice trembled, his eyes were cast up,


    156 'tile LAST liAS'.

    hi:i hands clasped, and his fragile person was-


    bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The-
    spi.rit aflile seemed to linger in his fann, as a
    dying flame on an altar flickers on the embers
    of an accepted sacrifice.
    TilE LAST )IAX. 151

    CHAPTER V.

    \VllE~ we arrived at 'Vindsor, I found that


    Haymond and rerdita had departed for the
    continent. I took possession of my sister's
    cottage, and blessed myself that I Ih'oo within
    view of \Vindsor Castle, It wns a curious fact,
    that at this period, when by the marriage of
    Perdita 1 was allied to one of the richcst incH.
    "iduals in England, and was bound by th" most
    intimate friendship to its clliefest noM", I expe-
    rienced the greatest excess of po"erty that .T had
    c\'er known. My knowledg<> of the worldly
    principles of Lord Raymond, would hn\'c e,'er
    prcyented me from applying to him, however
    deep my distress might hal'e been. It ,vas in
    158 THE LAST UAN.

    yam 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 a1&o to
    be common. I could never, while with him,
    think of his bounty as a rcmtx:ly to my powrty;
    and I even put aside hastily his offers of sup-
    plies, assuring him of a falsehood, that I needed
    them not. How could I say to this generous
    being, "l\Iaintain me in idleness. You WllO

    have dedicated your powers of mind and for-


    tune to the benefit of your species, shall you
    so misdirect your exertions, as to support in
    usc1cssness the strong, healthy, and capable?"
    And yet 1 dared not request him to use his
    influence that I might obtain an llOnourabJe
    provision for myself-for then I should ha,'c
    been obliged to leave '¥indsor. I hovered for
    (ver 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 gaz~d on the
    happy walls that sheltered thc beloved of my soul.
    159

    )( y mind was ncwrtheless idle. I j")()l'ed o\"cr


    thc poetry of oltltimcs; I studied the lIletnphysics
    of Plato and Berkley. I read the histories of
    Greece and Rome, and of England's furmer pe-
    riods, and [ watched the movemenl!ll of the lady
    of my heart. At night I could sec her shadow
    on the walh of her apartment; by day [ viewed
    her in her Rower-garden, or riding in the park
    with her usual eomp..'lnions. l\Iethought the
    charm would be broken if I were seen, but I
    heard the music of her "oice nnd was happy. I
    gave to each heroine of whom I read, her beauty
    and match less excellences - such was Amigonc,
    when she guided the blind CEdi pus to the gr,,\"e
    of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral
    rites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the un-
    \"isitcd cave of l)rospero; such H aidee, on the
    sands of the Ionian idand. I was mad with exeC""s
    of passionate de\'olion; but pride, tamc1css as
    fire, invcsted my nature, and pmvcnted me from
    betraying my self by word or look.
    In the mean time, while I thus pampered my_
    !GO THE LAST l[AN.

    self with rich mental repasts, D peasant would


    have disdained my scanty farc, which 1 sometimes
    robbed from the squirrels of the forest. I was, I
    own, often tempted to recur to the lawless feats of
    my ho,-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 sen-
    sual by privation, made me think that t'ley
    wou1d better become the spit in my kitchen,
    than the green leaves of the forest,

    Nathelesse.
    J 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 socicty by a
    THE LAST }oIAN. WI
    golden chain, aud to cnter into nIl lhc duties
    and nffcctions of life. Miracles were 10 he
    wrought in my f:tvour, the machine of' social
    life pushed with \'nst effort backward. At~

    lcnd, 0 reader! while 1 narrate this talc of


    wonders!
    One day as Adrinn and Idris were riding
    througll the forest, with their mother and ac-
    customed companions, I dris, drawin~ her bro-
    ther aside from the fest of the C<'lsalcadc, sud-
    denly asked him, U 'Vhat had become of his
    friend, Lionel Verney?'"
    (f Even from this spot," replied Adrian,
    pointing to my sister's cottage, "you can see
    his dwelling."
    " Indeed!" said Idris, Hand 'f'hy, if he be
    so ncar, docs he not come to see us, and makc
    onc of our society?"
    II I often \"isit him," replied Adrian; (( but
    you may easily guess the motiycs, which pre"ent
    him from coming where his presence may alffioy
    ony one among us."
    1G2 'l'IIJ~ l, ,\!'i'r MAN.

    " I do guess them," said ldl'i~, "amI Mu:h .,\s


    they /Ire, I would not "('Ilture to ('OIlIhat thein,
    Tell me, however, ill II hat way he pa!;scs his
    time; what he is doing and thinking in his cot-
    tage rctreat ("
    " Nay, Illy "lI'eet sister," replied Allrian.
    " vou ask mc more than I can well answer; but
    if YOII fer! intCI'L~t in him, why lIot visit him?
    11 c will feel highly hUllUUI'cd, and thus you Illay
    rcpay a part of the ()hlig:ati.-~m ( owe him, ani!
    compensate 101' the injuries fortunc has done
    him."
    " I will most rcadily accompany you to his
    ahollc," saill the lul1y, "not that I wish that
    either of LIS should III1Lurthell uurselves of ollr
    deht, wllich, Leill~ no less thall your life, Illust
    remain unpayahle e\'CI·. But let us go; to-
    morrow we will arnlllf,,"C to ride (lilt together,
    ami }ll'Oeceding toward:s that part of the forest.
    mIl llpon him."
    The next cI'cning therefol'c, though the
    : 1II11l1ll1l<l1 change h:1I1 broLLght on culd amI min,
    TII1-: I, A9T l l.1N . 1G3

    Adl'ian a nd Idris cnl(,I'('<1 Illy cnt!:l ~C, They


    found me Cu riu:'1.-1ikt'. fea:-.tiug till sorry li'uit~

    fur supper ; hu t thcy bl'llllA:hl gifts l'jellcl' than


    thc goldcn hribcs (If the Sahiu('s, lIur could I
    refusc the ill\·alu ....1Ie sture of fricllc i:ihi p :'IIul
    d elight which they lK'StU\\'I.."I1. Surely th e g lo-
    riou s tw:ns of Latona were 1I0t llIorc weicollle,
    when, in the infancy of the world, tbl'y were
    hrought forth to healltify :md enlig h tell this
    U stcril e Pl'OlIlolltory," than Wl're this angelic
    pair to my lowly dwdliug lind grateful hea rt.
    \Vc s..1t li ke one famil y roulld Illy hcnrt h.
    Our t.11k was on f; lIhjl.'et~, 1II1COI1 I1 ('('h.'d \\ itll the
    cmotiolls that e" jdently nceuJlietl (':tell; hut
    wc cafh di\'ine~J the other's thought, :\110 as otlr
    voices "poke of indifii.·rent malleI'S, our eyes, ill
    mute l:tug1lngc, told a thOlI ~ lIld thing!'! no
    tuns"c cOllld h:n 'e \Il1cred .
    Th ey left me in an hour's time. They left
    lIle happy- how un!"'prnbhly happy. It die!
    not retplirc the measured sonnds of hum:m
    lungua;,;e to syllabIc the I'tu ryof my cxta,:;y.
    hL'is had vi~iletl me ; Idris I :.ltould ngain and
    16~ Till:: L.\ST MAN.

    again sec-my imagination did not wander


    beyond the completeness of this knowledge.
    r trot! air; no doubt, no fcar, no hope e\'en,
    disturbed me j I clasped with my soul the ful-
    ness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring, bea~

    tined.
    For many days Aw;an and Idris continued
    to visit me thus. In this dear intercourse, io\'c,
    in the guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused
    more and more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris
    felt it. Y C5, divinity of the wodd, I read your
    characters in her looks and gesture; I heard
    your melodious voice echoed by her-yoll pre-
    pared for us a soft and Rowery path, all gentle
    thoughts adorned it-youi' name, 0 Lov~ was
    not. spoken, but you stood the Genius of the
    I-IoUf, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand,
    might raise the curtain. Organs of articu_
    late sound did not proclaim the union of our
    hea.rts; for untoward circumstance allowed no
    opportunity for the cxpression that hO"crt'd on
    OUf lips.
    THE LAST lolA};, J65

    Oh my pen! haste thou to write \\ hat was,


    IJefore the thought of what is, arrests the hand
    that guides thee, If I lift up my eyes and see
    the deStlrt earth, and feel that those dear eyes
    have spent their mOl'tal lustre, and that those
    beauteous lips are silent, their H crimson lea,'es"
    faded, for ever I am mule!
    Dut YOll live, my Idris, even now you lUo"e
    before me! There was a glade, 0 rcnder! a
    grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees
    left its "cIvet expanse as a temple for love. the
    &ilver Thames bounded it on one side, and a
    willow bending down dipt in the Wi!.tcr its Naiad
    hair, dishevelled by the wincl's viewless hand,
    The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
    nightingnles-there am I now; Idris, in youth's
    dear prime, is by my side-remember, I am just
    twenty~twoJ and seyenteen summers ha,'e scarcc-
    ly pa:»e<l over the lx-Io\'oo of my heart, The
    ri,'er swollen by autumnal rruns, deluged the
    low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boot is
    employed in the dangerous pastime of plucking
    166 THE LAST MAN.

    the topmost bough from a submerged oak.


    Are you wcar)' of life, 0 Adrian, that Y0l: 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 hecould
    join us. " He is sufe!" said Idris, as he leapt
    on 5hore, and waved the bough over his head in
    token of succeS8; "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 tlus sweet emblem of
    herself: "How the light p..'llpitates,'· she said.
    H which is that star's life. Its vacillating efful-
    gence sC('ms to s:ly that its state, e\'en like ours
    upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears,
    methinks, and it lo\'es."
    ., Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend,"
    TIIF. LAST M.U:. Wi

    1 cried, "rend not love in its trembling rays;


    look not upon distant worlds; speak not of the
    mcre il1l11ginntion of a sentimcnt. I hn\'c long
    ~n silent; long even to sickness have I
    desired to speak to you, and submit Illy soul,
    my life, my entire being to you. Look not on
    th~ st.ar, dear 10\'e, or do, and let lIlnt ctcrnal
    spark plead for me; let it be my witness and
    my advocate, silcnt as it shincs-10\'c is to me
    as .light to the star; even so long as that is un-
    eclipsed by nnnihilatioll. 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 feci her graceful form press against my
    full-fraught heart-still docs si~ht, and pulse.
    and breath sicken and fail, at the remcmbnmce
    of that first kiss. Slowly and si lcntly we went
    to meet Adrian, whom we heard approaching.
    I entreated Adrian to retum to me aftcr he
    had comluctcd his sister home. And that same
    e\·cniog. walking among the moon_lit forest
    paths, I poured forth my whole heart, its trao-
    1GB Till': L.\ST ),{A);'.

    :l.port and its hope, to my friend. For a moment


    he looked disturbed-" 1 might have foreseen
    this,"" he said, "what strite will now ensue!
    Pardon mc, Lionel, nor wonder that the expec-
    tation of contest with my mother should jar
    me, when else I s]lould delightedly confess that
    my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my
    iister to your protection. If you do not already
    know it, you will soon learn the deep hate my
    mother bears to the name of Verney. I will
    converse with Idris; then all that a friend can
    do, I will do; to !Jer it must belong to play
    the loyer's part, if she be capable of it."
    'Vhile the brother and siater were still hesi.
    tating in what mnnner they could best attempt
    to bring their mother over to their party, she,
    liuspccting our mcctin~, taxed her children
    with them; taxed her frur daughter with deceit,
    and an unbecoming attachment for one whose
    only merit was being the son of the profligate
    fen-amite of her imprudent father; and who was
    doubtless as worthless as he from "hom he
    THE LAST MAN. 169

    boasted his descent. 1'hc eyes of Idris flashed


    at this accus.'ltion.; she replied, U I do not deny
    that 1 love Verney; prove to me that he is
    worthless; and I will neyer sec him more."
    h Denr 'M adam;' Mid Adrian, U let me en-
    treat you to sec 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 !'r exclaimed the angry
    lady, H you have chosen with dreams and the0-
    ries 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 $.1.me struggle
    with your father, to make him cast off the parent
    of thi." youth, who bid his e\·il propensities with
    the smoothness and subtlety of a viper. In
    "OL. I. 1
    1jO THe LAST M.\S'.

    those days ho\v often did 1 hellr of his allrllC-

    tions, his wide spread conquel>ts, his wit,


    his refined manners. It is well when flies only
    arc caught by suc'. l':piders' webs; but is it for
    the high-born and powerful to bow their necks
    to the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pre-
    tensions? ". ere your sister indeed the insig-
    nificant pcrson she deservcs to be, I would
    willingly leave her to the fate, the wretched
    fate, of the ,,-ife of a man, whose very person,
    resembling as it does his wretched father, ought
    to rcmind ),ou of the folly and vice it typifiC!-
    but remember, Lady ldris:, it is not alone the
    once royal blood of England that colours your
    Tcins, you arc n Princcss of Austria, and every
    life-drop is akin to emp<'rors and kings. Arc
    you then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-
    boy, whose only inheritancc is his father's tar-
    nished name t'
    " I can make but one defence," replied ldris,
    H the same offered by my brother; see Liond J
    com'erse with my shepherd-boy"--
    T11l: LAS'l' ~IAN. 11\

    The Countess interrupted hE'f indignantly_


    H Yours !'~-she cl'ied: and then, smoothing
    her impassioned features to a disdainful smile,
    sht' continued-" ' Ve will talk of this another
    time, All 1 now ask, all your mother, Idris,
    requests is, that you will not see this upstart
    during the interval of one month."
    " J dare not comply," said Idris, "it would
    pain him too much, I ha,·e no right to play
    with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and
    then sting him with neglect."
    H This is going too far," her mother an-
    swered, with qui,'ering lips, and eyes again
    instinct by anger.
    "Nay, Madam,'" said Adrian, H unll'SS my
    sistel' consent never to sec him n~ain, it is surely
    an useless torment to sf-p:uatc them for a month,"
    U Certainly," replied the ex.quccn, with bit.
    tel' scorn, U his lo\'e, and her love, and both
    their childish flutterings, arc to be put in fit
    comparison with my years of hope and an.... iety.
    12
    172 TlIf. LAST lU.N.

    with the duties of the offspring of kings, with


    the high and dignified cODduct which one of
    her descent ought to pursue. nut it is un-
    worthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps
    you will ha\'c the goodness to promise me not
    to marry during tJlat interval?"
    This was asked only half ironically; and Idns
    wondered why her mother should extort from
    her a solemn YOW not to do, what she had never
    dreamed of doing-but tIll' 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 con.
    sent. She was too unlikc them, too utterly alien
    to their tastes, for them to find delight in h('( so..
    ciely, or ill inc prospect of its continuancc, but
    it gave them pleasure to sec hcr conciliating and
    kind. Once even, Adrian ventured to propose
    TilE LAST llANo li3

    her recei"ing me. She refused with a smile,


    ,
    reminding him that for the present his sister hnu
    promised to be patient.
    One day, after the 1apie of nearly a month,
    Adrian received a letter from a friend in Lon_
    don, 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 sec Idris during his ab-
    sence, he promised a speedy r(,turn. His
    gaiety, which was extreme, had the strange
    effect of awakening in me contrary feelings;
    a pre5E'lltiment of evil hung over me; I loitered
    on my return; I counted the hoUr!l that must
    ~apse before 1 saw Idris again. \Vherefore
    should this be? What evil might not happen
    in the mean time? 1\fight not her mother take
    t.dvantage of Adrian's absence to urge her be-
    yond her sufferance, perhaps to entrap her? I
    resch-ed, let what would befall, to sec and con-
    verse with her the following day. This deter.
    174 TilE LAST lIAN.

    minntion soothed me. To_morrow, loveliest and


    \)est, hope and joy of Illy life, to-morrow I will
    sec thC'C-FooI, 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 willd 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 my_
    self, I hurried to discover t.he cause of this
    disturbance, and to open my door to the un-
    expected visitor. Pale ns the snow that
    showered about her, with clasped hands, Idns
    stood before me. "Sa\'e me !" she exclaimed,
    and would lia\'e stink to the ground had I
    1I0t supported her. In a moment llOweyer
    she re"i,'oo, and, with cnergy. almost with ,rio-
    lence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take
    hel' away, away to Londun-to her brother-
    at least to save ber. [had no horses-shl'
    THE LAST llA~, li5

    wl'urg her hands, .. " That can I do?" she


    cri ed, H I am lost-we are both for e\'cr lost!
    Bllt come-come with me, Lionel; here I
    must not stay,-we can get a chaise at the
    nearest post. house j yet perhaps we have time!
    -come, 0 come with me to save and protect
    me !"
    'Vhen I heard her piteous demands, while
    with disordered dr{'ss, dishevelled hail', and
    aghast looks, she wrung her hanus- the idea
    shot ACros S me-is she also mad ?-" Sweet
    one," and I folded her to my heart, "better
    repose than wander further; - rc:;;t-my beloved,
    I will make a fire-you are chill,"
    " Rest! " she cried, "repose! you ral'e,
    Lionel! If you delay we are lost; come, I
    pray you, unless you would cast me ofT' for
    ever,"
    That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth
    and luxury, should ha\'e come tIl rough th e
    tempestuous winter_night from her regal abode,
    and standing at my lowly door, conjure me to fly
    176 TilE LAST )(.\N.

    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
    -t~lllorrow·-that is, to-day-already the to-
    morrow is com~-before dawn, foreigners, Aus-
    trians, 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 ima-
    gined some mistake in her incoherent talc; but
    I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had
    come by herself from the Castle, three long
    miles, at midnight, through the 11ea\'y snow;
    we must reach Englcfield Green, a mile and
    a i1alf further, before we could obtain a chaise.
    She told me, that she had kcpt up her strength
    and courage tilllier arrival atmy cottagc,and then
    both failed. Now she could hardly walk. Sup-
    porting her as I did, still she lagged: and at the
    THE LAST l,[AY. 177

    oistance of half n mile, after many stoppages,


    shi\'ering fits, and half faintings, she slipt from
    my supporting arm on the snolV, and with a
    torrent of tears averred that she must be taken,
    for that she could not proceed. I lifted her up
    in my a.rms; her light form rested on my breast.
    - I felt no ourthen, except the internal one of
    contrary and contending emotions. Brimming
    delight now invested me. Again her chill limbs
    touched me as a torpedo; and 1 shuddered in
    sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head
    lay on my shoulder, her breath wa\'ed my hail',
    her heart heat 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 slro\'c vainly
    to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she
    evinced, recalled me to the necessity of speed
    and succour. At last 1 siiid to her, "There is
    Englcficld Grecn j there the inn. But, if you are
    seen thus strangely drCltlUstanced, dear Idris,
    even now your enemies may learn your flight
    13
    178 TilE LAST UAN.

    too soon: were it not better that I hired the


    chaise alone? I will put yOll in safety mean-
    while, and t'eturn to you immediately."
    She answered that I was right, and might do
    'I ith her as I pleru.cd. I observed the door of a
    small out.house a..jnr. 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. 1 fcareo to leave her,
    she looked so wan and faint-but in a moment
    she rc..acquired animation, and, with that, fear;
    and again she implored me not to delay. '1'0 call
    up the people of the inn, and obtain a con'iey-
    :luce and horses, even dlOUgh I harnessed them
    myself, was the work of many minutes; minutes,
    each freighted with the wcightof ages. I caused
    the chaise to advance a little, waited till the
    people of the inn had retired, and then lnade
    the post~boy draw up the carriage to the spot
    where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat reco-
    vered, stood waiting for mc. I llfted her into the
    chaise; I assured her that with our four horses we
    THE LAST MAN. lin

    should 3n'jve in London before fivc o'clock, thc


    hour when she would be sought and missed. 1
    besought her to calm herself; a kindly shower
    of tears relieved her, and by dE'g:.·ecs she relnted
    her talc 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 lo~ t Raymond; I was the
    evil influence of her life; I was even accused of
    cncreasing and confinning the mad and baIe
    apostacy of Adrian from all view s of advance-
    ment and grandeur; and now this mi serable
    mountaineer was to steal her daughter. Ncycr,
    Idris related, did the angry lady deign to recur
    to gentleness and persuasion; if she had, the task
    of resistance would have been exquisitely pain.
    fuI. 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
    180 THE LAST MAN.

    of contempt and covert triumph, which for a


    moment awakened the suspicions of Idris.
    ,Vllen they parced for the night, the Countess
    said, "T~morrow I trust your tone will be
    changed: be composed; I hn,-c 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 though Is
    laid her fair cheek upon her pillow, her mother's
    scrvant brought a drauglll; a suspicion again
    crossed her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently
    alanning to dctc11ninc her not to take the potion;
    but dislike of contention, and a wish to discover
    whether there was any just foundation for her
    eonjccturcs, made her, she said, almost instinc-
    tively, and in contradiction to her usual frank-
    ness, pretend to swallow the medicine. Then,
    agitated as she had been by her m others vio-
    lence, and now by unacc9stomed fears, she 1.'1Y
    unable to sit-ep, starling at every sound. S..!on
    her door opened softly, and on her springing
    THE LAST MAN. 181

    up, she heard a whisper, "Not aslecl> yet," and


    the door again closed. 'Vith a beating heart
    she cxpected another visit, and when after an
    interval her chamber was again invaded, having
    first assu red herself that the intruders were her
    mother 'lnd an attendant, she composed hcrself
    to feigned sleep. A step approached her. bcd,
    she dared not mo,·c, she stroye to calm her pal-
    pitations, which became more yiolent , when she
    heard her mother s..'ly mutteringly, "Pretty
    !timpleton, littlc do you think that your game
    is already at an end for eyer."
    For a moment the poor girl fancied that her
    mother belieyoo that she had drank poison:
    she ,vas on the point of springing up; when the
    Countess, already at a distance from the bed,
    spoke in a ow voice to her companion, anel
    3gnin Idris listened: " Hasten," said she,
    (I there is no time to lose - it is long past
    cleven; they will be here at fiv e ; take merely
    the clothes necessary for her journey, and her
    jewel-casket.'"' The servant obeyed; few word s
    182 TilE L.\ST :\I,~~'.

    were spoken all either side; but those were


    caught at with avidity by the intended victim.
    She heard the name of her own maid men-
    tioned ;_" No, no," replied hcr mother, U she
    does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget
    England, and nIl belonging to it." And again
    she heard, H She will llot wake till late to-
    morrow, and we shall then be at sca," __ u All
    is rt>ady," at length the woman announced.
    The Countes.c; .:lgnin came to her daughter's bcd-
    ~de: "In Austria at least," she said, "you
    will obey. In Austria, where obedieoce can be
    enforced, and no choice left but between nn
    honourable prison and 1\ fitting nJarrj~O't?"

    Both then withdrew; tllOugh, as she went,


    the COll'ntess said, H Softly; all sleep; though
    aU have not been prepared for sleep, like her.
    I would not have anyone suspect, or she might
    be roused to resistance, and perhaps escape.
    Come with me to my room; we "'ill remain
    there till the hour agreed upon." They weill.
    Idris, panic.-struck, but animated and strength.
    TilE L AS T ;\.I AN. l i<3
    ened evcn by her cxcc~sive fear, dressed her.
    self hurriedly, nnd going down a fli ght of
    back.stairs, ayohling th e yicini ty of her mothcr'5
    apartment, she contrived to cscape from the
    castle by a low winnow, and came through
    snow, wind, aod obscurity to my cottagc; nor
    lost her couragc, until she arri ved, and, depositing
    her fate in my hands, gave herself up to the
    desperation and weariness that overwhelmed
    hcr.
    I comforted her as well as I might. Joy
    and exultation, were mine, to possess, and to saw
    her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her,
    " per non iu1'iJar quel bel viso sereno," I
    curbfd my del ight. I s b'O\'C to quiet the engel'
    dancing of my henrt; I turned from her my
    eyes, beaming with too much tenderness, amI
    proudly, to dark night, and the inclement at-
    mosphere, murmured the expressions of my
    transport. 'Ve reached London, methought,
    aU too soon; and yet I could not regret our
    speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with
    184 THE LAST ~lAN.

    which my beJo\'cd girl found herself in her


    brother's arms, safe from every evil, under hi.
    unblamed protection.
    Adriau wrote a brief note to his mother, in.
    forming her that Idris war; under his care and
    guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at
    last an answ£r came, dated from Cologne. "It
    was useless, n the haughty and disappointed
    lady wrote, "for the Earl of 'Vindsor and his
    sister to address again the injured parent,
    whose only expectation of tranquillity OlLlst be
    deriYcd from oblivion of their existence. Her
    desires had been blasted, her schemes o\'er_
    thrown. She did not compbin; in her brother's
    court sho would find, not compensation for their
    disobedience(61ial unkindness admitted of none),
    but such a state of things and mode of life, as
    might best reconcile her to her fate. Under
    iuch circumstances, she posith'ely declined nny
    communication with them."
    Such wcrc the strange and incredible events,
    that finally brought about my union with the
    185

    sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris.


    'Vith simplicity nnd courage she set aside the
    prejudices and opposition which were oiJst.'l.Cles
    1.0 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 de\"oted, unwearied tenderness, were
    the only thanks I could offer for the matchless
    gift.
    J86 THE LAST .MAN.

    CHAPTER VI.

    ASD now let the reader, pn.ssing over ~l11C

    short period of time, be introduced to our happy


    circle. Adrian, Idris and I. were established
    in 'Vindsor Castle; Lord Raymond and my
    sister, inhabited a house which t.he former
    had built on the borders of the Great Park,
    near Perdita's cottage, as wns still named the Iow_
    roofed abode, where we two, poor c\'cn 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 co\'crt of the forest
    with our books and music. This occurred dur_
    ing those rare days in this country, when the sun
    TilE L.\ST }JAN. ]87

    mounts hisctherial thl"Onc in unclouded majL'!>ty,


    and the windless atmo~phere is as n bath of pel_
    lucid and grateful water, wrapping- lhe senses in
    tranquillity. \ Vhen the clouds veiled the sky,
    and the wi nd S(:atteroo them there and here,
    rending their woof, and strewing its fragment.,
    through the acrin! plains-then we rode out, and
    sought new spots of beauty and repose. "Theil
    the frequent rains shut us within doors, e,"ening
    recreation followed morning study, ushered in by
    musie and song. I dris hnd a natural musical
    talent; and her \"oice, which had been carefully
    cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and
    I made a p.1.rt of the concert, and Adrian and
    PerditA were dcyout listeners. Then we were
    as gay as summer insects, playful as children;
    we ever met one another with smiles, and rend
    content and joy itl each other's countenances..
    Our prime festivals were held in Perdita's COl-

    tage; nor were we enr weary of talking of th{'


    past or dreaming of the future. Jealousy 'and
    di5CJ.uict were unknown among us; nor did a
    1S8 THE J.AST llANo

    fear or hope of change ever disturb our tran-


    quillity. Others said, 'Ve might be happy-we
    iaid-'Vcare.
    'Vhen any separation took place between us,
    it generally so happened, that Idris and Perdita
    would raroble awny together, and we remained
    to discuss the affairs of nations, and the philo-
    sophy of life. The very difference of our dis~
    sitions 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 (~iSCllssion. At other
    times we made excursions of many days' dura..
    lion, and crossed the country to "jsit nny spot
    noted for beauty or historical association. Some-
    times 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
    6cosible to the delights of the intimate inter-
    TilE LAST M.\N. 189

    course of our own circlc, th.c tranquillity of our


    divine forcst, and OUf happy evenings in the
    halls of our bcloved Castle.
    The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank,
    soft, nnd affectionate. Her t('mper was unalter.
    ably 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 tendernCS3 and
    happiness imprO\'ed her temper, and softened
    her natural reserve. Her understanding was
    clear and comprehensh 'e, her imagination vivid ;
    she was sincere, generous, and reasonable.
    Adrian, the matchless brotiler of my soul,
    the sensiti,"e and excellent Adrian, lo\'ing 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. lIe wn.o;
    often the gayest of our party, at the same time
    that he was the only one 'visited by fits of des..
    100 THY. LAST MAN.

    pondency; his slender frame seemed over_


    charged with the weight of life, and his soul
    appeared rather to inhabit his body than unite
    with it. I was hardly morc devoted to my
    Idris than to her brother, and she loved him
    as her teacher, her frirnd, the benefactor who
    had secured to her the fulfilment of her dearest
    wishes. Raymond, the - ambitious, restless
    Raymond, reposed midway on the great high.
    rood ofllfe, and wm. content to gi\'e up all his
    lichcmes of sovereignty and fame, to make one of
    us, the flowers of the fielJ. His kingdom was
    the heart of Perdita, his subjects her thoughts;
    by her he ",,'as loved, respected as a superior
    heing, obeyed, waited on. No office, no devo-
    tion, no watching wn:'! irksome to her, as it rc-
    {;.lrded him. She would sit np:lTt from IlS and
    watch him; "he would weep for joy to think
    that he was hcrs. She erected a temple fal'
    him in the depth of her being, and ea('h fa.-
    culty was a priestess vowed to his sCl'\·ic('.
    Sometimes she might be wayward and capriciolls;
    101

    but her repentance was bitter, her retum en·


    tire, and evcn this inequality of temper suited
    him who wns not fonned by nature to float idly
    uown the stl'cam of life.
    During the first year of their marriage,
    Perdita prcS('1l1cd Raymond with a lovely girl.
    I t was CUriOliS to tmec in this miniature model
    the ycry traits of its father. The s.'lme half-
    disdainful lips and smile of triumph, the same
    intelligent eye!:, the same brOIl' and chesnut
    hair; her vcry hands and taper fingers resembled
    his. How n~ry dear she was to Perdita! In
    progress of tim!!, 1 also became a father) and
    our little darlings, our playthings and delights,
    called forth a thou sand new an d delicious
    feelings.
    Y cars passed thus,-even yent'S. Each month
    bl'Ought forth its successor, each year one like
    to that gone by; truly, our liycs were 0. living
    comment on that Ucauliful sentiment of Plu-
    tarch, that "our souls have a natural inclina-
    tion to lo\'c, being born as much to love, as tu
    192 TilE LAST lfAN.

    feel, to reason, to understand and remember."


    ,Vc talked of change and actiyc pursuits, but
    still remained at \Vindsor, incapable of "joIating
    the cham) that attached us to our secluded
    life.
    Pareamo aver qui tutto iJ ben raccolto
    Che fra mortali in pill parte si rimembra.

    Now also that our children gave us occupation,


    1'o'C found excu~s for Qur 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 c,'cn 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.
    TilL L,\ !oT )I.\~.

    lIe Imd (':\challgcd a sceptre fOI' a lute, a king-


    dom for Perdita.
    Did he think of this as we journeyed up to
    town? I watched him, but eould 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 rerwta's brow. She tried
    to rOllse herself. but her eyes c\'pry now and
    then filled with tears, nnd she looked wistfully
    on llaymond nnd her girl, as if fearful thut
    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 Cust!c, nnd as these became
    hid by intervening objects, she passionately
    exc1aimed - u Scencs of happin~! ~elles sa-
    cred to de\'oted lo\"e, when shall I sec you again!
    and when I sec ye, shall I be £till the bdo\'oo
    and jOYOU!i Perdita, or shall I, hcart.tn', :.. ell and
    lost, wander among your grores, the ghost of
    what I 3m!"
    \'OL. I. <
    19~ THE LAST MAN.

    " \Vhy, silly onc," cried Raymond, "what


    is your liu.le head pondering upon, that of n
    sudden you have become so sublimely dismal?
    Cheer up. or I shall make you over to Idris,
    and call Adrian into the carri~ue, who, I see by
    his gestl)re, 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.
    \Ve entered London in the evening, and went
    to OUf several abodes nem' Hyde Park.
    The following morning Lord Raymond n~

    sited 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 contri_
    bute to my success, at least you must not baffic
    me."
    " 'Veil, I promise. And now.--"
    " And now, my dear fellow, for what are we
    comc to London? To bc prescnt at the election
    TilE L AST MAN'. 195

    of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for


    his shuffling Grace of - - - - ? or for that
    noisy Hyland? Do you b elieve, Verney, that I
    brought you to town for that ? No, we will ha"c
    a Protector of our own. \Ve will set up a can·
    didate, and ensure his success. \ Ve will nomi.
    nate 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, "VIle-
    ther 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, 'Vhether he ought to ex-
    change his employment of plucking blackberries,
    and nursing wounded partridges in the forest,
    for the command of a nation? i\ly dear Lione1,
    we are married men, and fin d employment
    s'.ifficient in amusing our wives, and dandng our
    children. Dut Adrian is alone, wifeless, child-
    less, unoccupied. I hu\'c long observed him.
    K Q
    19G

    He pines for want of some interest III life.


    His heart, exbausted by his early sufferings,
    reposes like a new.healed limb, and shrinks fmm
    all excitement. Dut his understanding, his cha-
    rity, his virtues, want a field for exercise and
    display; and we will procure it for him. Dc-
    sides, 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 pro-
    digality ?-birth, wealth, talent, goodness? Does
    not c'vcry one love and admire him? and docs
    he not delight singly in such efforts as manifest
    his love to all? Come, J see that you are al~

    ready persuaded, and will second me when I


    propose him to-niglJt in parliament."
    " You have got· up an your arguments in
    excellent order," I replied; " and , if Adrian
    conscnt, they are unanswerable. One only con-
    197
    £lit jon I would make,-thut you do nothing
    without hi s concurrence. tI
    " I believe you arc in th e right," said Ray-
    mond; "although I had thought at first to
    arrange the affair differently. Bc it so. I will
    go instantly to Adrian ; and, if he inclines to can.
    sent, you will not de!itroy my labour by per-
    suading him to return, and lurn squirrel again
    in 'Viml§Ql" Forest. Id ris. you will not act the
    traitor to\\'ards me ?"
    H Trust mc," r eplied she, " I will preserve
    a strict neutrality."
    IC For my part," said J, " I am 100 well con-
    ,·inccd of the worth of our fr iend, and the rich
    harvest of benefits that all England would fcap
    from his Protectorship, to deprive my coun-
    trymen of such a blessing, if he conscnt to
    bestow it Oil them."
    In the evening Atlrian visited U5.-" Do you
    cabal also against me," said he, laughing; CI and
    ..... i1I you make common cause with Raymond, in
    dragging a poor visionary front the douds to sur·
    198 TliE LAST llAN

    round 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 H than to
    think that you would be happy in such a situa-
    tion; but the good you would do to others may
    be an inducement, since the time is probably
    arrived when you ca~ put your theories into
    practice, and you may bring about such refor.
    mation and change, as will conduce to that
    perfect system of government which you delight
    to portray,n
    "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 go,'ern
    nations; sufficient for mc, if I keep in whole-
    some rule the little kingdom of my own mor-
    tality.
    " But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our
    noble friend; a drift, perh~ps, unknown to him~
    TilE LAST )IA~, 199
    .elf, but appal'cnt to mc. Lord Haymond was
    lle,'el' ool'n to be a drone in the hive, and to
    find content in our pustoral life. He thinks,
    that he ought to be satisfied; he imagines, that
    his present situation precludes the possibility of
    aggrandiscment; he dOE'S not therefore, even
    in his own heart, plan change for himself. But
    do you not see, that, under the idC'3 (If cxalting
    me, he is chalking out a' new path for himself;
    a path of nction from which he lms long wan•
    •
    dcl'cd ?
    " Let us nssist him, He, the noble, the war·
    like, the gre:lt in every quality that can adorn
    the mind nnd pcriOn of man; he is fitted to be
    the Protector of England, If I-that is, if 'i~:
    propose him, he will assuredly be elected, and
    will find, in the functions of that high officc,
    scope for the towering powcrs of his mind,
    Even Pcrdita will rejoice. Perdita, in whom
    ambition was a co"cred fire until she married
    lla),nond, which c,'cnt ,~as for a liDle the fuJ.
    lihnent of her bopes; Perdita will rejoice in thc
    THE LAST llA:s'.

    glory and ad\,tUlccmcnt of her lord-and, coyly


    and prettily, not be discontented with her share.
    In the mean time, we, tile wise of the land,
    will return to our Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like,
    take to our usual labours, until our friend shall
    require our prescnce and assistance here."
    The morc Adrian reasoned upon this scheme,
    the more feasible it appeared. His own deter-
    mination never to enter into public life was
    insurmounta~Ie, and the delicacy of his health
    was a sufficient argument against it. The next
    litep was to induce R:tymond to confess his secret
    wishes for dihmity and fame. He entered while
    we were speaking. The way in which Adrian
    had received his project for setting him up as u
    candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies,
    had already awakened in his mind, the "iew of
    the subject which we were now discussing. His
    countenance and manner betrayed irresolution
    and anxiety; but the anxiety arose from a fear
    that weshould not prosecute. or not succeed in our
    idea j and his irresolution, from a doubt whethel'
    TilE LAST MAX. 201

    we should risk n defeat. A few words from us


    decided him, and hope and joy sparkled in his
    eyes; the idea of embarking in n carC(!r, so COll-

    genial to his eal'ly habits and cherished wishes,


    made him as before energetic and bold. 'Ve
    discussed his chances, the merits of the other
    candidates, and the dispositions of the voters.
    After all we miscaJcuJated. Raymond had
    lost much of his popularity, and was deserted
    by hi s peculiar partizans. Absence from the
    busy stage had caused him to be forgott en by
    the people; his former parliamentary supporters
    were principally composed of royalists, who had
    been willing to make an idol of hinl when he
    nppe..'lred as the heir of the Earldom of 'Yind.
    sor; but who wcre indifferent to him, when he
    ('.ame forward with no other attributes and dis-
    tinctions 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
    ,,8
    THE LAST MAN.

    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 ,'ate for a candidate of his
    selection.
    The Duke of - - - , and Mr. Ryland, Lord
    Raymond's old antagonist, were the other candi-
    dates. The Duke was supported by all the
    aristocrats of the republic, who considered him
    their proper representative. Ryland was the po-
    pular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first
    added to the list, bis chance of success appeared
    small. lVe retired from the debate which had
    followed on his nomination: we, his nominators,
    mortified; he dispirited to excess. Perdita re-
    proached 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 evidellt ill
    success changed the current of her ideas. She
    felt, that, once awakened, Raymond would never
    return unrepining to 'Vindsor. His habits were
    203

    unhinged; his restless mind roused from its sleep,


    ambition must now be his companion through
    life; nnd if he did not succeed in his present
    attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness and cure·
    Jess discontent would follow. Perhaps her own
    disappoi ntment nd~e<l n 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 himsel f to
    I.he electors on the following evening. For a
    long time he was obstinate. H e would embark
    in a balloon; he would sail for n distant quarter
    of the world, where his name and humiliation
    WE're unknown. But this was useless; his at.
    tempt was registered; his purpose published to
    the world; his ~hlllne could never I>c erased from
    the memories of men. It was as well to fail Ilt

    last aftcr t\ stnlggle, as to fly now at the l>e-


    ginning of his emerprise.
    From the moment that hc adopted this id~.l,
    he was changed . His depression and anxiety
    THE LAST :\lAN.

    fled; he became all life and activity. The'


    smile of triumph shone on his countenance; de-
    termined 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 revuh;ion 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 her.
    self by giving to his words a meaning foreign to
    t heir true interpretation, and adverse to her
    hopes. She dared not be pl'esent at the contest;
    yet she remained at home a prey to double soli-
    citude, She wept over her little girl; she
    looked, she spoke, as if she dreaded the occur-
    rence of some frightful calamity, She was half
    mad fmm the effects of U1lcontrollablc agitation.
    Lord Raymond presented himself to the llOuse
    with fearless confidence and insinuating address.
    TilE LAST iIAS. QO,j

    Aftcr the Duke of - - - and .Mr. llyhnd


    had finished their speeches, he commenced.
    Assuredly he had not conued Ilis lesson; nnd nt
    first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in
    the choice of his expressions. Dy degrees he
    warmed; his words flowed with ease, his Jan-
    gunge was (ull of vigour, nud his voice of pcrsua-
    sian. He reyerted to his past life, his Sllcccsses
    in Greece, his fa"our at home. '''hy should
    he lose this, now that added yean:., prudence,
    and the pledge which his lllal'riage gaye to his
    country, ought to cncrease, rather than di-
    minish his claims to confidence? lIe spoke of
    the state of England; the ncccsSl\ry measures
    to be taken to ensut'e its security, and confiml
    its' pros}X't'ity. He drew n glowing picture of
    its present situation. As he spoke, every sound
    was hushed, every thought suspended by in-
    tense attention. His graceful clOCI~tiOIl en-
    chained the SCllseS of his hearers. In some de-
    gr~ also he was fitted 10 reconcile all parties.
    TilE LAST )J.\N.

    His birth pleased the aristocracy; his being the


    candidate recommended by Adrian, a Ulao inti-
    mately allied to the popular party, caused n
    number, who had no great reliance either on
    the Duke 01' 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 enter-
    prise. and it. became us to ensurc his triump}l,
    Idris, who entertained the highest opinion of
    his abilities, was warmly interested in the e\'ent :
    and my poor sister, who dared not hope. and to
    whom fear was misery, was plunged into a lever
    of disquietude,
    Day after day passed while we discussed ollr
    projects for the evening, and each night was oc-
    cupied by debates which offered no conclusion.
    At last the crisis came: the night when parlin-
    ment, which had so long delayed its choice, must
    decide: as thc hOllr oftwel,'c passed, and the new
    Til E 1. AST )L\ ~. 201
    day began, it wns by \'irtue of the cOlhtitution
    dic;soh'ed, its power extinct.
    \\' e assembled at Haymond's house, we and
    our partizans. At half pa:.t five o'clock we
    proceeded to the House. Idris endea"ollred to
    calm Perdita; but the poor gill'S agitation
    deprixcd her of all power of self-command.
    She walked up and down the room,-gazed
    wildly when anyone entered, fancying th at
    they might be the announcers of her doom.
    I must do justice to my sweet sister: it was
    not for herself that bhe was thus agonized .
    She alone knew the weight which Raymond
    attached to his success. Even to us he assumed
    galely and hope, and assumed them so well,
    that we did not divine the secret workings oC
    his· mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling,
    a sharp dissonance of voice, and momentary
    fits of absence revealed to !'erdita 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
    £08 TilE LAST MA~.

    seemed incapable of ebb. Besides, P erdita was


    .... ith him ill l1is retirement; she saw the moodi-
    ness that succeeded to this forr..ed hilarity;
    she marked his disturbed sleep, his painful
    irritability--once slw 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. 'Vhat wonder then, that her
    feelings were wrought to this pitch! I thus
    accounted to myse lf for her agitation ; but this
    was not all, and the sequel revealed another
    excuse.
    One moment we sc i~cd before our departure,
    to tak e leave of our beloved girls. I had small
    hope of success, and entreated ldris to watch
    over my sister. As I approached the latter,
    she seized my hand , and drew me into another
    apartment; she threw hcrself into my arms, and
    wept and sobbed bitterly and long. I tried to
    soothe her; 1 bade her hope; I asked what tre_
    mendous consequcnces would ensue even on our
    TIl); I.AST 6IAS.

    failure. "~ I y brother,n she cried, HprotectOI'

    of my childhood, dear, mOSL dear l .. ionel, my


    fate hangs by a thread. I have YOll all about
    me now-you, the companion of my infancy;
    Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the tics of
    blood; ldris, the sister of my he3rt, and her
    lovely offspring. This, 0 this may IJc the last
    time tlmt you will surround me thus !"
    Abruptly she stopped, and then cried:
    " 'Vhal have I said ?-foolish false girl lhat I
    am !" She looked wildly on me, and then
    suddenly calming herself, apologized for what
    she called her unmroning words, saying that
    she mUSl indeed be insane, for, while R aymond
    lived, she must be happy; and then, though she
    still w~pt, she suffered me tranquilly to depart.
    Raymond only took hcr hand when he went,
    and looked on her expressively; she answered
    by a look of intellif,rcnce and assent.
    Poor girl! what she then suflcred! I could
    Heyer entirely forgi"e Raymond for the tnals
    he imposed on her, occ~ioncd as they were by
    210 TilE LAST MAN.

    a seliish feeling on his part. He had schemed,


    if he failed in his present nHe-mpt, without
    taking leave of any of us, to embark for Greece,
    and never again to revisit England. Perdita
    acceded to his wishes j 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 determi.
    nation, was a task that almost conquered her
    strength of mind. She had been employed in
    arranging for their departure; she had pro-
    mised Raymond during this decisive evening,
    to take advantage of our absence, to go onc
    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 Wa!::

    led by reflection to consider, that he acted under


    the force of such strong excitement, as to take
    THE LA s. T lIAN . 211

    from him the consciousness, and, consequently,


    the gu ilt of a fault. If he had permitted us to
    witness his agitation, he would ha" e 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 th e sea-
    shore to take Jeave of us, and to make us the
    partners of hi s council. But the task imposed
    on P crdita was not the less painful. He had
    extorted from her :l. vow of secrecy; and her
    part of the drama, si nce 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. J1ut now each SC'Cmcd
    fearful lest the fatal moment should pass, while
    the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted si.
    lence reigned in the house, the members spoke
    in whispers, lind the ordinary busincs'i was
    212 TilE LAST )I.\N.

    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
    \'ictory, until thcappcarance of Raymond; and,
    smcc his name had been inserted as a candi.
    date, 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 81. Stephen's, as jf
    his mere frown would cast eclipse on our
    hopes.
    Every thing m 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, jf
    possible, the last struggle between these, a bribe
    was offered to him who should voluntarily resign
    his pretensions; a place of great emolumellt and
    honour was given him, and his success facilitated
    III a future c1t:Ction. 8trnngc to say howcver l
    Til '" I.AST l.IAX.

    no in~tancc had yet occurred, where either


    candidate hnd hnd recourse to this expcilient;
    in consccluence the law 11IHI become obsolete,
    nor had bt.ocn referred to by nny of us in our
    discussions. To our extreme su rprise, whcn
    it was moved that we should resolve oursch-cs
    into a committee for the election of the Lord
    Protector, the member who had nominated
    Hyland, rose and informed us that this C'andi.
    date had resigned his pretensions. His infor.
    mation was at first receired with silence; a
    confused murmur succeeded; and, when the
    chairman declared Lord R aymond 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, C\'cry
    "oice would have been united in (3\'OUr of our
    candidate. In fact, now that the idea of can·
    lest was dismissed, all hearts returned to their
    former respect and admiration of our accorn·
    plished friend. Each felt, that England had
    never seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling
    214 THE LAST MAS.

    the arduous duties of that high office. One


    voice made of mallY voices, resounded through
    the cl~amber; it syllabled the name of Ray-
    mond.
    He entered. J 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 rounel timidly; a mist seemed before
    his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, has-
    tened to him, and jumping down the benches,
    was at his side in a moment. His appearance
    rc-nnimatcd our friend; and, when he came to
    speak and act, his hesitation vanished, and he
    shone out supreme in majesty and victory. Thc
    {orll.ler Protector tendered him the oaths, and pre-
    sented him with the insignia of officc, performing
    the ceremonies of installation. Thc house then
    dissolved. The chief members of the statc
    crowded round thc ncw magistrate, and con-
    ducted him to the palace of gO\·cl11mcnt. Adrian
    suddcnly vanished; and, by the time that Ray-
    THE LAST )OIAN. 21!)

    mond's supportors were reduced to our intimatc


    fricnds mcrely, returned Icading I dris to con_
    gratulate her friend on his success.
    Dut where was Peroita? In securing soli.
    citously an unobscrved retreat in case of failure,
    Haymond had forgotten to arrange the mode by
    which s11e was to hear of his success; and she
    had been too much agitated to revert to this cir-
    cumstance. " 'hen Idri.;cntercd, so far had Ray-
    mond forgotten himself, that he asked for my
    sistC"r; one \.ord, 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 pur-
    lieus of the I'louse, and that some sinister event
    dl.'tained her. Dut Raymond, without explain-
    ing llimself, suddenly quilled us, and in another
    moment we heard him gallop down the street,
    in spite of the wind find rain that scattered tem-
    pest o\"er the earth. , Ve did not know how far
    he had to go, and soon separated, supposing
    tbat in a short time he would return to thc}Xl-
    !H6 TilE LAST llAX.

    Jace \\ ilh Perdita, and that they would not be


    sorry to find themselves alone.
    Perdita had arrived with her child at Dar.
    ford, weeping and inconsolable. She dil'ected
    every thing to be prepared for the continuance
    of their journey, and placing her lovely &leep-
    ing charge on a bed, passed several hours
    in acute suffering. Sometimes she obsen'ed
    the war of clements, thinking that they also
    declared against her, and listened to the patter.
    ing of the rain iu gloomy despair. Sometimes
    she hung over her child, tracing her resem-
    blance to the father, and fearful lest in after
    1ife she should display the same passions and
    ullcontrollable impulses, that rendered him un·
    happy. 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 sooth.
    ed her. She thought of tIle treasure she pos.
    sessed in the affections of 11Cl' lord; of his
    accomplishments, surpassing those of his con.
    'tHE LAST lIAN. 217

    temporaries, his genius, his devotion to hr-r.-


    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
    &'\cri6ce from her, as a mark she was ele-
    vated to Raymond, and that it must be made
    with cheerfulness. She figured to herself their
    life in the Greek isle he lind 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 conso-
    lation. The picture then presented itself to her
    in sllch glowing colours, that she feared the re.
    verse, and a life of magnificence nnd power in
    London; where Raymond would no longer be
    hers only, nor she the sale 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 inu.
    VOL. 1. L
    ~18 THE LAST MAN.

    'fhat 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
    natl\'c England, the scene of shame, anJ hide
    themselves in thc myrtle gl'oves of the Grecian
    hies?
    III a moment she was in his arms. The know-
    ledge of his success had become so much a part
    of himself, that he forgot that it was neee~S3.ry
    to impart it to his companion, She only felt ill
    his embrace a dear assurance that while he IX>'>-
    sessed her, he would not desp!lir. "Tl1is is kind,"
    :;,he cried; "this i:;, noble, my own beloved! 0
    fear not disgt'flce or lowly fortune, while you
    ha\'e your Perdita; feflr not sorrow, while our
    child lives and smiles. Let us go even where
    you will; the love that accompanies us will pre_
    vent our regrets:'
    Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and
    cast back her head, seeking an asscut to het
    words in his eyes- they were sparkling "it"
    THE LAST !oIAN. 219

    ineffable delight. "'Vhy, my little Lady rro-


    teetress," said he, piny fully, H\\hn1 is thi~ you
    say? And whnt pretty scheme hal'e you WOH:1l

    of exile nnd obscurity, while a I.Irighttr ,\"(:1>, a


    gold-cllwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, Jon
    ought to contemplate t'
    IIe kbscd her brow-but the wayward girl,
    half sorry at his triumph, agitated by swift
    change of thought, hid her face in his bo"om
    :lIld wept. IIe comforted he)·; he iu!>tilled into
    her his own hopes and de!'.ires; and soon her
    countenance beamed with sympathy. How wry
    happy were they that night"! How full eyen
    to bursting was their sensc of joy I

    L 2
    THE LAST lIAN.

    CHAPTER VII.

    HAVING seen our friend properly installed in


    his new office, we turned our eyes toward!.
    Windsor. The nearness of this place to Lon.
    don was SUcll, as to take away the idea of pain.
    ful separation, when we quitted Raymond and
    Perdita. We took leave of them in the Pro--
    teetoral Palace. It was pretty enough to see
    my sister cnter as it were into the spirit of. the
    duma, and endeavour to fill her station with
    becoming dignity. Her internal pride and hu·
    mility 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
    alight estimation of the neglect of the world,
    TilE LAST ;\I.\N. 221

    which also characterized Raymond. nut then


    Perdita thought more constantly of others than
    he j and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish
    to take from those around her a sense of infc.
    riority; a feeling which never crossed her mind.
    From the circumstances of her birth and educa·
    tion, Jdris would have been better fitted for the
    formulre of ceremony; but the very case which
    accompanied such actions with hel', arising from
    habit, rendered them tedious; IVhile, with every
    drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her situa.
    tion. She was too full of new ideas to feel much
    pain when we departed; s11e took an affectionate
    leave of us, and pr~tlliscd to visit us soon; but
    :ihe 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 pro-.
    mised himself, his friends, and the world, that
    the rera of his Protectorship should be signa.
    Jized by some act of surpassing glory.
    222 THE LAST MAN.

    Thus, we talked of them, and moralized, ~


    with diminished numbers we returned to 'Vind-
    sor Castle. vVe felt extreme delight at our
    I.'scape from political turmoil, and sought our
    solitude with redoubled zest. 'Ve 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 ,",1th which in
    indolence, I should doubtless have been assailed.
    Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back
    with us to '\Vindsor; and she and my two lovely
    infants were pcrpetual sources of interest and
    amusement.
    The only circumstance that disturbed Ollr

    peace, was the health of Adrian. It evidently


    declined, without any symptom which could
    lead us to suspect his disease, unless indeed hi~
    brightened eyes, animated look, and flustering
    cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he was
    without pain or . fear. He hetook himself to
    books with ardour, and reposed from study in
    THE LAST llANo 223

    the society he best loved, that of his sister and


    myself. Sometimes he went lip to London to

    visit Haymond, and wntch the progress of events.


    Clara often accompanied llim ill these excursions;
    partly that she might sec her parents, pnrtly
    because Adrian delighted in the prattle, and
    intelligent looks of this 100'ely child.
    Meanwhile all went on well in London. The
    new elections WCfC finished; parliament met, and
    Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial
    schemes. Canals, aqueducts, hridges, stately
    buildings, and various edifices for public utility,
    were entered upon; he was continually sur·
    rOlulded by projectors and projects, which were to
    render England one scene of fertility and magni-
    ficence; the state of p()l'erty was t.o beaboIished;
    mell were to be transported from place to place
    almost with the same facility as the Princes Hous-
    ..ain, 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 ba.
    rushed; lal>oUl' lightened of its heaviest burden.
    THE LAST lilA),' ,

    Nor did this seem extravagant. The arts of


    life, and the discoveries of science had aug.
    men ted in a ratio which left all calculation be.
    hind; food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously
    -machines existed to supply with facility every
    want of the population. An evil direction still
    survi\'oo; and men were not happy, not because
    they could not, but because they would not
    rouse themselves to vanquish self-raised obsta-
    cles. 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 cnregistered in the annals of
    nations as a successful warrior; laying aside his
    sword, peace and its enduring glories became
    his aim-the title he coyeted . 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
    TilE L.\~T ) I "\~.

    possessed many himself, which he dc~ig ncli to


    present to the llepublic i .md, as the edifice wa~

    to be the gr£'at ornament of his l'rotectol'ship,


    he was very fastidious in his choice of the p131\
    on which it would be built. Hundreds were
    brought to him and rejected. H e sent e "Cli

    to Italy and Grel..-'CC 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 commu-
    nications might be sent, and no artist's nanw
    affixed. The design was new and elegant, but
    faulty; so faulty, lhat although drawn with
    the hand and eye of taste, it was evidently the
    work of one who was not an architect. Hay-
    mond contemplated it with delight; the more
    he gazed, the morc p1t:nscd he was; and yet the
    errors multiplied under inspect ion . H e wrote
    to the address given, desiring to see til"
    dr3ught sman, that such alterations might lit'
    L 3
    THE LAST MAN.

    made, as shou ld be suggested in a consuh::ttior.


    between him and the original conceiver.
    A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with
    some intelligence of manner, but with so com-
    mon_place a physiognomy, that Haymond could
    scarcely belie\'e that he was the designer.
    He acknowledged that he was not an architect;
    but the idea of the building had st ruck him,
    though he had sent it without the smallest hope
    of itll being accepted. He was a man of few
    words. Raymond questioned him; but his re-
    served answers soon made him turn from the
    ~.lan to the drawing. He pointed Ollt 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 vi~itor, who s..'licl that he perfectly un.
    derstoou, and would work at it at home. At
    length Raymond suffered him to depart.
    The next <.lay he returned. The design had
    been re-drawn; but many defects still remained,
    TilE LAST :MA~.

    tmd se"eral of the instructions given hAd been


    misunderstood. "Come.,'" .!.aid Haymond, II I
    yielded to you yestcrda)" now l."Omply with my
    1"equest-take til(' pencil."
    T he Greek took it, but he handled it ill no
    artist-like way; at length he 5tlid: " I must
    confess to you, my Lord, tll:1.t r did not makc
    this drawing. It is impossible for you to sce
    the rcal dcsignel'; your instructions must pa~s
    through me. Condescend therefore to ha\'c
    p atience with my ignorance, and to explain your
    wishes to mc; in time I am certain that you will
    be satisfi ed."'
    Raymoud questioned "ainly; the mys.teriow:
    Greek would say no more. " Tould llll archi.
    teet be permitted to see the artist? This also
    was refused. Raymond repeated his instruc-
    tions, and the "isitor retired. Our fri('ud re-
    .solved hO\\"c\'cr not to be foil ed in his wit.h.
    H e suspected, that unaccllstomed p()Ycrty wa"
    the cause of the mystC'ry, and that the artist
    was unwilling to oe scen III tnc garo ana aoode
    of want. Raymond was only the more excited
    by this consideration to discover him; impelled
    by the interest he took in ohscure talent, he there-
    fore ordered a person skilletl in such matters, to
    fullow 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.
    Rnymon.d 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 nnmed 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
    TlI:h: LAiT ~rA}1'

    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. 'Vhat hu-
    man heart is shut to kindness? and thollgh
    poverty, in its excess, might render the sufferer
    unapt to submit to the supposed degradation
    of a bene6t, the zeal of the benefactor must at
    last relax him into thankfulness. These thoughts
    encour~O'Cd Raymond, as he stood at the door
    of the highest room of the house. After trying
    vainly to enter the other apartments, he per-
    ceiyed just within the thrcsholrl of lhis aIle,
    a pair of small Turkish slippers; the door w~s

    ajar, but all was silent willlin. It was probable


    that the inmate was absent, but secure that lle
    had found the right person, our adventurou~
    TilE LAST MAN.

    Protector wns tempted to enter, to leave a purse


    on the table, and silently depart. J n pursuance
    of this idea, he pushed open the door gently-
    but the room was inhabited.
    H.aymond had ne\'er visited the dwellings of
    want, and the scene that now presented itself
    t;truck 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
    rOOI11, and a rough bl"Oken table, on which was
    a light in a tin C3ndlestick ;-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 attell-
    tion was instant1y drawn towards the inhabitant
    of this wretched abode. It was a fema~e. Shp
    sat at. the table; one smull hand shaded her cJ~
    from the candle; the other held. a pencil; her
    looks were fixed on a drawing before her, which
    Haymond recognized as the design presented to
    him. Her whole nppeumnce awakened his
    TilE LAST llAN, 231
    deepest interest, B el' dark hair wn,-, bmidell
    aud twilled in thick knots like the head.dre5.'!
    of n Grecian statue; her garb was mean, but
    hel' attitude might have been seJected as a model
    of grace. R aymond had n. confused remem-
    brance that he ha.d seen such a form before; he
    walked across the room; she did not raise her
    eyes, merely asking in U omaic, who is there ~
    " A fri end,'" replied Raymond in the wille din-
    eet. She looked up wondering, and he saw
    that it was Enl(Ine Zaimi , ~\'adne, once lhe

    idol of Adriau'saffections ; ami who, for the sake


    of her presen t yisitor, had disdained the noble
    youth. and then, neglected by him !>he lon~d,

    with crushed hopes ancla stinging SCl1!1e of misery.


    had returned to her nati,'e Greece. "'hat ren)-
    Jution of fortull(' could hn\'c ol'ollgh t her to
    England, and housed her thus?
    lt aymoll{l rccognizCtI her ; and his manner
    c1mngcd fl'Qlll polite beneficence to the warlllC'St
    pl'otcslntions of kindnC'Ss and sy mpatllY. The
    liight of h('r, ill her present situ ation, pnsscd like
    Till:: LAST ).IAN.

    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 Jarge
    dark eyes were cast down, at length a tear glim-
    mered on the lashes. "Thus,'" she cried,
    " kindness can do, what no want, no misery eyer
    effected; J weep,'" She shed indeed many tears;
    hel' head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder of
    Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed her
    sunken tear-sta.incd cheek. He told her, that
    her sufferings were now over: no one possessed
    the art of COIlj:QIing like Haymond; he did not
    reason QI' declaim, but hi~ look shone with
    symp..1.thy; he brought plensnnt images before
    the sufferer; hi!:! caresses excited no distrust, for
    they arose purely from the feeling which leads
    a mother to kiss her wounded c11ild; a dC5ire
    to demonstrate in eyery possible way the truth
    of his feelings, a.nd the keenness of his wish to
    pour balm into the lacerated mind of the unfor.
    tunate.
    Tllt~ LAST MAN.

    As Evadnc regained h er composure, his


    manner bccame cven 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 debascment and disgrace attendant
    on it; as he tnlkcd, h~ divested it of these;
    sometilllt'S speaking of her fortitude with cner·
    gctic praise; then, alluding to her pn....t state, he
    called her his l'rincess in disguise. lIe 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 hi s visit the next day. Hc
    returned home, {ull of mingled feelings, of pain
    excited by Evadne's wretchcdnes~J and pleasure
    at thc prospect of rc1ic\'ing it. Some motive for
    which he did not account, evcn to himself, pre.
    vented him from relating his adventure to Per-
    dita.
    Th e next day he threw such disguise over
    his person ns a cloak afforded, and revisited
    Evadne. A s he went, he bought a basket of
    234 THE LAST MAN.

    costly fruits, such as were natives of her own


    country, and throwing over these various heau-
    tiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
    garret of his friend. "Behold," cried he, as he
    entered, " what bird'& 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 destro'yed his
    t('putation and influence through a course of
    dissolute indulgence. His health was impaired
    beyond hope of cure; and it became his
    CUDlcst 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 profHJS8.1 of man-iage, from a wealthy
    Greek mercllant settled at Constantinople. She
    quitted her native Greece; her father died; by
    degrees she was cut off from aU the companion~

    and ties of her youth.


    The war, which about a year before the pre-
    Tilt.: LAST )I.\N.

    ~l1t time had broken out betwccn Greece and


    Turkey, brought about many reversc:, of fortune.
    Ifer husband became bankrupt, aud then in a tu-
    mult and thrc."Itelled massacre on the part of the
    'furks, they were obliged to fly at midnight,
    and reached in an open bo."It an English nssel
    ullder sail, which brought them immediately to
    this islnnd. The few jewels they had s.wed,
    supported them nwhile. The wholc strength of
    Evadne's mimI was exerted to support the
    failing spirits of her hu sband. Loss of pro-
    perty, hopelessness as to his future prospects,
    the inoccupation to which llO\'erty condemnc<l
    him, combined to reduce him to a slate border-
    ing on insanity. Five months after their ar-
    rival in Enghmd, he committed suicide.
    " You will ask me," continued E\'adne,
    "what I have done since; why I havc not
    applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident
    here; why 1 have not returned to my nath'e
    country? 1\1 y nnswer to these question::. must
    needs app<'nr to you unsatisfactory, yet they
    THE LAST lIAN.

    have sufficed to lead me on, day after day, en-


    dming 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-supe-
    riors she had none. Shall 1 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 vcry
    short time, and I shall have passed away; un-
    stained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung
    by the memory of degradation, my spirit will
    throw aside this miserable coil, and find such
    recompense as fortitude and resignation may
    deserve. This may SE'em madness to you, yet
    you also have pride and resolution; do not then
    TilE LAST l\L""'.

    wonder that my pride is tamelcss, my resolution


    unalterable."
    Ha\'ing thus finished her talc, and given such
    an account as she deemed fit, of the motin:!s of
    her abstaining from all endea\'our to obtaifl aid
    from her countrymen, Evadne JXlusccl; yet she
    seemed to ha\"c more to say, to whieh she was
    una41e to give words. In the menn time Hay-
    mond was eloquent. His desire of restoring his
    10\'ely friend to her rank in society, nnd to her lost
    prospclity, animated him, and he poured forth
    with energy, all his wishes (Lnd intentions on
    thot subject. But he was checked; E\'adne ex-
    acted a promise, that he should conceal from all
    her friends her existence in England. "The
    relati"es of the Earl of " ' indsor," 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 descn'e ac-
    quittal. I acted then, as I e\'er must. from
    impulse. This abode of penury may at lenst
    prOye the disinterC'Stcdness of my conduct. Ko
    ~38 THE LAST lI(AN,

    matter: I do not wish to plead my cause before


    any of them, not even before your Lordsl1ip,
    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 tbe proud Evadne
    in her tatters! look on the beggar-princess!
    There is aspic -venom in the thought-pro-
    mise me that my secret shall not be violated by
    you."
    Raymond promised; but then a new discus-
    sion ensued. Evadne required anot11cr engage-
    ment on his part, that he would not without
    her concurrence enter into nny project for her
    benefit, nor himself offer relief. "Do not de-
    gmde me in my own eyes," S11C said; "poverty
    has long been my nurse; hard.visaged she is,
    but honest. If dishonour, 01' what I collceh'c
    to be dishonour, come near me, I am lost."
    Raymond adduced many arguments and feryent
    persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she
    remained unconvineed ; and, agitated by the dis.
    cussion, she wildly and passionately made a so,.
    THt,: LAST MAN, 239
    leUln "OW, to fly nnd hide her!iClf where he Ilen:r
    could disconr h("r, where f[llnine would soon
    bring- d eath to conclude IIl'r \\()('!.. if he per-
    ~i;.ted in his to her disgracing oncrs. She could
    :,upport hcr~df. shc said. And theLl she ~hl'wcd
    him how, by cxrcuting \'arious dl'~ign<; and
    paintin::t... , sl,l' earned a pittance for her support.
    Haymond yielded for the 1'r(';.ent. He fl:1t as-
    ~ l1l'ed, after he had for awhilc hutlloml'd her
    ,.,elf-will, that in the end fr:iclld~hip and "cason
    would gai n the day.
    nut the fedings that .actuated EvndlJ(' were
    rooted in thc depths of her ocing, and nere
    ;,o uch in th eir growth as he had 110 tnl'anc; of
    understanding. E,·aclne !o,'ed H aymond, He'
    was thc hel'o o f her imaginntioll , Ih£' image
    earved hy love in thc unchanged texture of her
    hearlo Seven yenrs ngo, in hcr youthful prime,
    she hnd oct.-oille attached to him ; hc had scrY('(1
    her country against the Turks; he had in her
    own lund Acquired that military glory peculiarly
    clear to the Greeks, since they were still obliged
    240 rlIE LAST lIIAN .

    inch by inch to fight ' for their security. Yet


    when he returned thence, and first appeared in
    public life in England, her Jove did not pur-
    chase his, which then vacillated between Perdita
    and a crown. 'Vhile he was yet undecided,
    she had quitted England; the news of his mar·
    riage reached her, and her hopes, poorly nur-
    tured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory
    of life was gone for her; the roseate balo 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 ambi.
    tion, and aimed at the title and power of Prin.
    cess of 'V!lllachia; while her patriotic feelings
    were soothed by the idea of the good sl.le 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 in.
    trigues with Russia for the funherance of her
    TilE LAST MAN. 241
    object, cxcited the jealousy of the Porte, aDd
    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 fcll from thc 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 cri_
    minal 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" followoo her application to any
    among the Greeks.
    She knew that she was the cause of hcr hu ....
    band's utter ruin ; and she strung herself to bear
    the consequcllccS, The reproacllcs which agony
    extorted; or worse, cureless, uncomplaining de_
    pression, when his mind was sunk in a torpor, not
    the less painful because it was silent and move-
    less. She reproaclutd herself with the crime of
    his death; guilt and its punishments appeared to
    "OL. I.
    "
    THE LAST &lAN.

    S\lrround 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 con ~

    jured 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 e\'ery
    tongue; his achievements, projects, and magni-
    ficence, 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 revclled in his fame and Pl'Os·
    peritl" While her husband lived, this feeling
    was regarded by her as a crime, rcpressed, re-
    pented of. When he died, the tide of love
    TlIE LA fiT lI AN.

    resumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul


    with its tumultuous waves, and she gave herself
    up a prey to its uncontrollable power.
    Dut never, 0, never, should he sec her in her
    degraded stale. Never should he behold her
    fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty,
    th e po\'erty. strieken inhnbitant ofa garret, with a
    nam e whieh had bt..>come a reproach, and a weight
    of guilt on her soul. But though impenetrably
    veiled from him, his public offie<> permitted her
    to become acquainted with aU his actions, his
    daily coursc of life, e\'en his conver811tion. She
    a110wed herself one luxury, she saw the news-
    papers e\'ery day, and feasted on the praise and
    actions of the Protector. Not that this indul.
    gcnee was devoid of accompanying grief. Per-
    <lita's name was for ever joined with his; their
    conj ugal felicity was celebrated c\'en by the au-
    thentic testimony of facts. 'rhey werc con_
    tinually together, nor could the unfortunAte
    E\'adnc read thc monosyllable that designatl.o
    his name, without, at the same time, being pre-
    ,,2
    THE LAST MAN.

    sented with the image of her who was the fajth~

    ful companion of all his labours and pleasures.


    They. tlleh' 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 ad~

    vertisement 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
    scnt to the Protector. She triumphed in the
    idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as
    she was, a benefit upon him she loved j and with
    enthusiastic pride looked forward 'to the accom-
    plishment 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,
    TilE LA5T MAN. !H5

    although he knew not to whom he addressed his


    instructions. The drawing itself became in_
    effably 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,
    :md bore to her the idea of a temple raised to
    celebrate the deepe5t and most unutterable emo-
    tions of her soul. These contemplations en.
    gaged her, when the voice of Raymond first
    struck her enr, a voice, once heard, never to be
    forgotten; she mustered 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 re·
    gard to him, and her cherished independence,
    should not be injured by the idea of interest, or
    the intervention of the complicated feelings at·
    tendant on pecuniary obligation, and the rela.
    tive situations of the benefactor, and benefited.
    TJlE LAST !.IAN.

    Her mind was 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 pas-
    sions; and the concentrated self-will of which this
    was a sign, was destined to destroy even the
    very idol, to preserve whose respect she sub-
    mitted to this detail of wretchedness.
    Their intercourse continued. By degrees
    Evadne related to her friend the whole of her
    itory, the &tain her name had re~ived in Greece,
    the weight of sin which had accrued to her from
    the death of her husband. When Raymond
    offered to dear her reputation, and demonstrate
    to the world her real patriotism, she declared
    that it was only through her present sufferings
    TilE T.AST )IA~.

    that she hoped fOl" any relief to the slings of


    conscience; that, ill her state of mind, diseased
    as he might think it, the necessity of occupation
    was salutary medicine; she ended by extorting
    II promise that for the space of one month he
    would refrain hom the discussion of her in_
    terests, 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 connec.-
    tion with Adrian and Perdita was ne\'cr men.
    tioned; he \vas to her a meteor, a comp:lIlionless
    star, which at its appointed hour rose in her
    hemisphere. whose appearance brought felicity,
    and which, ruthough it set, was never eclipsed.
    He came each day to her abode of penury, and
    his presence transfonnoo it to a teulple redolent
    with Bweets, radianL with heaven's own light;
    he parlook of her delirium. "They built a
    wall between them and the \\"orld" - - '''ith.
    out, a thousand harpies rtl\'ed, remorse and
    misery, c)(JlCCting the destined moment for
    248 TilE LAST MAN.

    their invasion. 'Vithin, was the peace as of in-


    nocence, reckless blindless, deluding joy, hope,
    whose still anchor rested on placid but uneao-
    stant water.
    Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in
    visions of power and fame, while he looked
    forward to entire dominion over the dements
    and the mind of man, the territory of his own
    heart escaped his notice; and from that un-
    thought of rource arose the mighty torrent that
    overwhelmed his will, and carried to the obli.
    vious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.
    TIfE LAST MAN.

    CHAPTER VIII.

    IN the mean time what did rerdita ?


    During the first months or his Protcctorate,
    Raymond nnd she had been inseparable; each
    project was discussed with her, eneh plan ap-
    proved hy her. 1 never beheld anyone so per-
    fectly happy as my sweet sister. lIer exprcs-
    sh 'c cyes were two slars whose beams were love ;
    hope and light-heal'tedncss sat on her c1oltdle~~
    brow. She fed even to tenrs of joy all the praiSC'
    and glory of her Lord; her whole existence "'n.,
    one s..1cri6ee to him, and if in the bumility of
    her heart she felt sclf-complacency, it arose from
    the reflection that she had won the distinguishC(1
    hero of the age, and had for years pre<;en ·ed him,
    .. 3
    !ISO THE LAST ~IAN.

    even nIter 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 en-
    chanter, wbose reign was for ever undiminished ;
    a king whose power never was suspended: fol.
    low him through the details of common life,
    still the same charm of grace and majesty
    adorned him j nor could he be despoiled of the
    innate deification with which nature had in-
    vested him. Perdita grew in beauty and excel.
    lence under his eye; I no longer recognised my
    reserved abstrnctcd sister in the fascinating and
    open.hearted wife of Raymond. The genius
    that enlightened her countenance, 'vas now
    united to an expression of benevolence, which
    gave divine prrfeetion to her beauty.
    Happiness is in its higllcst degree the sister of
    goodness. Suffering and amiability may exist
    TilE I.AST lolAN. Q51

    together, and writers have Joved to depict their


    conjunction; there is a human amI touching
    harmony in the picture. But perfect happiness
    is an attribute of angels j and those who pls.oress
    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 be-
    fore the author of our being; that which is the
    parent of the imagination and the nurse of
    poetry; that which bestows bcnc\'olent intelli-
    gence on the visible mechani sm 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 fh'e years we had spent together,
    a knot of happy human beings at 'Vindsor
    Ca5t1c, her blissful lot had been the frequent
    THE LAST loIAN'.

    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
    apparenUy much unlike, some secrct point of
    resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, in-
    duced this preferenoo. Often at sunset, 1 have
    walked with her, in the sober, cnshadowed
    forest paths. and listened with joyful sympathy.
    Security gave dignity to her passion; the cer-
    tainty of a full return, left her with no wish un-
    fulfilled. The birth of her daUghtf:l, embryo
    copy of her Raymond, fiUed up the measure of
    her content, and produced a sacred and indisso-
    luble tie between them. Sometimes she felt
    proud t.hat he had preferred her to the hopes of
    a crown. Sometimes she remcmbered tllat 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 pos-
    sessed, doubly dear. She would look at him at
    TilE LAST MAN. 253

    a distance with the same rapture, (0, far more


    ex ubcI'ant rapture!), that one might feel, who
    after the perils of a tempest, should find him-
    self in the desired port; she would hasten to-
    wnrds him, to feel more certain in his arms, the
    reality of her bliss. This warmtll of affi.>ction,
    added to tlw 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 per-
    fectly happy. Desire of renown, and pl'csump-
    tuous ambition, had characteri7.oo his youth.
    The one l1C had acquired in Greece; the other
    he had sacrificed to love. His imellcct found
    sufficient field for exercise in his dome&tic circle,
    whose melllbers, all adorned by f(>finemcnt and
    literature. werc many of them, like himself,
    distinguished by genius. Y ct active life was
    the genuine soil for his virtues; and he some-
    times suffered tedium from the monotonous suc-
    cession of events in our retirement. Prid"
    THE LAST UAN.

    made him recoil from complaint; and gratitude


    and affection to Perdita, generally acted as an
    opiate to all dc&ire, save that of meriting her
    love. 'Ve 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 happi~

    ness.
    His passage to power had ~n 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
    saticty; his taste and gt>nius found worthy ex~

    pression in each of the modes human beings


    have invented to encage and manifest the spirit
    of beauty; the goodness of his heart made him
    nc,'er weary of conducing to the well. being of
    his fcnow.creature~; his m~crnificent spirit, and
    TilE LAST .lIAt.' . Q55

    aspirations for the respect and love of mankind,


    now received fl"Uition; true, his exaltation Wll.'i

    temporary; perhaps it were better thnt it should


    be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
    enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappoint-
    ment and defeat await the end of that which
    would expire at its maturity. H e determined
    to extract and condense all of glory, power, and
    achievement, which might have resulted from u

    long reign, into the three years of hi s Protee.


    tor:l.te.
    Raymond was eminently social. All that he
    now enjoyed would have been devoid of plea.
    sure to him, had it been unparticipatcd. B\lt
    in Perdita he possessed all thut his heart could
    d esil"(~ . H er love gn\'c birth to sympathy; her
    intelligence made her understand him at a word;
    her powers of intellect enabled her to as~i s t and
    guide him. H e felt her worth. During the
    early years of their union, the inequality of her
    temper, and yet unsubdued self.will which tar-
    nished her character, had been a slight draw.
    ~56 Till!!: LAST ){AN.

    back to the fulucss of his sentiment. Now that


    unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance
    were added to her other qualifications, his reo-
    speet 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 pll~ase, hoping, yet fearing the con-
    tinuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober cer-
    tainty to their emotions, though it did not rob
    them of their etherial nature. It bad given
    them a child; but it had not detracted from the
    personal attractions of my sister. Timidity,
    which in her had almost amounted to awkward-
    ness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of
    manner; frankness, instead of reserve, charac-
    terized her physiognomy; ond her voice was
    attuned to thrilling softness. Sbe was now
    three and twenty, in the pride of womanhood,
    fulfilling the prceious duties of wife and mother,
    possessro. of aU her heart had ever co\·eted.
    Raymond was ten years older; to his previous
    beauty, noble mien, nnd commanding . nspect,
    l'll~ LAST ~IAN. ~1

    he now added gemlest benevolence, winning


    tenderne~, graceful and ullwc:.ricd attention t'O
    the wishes of another.
    The first secrcl that had existed betwccn them
    was the visits of Raymond to E"tulne. He had
    been struck by the fortitude und lx>3uty of the
    iIl.fated Greek ; and, when her constant tender.
    ness towards him unfolded itself, he asked with
    astonishment, by what act of his he had merited
    this passionate and unrequited love. She was
    for:. while the sole object uf his reveries; and
    Perdita becamc aware that his thoughts and
    time were bestowed on a subject unpnrtieipaled
    by her. My sister was by nature destitute of
    the common fcclings of anxious, petulant jell.
    lousy. The treasure whidl she possessed in
    the affections of Raymond, was more ncccSS3ry
    to her being, than the life.blood that animated
    her "eins-more truly thnn Othello she might
    "'y.
    To be once in doubt.
    Is-once to be resch·ed.
    THE LAST )IAN.

    On the present occasion she did not suspect any


    alienation of affection; but she conjectured that
    some circumstance connected with his high
    place, had <>CC.1sioned 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
    fuUest delight.
    Time went on. Raymond, stopping ~id-way

    in his wild career, paused suddenly to think of


    const>quences. Two results presented them-
    selves in the view he took of the future. That
    his intercourS<' 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
    TilE LAST l I AN.

    from advcrting to the possibility of exiling him.


    self from her. In the first event he had bidden
    an eternal fat'ewell to open.hearted conversc, and
    entire sympathy with the companion of his life.
    The veil must be thicker than that invcnted by
    Turkish jea1ousy; the wa11 higher than the un-
    scaJeabJe 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 sociru feelings were the essence of Raymond's
    naturej without them his qualities became com-
    mon-place; without these to spread glory owr
    his intercourse with P erdit.'l, his ,'au nted ex_
    change of a throne for her lO\'e, was as weak
    and empty as the rainbow hues which vanish
    when the sun is down. Dut there was no re-
    medy. Genius, devotion, and courage; the
    adonunents of his mind, and the energies of his
    sou}, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could
    not roll hack onehair's breadth the wheel of time's
    chariot; that which had been was written with
    THE LAST MAN.

    the adall'lantine pen of reality, on the everlasting


    volume of the past; nor could agony and tears
    suffice to wash out one iota from the act ful-
    fiUed.
    But this was the best side of the question.
    'Vllat, if circumstnnce should lead Perdita to
    su-,pect, and suspecting to be resolved? The
    fibres of his frame became re1nxed, 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 Ulllllan 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 alterecllooks.
    He would forsake her, Englnnd, his friends,
    the scenes of his youth, the hopes of cOllling
    time, he would seek an~ther country, and in
    other scenes begin life again. Having resolved
    on this, he hecame calmer. He endeavoured 10
    guide with prudence the steeds of destiny through
    M]
    the deviolts road which he had chosen, a nd bent
    all his efforts the Letter to conceal what he could
    not alter.
    The perfect confidence that subsisted between
    Perdita and him, rendered el"cry communication
    common between them. They opened each
    other's letters. evcn as, until now, the inmost fold
    uf the heart of each was disclosed to th e other.
    A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had
    it contained confirmation, she must have been
    annihilated. A s it was, trembling, cold, amI
    pale, she sought Raymond, H e 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 haw
    been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to
    the living iuc:lmation of the thing itself exhibited
    by her.
    A t first he did not take his eyes from the
    papers ; when he raised them, he was struck by
    THE LAST MAN.

    the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek j


    for a moment he forgot his own acts and fears,
    and asked with consternation-'f Dearest girl,
    what is the mattcr.; what has happened?'"
    H Nothing," she replied at firitj H and yet
    not so," she continued, hurrying on in her
    speech; "you have secrets, Raymond; where
    have you been lately, whom hayc 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 ?"
    'Vith trembling hand she gave him the paper,
    and sat white and motionless looking at him
    while he rend it. He recognised the hand-writ-
    ing of Evadne, and the colour mounted in his
    cheeks. 'Vith lightning_speed he conceived the
    content'S of the lctter; aU was now cast on one
    die; falsehood and artifice were trifles in com_
    parison with the impending ruin. He would
    TilE LAST MAN. 263

    eiUler entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, OT

    quit. her for ever. "My dear g-irl," 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
    marc difficult for me to alter my plan. Besides,
    I was instigated by delicacy towards the un-
    happy writer of these few lines."
    Perdita gasped: " " 'ell," she cried, " well,
    go on !"
    "That IS aU-this pnper tells all. I am
    placed in the most difficult circumstances. I
    ha\-e done my best, though perhaps I have done
    wrong. My love for you is inviolate."
    Perdita shook her head doubtingly : "hean_
    not be," she cried, " I know that it is not.
    You WOllid deceive me, but I will not be de..
    ccivoo. I have lost you, myself, my life 1"
    " Do you not believe me?" said Haymond
    haughtily.
    U To belic\'e you," she exclaimed, H I would
    THE LAST MAN.

    give up all, and expire with joy, so that in


    death I could feel that you were :true-but that
    cannot be!"
    H Perdita," continued Raymond, "you do
    not see the precipice on which you stand. You
    may believe that I did not enter on my prescnt
    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 dis-
    dainfully set aside? Do you think that I will
    be suspected, perhaps watched, cross.ques-
    tioned, and disbelieved? I am not yet fallen
    so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished.
    You have loved me; I adored you. But ttll
    human sentiments come to an end. Let our
    nffection expire-but let it not be exchanged for
    distrust and recrimination. Heretofore we have
    been friends-lovers-let us not become ene_
    mies, mutual spies. I cannot live the object
    TilE LAST MAN.

    of suspicion-you cannot believe me-let us


    part !"
    " Exnetly so," cried. Perditn, "I knew that
    it would come to this! Arc we noL nlready
    parted? Docs not a stream, botlndl~5 as ocean,
    deep as vacuum, yawn between us i'''
    Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his
    features convulsed) his manner calm as the earth.
    quake-cradling atmosphere, he replietl : " I am
    rejoiced that you take my decision so philoso-
    phically. Doubtless you will play the pnrt of
    the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you
    may be st ung with the feeling thnt you have
    wronged me, but the condolence of your rela.
    tivcs, the pity of the world, the complacency
    which the consciollsness of your o\\'n immaculate
    innoccnce will bestow, will bc excellent balm;-
    me you will ne,'cr sec more I"

    R aymond moved towards the door. He for.


    got that each word he spoke was false. ] Ie per.
    sonated his assumption of innocence eycn to
    self-deception. Have noL actors wept., ns ther
    VOL. 1. N
    2ti6 THE LAST lIAN .

    pourll'aycd imagined passion? A more intense


    feeling of the reality of fiction possessed Ray-
    mond. He spoke with pride; he felt injured.
    Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance;
    his hand was Oil 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
    11cad feU on his shoulder, she trembled, alter.
    nate changes of fire and ice ran through her
    limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with
    softened accents:
    " The blow is gi\·cn. I will not part from
    you in anger ;--1 owe you too much. lowe
    you six. years of unalloyed happiness. But
    they nre 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 propricty of
    action. 'Ve shall not then be degraded from
    our true charactcrs. Faith and de,'otion huyc
    hitherto been the essence of our intercourse ; -
    TilE LAST ;\I.\S, 2G7

    these lost, let liS not cling La the sccdle~s husk


    of life, the 1I1lkernellcd shell , You have your
    child, your brother, Idl'i s., .t\drian"- -
    "And yuu," cried rerditn, "the wriler of
    that Jetter,"
    Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the
    eyes of nnymond, H e knew that this accusa~
    tion at least was false, H Entertain this helicf,"
    he cried, U hug it to yom hearl-make it a pil-
    low to your head, an opiate for your cycs- I
    am content. Dut, by the God that made me,
    hdl is not more false than the word you h.o.\"e
    ~roken!"

    Pel'dita was struck by the impassioncd seri.


    ousncss of his ns~\'erntions. She replied with
    earnestness, "I do not refusc to bclic\'c you,
    Raymond; on the contrary I promise to put
    implicit faith in your simple word. Only nssurc
    me thnt your love and faith towards me )la,'c
    ne"er been ,'iolnted; and suspicion, and doubt,
    and jealousy will at once be dispersed, " 'e
    N 2
    THE LAST MAN.

    ,,1111ll continu£! as we have ever Jone, one heart,


    one hope, one life. "
    " I have already assured you of my fidelity,"
    said Raymond with disdainful coldness, H triple
    assertions will avail nothing where one is de-
    spised. I will say no more; for I call add
    nothing to what I have already said, to what
    you before contemptuously set aside. This
    contention is unworthy of lxJth of us; and I
    confess that I am weary of replying to charges
    at oncc unfounded and unkind."
    Pcrdila 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 fecliug unallied to
    affection, became again radiant and satisfied.
    She found it however 110 easy task to soften and
    reconcile Raymond. At first he refused to stay
    to hear her. But she would nut be put off';
    secure of his unaltel"C·d love, she was willing to
    'l' 1It: LA ST )[<\N'.

    uudel'take a llY IltboUl', usc ally entreaty, to


    dispel his anger. She obtained an hearing, he
    sat ill haughty silclICC, but he listened, She
    first assured him of her boundless confidence;
    of this he lllust be consciolls; since but for thllt
    she would not seek to detai n him. She enu·
    lll e!'atcd their years of happincss; she brought
    before him past scenes of intimacy nnd happi-
    ness; she pictured their future life, she men-
    tioned thei r child-tears unbidden now filled
    hel' ey(.'S, She tried to dispcrse them, but they
    refused to I.>c checked-hel' utterance was
    choakccl. She had not wept before. R aymond
    could not rcsist these signs of distress! he fclt
    perhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted
    of th ~ injured man, he who was in truth the
    injurer, Ami thcn he devoutly loved P erdita ;
    the bend of her head, her glossy ringlets, the
    turn of her form were to him subjccts of deep
    tenderness and mlmil'ation; t iS she spoke, hel'
    melodious tones entered his soul; he soon sof.
    lened towards her, comforting and caressing
    270 TIlE LAST ;\fAN.

    her, and cndeayouring to chca.t 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 fa1se~
    hood i true this he had palmed on a Womall, 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 llim doubly, when
    he remembered the parade of innocence with
    which it had been exacted. The mind of Ray-
    mond was nOl so rough cast, nor hnd been so
    rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as to
    make him proof to these considerations-on the
    eonlrary, he was all nerve; his spirit was as a
    pure fire, which fades and shrinks from every
    contagion oC foul atmosphere: hut now the
    contagion had become incorpomtcd with its cs..
    ~ncc, and the change was the more painfuL
    TilE {.A ST ;\1.\:-;, Q71

    Truth and fabchooc.l, love ::md hate lost their


    ctel'llal ooulIdm'ies, hea.\"cn rushed in to mingle
    with hell; while his M'llsitive mind, turnoo to a
    field for such battlc, W:'l.S sttlng to madness. I Ie
    heartily despised himself, h(' ",as r..ngry with
    Perdita, and the idea of Evadne was attended
    hy all that waS hideous and cruel. His passions,
    always his masters, acquired fresh strength, from
    the long ~lecp ill which )O\'C hr;,d cradled thew,
    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 yieldal by degrees, to suI.
    len animosity,3l1d depl'ession of spirits. His
    dependants, e\'en his cqunls, if in his prescot
    post he hnd any, were startled to find anger.
    derision, and bitterness in one, before distin.
    guished for suavity and bcne\'olcncc of manner.
    He trans."lcted public business with distaste, and
    hastened from it to the solitude which \\as at
    once his bane ami relief. He mounted a fiery
    horo;c, that which had borne him forward to vie-
    TilE LAST A1A:<f.

    tory in Greece; he fatigued himself with dead_


    ening exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled
    'mind in animal sensation.
    He slowly recovered hin.lsclf; yet, at lnst, as
    one might from the effects of poison, h(' lifted his
    head from above the vapours of fever and pas-.
    sion 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 anyrctlSOnable
    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 llcr lover: he would never see her more,
    and by the completeness of his return, deserve
    the confidence of Perdita.
    Yel, as he thus determined, fancy conjured
    up the miserable abode of the Greek girl. An
    abodc, which from nobte and lofty principle, she
    had rer used to exchange for one of greater
    TilE L AST "'IA~. 2i3

    luxury. H c thoug ht of dlc splendour of her


    situation and appearance whcn he first kncw her;
    he thought of her life at Cunstantinopif', attcnded
    by every circumstance of oriental magnificence;
    of hcr present penury, her daily task of industry,
    her lorn state, her faded, famine.struck cheek.
    Compassion swelled his breast; he would sec
    her once again; he would devise some plan for
    I'estol'ing her to society, and the enjoyment of
    her rank; their separation would then follow,
    as tl matter of course.
    Again he thought, how during this long
    month, hc had 8yoided Perdita, flying from her
    u;; from the stings of his own conscience. But
    he was awake now; nIl this should be remedied;
    lllll.l ftlt~re dcyotion crase the memory of this
    only blot on the serenity of their life. He bc~

    came cheerful, 3S he thought of this, and soberly


    and resolutely mar1:ed out the line of conduct
    he 1I'0uld adopt. H e remembered that he hart
    promised I'crdita to be present this very cvcn-
    ing (the 19th of October, anni n~rsal'y of hi,
    ~ 3
    !?:74 THE LAST M.\N.

    election as Protector) at a festival given in hig


    bonour. 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 somc account, some compensation for
    his long nnd unannounced absence; and t11en 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 entirc
    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 nvoca,-
    tions. He transacted the business of the day
    apart from her; he went out, she knew not whi_
    tllcr. The pain inflicted by this disappointment
    was tomlenting and keen. She looked 011 it ns
    a deceitful dream, and tried to throw off the
    consciousness of it; but like the shirt of Nessus,
    THE L AST MA~

    it clung: to hcr vcry flesh, and ate with sharp


    ~O'(Iny into llcr ,'ital principlc. She possessed
    that (though such an assertion may appear a.
    paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity
    of happiness. Her delicatc organization and
    creative imagination rendcred her peculiarly
    sllsceptible of plcasumblc emotion. The over-
    flowing wanmh of hcr heart, by making loye a
    plant of deep root and stately growth, had at_
    tuned bel' whole soul to the reception of happi-
    ness, when shc found in Raymond all that could
    adorn love and iatisfy her imagination. But if
    the sentiment on which the fabric of her ex_
    istcnce was founded, became common placc
    through participation, the endless succession of
    attentions and graceful action snapt by transfer,
    his universe of love wrested from hel', happiness
    must dcpart, and then be exchanged for its oppo-
    site. The same peculiarities of charactcr rcn-
    dered her sorrows agonics; llcr fancy magnified
    thcm, hcr sensibility madc her for ever opcn to
    their rencwed impression; lovc envenomed the
    276 THE LAST MAN.

    heart-piercing sting. There was neither sub-


    mission, patience, nor self-abandonment in her
    grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath it,
    and rendered every pang more sharp by resist-
    ance. 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 pl~ze 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, be.
    yond that affection, embosomed deeper than
    friendship, was the indivisible treasure of love.
    Take the sum in its completeness, and no arith-
    metic can calculate its price; take from it the
    smallest portion, glve 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 en-
    TilE LAST ).IA:N'. 9.17

    chulltments one only can. posress; its spirit is


    elemental, its essence single, its divinity an
    unit. The very heart and soul of Haymond
    and Perdi ta harl mingled, even as two mountain
    brook s that join in their descent, and murmur_
    ing and sparkling flow over shining pebble~,

    beside starry Rowers; but let one desert its


    primal course, or be dammed up by chouking
    obstruction, and the other shrinks in its altered
    banks. P erdita was sensible of th e 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 exalta-
    tion of Raymond to the office of Protector; and
    it was cus~omary 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 evell-
    ing gala, she wondered herself at the pains she
    278 THE LAS1' llANo

    took, to render sumptuous the celebration of an


    event which appeared to her the beginning of
    her sufferings. \Voe befall the day, she thought,
    woc, tears, and mourning betide the hour, that
    gave Raymond another bope 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 wauid not
    seck what I am now resolved to attain. ShaH
    two years more be thus passed, each day adding
    to our alienation, each nct being another stone
    piled on the barrier which separates us? No,
    my Raymond, my only bc1oved, sole possession
    of Perdita! This night, this splendid assem-
    bly, these sumptuou~ apartments, and this
    adornment of your tearful gil'l, are all united
    to celebrate your abdication. Oncc for me,
    you relinquished the prospect of a crown. Th31.
    was in days of ('arly love, when I could only
    hold out the hope, not the assurance of happi-
    ness. Now you hrwe the experience of all that
    THE I,AST MAN'. Q79

    I (an give, the hellrt's devotion, laintler;s love,


    and unhesitating subjcction to you. You must
    choose between Ihese and your protectorate.
    This, proud noble, is your last night! Perdita
    has bestowed on it all ofmngni6eent and daz:.:ling
    that your heart best loves-but, from these gor_
    geous rooms, from t!lis princely attendance, from
    power 111ld elevation, you must return with to-
    morrow's sun to our rural abode; for I would
    not buy an immortality of joy, by the endu_
    rance of one more wcek sister to the last.
    Brooding ovcr this plan, resolved when the
    hour should come, to propose, and insist upon
    its accomplishment, se<:ure of his consent, the
    heart of Perdita. was lightened, or ratller ex-
    alted. Her check was flushed by the expecta-
    tion of struggle; her eyes ~parkled with the hope
    of triumph. Haying 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 huma.
    nity, and seemed in calm power, to ::rrrest with
    ~80 TilE LAST llAN.

    her finger, the wheel of destiny. She had


    never before looked so supremely lovely.
    '"e, the Arcadian shepherds of the true, had
    intended to be present at this festivity, but Per-
    dita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to ab-
    sent 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 appro-
    priated to the festival. Raymond had quitted
    the palace the night before'; he had promised to
    grace the assembly, but he had not yet re-
    turned. Still she felt sure that he would come
    at last; and the wider the breach might appear
    at this crisis, the morc secure she was of closing
    it for ever.
    It was as I said. the nineteenth of Octobl"r;
    the autumn was far advanced and dreary. The
    wind howled; the half bare trees were despoiled
    of the remainder of their summer ornament; the
    TUE LAST JII..lN. 281

    state of the air which induced the decay of


    vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or hope.
    Haymond had been exalted by the dctermin."l.-
    tion he had made; but with the declining day his
    spirits declined. First he was to visit Evadne,
    and then to hasten to the palace oi the Protec-
    torate. 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 de.
    gradation; and then, after a short wild dream,
    haying left her to drear solitude, anxioll~ eon.
    je<'.tul"e, and bitter, still-disappointed expec-
    tation. 'Vhat 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 m perfect night. He groped his
    way up, he entered the garret, he found
    Evadne stretched speechless, almost life.
    THE LAST )lAN.

    less on her wrctchcd bed. He called fOl" 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. 'Vhcn she found herself
    forsaken by him, she lost the heart to pur-
    sue her usual avocations; pride forbade every
    ~pplication to him; famine was welcomed as
    the kind porter to the gates of death, ,,-ithin
    whose opening folds she should now, without
    sin, quickly repose. No creature came ncar
    her, as her strength failed.
    If she died, where could there be found on
    record a murderer, whose cruel act might com-
    pare with his? 'Vhat 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 ~f7'Cs; the darkness of the 1001g autumnal
    night yielded to day, before her life was secure.
    'rIlE LAST MAN. 283

    He had her then removed to a more commotli.


    ous dwc11iug l and hov{:re{l 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 llOnour, by Perdita j in his honour
    then, when misery and death werc affixing in-
    delible disgrace to his name, honour to him
    whose c~'imes deservcd 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 n
    festal night, to that lady's presence? Haymond
    gave her his 'ling to ensurc the respect of the
    menials. Thus, while Perdita was entertaining
    her gucsts, and anxiously awaiting the arriyuJ
    of her lord, his ring wac; brought her; and she
    THE LAST i\lAN.

    was told that n poor woman had a note to de-


    liver to her from its wearer.
    The vanity of the old gossip was raised by
    her commission, which, after all, she did not un-
    derstand, 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-tiJI the woman's answers woke
    other fears. From a feeling of cunning blindly
    exercised, the officious, if not malignant messen-
    ger, did not speak of Evadne's illness; but she
    garrulously gave an account of Raymond's fre_
    quent ,·jsits, adding to her narration such cir-
    cumst:mces, as, while they convinced Perdita
    of its truth, exaggerated the unkinciness and
    perfidy of Raymond. 'Vorst of all, his
    absence now from the festival, his Dlessage wholly
    unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints
    of the womaD, appeared the deadliest insult.
    Again she looked at the ring. it was a small ruby,
    almost hcar~shaped, which she had herself given
    him. She looked at the hand-writing, which she
    THE I,AST MAN. 285

    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 hel' talk,
    filled her car with a strange medley of truth and
    falsehood. At length Perdita dismissed her.
    The poor girl returned to the assembly, when ·
    her presence had not been missed. She glided
    into a receS3 somewhat obscured, and leaning
    against an ornamental column there placed, tried
    to reco,'er herself. Her faculties were pnlsicd.
    She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a
    carved "ase: that moming she had arranged
    them, they were rare and lonly plants; el'cn
    now all aghast as she was, shc observed lh eir
    brilliant colours and starry sllapes.- " Divine
    infoliations of the spirit of beauty." she ex-
    claimed, "Yc droop not, neither do ye mourn ;
    the despair that clasps my heart, has not spread
    contagion o,'er you ! -'VI1Y am I not a partner
    of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm !"
    She paused, "To my task," she continued
    i86 THE LAST "lAN.

    mentally, H 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-fOl' I will appear to live-while I
    am -dead." It required aU 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.
    AU her efforts were now directed to the dis-
    sembling 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, wl1ile in deep woe she sighed
    for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged
    her crowded rooms for dark forest depths, or a
    drear, night-enshadowcd heath. Dut she became
    gay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be,
    a.') was usual with her, placidly content. E"ery
    one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all
    actions appear graceful in the eye of rank, her
    guests surrounded her applaudingly, although
    TilE LAST lIAN.

    thcl'e was a shaqll1css in her laugh, and an ab-


    ruptncss in hcr sallies, which might ha,'c bctray_
    ed her secret to an altentivc obscr\·cr. Shc wcnt
    Oil, feeling that, if shc had pnuscd for a moment,
    the checked waters oC misery would ha,'c de-
    luged her soul, that her wrecked hopes would
    raise their wailing voices, and that those who now
    echocd her mirth, and provoked her repartees,
    would have shrunk in fear from her cODl'ulsi,'c
    despair. Her only consolation during the vio-
    lence which she did herself, was to watch the
    lIlotions of an illuminated clock, and internally
    count the moments which must elapse beforc
    she could be alone.
    At lcngth the rooms began to thin. Mocking
    her own clesire~, she rallil..od her guests on their
    early departure. One by one they left her-at
    lmglh 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." Pcrdita smiled faintly-her guest left
    her; thc carl'iage rolling down the 'treel assured
    THE LAST MAN.

    the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an


    enemy I as if wings had Leen at her feet, she
    flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her
    attendants, she locked the doors, she threw
    herself wildly all 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 tb~y seemed to jostle and wound each
    other, wbile they worked her up to madncss.
    At length she rosc, more composed, not less
    rniserable. She stood before a large mirror-
    she gazed on her reflected image; her light and
    graceful dress, the jewels that studded her hail',
    and encircled her beauteous arms and neck, her
    small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy
    tresses, all were to her clouded brow ano woe-
    begone countenance like a gorgeous frame to a
    dark tempest-pourtraying picture. "\' ase am
    I," she thought, "vase brimful of despair's
    THE LAST lIA1'\. 28D

    direst essence. Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor


    girl! never again will you !\CC Y(llltscif thus;
    luxury antI wealth are no longer yours; in the
    excess of your poverty YOli may envy the home-
    less beggar; most truly am I without a home!
    I live on a barren deS/nt, which, wide and in-
    lenninable, brings forthn either fruit or Bower;
    in the mid3t is a solitary rock, to which thou,
    Perdita, art chained, nnd thou scest the dreary
    level stretch far awny."
    She threw open her window, which looked on
    the palace-garden. Light and darkness were
    struggling together, and the orient was stn.'akcd
    by roseate and golden rays. One star only
    trembled in the depth of the kindling atmo-
    sphere. The morning nil' blowing freshly over
    the dewy plants, rushed into the heated room.
    H All things go on," thought Perdita, " all
    things proceed, decay, and perish! 'Vhen
    noontide has passed, and the weary day has
    driven her team to their western stalls, the fires
    of heaven rise from the East, mo\·ing in their
    VOL. I. o
    rilE LAST MAN.

    accustomed path, they ascend and descend the


    skiey hill. \Vhen 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 ap-
    pears, and in majestic procession climbs the
    capitol of hea\"('[1. All proceeds, changes llnd
    dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting
    heart.
    HAy, all proceeds and changes: what wonder
    then, that love has journied on to its setting,
    and that the lord of my life has changed? "r e
    call the supernal1ights fixed, yet they wander
    about yonder plain, and if I look ~uain where I
    looked an hour, ago, the face of the eternal
    heavens is altered. The silly moon and incon-
    stant planets vary nightly their erratic dance;
    the sun itself, sovercig'~ of the sky, ever and
    anon deserts his throne, and leaves his domi-
    nion to night and wintel'. Nature grows old,
    and shakes in her decaying Jimbs,-ercation has
    TilE LAST MAN.

    become lxt.nkrupt! 'Vhat wondl?r then, that


    ec1ipse and death have led to destruction the
    light of thy life, 0 Perdita !"

    02
    THE LAST )[.-\~ .

    CHAPTER IX.

    THUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts


    of my poor si&ter, when she became assured of
    the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and
    all her defects tended to make the blow in-
    curable. Her affection for me, her brother,
    for Adrian and ldns. was subject as it were to
    the reigning passion of her heart; even her
    maternal tendemess borrowed half its force
    from the delight she had in tracing Raymond'""
    features and expression in the infant's coun_
    tenancc. She had been reserved and even stern
    in childhood; but love had softened tbe asperi.
    tics of her character, and her unioil with IbJ~
    THE LAST MA~.

    mond had caused her talents and affections to


    unfold themseh'es; 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 Soting pierced her
    heart; her humility of spirit augmented the
    power of the ,'cnom; 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 WOII and presened him-but another
    had won him from her, and her exultation was as
    cold as a water quenched ember.
    'Ve, in our retirement, remained long in
    ignorance of her misfortune. Soon after the
    festival she had sent for her chilc1, and then she
    seemed to have forgotten us. Adrian obsen-cd
    a change during a visit that he afterward paid
    them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine
    the CD.use. They still appeared in public to-
    gether, and lived under the same roof. Ray.
    THE J.AST )lAN.

    mond was as usual courteous, though there wa.-,


    on occasions, an unbidden haughtiness, or pain.
    ful nbruptness in his manners, which startled
    his gentle friend; his brow was not clouded
    but disdain sat on his lips, and his "oice was
    harsh. Perdita 'vas all kindness and attention
    to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words
    ~atl . 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
    Ix! so! At others her countenance expressed-
    I will still do all I can to make you happy_
    nut Adrian read with uncertain aim the
    charactery of her face, and might mistake.-
    C!ara was always wiu) her, and she seemed
    most at case, when, in an obscure cornel', she
    could sit holding her child's hand, sill'llt nnd
    lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the
    truth j he entreated them to "isit us at'Vind.
    <;01', nncI they promised to come during the fol.
    lowing month.
    It was May before they arrived: the 8cason
    THE LAST .lIAS. 295
    had dC(!kcd the forest trees with leaves, and its
    paths with n thousand flowers. 'Ve had notice
    of their intention the day before; and, early in
    the morning. j>erditn arrived with her daughter.
    Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had
    been detained by bU3in('ss. According to
    Adrian's account, I had expected to find her
    ~d; but, on the contrary. she appeared in the
    highest spirits : true, she had grown thin, hC'T

    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 ap-
    peared that a happier, less care-worn party could
    not have been assembled. "This is bener,
    Mamma," said Clara, "that being in that dis-
    mal L ondon, where you often cry, and .never
    lnugb as you do now."-" Silence, little foolish
    thing," repliC!d Jwr mothC!r, ., and rememoor
    anyone: tbnt mentions London is sent to Co-
    ventry for an hOllr."
    Soon after, Haymond arrived. He did not
    join tiS usual in the playful spirit of the rest;
    but, entering into conversation with Adrian nnd
    myself. by degrees we seceded from our com-
    panions, and Idris and Perdita only remained
    with the children. Haymond talked of his new
    buildings; of his plnn for an cstablishment for
    the better education of the poor; as usual
    Adrian and he entercd into argument, and thc
    time slipped away unperceived.
    '" e assembled again towards evenmg, and
    Perdita insisted on our having recourse to music.
    She wantcd, she said, to give us a specimen of
    hf'r new accomplishment; for since she had been
    in London, she had applied hcrself to music, and
    sang. without mllch power, but with a great deal
    of sweetness. 'Ve were not permitted by her to
    select any but light-hearted melodies; and aU
    TilE LAST )'IA)o 201
    the Operas of Mozart were eall'!d into scnicc,
    that we might choose thl' most exhilarating of
    his air5. Among the other transcendant auri-
    butes of Mozart's music, it possesses lUore than
    any other that of appearing to come from the
    heart; you enter into the pasr:.ions expr<'SSCd by
    him, and are thmsported with gric(. 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" Tad i7lgittsto core," in Don Gio-
    vanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by him
    into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with mc-
    maries of the chnnged past; it was the same
    ,'oiec, 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 it" dissonance of
    expression penetratC'd her With regret and
    dClOpair. Soon after Idris, who was at the harp,
    tumed to that passionate and sorrowful air in
    03
    THE LAST MAN.

    Figura, "Porgi, ct1llor, qu,ak'/,e ristoro," in \\hich


    the deserted Countess laments the change of the
    faithless Almavim. The soul of tender sorrow
    is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet
    voice of Idris, sustained by the mournful chord!;
    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 musie
    recalled her to herself, she lHl.stencd out of the
    hnll-I followed her. At first, she seemed to
    wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my
    earnest questioning, she threw herself on my
    ner.k, and wept aloud :-" Once more," she cried,
    " once more on your friendly breast, my helm'en
    brother, can the lost I'erditn pOllr forth her
    sorrows, I had imposed a law of silence on my_
    self; 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 spe-ak! Dc
    enough for you to know that I am miS<'l'nble
    b(' it enough for you to know, that the painte.J
    THE LAST UAN.

    veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded


    in darknt:3s awl gloom, that grief is my sister,
    c"er/osting 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 in_
    terest in the chan~'S of her fortune :_U Dcar
    words," she eried, "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 ,'ain in their
    attempt to soothe or comfort me. Dearest
    Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered
    during these long months. I bave read of
    mourners in ancient day~ who clothed them-
    selves 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. 'Vhy this is the very luxury of
    sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day
    contriving new extravagances. revelling in the
    300 THE LAST It ,\~.

    paraphernalia of woc, wedded to all the appur.


    tenanccs of despair. Alas! 1 must for eyer
    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 smilcs-
    c\'en in solitude I dare not think how lost I am,
    lest I become insane and raye."
    The tears and agitation of my poor sister
    had rendered ber 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 talc of her unhappi_
    ness 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
    he~clf for taking too bitterlv to heart, that wliich
    TIlE LAST lU.~·. SOl

    many would esteem an imag inary evil ; but this


    was no subject for reason; and, ignorant as she
    was or the motives and true condllct of Ray-
    mond, things assumed for her even a wo~ ap-
    pearance, than the reality warranted. He was
    seldom at the palace; never, but when he was
    assured that his public dudes would prevent his
    remaining alone with Perdittt.. They seldom
    addressed each other, shunning explanation,
    each fearing any communication the other
    might make. Suddenly, howe\'er, the mannen;
    of Raymond changed; he appeared to desire
    to find opportunitips 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
    e"ery sentiment. Shame seemed to hold him
    back; yet he evidently wished to establish
    a renewal of confidence and affection. From
    302 THE LAST llAX.

    the moment Pcrdittl had bufficiently ,'('covered


    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 endeaxourcd to place n barrier in the way
    of familiar intercourse or painful discu')sion,
    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
    hel'self to him; she couid 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 1
    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 LAST r.IA~. 303

    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 Javed you-I love you-neither anger nor
    pride dictates these lines; but a feeling beyond,
    deeper, and more unalterable than either. My
    afiections are wounded; it is impossible to heal
    them :- eease then the vain endeavour, if in-
    deed that way your endeavour.;; tend. Forgive-
    ness! Return! Idle words are these! I forgive
    the pain I endure; but the trodden path can-
    not be retraced.
    " Common affection might have been satis-
    fied with common usages. I believed that you
    read my heart, and knew its devotion, its un.
    alienable fidelity towards you. I never loved
    any but you. You came the embod~ed 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 en-
    chanted light; it was no longer the earth I
    trod.... the f'arth common mother, yielding only
    30~ TilE LAST lIA:\".

    trite and stale repetition of objects !lnu circum_


    &tanccs old and worn out. I lived in a temple
    glorified by intenscst sen~ of devotion and
    rapture j I walkcil, a consecrated being, con-
    templating only your power, your excellencc;

    For 0, you stood beside me, like my youth,


    Transformed for me tl,l' real 10 a dream.
    Cloathing the palpaLleand familiar
    W ilh golden exhalations of the dawn.

    , The bloom has vanished from my life'-thcrc


    is no morning to this all investing night; no rising
    to the set-sun of love. In those days the rest of
    the world wns nothing to me: all other mCD-

    r nc,'cr considered nor felt what they were; nor


    did I look on you as one of them. Separated
    from them; exalted in my heart; sole poSS<'ssor
    of my affections; single object of my hopes.
    the best half of myself.
    "Ah, Raymond, were we not hnppy? Did
    the sun shine on nny, who could enjoy its light
    with purer and more intense bliss? It was not-
    TilE L .\S1' lUN. 805

    it is not a common in6delity at which I repinE',


    It is the disunion of an whole whieh may not
    have parts; it is the carelessness wiut which
    you have shaken oft' the mantle of election
    with which to me you were invested, and have
    become one among the many. Dream not to
    altcr 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
    hcart? I have gazed on you as you slept,
    meltcd even to tears, ;8 tllC idea filled my mind,
    that all I possessed lay cradled in those ido-
    lized, but mortal lineaments before mc, Y ct,
    cnn thCIl, I ha\'e checked thick_coming fean
    with nnc thought; I would not fear death, fo';
    the emotions that linked us must be immortal.
    " And now I do not fear death. I should be
    wen pleased to close my eyes, nel'er more to
    open them :lgain. 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, hap-
    pincss would not return - cyen in Paraws<',
    THE LAST :U AN.

    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-Do-me miserable; for love extinct there


    is no resurrection!
    " Yet I loyc you. Yet, and for e\'er, 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, Ray-
    mond, share your fortunes, partake your coun-
    sel. Shall it be thus? 'Vc are no longer
    lovers; nor can I call myself a friend to any;
    since, lost as I ~m, 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 kcep up JOur
    paternalloye for our girl; to hear your 'l'oice j

    to know that I am ncar you, though you arc no


    longer minco
    THE LAST lIAN. 307

    " 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 thc world's eye.
    " Yet, ns I have said, I should be best
    pleased, at least for the present, to live under
    the same roof with you. ':Vhen 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. 1\fay
    tllis be true? Can my soul, inextricably linked
    to this perishable frame, become lethargic and
    cold, even as this sensitive mechanism shall
    loose its youthful elasticity? ' Then, whh laCK-
    lustre eyes, grey Jlairs, and wrinkled brow,
    though now the words sound hollow and
    meaningless, then, tottering on the gra\'e's
    extreme edge, I may be-your affectionate and
    true friend,
    H PERDITA."

    Raymond's answer was brief. "That indeed


    308 TUE LAST lIAN".

    could he reply to her complaints, to her grief!


    which she jealously paJed round, keeping out
    liB thought of remooy. "Notwithstanding your
    bitter letter," he wrote, Ie for bitter I must cnll
    it, you nre 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 YOli can receiyc gratification from ODe 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 j 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 Per-
    dita, " alas, that it should be so! our prescnt
    mode of life caDnol continue long, yct I will not
    hc thc first to propose altcration. He bcholds
    in me one whom he has injured e\'cn unto death;
    and I dcrive no hope from his kindness; no
    dlange can possibly be brought about even by
    his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra.
    11t£ LAST llA~. 309
    have worn as an oroament the vinegar "hich
    contain~ her dissolved pearl, as 1 be content
    with the love that Haymond call now offer me."
    I own that I did not sec her misfortune with
    the same f'yes as Perdita. At all events me-
    thought that the woc.nd could be healed; and, if
    they remained together, it would be so. I en.
    deayoured tllerefore to sooth and soften her
    mind; and it was not until after many endea.
    ,"ours tlu'lt I gave up the ta!;k 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 h;-tppincss I
    have often repeated to myself, with a grate-
    ful heart amI exulting spirit, all that Rny.
    mond sacrificed for me. I was n poor, un_
    educated, unbefriended, mountain girl, rniscd
    310 TilE LAST l[AN.

    from nothingness by him. All that I possessed


    of the luxuries of life came from him. He ga\'t'
    me an illustrious name and noble station; the
    world's respect reflected from his own glory; all
    his joined to his own undying love, inspired me
    with sensations towards him, akin to those with
    which we regard the Giver of life. I ga\'c him
    love only. I devoted myself to him: imperfect
    creature that I was, I took myself to task, that
    I might becom.e worthy of him. I watched over
    my hasty temper, subdued my burning im.
    patience of character, schooled my self-engross-
    ing thoughts, educating myself to the best per_
    fection I might altain, that the fruit of my ex-
    ertions might be his happiness. I took no merit
    to myself for this. He deserved it all-all la.
    bout, all devotion, all sacri6ce; I woulo. ha\'e
    toiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that
    would please him. I was r('ndy to \juit you all,
    my beloved and giftf'd companions, and to live
    only with him, for him. I could not do other_
    wise, even if I had wished; for if we are S<lid to
    THE LAS'l ll.-\.:-' 511

    have two souls, he was my better soul, to which


    the olher was a perpetual sJa,'c. One only re-
    turn did he owe me, even fidelity. I earned
    that j I deserved it. Because I was mountain
    bred~ unallied to the noble and weD.llhy, shall
    he think to repay me by an empty name and
    station? Let him take them back; wilhout his
    love they nrc nothing to me. Their only merit
    in my eyes was that they were his.
    Thus passionately Perdita ran -on. 'Vhen I
    adverted to the question of their entire separa_
    tion, lihe 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 com-
    panionship, and our masquerade of union, are
    strangely dear to tn€'. It is pninful, I D.llow,
    destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a per-
    petual fever in my veins; it frets my immooica_
    ble wound; it is instinct with poison. Yet I
    must ding to it; perhaps it will kin me soon,
    and thus pcrfonn a thankful office."
    In the mean time, Raymond ha.d remained
    31~ THE LAST lL\:s'.

    with Adrian and Idris. He was naturally


    frank; the continued :Jbsence of Perdita -and
    myself became remarkable; and Raymond soon
    found relief from the constraint of months,
    by an unreserved confidence with his two
    fricnds. He related to them the situation in
    which he had found Evadne. At first, from
    delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name; but
    it wns divulged in the course of his narrati,'c,
    and her former lover heard with the most ncute
    agitation the history of her sufferings. Idris
    had shared Perdita's ill opinion of the Grcek;
    but Raymond's account softened and interested
    her. Evadne's constancy, fortitude, c\'en' her
    ill_fated and ill-regulated love, were matter of
    admiration anti pity; especially when, from the
    detail of the CWllts of the nineteenth of Oc-
    tober, it was ap~l'ent that she preferred suffer-
    ing and death to nny ill her eyes degrading
    tlpplication for the pity and assistance of her
    luver. IIer subsequcnt conduct did not diminish
    dlis intercst. At first, reliel'cd from famine and
    TilE: LAST MAN. 313

    tbe gra,'e, watched oyer by Raymond \\ ith lhe


    tenderest assiduity, with that feeling of repose
    peculiar to convalescence, Evadne gave herself
    up to rapturou!:i gratitude and )O\'c. But reflec-
    tion returned with health. She questioned him
    with regard to the m~th-es whieh had occa...
    sioned his critical absence. She framed her en.
    quiries with Greek subtlety; she form ed hel
    conclusions with the decision and firmness pe-
    -culiar to her disposition. She could not divine,
    that the breach which she had occasioned be-
    tween Raymond and rerdita was already irre-
    parable: but she knew, that under the present
    s)'stem it would be widened each day, and that
    its r esult must be to de~lroy her lon"I"s happi.
    nes!', and to implant the fungs of remorse in Ilis
    heart. From the moment that she pe-rcei\'ed
    the right line of conduct, she resolved to adopt
    it, and to part from Raymond for eYer. Con-
    flicting pass.ions, long-cherished 10\'e, ':.md self.
    inflicted disappointment, made her regard death
    alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. Hut the
    VOL. I.
    514 THE LAST MAN.

    same feelings and opinions which had before re-


    strained her, acted w:ith redoublt'd force; for she
    l.nc\v 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. pro-
    duced that monotonous, lethargic sense of
    changeless misery which for the most part pro-
    duces suicide. Her energy of character induced
    her still to combat with the ills of life; even
    those attendant on hopeless love presented them-
    selves, rather in the shape of an ad\'crsury to be
    overcome, than of a victor to whom she must
    submit. nesidc~, she had memories of past
    tenderness to cherish, smiles, words, and even
    tears, to con over, which, though remembered in
    desertion and sorrow, wcre to be prcferred to
    the forgetfulness of the gra,·c. It was impos_
    sible to guess at lhe whole of her plan. Hcr
    lettcr to Raymond gan~ no clue fOI" di!'.-
    covery; it assured him, that she was in no
    TlIl<: r,AST lIAN. 315

    danger of wanting the means of life; she pro-


    mised in it to prcsen'e herself, and w mc future
    day perhaps to prcscnt herself to him in a sta_
    tion not 1I1iworthy of her. She then bade him,
    with the eloquence of despair and of unalterable
    love, 0. last farewell.
    All these circumstances wCI'e now related to
    Adrian nlHI Idris. Haymond then lamented
    the cureless evil of hi s situation with Perdita
    He declared, notwith standing her harshness, he
    even called it coldness, that he IOl'ed her. He
    had been rendy once with the humility of a
    penitent, and the duty of n n tssal, to surrender
    himself to her; giving up h is very soul to her
    tutelage, to become her pupil, her slal'e, her
    bondsman, She had r\'j L-'Cted these advances;
    and the time for such exuberant submission,
    which mu st be founded 011 love and nouri!)hed
    by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes and
    endea\'Olu'!ii were directed towal'ds her peace,
    and hi!ii chief discomfort arose from the percep-
    tion that he exerted himself in vain. If she were
    • 2
    3IG THE L.\S'f llANo

    to continue inflexible ill the line of conduct she


    now pursued, they must part. The combina-
    tions and occurrences of this scnseless mode of
    intercourse wert:> maddening to him. Yet he
    would not propose the separation. lIe was
    haunted by the fear of causing the death of one
    or other of the beings implicated ill the:;e
    events j and he Could not persuade himself to
    undertake to direct the course of c\'cnts, lest.
    ignorant of the land he traversed, he should lead
    tho~ aLUu::hed to the car into irremediable ruin.
    After a. discussion on this subject, which
    lasted for severnl hours, he took leave of his
    friends, and returned to town, unwilling to
    meet Perdita before us, consciou s, as we aU
    must be, of the thoughts uppermost in the
    minds of bOlh. Perdita prl'pt....cd to follow him
    with her child. Idri s endenyoun'<.l to persuade
    her to remain. l\l y poor sister looked nt the
    counsellor with affright. She knew that Ray-
    mond had cOIH"erscd with her; had he instigat-
    ed this request ?-was lhis to be the prelude to
    TLJE 1.AST ""'M.\N. 317

    their eternal separation ?-J hU"'e said, that the


    defects of her character awoke and acquired
    ,·igour from her unnatural position. She regard-
    ed with suspicion the invi tation of hlris; she
    embraced J me, as if she were nbout to be de-
    prived of my affection also: c.'\l1ing me her
    more than brother, her only friend, her last
    hope, she pathetically conjured me not to ceaie
    to love her; and with cncreased anxiety she
    departed for London, the sccne and cause of all
    her misery.
    The scenes that followed, convincro her that
    she had not yet fathomed the obscure gulph into
    which she had plunged. Her unhappiness as-
    sumed 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 wefC the
    51R TJlT. LAST )L\1".

    awakeners and nur~s of his ambition. Rut


    other ingredients mingleu with Ihcsc, and pre-
    vented him from becoming the calculating, de-
    termined oharacter, which alolle forms a suc-
    cessful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm;
    bcnc\'o!ent in his first movements; harsh and
    reckless when provoked. Above all, he was
    l'emorseless and tlilyielding in the pursuit of any
    object of desire, however In w less. Love of
    pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
    nature, made a prominent part of his diameter,
    conquering the conqueror; holding him in at
    the moment of acquisition; slI'eepmg away
    ambition's web j 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 impulse!>, hehad become the hus-
    hand of Perdita: egged Oil by them, he found
    himself thc lo,·cr of Evadne. He had now lost
    both. Hc had neitiler the ennobling self-gra-
    tulation, which constallcy inspil·cs, to COIl_

    sole him, nor the voluptuous sense of abandon-


    THE LAST ~I.\N. 319

    ment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion.


    His heart wns exhausted by the recent events;
    his enjoyment of life was destroyed by the re-
    sentment 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 ncquninted with these occurrences, and that
    Perdita, by declaring her resolves to other;;, in
    a manner pledged herself to their accomplish-
    ment, 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 pre.
    sent stdte of things. He made a vow against
    love and its train of struggles, disappointment
    and remorse, and sought in mere sensual enjoy-
    ment, a remedy for the injuriomt inroads of
    pas:.ion.
    Debasement of character is the certain follower
    of such pursuits. Yet t.his consequence would
    320 Tlfl~ LAST l>(A:s".

    not have been immediately remarkable, if Hay_


    mQnd 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 nc,,"
    pursuit of pleasure~ and fdlowed up the incon-
    gruous intimacies occasioned by it without reflec-
    tion or foresight. The council.chmnbcr was
    deserted; the crowds which attended on him as
    agents to his "arious projects were neglected.
    Festivity, and e\'en libcrtinism, became the order-
    of the duy.
    Perdita beheld with affright the cncrcasing
    disorder. For a moment she thought that she
    could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could
    be induced t9 hear reason from her.-VItin hope!
    The moment of her influence was passed. He
    listened with hnuglltines!O, replied disdainfully;
    and, if in truth, she succeeded in awakening his
    conscienc.:c, the sole effect was that he sought an
    opiate for the pang in ohli\,jous not. 'Vith the-
    ThE LAST JIIAN".

    energy natural to her, Perdita then endeavoured


    to supply his place. Thcir still apparent union
    permitted her to do much; but DO woman could,
    in the end, presf'!nt a remedy to the cncreasing
    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> ollr friend to himself and his
    country, when Perdita suddenly appeared among
    us. She detailed the progress of the mournful
    change, and entreated Adrian Md myself to go
    lip to London, and endeavour to remedy the
    encreasing evil :-" Tell him," shc cried, "tell
    Lord Haymond. that my presence shall no longer
    annoy him. That he need not plunge into this
    destructi,'c dissipation for the sake of disgusting
    me, :md causing me to fly. This purpose is
    now accomplished; he will ncycr sec me marc.
    But let mc, it is my last entreaty, lct me in the
    p 3
    322 THE LAST )fA!\'.

    praises of his countrymen and the prosperity of


    England, find the choice of my youth justificd.'~

    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
    excC'lience on his part, which he had before given
    us cause to entertain. My friend and I had
    both been educated in onc school, or rather I was
    his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
    principle was the only road tcfhonour ; a ceaseless
    observance of the laws of general utility, the
    only conscientious aim ofllUmlin ambition. But
    though we both entertained these ideas, we dif-
    fered in their application. Resentment added
    also a sting to my censure; and I reprobated
    Raymond"s conduct in St~Yc re terms. Adrian
    was more benign, mOI'e considerate. He ad-
    mitted that the principles that J laid down were
    the best; but he denied that they were the only
    ones. Quoting the text, there are many man-
    sions in 1n,IJfalher's hOWie, he insisted that the
    modes of becoming good or great, varied as
    TJn~ LAST MAN. 323

    much as the dispositions of men, of whom it


    might be said, as of the leaves of the forest,
    there were no two alike.
    vVe arrived in London at abollt cleven at
    night. \V c conjcctured, notwith standing what
    we had beard, 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 coun_
    tenances of the leadel s, and a whispering and
    busy tattle among the underlings, not less omi.
    nous. \Ve hastenro to the palace of the Pro-
    tectorate. 'Ve found Raymond in his dining
    room with six others: the boule ~nlS being
    pushed about men'ily, and had made considt>l"-
    able inroads on the undC'1'standing of oneor two.
    He who sat near Raymolld was telling a sLory,
    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, play_
    ful, fa~cinating-but never did he overstep the
    TilE r,AST MAN,

    modesty of nature, or the respect due to himseI(,.


    in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that consi-
    dering the task which R:lymond bad t:lken on
    himself as Prot('clor of England, and the cares
    to which it became him to attend , 1 was ex-
    ceedingly proyoked to observe til(' worthles3
    fellow;; on whom his time was wasted, and the-
    jovial if not drunken spil;t which s~mcd on the
    point of robbing him of his better self. I stood
    watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a
    shadow in alllong them, and, by a word and look
    of sobriety, endeavourNl to restore order in the
    assembly. Raymond e:"Cpressed himself de_
    lighted to sec him, declaring. that he should
    make one in the festivity of the night.
    This action of Adrian pro"okcd me. I was
    indignant that he sho,lId sit at the same table
    with the companions of R aymond-men of
    abandoned character,;;, or rather without allY,
    the refuse of high.bred luxury, the disgrace of
    their country. "Let me entreat Adrian," I
    cried, "not to comply: rather join with me
    'I'IIE LAST lIAN. 3M
    III endeavouring io withdrnw LOI'd Ruymond
    frow this sccne, and restore him to other s0-

    ciety."
    U My good fellow," said Haymond, "this is
    tlcither the time lIor place for the delivery of a
    moral lecture: take my word for it that my
    amusements and soeicty are not so bad as you
    imagine. 'Ve are neither hypocrites or fools-
    for the rest, ' Dost thou think because thou art
    virtuous, there shall be no more enkes anrl ale?'"
    I turned angrily away : "Verney," said
    Adrian, " you arc ,'ery cynical: sit down; or if
    you will not, perhnps, as you arc not n frequent
    visitor, Lord Rnymond will humour you, nnd
    accompany liS, as we had previously agreed upon,
    to parliament."
    Haymond looked keenly at him; he could
    read benignity only in his gentle lineaments; he
    turned to me, obscn'ing with scorn my moody
    and stern demeanour. "Come," Staid Adrian,
    " I have promised for you, enable me to keep
    3~6 THE LAST MAN'.

    my engagement. Come with us."--Ray~

    mond made an uneasy movement, and laconi~

    cally replied_ H
    T 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 olle
    by one yanishcd. Raymond strode angrily up
    and down the room. I stood ready to recel\'C
    and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned
    against the wall. H This is in.flnitcly ridicu-
    1005," he cried, " if you were school-boys, you
    could not conduct yoursches more unTc8!1Ollubly,"
    ., You do not understand," said Haymond.
    (( This is only part of a system :-3 scheme of
    tyranny to which I will never submit. Decause
    I am l'rotector of England, am I to be the
    only 5\0.\'C in its empire? My privacy illyaded,
    my nctions censured, my friends insulted? But
    I will get rid of thc wholc togcther.-lle you
    witncssc~," and he took the star, insignia of
    officp, from his breast, nnd threw it 011 the table.
    THE LAST MAN.

    U I renounce my office, I abdicate Illy power-


    ru;sumC' it who will ~"--

    "Let him assume it,'" ('xclaimed Adlian,


    H who can pronounce himself, or whom the wodd
    will pronounce to be your superior. There does
    not exist the man in Englnnd with adequate
    presumption. Know yourself, Raymond, and
    your indignation will cease i your complacency
    return . A few months ago, whene\'er we prayed
    fOI' the prosperity of our country, or our own,
    we at the same time prayed for the life and wel-
    fare of the Protector, us indissolubly linked to
    a. Your hours were devoted to our benefit,
    your ambition was to obtain our comm<!ndation.
    You decorated our towns with edifices, you
    bestowed all us useful establishments, you
    gifted the soil with abundant fertility. The
    powerful and unjust cowered at the steps of
    your judgment-seat, and the POOl' and oppressed
    arose 1ike morn-awakened flowers under the
    sunshine of your protection.
    SQ8 'fill': LAST MAN.

    H Cun you wonder that we are all aghast


    nod moul'll, when this app:!al's changed? But,
    come, this splenetic fit is .already passed; re-
    sume your functions; your partizans will hail
    you; your enemies be silenced; our love,
    honour, and duty will again be manifested to-
    wards you. Master yourself, Raymond, and
    the world is subject to you."
    " All this would be "ery good sense, if ad-
    dressed to another," replied Raymond, moodily,
    H con the lesson yourself, amI. you, the firiit
    peer of the land, may become its son,reign.
    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 UIl-

    dertook a task to which I am unequal. I can.


    not 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? Dy the Goel
    that lives, I swear neyer to take up that baubJe
    THE LAST )IAN.

    ngain; ncver again to burthcn myself with the


    weight of care and misery, of which that is the
    visible sign.
    " Once I desired to be a king. It W!lS in the
    hey-day of youth, in the pride of boyish folly.
    I knew myself when I renounced it. I re-
    nounced it to gai~-no mattcr what-for that
    also I have lost. For Illany Illonths I havc sub-
    mitted to this mock majc:.ty-this solemn jest.
    I am its dupe no longer. I will be free.
    H I havc lost that which adorned and digni_
    fied my life; that which linked me to other
    men. Again I am a solitary mao; and I will
    become again, as in my carly years, a wanderer,
    a soldier of fortune. My friend s, for Verney, I
    feel that you are my friend, do not cndca\'our
    to shake my resolve. !lerdita, wedded to an
    imagination, careless (}f what is behind the \'eiJ,
    whose charactery is in truth faulty and vile,
    Perdita has renounced me. ,Vith her it was
    pretty enough to playa sovereign's paTt; nnd,
    as ill the recesses of your beloved fore&t we
    S30 TilE LAST MAN.

    ncted masques, and imagined ourselves Arca.-


    dian shepherds, to please the fancy of the 1IfO-

    Ulellt- 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 shm"! 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 j 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.
    'Vill you accompany me? You will behold new
    scenes; see a ncw peoplc; witness the mighty
    struggle there going forward between civiliza.
    tion 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 ?"
    II I will," repiil'd Adrian.
    THE LAST MAN. 331

    " Immediately?"
    ., To-morrow if you wiII."
    " R efl ect!" r cried.
    "'Vherefore?" asked Raymond-II :aly dear
    fellow, I have done nothing else than reflect on
    this step the live-long summer; and be assured
    that Adrian has condensed nn age of reflection
    into this little moment. Do not talk of reflection i
    from this moment r abjure it; this is my only
    happy moment during a long inten'al of time.
    r must go, Lionel-the Gods will it; and I
    must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my
    companion, the ollt-cast's friend.
    "Oue word more concerning unkind, unjust
    Perdita. For a time, T thought that, by watch.
    iug a complying moment, fostering the still
    warm ashes, r might relume in her the flame of
    love. It is mOl'e cold within her, than a fire left
    by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers
    crowned by n pyramid of snow. Then, in cu_
    de~l\'ouring to do violence to my own disposition,
    I made all worse than before. Still r think,
    332 Tit!': LA iT MAN.

    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 nol, how false the veil is
    which she has spread o\'er the reality-do not
    endeavour to rend this deceptive covering. but
    by degrees withdraw it. Present her with a
    milTor, in which she may know herself; and,
    when she is an adept in that necessary but diffi-
    cult science, she will wonder at her present mis-
    take, and hasten to restore to me, what is by
    right mine, her forgiveness, her kind thollg-hts,
    her 10yc."
    TliE LAST ltAX.

    CHAPTER X.

    AFTER these events, it was lonR before we


    wcre able to altain any degree of composure.
    A moral tempest had wrecked our richly
    f,"eighted ,"essel, and we, remnants of the dim i_
    llished crew, were agbast at the losses and
    changes which we had undergone. lllris
    raS&ionately 10\"00 her brother, and could ill
    brook an absence whose duration was Ullcer-"
    tain; his society was dear and nccessary
    to me- I had followed up my chosen lite-
    rary occupations with delight under his tu_
    torship and assistance; his mild philosophy,
    unerring reason, and enthusiastic friendship
    334 TH£. LAST )[.\N.

    were the best ingredient, the exalted spi rit of


    our circle; even the children bitterly regretted
    the 1000,s of their kind play fellow. Deeper grief
    oppre5sed Perdita. In spite of resen tment, by
    day and night she figured to herself the toils
    and dangers of the wanderers. Haymond ab-
    sent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the
    power and rank of the Protectorate, exposed to
    the perils of war, became an object of anxious
    intcrCl'il; 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 im-
    possible; and while she believed it to be thus,
    and with anguish regretted that so it should be,
    she continued angry and imp..'lticnl with him,
    ,,,ho occasioned her misery. These perplexities
    and regrets caused her to bathe her pillow with
    nightly tear!';, and to reduce h£'r ill person and
    in mind to the shadow of what she had been.
    She sought !';olitude. nlld avoided us whell in
    gaiety ant! unrestl"aiucd nfftx·tion we met in n
    f~mily circle. Lonely JGusUngs. interminable
    THE LAST M.\N. 335
    wanderings, and solemn music were her only
    pastimes. She neglected e,'en her child; shut-
    ting her heart against all tenderncsl", she grew
    reserved towards me, llCr first and fast friend.
    I could not see her thus lost. without exert-
    ing myself to remedy the evil-remediless I
    knew, if! could not in the end bring her to re-
    concile herself to Raymond. Defore 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 per_
    suaded-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 cour~esJ as for h('r to tak e
    truth for falsehood, deceit for honesty, heartless
    communion 4 for sincere, confiding love. She
    answered my renwnings more briefly, declaring
    with disdain, that the reason was I let's ; and, un.
    til I could persuade her thnt the past could bt'
    unacted, that maturity could go back to the
    336 TlIg LAST )1:\):.

    cradle, and that all that was could become as


    though it had never been, it was useless to as.-
    sure her that no real change had taken place in
    her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered
    him to go, though her vcry 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 evell for
    ourselves, all unhinged by the cloud that had
    come over us, I persuadpd my two remaining com-
    }Xloions that it were better that we should absent
    ourse!.'c!' for a time from 'Vindsor, 'Ve visited
    the north of England, my native Ulswater, and
    lingered in scenes dear from a thousand associa-
    tions. ,:ye lengthened our tour into Scotland,
    that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lo-
    mond; thence we crossed to Ireland, and passed
    se"eral weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney.
    The change of scene operated to a great degree
    as I expected; after a year's ah:;encc, Per-
    dita returned In gentler and more docile mood
    to 'Vindsor. The first sight of this place fOl: a
    337

    lime unhinged her. Here every spot was dis-


    tinct with associations 110W grown biller. The
    fotcst glades, the ferny deJls, and lawny up_
    lands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread
    around the silver pathway of ancient Thames,
    all earth" air, and wavc, took up one choral
    voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plain_
    tive regret.
    But my essay towards bringing her to a saner
    "jew of her own situation, did not end here.
    Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated.
    ,Vhen first she left her peasant life, and resided
    with the elegant and cultivated Evadne, the
    only accomplishment she brought to any perfec_
    tion 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 nnd easel were now thrown aside j did
    she try to paint, thronging recollections made
    her hand tremble, her eyes fill with tears. 'Vith
    VOL. I.
    THE LAST MAS.

    this occupation she gave up almost every other;


    :lnd her mind preyed upon ,itself almost to
    madness.
    For my own part, Since Adrian had first
    withdrawn me from my sc}yatic wilderness to
    his own paradise of order and beauty, I had
    been wedded to literature. I felt collvinced
    that however it might have been in formel"
    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 neccs-
    aary to the multitude. The collation of philo.
    sophical opinions, the study of historical facls,
    the acquirement of languages, were at once my
    recreation, and the serious aim of my life. I
    turned author myself. l\Iy productions how_
    eTcr were sufficiently unpretending; they were
    confined to the biography of favourite historical
    THE LAST MAN. 339

    characters, especially tho~ whom I believed to


    have been traduced, or about whom dung ob-
    scurity and doubt.
    As my authorship incrcasro, I acquired new'
    sympathies and pleasures. I found another and
    a valuable link to enchain mc to my fellow-crea-
    tures; my point of sight was extended, and thc
    ulclinations and capacities of all human beings
    became deeply interesting to me. Kings havc
    been called thc fathers of their people. Sud.
    denly I became as it \ycre the father of nll
    mankind. Posterity became my heirs. My
    thoughts were gems to enrich the treasure I~ouse
    ofman's intellcctual possessions; each sentiment
    was a precious gift I bestowed 011 them, Let
    not these aspirations be attributed to vanity.
    They werc not expressed in words, nor eveo
    reduced to form in my own mind; but they
    filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a
    glow of cntllUsiasm, and led me out of thc
    obscure path in which I before walked, into the
    bright noon-enlightened highway of Dlankind,
    Q2
    310 TUE I ••\ST MAN.

    making me, oitizen of the world, a candidate for


    immortal /lonONi, an eager aspirant to the praise
    and sympathy of my fellow men.
    No one certainly c\'er enjoyed the pleasures
    of composition more intensely than 1. If I left
    the woods, the solemn music of the w.:lving
    branches, and the majestic temple of nature,
    I sought the vast halls of the Castle, amI looked
    over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our
    regal mount, and listened the while to inspiring
    strains of mUSIC. At such times solemn har-
    mOniCS or spirit_stirring airs gu.'"c wings to my
    lagging though!.s, permitting them, methought,
    to penetrate the last veil of nature and her
    God, and to display the highest beauty in \'isible
    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 yoiccless. Then I would hasten to
    TJlK LAST lI.\X. 3-11

    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.
    Dut 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
    mimi I found arise from it, that made me eager
    to lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I began ...
    with light hand ami gentle allurement; first
    exciting her curi06ity, and then satisfying it in
    such a way as might occasion her, at the same
    time that she half forgot her sorrows in occupa-
    tion, to find in the hours that su('c~ed a re-
    action of benevolence anti toleration.
    Intellectual activity, though not directed to-
    wards books, had always been my sister's cha-
    racteristic. It had been displayed early in life,
    leading her out to solitary musing among her
    nath'c mountains, causing her to form innumer_
    ous combinations from common objects, giving
    strength to her perceptions, and swiftness to
    342 TilE LAST lIAN.

    their arrangement. LO"e 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.
    'Vas sh~ 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 tile loss of Raymond with an
    anguish, timt exiled al1 smile from her lips, and
    trcnched sad lines on her brow of beauty. .But
    each day seemed to change tIle 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. l"or!l time music was
    able to satisfy the crayings of her mentol
    hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed
    them.o;e)ves in each change of key, and nu-icd
    with every alteration in the stmin. 1\£y school_
    ing first impclk'<i her towards books; and, if
    music had been the food of sorro\\', the produc_
    tions of the wise became its medicine.
    TilE LAST MAN. 345

    The acquisition of unknown languages was


    too tedious an occupation, for one who referred
    every expression to the universe within, and
    loead not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling
    up time; but who was still questioning herself
    and ller author, moulding every idea in a
    thousand ways, n.rdently desirous for the diSa
    covery of truth in every sentence. She sought
    to impro" e her understanding; mechanically ber
    heart and dispositions became soft and gentle
    under this benign discipline. After awhile she
    disco"ercd, that amidst all her newly acquired
    knowledge, her own character, which formerly
    she fancied that she thoroughly understood, be-
    came the first in rank among the terrre incog-
    nitre, the pathless wilds of a country that had
    no chart. Erringly and'strangely she began the
    task of self-examination with self-eondemnation.
    And then again she became awnrcofher own ex-
    cellencies. and began to balance withjusiter scales
    the shades of good and evil. I, who longed
    beyond words, to restore her to the happiness
    341 TnE LAST MAN.

    it was still in her power to enjoy, watched with


    anxiety the result of these internal proceedings.
    But man is n strange animal. ,Ve 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 onc,
    yet in contempt of calculation the movement is
    not efl'ectro. Neither grief, philosophy, nor )OYC

    could make Perdita think with mildness of the


    dereliction of Raymond. She now took plea-
    sure 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 an her repinings, deep resent-
    ment towards Rn,ymond, 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 lall" among us, nC\Oer to mention
    Raymond's name before her. She refused In

    read any communications from Greece, desiring


    me only to mention when any arrived, and
    whether the wanderers were well. It was cu.
    rious that even little Clara observed this law
    towards her mother. This lovely child was
    nearly eight years of ~fTC. Fonnerly she had
    been a light·heal-ted infant, fanciful, but gay amI
    childish. After the departure of her father,
    thought herome impressed on her young brow.
    Children, unndepts in language, seldom find
    words to express their thoughts, nor could we
    tell in whalmanncr the late events had impressed
    themselves on her mind. But certainly she had
    made deep observations while she nowd in si.
    lenee the changes that passed around her. She
    Ile\'er mentioned her father to Perdita, she Itp-
    pcare<l half afraid when she spo.kc of him to
    me, and though I tried to draw her Ollt all 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 maH:,
    and watched me as I read. I found her often
    • n
    TIlE L .UT ll.\I':.

    poring over the article of GrC<"k intelligcnce ill


    the newspaper.
    Thcre is no more painful sight than that of
    untimcly care in children, and it was particu-
    Jarly observable in one whose disposition had
    herctofore been mirthful. Yet there was so
    much sweetness and docility about Clara, that
    your admiration was excited; and if thc moodS'
    of mind nrc calculated to paint the cheek with
    bcallty, and endow motions \\·jth grace, surely her
    contemplations must have been celestial; slncc
    e\'ery linen.mcnL was moulded into lo\'eliness,
    :lml her motions were morc harmonious than the
    elegant boundings of the fawns of her nativc
    forest. I sometimes expostulated with Perdit3
    011 the subject of hcr rCSCf\'C; but she rejccted
    my counsels, while her daughter's sensibility
    excited in her a tcnderne~s still morc pa'isiOnale.
    After the lapse of morc than a year, Adrian
    relllfncd from Grcct.'C.
    'Vhen our exiles had first :l.lTi\,CtI, a truce
    W:l.S in existence between the '1'urka and Greeks;
    TUE t.AST MAN. Si7

    3. truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame,


    signa.l of renewed activity on waking. 'Vith
    the numerous soldiers of Asia, with all of
    warlike slores, ships, nnd milit;ry engines, that
    wealth and power could command, the Turks
    at once resolved to crush an enemy, wllich
    creeping on by degrees, had from their strong_
    hold in the Morea, acquired rrhracc and Mace-
    donia, and had led their armies even to the
    gates of Constantinople, while their extensive
    commercial relations gave every European na.
    tion an interest in their success. Greece pre-
    pared 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. TIle talents and courage
    Q{Raymond were highly esteemed among the
    Greeks. Born at Athens. that city ' clnime<l
    . 1lim for her own, and by giving him the com.
    mand of her peculiar division in the army, the
    comm:lI1dcr-in-chicf only possessed superior
    348 TIlE LAST MAN.

    power. He was numbered among her citizcm;,


    his name was added to the list of Grecian heroes.
    His judgment, activity, nnd consummate bra-
    very, justified their choice. The Earl of \Vind-
    sor became a volunteer under his friend.
    U 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 sus-
    pected of being averse to the Greek cause; I
    know and feel its necessity; it is beyond every
    other a good cause. 1 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.
    Dut let us not deceive ourselves. The Turks
    arc men; each fibre, each limb is as feeling as
    our own, and every spasm, be it mental or
    dily, is as truly felt in a Turk's heart or
    and brain, a.s in a Greek's. Thc last action at
    THY. L .\ST ~I AX . 340

    which I was present was the taking of - - -.


    The Turk s resisted to the last, the garrison
    perished on the ramparts, and we £ntered by
    assault. £yery breathing creature within the
    walls was massacred. Think you, amidst the
    shrieks of ,'iolated innocence and helplClisinfancy,
    I did not feel in every nerye the cry of a fellow
    being? They were men and women, the suf-
    ferers, before they were Mahometans, and when
    thp.y ri se turbanless from the grave, in what
    except their good or evil actions will they be the
    better or worse than we? Two soldiers COQ-

    tended for a girl, whose rich dress and extreme


    beauty excited the brutal appetites of these
    wretchE'S, who, perhaps good men among their
    fam ilies, were changed by the fury of the mo-
    ment into incarnated evils. An old man, with
    a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be
    her grandfather, interposed to save her; the
    baHle 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
    350 TilE LAST llA~.

    garb OT heed my words-words were blunt


    weapons then, for while war cried "hav()(',',
    and murder gave fit ceho, how could 1-

    Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong


    With mild accost oflOOthing e1?<luence'

    One of the fellows, enraged at my interference,


    struck me with his bayonet in tllC side, and I
    fell senseless.
    " This wound will probably shorten my life,
    having shattered a frame, weak of itself. But I
    run content to die. I have learnt in Greece
    that onc 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 o\'crlooked, so
    that the muster roll coumin its fun numbers .
    All this has a different cfleet upon naymond.
    He is able to contemplate the ideal of Wat,

    while I am sensible only to its realities. He is


    a snltlicr,n general. IIe can influence the blood.
    thirsty war_dogs, while I re::.ist their propensi-
    ties vainly. The ctlUSC is simple. Uurk(' has
    THE L AST MAN. SGl

    s..'l.id that, ' in 311 bodies those who would lead,


    must also, in a considerable degree, follow:-I
    cannot follow; for 1 do not sympathize in their
    dreams of massnere and glory-to follow and to
    lead in stleh 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 :;;oftenoo by this ac-
    count. He, she thought, can be great and
    happy without me. \Vould that I also had a
    career! Would that I could freight some un-
    tried bark with all my hopes, energies, and de-
    sires, and launch it forth into the ocean of life
    -bound for some attainable point, with ambi_
    lion or pleasure at the helm! But adverse
    winds detain me on shore ; like U lysses, I sit at
    the water's edge and weep. But my nerveless
    hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the
    pla.nks. Under the influence of these melan_
    THE LAST !>fAN.

    choly thoughts, she became more than e\;er ill


    love with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presellce did
    some good; he at once broke through the law of
    silence ob~erved concerning Raymond. At first
    she started from the unaccustomecl 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 h3d been old playfellows; nnd now, as they
    walked or rode together, he yielded to herearnest
    entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time,
    some talc of her father's bravcry, munificence,
    or justice.
    Each vessel in UlC mean time brought exhi-
    larating tidings from Greece. rrhe presence
    of n friend in its annies 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 COUll try. The Greeks were strongly
    attached to their commercial pursuits, and
    would have been satisfied with thpir present ac-
    THE LAST llANo 353

    quisitions, had not the Turks roused thew by


    mvaslOn. The patriots w('re victorious; a
    spirit of conquest was instilled; and already
    they looked on Constantinople a<; 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
    Hebms, which was to decide the fate of Islam.
    The :Mahometans were defealc...i, ancI (lriven
    entirely from the country wcst of this river.
    'rhe battle 'vas sanguinary, the loss of thc
    Turks apparently irreparn.ble; the Greeks, in
    losing onc man, forgot the nameless crowd
    itrcwcd upon the. bloody field, and they ceased
    to value themseh'es on a victory, which cost
    them-Raymond.
    A t the battle of Makri he had led tJle charge
    of c..wnlry, and pursued the fugitives even to
    the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse
    was found grazing by the margin of the tranquil
    854 THE LAST MAN.

    Tlver. 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 them·
    selves possessed of so illustrious a captive, re-
    solved to satisfy their cruelty rather than their
    avaricc, and fearful of the interference of Eng-
    land, 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 cau~oo

    an unexampled sensation; and, when his mag-


    nificent and manly system was contrasted with
    the naITOW views of succeeding politicians, the
    period of his elevation was referred to with
    sorrow. The pcrpetual recurrence of his
    name,joincd to most honourable testimonials, in
    the Greek gazettes, kept up the interest he had
    excited. IIe seemed the favourite child of for-
    tune, amI his un,timely loss eclipsed the world.
    THE I,AST llANo

    and shewed forth the remnant of mankind with


    diminished lustre, They clung with eagernesl
    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 suc-
    ceed, 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 hap-
    pmess, 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 anyone from a desperate purpose, whose
    motive sud end depends on the strength of the
    affections only, then it is right so to turn them,
    S5G TIJ.E LAST )(~\~.

    since their docility shews, that neither the mo-


    tive 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 ac-
    tuated our littJe circle. Finding Perdita im_
    moveable, we consulted as to the best means of
    furthering her purpose. She could not go alone •
    to aeountry where she had no friends, where she
    might arrive only to hear the dreadful news,
    which must overwhelm her with grief and re-
    morse. Adrian, whose health had always been
    weak, now suffered considerable aggravation of
    suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris
    could not cmlure to leave him in this state; nor
    was it right either to quit or takc with us a
    young family for a journey of this description.
    I resolved at length to accompany Perdita.
    TJlR LAST llANo

    The separation from my Idris was painful-but


    nccessity 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 Porh-
    mouth, and embarked. The season was l\Iay,
    tile weather stormless; we were promised n
    prosperous voyage. Cherishing the most fer.
    ,'ent llOpes, embarked on the waste ocean, we
    # saw with delight the receding shore of Rritain,
    and on the wings of desire outspecded our well
    filled sails towards the South. The light curl.
    ing waves bore us onward, and old ocean smiled
    :1.1 the freight of love /lnd 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 jm~

    pulse to our ked- nor did rough gale, or


    treacherous saud, or destructive reek interpose
    an obstacle between my sister and the Jand
    358 TltE LAST ),lAS.

    which was to restore her to her 6rst he·


    loved,

    Her dear hearl's CODrl;'SS()r-:. heart within lhat heart.

    END OF' \'OL. J.


    T HE L AS T MAN.

    BV

    THE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    Let DO maa leek


    Henceforth to be !o~ld wht .ban bef.n
    111m or 1111 children.
    IIIn.TfllI'.

    VOL. II.

    SECOSD EDITIOY,

    LONDON:
    HENRY COLBURN. NEW BURLINGTON STREET'.

    18~6.
    ,I .
    THE LAST l\,[AN.

    CHAPTER r.

    DURING this yoyage, when on calm evenings


    we conversed on deck, watching the glancing of
    the waves nnd the changeful appearances of the
    sky, I discovered the total revolution that the
    disasters of Haymond had wrought in the
    mind of my sister. 'Vere they the same waters
    of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice,
    repel.ling as that, now loosened from their frozen
    chains, flowed through the regions of her soul
    in gushing and grateful exuberance? She did
    VOL. II. B
    THE LAliT MAN.

    not believe that he was dead, but &he knew that


    he was in danger, and the hope of assisting in
    his liberation, and the idea of soothing by tender-
    n('ss the ills that he might have undergone,
    elevated and harmonized the late jarring ell'.
    ment of her being. I was not so sanguine as
    she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
    $[lnguine, but secure; and the expectation of see-
    ing the lover she had banished, the husband,
    fri€'nd, heart's companion from whom she had
    long been alienated, wrapt her senses in delight,
    her mind in plncidity. It was beginning life
    again; it was leaving barrell sands for an
    abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after
    a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a
    happy waking from a terrible dream.
    Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child
    did not well understand what was going for-
    ward. She heard that we were bound for Greece,
    that she would see her fath er, and now, for the
    first time, she prattled of him to her mother.
    On landing at Athens we found difficliltiC$
    TilE LAST JlIAN.

    encrc~ upon us; nor could the storied earth or


    balmy atmosphcre inspire us with enthusiasm or
    plc3.sure, while the fate of Raymond was in jeo-
    p3rdy. No man had ever excited so &hong an
    interest in the public mind ; this was apparenteven
    among thephlegmaticEnglish,fromwhom 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 cau:;c. made him appear in
    their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of
    the soil descended from their nati,'c Olympus to
    defend them. ' Vhen they spoke of his probable
    death and certain capti\tity, tears streamed from
    their eyes; even as the women of Syria sorrowed
    •
    for Adonis, did the wh'cs and mothers of Greece
    lament ollr l!:nglish Raymond- Athens was a
    city of mourning.
    All these shews of despair struck Perdita \vith
    affi·ight. 'Vilh that sanguine but confused ex-
    .~
    4 THE LAST MAN

    pcrtation, which desire engendered while she was


    a.t 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
    fallcied that Raymond would already be free,
    !lnd that her tender attentions would come to en-
    tirely obliterate eyen the memory of his mis-
    chance. 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 A thens. The gates of their abode were be.
    sieged, audible prayers were breathed for his
    restoration; all these circumstances added to the
    dismay and fears of Perdita.
    1\1 y exertions were unremitted: after a time I
    left Athens, and joined the anny stationcd at
    Kishan in Thracc. Bribery, thrents, and in-
    trigue, soon discoycred the secret that Raymond
    w<l;S alive, a prisoner, suffering the most rigorous
    THE LASl' lIAS. .5
    confinement and wanton cruclti~. "'c put HI

    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 "cry beauty of the
    Grecian climate, during the season of spring,
    added lorture to her sensations. The unex'
    ampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth-the
    genial sllllshine and grateful fhade-thc melody
    of the birds-the majesty of the woods-the
    splendour of the marble ruins- the clear ef.
    fulgence of the sturs by night-the combi.
    nation of all that was exciting and voluptllolls
    in this transcending land, by inspiring a quicker
    spirit of life and an added sensitivencss to every
    articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
    poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was
    counte<l, and "lIe supers" was the burthen of
    all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she
    Jay on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of
    his enforced tonnents, endeavoured to hold. COlll-
    6 THE LAST MAN.

    mUllion with hi.s distant pain. J remembered In

    one of her harshest moments a q uatation 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. 'Vhen disappointment has
    sullied his beaut.y, 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 heart! all rocky now, the hite remo~ of love,"·

    The stinging ICrcmorse oClave" now pierced her


    heart. She accused herself of his journey to
    Greece-his dangers-his impris(m~cnt. She
    pictured to herself the anguish of Ilis solitude;
    she remembered with what eager delight he had
    in former days made her the partner ofltis joyful
    hopes-with what grateful affectionhercceivcd her

    .. Lord BJfOIl'S Fourth CI\Qtoof Cbildt HlI.rol!k-.


    THE LAST llAN. 7

    sympathy in his cares. She called to mind how


    often he had declared that solitude was to him the
    grentest of all evils, and how death itself was to
    him more fun 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,ne\"er
    again shall I know the misery of finding myself
    alone. Even if I die before you, my P erdita,
    treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with
    mmc. It is a fooli sh sentiment for one who is
    not a materialist, yet, me thinks, even in that
    <lark cell, I may feel that my inanimate du st
    mingles with yours, and thus have n companion
    in decay." In her resentful mood. these ex-
    pressions had been remembered with acrimony
    and disdain; they visited her in 11er softened
    hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of
    rest from her uneasy mind.
    Two month s passed thus, when at last we ob-
    tained a promise of llaymoDd's reJease. Con-
    fi nement and hardship had undermined his health;
    8 TilE LAST llANo

    l,he Turks fean.-d an accomplishment of the


    tl~reats of the English government, if he died
    undC'f their hands; they looked upon his re-
    covery as impossible; they delivered him up as
    a dying mao, willingly making over to us tbe
    rites of burial.
    Hecame by sea from Constantinople to Athens.
    The wind, ftlvourablc to him, blew so strongly
    in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first
    intended, to meet him on his watery road. '1'he
    watchtower of Athens was ;"esiegcd by in-
    quirers, each sail eagerly looked out for; till on
    the tirst of May the ganant frigate bore in sight,
    freighted with treasure lllorc invaluable than the
    wealth which, piloted from Mexico, tbe ycxed
    Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
    tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At
    early dawn the vessel was discovereu bearing in
    sllOre; it was conjectured tl1ut it would cnst an_
    chor about five miles from land. The news
    spread through Athens, and th(" whole city pom-
    ed out at the gate of the Pincus, down the ronds,
    THE LAST lIlA~.

    tlll"ough the vineyards, the olive wood:; and plan-


    tations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The
    noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of
    their dress, the tumult of carriages and hOr8('5,
    tile 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 slu,·ery, and the restoration of
    dear-bought liberty; tombs and cenotaphs wa·c
    strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing
    vegetation; the mighty dead hovered o\"er 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 dose carriage; I attended them
    on horseback. At length we arrived at the hnr-
    bour; it was agitated by the outwnnl swell oCtile
    sea; t.he beach, as far could be discerned, w<ts
    covered by a moving multitude, which, urged lIy
    .3
    10 TilE LAST MAN.

    those behind toward the sea, again rushed back


    as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close
    to them. J applied my glass, and could discern
    that the frigate had already cast ancbO", fearful
    ,,( the dan~r of approaching nearer to l\ lee
    thore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I saw
    that Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's
    ,ide; 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 ho.rbour to pull up, and
    take me into their skiff'; Perdita at the same
    moment alighted from her carriage-she seized
    m-y 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,
    PerditJ.t, 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;
    TilE LAST MAN . 11

    while my sister at the prow, had caught holJ. of


    one of the men who was using a glass, asking a
    thousand questions, careless of the sp.·ay that
    broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except th e
    little speck that, just visible on the top of
    the waves, evidently neared. 'Ve approttched
    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 purdy eastern; the
    sight of temple-crowned rock. the white marble
    of the buildings glittering in the sun, and stand_
    ing in bright relief against the dark ridge or1ofty
    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
    l!t T~JE L,\ ST I(AX.

    I"upched. 'Ve rapidly drew ncar, so that at


    length the number and forms of those withi~
    eQuId be discerned j 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 himsclf at Qur approach.
    Perdita's questions had ceaserl. she leaned on
    my arm, panting with emotions too acute for lears
    -our men pulled alongside the other boat. ~I\.s

    a l~t eitort, my &ister mustered her strength,


    her firmness. she stepped from one ~t to the
    other, and then with a shriek shcsprnng towards
    Raymol1d, knelt at his side, .and glucing l1cr lips
    to the hand she seized, her facc shrouc1t'd by
    .her long hair, gave herself up to tears.
    Raymond had somewhat raised himself at o~r
    apprO?ch, bu~ it was with difficulty that. '-lC ex_
    erted himself even thus much. 'Vith sunken
    cheek and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how eQuid
    I rcc?,gnize the beloyed of Pe.rdit~? I cO,Qtinucd
    awe-struck and mute-he .looked smilingly .on
    the poor girl; the s Ulil~ \!r,a~ hi ~ A d~y of sun-
    TilE LAST MAN. 13

    IOhine falling on a dark "alley, displays its before


    hidden charactcristics j and now this smile, the
    same with which he first spokc lcvc to l'crdila,
    with which he had welcomed the protectorate,
    playing on his aheroo countenance, made
    me in my heart's core feel that this was Hay-
    mond.
    He stretchccl out to me his other hand; I dis.
    cerncd the trace of manacles on his bared wrist.
    I heard my sister's sobs, and thought, happy
    arc women who can weep, a.nd in a passionate
    caress disburthen the oppression of their feel-
    ings; shame and habitual restraint hold hack a
    man. I wouJd 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
    rebc.l1ious tears gathered in my eyes; I turn ed
    aside, and they dropped in the sea-they callie
    fast and fa$tcr ;-yet I could hardly be ashamed ,
    for I saw that the rough sailors were not l1n-
    THE LAST :MAS.

    moved, and Haymond's eyes alone were dry


    from among our crew. He lay in that blessed
    calm which convalescence always induces, enjoy-
    ing 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 bel' mother's call. Perdita presented l1er to
    Raymond; her first words werE: " Beloved, em.
    brace our child:" " Come hither, sweet one," said
    her father, " do you not know me P" 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 oC
    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 ;
    TilE LAST lIA N. 15

    Perdita and Clara entered with him , and his es-


    cort closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to
    the roaring of the ncar waves, went through the
    multitude j they fell back as th e carriage ad-
    vallced, and fC3l'ful 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 slo\~'ly
    along the road of the Pirreus j 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 build-
    ings were decorated with tapestry and banner!t-
    though the soldiery lined the streets, and the in-
    habitants 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
    liOught to discern the hero in the vehicle, which,
    16 TilE LAST lIAN.

    dosed and encompassed by the city guards,


    drew him to the palace allotted for his abode.
    Raymond was weak and exhamtcd, yet the
    interest he percei"cd to be e.'{cited on his account,
    filled bim with proud pleasure. He was nearly
    killed with kindnl'ss. It is true, the populace
    retained themsdves; but there arose a perpetual
    hum and bustle from the throng round the palace,
    which added to the noise of fi reworks, the frequent
    explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of horse~

    men and carriages, to which effervescence he was


    the focus. rC'tarded his recovery. So we retired
    awhile to Elcusis, and here rest and tender care
    added each day to the strength of our invalid.
    The zealous attention of Perdita c1aimed 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 tl1e
    Greeks. \lVe nre said to lo,·c much those whom
    we greatly benefit. Raymund had fought and
    conquered for the Atbenians; he had suffered,
    THE LAST MAN'. 17
    ou their ~ccount, peril, imprisonment, and hard.
    ship; their gratitude aJfcctro him deeply, and
    he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever to that
    of a people so enthusiastically de\'oted 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 solll into its vortex. I was now
    conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I en-
    joyed; 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 th:::.t they deeply interested me, arranged
    themsclves in pictures before me. I gave the
    right place to c\'ery personage in tlle groupe, the
    just balance to every sentiment. This under-
    current of thought, often soothcrl me amiclst
    distress, and c,'en agony. It gave ideality to
    tllat, [I'om which, tak(,11 in naked truth, the soul
    would have revolted: it bestowed pictoriul co-
    18 TilE LAST lIAN.

    lours on misery and diseallC, nnd not unf,'equently


    relieved me from despair in deplorable changes.
    This faculty, or instinct, was now rouzed. I
    watched the re.awakened devotion of Illy sister ;
    Clara's timid, but concentrated admiration of
    her father, and Raymond's appetite for renown,
    nnd sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affec.
    tion of the Athenians. Attentively perusing
    j 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 pre-
    parations, and sending each day reinforcements,
    WCI'C on the eve of forcing the enemy to battle.
    Each people looked on the colUing struggle as
    that which would be to a great degree decisive;
    as, in ease of victory, the next step would be the
    siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. Ray_
    mond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to
    re_9.S5Ume his eommand in the army.
    Perdita did not oppose herself to this deter.
    mination. She only stipulated to be permitted
    TilE I, ,\ST .\IA ~. 19
    to acoolllll..'\ny him. She hntl set down no rule
    of conduct for herself; hut for her life she could
    not have opposed his slightest wish, or do other
    than acqulesce cheerfully in all his projects.
    One word, in truth, had ruarmcd her more than
    battles or sieges, during which she trusted Uay-
    Oland's high comman~ would exempt him from
    danger. That word, as yet it was no more to
    her, was 'PLAGUE. This enemy to the human
    race JHld begun early in June to mise its ser_
    pent-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 visitntion, small
    attention was paid to tho~ accounts which de-
    clared more J>cople to have died there already,
    than usunll y made up the nccustomcd prey of
    the whole of the hottl'r months. Hon-e\'cl' it
    might be, neithcr plaguc nor war could prc\'cn t
    Perdita from following hcr lord, or induce her
    to utter one objection to the plnns which he pro-
    posed. To be nenr him, to be Iowd by him, to
    TJtE LAST MAN.

    feel him again her own, was the limit of her de-
    sires. The object of her life was to do him
    pleasure: it had been so before, but with a dif-
    ference. 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 Grt.'ek 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 ali"e
    the splendid associations connected with his
    name, and to eradicate from Europe a power
    which, while every other nation advanced in civi-
    lization, £load still, a monument of antique bar-
    barism. Having effected the reunion of flaymond
    and Perdita, I was eager to return to England;
    but his earnest req~est, added to awakening
    TilE LAST MAN. 21

    curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold


    the CUllllitropJII.:, 1I0W [lppaccutly at · Iluml, ill
    the long drawn histo ry of Grecian llnd Turkish
    wurfm'!;.', induced me to consent to prolong until
    the autumn, the period of my residence in
    Greece.
    As soon as the 11ealth of Raymond was. suffi-
    cielltly re-established, he prepared to join the
    Grecian camp, neal' Kishan, a tOWII of some
    importance, situated to the cast of the Hebrus;
    in which I'erdita and Clara were to remain until
    the event of the expected battle. 'Ve quitted
    Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had re-
    covered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fe\'er.
    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,.. 4

    if his hnir, slightly mingled with grey, and his


    look, considerate cYen in its eagerness, gnve signs

    • Sbak.spe!lre's Soooels.
    TUE LAST MA:>O;.

    of added years and paEt 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 des~rate man, who was re:tdy to
    die for them; but the prudent commander,
    who for their sakes was careful of hb life, and
    could make his own warrior-propensities second
    to the scheme of conduct policy might point
    out.
    All Athens accompanied us for several miles.
    'Vhen he had landed a month ago, the noisy
    populace had bem hushed by sorrow and fear;
    but this was a festival day to all. The air re-
    sounded with their sJlouts; their picturesque
    costumc, and the gay colours of which it was
    composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
    gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their
    wild appearance. Haymond was the theme of
    every tongue, thc hope of each wife, mother or
    betrothed bride, wllOse husband, child, or lover,
    THE LAS'!' MAN.

    making tl part of thc Greek army, were to be


    conducted to victory by him.
    Notwithstanding thc hazardous ohject 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 inten.w 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 at' the conquest of Constant!noplC', he
    counted on an evC'nt which would be as a land.
    mark in the waste of ages, an exploit unequalled
    in the annals of man; when a city of grand his..
    toric association, the beauty of whose site was
    the wonder of the world, which for many hun.
    dred years had been the strong hold of the
    l\Ioslcms, should_be rescued from slavcry und
    barbarism, and restored to a peoplc illustrious
    for genius, civilization , and n spirit of liberty.
    P erdita rested on his restored society, on
    his ]o"c, his hopes nnd fame, eycn as a Sy-
    barite on a lu xurious couch; every thought
    TilE LA~T MAN.

    was transport, each emotion bathed as it were in


    a congenial and balmy element.
    'Ve 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 volley, 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. A t noon, we pitched our tents in
    some shady vaHey, or embowering wood among
    the mountains, while a stream prattling over
    pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening
    march, more calm, was yet morc delightful than
    the morning restlessness of spirit. If the band
    played, involuntarily they chose airs of mode-
    rated passion; the farewell of love, or lament at
    ~bsence, was followed and closed by some solemn
    THE LAST MAN'.

    hymn, which hannoni1:eJ with the tranquil love_


    lincss of evening, and elevated the soul to grand
    and religious thought. Often all sounds were
    suspended, that we might listen to the nightin.
    gale, whil e the firc.f1ies danced in bright mea-
    sure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of
    fair weather to the travellers. Did we pa~s a
    valley? Soft shade.. encompassed us, and rocks
    tinged with beauteous hues. If we tra"erS('d ;J

    mountain, Greece, a living map, was spread be-


    neath,her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether;
    her rivers threading in sil ver line the fertile
    land Afraid almost to breathe, we English tra.
    vellers surveyed with extnsy thi s splendid land.
    scape, so different from the sober hues ~md
    melancholy graces of our native scenery. " ' hen
    we quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains
    of Thrace afforded fewer beauties; yet our
    journey continued to be jntere~tillg. An adnmced
    guard ga"e information of our approach, ano
    the country people were quickly in motion to dl)

    honour to Lord Raymond. The villages wen'


    VOL. II. c
    26 THE LAST )fA~.

    decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by


    day, and lamps by night; tapestry waved from
    the windows, the ground was strewed with flowers,
    and tllC name of Raymond, joined to that of
    Greece, was echoed in the Evive of the peasant
    crowd.
    'Vhen we arriyed at Kishan, we learnt, that
    on hearing of the nd"ance of Lord Haymond
    and his detachment, the Turkish army had re-
    treated from Rodosto; but meeting with a rein-
    forcement, 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
    illt!vilablc. Pcnlitu alld her child were to r~lIIain

    at Kishan. Raymond asked mc, if I would not


    continue with them. "Now by the fens of
    CumbcrJand," I cried, "by aU of the vagabond
    and poacher that appe~tains' 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 dis.
    TIlE LAST M l\ N. Q7

    tancc of sixteen leag-ues, WftS alive with troops,


    or with the camp_followers, all in motion at the
    approach of a battle. Th e small garrisons were
    drawn from the "arious towns and fortresses,
    and went to swell the main army, 'Vc met
    baggage ",aggons, and many females of high and
    low rank returning to Fairy or Ki.~han, there to
    wait the issue of the expected day. 'Vhen we
    arri\'Cd at Rodosto, we found that the field had
    been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged.
    The sound of firing, carlyon the following
    morning, informed us that advanced P03tS of the
    armies were engaged. llcgiment after regiment
    admnccd, their colours Hying and bands playing.
    TII('Y planted the cannoll on the tumuli, sole
    elevations in thi ; le\'el country, and formed
    themselves into column and hollow square; while
    the pioneers threw l1p small mounds for their
    protection.
    These then were the preparations for a baule,
    nay, the battle itself; far different from any
    c 2
    ~8 THE LAST lIAS.

    thing the imagination had pictured. \Ve 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. vVhen
    I came to the rea1ity, and saw regiments file oft'
    to the left far outofsight, fields intervening be-
    tween the battalions, but [L few troops sufficiently
    near me to obscn'c their motions, I gave up
    all id ea. of understanding, e,'cn of seeing a battlc,
    but attaching myself to Raymond attended with
    intense interest to his actions. He shewed him_
    selr 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 mu sic lifted up its enliven-
    ing voice at intervals; and we on the highest of
    the mounds I mentioned, too far ofl'to obsen ·c
    the fallen sheaves which death gathered into hi s
    storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in
    TilE LA ST ) IAN. 29
    ~moke, now banners amI stayes pceriuft above
    the cloud, while shout and clamour d ro wned
    every sound.
    Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded
    dangerously, and Raymond assumed th e com-
    mand of the whole army. He made few remarks,
    till, all observing through his glass the sequel of
    a ll order he had given, his face, clouded f~r
    awhile with doubt, became radiant. "The day
    is ours," he cried. H the Turks fly from the
    bayonet. And then swiftly he dispatched his
    aides-de-camp to command the horse to fallon
    the routed enemy. The defeat became total;
    the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry rallied,
    and horse pursued the flying Turks nlong the
    dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was dis-
    perse<l 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 n ll'vcl plain-so le,,·el, that from the tllmuli
    YOli saw the waving line of mountains on the
    30 THE LAST~lAN.

    wide-stretched horizon; yet the intervening space


    was unvaried by the least irregularity, save
    such undulation':!> as resembled the waves of
    the sea. The whole of this part of Thence had
    been so long a scene of contest~ that it had re_
    mained uncultivated, and prescnted 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 1\Iount
    Athofl; the sea of Marmora still glittered be-
    neath its rays, while the Asiatic const beyond
    was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a
    casque. and bayonet, and sword, fallen from un_
    nerved anns, reflected the departing ray; they lay
    TUE LA ST MAX. 51

    scattered far and near. From the cast, 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 arc 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 DOC of the murderers? During the busy
    day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave
    to the state of things pt;esented to it by its fellow-
    beings; historical association, hatred of the foc,
    and military enthusiasm had held dominion o\'er
    me. Now, [ 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
    TilE LAST llANo

    usual in the south; heavy masses of cloud floatc~


    up from the south east, a':ld red and turbid
    lightning shot from their dark Mges; die rush-
    ing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and
    was chilled as it passed over their icy foons.
    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
    rlrew 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 dismount-
    ed 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
    THE LAST :'ItAN. 53

    accellts cndeavoured to soothe the suffcrcr. 'Vith


    wild and terrific cxclamations did the lost, dying
    Evadnc (for it was shc) recognize the language
    of her lover; pain and fc\'cr from her wound
    had derange<l her iutel1ects, 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
    [ was kecping him from her, while the Turks
    with fearful instruments of torture were about
    to take his life. Thcll again she sadly lamented
    her hard fate; that a woman, with a woman's
    hcart and sensibility, should be driven by hope-
    less loye and vacant hopes to take up the trade
    of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of
    man privation , labour, and pain- tile 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, ber sunken check rested on my breast; in
    a sepulchral voice she murmured :_U This IS

    c3
    THE LAST MAN.

    the end of ]o\'e I-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, 0 Raymond, and now I expire, thy,·ic-
    tim !-By my death I purcbase thee-lot the
    instruments of war, nrc, the plague are my
    servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, ti.ll
    now! I have sold myself to death, with the sole
    condition that thou shouldst follow mc-Fire,
    and war, and plague, unite for thy destruction-
    o my Raymond, there is no safety fOl' thee !"
    'Vilh an heavy Im:u-t I listened to tIle clmllhrt'S
    of her delirium; I made her a bed of cloaks j

    her yiolence decreased and a clammy dew stood


    on her brow as the paleness of death succeed-
    ed 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 solemlily
    declared that he was summoned; sometimes she
    bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew
    THE LAST )fA",

    feebler, her speech interrupted; a few convul_


    sive movements, and her muscles relaxed, the
    limbs fell, no morc to be sustained, one deep
    sigh, and life was gone,
    I bore her from the ncar neighbourhood of
    the den.c1; wrapt in cloaks, I placed lier beneath
    a tree, Once more I looked on her altered face ;
    the last time I saw her she was eighteen;
    beautiful as poefs "ision, splendid as a Sultana.
    of the East-Twelve yean~ had past; twelve
    years of change, sorrow and hardship j her
    brilliant complexion had occome worn and dark,
    her limbs had lost the roundness of yoltth anel
    womanhood; her cyes had sunk deep,
    Crushed aad o'erworn,
    The hours had drained her blood, aDd filled her brow
    With lines and wrinkles.

    'Vith shuddering hOlTor ] \'Ciled this monu-


    ment of human p3Ssion and human misery; I
    heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutre-
    ments I could find, to guard her from birds nnd
    beasts of prey, until I could bestow on her a
    56 'rHE LAST )oIAN.

    fitting grave. Sadly and slowly 1 &telllned my


    course from among the heaps of slain, and,
    guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at
    length reached llodos'o.
    'rUJ;; LAS'[ MAN . 73

    CHAPTER II.

    ON my arrival, I found that an order had


    already gone forth for the army to proceed im-
    mediately towards·Constantinople j 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 Ar-
    gyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in com-
    lIIaml. He rodc through thc tUWII, visiting tllc
    wounded, and giving such orders as were ne_
    cessary 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, J placed her in it, heaping
    THE LAST MAN.

    stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and


    glare at' daylight. deprived the scene of solem.
    nity; from Evadne's low lomb, I joined Ray.
    mond and his staff, now on their way to the
    Golden City.
    Con::otantinople was invested, trenches dug,
    and advances made. The whole Greek fleet
    blockaded it by sea; on land from the ri,'er
    Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet Waters, to the
    Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Pro-
    panlis, along the whole line of the ancient walls,
    the trenches of, the siege were drawn. 'Vc
    already possessed Pera; the Golden Hom itse1f,
    the city, ba:stiolletl by lht! :st!a, aud lhe ivy.
    mantled walls of the Greek emperors was all
    of Europe that the Mahometans could call
    theirs. Our amly looked on her as certain prey.
    They counted the garrison; it was impossible
    that it should be relieved; each sally was a "ic·
    tory; for, even when the Turks were trium-
    phant, the loss of Illen they sustained was an
    irreparable injury.
    THE LAST MAN.

    I rode one morning with Raymond to the


    lofty mound, not far from the Top ){apou,
    (Cannon.gate), on which l\Iahmoud planted his
    standard, and first saw the city. Still the l'arne
    lofty domes and minarets towered abo"e the Yer-
    durous walls, where Constantine had died, and the
    Turkhacl entered the city. 'l'heplain around was
    interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, amI
    Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees;
    and other wooils of more cheerful aspect, diver_
    sified the scene. Among them the Greek army
    was encamped, and their squadrons moved to
    and fro- now in regular march, now in swift
    career.
    Uaymonu'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 crosson St. Sophia;
    and then return to your peaceful glades."
    "You then," I asked, "still remain 111

    Greere ?"
    TJn~ LAST MAN'.

    "Assuredly," replied Raymond. "Yet Lio-


    nel, when I say this, belieye me I look back with
    regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. I am
    but half a soldier; I loye the rer-own, but not
    the trade of war. Before the battle of Rodosto
    I was full of hope and spirit; to conquer there,
    nnd nftcrwards 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 recallerl, hy fIoOme n!>...ocintion, 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 eyer seen among the troops anyone resem-
    bling her; if since he had returned to Greece
    he had heard of her?
    He started at her narne,-he looked uneasily
    41
    on me. "Even so," he cried, "I knew YOll

    would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten


    her. Since our encampment here, she daily.
    hourly "isits my thoughts. When I am addressed,
    her name is the sound I ('xpect: in evcl'y com·
    munication, I imagine that she will faml a part.
    At length you have broken the spell; tell me
    what YOll know of her."
    I related my meeting with her j the story of
    her death was told and re.told. ' Vith painful
    earnestness he questioned me concerning her pro-
    phecies with regard to him. I treated them as
    the ravings of a maniac. H No, no," he said,
    "do not decei\'c yoursclf,-rne you cannot.
    She has said nothing l>ut what I knew before-
    though thi~ is confirmation. Fire, the sword,
    and plague! Thej may all be found in yonder
    city; on my head alone may they fall!"
    From this day Haymond's melancholy in_
    creased. He secluded himself as much as the
    duties of his station permitted. ' Vhen in com.
    pany, sadness would in spite of every effort steal
    THE LAST lrAN.

    over hi:. features. and he sat absent and mute


    among the busy crowd that thronged aoout
    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 'Vaters, 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 d~lightful. Raymond felt no relief,
    received no pleasure from any show of hea\'cn
    or earth. He often left Perdita, to wander in
    tile grounds alone; orin a light shaliop he floated
    idly on the pure waters, musing deeply. Some-
    times I joined him; at such times his counte-
    nance was invariably solemn, hi!) air dejected. He
    seemed relieved on seeing mc, and would talk
    with some degree of intere!>t on the affairs of the
    day. There was evidently something behind
    all this; yet, when he appeared about to speak
    Tilt: L,\:.T MAN.

    of th at which was nearest his heart, he would


    abruptly turn away, and wilh n sigh <:ndea\,our
    to deliver the painful idea to the winds.
    It had often occurroo, that, when, as I said,
    Raymond quitted P erdita's t1rnwing.room, Clara
    came up to me, an:! gently drawing me aside,
    said, "Papa is gone; £hall we go to him? I
    dare say he will be glad to see you." And, as
    accident permitted, I complied with or refused
    her rcqueM. One evening a numerous assembly
    of Greek chieftains were gathered together in
    the palace. The intriguing Palli, the accom-
    plished Knrtt.zza, the warlike Ypsilanti, were
    among the principal. Th ey talked of thl! c,'cnts
    of the day; the skirmish at noon; the dimi-
    nished numbers of the Infidels; their defeat and
    flight: they contemplated, after n short interval
    of time, Ute capture of the Golden City. They
    cndea"ourcd to picture forth what would then
    happen, and spoke in lofty terms of the pros-
    perity of Greece, whell Constantinople should
    become its capital. The com'crsauon then re-
    THl: LAST MAX,

    verted 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 tenns he demonstrated the
    extremities to which Constantinople was reduced;
    the wasted and haggard, though ferocious ap.-
    pearance of the troops; famine and pestilence
    was at work for them, he obsen'ed, and the in-
    fidels would soon be obliged to take refuge ill
    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 nccustomed invitntion. I
    consented to her request, and taking her little
    hand, followed Rnymond. We found him just
    about to embark in his boat,' and he readily
    agreed to receive us as, companions. After the
    THE L.\ST -" .\N. 4:;

    heat! of the tlay, the cooling land_breeze ruffled


    thc ri\'cr, anti filled our little sail. The city
    lookctl dark to the so~th, while numerous Jight~
    along the ncar shorcs, and the beautiful aspect
    of the bnnks reposing in placid night, fh e waters
    keenly reflecting the..hea\·cnly lights, g:n'e to this
    beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might
    havc ehar::tcterized a retreat in Paradise. Our
    ~ingle boatman attended to the snit; Raymond
    steered; Clara snt at his feet, clasping his knees
    with her arms, and laying her head on them. Ray-
    mond 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 morc occupied.
    Besides, I wish at once to tell you my wishes
    and expectations, and then ne\'er again to revert
    to so p..'linful a subject. First, I mllst thank you,
    Lionel, for having remained here at my request.
    Vanity first prompted me to ask you: "anity, I
    call it; yet c\'en in this I sec thc hand of fnt c-
    46 TH E LAST M.\N.

    your presence will soon be necessary; you will


    become the Inst resource of Perdita, her protec-
    tor :md consoler. You will take her back to
    'Vindsor."-
    "Not without you,'" I said. "You do not
    mean to separate again ?"
    "Do not deceive yourself," replied Raymond.
    " the separation at hand is one ovel' which I
    ha\'c no control; most near at hand is it; the
    days are already counted. May] 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.
    Y ct do not, my gentle friend; for, all childish
    and unwise as they arc, they have become a
    p:ll't of me, and 1 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 di"ide the feel-
    ing of identity from the mor[D,1 form that shapes
    TItE LAST )I.\N. 47

    forth L iolld. How thell can you understand


    me ? Enrth is to me n tomb, the firnmm(,nl a
    \·ault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no
    more, for I ha\'e stepped within the threshold
    of eternity; each mall I meet appears a cor3(',
    which will soon be deserted of its animating
    spark, on the eye of decny and corruption.

    Cada picdr.l un piramide lE:vanla.


    y cad" flor costruye un monumento,
    cada edlficio es un scpulcro altivo,
    cnda IOh.lado un esqueleto vivo:·t

    His nccent was mournful, -he sighed deeply.


    "A few months ago," he continued, "I was
    thought to be dying; out life was st rong within
    me. l\Iy affections wcre human; hope and
    lo,·c werc the day.stars of Illy life. Now-they
    dream that the brows of thc C'Onqucror of the
    infidel faith nre 3bolll to be encircled by Iri.
    umphnnt burd i they talk of honou rable rc·
    ward, of title, power, and wealth-all I ask of
    Greece is a grave. L et them ralSC n mound

    t Calderon de Ia. Barca.


    48 THE LAST MAX.

    above my lifeless body, which may sland c\'en


    when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.
    " ' Vhercforc do I feel thus? At Rodosto I
    was full of h~pc; .but when first I saw Con.
    stantinoplc, that feeling. with every other joy-
    ful 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 powt!r can avert the stroke, nnd the shadow
    of Fate's uplifted hand already darkens me.
    U To you, Lionel, J entrust your sister and
    her child. Never mention to her the fatal name
    of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow oyer the
    strange link that enchains me to her, making
    my spirit obey her dying vuice, followiug hcr,
    as it is alxlUt to do, to the unknown country."
    I listened 10 him with wonder; but that his
    TilE LAST )(Al\'". 49
    5..'\(1 (Ielll('nnour nud solemn utterance a<;,~urt-d me
    of the truth and intensity of his feeling", I flhotlld
    wilh light dcril':ion have attempted to di~sil ale
    his fenrs. \ Vhntc"er I was nool1t to reply, was
    interrupted by the powerful emotions of CI:ua.
    Haymond had spoken, thoughtless of her pre_
    !>CTlce, nnd f;;he, poor child , heard with terror and
    faith the prophecy of his death. lIer f.:nhcrll'ns
    moved by hel' "iolent grief; he look hcr in his
    arnfs and soothed her, but his \'el'Y soothings wcre
    solemn and fearfu l. H ' Vl'CP not, sweet child,"
    said he, U the coming deadl of one you haxc
    hardly known. I may die, b ut in denth I can
    nen'r forget or desert my own Clarn. III after
    wrrow 01' joy, bclie\'c that you r fat her's spirit is
    ncar, to :-;axe or sympathize with you. 13e proud
    of mc, nntl cherish your infa.nt remembrancc of
    me. ThllS, sweetest, I shall not appear to die.
    Dile thing you mllst promise,-not to speak to
    a ny onc but your uncle, of the com·crs..'ltion you
    have j ust o\·crhearc.l. "'hell I nm gone, you will
    console your mother, and tel1 her that death was
    '·OL. 11. II
    50 THE LAST MAN.

    only bitter, because it di-,rided me from her; that


    my last thoughts will be spent on her. But
    while I ii,-c, promise not to betray me; promise,
    my child."
    'Vith faltering accent!'! Clara promised, while
    she still clung to her father in a transport of
    sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I en-
    deavoured to obviate the impression made on the
    child's mind, by treating Raymond's fears lightly.
    "re heard no more of them; for, as he hadsnid.
    the siege, now drawing to a conclusion, became
    paramount in interest, engaging all his time and
    attention.
    'rhe empire of the l\Iahomctans m Europe
    was at its close. The Greek fleet lJlockading
    e,-cry port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of
    succour from A!lia; 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 OIl our
    lines. The garrison was now so much dilllinished~

    that it was evident that the city could eMily haTO


    Till:: LAST MA N. 51

    been carried by storm; but both humanity and


    policy dictated a slower lIIot1e uf procet:uing.
    \Ve could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the
    utOlost, its palaces, its temples and store of
    wealth would be destroyed in the fury of coo-
    tending triumph and defeat. Already the de-
    fencel ess citizens had suffered through the bnr-
    barityof the Janisariesj and, in time of storm,
    tumult and m3ss..1cre, beauty, infancy and decre-
    pitude, would ha\'e alike been sacrificed to the
    hrutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and
    blockade were certain means of conquest; and
    on these wc founded our hopcs of victory.
    Each day the sokliers of the garrison assaulted
    our advanced posts, and impeded the accomplish-
    ment of our works. Fire-boats were bunched
    from the various ports, while our troops some-
    times recoiled fl'om the de"oted courage of men
    who did not seck to lj,·c, but to sell their lives
    dearly. These contests werc aggrllvatoo by the
    season; they took place during summer, when
    the southern A5iatic wind came laden with inta-
    D ~
    THE LAST lIAN.

    lerable heat, when the streams were dried up iu


    theit" shaUow beds, and the vast ba~iu uf tltt:: st::a
    appeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of
    the solsticial sun. Nor did night refresh the
    earth. Dew was denied; herbage and flowers
    there wcre none; the very trees drooped; and
    summer assumed the blighted appearance of
    winter, as it went forth in silence and flame to
    abridge the mean~ of sustenance to man. In
    '"8m 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, An was
    serene, burning, annihilating. "r e the besiegers
    were in the comparison liLtie affected by these
    e,-ils, The woods around afforded us shadc,-
    the ri"'er secured to us a constant supply of
    water; nay, detachments were employed in fur~
    nishing the army with ice, which had been laid
    up on Hremus, and Athos, and the mountains
    of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and whole~

    some food r .no lated the strength of the labourers,


    Tilt:: LAeT ll.\:-I.

    and made us benr with less impatience the weight


    of the unrefreshing air. But ill the city things
    wore a different face. The SUIl'S rays were re-
    fmcted from the pavement and buildings-the
    stoppage of the public fOllntain~-the Lmd qu ality
    of the food, and scarcity even of that, produced
    fl slate of suffering, which was aggrnvuted by the
    scou rge of disease; while the garrison arrogated
    every superfluity to themselves, ndtliLig by waste
    and riot to the necessary e\'ils of the time. Still
    they would not c..'lpitulate.
    Suddenly the system of warfare was changed.
    \Ve 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 in truders. " ' hen these
    circumstances were reportcU to Uaymolu.1, ILe
    caused minute observations to be made as to
    what was doing within the walls, and whcll his
    scou ts returncd, reporting only the continued
    silence and desolation of the city, he commanded
    TIll:: 1.,\ST IlIAN.

    the army to be drawn out before thc gates. No


    one appeared on the \\'alls; the "ery portals,
    though locked und barred, seemcd unguarded ;
    above, thc many domes and glittering crescents
    picrced heav('n; while the old walls, survj"ors of
    ages, with ivy.crowned tower and weed-tangled
    buttress, stood as rocks in an uninllabited waste.
    From within the city neither shout nor cry, 01')1"

    aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke


    the noon-day stillness. Enn our $oldicr~ were
    awed to silence; the music paused;. the clang of
    arms was hushcd. Each man :lsked his fellow
    in whispers, the Il-:.eaning of this su dden peace ;
    while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by
    nwall:! of glasses, to diSCO\'cr and observe the stra-
    tagem of the enemy. No form could be dis-
    cerned on the terraces of the houses; ill the
    high er parts of the lawn no moving shadow be-
    spoke the presence of any living being: the yery
    trees waved !:Ot, and mocked the stability of
    architecture with like immovability.
    The tramp of horses, distinctly heard 1D the
    THE J.AST "lAX. 55
    silence, was at length discerned. I t was a troop
    sent by Karazza, the Admiral; they bore d i~
    patches to the Lord General. The contents of
    t hese pnl'K'rs were important. 'nle night before,
    the watch, on boord one of the smaller vcssels
    a nchored near the seraglio wnl1, was roused by a
    slight splashing as of muffled oars; the alarm
    was given: tvt'el\"e small boats, each containing
    three Janizarics, were descried elldea\·ouring to
    make their way t111"OUgh thf> fl eet to the oppo~ite
    shore of SClitari. 'Vhen they found themseh·es
    discovered they discharged their muskets, nnel
    $Orne came to the front to cover the others, whose
    c rews, exerting all their strength, endeavoured
    to CS<'.npe with their light barks from among the
    dark huns th at em·ironed them. They were ill
    the end an sunk, and, with the exception of two
    or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little
    could be got from the sun 'ivors; but their ct\1I-

    tious nnswers caused it to be surmised that seve.


    ral expedition~ had preceded this last, and that
    several Turks of rank and impOrL'lnCe had been
    5a TilE LAST "'A~.

    cunveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully I'cpelIcd


    the idea of having deserted the defence of their
    city; and one, the youngest among them, ill an-
    swer to the taunt of a s.."lilor, exclaimed, "Take it,
    Christian dogs! take the palaces, the gardens, the
    mosques, the abode of OUl' fathers-take plague
    with them; pestilence is the enemy we fly ; if she
    be your friend, hug her to yOUl' bosoms. The
    Ctll'SC of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate."
    Such was the account sent by Karazza to
    Raymond: but a tale full of monstrous exag-
    gerations, though founded on this, was spr~d

    by the accompanying troop among our soldiers.


    A murmur arose, the city was the prey of pes.
    tilellce; already had a mighty powel' subju-
    gated the i!lhabitants; Death had become lord
    of Constantinople.
    I have heard a picture dl...'SCribed, wherein all
    the inhabitants of earth were dmwn out in
    fcar to stand the encounter of Death. The
    feeble and decrepid fled; the warriors retreated,
    though they threatened even in flight. \Valves
    THE LAST )(AS . 57
    anu lions, and variuus monsters of the desert
    roared against him; wh ile the grim U nreality
    hO" cred shaking hi$ spectral dart, a solitary but
    im'incible assailant. Even so was ' it with the
    army uf Grc<'ce. I rim convinced, that had the
    myriad troops of Asia come from o,er the Pro-
    pOntis, and stood defcndC!l's of the Golden City,
    each and every G reck would have marched against
    the overwhelming number!;', and have dcvoted
    himself with patriotic fu ry for his country. llut
    here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no
    de~t11-dealing artillery, no formidable nrrny of
    brave soldiers- the unguarded walls afforded
    easy entrance-the ' -acant palaces luxurious
    dwellillg~; but above the dome of St. Sopl1ia
    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 \\-ith
    triumph, and pointing with his sword to the
    gates, commanded his troops to-down with
    UlOse barricades-the only"obstacles now to com..
    D 3
    58 'rilE LAST )iAN.

    pletest victory. The soldiers answered his


    cheerful words with Qghast and awe-struck
    looks; instinctively they drew back, and Ray-
    mond rode in the front of the lines: _H By
    my !'word I swear," he cried, "that DO ambush
    or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is
    nlrcady vanquished; the plea~t places, the
    noble dwellings and spoil of the city nrc already
    yours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats
    of your ancestors, your own inheritance !,I
    An universal shudder and fearful whi~pering

    passed through the lines; not a soldier moved.


    " Cowards!" excbimed their general, exaspe_
    rated, " give me an hatchet! I alone will
    enter! I will plant your fltnndard; and when
    you see it wave from yon highest minaret, you
    may gain courage, and mlly round it '"
    One of the officers now came forward: " Ge-
    neral," he said, H we neithC'r fCllr the courage,
    nor amlS, the open attack, nor sccrct ambush
    of the Moslems. ';Y e are ready to expose our
    breasts, exposed tcn thousand times before, to
    THE LAS1' MAX, 59
    the balls and scymctars of the i1l6dcls, and to
    fall gloriously for Greece. nut we will not die
    in heaps. like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by
    the pestilential air of that dty-we dare not go
    against the Plague ,"
    A multitude of men are feeble and inert,
    without a voice, a leader; gi ,'e them that, and
    they regain the strength belonging to their num_
    bcLs. Shouts from a thousand voices nO\v rent
    the air- the cry of applause beeame uni-
    versal. Raymond saw the danger; he was wil1~

    ing to save his troops from the erime of dis-


    obedience; 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
    tlle regiments repaired in good order to the
    camp.
    I hastened to carry the intelligence of these
    strange proceedings to Perdita; and we were
    TilE LAST llANo

    soon joined by Uaymond. He looked gloomy


    and pi>rturbed, l\fy sister was struck by my
    narrative: "How beyond the imagination of
    man, " she exclaimed, " Ilre the decrees of
    heaven, wondrous and inexpHcable!"
    "}i'oolish girl," cried Raymond ang,·ily. H nrc
    you like my 'Valiant soldiers, panic-struck?
    'Vhat is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so
    very natural an occurrence? Does not the
    plague rage each year in Stamboul? 'Vhat
    wouder, that this year, when as we are told, its
    virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it should
    have occasioned double havoc in that city?
    "Vhnt ,~onder then, in time of siege, "'ant, ex-
    treme heat, and drought, that it ~holllc1 mnkclIn_
    accustomed ravages? Less wonder far is it,
    that the garrison, despairing of being able to hold
    out longe'r, should take advantage of the neg-
    ligence 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
    'rilE LAST lIXz.;". VI
    Jangcr that makes us, like birds in harvcst-lime,
    tCl'rificJ 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 th ese tamed hares! Dut yet Starn.
    boul shall be ours! By my past labours, by
    torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by
    my "ictories, by my sword, I swear-by my
    hopes of fume, by my former deserts now await. ,
    ing tlicir reward, I deeply vow, with these hand s
    to plant the cross on yonder musque !"
    H D carcst Raymond!" interrupted Pcrdita,
    ill a supplicating accent.
    lIe had been walking to and fro in the marble
    haU of the seraglio; hi s vcry lips wcre pale with
    rage, wllile, quivcring, they shaped Ilis angry
    words-his eyes shot fire-llis gestures seemed
    restrained by their very "ehemence. "Pcrdita,"
    ~c continued, impatiently, "1 know what yon
    would say; I know that you love me, thnt you
    are good and gentle; but this is no womnn's
    62 THE r.AST lU,N'.

    wOrk-nor can a female heart guess at the hur-


    ricane which tears me !"
    He seemed half afraid of his own violence,
    and suddenly quitted the hall: a look from Per-
    dita shewed me her distress, and I fonowed him.
    He was pncing the garden: Ilis 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 eyer the
    victim of the crawling reptiles of his species!
    ,\Vcre I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many
    years of life, to a su('cession of love-enlightened
    days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing
    hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General'.
    staff, seek repose in the glades of vVindsor.
    But I am about to die !-nay, interrupt me not-
    soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth,
    from the sympathies of mnn, from the loved re_
    sorts of my youth, from the kindness of my
    friends, from the affection of my only beloved
    Perditn, I am about to be removed. Such is tha
    will of fate! Such tIle decree of the High Ruler

    •
    TIlE LAST )JAN.

    from whom there is no appeal: to whom I sub_


    mit. But to lose all-to lose with life and Jove,
    glory also! It ~hall not be !
    " I, and in a few brief years, all you,-this
    panic-struck army, and all the population of fair
    Greece, will no longcr bc. Dut other generations
    will arise, and eycr and for eyer will continuc,
    to be made happier by our prcsent acts, to be
    glorified by our ,·alour. The prayer of my
    youth was to be onc among those who render the
    pages of earth's history splcndid; who exalt the
    race of mall, and make this little globc a dwell-
    ing of the mighty. Alas, (or Raymond I 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 he thy lord! ,Vhcn Eyadne pro-
    nounced my death, J thought that the title of
    Victor of ConstanHnople would be written on \
    my tomb, and I subdued aU mortal fear. I stand
    before its yanquished walls, and dare not call
    myself a conqueror. So shall it not be! Did
    64 TUb: LAST lU.X.

    not Alexander leap from the walls of the city of


    the Oxydracre, to shew his coward troops the
    way to victory, encountering alone the sword~

    orits defenders? Even so will I braw the plague


    -and though no man follow, I will plant the
    Grecian shndaru on the height of St. Sophia."
    llcason came unavailing to such high_wrought
    rec1in~s. In vain I shewed him, that when
    winter came, the cold would dissipate the pesti-
    lential air, Rnd restore courage to the Greeks.
    " Talk not of other season than this !" he cried.
    H I have lived my last winter, and the date of
    this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb.
    Already do I sec," 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. lowe
    this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita,
    a.nd to myself, the victim of ambition."
    'Ve were interrupted by an attendant, who
    TIII~ LAST )1.\);. 65
    a nnOUll<"eJ, that the staff of Ha)' ll1ollli was as-
    sembled in the council-ehamber. He rcqu e~ tcd

    me in the meantime to ride through the camp,


    and to OhH' I'VC and report to him the di f' posi-
    tion s Qf the soldiers; he then left nl('. I had
    heen excited to the utmost by the proceedings
    of the day, and now more than ever by the P:lS-
    sionate language of Raymond. Alas ! for
    human reason! He accllscd the Grcl'ks of
    superf;tition: what name did he give to the fai t h
    he lent to the- predictions of Evadne? I passed
    from the palace of Sweet 'Vaters to the plain
    on which the cncampmcnt lay, and found its in-
    habitants in commotion. The arrival of several
    with fresh stories of marvels, from the Rept; the
    exaggerations bestowed on what was already
    known; tales of old prophecies, of fearful his-
    tories of whole regions which had been laid waste
    during the present year by pestilence, alarmed
    and occupi€d the troops. Discipline was lost;
    the army disbanded itself. Each individuul,
    before a ptut or a great wllOle moving only in
    66 TilE: LAST )IAN.

    ullison with olher~, now became rewind into


    the unit nature had made him, and thought of
    himself only. They stole off at first by ones
    and twos, then in lurger companies, until, Ull.

    impeded by the officers, whole battalions sougllt


    thc road that led to Macedonia.
    About midnight I returned to the palace and
    sought Raymond; he was ruone, and apparently
    composed; such composure, at lenst, was his as
    is inspired by a resolve to adhere to a certain
    line of conduct. He hellTd my account of the
    sclf-dissolution of the army with calmness, and
    then said, «You know, Verney, my fixed de-
    termination not to quite 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 fOlllld.
    Go you before break of day, bear these dis-
    patches to Karazza, add to them your own en_
    treaties that he send me his marines and nayal
    force; jf I can get bllt one regiment to second
    me, the rest would follow of course. Let him
    'l'IIE I••\ST iUA!'. 67
    send mc this regiment. I shall expect you r rc_
    ttlrn by to· morrow noon. "
    1\f ethought this WHS bu t a poor expedient ;
    but I assure,l him of my obed ience and zeal.
    I quitted him to take a few hours rl'St. 'Vith
    the breaking of morning I was accoutred for my
    ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking leave
    of P erdita, and fWIll Illy window observed the
    approach of the su n. The golden splendour
    arose, and weary nature awoke to suller yet
    another day of heat and thirsty decay. 'Jo
    flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet
    the dawn; the dry grass had withered on the
    plains ; th e burning fields of air were vacant of
    birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun, be.
    gan their shrill and deafening song among the
    cyi)resses and olives. ] saw Raymond's coal-
    black charger brought to the palace gate; n
    small company of officers arrived soon after;
    care and fear WflS pn.intcd on each check, an~ in
    each eye, unrefrcshed by sleep. I found R ay-
    mond and Perdita together. H e was watching
    fiS l'lIE LAST liAS.

    the rising SUIl, Wililc with one arm he enl'irck-d


    his beloved's waist; SllC looked on him, the stln
    of her life, with earnest gaze of miuglcd anxiety
    and tenderness. Raymond started angrily when
    he saw me. "Here still t' he cried. "Is this
    your promised zeal f"
    "Purdon me,'" I said, "but C\"CI1 as you
    speak, 1 am gone.""
    H Nay. pardon me," he replied; " I have no
    right to command or reproach; but my life
    hangs on your departure and speedy return.
    Farewell!"
    I-lis voice had recovered its bland tOIlC. but a
    dark ciOlld still hung on his features. I would
    have delayed; I wishC!d to recommend watch.
    fulness to Perdita, but his presence restrained
    me. I had no pretence for my hesitation; and
    on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his out-
    stretched hand; it was cold and clammy.
    "Take care of yourself, my dear Lord," I said.
    e( Nay," said Perdita, "that task shall be
    mUle. Return speedily, Lionel."
    TilE L.\5T It.\ S . 69
    " "ith an air of absence he was playing with
    her auburn locks, while she leaned 011 him;
    twice I turned back, only to look again un this
    matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy
    itCp'l, I had p.1.cetl out of the hall, and sprung
    upon m)' horse. At that moment Clara flew
    towards me; clnsping my knee she cried,
    a .1\Iake haste back, uncle! Dear uncle, I ha\'e
    such fearful dreams; 1 dnre not tell my mother.
    Do not be long awny'" I assu red her of my
    impatience to return, and then, with n small
    escor t rode along the pillin towards the tower of
    Marmora.
    I fulfilled my commission ; I saw ]{arazza.
    He was SOIllC\\ hat surprised; he would st'C, he
    said, what ...·ould be dune; but it req uired time;
    Bud Raymond had ordered me to return by
    noon. 11 was impossib'e to effect nny thing ill
    so short a time. l must stay till the next day;
    or come b:lCk, nflel' having reported th e present
    state of things to the genernl. J\f y choice was
    e3.~i ly made. A restlessness, n fear of what was
    70 THli LAST )O[AN.

    about to betide, a, doubt as to Raymond's pur-


    poses. urged me to return without delay to his
    quarters. Quitting the Seven Towers, I rode
    eastward towards the Sweet 'Varers. I took a
    circuitous path, principally for the sake of going
    to the top of the mount before mentioned, which
    commanded :1 view of the city. I had my ~lass

    with mc. The city basked under the noon-day


    sun, and the venerable walls formed its pic.
    turesque boundary. Immediately before me was
    the Top Kapon, the gate ncar which Mahomet
    had made the breach by which he entered the-city.
    rrrees gigantic and aged grew near; before the
    gate I disccnled 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 l>ehimi was a promiscuous concourse of
    soldiers :lnd subaltt!rns, their discipline lost, their
    arms throl"11 aside; no JUusic sounded, no ban
    ners streamed. The only Bag among them was
    one which Raymond carried; he pointed with
    THE LAST ?L\N. 71

    it to the gate of the city. The circle round him


    feU back. With angry gesturcs he leapt from
    his horse, and seizing 3. hatchet that hung fl'om
    his saddle-bow, went with the apparent intention
    of battering down the OJ posing gate. A few
    men c..'\me to aid him ~ their numbers increased ;
    under their united blows the obstacle was van-
    quished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demo-
    lished; 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 mnjesty from the opening. R aymor:d
    sprung lightly 011 his horse, gra~pcd the stand-
    ard, and with words which I (:ould not hear (but
    his gc5tures, being their fit accompaniment, ""ere
    marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to ad.
    jure their assistnnce and companionship; ewn
    as he spoke, the crowd receded from him. Indig-
    nation now transported him; his word,:; I guessed
    were fraught with disdnin-then turning from
    12 THF. LAST MAN.

    his coward followers, he addressed himself to


    enter the city alone. His very horse seemed
    to back {I'om the fatal entrance; his dog. his
    faithful dog, Jay moaning and supplicating in
    his path-in II. moment more, he had plunged the
    rowels into the sides of the stung animal, who
    bounded forward, and he, the gateway p,,-ssed,
    was galloping np the broad and desart street.
    Until this moment my soul had been in my
    eyes only. I had gazed with wonder, mixed
    with fenr and enthusiasm. The latter feeling
    now predominated. r forgot the distance be-
    tween liS: " I will go with thee, Raymond!'"
    I cried; but, my eye removed from the glass,
    I could scarce discern the pigmy form s of the
    crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded
    the gale; the fUlm of Haymond was lost. Stung
    with impatience, I urged my horse with force
    of spur find loosened reins down the acdh-ity,
    that, bdore danger could arrive, I might be at
    the side of my noble, godlike friend_ Anum.
    her of buildings and trees intervened, when I
    THE {, .\ST )lIAN, 73
    had reached the plain, hilling the city from my
    ,"lew, nut at that moment a crash was heard.
    Thunrlerlike it reverberated through the sky,
    while the air was darkened. A moment more
    and the old walls again met my sight, while
    over th em hovered a murky cloud; frag ments of
    buildings whirled Ilbo,'e, half sccn in smoke,
    while flames burst out beneath> and continued
    explosions filled the air with terrifi~ thuollC'rs.
    Flying from the mass of falling ruin which
    Jeapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy
    towers, a crowd of soldier:> made for the road
    by which I came; J was surrounded, hemmed
    in hy them, unable to get forward, 1\1 y impa-
    tience 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 Stam-
    boul, the liberator of Greece; tears, ayc tears,
    in warm flow gmlhed from my eyes-I would
    not belie"e in his dostl'llction; yet eycry mass
    that darkened the nir seemed to bear with it a
    portion of the nuu·tyrcd Haymond. H orrible
    74 THE r.AST MAN.

    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 ap-
    proach the gate. Y ct when I effected my pur.
    pose, all I could discern within the precincts 0f
    the massive walls was a city of fire: the open
    way through which Raymond had ridden was
    enveloped in smoke and flame. After an in.
    tCl'val 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 occa-
    sioned 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 6rst blots on the blue expanse that I
    had seen for months, and amidst this hanx: and
    despair . they inspired pleasure. The vault
    above became obscured, lightning flashed from
    the' 'heavy masscs, followed instantaneously by
    crashing" thunder; then the big rain fell. The
    flames of the city bent beneath it j and tile
    TUE LAST MAN. 75

    smoke and dust arising from the ruUlS was


    dissipated.
    I .no sooner perceived an abatement of the flame:;
    than, In.lrI ied on by nn irresistible impulse, I en..
    dcavoured to penetrate the town. I could only do
    this on foot, as thE" mass of ruin was imprac-
    ticable 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 suc-
    cession; and nothing told me where the centre
    of the town might be, or towards what point
    Raymond might have directed his course.
    The rain ceasOO; the clouds sunk behind the
    horizon; it was now evening, and the sun de-
    scended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled
    011, until 1 came to a street, whose wooden
    houses, half.burnt, had been cooled by the rain,
    and were fortunately uninjured by the gunpow-
    der. Up this I hurried-until now I had not
    seen a vestige of man. Yet none of the defaced
    human forms which I distinguished, eould be
    ~ Q
    76 THE LAST llAY.

    Haymontl; SO I turned my eyes away, while my


    heart sickcllCd within me. I came to an open
    sp..'\ce- n mountain of ruin in the midst, an.
    . -
    llounced t1mt some large mosque had occupied
    the space- and here, scnueroo about, I saw va-
    rious articles of 1uxury ::md wealth, singed,
    destroyed-but ·shewing what they ha(been in
    their ruin- jewels, strings of pearls, embroidered
    roues, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and oriental
    ornaments, seemed to have been collected here
    in a pile destined for destruction; but the rain
    had stopped dlC havoc midway.
    Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I
    ~ught for Raymond. Insurmountable heaps
    IiOlllctimes opposed themselves; the still bUl1}ing
    fires scorcllcd mc. 'l.'he sun set: the atmo-
    sphere 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 wierd shapes. For
    :l moment I could yield to the creative power of
    THY. LAST lIAN. 77

    the imagination, and for a moment was sootilc<1


    by the sublime fictions it presented to me. The
    heatings of my human heart drew me back to
    blank reality. " ' here, in this wildcrn('ss of death,
    art thou, 0 R(lymond-ornament of England,
    deliverer o f Greece, "hero of unwritlen slory,"
    where in this burning chaos arc thy dear relics
    strewed? I called aloud for him-through the
    darkness of night, oyer the scorching ruins of
    fallen Constnntinople, hi s name was heard; no
    "oiec replied-ccho even was mute,
    I was overcome by wearlncss; the solitude
    depressed my spirits. The sultry air impreg.
    Dated wilh dust, the heat and smoke of burning
    polaces. palsied my limbs. Hunger suddenly
    came ncutely upon me. The excitement which
    had hitherto sustained me was lost; as a building,
    whose props nrc loosened, and whose foundations
    rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and
    hope deserted me, did my strength fnil. I sat
    on the sole remaining Hep of an edifice, which
    c\'cn in its downfall, was huge and magnificent;
    78

    a few broken walls, nol dislodged by gunpowder,


    stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame glim_
    mered at intervals on the summit of the pile.
    For a time hunger nnd sleep contrmded, till the
    constellations reeled before my eyes and then
    were lost. I strove to riS(', but my heavy lids
    closed, my limbs ovr.r-wearied, c1aimed rcpose-
    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 despail'
    -I slept.
    TilE L ,\ST ,)1.\);, 79

    CHAPTEIl II J.

    'rilE stars still shone brightly when I awoke,


    :md Taurus high in the southern heavcn shewed
    that it ,",' :1S midnight. I awokc from disturbed
    dreams. Methought I hoo been invited to
    Timon's Inst feast; I came with keen appetite,
    the covcrs wcre removed, the hot water sent up
    its unsatisfying steams, while I fled before the
    anger of the host, who assumed the form of Ray-
    mond; while to my diseased fancy, the ,'essels
    hurled by him after me, were surcharged with
    fetid npour, and my friend's shap<', altered by :l

    thousnnd distortions, expanded into a gigantic


    phantom, bearing on its hrow the sign of p<'\ti..
    80 THE LAST ll.\~.

    lencc. The growing shadow rose and ('Q.<:C, filling,


    and then seeming to endeavour to burst beyond,
    the adamantine vnult that bent over, sustaining
    and enclosing the world. The night-mare be·
    came torture; with n strong effort I threw off
    sleep, and recalled reason to her wonted functions.
    My first thought was Perdita; to her I must
    rctUnl; 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 mel a company of
    soldiers outside the walls; I borrowed a horse
    from one of them, and hastened to my sistel',
    '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
    TilE LAST MA~. 81

    clouded; cl'ery gesturc spoke astonishment and


    uismay.
    " ' ith an heavy heart I entered the palace,
    and stood fearful to ad"ance, to speak, to look.
    In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat 011

    the marble pavcm en~ her head fall en 011 her


    bosom, her hair disheyelled, her fingers twined
    busily one within the other; she wns pale as

    marble, and every feature was contracted by


    agony. She perech'ed me, and looked up en-
    quiringly j her 11111£ glance of hope was misery;
    the word s died before I could articulate them ; I
    felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She under-
    stood my gesture; again her he:ld fell; ngain her
    fingers worked restlessly. A t last I recovered
    speech, but my ,'oice terrified her; the hapless
    girl had understood my look, and for ,\"Orlds she
    would not that the taleofher heavy misery sllould
    hnyc been shaped out and confirmed by hanh
    irrevocable words. Nay, she seemoo to wi~h to
    distract my thoughts from the subject: she rose
    from the floor: "Hush!" she said, whisperingly ;
    E 3
    82
    U after much Wet:!pillg, Clara sleeps; we rum.'
    not disturb her." She scated her~lfthen on the
    same ottoman where I had leCt her in the morning
    resting on the beating heart oC her Raymond;
    ] dared not approach her, but sat at a distant
    corner, watching her starjing and nervous ges-
    hires. A t length, in an abrupt manner she
    asked, H 'Vhere is he?"
    H 0, fear not,'" she continued, "fear not that
    I should entertain hope! Yet tell me, hayc
    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 lind him-then coYer
    us with the city's weight, with a mountain piled
    above-I carc not. so that one grave hold Ray~

    mond and his Perdita." Then weeping, she


    clung to me: "Take me to him," she cried,
    "unkind Lionel, why do you keep me here P
    Of myself I cannot find him-but you know
    where he lies-lead me thither."
    At first these agonizing plaints filled me with
    THY. L AST :'II.\~.

    intolerable compassion. Dut 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, an:.!.
    my disappointment. Turning her thoughts this
    way, I gave them an object which rescued them
    fl'om insanity. 'Vith apparent calmness she
    discussed with me the probable spot where he
    might be found, :lnd planned the means we
    should usc for that purpose. Then h earing of
    my fatigue and abstinence, she llerself hrought
    1115 food. I seizt'd the favourable moment, and
    endea\'ouroo to awaken in her something beyond
    the killing torpor of grief, A s I spoke, my
    subject carried mc away; deep admiration; griet~
    the offspring of truest affcction, the o\'erAowing
    of It heart bursting with sympathy for aU that
    had been great and sublime in the career of my
    friend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises
    of Raymond.
    U Alas, for us," I cried, H who have lost this
    late$t honour of the world! Beloved Raymond !
    He is gone to the nations of the dead; he 11a5
    become one of those, who render the dark abode
    of the obscure gra\'e iU(lstriotis by (ilvelling
    there. lIe has journied (In the road tllat It'ads
    to it, and joined the mighty of soul who went
    before him. \Vlicn the world was in its illf~ncy

    death must have been terrible, and man left his


    friends and kindred to dwell, n soli'tar." stranger,
    in an unknown country, nut nolV, he who
    dies finds many companions gone before to pre.
    pare for his reception. The great of past age!!
    people ii, the exalted hero of our own duys is
    counted among its inh(\bitallt~, while life becomes
    doubly' the desart and the solitude.'
    "'Vhat a nohle cr~ature was Haym~nd, thc
    first among the mcn of Ollr time. By the gran-
    deur 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 accusro.; but his death hal;
    cancelled that. I han heard him called incon.
    stant of purpo~e-when he deserted, [or the sake
    TilE LAST )IXS. 85

    of love, the hope of soycrcignty, nnd whcn he


    abdicated the protectorship of :England, men
    blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death
    has crownC'd his life, and to the end of time it
    will be remembered, that he de\'otoo himsclf, a
    willing \'ictim, to the glory of Grccc('. Such
    was hii choice: he eXIl('cted to die. He foresaw
    that he should leave this cheerful earth, the
    lightsome Eky, and thy love, Perdita; yet he
    neither he.;itated or turned back, going right
    onwartl to his mark of fame. " ' hile the earth
    lasts, his actions ",ill be recorded with praise.
    Gn.'Cinn maidens will in de\'otion strew flowers
    on his tomb, and make the nit around it resonant
    with p. . ttriotic
    . hYlllns, in which hi .. namc "ill filill
    high record ....
    I s..1.W the fea:urcs of rCl'ditn soften; the
    sternness of gricf yielded to tcndcrness-I con_
    tinued. :_H Thus to honour him, is the s..'\Crcd
    dUly of his survivors. '1'0 make his !lame eYCll

    as an holy spot of ground, enclosing it from all


    hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the
    86 THE LAST MAS.

    blossoms of Jove 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; joy.
    ing to view in this living temple a manifestation
    of your eternal loves. Even such is she stilI.
    You say that you have lost Raymond. 0, 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 check and delicate limbs, nn
    affinity to Jlaymond, but in her enthusiastic
    affections, in the sweel qualities of her mind,
    you may still find him living, the good, the
    great, the belovcd. He it your care to foster
    this similarity-be it .your care to rendcr 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
    THE LAST M .... N. 87
    sister's thoughts to her duties in life, she did llot
    listen with the same pntience as bC'fore. Sht'
    :tppearcd to suspect a plan of consobtion on my
    part, from which sht', cherishing her new-born
    grief, revolted. "You talk of the futute," she .
    said, "while the present is all to me. Let me
    find the earthly dwelling of my belond; let us
    rescue that from common dllst, so that in time!
    to come men llIay point to the sacred tomb, and
    name it his-then to other thoughts, nnd a new
    cour~e of life, or what else fate, in her crud
    tyranny, may have marked out for me."
    After a short repose I prepared to le:LYe her.
    that I might endeavour to accomplish her wi sh.
    In the mean time we were joined by Clnra, whose
    pallid check and 5cm·ed look shewed lhc deep
    iplprcssion grief hac! made on her young mind .
    She secmed to be full of something to which she
    could not give words; but, seizing an opportu-
    nity afforded by Perdita's absence, she prefelTed
    to me an earnest prayer, that. I would take he)"
    within view of the gate at which her father had
    8S THE LAST llA~.

    entered Constantinople. She promised to com.


    mit no cxlra\'agance, to be docile, nnd imme.
    diatcly to return. I could not refusc; for Clara
    was not an ordinary chi\d; her sensibility and
    intelligence seemed already to have endowed her
    with the rights of womanhood. 'Vith her there-
    fore, before me on my horse, attended only by
    the servant who was to re-conduct 11cr, we rode
    to the Top Kapou. 'Ve found a party of sol.
    diers gathered round it. They were listening.
    U They arc human cries," said one: "More like
    the howling of a dog," replied another; and
    again tllf'y 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." vVhatc\,cr Clara's intention
    had been in asking to be brou~ht hithel', it was
    balked by the prescnce of the soldiers. 'VitI!
    earnest gaze she looked on the labYlinth of
    smoking piles which had been a city, and then
    expressed her readiness to return home. At this
    TilE I. •\ST MAN. 89
    moment a melancholy howl struck 011 our cars;
    it was repented; "Hark 1" cried Clara, H he is
    there ; that is Florio, my father'S dog." It
    seemed to me impossible that she coukl recognise
    th e sound, but she persisted in her fiSscrtion till
    she gained credit with the crowd about. At least
    it would be a benevolent action to rescue the
    !llIffcrer, wh ether hmmm or brute, from the
    desolation of the town; so, sending Chua hack to
    her home, I again entered Constantinople. En-
    cour~ffCd by the impunity attclldanton my former
    \;SLt, sc\'eral soldiers who had made a part of
    Haymond's body guard, who had lo\'ed him, and
    sincerely moumcd his loss, accompanied me.
    It is impossible to conjecture the strange en-
    chninmcnt of e\'ents 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 Haymond crouchcd
    beside the mutilated foml of its lord. At such
    ... time sorrow has no yoice; nffiiction, tamed by
    90 THE LA.ST lo(AN.

    its very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal


    recognised mc, licked my hand, crept close to
    its lord, and die..). He had been evidently
    thrown from his horse by some fa11ing ruin,
    which had crushed his head, and defaced hi!!.
    ,..hole person. I bent over the body, and took
    in my IHlnd the edge of his cloak. less altered in
    appearance tban the 11.11man fmme it clothed.
    I pressed it to my lips, while the rough sold!crs
    gathered around, mourning over this worthiest
    prey of death, as if regret and endless lamenta-
    tion oould re.illumine the extinguished spark, or
    call to its shattered prison-llOuse of flesh the
    liberated spirit. Yesterday those limbs were
    worth an universe; they then enshrined a {ran·
    sccndant power, whose intents, words, and actions
    were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold;
    now the supel'stition of affection alone could gh'e
    value to the shattered mechanism, which, in-
    capablc and clod. like, no more resembled Ray_
    mond, than the fallcn rain is like the former
    mansion of cloud in which it climbed the highest.
    TilE LAST )fAN. 91
    skies, wlli gilded by the sun, attracted al1 eyes,
    3nd satiated the sense by its excess of beauty.
    Such as he had now become, sllch as was his
    terrene vesture, defaced and spoiled, we wrapt
    it in our cloaks, a.nd lifting the burthcn in our
    anus, 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; hcre 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.
    ' Vc cut branches of the funereal tree! and
    placed them over him, and on these again hi~
    s,,·ord. I left a guard to protect t.his treasure of
    dust ~ and ordered perpetunl torches to be burned
    around.
    ' Vhen I returned to Perdita, I fouad that
    she had already been informed of the success of
    Illy undertaking. lIe, her beloved, the sole and
    eternal object of her passionate te:lderness, ,,'as
    rcstored her. Sl1ch was the maniac language
    THE LAST lrAX.

    of her enthusiasm. 'Vhat though those limbs


    moved not. and those lips could no more frame
    l1l<xlulatcd accents oC wisdom and love! 'Vhat
    though like a weed tlung from the fruitless !:!e~

    he lay the prey of corruption-still that was the


    fonn she had caressed, those the lips that meeting
    hers, had drank the spirit of love from the
    commingling breath i that was the earthly me-
    chanism of ilissoluble clay she had called her
    own. 'Crue, she looked forward to another
    life; true, the bunting spirit of love seemed to
    he,.. unextinguishablc throughout eternity. Yet
    at this time, with human fondm~ss, she clung to
    all U1£lt her human senses perl1litted her to see
    and fC('1 to be a pn1't of Rnymnnrl.
    PaJe as marble, clear and beaming as that,
    l:ihe heard my talc, and enquired concerning the
    spot where he had been deposited. Her features
    had lost the distortion of grief; her eyes were
    brightened, her ,'ery person seemed dilated;
    while the excessive whiteness and c\'en trans-
    pqrency. of her skin, and something hollow in
    TilE LAST i\'1.1N.

    hel' voice, borc witness that not trnnquiility, but


    excess of excitement, occasioned the treacherous
    calm Ihat settled on her countenance. I asked
    her where he should be buricd. She replied.
    " At Athens j cven at the Athens which he
    ioyed. 'Vithout the town, on the acclivity of
    H ymeltus, 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 thut he should
    110t be remm'ed from the spot where he oow
    lay. But her wish was of COl:rsc to be complied
    with; and I entreated her to prepare without de-
    lay for our departure..
    Dehold now the melancholy train cross the
    flat s of Thrace, and wind through thc ddlles,
    :llld o\'er the mountains of Macedonia, coast the
    clear waves of the P eneus, cross thc Larissron
    plain, pass the straits of Thennopylrc, and nsccnd_
    ing in succession CErta and P arnassus, descend to
    tie fertile plain of Athens. " romcn bcar with
    resignation these long drawn ills, but to a m:m's
    94 THE LAST WAN.

    impatient spirit, the slow motion of our caval.


    cade, 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 Ra.ymond, the monotonous lC-

    currence 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.
    'Ve descended from rarnassus, emerging
    from its mnny folds, and passed through Liya~

    din on QlIr ro.-td to Attica. Perdita would


    not enter Athens; but reposing at Marathon
    on the night of our arrival, condw::ted me on
    the following day. to the spot selected by her tiS

    the treasure house or Raymond's denr remains.


    It 'vas in a recess near the head of the rarine to
    the south of Hymcttus. The chasm, deep,
    THE LAST lrA)/".

    black, and ho..'lry, swept from the sum mit 1.0 thc
    b.'\sc; in the fissures of the rock myrtle under-
    wood grew and wild thyme, the food of mllny
    nations of bees j enormous crags protruded into
    tTle cleft, some beetling over, otbers rising per-
    pcndiculo.rly from it. At the foot of this sub-
    lime chasm, a fertile laughing valley rroched
    from sen to sea, and beyond was spread the blue
    lEg-can, sprinkled with island!') 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 0. no.tore-hewn pyramid; with
    little labour this block was reduced to a perfect
    shape; the narrow cell wns scooped out beneath
    in which Raymont} was placed, and a short in-
    scription, carved ill the Jiving stOllC, recorded
    the Dame of its tenant, the c.'\lISC and rera of his
    death.
    Every thing was accomplished with. speed
    under my directions. I agreed to leaye the
    finishing amI guardianship of the tomb to the

    f
    DG TIlE LAST MAN.

    head of the religious establishment at Athens,


    and by the end of October prepared for my re-
    turn to England. I mentioned this to Perdita.
    It was painful to appear to drag her from the
    last scene t113t spoke of her lost one; but to
    linger here was , 'ain, and my very soul was sick
    with its yearning to rejoin my Idris and her
    babes. In reply, my sister requested me to ac-
    company her tile following evcuing 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 le':!s
    circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the
    platform on which the pyramid stood ,;as en·
    larged, 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 commence-
    ment of a cottage; standing on its unfinished
    threshold, the tomb was at our right-hand, the
    whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea imme_
    diately before us; the dark rocks received a
    TilE LA3T MAS.

    glow from the descending SUIl, which glanced


    along the cultivated valley, anel dyed in purple
    and orange the placid waves; wc sat Oil n rocky
    elcvation, anel I gazed with rapture on the beau_
    teous panornma of living nnd changeful colours,
    which varied and enhanced the graces of earth
    nnd ocean.
    U Did I not do rlgllt," said rerdita, " in
    having my 10"'ed one conveyed hither ? Here-
    after this will be the cynosure of Grecce. In
    such a spot death loses half its terrors, ami
    even the inanimate dust appears to p.,rtake of
    the spirit of beauty which hallows this region.
    Lionel, he sleeps there; that is the g rn..·c of
    Raymond, he whom in my youth I first lovoo;
    whom my heart accompanied in days of scpam-
    tion and nngel'; to whom I am now joined for
    ever . Never-mark me-never 'will I lenve this
    spot. Methinks his spirit remains here as well
    as that dust. which, uncommunicnble though it
    be, is more precious in its nothingness than
    aught else widowed earth clasps to hcr sorrowi ng
    VOL. lI. F
    VB THE LAST MA~.

    hosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the


    little cyclamen, which peep from the fissures. of
    the rock, all the produce of the place, bear
    aninity to him; the light that im'csts the hills
    participates ill his essence, and sky and moun-
    tains, sea and valley, are imbued by thc presence
    of his spirit. I will live and die here!
    H Go you to England, Lionel; relum to
    sweet Idris and dearest Adrian; rcturn, and l('t
    my orphan girl be as a child of your own in
    your house. Look on me ns 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 dl'ag out the
    miserable days whieh T mllst still live."
    A shower of tears terminated her sad
    harangue. I had expected some exlra,'agant
    proposition, and remained silent awhile, collect-
    ing my thoughts that I might the bener comba.t
    THE L .\ ST i\U~,

    her fanciful scheme, "You cheri!'h dreary


    though18, my dear l>erdila," I said, H nor do I
    wonder that for a timc your better reason should
    be inAuenccd by passionatc grief and n dis-
    turbed imagination. E\'en I am in lo\'e with
    this last home of Raymond's; ncvertheless we
    must quit it,"
    U I expected this," cried Perdita; " I ~ lIp­
    posed that you would treat. mc as a mad, foolish
    girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage
    is built by my order; and hel'c I shaH remain,
    until the hour arrives when I may share his hap--
    pier dwelling," ..
    U My dearest girl!"
    H And what is there so strange in my design?
    I might havc deceived YOll; I might havc talked
    of l'emnilling herc only n few months; in your
    anxiety to reach ' Vindsor you would have left
    mc, and without reproach or conten tion, I lllight-
    havc pursued my plan, But I disdained thc .
    artifice; or rathel' in my wretchedness it was my
    only consolation to pour out my heart to you,
    100 THE LAST ?IAN.

    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 com-
    mit."
    "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 onc solution to the in-
    tricate riddle of life; to improve ourselves, and
    . contribute to the happiness of others: and now,
    in the very prime of life, you desert your prin_
    ciples, and shut yourself up in useless solitude.
    THE LA ST MA~. 101

    'Vill you think of Raymond less at 'Vindsor,


    the scene of your early happiness? 'Viii you
    commune less with his departed spirit, while )iOU
    watch over and cultivate the rare excellence of
    his child? You have been sadly vh.ited; nor
    do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should
    drive you to bitter and unreasonable imagin -
    ings. But n home of love awaits you in your
    nati \ 'C England. 1\:1y tenderness and affection
    must soothe you; the society of Raymond's
    friends will be of more solace than thesc
    dreary speculations. ,"Ye will all make it our
    first C!lre, 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 mattcr 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 j I live by it.
    The knowledge that I am here, rises with me in
    the morning, and enables me to endure the
    102 THE T.AST MAN.

    light; it 15 mingled with my food, which else


    were poison; it walks, it sleeps with me, fOT

    cwr 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 Ilavc 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, Ulan, having been the
    chosen and beloved of his heart, here, ill youth's
    prime, before added years can tarnish the best
    feclings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and -
    !'peedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.
    " So mucb, my dearest Lionel, I lla\'E' said,
    wishing to persuade you that I do right. If
    you arc unconvinced, I can add nothing further
    by way of argument, and I can only declare my
    fixed resolve. I stay here; force only can re·
    move me. Be it so; drag me awny- I return ;
    confine me, imprisoll me, still I {'sea1le, 3nd come
    here. Or would my brother ralher devote the
    heart-.brokcn Perdita to the straw and chains of
    TIlE LAST AlAN. 103

    a maniac, dum suffer her to rcst in peace beneath


    the shadow of IIis society , in this my own selected
    and beloved recess ?"-
    All thili appeared to me, I own, methodized
    madness. I imagined, that it wns 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 circ1e at 'Vindsor,
    she would rcoover some degree of composure,
    and in the end, of happiness. :My nffection fur
    Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams of
    cherished grief; her sensi bility had alr('ady been
    too much excited; her infant heedlessness too
    1>0011 exchnnged for deep and anxious thought.
    The strnn~ nnd romantic SC' h C'IllP of I:er mothe!',
    might confirm and perpetuate the painful yjew of
    life, which had intruded itself thus carlyon her
    contemplation.
    On returning home, the captain of the steam
    packet ,,>jth whom I had agreed to s:lil, cnme to
    tell me, that accidental circumstanccs hastened
    his oeparture, and that, if I wcnt with him, J
    104 THE J,A!I;T MAN.

    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 be-
    come my companion. I believe that most people
    in my situation would have acted in the same
    manner. Y ct this consideration does not, or
    rather did not in after time, diminish the re-
    proaches 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 P erdita and soothed her, by my
    seeming assent to her wild scheme. She received
    my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand
    ti mes over thanked hor deceiving, deceitful
    brother. As night came on, her spirits, en-
    livened by my unexpected concession, regained
    an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to
    be alarmed by the feverisll glow in her cheek ;
    I entreated her to take a composing draught;
    I poured out the med!cine, which she took
    docilely from me. I watched her as she drank
    THE LAST WAN. lOG

    it. Falsehood antI artifice arc in themselves so


    hateful, that, though I still thought I llill 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 ule en-
    gine to assist, we scudded swiftly and steadily
    through the chafed element.
    It was late in the day before Perdita
    awoke, and a 10nger time elapsed before re-
    covering from the torpor occasioned by . the
    laudanum, she perceived her change of situa_
    tion. She started wildly from her couch, and
    flew to the cabin window. The b1ue 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
    ,. 3
    106 THE LAST ~I.i\N.

    above, all persuaded her that she wns already


    far from the shores of Grcece.-" Where arc
    we?" she cried, H where are we going ?"-
    The nttendaot whom J had stationed to watch
    hel', replied, "to England."-
    " Alld my brother t"-
    " Is on deck, Madam."
    II Unkind! unkind!n exclaimed the poor \'ic-
    tim, as with a deep sigh she looked on the waste
    of wntel'S. Then without further remark, she
    threw herself on her couch, and dosing her eyes
    remained motionless; so that but fOl' 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 gemle and affectionate
    thoughts. flut neither the presence of her
    child, nor n subsequent visit from mc, could rouse
    my sister. She looked on Clara with a countc·
    nance of woful meaning, but she did not speak.
    VVhen I appeared, she turned away, and ill re.
    THE LA ST )IAN. 107

    ply to my enquiries, only said, H You knuw


    1I0t what you have done '''-I trusted that 1hi:;.
    sullennCisbctokcncd merely tIle struggle betwccn
    dis.'lppointment and natural aOection, and tht'lt

    in n fell' days she would be reconciled to her


    fate.
    " 'hen night ca.mc on, she begged that Clara
    might sleep in a separate cabin. Her servant,
    hOWe\'cl', remaincd with hcr. About midnight
    she spoke to the latter, snying that she had had
    a bad dl'Crun, and bade her go to her daughter,
    and bring word whether she rested quietly.
    The woman ohcyed.
    Thc bl'CCZC, that had flagged SInce sunset,
    now rose again. I was on deck, cnjoying our
    swift progress. The quiet was disturbed only
    by the rush of watcrs as they divided before
    the steady keel, the murmur of the movclcss
    and full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds.
    and the regular motion of the engine. The sea
    was gently agitated, now shew ing n whitc crest,
    and now rcsuming an uniform hue; the clouds
    lOB TH E LAST )lAN.

    had disappeared; and dark ether clipt the broad


    ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought
    their accustomed mirrQ.r. OUl' rute could not
    hayc been less than eigh t knots.
    Sllddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The
    Rai lars on watch rushed to the side of the vessel,
    with the cry-some one gone overboard. HIt
    is not from deck," said the man at the helm,
    " somt:thing 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.
    ,Yilh S.1.ils abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel
    remained unwillingly stationary, until, after an
    hou r's search, my poor Perdita was brought on
    board. Bu t no care could re-animate her, no
    medicine cause her dear eyes to OPCD, and the
    hlood to fl ow again from her pulseless heart.
    One clenched hand contained a slip of papcr~ on
    which was written, "To Athens." To ensure
    her lcmoyal thither, and prevent the irrecover-
    able lo::>s of her body in the wide sea, she had
    TIIF. LAST "AN. 100
    had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round
    her waist, and again to the staunch ions 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 ilI.starred girl died a victim to my
    senseless rashness. Thus, in carly day, ~h e left
    us for thc 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. Thu s in her
    twenty-ninth year she died; having enjoyed
    somc few years of the happiness of paradise, and
    sustaining a rcnfSC 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 rC'gret, that it was beUf'r to die so,
    than to.dIng on long, miserable years of repining
    and inconsolable grief.
    110 THE T,AST "'l"\~.

    Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic


    Gulph; and. our vessel being hardly fitted to
    weather a Etorm, we took refuge in the port of
    Ancona. Here I met Georgia ralJi, the "ice·
    ntlmiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and
    wai1.n partizan of Raymond. I committed the
    remains of my lost Perdita to his carc, for the pur~
    pose of having them transported to Hymcttus,
    and placed in the cell her Raymond already
    occupied beneath the pyramid. 'fhis was aU
    Ilccomplislled even as I wished. She rCJX>Scd
    beside her bclo"c~l, and the tomb above was in-
    scribed with the ullitlod Il~nes of Haymond and
    l'erdita.
    I dHm came to tl resolution of pursuing Ollr

    journey to England overland. My own heart


    was rnckcd by rC'grcts and remorse. The appre_
    hension, tllat Haymond hnd departcd for eycr,
    thnt lus name, blended eternally with the past,
    must be- erased from eycry anticipation of the
    future, had come slowly upon mc. I had 111-
    THl::: LAST liAS. 111

    ways admil'e<i his tnlents; his nohle aspirations;


    his grand ('onceptions of the glory and mtlj~ty
    of his ambition: his utter want of mean l)a~
    sians; hi s fortitude and daring. Tn Grcccc I
    had leal'U1 to love Ilim ; his very waywardness,
    ami sc1f·nb.'l.ndonment to the impulses of super-
    stition, aUached me to him doubly ; it might be
    weakness, but it was the antipcKlcs of an thal was
    gl'O\'elling aml selfish . To these pangs were
    added the loss of Perdita, lost through my own
    nccursro self-will and conceit. This dear onc,
    my sole relation; whose progress I had marked
    from tender childhood through the varied path
    of life, :md seen her throllghout conspicuous for
    integrity, de\'otion, and true affection; for nIl
    that constitutes the peculiar graces of the femal e
    character, and beheld her at Inst the victim of
    [00 much loving, too constant an attachmcnt to
    thcpcrishnble and lost, she, in her pride ofbenuty
    and life, had thrown aside the plensnnt percep-
    tion of the appm"Cnt world for the unreality of
    the gra\'e, and had left poor Clara quite no
    11~ THE LAST MAX.

    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. I ts hateful splash renewed again and again
    to my sense the death of my sister; its roar was
    a dirge; in every dark huH 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 !he 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 cur-
    rent 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;
    113

    the ether opens before the prow, Ilud the shado'w


    of the globe that. upholds it, shelters us from
    the noon-day sun. Beneath nre the plnins of
    Iuly, or the vast undulations of the wave-like
    Apennines: fertility reposes in their many folds,
    Rnd 'Woods crown the summits. The free and
    happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian,
    benfs the double harvest to the garner; and the
    refined citizens rear wiUlOut dread the long
    blighted tree of knowledge in this gn.rdcn of
    the world. ,V c 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 f('.athered wings, and closed the silken
    globe of our little pinnace. A heavy rain made
    this mode of travelling nuw 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
    beforr, a tempest_struck vessel had appeared off
    the town: the hull was parched-looking and
    114 THE LAST lIlAN.

    cracked, the sails rent, and bent 1il a careless,


    unscamanlike manner, the shrouds tangled and
    broken. She ~riftcd 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 appearro to have arrived with her.
    I-Ie had got to shore, and had walked n few
    pnces towards the town, and theil, vanquished by
    malady and approaching death, had fallen on
    the inhospitable beach. He was fOllnd stiff, his
    hands clenched, and pressed against his breast.
    His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and
    bristly brol'd, were signs of a long protracted
    misery. It was whispered tlmt he had died of
    the plague. No one ventured on board the ves-
    sel, and stl'tlnge sights wcrc averred to be seen
    lit night, walking the deck, and hanging on the
    masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces.;
    I was shewn where she had becn, nnd saw her
    di!>joined timbers tossed on tllC wnves. The
    body of the Ulan who had landed, had been
    TilE LAST i\IAN. 115

    huried deep in the sands i and nOlle could tell


    more, than that the vessel was A Illcrican built,
    and that several months before the Fortunatus
    had sailed from Philadelphia, or which no
    tidings were n.rterwards received.
    116 THE LAST )lAS.

    CHAPTER IV.

    I RETURNEll to my family estate in the autumn


    of the year 2092. l\IY heart had long been with
    them; and I felt sickwith the hope and delight
    of seeing them again. The district which con.
    tained them appeared the abode of every kindly
    spirit. Happiness, Jove and peace, walked the
    forest paths, and tempered the ntmol'lphere.
    Mtcr all the agitation and sorro\v I had endured
    in Greece, I sought 'Vindsor, ns the storm.driven
    bird docs 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 LAST MAN. 117

    the world eall H life;'-that labyrinth of evil,


    that scheme of mutual torture. To live, accord.
    ing to this sense of the word, we must not only
    observe and learn, we must also fecI; we must
    nol be mere spectators of :letioD, we must act;
    we must not describe, but be subjects of descrip-
    tion. Deep sorrow mllst have been the inmate
    of our bosoms; fraud must have Jain in wait for
    us; the ol'tful must have deceived us; sickcning
    doubt and raise hope must have chcquercd our
    days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in
    ccltasy, must at times have possessed us. 'Vho
    that knows whnt "life" is, would pine for this
    feverish species of cxistence? I have lived. I
    have spent days alltl. nights of fcstivity; Illavc
    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. Lct
    us livc for each other and for happiness; let us
    seek pence in our dear home, ncar the inland
    murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of
    118 'IIIE 1.AST MAN.

    trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sub.


    lime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave H life,"
    that we may live.
    Idris was well content with this resolve of
    mine. Her native sprightliness needed no undue
    excitement, and her placid henrt reposed COll-

    tented on my love, the wen-being of hel' children,


    a.nd the beauty of surrounding nature. Her
    pride and blameless ambition was to create smiles
    in aU around her, and to shed repose on the Ira-
    gile existence of her brother. In spite of her
    tender nursing, the 11calth of Adrian perceptibly
    declined. \Valking, riding, the common occu-
    pations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain,
    but seemed to tremble for ever on the n~rgc of
    aunihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months
    nearly in the same state, he did not inspire li S

    with uny immcdintc fenr; nnd, though he talked


    of death as nil 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.
    TilE J.AST :11 .\:-:. llD

    " 'inll'r passed away; and sl}!'ing, led hy the


    month!', awakened life in all nat\lI'e. The fore!!t
    was dressed ill green; the young eal\'(.'s fl'isked
    on the new.sprllng grnss; the" intl-\\ ingcd shn-
    OOW8 of light clouds sped over the green rom-
    fields; the hermit cuckoo repeated his mono-
    tonous all_hail to the season; the nightingale,
    bird or love anti minion of the e\'cning star, filled
    the woods with song; while Venus lingered in
    the \l"orm sunset, und the young grcen of the
    trL'CS lny in gentle relief along the clear horizon,
    Delight awoke in £very heart, delight and
    exultation; for there WaS peace through nil the
    world j the temple of Universal Jnnus WaS shut,
    and man died not that yenr by the hand of mnr. .
    "Let this last but t\\'elve months," said
    Adrian; "and earlh will become a Paradise.
    The enel'gics of man were before directed to the
    destruction of his species: they now aim at its
    liOcI'tltion and preservation. l\Ian cannot re~e,

    and his restless aspirations will now bling Forth


    good instead of evil. The favoured countries
    l~O THY. LAST )IA~.

    of the south will throw off the iron yoke of ser-


    vitude; poverty will quit us, and with that,
    sickness. 'Vhnt may not the forces, never before
    united, of liberty nnd peace nehieve in this
    dwelling of man?
    "Dreaming, for ever dreaming, 'Vindsor !"
    said RyJaud, the old adversary of Raymond,
    and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing
    eJection. "Be assured that earth is not, nor
    ever can be heaven, while the seedi of hell are
    natives of her soil. 'Vhen the seasons have
    become cqunl, when the air breeds no disorders,
    when its surface is nalonger liable to blights and
    droughts, then sickness will cease; when men's
    passions arc dead, poverty will depart. 'Vhen
    love is no longer akin to hate, then brotherhood
    will exist.: we 3rc very far from that state at
    present."
    " Not so far as you may StlPPOSC," observed
    a liltle old astronomer, by name l\Ierrivtll, "the
    poles precede slowly, but · ecurcly; in an hundred
    thousand ycars-"
    TilE LAST MAX, 121

    H We ~h a ll all be underground ," said Hybml.


    " The }Xlle of the earth will coincide with the
    pole of the ecliptic," continuec' the astl'OnOlller,
    " an universal spring will be produced. anti earth
    become a paradise."
    " And \\'C shall of course enjoy the benefit
    of the change," said Ryland, contemptuously.
    " '" e have strange news here," I observed
    I haclthc newspaper in my hand, and, us usual,
    had tllrned to the intelligence from Greece... It
    seems that the total destruction of COilS tan tina pIe,
    and the supposition that winter had purified the
    air of the fallen city, gave the Grech courage
    to visit its site, and begin to rebuild it. llut
    they tell u'> that the curse of God. is on the place,
    for everyone who has ventured within the walls
    has bC'('n tainted by the plag uc; that this disease
    has spl'end in Thrace and 1\IDcC'<\onia ; and now,
    fearing the virulence of iufl'Ction during the
    coming heats, a cordon has been clrawn on the
    fronticrs of Thessaly, and a st rict quarantine
    exacted."
    VOL, n. G
    1~2 THE L.\ Sr )IAX.

    This intelligence brought us ba.ck 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. ' Ve talked
    of the ravages made last year by pestilence in
    every quarter of the world; and of the dreadful
    consequences of a second visitation. lVe dis-
    cussed the best means of preventing infe<:tion,
    and of preserving health and activity in a large
    city thus afflicted- London, for instance. Mer_
    rival did not join in this conversation; dra.wing
    near Idris, he proceeded to assure 11er that the
    joyful prospect of an earthly paradise after an
    hundred thousand years, was clouded to him
    by the kno,,'ledge that in a certain period of
    time after, ao earthly hell or purgatory, 'Would
    occur, when the ecliptic and equator would be
    at right angles.· Our party at length broke
    \Jp; U 'Ve nre all dreaming this morning," said

    • See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The M)·thological


    A~tronomy of the Ancients Demonstrated,l' by Mackey, a
    shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822.
    TilE LA ST MAN. 1!!3

    nyland, " 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 hrre
    in the open air."
    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 :Bnglish
    for the most part talked . of Thrace and Mace.
    donia, as they would of a lunar territory, which,
    unknown to them, presented no distinct idea or
    interest to the minds. 1 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 hauoted me, is
    the plagnc there also?- That same in'Yinciblc
    12-1 THE LAST JUAN.

    monster, which hovered oyer and devoured Con.


    stantinople -thatficnd more cruel than tempest,
    less tame than fire, is, alas, unchained in that
    beautiful country-these reSections would not
    allow me to rest.
    The political state of England became agitated
    as the time drew ncar when the new rrotector
    was to be elected. This event excited the more
    interest, since it was the current report, thnt
    if the popular candidate (Ryland) should be
    chosen, the question of the abolition ofhcrcditary
    rank, and other feudal relics, would come under
    the consideration of parliament. Not a word had
    been spoken during the present session on aI1Y
    of these topics. Every thing would depend
    upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections
    of the ensuing year. Yet this very silence wns
    awful, shewing the deep weight attributed to
    the question; the fcar of either party to hazard
    an ill.timed attack, and tIle expectation of a
    furious contention when it should begin.
    nut although St. Stephen's did not et:110 with
    Tli F: LA ST )("~. 10_0-

    the \'oiee which filled e.....ch heart, thc newspapers


    teemcd with nothing else; nnd in pri\'ate com.
    panics the con\'er&ntion howcvcr remotely begun,
    SOOIl \'erged towards this central point, while
    voices were lowered and chairs drawn doser. The
    nobles did not hesitate to express their fenr; the
    other »31'1y endeavoured to treat tIle maller
    lightly . "Shame on the country," said Ry_
    land, "to lay so much stress upon words
    and frippery; it is a question of nothing; of
    the new painting of carriagc-pannels and the
    ~ mb roide ry of footmen's coats."
    Yet could England indeed doff her lot'(1Iy
    trappings, nnd be content with the democratic
    style of America? 'Vere the pride of ancestry,
    ule patrician spirit, the gentle comtcsies nnd re-
    fined pu rsuits, splendid aUt'ibules of rank, to be
    erased among us? 'Ve were told that this would
    not be the case ; that we were by nnture a poeti -
    cal people, a nation easily duped by words,
    ready to nrray clouds in splendour, and bestow
    IWllour on the dust. This spirit we could newr
    •

    lQG THE LAST MAN.

    lose; and it was to diffuse this concentrated


    spirit of birth, that the new law was to be
    brought forward. \Vc were asslired that, when
    the name and title of Englishman was the sole
    patent of nobility, we should all be noble j that
    when no man born under English sway, felt
    another his superior in rank, courtesy and re.-
    finement would become the birth-right of all our
    countrymen. Let not England be so far dis-
    b"raced, as to have it imagined that it can be
    without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear
    their patent in their mien, whoarcfrom their cradle
    elevated above the rest of their species, because
    they arc bettcx thl1n the reat. 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 n 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
    •

    Tin: LA ST M.,"X. l Q7
    society ; " they appealed to prejudices without
    number, to old attachments and young hopes ;
    to the expectation of thousnnds 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'5 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 energ ies, bent before towards the
    highest objects of hUllluu tIIuLiliull, were now
    forced to converge to onc point, the guarding
    3gainst the innumerous arrO\,\:s of the plague.
    At any other time this disaster would ha\'c
    excited extreme compassion among us; but it
    was now passed over, while each mind was en .
    gaged by the coming controversy. It was not
    so with me; and the question of. rank and right
    •

    128 THE LAST M.\:tJ',

    dwindled to insignificance in my eyes, when [


    pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I heard
    of the death of only sons; of wives and hus-
    bands 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 know.
    ledge of the persons, by my esteem and affection
    for the suffcrer~. .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 un.
    distinguishing tomb.
    The plague at Athens had been pt'ecooed
    and caused by the contagion from the East;
    and the scene of havoc and death continued to
    be acted there, on a scole of fearful magnitude.
    A hope that the visiution of the present year
    would prove the last, kept lip the spirits of the
    merchants connected with these cOllntries; but
    THE LAS1' MAN. l!!'J

    the inhabitants were dri\'en to despair, or to a


    resignation which, arising from fanaticism, as-
    sumed the same dark hue. America had also
    l'E'ccivoo the taint; and, were it yellow fever (II'

    plague, the epidemic was gifted with a virulence


    before unfelt The devastation was not confined
    to the towns, but spread throughout the coun_
    try; the bunter died in the woods, the peasant
    ill the corn_fields, and the fisher on his nati\'e
    waters.
    A strange story was broltght to us from the
    East, to which little credit would have been
    given, had not the fact been attested by a mul.
    titude of witnesses, in variolls parts of the
    world. On the twenty-first of .Junc, 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 shado\vs, ascctlded from th.e
    'west; in about an hour it had reached the
    meridian, and eclipsed the bright pnrent of
    day. Night fell upon every country, night,

    Go 3
    ISO THE LAST M.H.'.

    sudden, rayless, entire. 'fhc stars came out,


    shedding their ineffectual glimmetings on the
    light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb
    passed from over the SUD, and lingered down
    the eastern heaven. As it d~sc::ended, its dusky
    rays crossed the brilliant ones of the SUll, 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 collvulsion
    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. Gra~

    dually the object of fear sank beneath the


    horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy beams
    into the otherwise radiant nil'. Such was the
    tale sent us from Asia, from the eastern extre-
    mity ot Europe, and from Afrie'\ as far west as
    the ·Golden Coast.
    THE LA$T )IAN. 131

    'Vhether this story were troc or not, the


    effects were certain. Through Asio, from the
    oonks of the Nile to the shores of the Ca.spian,
    from the Hellespont even to th e SC3 of Omar,
    a sudden panic was driven. The men SlIed the
    moaques; the women, veiled, hastened to the
    tombs, and Conned offerings to the dead, thus
    to preserve the living. The plague was forgut-
    ten, in this new fear which the black sun had
    spread; ond, though the dead multiplietJ, and
    the streets of I spahan, of P ekin, nnd of Delhi
    were strewed with pestilence-struck corpses,
    men passed on, gazing on the ominous sky,
    regardless of the death beneath their fect. Th('
    christians sought their churches,- christian
    maidens, even at the feast of roses, clad in
    white, with shining veils, sought, in long pro.
    cession, the places consecrated to their religion,
    filling the air with their hymns j while, ever and
    anon, from the li ps of some poor mourner in th£'
    crowd , a "oice of wailing burst, and the rest
    looked up, fancying they could discern the 5'11'('('1).
    1:;2 'filE LAST M.,ut.

    illg wings of angels, who passed over the earth,


    lamenting the disasters aoout to fall on man.
    In the sunny clime of Persia: in the erowded
    cities of China, amidst the aromatic groves of
    Cashmere, and along the southern shores of the
    Mooitcrraneull, such scenes had place. 1:,"en in
    Greece the tale of the sun <If darkness encreased
    the fears and despair of the dying multitude.
    'Ve, in our cloudy isle, wcre far removed from
    danger, and the only circumstance that brought
    these disasters at all home to ltS, was the daily
    arrival of vessels from the east, crowded Wilh
    emigrants, mostly English; for the l\Ioslems,
    though the fear of death was spread keenly
    among them, still clung together; thai , if they
    wcre to dic (and if they were, death would as
    readily meet them on the homeless sea, or in far
    England, as in Persia,)--ir they were to die, their
    bones might rest in earth tntule sacred by the
    relics of true belie\'ers. Mecca had neyer be-
    fore been so crowded with pilgrims; yet the
    Arabs neglected to pillogc the eara\'ans, btlt,
    TilE LA3T )(.\X. 133

    humllie and weaponless. they joined the pro-


    ce.;siOIl, praying )[ahomet to avert plague from
    theil' tcnts and «csel·ts.
    I cannot describe the rapturous d elight with
    which I turned from political brawls at home,
    and the physical cvils of distant cou ll tries, to
    my own dear home, to the sclcctetl abode of
    goodness and love; to peace, and the interchange
    of every sacred sympathy. H od I never quitted
    \Villli sor, these emotions wOllld not have been
    so intensc; but I had in Greece been the prey of
    ft!3.f ami deplorable change; in Greece, after a
    period of anxiety amI sorrow, I had seen depart
    two, whose very names were the symbol DC
    grcatne!Ui and virtue. But such miseries could
    lle'·cr intrude upon the domestic circlc left to
    me, ,while, secl uded in our beloved forest, we
    p.'lssed our lives in tranquillity. Some small
    change indeed the progress of years brought here;
    am.I time, as it is wont, stamped the traces of
    mortality on our pleasures and expectations.
    154 THE LAST MAN.

    Idris, the most affectionate wife, sister and


    friend, was n tender and loving mother. The
    feclingwas not with her as with many, a pastin:te;
    it was a passion. Vve had had three children;
    (Inc, 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 ha,'c a sure lease of existence;
    now she dreaded. that the pitiless-destroyer might
    snatch her remnining darlings, as it had snatched
    their brother. The least illness caused throes of
    terror; she was miserable if she were at all ab-
    f1ent from them; her treasure of happiness she
    had garnered in their fragile being, and kept for-
    ever on the watch~ lest the insidious thief should
    as before'Steal these valued gems. She had for-
    tunately 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
    THE LAST l\IA~. 135

    in infancy; but his downy check was sprinkled


    wilh the roses of health, Ilnd his unwearied viva-.
    city filled our halls with innocent laughter.
    Clara had passed the age which, from its mute
    ignorance, was the source of the fcars of Idn!;.
    Clara was dC3.r to her, to ill. There WD.S so
    much intelligence combined with innocence, sen.
    sibility with forbca.rance, and seriousness with
    perfect good.humour, a beauty so tran~cndant,

    united to such endearing simplicity, that she


    hung lik~ L1 pearl in the shrine of our posses-.
    sions, a treasure of wonder and excellence
    At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now
    nine years of age, first went to school at Eton.
    Thi!l appeared to him the prilnaty step towards
    manhood, and he ,vas proportioMbly pleased.
    Community of study and amusement developed
    the best parts of his character, his steady per.
    5C\'crance, generosity, a!ld well.governcd firm-
    ness. What deep and sacred emotions are ex-
    cited in a father's bosom, when he first becOme.
    convinced that his love for his child i.s not a
    136 THE LAST llAN.

    mere instinct, but worthily bestowed, and that


    olhers, less akin, participate his approbation!
    It was supreme happiness to Idris and my-
    sclr, to find that the frankness which Alfred's
    open brow indicated, the intelligence oehis eyes,
    the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not
    delusions, but indications of talents and virtues,
    which would "grow with his growth, and
    stl"(~ngthen with his strength." At this period"
    the termiuation of an animal's love for its off-
    spring,-the true affection of the human p..'lfcnt
    commences. 'V c no longer look on this dearest
    part of ourselves, as a tender plaut which we
    must cherish, or a plaything for an idle hour.
    \Ve huild no,,. on his intellectual faculties, we
    establisb 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 endea.
    vour to secure his esteem, even as if he were our
    equal. 'Vital can a parent have mOl'e at heart
    than the good opinion of his child? In all our
    TilE LAST )1 AN. 137

    transactions with him our honour must be in-


    violate, the integrity of our rclation~ untaintet1 :
    fate and circumstance may, when he arrives at
    maturity, sC'parate us for cver-but, as his ocgi!S
    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.
    'V c 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 l1is school.fellows.
    ,Vc now watched tIlls youthful congtegation
    with redoubled interest. 'Ve marked the difter.
    cnce of cha.ractcr among dl o boys, and endea-
    voured 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. Seyerru of the Etonians
    had these characteristics; all were distinguished
    by a sense of honour, and spirit of enterprize; in
    SOUle, as they verged towards manhood, this de.
    138

    generated into presumption; but the younger


    ones, lads a little older than our own, were COD-

    spicuous 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 j 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, c3ao-er to make onc among the drama tis
    personre of active life. It was not long since 1
    was like onc of these beardless aspirants; when
    my boy shall have obtained the place I now
    hold, I ISllall have tottered into n grcy.headed,
    wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle of
    the Sphynx, most awe-striking! that thus mnn
    remains, while we the individuals pass away.
    Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent.
    'filE L.\ST llA"X. l G9
    and philosophic writer, " the mode of existence
    decreed to a permanent bedy composed of tran_
    iitory pa.rts; wherein, by the disposition of a
    stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great
    mysterious incorporation of the human race, the
    whole, a.t one time, is never old, or middle_ag~d,
    or young, but, in a condition of unchangeable
    constancy, moves on through the varied tenour
    of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and pro-
    gression."·
    ' Villingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred!
    a.d,'ance, offspring of tender love, child of our
    hopes; adyance a soldier on the road to which
    I have been the pioneer! I will make way for
    thee. I h:l\'c already put off the c"lrele~sness

    of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy


    gait of early years, that they may ad?rn thee.
    Advance; aod I will despoil myself still further
    fOl· thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the
    graces of maturity, shall take the- fire from my

    • Darke's Reflections on the French Revolution.


    IW THE LAST !lIAN.

    eyes, and agility from my limbs, shall steal the


    better part of life, eager expectation and passion-
    ate 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
    tnught you to enter on the stage, and to pro-
    nounce becomingly the parts assigned to you!
    May your progress be uninterrupted and se-
    cure; born during the spring-tide of the hopes
    of man, may you Jead up the summer to which
    no winter may succeed!
    TlJt; LAST )I.\S. Hl

    CHAPTER r.

    SO)IE disorder had surely crept into the COUJ'~'

    of the elements, destroying their benignant in-


    Huence. The wind, prince of nir, raged through
    his kingdom, lashing the sen into fury, and sub-
    duing the rebel earth into some sorl of obcdicncc.
    The God sends down his angry plague. Crom high,
    F ami ne and pestilence in heaps they die,
    t'gain in venpnce of his wrath he Calls
    On their grl!at hOlts, and breaks their tottering walls;
    Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain.
    And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.·

    • Elton', translation of Hesiod's W orks.


    142 THE LAST ).lAX.

    Their deadly power shook the flourishing coun-


    tries of the south, and during winter, even, we,
    in our northern retreat, began to quake under
    their ill e!f&:ts.
    That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority
    to the sun over the wind. 'Vho has not ~een

    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 su.
    perabundant 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 va-
    pours 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
    THF. LAST )fAN. 143

    pours forth its rays, re.animated Ilnd fed by the


    breeze.
    Then mighty art thou, 0 wind, to be throned
    above all other vicegerents of nature's power;
    whether thou earnest 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
    sweept?st 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 i under
    thy gentle govenlance the buds nnd lc:\ves arc
    born, they flourish nursed by thee.
    'Vhy dost thou howl thus, 0 wind? By day
    and by night for four long months thy roarings
    ha"e not ceased- the shores of the sea arc strewn
    with wrecks,itskeel-welcomingsurfacehasbecome
    impassable, the earth has shed her beauty in
    obroience to tlly command; the frail bniloon
    \
    144 TIlE LAST MAS.

    dares no longer sail on the agitated air; thy


    ministers, the clouds, deluge the land with nun;
    rivers forsake their banks ; tbe wild torrent tears
    up the mo~ntain path j plain and wood, and
    verdant dell are despoiled of their loveliness;
    our vcry cities arc 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 field s of the Atlantic.
    'Vlmt nre we, the inhabitants of this globe, l~l.lst
    among the many that people infinite space? Our
    minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of
    our being i" suhject to merest accident. Day
    by day we arc forced to believe this. He whom
    a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears
    from apparent life under the illRucnce of the
    hostile agency at work around us, had the same
    powers as I - I also aUl subject to the same
    laws. In the face of all this we cull ourselves
    lords of the creation, wielders of the elements,
    TilE LAST nAN. 145

    masters of life and death, and we allege in


    excuse of this :lI'rogancc, that though the indi_
    vidual is desU'oyed, mall cOllliuues for e\'er.
    Thus, losing our identity, that of which we
    :ue chiefly conscious, we glory ill the continuity
    of our species, and Jeam to regnrd death without
    terror. But when any whole nation becomclt
    the \'ictim of the destructil'e powers of exterior
    agents, then indeed mall shrinks into insignifi_
    cance, he feels his tenure of life insecure, his
    inheritance on earth cut oft:
    I remembt>r, afleT having witn{'sscd the de_
    !:itrnclive effects of a fire, I could not even
    behold a small one in it sto\'e, without a sensation
    of fear. The mounting flames had cnrled round
    the building, as it fell, and was destroJed. 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
    "Ot. n., II
    146 THE LAST !l-IAN'.

    this wild beast, and not fcar 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 aJl, with regard
    to the plague. We feared the coming summer.
    Nations, bordering on the already infected
    countries, began to cnter upon serious plans for
    the better keeping out of the enemy. We, a
    commercial people, were obliged to bring such
    schemes under considcrution; WId the question
    of contagion became matter of earnest disquisi ....
    tion.
    That the plague wns not what is commonly
    called contagious, like the scarlet {ever, or ex-
    tinct small-pox, was proved. It was called au
    epidemic. BUl the grand question was still un.
    settled of how this epidemic was generated
    and increased. If infection dE'pendcd upon
    the air, the air was subject to infection.
    As for instance, a typhus fe"er hns been
    hrought by ship.i to one sea~port town; yet the
    THE LAST M.U;. 147

    \"ery pcople \\ 110 brought it there, were incapablc


    of communicating it in a town more fortunately
    situated. Dut how are we to judge of airs, and.
    pronounce-in such a city plague will die un·
    produc'tive; in such another, nature has provided
    for it a plentiful har"est? In the same way,
    individuals may esc.'l.pe 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 legisla.
    tors pausc, before they could decide on the law~
    to be put in force. The evil was so wide-sprcad ...
    ing, so "iolent and immedicable, that no care, no
    pre"ention could be judged superfluous, which
    even added a chance to OUT escape.
    These were questions of prudence; there was
    110 immediate necessity for an earnest caution.
    England was still secure. France, Germany,
    Italy and Spain, were interpoS(.-d, walls yet with.
    out a breach, between us and the plague. Our
    vessels tTuiy were the sport of winds and waves,
    n2
    148 TilE LAST }[AN.

    even as Gulli\'cr was the toy of the Brobdigns-


    gians; but lVe on OUl' stable abode could not be
    hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature.
    'Vc could not fCllr--:-we did not. Y ct a feeling of
    awe, a breathle£s sentiment of wonder, 3 painful
    sense of the degradation of humanity, was in-
    troduced inta every heart. Nature, our mother,
    and our friend, had turned on liS n brow of
    menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she
    permitted us to assign her laws and sulxluc her-
    appnrcnt powers, yet, if she put forth but a
    finger, we must quake. She could take our
    globe, Cringed with mountains, girdccl by the at-
    mosphere, containing the condition of our being,
    ",nd nil that man's mind could inv('nt or hid
    force achieve; she could lake the ball in hel
    hand, and cast it into space, whcre lire would be
    drunk up, and man and all his efforts for cycr
    annihilated.
    These speculations were rire among us; yet
    not tIle le5S we proceeded in our daily occupa-
    tions, and our plans, whose accomplishmcnt
    TlIE L.-\ST MAl\'. 149

    demanded the lapse of m~my years. No voice


    was heard telling us to hold! \Vhell foreign
    distresses came to be felt by us through the
    channc1s of commerce, we sct ourselves to apply
    rcmedi(.'S. Suhscriptions were made for the
    emigrants, and merchants bankrupt by the
    failure of tmde. The English spirit awoke to
    its full activity, and. as it had ever done. set it-
    sclf to resist the c\,il, and to stand in the breach
    which diseased nature had suffered chaos and
    death to make in the bounds unel banks which
    bad hitherto kept them out.
    At the commencement of summer, we began
    to feel, that the mischief which had taken place
    ill distnnt countries was grcatcr 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 inundau-d the west of Europe; and
    our island had become the refuge of thousands.
    In the mean time Rdand had been chosen
    Protector. He 11ad sought this office with eager-
    ness, under the idea of turning his whole force!
    150 THE LAST MAX.

    to the suppression of the priyileged orders ot


    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 numhers at length
    forbade a recourse to the usual modes of relief.
    Trade was stopped by the failure of the inter-
    change of cargoes usual between lls,nmIAmerica,
    India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden brenk
    was made in the routine of our Ji,'cs. In vain
    otlr Protector and his partizans sought to conceal
    this truth; in vain, day after day, he appointed
    a period for the diicussion of the new laws
    concerning hereditary rank and privilege; m
    vain he endeavoured to represent the evil 8S

    partial and temporary. These disusters calile


    home to so many bosoms, and, through the various
    channels of commercc, were carried so entirely
    into every class and divjsion of (he community,
    that of necessity they became the first question ill
    the state, the chief subjects to which we must
    turn our attention.
    eM it be true, each asked the other with
    THE I.AST IrA::. 151

    wondcr and dismay, that whole countries are


    laid wastc, wholc nations annihilatcd, by these
    disorders in nature? The vast cities of America,
    t he fertile plains of Hindostan, the crowded
    abodes of the Chincse, nrc menacl>d with uttcr
    r uin. " ' hert.' late the busy multitudes assembled
    for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of
    wailing and milicry is heard. The air is cmpoi-
    soncd, and each human being inhales death,
    evcn while in youth and health, their hopes QI'e

    ill the flo wer. 'Ve c.111ed to mind the plague of


    1348, when it was calculated that n third of
    mankind had been destroyed. As yet western
    Europe was uninfected; would it alwnYIi be so?
    0, ycs, it would-Countrymcn, fear not! In
    the still u ncultiyated wilds of Amenca, what
    wonder that among its other giant destroyers,
    Plague should be numbered! It is of old a
    native of the E:lst, sister. of the tornado, the
    ea rthquake, nnd the simoom, Child of the sun,
    and nu rsling of thc tropics, it would expire in
    these climes, I t drinks the dark blood of the
    152 Tm~ LAST lL\r;,

    ir,habitant of the south, but it nc\'er feasts OR

    the pale-faced edt. If perchance some stricken


    Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him,
    uncommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep
    for our brethren, though we- can nc,'er 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, :md abundant loveliness. But in this.
    mortal life extremes are always matched; the
    thorn grows with the rose, the poiiion tree and
    the cinnamon mingle their houghs. I'ersia, 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 lameu4
    tation flUs the ,'alley of Cashmere; its dells and
    woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses,.
    are polluted by the dead; in Cil'cassia and
    Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the nlin
    of its favourite temple-the for~ of woman.
    Our own distresses" though they were occa~
    TJlE L.\ST )(.\!'l' • 153

    • ioned by the fictitious reciprocity of commerce,


    ~nCT('ased in due proportion. ]Jankcrs, mer-
    chants, and manufacturers, whose trode depended
    on exports and interchange of wealth, became
    bankrupt. Such thinj:tS, when they happen
    singly, affect only the immediate parties; but
    the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by
    frequent and cxtensive los:.es. 1;'mnilie5, bred in
    opulence and luxury, were reduced to beggary.
    ~'he very state of pence in which we gloried was
    injurious; there were no means of employing
    the idle, or of send ing any overplus of population
    out of the country. E\'en the source of colonie1i
    was dried up, Carin New Holland, Vnn Diemen'!t
    Land, autI the Cape of Good Hope, plague
    raged. 0, Cor some medicinal ,·inl to purge un-
    wholesome nature, and bring back the earth to
    its accustomed health!
    Uyland was a man of strong intel1ects and
    quick and sound decision in the usual course of
    things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of
    evils that gathered ronnd us. Must he tnx the
    11 3
    154 THE I.AST leAN.

    Illnded interest to nssist our commercial popuJaw


    tion? '1'0 do this, he must gain the favour of
    the chief land-holderfl, the nohihtyof the country;
    and these were his yowed enemies-he must
    conciliate them by abandoning his favourite
    scheme of equaliztllion; he must confirm them
    in their manorial rights; he mllst sell his ehe.
    rished plans for the permanent good of hi5
    country, for tempornl'Y relief. He mllst aim no
    more at the dear object of his ambitiun j throw.
    ing his arms aside, he must for present ends give
    lip the ultimate object of his endeal'ours. He
    emile to 'Vindsor to consult with us. Every day
    added to his difficulties; the arril'al of fresh ves-
    sels with (!migrants, the total cclIs.'1tion of com.
    mcrce, the s~al'viilg multitude that thronged
    around the palace of the Protectorate, were cir-
    cnmstances not to be tnmpel'ed with. The blow
    Wll! struck; the aristocrn.cy oht:lined all they
    wished, and they subscribed to a twelvemonths'
    bill, which levied twenty per cent. on all the
    l'cnt·rolls of thc country.
    THn: L.\ST lfA:s'. 15!)

    Calm was now restored to the metropolis, ami


    to the populous cities, before driven to despcrtl-
    tion; and we returned to the consideration of
    distant calamities, wondering if the future would
    bring any nlle\'iation to their excess. It wa~

    August; ~o there could be small hope of relief


    during the heats. On the contrary, the disease
    gained \'irulence, while starvation did its accus.-
    tomed 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 Frallce and
    Italy. These tidings were at first whispered
    about town; but no one dared express aloud the
    soul_quailing intelligence.
    .
    \Vhen anyone met
    a friend in the street, he only cl'ied us he hurried
    on, "You know!"-while the other, with un
    ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer,-
    " 'Vhat will become of us?" At length it was
    mentioned in the newspapers. The paragraph
    was inserted in an obscure part: "\Ve regrel
    156 THE LAST M.\N.

    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
    envdoped in a flame. Before it had been a TU-

    maul'; but now in words uneraseable, in definite


    and undeniable print, the knowledge wenl forth.
    Its obscurity of situation rendered it the more
    C'll1spicuous: the diminutive letters grew gigan_
    tic to the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed
    grawn with a pen of iron, impressed by fire,
    woven in the clouds, stamped on the VC1'Y front
    of the universe.
    The English, whether travellers or re~idents,

    came pouring in one great revulsi,'e stream, back


    on their own country; and with them crowds of
    Itallans and Spaniards. Our little island wali
    filled even to bursting, At first an 1.,llUEUal
    TItE LAST MAN. 157

    quantity of specie lIlade its appearance ,\ith the


    emigrants; but these people had no means of
    rccei"ing b.'\ck into their hand .. what they spent
    among us. 'Vilh the advance of summer, and
    the increase of the distemper, rent!l were un-
    paid, and their remittances failed them. h wa:s
    impossible to sec these crowds of wretched,
    perishing creature's, 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 bomes by poli-
    tical re\'olution; so now they were not backward
    in affording aid to the victims of a more wide-
    spreading calamity. 'Ve had many foreign
    friends whom we eagerly sought out, and relic\"CtI
    from dreadful penury. OUf Castle beemnc an
    asylum for the unllappy. 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 at-
    tcnded to more parsimoniously, that it migbt
    158 TilE LAST ?IUS.

    embrace n wider portion of utility. It was not


    however money, except partially, but the ncccs-
    sariesoflifc, 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 OUf pleasure-groands and parks.
    Live stock diminished sensibly in the country,
    from the effects of the great demand in the
    market. Even the poor deer, our antlcl'cd pro-
    teges, were obliged to fall for the s..1.kc of wor-
    thier pensioners. The labour necessary to bring
    the lands to this sort of culture, employed and
    fed thl' oWensts 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 plradings and
    benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give
    up their pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist,
    TilE L.\~T )'IAS.

    to dimiLiish sensibly the number of horses kept


    for the purposes of luxury throug hout the coun4
    try, were men ns ol"'iollS, but unpleasi ng. Yet,
    to the honour of the English be it recorded, thnt,
    although nmural disinclination made them delay
    awhile, yet when the misery of their fcllow4crea-
    tures became glaring, an enthusiastic generosity
    inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were
    often the first to Va}'t with their indulgencies.
    As is common in communities, a fashion was set.
    The high400rn ladies of the country would han
    decmro themseh'cs disgraced if they had 00\\"

    enjoyed, wbat they before called n necessary, the


    case of a earriugt'. CIHlirs, as in olden time, and
    I ndian palanquins were illtroduCL'Cl forthe infirm.
    but else it was nothing singular to src females of
    rank going all foot to plnces of fashionable resort.
    I t was more commOIl, fol' all who possessed landed
    property to secede to their estates, n.ttended by
    whole troops of the indigent, to cnt down their
    woods to crect temporary dwellings, and to por4
    tion out their parks, parterres and flower-gardens,
    160 TliE LAST llAN'o

    to necessitous familicl. Many of these, of high


    rank in their own countric~, now, with hOI:' in
    hand, turned up the soil. It was found necessary
    at last to check the spit'it of sacrifice, fino' to re-
    mind those whose generosity proceeded to lavish
    waste, that, until the present state of things be-
    ClLme permanent, of which there was 110 Iike1i-
    h.:xxl, it was wrong to carry change so far as to
    linakc a reaction difficult. Experience demon.
    strated that in a year or two pestilence would
    cease; it were well that ·in' the mean time we
    should not have destroyed our line breeds of
    horsc!';, or hm'c utterly changed the face of the
    ornamented portion of the country.
    It may be im:1gined that thiugs were in a had
    state indeed, before this spirit of benevolence
    could have struck such deep roots. The infec-
    tion hnd now spread in the southern proyinces
    of France. llut that country had so many rc-
    aources in the way of agricultul'e, that the rush
    of population from one part of it to another, and
    its increase through foreign emigration, was les.
    Tll£ LAST MAN. 161

    Cclt than with us. The panic struck appeared


    of more injury, than disease and its natural con-
    comitants.
    'Vintcl' was hniletl , n gcneraland ne"cr-failing
    physician. The embl'owning woods, and swollen
    rivers, the cvening mists, and morning frosts,
    were welcomed with gratitude. 'l'he eOects of
    purirying cold were immediately felt; and the
    lists of mortality nbroo.d were curtailed each
    week. Muny of Ollr visitors left us: those whose
    homes were far in the&Outh, fled delightedly from
    our northern wintcr,3nd sougllt their natil'e land,
    secure of plenty el'en after thcil' fearful visitation.
    We breathed again. 'Vhnt the coming summer
    would bring. we knew not; but the present
    months were our own, and our hopcs of n cessa-
    tion of pestilcnce were high.
    16~ THF LAST lIAN.

    CHAPTER VI.

    I HAVE lingered thus long on the cxll'cmc

    bank, the wasting shoal that stretched into the


    stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death.
    Thus long, I have cradlccl my heart in retro·
    apcction of past hnppincss, . when hope was.
    Why not for ever thus? I am not immortal;
    llnd the tlu'cnd of my hi~tory might he spun out
    to the limits of my existence. But the same
    !>cutimcnt that first led me to pourtray scelles
    replete with tender recol1cctions, now bids me
    hurry on. The same yearning of this wann,
    panting heart, that has made me in written
    words record my vagabond youth, my serene
    manhood, and the passions of my soul, makes
    Tile: LM;T MAN. 16:.1
    me now recoil from further delay I must
    complete my work.
    Herc thcn I stand, as I said, bCliiide the fleet
    watcrs of the flowing years, nnel now nway!
    Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying
    by dark impending crags, arlown SlCCP rnpids,
    C\'cn to the sea of desolation I have reachcd,
    Yet one moment, one brief internll before I
    put from shore-once, once again let me fancy
    myself as I WM in 2094 in my abode at \Vind.
    sor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that tbe
    immeasuraWe boughs of its oaks still' shadow
    mc, its castle walls 811Cll.r. Let fancy pourtrny
    the joyous scene of the twentieth of June, such
    as e\'en now my aching hC'nrt rC'Cruis it.
    Circumstances had called me to London;
    here I heard talk that symptoms of the plague
    had occurred in hospitals of thal city, I re-
    turned to " 'indsor; my brow was doudN, my
    heart heavy; I entered the Little Park, ns was
    my custom, at the l'rogmore gate,oll my way to
    the Castle. A great part of these grounds had
    164 Tin: LAST 211.\:-:.

    been given to culti~ation, and strips of patRtae·


    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 Etoniam., and children of the
    neighbouring gentry, held a mock fair, to which
    an the country people were invited. The park
    was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colour~

    and gaudy flags, waving in the sunshine, added


    to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform
    erected beneath the lerrace, 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 ,,, cber introduced
    in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave wings
    to the feet of the dancers, while tlle lookers-on
    unconsciomly beat time. At first the tripping
    measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a mo-
    ment my eycr. gladly followed the mazes of the
    dance. The revulsion of thought passed like
    keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die,
    TllF. I,AST lIfAN. JOt;

    I thought; already your tomb i~ built up around


    you. Awhile, because yOli ure gifted with agility
    and strength, you fancy tllllt you live: hilt
    frail is the U bowel' of flesh"" that en caskets
    life; dissoltlble the silver cord that binds yOll

    to it. The joyous soul, eharioted from pleasure


    to pleasure by the graceful mechanism of well.
    formed limbs, will suddenly fed the tude-tree
    give way, and spring and whed dissolve in dust.
    Not one of YOll, O! fated crowd, cau ('scape- not
    one! not my own ones! not my Idris and he)'
    babes! Horror and misery! Already the gay
    dance vanished, the green sward was strewn with
    corpses, the blue air above became fetid with
    deatllly exhalations. ,shriek, ye clarions! JC
    loud t1'umpe(s, howl! rile dirge 011 dirge;
    rouse the flillereal chords; let the air ring with
    dire wailing; let wiM discord ~u.sh on tile win:;!s
    of the wind! Already I hear it, while guardian
    iUlgcls, attendant on humanity, their task
    achieved, hasten away, and their depurto.re is
    announced by meb.ncholy Strains; faces all un-
    166 THE LAST llAN.

    seemly 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 min.
    gled with the distorted creations of fancy. Ashy
    [Xllc, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking
    on with sad smiles. Adrian's countenance flitted
    across, tainted by death-Iuris, with eyes Ian.
    guidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide
    into the wide grave. The confusion grew-theil'
    looks of sorrow changed to mockery; they
    nodded their heads in lime to the music, whose
    clang became maddening.
    I felt that this was insanity- I sprang for.
    ward to throw it off; I rushed into the midst of
    the crowd. Idris saw me: with light step she
    ad,'anced; 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
    lloou-uay sun will drink from the water lily's
    cup; tears filled my CYCIi, unwont to be thm
    mo\slcncd. The joyful wdco~nc of my boys,
    THE LAST )ol,,!\,. 167

    the soft gratulation of Clara, the rrcs~ ure of


    Adri:Ul's hand, coDtributcd to unman me.
    felt that they were ncar, tha t they were f>.·lfc,
    yet methought this~ was all deceit i -th e eart h
    reeled , the firDl-cnrooted trees moved-dizziness
    came over me-I sank to the grou nd .
    My bclo"oo friends were alnnncd-nay, they
    eJl.pressW their run.rm w anxiously, that I dared
    not pronounce the word phgfte, that ho"el'oo on
    my lips, lest th ey should construe my pel'turbed
    looks into n symptom, and lSec infection in my
    languor. I had scarcely recovered, and with
    feigned hilarity ha~ brought back smiles into
    my little circle, when we saw Ryland approach.
    Ryland had something the appearance of a
    farmer ; of a man whose muscleli and full grown
    i !ature hnd been developed unJcr the illRuenee
    ofvigomu s exercise and exposure to the clements.
    This was to a great degree the case: for, though
    a Inrge bnded proprietor, yet, being a pro-
    jector, and of an ardent nnd industrious dis.
    position, he had on his own estate gi\'en himself
    168 THE LAST M.\l".

    up to agricultural labours. 'Vhcn he went as


    ambMSador to the Northern States of America,
    hc, for some time, planned his entire migration;
    and went so fllr ns to make se\-era} journies far
    we-stward on that immense continent, for the pur-
    pose of choosing the site of his new abode.
    Ambition turned his thoughts from these de-
    figns-ambitiou, which labouring through various
    lets and hindrances, had now led him to the
    summit of his hopes, in making him Lord Pro-
    tector of England.
    His countenance was rough but intclligcnt-
    his ample brow amI quick grey eyes seemed to
    look out, over his own plans, and the oppo-
    sition of his enemies. His voice was sten_
    torian: 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 "buttcrflv on
    t!.!c wheel"' with b('ttcr effcct; no man better
    THE LAST !\OlAN. 169

    cove{a spccdy rctr(,81 from n powerful ad\'ersary.


    This had lJcen the secret of his secession at the
    timc of Loro Hllymoml's election. In the un·
    strody glancc of his eye, in his extreme desire to
    learn the opinions of all, in th(' 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
    c.'Un-assed eagerly for this post. I-Es protec-
    torate was to be distinguished hy e,"ery kind
    of innovation on the aristocracy. This his se-
    lectoo task was exchanged for the far different
    one of encountering the ruin caused by the con-
    vulsions of phYf'ical nature. lie was incapable
    of meeting these e'fils by any comprehensi\'e
    system; he had resorted to expedient after ex-
    pedient, nnd could never be induced to put a
    remedy in force, till it came too late to be of use.
    Certainly til(.' Ryland that advanced toward",
    Ui now, bore small resemblance to the powerful,
    ironical, seemingly fearless Ctl.m'3S5Cr for the
    firit rank among Englishme,n. Our native oak,
    VOL. 11.
    170 THE LAST MAN.

    I\S 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 con.
    tracted, his eye wandering; debility of purpose
    and dastard fear were expr~d in cl'cry ges.
    ture.
    In nnswer to our eager questions, one word
    alone fell, as it were involuntarily, from his con-
    vulsed lips: The Plague.-"'VllCrc ?"-"E"cry
    where-we lUust Ay-al~ 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 shaH you go? ,Vhere
    can any of us go?"
    These words were syllabled trembling by the
    lron man. Adrian replied, ,. ,Vhilhcr indeed
    would you fly? \Ve must all remain; nnd do
    our best to help our suffering fellow.crcatures:'
    " Hclp I" said Ryland, "thcl'c is no help!
    -great. God, who talks of help ! All the world
    hu thc plaguc r'
    Tim I..... ST lIJ .\N. 171

    " Then to avoid it, we must quit the world ,"


    observed Adri:lIl, with a gentle smile.
    Ryland gro..'tned j cold drops stood on his
    brow. It was useless to oppose his par~xy s m of
    terror: but we sootht..u and cncourn~d him, so
    that after au interval he was better nble to ex~

    plain to us the ground of his alann. I thad


    'come !!ufficiently home to him. One of hi s ser-
    "ants, while waiting on him, hnd suddenly
    [aile!! down dead. The physician declared that
    he di ed of the plague. ,\V(> endeavoured to
    calm him-but our own hearts were not calm.
    1 Saw the eye of ldris wander from me to her
    c:hildren, with nn anxious nppeal to my j udg-
    ment. Adrian was absOl·bed in meditation.
    For myself, J own that Ryland"s words rang in
    m)" cars; all the world was infected i_ in what
    uncontaminated seclusion could I save my be-
    loved treasures, unlil the shadow of death had
    p.1sscd from o\'er the earth? ''''e sunk into
    .ilence: a silence that drank in the doleful ac-
    connts and prognostications of our guest.
    J 2
    172 TilE LA ST MAN'.

    1Ve had receded fl'Om the crowd; and ascend_


    ing the steps of the terrace, sought the Castle.
    Our change of cheer struck those nearest to us;
    aud, 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
    ~pirit of gaiety was eclipS<'d; the music ceased;
    the young people left tl1cir occup.'ltions and
    gathered together.. The Jightness of heart which
    had dressed them in masquerade habits, had
    tlecorated their t('nts, and assembled them in
    fantastic groups, appeared a sin against, and a
    pw\'Ocativc to, the awful destiny that had laid
    its palsying hand upon hope and life. The mer_
    riment of the hour was an unholy mockery of
    the sorrow~ of man. The foreigners wl.lom we
    had among us, who had fled from the plague in
    their own country, now 5..1.W their last asylum
    invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they
    described to eager listt>llcrs the miseries they
    had beheld in cities visited by the calamity, ~md
    TItF. L.\.ST MAN.

    gave fearful necounts of the imidious an,1


    irremediable nature of the disease.
    'Ve hnd entered the Ca~tle. Jdris stood at n
    window that over_looked the park; her maternal
    eyes sought her own children among the young
    crowd. An ltalian lad had got an audience
    about him, and wi:.h animated gestures was de-
    scribing some scene of horror. Alfred stood illl-
    mO\'eable before him, his whole attention ab-
    sorbed. Little E"clyn had endea'\'oured to
    draw Clara away to play with him; but th~
    Italian's tale arrested her, she crept near, he..
    lustrous eycs fixed on the speaker. Either
    watching the crowd in the park, or occupied by
    painful reRection, we were all silent; Ryland
    stood by himself in an cmbrasure of the window;
    Adrian paced the hall, revolving some new ami
    overpowering idea-suddenly he stopped and
    said: "[ ha\'e long cxpected this; could we in
    reason expect that this island should be exempt
    from the uni\'ersal visitation? 'I'he c\·il is collie
    home to us, ancI we must not shrink from our fatt.
    174 THE r,.\ST lIlAN.

    'Vhat are your plans, my I.ord Protector, [or


    the benefit of our country?"
    "For heaven's 10,-e! 'Vindsor," cried Ry-
    land, "do nul 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 clutier.?'~

    "Duties! speak rationally, my Lord I-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 1"
    " Faint·hearted man!" ('ried Adrian indig-
    nantly-" Your countrymen PUt their trust in
    you, and you betray them 1"
    "I betray them!" said Ryland, "the plague
    betrays me. Faint_heartcJ! It is well, shut up
    in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself
    out of fear. Take the Protectorship who will ;
    brfore God I renounce it !"
    TnE LAST MA~ . 175

    II A uti beforc God ," replied his oPIXlllellt,


    fervently, " do I recei\·c it! No onc will can·
    ' -nss for this honour now-none em'), my danger
    or labours. D cposit your powers in my hands.
    Long have I fought with death, and much'" (he
    strctehetl out his thin hand) "much have I suf.
    fered in the struggle. It is not by flying, but
    by facing the ('nemy, that we can conquer. If
    my last combat is now about to be fought, and
    I am to be wOI·st('(.I-80 let it be 1"
    "nut come, nylund, recollect yOUl'self!
    ~I en ha\'e hitherto thought you magnanimous
    . and wisc, will you cnst aside these titles? COll-
    sider the panic your departure will OCCa.SiOlL

    Return to L ondon. I will go with you. En.


    courage the pcopl~ by your presence. I will in.
    (;ur all the danger. Shame! shame ! if the first
    magistrate of England be foremost to renounce
    his duties."
    Mennwhile among our guests in the park, all
    thOllghts of festivity had faded. As summer.
    flies are sealtcr(.'(1 by rain, so did this congrl."ga_
    176 TilE L.\ST M.<l!".

    tion, late noisy and happy, in sadness and me.


    lanch01y murmurs brenk up, dwindliHg away
    apace. With the set sun and the deepening twi_
    light the park hccnlTIc nearly empty. Adrian
    and Ryland were still in earnest discussion.
    'Ve had prepared a banquet for our gueilts in
    the lower hall of the cnstle; 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, gny as they might
    oth<;:!wisc 1e, receive a solemll and funereal ap-
    pp.a:rance. If such change Ix- 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 O\'er-
    Jeaped the boundaries our prccnutions raised,
    and at once enthroned himself in thcfull and beat.
    ing heart of our coulllry. Idris sat at the top
    of the half-empty han. Pale and tearful, she
    almost forgot her duties as llOstesS; her eyes
    ,,'ere fixed on her children. .Alfred's serious air
    177

    ilhcwed that he still revolved thc tragic story re.


    luted hy the ltulian boy. Evelyn was the only
    mirthful creature pre5ellt: he S.'l t on Clara's lap ;
    and, making matt er of glee from his own fanciCti,
    laughed aloud. The vaulted roof echoed again
    his infant tone. The poor mother who had
    brood('(llong over, and suppressed the expression
    of he .. ungui3h, now burst into te3J"s, and fold ing
    her babe in her arms, hurried from the hal l.
    Clara and Alfred followed. 'VhBe the rest of
    the company, ill confuscd murmur, which gre\y
    louder and louder, ga,·e voice to their many
    fears.
    The yOlln~r p."I.rt gathered round me to ruik
    my ad\·icc j and those who had fl"iendsin L ondou
    were anxious heyond the rest, to tlscenain the
    present extent of disease in tllc metropolis. [
    encouraged them with such thoughts of cheer
    as presented themselvcs. I told them exceed.
    ingly few deaths had yet been occasioned by
    pestilence, aud gave them hopes. as we were the
    last visited, so the calamity might !l3\"e lost it."
    13
    178 THE LAST l\I.t.~.

    most venomous pO Iller 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 thi.'J
    was naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken
    only to those nearest me; but the whole nssembly
    gathered about me, and I found that I was lis-
    tened to by all. "My 6iends," I sa.id~ "our risk
    is common; our precautions and exertions shaH
    be common also. If mfiDly courage and resist-
    ance can save us, we will be saved. VVe wiU
    fight the enemy to the last. Plague shall not
    find us a ready prey; we will dispute evcry 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 hns
    she met with so systematic and determined an
    opposition. Perhaps no country is naturnlly so
    well protected against our invader; nor has llaturc
    Anywhere bL"C1l so well nssisted by the hand of
    TilE J. J\ST !\IAN. 179
    nlnn. \Ve will not despair. " re nrc nei:her
    cowards nor fatali sts ; but, believing that God ha.!>
    placed the means for our prescrmlioll in our own
    hUllds, we will usc those menns to our utmost.
    Remember that c1ca.nliness, sobriety, a.nd evcn
    good.humour and bellc\'olenee, arc our best
    medicines. "
    There was little I could a.dd to this general
    exhortation; for the pla.guc, though in L ondon,
    was not among us. I dismissed the guesh
    thercfore; a.nd they went thoughtful, more than
    sad, to await the C\'cuts in store for them.
    I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the re-
    sult of his discussion with R yland. lIe had in
    part pre\'a.iled; the Lord Protector consented
    to return to London for a few ",cck~; during
    which tim e things sholJ1cl be so UI r:l.I1gcu, ns to
    occasion less consternation at his dcpartun',
    Adrian and Iclris were together. The sadness
    with which the fonner had fi rst heard that the
    plaguewns in L ondon had \'ani shc<l ; the energy
    of his purpose informed his body with strength ,
    180 TilE L.\ST Jor ,\ N.

    the solemn joy of enthusiasm and self.dcv?tion


    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 W3.$

    endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to


    bring her to look all 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 mysel f beyond my power!, nor will 1
    lleEdlessly seck danger. I fcclthat I know what
    ought to be done, and as my presence is necc!I-
    .54ry for the accomplishment of my plans, r wiil
    take especial care to prescne my life.
    " I am now goillg to underhkc nn office fitted
    for mc. I cannot ir,trigue, or work a tortuou ..
    path thro'Jgh the labyrinth of men's ,ices and
    passions; but I can bring patiC'llce, and symput11y,
    and such aid as art affords, to the bed of disease.
    'lifE LAST lL\~. 181

    I cnn mise f!'Om cnrth tllc miserable orphulI, and


    awal..(>1\ to new llOJ>es the shu t heart of thl'
    moutner. I cnn cnchnin the plngue in limits,
    and !iet n tcnn to the misel'Y it would occnsion;
    courage, forbearance, and watchfulness, arc the
    forces I brillg towards this great work.
    "0, I shall be something now! Flam Illy
    birth I have aspired like the {'aglc-blil. unlike
    the cagle, my wings hm'c failed, and my vision
    has been blilllied . D isa ppointmcnt and sickncs"
    have hitherto 11dd dominion over lIle; twin
    born with me, my ,":ould, was for c\'cr clichailU,(l
    by the sluJI1/o!, of these my tyrallt!l, A shep-
    herd-boy that tends n silly flock on the moun.
    tllins, was morf' in. the 5('111,. of sncil.ty thnn T.
    Congrntulatc me then that J havc found fittillJ!
    scope fol' my powers. I II[\\'c often thought of
    offering my serviccs to thc pcstilellcc-strichn
    towns of l;'rance and Italy; but fcar of painillJ!
    you, and expectation of this cat!lstrophe, with.
    held mc. To England and to Englishmen I
    dedicate myself. If I can ~\'e one of hel"
    ]82 Tit}: I.A~T MAX.

    mighty spirits from the deadly shaft; if I call


    ward disease from one of her smiling cottages,
    I shall not have lived in vain."
    Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian.
    He appeared gi\'cn up to contemplation, llxersc
    to excitement, a Jowly student, a man of visions
    -but afford him worthy theme, and-

    like to the lark at brt'ak of day arising,


    From sullen earth. sings hymns at hea\'cn's t;tl:e.~

    so did he spl'ing up from Iistlcssn~;;s and UII-


    productive thought, to the highest pikh of \'ir_
    luous action.
    'Vith him wellt cuthusiuSIII, tIle higlHvrought
    rcs'llvc, the eye that without blenching could
    look at death. "'ith 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 aU philosophical reasoning-vain a11 fnrti-

    • Shakespeare's Sonnets.
    Till': LA!.T U .\!i. 1S5

    luJe-,'ain, vain, a reliance on probahle good.


    t might henp high the scnlc ,\ itl! logic, courage,
    "IlU resignation-but let one fear fnr Ic.iris and
    our children enter the opposite one, and, over-
    weighed, it J..ickCtI the beam.
    The plagu e was in London! Fouls that we
    were not long ago to hllxe forcsccn this. '" e
    wept over the ruin of the boundless conti nents
    of the cast, and th e desolation of the western
    world; while we faneit..'t l that the little ehannd
    between our island and the rest of the earth wn~
    to prescn'c us alive among the dead. It were no
    mighty lrop methinks from Calais to Doyer.
    The eye easily discerns the siSler lnnd; they
    were united once; and the little path that runs
    between looks in a Ulap but n!I n trodden foot-
    wny through high grass. Y et this small illtcr-
    yal was to S,:l\'C us: the sea was to risc n wall of
    adnmant-without, disease and misery-within.
    a shelter from evil, a nook of the garden of
    paradise-a particle of celestial soil, which 110
    181 THE 1..\ST lrAN'.

    evil could invade-truly we were wIse in OUl'

    generation, to imagine an these things!


    Dut we arc awake now. The plngue is in
    London; the nil' of England is tainted, and
    her sons and daughters sh'ew the unwholesome
    earth. And no\\', the sea, late our defence,
    seems our prison bound; llCmmeli ill by ibi
    gulphs, we shall die like the famished inhabit-
    ants of a besieged town. Other nations ha,'c II

    fellowship in death; but we, shut out from all


    neighbomhood, must bury our own dead, and
    little Englund become a wide, wide tomb.
    This fl.'cling of uni"crsal misery assumed COll-
    centration and shapc. when I looked on my wift·
    and children: and the thought of danger to thl'll'I

    possessed my whole being with {car. How


    could I save them? I revolved a thousand and
    ft thousand plans. They should not die-first I
    would be gathered to nothingness, erc infectioll
    ~hould (:ornc anear these idols of my soul. I wouici
    walk barefoot through the world, to find an unin-
    TUR LAST lU.\N, 1M

    reeled spot; (would build Ill)' home on some


    wave-tossed plank: drifted about on the barrer"
    shoreless ocean, I would betake me with them
    to some wild beast's den, where a 1 yger's cub~.
    which I wuuld slay, had been reared in health,
    I would seck the mountain cagle's eirie. and
    live years suspended in some inaccessible reces.<;
    of a sen-bOllllding cliff-no labour too great, no
    scheme too wild, if it promh:ed life to them. O!
    ye hcart~strillgs of mine, could )'e be torn
    asunder, and my soul not spend itself in tears
    of blood for sorrow!
    Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion
    of fortitud e. She studiously shut out all pros-
    l)('ct of the future, and cradled her heart in pre-
    sent blessings. Shc never for a moment lost
    sight of her children. llut while they ill health
    sported about l1Cl', she could cherish content-
    ment and hope, A strange and wild restlessne!....
    came o\'er mc--the more intolerable, bccnusc I
    was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian
    ,,'ere ceaseless; A ugust had come; and th£'
    186

    symptoms of plague encrcnsed rapidly in Lon-


    uon. It was deserted by all who possessed the
    power of removing; and he, the brother of my
    5Oul, was exposed to the perils from which all but
    slaves enchained by circumstance fled. He
    remained to combat the fiend-his side unguard-
    ed, 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 tl,e coun-
    try. The hetter sort of hou:;cs 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 curriage-
    the first they had seen pass towards London,
    since pestilence sat on its high places, and pos-
    sessed its busy streets. I met several funerals;
    thl'y were slenderly attended by mourners, amI
    TilE LAST l\t,\r;. 187

    were regarded by the spectators as omens of


    direst imporl. Some gazed on the::e proces-
    sions with wild engcl1lcss-othcrs flct.1 timidly
    -some wept aloud.
    Adl'inn's chief endeavour, after the immediate
    !Iuccour of the sick, had bcCn to di8-guise the
    symptoms ~Uld progress of the plague from the
    inhabitants of London. H e knew th:..t fear and
    melancholy forebodings were powerful assistants
    to disease; that desponding and brooding care
    rendered the physical nature of mnll peculiarly
    susceptible of infection. No unsecml.v sight!'
    were therefore discernible: the shops were in
    general open, the concourse of pas~llgers in
    some degree kept up. nut although the appear-
    ance of nn infected town was ~l.\"oided, to me,
    who had not beheld it since the commencement
    of the visitation, Lundon appenrcd sufficiently
    changed. There wer~ no carriages, and grass
    had sprung high in the streets; the hou ses had
    a desolate look; most of the shutters were closed ;
    and there was a ghast and frightened Slare in
    188 THE LAST .lU.N.

    the persons I met, vcry diR'crent from' the usual


    busincss·like demeanour of the Londoners. My
    solitary carriage attracted notice, as it rattled
    along towards the Protectoral Palace-and the
    fashionable Slrccts leading to it wore II 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 DC
    people of the middling and lower classes DC
    iOcicty, whose means of subsistence failed with
    the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of
    money_making in ull its branchC!:i, peculiar to
    ollr country. ','Iu"rc WIlS nn !lir of amcipty.
    sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly
    contrasted with the resigned and even satisfied
    mien of tllOse who had Imd audience. I could
    read the influence of my friend in their quicken-
    ed motions and cheerful faces. Two o'dock
    struck, after which none were admitted; those
    who had been disappointed went sullenly or wr-
    TJlt.; LA!:oT ~ I '\X, 189

    l'owfully away, while 1 entered the audience-


    chal1lbcl',
    I wa:; sll'lIck by the improvement that appeared
    in th e health of Adrian. He was 110 longer bellt
    to the ground, like an over.nursed Rower of
    spring, that, shooting up beyond its s lre nglh~ is
    weighed down e\'cn by its own coronal of blos-
    soms. H is eyes were bright, his countenance
    composed, a n air of concentrated energy was dif-
    fused o\'el' his whole p ~rson, much unlike its
    former languor. He sat at a table with so\'erOlI
    s("Crctnrics. who were 3J'ranging petitions, or
    regi stering the notes made during that day's
    audil.'llcc. Two or three petitioncrs wrrc st ill
    in attendance. I admired his justice and
    JXlticnce. Those who possesscd n power of
    li\'ing out of L ondon, he advised illllllediat.e1y
    to quit it, affording them the means of so doi ng.
    Others, whose trade was beneficial to the city, or
    who possessed no other refuge, he prO\'idcd with
    fldvicc for better a\'oiding the epidcmic; re-
    lieving overloaded families, supplying til(> gaps
    190 THE L.... ST MAN'.

    made in olhers by death. OrdE't, comfort, and


    even health, rose under his influence, as from the
    loudl of a magician's "wand.
    "I am glad you are come," he said to me,
    when we were at Jast alone; " I can only spare a
    felv minutes, and must tell JOu much in that
    time. The plague is now in progress-lt IS
    useless closing one's eyes to the fact-the deaths
    encrease each week. \Vhat 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. Hyland, whom I have so long detain_
    ed, lias stipulated that I shall suffer him to depart
    before the end of this month, The deputy ap_
    poillted by parliament is dead; another there-
    fore must be named; I have advanced Illy
    duim, and I believe that I shnll haxc no com-
    petitor. To-uight the question is to be decided,
    as there is a call of the house for the purpose.
    You mllst nominate me, Lionel; Ryland, for
    shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my
    friend, will do me this :::cn·ice?'·
    THE LASt' 31.1\:"'. 191

    How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth,


    royally sprung, bred in luxury, by nature avcrse
    to the usual struggles of a puhlic life, and now,
    in time of danger, at a period when to live was
    the utmost scope of the ambitious, he, the be-
    loved and heroic Adrian, maUl', ill sweet sim-
    plicity, an offcr to sacrifice himself for the pub-
    lic good, The very idC'a was generous and
    noblc,-but, beyond this, his unpretending
    manner, his entire want of the assmnption of n
    virtue. rendered his act ten times more touching.
    I would have withstood. his requc&t; but I had
    seen the good hc diffused; I felt that his r('SOh'cs
    were n'>l to be shaken, so, with nn heax), heart,
    I consented to do us he asked. lIe grasped my
    hand aflectionatcly:-" Thank you," he said,
    H you have relieved me from a painful dilemma,
    and are, as YOll ever were, the best of my friends.
    Farewell- I must now leave you for arew hours.
    Go you and converse ,.. ith nyland. Although
    he deserl.q his post in London, be Illny be of the
    greatest service in the north of England, by re-
    192 THE LAST MAN.

    cciving and assisting travellers, [lild contri.


    buting to supply the metropolis with food.
    Awaken him, I entreat YOll, to some sense of
    duty."
    Adri.:m left mc, as I nftcrwnI'ds learnt, upon
    his daily task of visiting the hospitals, and in-
    specting the crowded parts of London. I found
    Ryland much altered, even from what he had
    heen when he visited 'Vindsor. Perpetual fear
    had jaundiced his complexion, and shrin·l1ed his
    whole person. I told him of the business of the
    evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted
    muscles. He desired to go; e3ch day he ex-
    pected to be infected by pestilence, ench day he
    was unable to resist the gentle violence of
    Adlinn's detention. The moment Adrian should
    be legally elected his depl1ty, he would es-
    cape to safety. Under this impres!'ioll he listen-
    ed to all I said; and, elc"ated almost to joy
    by the ncar prospect of his departure, he
    entered into a discussion concerning the plans he
    should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for
    Til E L,\ST ) 1,\ :-:. 193

    the moment, his cherished rcsolution of shutting


    himself up from nIl communication in the man-
    sion and grou nds of his estate.
    In the evcning, Adrian a nd I proceeded to
    '" cstminstcr. A s we went he rcminded me of
    whnt I was to say and do, yet, strange to sny,
    I entcn.>d the chamber without having once re-
    flected on my purpose. Adrian rcmninro in the
    coHee-room, while I, in compliance with his
    desire, took my scat in S1. Stcphen's. There
    reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I baJ
    not visited it since Raymond's protectorate; a
    llel;oc:.l conspicuous for a numcrous attemlnnce
    of members, for the eloquence of the speakers,
    and the warmth of tbo debate. The benches
    were "ery empty, those by custom occupied by
    the hereditary members were vacant; the city
    members were there-the members for the com-
    mercial towllS, few landed proprietors, and not
    many of those who entered parliament for fh t,
    sake of a career. The first suhject that occu.
    pied the alt('ntion of the Il(IuS(' was :m address
    VOL. II.
    19" THE LAST llAX.

    from the Lordllrotector, praying them to appoint


    .'l deputy during a necessary absence on his part.
    A silence prevailed, till one of the members
    coming to me, whispered that the Earl of
    " ' indsar had sent him word that I was to moye
    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, tile nearest
    kinsman of the Earl of 'Villdsor, was to propose
    his election. 1 was to thrust tJlis selected and
    matchless friend into the post of danger-im-
    possible! the die was cast-I would offer my_
    self as candidate.
    The few members who were present, had
    come more for the sake of terminatiug the busi_
    lless by s(.'Curing a legal attendance, than under
    the id£'u of a debate. I had risen mechanically
    -my knees trembled; irresolution hung on my
    TilE L.\ST )11\).'. 1!)5

    voice, as I uttered a felV words on the nCC('s-


    sity of choosing n pcrson adeqllatc to tliC' dttn.
    gcrolls task in hnnd. Jlut,· when the idea of
    presenting myself in the room of Illy fri end in-
    truded. the load of doubt and p.'lin was taken
    from o{l' me. 1\(y words flowed spontaneously
    -my utter:mcc was finn and (luiek . l:tdvertoo
    to whnt Adrian had already done-I promised
    the snme vigilance ill fur thering nIl his views.
    I drcw n tollching picture of his v:tcillnting
    health j 1 boasted of my own strength. I
    prayed them to sa"e even from himself this
    scion of the noblc£t family in England. ]\[y

    alliancc with him was the plctlgc of my sm·


    cerity, my union with his sistcr, my children, his
    presumptive heirs, were thc hostages of my truth.
    This unexpected turn in the debnlc ",ns
    quickly communicated to Adl'inll, lIe hurried
    in, Bud witnessed the termination of my impas-
    sioned harangu('. I did not sec him: my soul
    was in my words,-my eycs could not perceive
    that which was; while a vision of Aclri:tn's form,
    K 2
    196 TIlE LAST ltAX.

    tainted by pestilence, lind sinking III death,


    floated before them. He seized my hand,. as I
    conc1uded- u Unkind!" he CJied, "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 j and,
    after an inten'al devoted to the interests of hi"
    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 IlUd restored older-this had
    he<!n a work which required perseverance,
    paticncc., and energy; and he had neither slept
    nor waked but for the good of his I.:ountry.-
    'Vould they dare wrong him thus? 'Vould they
    wrest his hard-earned reward frotn him, to bc-
    stow it on one, who, ne\'er having mingled lU

    puhlic life, would come a tyro to the .:raft, in


    which he w~s an adept.. He demand~d the
    Tin: L AST MAN. 107

    place of deputy as his right. Hyland had


    shewn that he preferred him. Never before
    had he, who was born even to the inheritallce of
    the throne of England, ncyer had he asked
    favour or honour from those now his equa.ls, but
    who might havc been his subjects. 'Vould they
    refuse him ? Could they thrust hack from the
    path of distinction and lauda.ble ambition, the
    hcir of theil' ancient kings, and heap another
    disappointment on a fall en house.
    Noolle had ever before heard Adrian allude to
    the rights of his ancestors. Nonc had eyer before
    suspected, that pOlVcr, or the suffrage of the
    many, could in any manner bewme dear to him.
    H e hnd begun his speech with vehemence; he
    ended with untlSsuming gentleness, making his
    appeal with the same humility, ns if he had
    asked to be the first in wcalth, honour, and
    power among Englishmen, and not, as W8::O the
    t ruth, to be the foremost in the ranks of loath.
    some toils and inevitable dcath. .A murmur of
    approbation rose aftcr his speech. " Oh, do not
    198 THE L AST MA~.

    listen to him," I cried, "he speaks false-false


    to himsclf,"-I was interrupted: and, silence
    being restored, we were ordered, as \'t'as the cus-
    tom, 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
    reclllled, and installed in his office of Lord De-
    puty to the Protector.
    'Ve returned together to the palace. "'Vhy,
    Lionel," said Adrian, H 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
    yonrself,-you, the adored brother of Idns, the
    being, of all the world contains, dearest to our
    hearts-you devote yourself to an early death.
    I would ha"e prevented this; my death would
    be a small evil-or rather I should not die;
    while you cannot hope to escape."
    TilE L \S'r )I A~. 1!J9

    "Al) to the likeJihooJ of esc..'lping." !o.'l.id


    Adrian, "Len yeal's hence the cold stars may
    shine all the g l'a\'es of an of liS; but as to my
    peculiar liability to infection, I could casily
    prove, both logically and physiCD.lIy, thnt in the
    midst of contagion I have a better chance of life
    than you.
    " This is my }X>st : I was born for this-LO
    rule Englnnd in an..'lrchy, to sa\'e her in dangcr-
    to (Ic\'ote myself for her. The blood of my
    forefath ers cries aloud ill my veins, ami bids mc
    be first among my countrymen. Or, if this mode
    of speech offend you, let me say, thlit my mother.
    the proud queen, instilled ear1y into me a lo\'e
    of distinction, nnd 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 rocc. But now my mothe)", or, if you will,
    my mother's lessons, awaken within me. I call-
    notlcad on to battle; I CD.nnot, through intrigue
    £00 TilE LAST lIAS .

    and faithlessness rear again the thl"One upon tIle


    wreck of English public spirit. Dut I can be
    the first to SUppOl't and guard my country,
    now that terrific disnsters and ruin have laid
    strong hands upon her.
    " That country and my belovoo sister arc aU
    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 wiiI-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 un·
    watered floweret, nnd the slightest injury they re-
    ceive is a nipping frost to her. Already she fears
    for us. She f~ nrs for the children she adores, and
    for you, the father of thesc, her lover, husband,
    protector; and you must be near her to sup-
    port and encourage hel', Return to " ' indsor
    then, my brother j for sllch you are by cn'ry
    TilE I,,\S1' )IA:\'. QU I

    lic-fill the double place my absence hnpo*<; un


    you, and lct me, in nil my sufferings here, turn
    my eyes towards thnt dear seclusiolJ, and s..'ly-
    There is peace."

    K 3
    202 THr. I.AST ) I A;\'.

    CH,IPTEll VII.

    I DID proceed to Windsor, but 110t with the


    intention of remaining there. I went but to ob-
    tain the consent of Idris, and then to return and
    take my stalion beside my unequalled fri~nd;
    to share his labours, and save him, if so it must
    lw, at the expenee of my life. Yet I dreaded
    to witncss thc nnguir;h which my rcsolve might
    excite in Idris. I had vowcd to my own heart
    neyer to shadow her countenance even with
    transient grief, and should I prove recreant at
    the hour of greateiil need? I had begun my
    journey with anxious haste; now ·l desired to
    draw it out through the course of days and
    months. I longed to avoid the necessity of
    THE L .\ ST ,\I .\ ~ . 203
    nctiotl; I slro\'c to esca pe from thought-vainly
    -futurity, like a dark image in a phantasllla.
    goria, came nearer and more neal', till it clasped
    the whole carth ill its shadOlv.
    A slight circumstnncc induced me to alLC'I' my
    usual route, nnd to return home by Eghnm and
    ll ishopgatc. I alighted nt P erdita's ancient
    aboue, her cottage ; and, sending for ward the
    carriAr"crc, determined to walk across the park tn
    the castle, This spot, dedicated to sweetest rc-
    col1cctions, the deserted house and neglected
    garden were well adnpted to nurse my melan-
    choly. In our happiest days, Perdita )13(1
    adorned her cottage with every aid art might
    bring, to Ihat which nature hnd selected to
    favour. In the same spirit of eX8S'o"Crntion sh ~
    had, 011 the event of her separation from H ay-
    mond, caused it to be entirely neglected. 1t
    was now in ruin: the deer hrld climbed the
    brol.:cn palings, nod reposed nmong the fiowC'rs i
    grass grew on the thrcs.hol d, and the swin;;in~
    Inttice creaking to the wind, S'tlve signal of uttCl'
    204 TIlE LAST llANo

    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
    chookcd paths. and weed-grown flower-beds,
    dimmed even this gay summer scene. The time
    when in proud and happy security we as£embled
    at this cottage, was gone-soon the present hours
    would join those past, and shadows of future
    ones· rose dark and mf"nacing 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 rod, 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
    ruSlled into the depths of the forest. 0 death
    and change, rulers of our life, whel'e are ye, that
    I may grapple with you! 'Vhat was there in
    our tranquillity, that excited your envy-in our
    hnppiness, that ye should destroy it? "re were
    TilE I•.\ ST ~lAN. 205

    happy, loving, amI belovoo; the horn of


    Amalthea contained no blessing ullshowcroo
    llpon us, but, alas'

    In fortuna
    dddad barbllm importuna •
    oy cada\"cr y Dyer fior,
    no permanece jamas!-

    ..-\S I wnndcroo 011 thus ruminating, a number


    of country l>cople passed mc. They seemed
    full of careful thought, and a few words of their
    convert.ation that reached me, induced me to
    appro<1ch and make funhcr enqu~ries. A party
    of people flying from London, as was frequent
    in those days, had eome up the Thrones in a
    boat. No one at 'Vindsor would afford them
    shelter; so,going n litde further up, they remain_
    ed all night in n deserted hut ncar Bolter's lock.
    They pursued their way the following morning,
    lea,·jng one of their company behind them, sick

    - Calderon de la Barca.
    ~OG TIlE L ."T "AN.

    of the plague. This circumstance once spread


    abroad, nonc 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 ad"auced 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
    rood to the hut. One of them stopped me, and,
    conjecturing that I was ignornnt of tlH~ circum_
    stance, told me not to go all, for that an infected
    person lay but at a short distrulCC.
    H) know it," I replied, "and I am going to
    see in w hat condition t11C poor fellow is."
    A murmur of surprisc nnd hon-or ran through
    the assembly. I continued :_H This poor wretch
    is deserted, dying, succourless; in these unhappy
    TilE LAST )IA~. ~07

    timC's,God knows how soon any or all of us may


    bc in like wallt. I am going to do, as I would
    be done by."
    " nut you will nCl'cr l>c ablc to rcturn to thc
    Castle-Lady Idris-his children-" in confused
    spcech wcrc thc words that struck my car.
    "Do you not know, my friends," I said, "th:l l
    the Earl himself, now Lord Protector, visits
    daily, not only those probably infected by this
    disease, but the hospitn1s and pest hOllses, going
    ncar, and C\'cn touching the sick? yet he was
    never in better hcalth. YOll labour under an
    entire mistake as to tIle nature of the plague;
    but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to ac~
    company me, nor to believe mc, until J return
    safe and sound from my pntient."
    SO I left them, and hurried on. I soon
    arrived at the hut: the door was ajar. I cn~

    terro, and one glance assured me that its former


    inhabitant was no more- he In}" on n heap of
    straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious effluvia
    £08 TIIF. L.-\ST UAN.

    filled the room, and various stains and marks


    served to shew the virulence of the disorder.
    I had newr before beheld one killed by pes-
    tilence. \Vhile every mind was full of dismay at
    its effects, a craving for excitement had led us
    to peruse "Dc Foe's account, and the masterly
    delineations oC 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. Dut cold werc the sensations
    excited by words, burning though they were,
    and describing the death and misery of thou.
    sands, 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. A s I was thus ClCCU·

    pied, 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? " 'as the coming painful? You look as
    if the enemy had torturoo, before he murdered
    you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and
    escaped from the hut, before nature could re-
    ,"oke 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 meill added to their fear of
    coming ncar one who had entered within the
    verge of contagion.
    At a distance frOlh facts olle draws conclusions
    which appear infallible, which yet when put to
    the test of reality. mnish like unreal dreams:
    I had ridiculed the fears of Illy countrymen,
    when they related to others; now that they came
    home to myself, I paused. The Rubioon, I
    felt, was passed; and it behoved me well to re_
    flect what I should do on this hither side of
    diSC.tl.sc and danger. Aeoording to the vulgar
    sllpcr3tition, my dress, my person, the air I
    210 THE LA ST MA~.

    breathed, bore in it mortal danger to myself and


    others. Should I return to the Castle, to my
    wife and children, with this taint up::m me?
    Not surely if I were infected; but I felt cer-
    tain that I was not-a few hours would de--
    termine the question-l would spend these in
    the forest, in reflection on what was to come, and
    what my future actions were to be. In the feel-
    ing 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 tllc mist which had hitherto veiled them.
    The question was no longer whether J should
    share Adrian's toils llnd danger; but in wllat
    nmnncr I could, in Windsor and the neighbour-
    hood, 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 e.1.rth out as a map before
    TilE "A ST lIA X. 211

    me. On no one spot of its surface could I put


    my finger llnd say, here is safety. In the south,
    the disease, virulent and immedicable, IUl.d
    nearly llllnihiinted the race of mnn; storm and
    inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled
    up the measure of suffering. In the north it
    was worse-the lesser population gr:ulua11y de-
    clined, and famine and plague kept watch on
    the survival's, who, helpless and feeble, werc
    rcady to fall an casy prey into their hands.
    I contracted my ,·jew to England. The 0\'('1'-
    grown metropolis, the great heart of mighty
    llritllin, was pulselcss. Commerce had ceased.
    A11 resort for ambition or plea.·mrc was cut oft·
    -the streets were grass-grawn-the houses
    empty-the few, that from necessity remained,
    scemed already branded with the taint of in-
    evitable pestilence. In the larger manufactur-
    ing towns the same tragedy wns nclcd 0,' a
    smaller, yet more disastrous scale. There was
    no Adrian to superintend and direct, while
    whole flocks of the poor were struck nnd killed.
    ~12 TilE r.AST lIA~.

    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- morc need
    that we should work hard to dispute its pr~

    gress; 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 onc of them was of more worth than the
    so called treasures of kings. Look at his thought-
    endued countenance, his gracefu\limbs, his ma-
    jestic brow, his wondrous mechanism- the type
    and model of t11is best work of God is not to be
    cast aside ns a broken vessel- he shaH be pre-
    served, and his children nnd his children's
    children carry down the name and form of man
    to latest time.
    Ahave 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
    TIlE L .\ST ll.\!\'. 2J3

    greatness and good ness of man, I could choose


    no other than tho!e allied to me by tile most
    sacr~d ties. Some from among the family of man
    must survive, and these shou ld be among the
    survivors ; th3t should be my task-to accom-
    plish it my o\\'n life were a small sncrifice.
    There then in that castle-in 'V indsor Castle,
    birth-place of Idris and my babes, should be
    the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark
    of inllnan society. Its fOl'cst should be our
    world-its gorden afford us food; within its
    walls I wOllld establish the shaken throne of
    health . I was an outcast and n vagabond, when
    Adrian gently threw over me the sih'er net or
    loyc and civilization, nnd linked mc inextri-
    cably to human charities and human ex-
    cellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant
    after good, and an ardent lo,'er of wisdom,
    was yet unenrolled in any list of worth,
    when Idris, the princely born, who was herself
    tl1e personification of all that was divine in
    woman, she who walked the earth like a poet's
    214 THE LAST lilA:\".

    dream, as a carved goddess cndued with sense,


    or pictured saint stepping from the canvas-she,
    the most worthy, chose me, and gavc me herself
    -a priccless gift.
    During several hours I continued thus to
    meditate, till hunger and fatigue brought me
    back to the passing hour, then marked by long
    slmdows cast from the descending sun. I had
    wanllered towards Bracknel, far to the west of
    'Vindsor. The feeling of perfect health whieh I
    enjoyed, assured me that I waf: free from conta·
    gion. I remembered that Idns had been kept in
    ignorance of my pl'Oceetlings. She might ha,'c
    heard of my rcturn from London, and my visit to
    Bolter's Lock, which, connected with Illy con·
    tinued absence~ might tend greatly to alarm her.
    I returned to Windsor by the Long 'Va1k, and
    passing through the town towards the Castle, I
    found it in a state of agitation and disturbance.
    "It is too latc to be ambitiolls," says Sir
    1'homas Browne. ""'e ('ntmot hope to Jj,'e so
    long in our names as some hayc done in their
    THE L.<\ST )I.\ ~. 215

    persons; olle face of Janus holds no proportion to


    the other." Upon this text many f:mntics 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 danger-
    ous were played on the great theatre, while the
    remaining particle of futurity dwindled into a
    point in the eyes of the progn05tieators. \Veak.
    spirited women died of fear as they listened to
    their dpllt\llcilltions; men of robust form and
    seemi ng strength fell into idiotey and madness,
    racked by the dread of coming eternity. A
    man of this kind was now pouring forth his elo-
    quent despair among the inhabitants of'Vind_
    sor. Th~ scene of the morning, and my ,'isit to
    the dead, which had been spread abroad, had
    alarmed the country_people, so they had be-
    come fit instruments to be played upon by a
    maniac.
    The poor '\TCtch had lost his young wife and
    lovely infant by the plague. He was a mecha-
    nic; and, rendered unable to att~d to the oceu-
    2iG Till:: I..\ST MAN.

    pat ion, which supplied llis nece&sities, famine


    wns added to his othel' miseries. He left the
    chamber which contained his wife and child-
    wife and child no more, but ., dead earth upon
    the carth"-wild with hunger, watching and
    grief, his diseased fancy made him believe him-
    self sent by heaven to preach the end of time to
    the worJd. He entered the churches, and fore-
    told to the congregations their sJX'cdy removal
    to the vaults below. He appeared like 'the for-
    gotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade
    the spcctt\lOrS go home and die. He had !.>fen
    seized and confined; he had escaped and wan.
    dered from London amollg the neigh homing
    towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling
    words, he unveiled to each their lliddcn fears,
    tmd gave voice to the soundless thought they
    tlared not syllable. Hc stood under the arcade
    of the town-hall of 'Windsor, and from this
    dc"ation harangued a trembling crowd.
    " Hear, 0 ye inhabitants of the earth," he
    cried, "hear thOll, all seeing, but most piti\es$
    'rill:: LA S'r MAN. 2 17

    Heaven! hear tholl too,O tempest-tossed heal't,


    \\ bieh breathes out these words,),el faint s beneath
    their meaning! Death is among us! The earth
    is beautiful and flower.bedccked, but she is OUl'

    grave! Tile clouds of heaven weep for li s-the


    pageantry of the stars is but our funeral torch·
    light. Grey helldcd men, yr: hoped for yet a
    few yenrs ill your long.kllown abod e- but the
    lease is Ill', YOll must relllo\'e- childrell. ye will
    never r<'ach maturity. evell now the smnll grave
    is dug for yc -mothcl's, clasp them in your anus,
    one death embraces J'Ol! !"
    Shuddcring, he stretched Ollt his hands, his
    eyes cao;t up, SCt'med bursting from their sockets,
    while he appeared 10 follow slmpcs, to ti S invisible,
    in the yiC'idillg nir- u There they nrc," 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 yoid of motion, while still
    they-glide onwards. " ' Ve come," Iu.' exclaimed.
    springing forwards, " for what should we wai l ~
    VOL. n, L
    THE LAST lIAN.

    Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves m the


    court-drcss of death. Pestilence will usher you
    to his presence. vVhy thus long? they, the
    good, the wise, and the bc1o"ed, are gone before.
    Mothers, kiss your last-husbands, protectors
    no more, lead on the partners of your death!
    Come, 0 come! while the dear ones are yet in
    sight, for soon they will pass away, and we never
    never sball join them more."
    From such ravings as these, he would sud.
    denly become collected, and with unexaggerated
    but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time;
    describe with minute del ail, tbe effects of the
    plague on the humnll frame, and tell beart.
    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 eYeD

    shrieks burst from the crowd. One Dlan in


    particular stood in front, his eyes fixt on the
    prophet, his mouth open, his limbs rigid, while
    his face changed to \'arious colours, yellow, blue,
    and green. through intense fear. The maniac
    TilE LAST M.-\N. !!l!)

    caught his glnncc, nnd tumed his eye 011 him-


    one has heard of the gaze of the rattle-snake,
    which allures the trembling victim till he fall s
    within his jaws. The mnnine became composed ;
    his person rose higher; authOl'ity beamed from
    his countenance. He looked on the peasant,
    who began to tremble, ,,,hile he still gazed j his
    knees knocked together; his tcelll chattered. He
    at Inst fell down in cOllvulsions. (( That man
    has the plague,'" said the maniac calmly. A
    shriek burst from the lips of the poor wretch;
    and then sudden mouonlessness came over him ~
    it was manifcst to all that he was dead.
    Cries of horror filled the place-everyone en-
    deavoured to effect his escape-in n few minutes
    the market place was c1c..'l.roo-thc corpse lay on
    the ground; and the maniac, suhdued and ex-
    hausted, Sllt beside ii, leaning his gaunt cheek
    upon his thin hnnil . Soon sonte people, deputed
    by the magistrates, came to remove the body; the
    unfortunate heing saw a jailor in each-he fled
    L 2
    220 THY. LAST IIIAN'.

    precipitately, while J passed onwards to the


    Castle.
    Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these
    l>clovcd walls. An old servant, who had nursed
    Idris in infancy, and who lived with us morc 011
    the footing of a revered relatiye 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 r~lague. From the haughty and unbend_
    ing nature of the Countess of 'Vindsor, Idris
    had few tender 6liat associations with her. Thi"
    good woman had stood in the place of a mother,
    and her very deficiencies of education and know-
    ledge, by rendering her humble and dcfcnccle;;s,
    endeared her to U8--£hc was the especial favourite
    of the children. I found my poor girl, there is
    no exaggeration in the expression, wild with
    grief and dread. S-he hung o"er the pmicnt in
    agony, which was not mitigated when her thoughti3
    wandered towards her lxlbcs, for whom she feared
    THE LAST llANo 221

    infection. My arri\'al was like the newly dis.


    coveroo lamp of a lighthouse to Sllilor~, who are
    weathering some dangerous point. She dl!posited
    her appnUing doubts in my hands; she rrlicd on
    my judgment, amI. was comforted by my partici.
    pation in her sorrow. Soon our poor nurse ex-
    pirro; and the anguish of suspense was changed
    to deep regret, which though at first more pain.
    ful, yet yielded with greater readiness to my ~
    consolations. Sleep, the so\"ereign balm, at length
    s teeped her tearful eyes in forgetfulncss.
    She slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle,
    whose inhabitants were hus.hed to rcpose. 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 win.
    dow, commanding a wide prospect of the star-il-
    lumi ned. country, I SllW the land stretched out in
    placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the brother
    of death possessed my race. 'V hat, if the more
    porent of these fraternal deities should obtain
    THE L J\ST )IAX.

    dominion over it? The silence of midnight, to


    speak truly, though apparently a pnradox, rung
    in my ears. The solitude became intolerable-
    I placed my haml on the beating heart of Idris,
    I bent my IJCad to catch the sound of her breath,
    to assure myself that she Sotill c>..;sted'- for a mo-
    ment I doubted whether I should not awake her;
    so effeminate an horror ran througll my frame.
    -Great God! would it one day be thus? One
    day a11 extinct, save myself, should I walk the
    earth alone? 'Vere these warning voices, whose
    inarticulate and oracular sense forced belief upon
    me?

    Yet I would not call tllnn


    Voices of warning. that announce to us
    Only the inevimble. As the sun,
    Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
    In the atmosphere-Jo often do the spirits
    or great events stride on berore the evenls.
    And in to-day already \valks to-morrow,·

    , Coleridge's Transb.tion ofSchiUer's Wallenstein.


    'lYlE LAST ).lAN.

    CHAPTER VIII.

    AFTER n long interval, I am again impelled


    l.Iy the restless spidt within me·to continue my
    narration; but I must alter the mode whieh I
    have hitherto adopted. The details contained
    in the foregoing JXlo,cres, apparently trivial, yet
    each slightest one weighing like lead in the
    depressed scnleof human afflictions; this tedious
    dwelUng on the sorrows of others, while my own
    'Were only in apprehension; this slowly laying
    bare of my soul's wounds: thili 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 deF;Cribcd my beloved friends, fresh with
    TilE LAST 1oU:-.'.

    life and glowing with hope, activc assistants


    on the scenc, I was soothed; there wil1 be a more
    melancholy pleasure in painting the end of
    all. But the inlermcdinte steps, the climbing
    the wall, rnised 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, nnd
    disposin& light and shade so as to form a picture
    in whose very darkness there will be harmony.
    1 t would be needless to narrate those disastrous
    occurrences, for which (1 parallel might be found
    in any slighter visitation of our gigantic calamity.
    Docs the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses,
    where death is the comforter-of the mournful
    passage of the demh-cart-of the insensibility of
    the worthless, and the anguish of the lo'ing
    heart-of harrowing shrieks and silence dire-of
    the variety of disease, desertion, famine, dcspai .. ~
    TilE LAST )lA N.

    and death? There are many books which can


    feed the appetite craving for these things; let
    them turn to tl]c accounts of Doccaccio. Dc 1"0(',
    and Drowne. The vast annihilation that has
    swallowed all things-the \'oicc1css solitude of
    the once busy earth-the lonely state of s ingle~

    ness which hems me in, has depri\'cd 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 combineil co10uriog of the past..
    I had retumeq from London poss~sC(l by
    the idea, with the intimate feeling that it was
    my first duty to secure, as well as I was able,
    the well.bcing of my family, and thcn to re-turn
    and take my post beside Adrian. The c\"ents
    that immcdiately followed Oil my arrival at
    'Vindsor changed this view of things. The
    plaguc was not in London alone, it was cvcry
    wherc-it came on us, as Ryland had said, like
    a thousand packs of wolves, howling through
    .8
    226 THE LAST )rAN.

    the winter night, gaunt and fierce. 'Vhen once


    disease was introduced into the rural districts,
    its effects appeared more horrible, more exigent,
    and more difficult to cure, thtm 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
    dcstrnction smoothed. But in the country,
    among the scattered farm-houses, in IOlle cot_
    tages, in ~elds, and barns, tragedies were acted
    harrowing to the soul, unseen, unlh~ard, un-
    noticed. Medical aid was less easily procured,
    food was more difficult to obtain, and human
    beings, unwithheld by shame, for they were un-
    beheld of their fellows, ventured on deeds oC
    greater wickedness, or gave way ruore readily
    to their abject fears.
    Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose w.ry
    mention swells the heart and brings lears into
    the eyes. Such is human nature, th::.t beauty
    and deformity arc often closely linked. In read-
    Til E LAST )1.\ N.

    ing history we arc chiefly struck by the genero-


    sity and sclf-de"otion that. follow close on th.!
    heels of crime, veiling with supernal flowers the
    stain of blood. Such acts werc not wanting to
    adorn thc grim train that waited on the progres...
    of the plnguc.
    The inhabitants of Berkshire ane Bucks had
    been long aware that the plague wns in London.
    in Livcrpool, Dristol, Manchester, York, in
    short, in all the morc populous towns of England.
    They were not however the less astonished and
    dismnyed when it nppcarcd among themselves.
    They werc impatient and angry in thc midst of
    terror. They would do something to throw off
    the c1ingingevil, 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 scparatC' from each othel"
    careless of hunger or the sky's inclemency, while
    they imaginet.l that they avoided the death-deal-
    ing disease. The farmers and cottagers, on the
    contrary, struck with the fear of solitudc, ami
    2£18 1'11£ LAST MA~.

    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 dwindlcJ away, and was in some degree re-
    placed 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, mnde
    pale by wasting malady, became the inhabitants
    of the grave. 'I'he crop had failed, the bnd corn,
    and want of foreign wines, added vigour to
    disease. Defore Christmas half Engla.nd 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 -und storms did more harm to
    continental Europe than to us-gi\'ing, as it
    wer£', the last blow to the calamities which de-
    stroyed it. In Italy the rivers were ullwatched
    THE L.4.ST llANo

    by the diminished pc:lS.1ntry; and, like wild beasts


    fr~m their lair when the hunters amI dogs are
    nfar, did Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and
    destroy the fertility of the plains. 'VllOle vil-
    lages were ca.rried away. Rome, and Florence,
    and Pisa were overflowed, and their marble
    palaces, late mirrored in tranquil streams, had
    their founda.tions shaken by their winter-gifted
    power. In Germany and Uussia the injury was
    still more momentous.
    Hut frost would come at last, nnd with it a re-
    newal of our If'ase of earth. Frost would blunt
    the arrows of pestilence, and enchnin the furious
    elements; nnd the land would in spring throw off
    her garment of snow, relcn.~l (rom her menaCE"
    of destruction. It was not until February that
    the desil'ed 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 nil vanislu.-d, A south-west
    wind brought up rrun-the sun came out. and
    !l30 THE LAST MAN.

    mocking the usual laws of nature, seemed even


    at this early season to bum with solsticinl force.
    It wns no consolation, that with the first windsor
    March the lanes were filled with violets, the fruit
    trees covered with blossoms, that the corll sprung
    up, and the lea.ves came out, forced by the un-
    seasonable heat. We feared the balmy air-we
    feared the cloudless sky, the Bower_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 n wide church-yard.

    Pisando la tierra dura


    de continuo el hombre €III\.
    y c\ula va.sw que UI\
    cs sobre SIJ scpultura.-

    Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages win_


    tcr was breathing time; and we exerted ourselves
    to make the best of it. Plague might not rcyive

    • Calderon de la Barca.
    TilE L,\ ST )lAS. 231
    ~ith the su mmer i but if it did, it should fi nd u s
    prepared. It is a part of man's natu re to adapt
    itself through habit even to pain and sorrow.
    P estilence had become a part of our future, ou r
    existence; it was to be guarded against, like the
    flooding of rh·crs, the encroachments of ocean,
    or th e inclemency of the sky. After long suffer-
    ing and bitter experiencp, some panacea might
    be discovered; as it was, all that received infec-
    tion died-all however were not infected; and
    it became OUl" part to fix deep tile foundations,
    and raise high the barrier between contagion and
    the sane; to introduce such ordcr as would COIl-

    duce to the well_being of the sun·ivors, and as


    would pr~servc hope and somc portion of happi-
    ness to those who were spectators of the still I·e-
    newoo tragedy. Adrian had introduced syste-
    matic modes of proceeding in the metropolis,
    which, while they were unable to stop the pro-
    gress of death, yet prevented other evils, yicc
    And folly, from rendering the awful fate of the
    TilE LAST )JAN.

    hour still more tremendous. I wished to imitate


    his example, but men are used to

    - move all togt>ther, i£ they nlOlle al all,'

    ami I could find no means of leading the inha_


    bitants of scattered towns and villages, who for-
    got my words as soon as they heard them not,
    and veered with evcry baffling wind, that might
    arise frol'1 an apparent change of circumstance.
    t adopted another plan. Those writers who
    have imagined a reign of peace and happiness
    on earth, have gencrally described a rural coun.
    try, where each small township was directed by
    the elders nod WIse men. This was the kcy
    of my design. Each village, howcver small,
    usually contains a leader, one among themselves
    whom they venerate, whose advice thcy seek in
    difficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly
    valuC'. I was immediately drawn to make this

    • Wordsworth.
    THE LAST ll.\N.

    ObSCI·Vo.lioli by occurrences thal pro"ellted them.


    selves to my personal (,xpericncc.
    [n the village of Little Marlow an old woman
    rulctl the community. She had lived for some
    ye~lrS in nil alms-house, and on fin e Sundays her
    threshold wns co!:,stnntly beset by a crowd,
    seeking her ndvice nnd listening to her ndmoni-
    tions. She had been a soldier's wifC', and had
    seen the world; infirmity, induced by fevers
    caught in unwholesomc quartcrs, 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 inhabi.
    tants of the little wisdom they possessed, old
    :\faTlhn stepped forward and s.1.id -" Before
    now I have been in a town where there wns the
    plngue."-" And you escaped ?"_U No, but I
    recovered."-AfteT this Martha wns scated mOTe
    firmly than e,'er on the regal scat, cle:vatro by
    reverenc~ and love. She cllte"cd the cott.1.ges of
    the sick; she relieved their want!! with her own
    JJIU.d i she belraye.l no f('ar , and inspired. all
    TIlE LAST ll.\S'.

    who saw her with some portion of her own na4


    th'e 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 wel14beillg of each included the
    prosperity of all. She would not permit the
    gardens to be neglected, nor the very Bowers in
    the cottage lattices to droop from want-of care.
    Hope, she said, was better than a doetor's pre.-
    scription, and e\'ery thing that could sustain
    and enliven the spirits, of more worth than
    drugs and mixtures.
    It was the sight of Little Marlow, and mv
    conversations witb 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 benevo-
    lence, ready to lend their utmost aid for tbe weI.
    fare 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
    THE LAST VA,",

    rich possessed other means of prescn·ution Ihnn


    those which could be partaken of by themselves,
    seclusion, and, as far as circumsUlnces permitted,
    freedom from cnre. They could not place re-
    liance on 'them, but turned wilh tenfold depend-
    ence to the succour nod advice of their c'luals.
    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, enCt'ease both their power and their
    usc among their fellow-cottagcrs. l\lnny changes
    also now occurred in these spontancous regal
    elections: depositions and abdications were fre-
    quent, while, in the place of the old and pru-
    dent, the ardent youth 'would step forward,
    e:sger for action, regardless- of danger. Often
    too, the "oice to which a11 listened was suddenly
    Ioilenced, the helping hand cold, the sympathe-
    tic eye dosed, nnd tlle villagers feared still more
    the death that had selected a choice "ictim,
    shi,'ering in dust the heart that had beat for
    thew, reducing to incommunicable annihilation
    TilE LAST MAN.

    the mind for eyer occupied with projects for


    their welfare.
    Whoever labours for man must often find in-
    gmtitude, watered by vice and folly, spring
    from the grain which he has sown. Death,
    which had in our younger days walked the earth
    like H a thief that comes in the night,'" n?"',
    rising from his subterranean vault, girt with
    power, with ,dark banner floating, came a COIl-

    queror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal


    throne, a supreme Providence, who directed
    his shafts, and guided his progress, and they
    oowed their heads in resignation, or at IeNit in
    obedience. Others perceived only a. passing
    casualty; they endeavoured to exchange terror
    for heedlessness, and plunged into licentious-
    ness, to avoid the agonizing throes of worst ap-
    prehension. Thus, while the wisc, the good,
    and the prudent were occupied by the labours
    of benevolence, the trllee of winter produced
    other effects among the YOllng, the thoughtless•
    .and the vicious. During the colder months there
    TifF. LAST lIA!\'. 237

    was a gcnernll'lIsh to London in scMch of amusc-


    ment-the Lies of public opinion were loosened;
    many were rich, heretofore poor-many had
    lost father and mother, the guardians of their
    momls, their mentors and restraints. It would
    h(\\'e been useless to ha,'e opposed these im_
    pu.1scs by b."\rricrs, which would only have
    driven those actuated by them to more perni_
    cioW'1 inclulgcncics. 'rhe theatres were open and
    thronged; dance and midnight festival werc
    frequented-in many of these decorum was vio-
    lated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an
    ad\'tlllCcd state of civiJization, were doubled.
    The student left his books, the artist hi s study :
    the occupations of life were gone, but the amuse-
    ments remained; enjoyment might he protracted
    to the verge of the grave. All factitious colour-
    ing disappeared - death rose like night, and, pro-
    tected by its murky shadows the blush of 1IlCl-

    desty, the reserve of pride, the decorum of pru-


    dery 'Nere frequently thrown aside as uscl('SS
    veils.
    THE LAST lIAN.

    This was not universal. Among better no.·


    tures. anguish and dread, the fcar of cternal
    GCpnrntion, and the awful wonder produced by
    unprccedented 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
    onr the tempcst·vcxed sea of suffering, would
    bear them in safety to the harbour of the Un.
    known 'Continent. The loving heart, obliged to
    contract its view, bestowed ils O\'crAow of aff'cc·
    tion in triple portion on the few that remained.
    Yet, even among these, the prescnt, as an un·
    alienable possession, became 0.11 of time to which
    they dared commit the precious freight of their
    hopelii.
    The experience of immemorial time had
    taught us formerly to count our enjoyments by
    years, and extend our prospect of life through
    TII£ LAST lIAN.

    a lengtJlenoo perioll of progression anll decay;


    •
    the long rood threaded a VlL5t labyrinth, and the
    Valley of the Shadow of D eath, in which it ter-
    minated, was hid by intervening ol~ccts. 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 eharlotcd us towards the chasm. But it
    was winter now, and months must elapse before
    we are hurled from our security. 'Ve became
    ephemera, to whom tJle interval between the
    rising and setting sun was as a long drawn year
    of common time. 'Ve should never sec our
    children ripen into maturity, liar behold their
    downy cheeks roughen, their blithe hearts sub-
    dued by passion or care ; but we had them now
    - they lived, anel we lived-what more could we
    desire? With such schooling did my poor Idril
    try to hush thronging fears, and in some mea.-
    sure succeeded. It was not as in summer-time,
    when each hOllr might bring the dreaded fate-
    until liummer, we felt sure; and this certainty,
    240 THY. LAST lIU:-:.

    short lived as it. must be, yet for awhile ~atisfied


    •
    her maternal tenderness. I know not how to
    express or conlmunicrtte the sense of concen-
    trated, intense, though evanescent transport,
    that imparadized us in the prescnt hour. OU1'
    joys wece dearer becall&C we saw their cnd; they
    were keener because we felt, to its fullest ex-
    tent, their value; they were purer because their
    essence was sympathy-as a meteor is brighter
    than a stal', 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
    'Vind sor Terrace on the sixteen fertile counties
    spread hcneath, speckled by happy COUttges and
    wealthier lawn s, all looked as in fonner years,
    heart-chcering and fair. The Jand was ploughed,
    the slender blades of wheat broke through the
    dark soil, the fruit trees were cO\"('red with bud~,

    the husuandman was abroad in the fields, the


    milk.maid tripped home with well.filled p..'1ils,
    the swallows and martins struck the sunny pools
    with theil'long, pointed wings, the new dropped
    Til E LAST l!.\:\". 24-1

    lambs rcposed 011 the youug g rass, the tcnder


    gro \\ th of \Clt" cs-
    Lifts its sweet head into the air. and fcetls
    A ~ilent space with ever 'prouting green .•

    Man himself seemed to regcnemte, nnd feci the


    frost of wbtcr yield to nn elastic nnd warm rc~

    newal of life-reason told llS that care :lnd sorrow


    would grow with the opening year - but how
    to believe the ominous voice breathed up with
    pestiferous vapours from fear's dim cayern,
    while nature, laughing and scattering from her
    green lap flow ers, and fruits, and 3parkling
    waters, invited us to join the gay masque of
    young life she led upon t11c scene?
    " ' here was thc plague? It Hcrt..'---Cn:ry
    where !" one "oicc of horror and dismay ex-
    claimed, when ill the pleasant days of n sunny
    May the Destroyer of man brooded again over
    the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic

    Keats.
    ' ·OL. II .
    "
    TilE LA iT llANo

    chrysalis, and to enter -upon an untried life.


    \\,ith one mighty sweep of its potent "weapon,
    all caution, all care, all prudence werc le"clled
    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
    everyeye.
    Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and
    were I to tell all of angu ish and pain that J
    witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and
    the more terrible smiles of infancy in the bosom
    of horror, my reader, his limbs q~li\'ering and
    his hair on end, would wonder how I did not,
    seized with sudden frenzy, dash myS(!lf (rom
    some precipice, and so close my eyes for e"er on
    the sn.d end of the world. But the powers of
    love, poetry, and creative fancy will d,vell even
    beside the sick of the plague, with the squalid,
    aud with the dying.. A feeling of devotion, of
    duty, of a high and steady purpose, elevated
    me; a strange joy fillet1 my heart. In the
    •

    TilE LAST MAN.

    midst of Mddest grief I seemed to trend air,


    while the spirit of good shed round me nn am-
    brosinl ntmosphcl'c, which blunted the tiling of
    ~ympathy. and purified the air of sighs. If my
    wearied soul flagged in its career, 1 thought of
    my 10\'00 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 hen.rt was at once softened and re-
    freshed by thrilling tenderness.
    Maternal affection had not rcndcrerl Idris
    selfish; at the beginning of our calamity she
    had, with thoughtless enthusia.~m, dc\"Otoo her_
    self to the cnre of the sick and helpless. I
    checked her; and she submitted to my rule. I
    told her how the fenr of her danger palsied my
    cx.crtions, how the knowledge of her £8fety
    !.trung my nerves to endurance. I shewed her
    the dangers which her children incurred during
    her ROscnCt" ; RmI she at length agreed not to go
    beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed,
    within the walls of the Castle we had a colony

    " 2
    THE J. AST )IA::\.

    of the .unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and


    in themselves helpless, sufficicnt to occupy her
    lime and attention, while ceaselcss anxicty for
    my welfare nnd thc health of her children,
    however she strm·c to curb or conceal it,
    nbsorbed all her thoughts, and undermined
    the vital principle. After watching over and
    providing for their safety, her second care
    was to hide from mc her anguish and tears.
    Each night I returncd to the Castle, and found
    there reposc and love awaiting me. Often I
    waited beside the bed of death till midnight,
    and through the obscurity of millY, cloudy
    nights rode many miles, sustained by one cir.
    cumstance only, the safety and sheltered repose
    of those I loved. If somc scene of tremendous
    ngony shook my frame and fevered my brow, I
    would by my head. on the lap of Idris, and the
    tumultuous pulses subsided into a temperate
    flow-her smile could raise me from hopeless-
    ness, her embrace bathe my sorrowing henrt in
    cnhn peace.
    TilE LAST "'IAN. 245

    Summer advanced, and, crowned with the


    sun's potent rays, plague shot her unerring shafts
    o\'er the earth. The nations beneath their inp
    fluence bowed theil' heads, and died . The corn
    that sprung up in plenty, lay in autumn rolling
    on thc ground, while the melancholy \\ reich who
    had gone out to gathcr 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,
    nnswering the solemn melroy with inharmonious
    cries. The painted birds flitted through the
    shades; the careless deer reposed unhurt upon
    the-fem-the oxen and the horses strayed from
    their ungual'dcd stables, and grazed among the
    wheat, for death fell on man alone.
    'Vilh summer and mortality grew our fears.
    Al y poor love and I looked at each other, and
    our babcs.-u'Ve will save them, Idris," I
    said, H I will save them. Ye..'lrs hence we shall
    recount to them our fears, then passed away
    with their occasion. Though they only ~hOlild
    246 TilE LAST l'tlA~.

    remain on the earth, ~till they shal11ivc, nor shall


    their cheeks become pale nor their sweet voices
    languish." Our eldest. in somc dcgr('c under..
    stood the scenes passing around, and at timc~~
    he with seriOLIS looks questioned r..)C concerning
    the reason of so vast a desolation. But he WlIS"

    only ten years old; and the hilarity of youth


    soon chased unreasonahle 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 tholl~

    sand arli<'Ss ways attract our attention to his


    pIny. Clara, Ollr lovely gentle Clara, wns- anI"
    stay, our solace, our delight. She made it her
    lask to attend the sick, comfort the sol'rowing,
    assist the aged, and pnrtnke the ~ports and
    awaken the gaiety of the young. She flitted
    tluough the rooms, like a good spirit, dispatched
    from the celestial kingdom, to illumine our dark
    hour with alien splendour. Gratitude and praiso
    marked where her footsteps had i>t:cn, Yet,
    TilE LAST )IA,...

    when she stood in unassuming simplicity beforc


    us, playing with our chil~lren, or with girlish assi-
    duity performing little kina offices for Idris, one
    wondered in what fail' lineament of her pure
    loveliness, in what soft tone of her thrilling voice,
    so much of heroism, sagacity and activc good-
    ness resided.
    The summer pa~ tediously, for we lnlsted
    th'1.t witller would at least check the disease.
    That it would vanish altogether was an hope too
    dear-too heartfelt, to be expressed. 'Vhen sllch
    a thought was heedlessly uttered, the hearers,
    with a gush of tears and paS5iouate sobs, Lore
    witness how deep thdr fl.!ars were, how small
    their hopes. For my own part, my exertions
    for the public good permitted me to obscr\'c
    more closely than most others, the virulence and
    extellsive ravages of our sightless enemy. A
    sh ort month hilS destroyed a village, and where
    in May the first person sickened, in June the
    ,
    paths were d,.formed by unburied corpses-the
    houses tenantlt!ss, no smoke arising from the
    •
    TItF. L.\ST AlAN.

    chimneys; and the housewife's clock marked


    only the hour when death had been triumphant.
    l"rom such scenes I have sometimes sa\'cd 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 ovel' his extinct family.
    July is gone. August must pass, and by the
    middle of September we may hope. Each day
    was eagerly counted; amI 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 pleasmc, to
    banish thought and opiate despair. None but
    Adrian could have tamt"d the motley population of
    London, which, like a troop of unbittcd steeds
    1'11<ihing to'their pastures, had thrown aside all mi.
    nor fears, through the operation of the fear para-
    mount. Even Adrian was obliged in l~art to
    yield, that he migllt be cblc, if not to guide. at
    least to set bounds to the license of the times.
    The theatres \felC kept open; c\'ery placc of
    TilE L.hT )(.\X.

    public resort was frequellted; though he cmlea-


    ,"oured so to modify them, .. as might best quiet
    the agitation of the spectators, and at the same
    time pre\'cnt D. reaction of misery whell the
    excitement was over. Tragetlies deep and dire
    . .
    were the chief favourites. Comedy brought
    with it too great a contrast to the inner despair:
    wl.en such were attempted, it was not unfrcquellt
    for n comedian, in the midst of the laughter oc-
    casioned by his disproportioned buffoonery, to find
    a word or thought in bis part that jarred with his
    own sense of wretchedness, and burst from mimic
    IlIcrriment into sobs and tears, while the spec-
    tators, seized with irresistible sympathy, wcpt,
    alld the pantomimic revelry was changed to a
    !'X,a} exhillition of tragic passion.

    It was not in my nature to derive consolation


    from such scenes j f!'Om theatres, whose buffoon
    laughter and discordant mirth awakened dis-
    tempelc.i sympathy, or where fictitious t(ar~
    and wailings mocked the heart-felt grief within:
    from festival or crowded meeting, where hiln-
    M 3
    2JO THE LAST Al ..u,".

    rity sprung from' the worst feelings of our na-


    ture, or such enthralment of the better ones, as
    impressed .it with garisl) 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, whcre nature
    overpowered art, as an overflowing cataract" ill
    tear away the puny manufacture of a m6ck
    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 attend-
    ants did not know whither he had gone, they
    did not expeet him till late at night. It was
    between six and senn o'clock, a fine summer
    afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a
    ramble through the empty streets of LonJon;
    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 characte-
    rized every place I vi&iteJ, and the few beings I
    THE LAST ).(AN'. 251
    met , ..ere so p.'1le 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 towanls home.
    I was now in Holhorn, and passed by n pub.
    lic house filled with uproarious coulpanions,
    whose songs, laughter, and shoulS were more
    sorrowful thnn the pale looks and silence of the
    mourner. Such an one was ncar, hm'ering
    round this house. The sorry plight of her
    dress displayed her poyerty, she was ghastly
    pale, and continued approaching, first the win~
    dow and then the door of the housc, as if
    fearful. yet longing to enter. A ludden burst
    of song ami merriment seemed to 'iting her to
    the heart; ihc murmured, .. Can he have the
    lleart?" and then mustering her COUTtlge, she
    stepped within the thl"e~hold . The landladx
    met hC'1" in the passage; the poor creature asked,
    " Is my husband here? Can I see George?"
    "Sec him', " cried the woman, " yes, if you
    TilE LAST ;)I.\S.

    go to him; last night hc 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 morc compassionate bar·maid gave her a de-
    tailed 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 expe.
    dition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had
    watched this scene, for there was a gentleness
    aboul the poor woman that interested me; r:.he
    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
    p311id check became still marc white. I went
    up to her and offered my services. She hardly
    looked up-" You can do me no good;' she
    TilE LAST )1,\)1'.

    replied; " 1 must go to the hospital; if J do not


    die before I ~t there."
    There- were still a few hnckn('y~coo.chcs ac~

    customed to stnud about the strccts, marc truly


    from hllbit than for lISC. I put her in one of
    these, and entered with her that 1 might secure
    her cntrnncc into the hospital. Our way was
    short, and she said little; except interrupted
    ejaculations of reproach that he had left her, ex~

    clnmations 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 ~usinCS8 dut;ng these
    unhappy times had thrown him into bad eom-
    p~my. "He could not bear to come home,"
    she said, "only to sec our children die. A man
    cannOI have the patience a mother hruo., with her
    own flesh 31ld blood."
    'Ve were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and
    cntC'red the ",retched precincts of the house of
    THE LAST .wAN.

    disease. The poor creature clung closer to me,


    as she saw with wh:..t heartless haste they bort:
    the dead f"om the wards, and took them into a
    room, whose half--opcncd door displayed a nuUl-
    ber of corpS<'s, horrible to behold by one unac-
    customed to such scenes. 'Ve werc directed to
    the ward where her husband had been first
    taken, and still was, the nurse said, if ali\·c. 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 undCr the torture of disease. She
    rushed towards him, &he embraced him, blessing
    God for his preservation .
    . The enthllsiMm 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 efflu\'ia th:lt caused
    my heart to heaye with painful qualms. Thc
    dead were carricd out, and the sick brought in,
    with like indifference; some were £e reamillg
    with pron, others laughing Crom the inRu('Ilce of
    THE L ..... ST ).fA);. 255

    more terrible delirium; some were attended by


    weeping, dcspruring 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 de.-
    spair, neglect, and death. I gave gold to my
    luckless ('ompanion; I recommended her to the
    care of the attendants; I then hastened away;
    while the torlllentor, the imagination, busied
    itself ill picturing my own loyod ones, stretched
    all such beds, att~ndcd thus. The country
    afforded no su('.h mass of horrors; solitary
    wretches died in the open fields; and I ha\"e
    found n SlIniYor in a vnc,'lIlt villAge, contending
    at once with famine and diseuse; bll t the assem·
    hly of pestilence, the banqueting hall of death,
    was spread only in London.
    , I rambled on, oppressed, distracted by pain.
    ful 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;
    2.16 TilE L.\ST ~IAX.

    such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered. The


    theatre was tolcrabl y well filled. Shakspearc.
    whose popularity was established by the ap-
    proval of four centuries, had not lost his in-
    fluence even at this dread period; but was stilJ
    " Ut magus," the wizard to rule our hearts
    and govern our imaginations. I came in dur-
    ing the intcrval between the thiro and fourth
    net. I looked round on the audience; the fe-
    males 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 macbinery of Macbeth, was a
    pledge that it could contain little directly eon_
    m~cted with our present circumstances. Great
    ' pains had been taken in the !:Ieenery to give the
    semblance of reality to the impossihle. The
    extreme darkness of the St.1gc, whose only light
    was re('ci\'ed from the fire undel' the cauldron,
    Til.: LAST )1,\". 2;)7

    joined. to II kiml of mist that floated about it,


    rendered the unea.rthy shapes of the witches ob·
    scu ,'e ami shadowy. It was not there decrepid
    old hags that bcntover their pot throwing"in the
    grim ingredients of the magic charm, but forms
    frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance
    of H ecate, and the wild music thal followed,
    took us out of this world. The cavern shape
    the stage nssumed, the bc<!tling rocks, the glare
    of the fire, the misty shades that crossed the
    scelle at tim(.-s, the music ill harmony with all
    witch_like fancies, permitted the imagination to re-
    vel, without fear of contradiction, or reproof from
    reason or the heart. The entrance of )Iacbeth
    did not dc::>troy the illusion, for he 'fas 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 inRucnce of
    scenic delu1lion. I felt the beneficial result of
    such excitement, in a. renewal of tho::>c pleasing
    Rights of fancy to which I had long been a
    258 TilE LAST MAN.

    stronger. The efi'<.'Ct of this scene of incant&-


    tio", communicated a portion o~ ilS IX)wer to that
    which. followed. 'Ve forgot that 1\lalcolm and
    l\{acduff were mere human beings, acted upon
    by such simple passions as warmed our own
    breast.s. By slow degrees ho,rever we were
    drawn to the real interest of the scene. A shud.-
    der like the swift passing of an electric shock
    ran through the house, when Rosse exclaimed,
    in answer to " Stands Scotland where it did f'"

    Ala!, poor country;


    Almost arraid to know itself! It cannot
    Be called OUf mother, but our grave: where nothing,
    Dut who knows nothing. is once seen. to mile;
    'Vhere sighs, \lnd groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
    Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems
    A modern cxtasy: the dead mao's knell
    Is there lK'arce asked, for who; and good men', lir~
    Expire before tlle flowN'S in their caps,
    Dyin~, 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 SUlgc, as if our eyes could fall
    innocuous on that ruone. The persoll who
    played the p..'ll"t of R osse, suddenly bccn.me
    awnre of the dangerous ground he troo. He'
    was an inferior actor, but u"uth now made him
    excellent; as he went on to announce to Mac-
    duff the slaughter of his family, he was afraid
    to speak, trembling from apprehension of a
    burst of grief front 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 g round. This shew of
    terror cncrcascd ours, ,..-c gaspcd "'ith him,
    each neck was stretched out, ench face changed
    with the actor's changes- at length while Mac.-
    duff, who, attending to his part, was \luo1>--
    scnant of the high wrought sympathy of the
    hOllse, cried with well acted pnssioll :
    All my pretty ones?
    Did y(Ju !ay aIJ f-O bell kite! All ?
    Wh3l! all my pretty ch:cken,. and their dam,
    Alone fdl swoop I
    ~\ pang of tluncless grief wrenehcd every hean,
    a burst of despait: was echoed from eyery lip.-
    Q60 TilE L.\ST )I.n....

    I had entered into the universal fccli ng- I had


    been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse-I re-
    echoed the cry of Macduff, nnd then rushed
    out ns from an heU of torture, to find crum in the
    free air and silent street.
    I"ree 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 heurtless mer-
    riment from the public-house, by the sight of
    the drunkard reeling home, having lost the me-
    mory of what he would find there in obli"ious
    debauch, and by the more appalling snlutntions
    ofthosc melancholy beings to whom the name of
    home was a mockery. I rail on at my utmost
    speed until I found myself I knew not how,
    close to 'Vestminster Abbey, and was attracted
    by the deep and swelling tone of the organ. I
    entcwd with soothing awe the lighted chtlllcel,
    and listened to the solemn religious c11uunt,
    which spoke peace and hope to the unhappy.
    The notcs, freighted with man's dearest Imlyers,
    THE LAST MAX.

    re-cchoed through the dim aisles, and the bleed.


    ing of the soul's wounds was staunched by hea-
    "enly balm. In spite of the miscry I depre-
    catcu, 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 experienccrl, I thought that in reply to
    our melodious adjurations, the Creator looked
    dowil 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 praycrs and submission with me. A
    senliment approaching happincss followed the
    total resignation of one's being to the guardian-
    ship of the world's ruler. Alas! with the fail.
    ing of this solemn strain, the elevated spirit sank
    again to earth. Suddenly one of the choristers
    died-he was lifted from his desk, the nlUlts
    below were hastily opened-be was consigned
    9.62 THE LAST )UN'.

    with a few muttered prayers to the darksome


    cavern, abode of thousands who had gone be-
    fore-now ...vide yawning to receive evcn all who
    fulfilled the .funeral rites. In vain J would
    then hllYC turned from this scene, to darkened
    nisle or lofty dome, echoing with melodious
    prai~. In the open air alone I found relief.
    among nature's beauteous works, her God re-
    assumed his attribute of benevolence, and again
    I could trust that he who built up the moun.
    tains, planted tl,IC forests, and poured. out the
    rivers, would erect another state for lost hu-
    manity, where we might awaken again to ollr
    affections, our happin~sJ and our faith.
    Fortunately for me those circumstances were
    of rare occurrence that obliged me to visit Lon.
    don, and my Uuties werc confined to the rural
    district which our lofty castle oYerlqoked; and
    here labour stood in the place of pastime, to oc-
    cupy such of the country· people as were suffi-
    ciently exempt from sorrow or disease. My
    cndcaNurs were directed towards urging them
    THE LAST MAN. 2();3

    to their usual attention to their crops, and to


    the acting as if pestilence did not exist. The
    mower's scy th e was at times heard; yet the joy.
    less haymaker;;' nfter they had listlessly turned
    the grass, forgot to cart it ; the shepherd, when
    he "had s.hea red his shcep, would let the wool lie
    to be scattered "hy thc winds, deeming it useless
    to provide clothing for another winter" At
    times howc\'cr the spirit of life was awakened
    ily these employments; the sun, the refreshing
    brccze, thc sweet smell of the hay, the rustling
    leaves and prattling rivulets bro:lght rcpose to
    the agitated bosom, and bestowed n feeling akin
    to happiness on the apprehensi\·e. Nor, strange
    to say, was the time without its pleasures.
    Young couples, who had loved long and "hope-
    lessly, suddenly found every impediment re.
    mo\-ed, and wealth pour in from the death of
    relati\"es. The very danger drew them closer"
    The immedhte peril urged tllem to seize the
    immediate opportunity; wildly and passionately
    TJlF. L.\ST l.l.\~.

    they !>Ought to know what delights exir.tcncc


    affordc<l, before they yielded to death, and

    " Snatching th<:ir pleasures with roush strife


    TholOugh the iron gates or life,·

    they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy


    wh:'!.t htu1 been, or to ern.se even from their death-
    bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness which
    had been theirs.
    One instance of this kind came immediately
    under our notice, where a high-bc?rn girl had in
    carly youth given hel' heart to one of meaner
    extraction, Ill' was n schoolfellow and friend
    of her brother's, and usually spent a part of the
    holidays nt the mallsion of thc duke her father.
    They hnd played together as children, been the
    confidants of eneh othcr's littlc secrets, mutual
    aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow.
    Lo,'e had cl'ept in, noiseless, terrorlC'ss at first,
    till each fdt their life bound lip in the other,

    • Andrew Marvell.
    'TnE LAST MAN. 265

    and. at the sume time knew that they mast part.


    Their extreme youth, lI.nd the purity of their
    :tttachmcnt, made them yield with less resistance
    to the tyranny of circlllllstances. The father of
    the fair J uliet sepa.~ted them; but not until the
    young lover hau 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 pos-
    sess it.
    Plo.gue came, threatcl'ling to destroy at
    once the aim of the ambitiolls and the hopc.'S
    of love. Long the Duke of L - - derided
    the idea that there could be danger while
    he pursued his pln"!-I of cautious seclu!;ion ; and
    he so far succeeded, that it was not till this se-
    cond 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.
    }\fost of the servants fled on th e first appearance
    of disease, those who remnil1cu were infected
    mortally; no neighbour or rustic \'enturro
    Val,. II. N
    within the verge pf contagion, Dy n strange
    fatality Juliet alone ('5Caped, and she to the last
    - waited on her reJath'es, and smoothed the pillow
    of death, The moment at length came, when
    the last hlow was gi\'cn to the last of the house:
    thc youthful survivur of hcr race sat alone
    among the dead. Therc was no lil·ing being
    nca\' to soothe her, or withdraw her from this
    hideous company. 'With the declining heat of
    a September night, a whirlwind of storm, thun.
    der, and hail. rattled round the house, and with
    ghastly harmony sung the dirge of hcr family.
    She sat upon the ground absorbed in wordless
    despair, whcn through the gusty wind and bicker-
    ing min she thought she heard her name called,
    'Vhose could that familiar voice be? Not one
    of her relations, for they Jay glaring on her with
    stony eyes, Again hCl' name was syllabled,
    aDd she shuddered as she asked herself, am I
    becoming mad, or am I dying, tlmt I hear the
    voices of thc depnrted? A s('Cond thought
    passed, swift as an arrow, into hl' l' brain; she
    rushed to the window; and a flash of lightning
    Till:: LAS'l' MAN. 267

    shewed to her the expected visit>n, her lo\'er in


    the shrubbery beneath; joy lellt 11er strength
    to descend the stairs, to opell the :loor, and then
    she fainted in his supporting arms.
    A thousand times she reproached herself, as
    with a crime, that she shou1c1 revive to harpi-
    ness with him. The natural clinging of the
    human mind to life and joy was III its full
    energy ill her young heart; she ga\'e herself
    impctuously up to the enchantment: they werc
    married j and ill their radiant features I 8.1.W

    incarnnte, for the last time, the spil'it of 100'e, of


    rapturous sy mpathy, which once had been the
    life of the world.
    I cm·il.-d thel1l, but felt how impossible it wnJ.:
    to imbibe the same fecling, now that years had
    multiplied my tics in the world. Aboye all, the
    anxiolls mother, my own belo\'ed and drooping
    Idris, claimed my earnest care; I could not re-
    proach the anxiety that neYcr for a momeut
    slept ill her heart, but I exerted myself to dis-
    tract her attention from too keen an observation
    ~ 2
    Q68 TJlE LAST !o[A.N.

    of the truth of things, ot the near and neateT


    approaches of disease, miS<'ry, and death, of the
    wild look of our attendants as intelligence of
    a.nother and yet another death reached us; for
    to the- last eomething new occurred that seemed
    to transcend in horror all that lmd gone before.
    \Vretched beings crawled to die under our suo-
    couring roof; the inhabitants of the Castle de-.
    cre~ daily, while the survivors huddled to-
    gether in fear, and, as in a famine-struck boat,
    the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each
    Jookcd in the other's face, to guess on whom the
    death.lot would next fall. All this I endea-
    voured 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,
    IOCCmed devoted to every rlis.'l.ster, to e\'ery
    harrowing incident. Early in the day, I
    hcard of the arri\'al of the nged grand-
    mother of one of our servants at the Castle.
    '1'1IE LAST lIAN.

    This old woman had reached her hundredth


    year; her skin was shrivclloo, her fonn was bent
    and lost in cxtreme decrepitude; but as stilJ
    from year to year she continued in existenel',
    out-living many younger and stronger, she began
    to feel as if she were to live for ever. The
    plague camc, and the inhabitants of her village
    died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the
    :If,e J, 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 nny. She
    ,,,oldd wander out at night to get food, and re-
    turned home, pleased thatshe had met no one, that
    shewasin no danger fr.offi the plague. AsthE' earth
    became more desolate, her difficulty in acquiring
    sustenance increased; at first, herson, who lived
    ncnr, had humoured her by placing articles at
    food in her way: at last he died. But, evcn
    though threatened. by famine, her fear of the
    plague was paramount; and her greatest care
    Ua5 to avoid her fellow creatures. She grcw
    TilE LAST }olAX.

    weaker each day, and each day she had further


    to go. 'I'he night before, she had reached Dat.
    chet; ano, 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 endernouring to get along,
    though her hobbling fell into lameness, and her
    weakness at last into inability to move.
    She Jay down among the tall corn, and fell
    asleep. Deep in midnight, she was awaked by a
    rustling ncar her; she would hm'c started up,
    but her stiff joints refused to obey her will. A
    low moan close to her car followoo, and the
    rustling increased; she heard a smothered voice
    breathe out, 'Vater, Water I scveral times; and
    then again a sigh hea\'cd from the heart of the
    sufferer. The old woman shuddered, she con.
    trived at length to sit uprigllt; but her teeth
    chattered, and her knees knocked togcther-
    close, yery close, lay n half.naked figure, just
    1' JlJ:: I,AS'r MA~. 271

    discernible in the gloom, and the cry for water


    nnd the stifled moan were again utlerro, Her
    motions at length attracted the attention of her
    unknown companion; her hand \'\"8 S seized with
    a con\"ulsi\'e viol('nce that made the grasp fecI
    like iron, the fingers like the heen teeth of a trap.
    _II 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 10 her; her wrist was livid with the
    hold loosened by death, She fclt struck by th~
    plague; her aged frame was unable to bear her
    away with sufficient speed; and now, believing
    herself infected, she no longer dreaded the asso ,
    ciation of others; but, as swiftly as she might,
    came to her grand.daughter, at "'indoor Castle,
    there to lament and die. The sight was horri-
    ble; still :ihe clung to life, and lamented her mis-
    chance with cries and hideous groans; while tho
    THE LAST lI AN".

    swift advance of the disease shewed, what provCtl


    to be the fact, tlmt she could not sunivc mnny
    hours,
    While I was directing that the necessary care
    should be taken of her, Clara cam~ in; she was
    tremhling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked
    her the cause of her agitation. she threw herself
    into my arms weeping and exclaiming-" Uncle1
    dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever! I must
    tell you, for you must know, that Evelyn, poot:'
    Ettie Evelyn "-her voice was choked by sobs.
    The fear of so mighty a calamity as the 1055 of
    our adore9. iufant made the current of my blood
    ~use with chilly horror; but the remembrance
    of the mother restored my presence of mind. I
    sought the little Led of my darling; he was
    oppressed by fever; but I trusted, I foncll{and
    fearfully trusted', that there were no symptoms
    of the plague. He was not thrre years old, and
    his illness appeared only one of those nttaeks
    incident to infancy. I watched him long- his
    heavy half~cIosed -lids, his burning cheeks and
    :rIfE LAST MAX.

    restless twining-of his small fingers - the fever wuo'>


    violent, the torpor complete-enough, without
    the greater fear of pestilence, to awaken a.larm.
    Idris must not see him in this state. Clarn,
    though only twelve years old, was rendered,
    through extreme sensibility, so prudeut and
    careful, that I felt secure ill entrusting the
    charge of him to her, and it was my task to pre-
    vent Idris from observing their absence. I ad-
    ministered the fitting remedies, and left my
    sweet niece to watch beside him, and bring me
    notice of any change she should obsen·c.
    I then went to Idris, contriving in my way.
    plausible excuses for remaining all day in the
    Castle, and endea\'ouring to disperse the trnces
    of care from my brow. Fortunately she was not
    alone. I found Merrivnl, the astronomer, with
    her. He was far too long l:ighted in his view of
    humanity to heed the casualties of the day, and
    lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of
    its exist('llce. This poor man, learned as L.'l.
    Place, guileless and unforeseeing as a child, bad
    N 3
    TIlE LAST MAN.

    often been on the point of starvation, he, his pale


    wife and numerous offspring, while he neither
    felt hunger, nor observed distress. His astrono-
    mical theories absorhed him; calculations were
    scrawled wirh coal on the bare walls oC his gar-
    ret: a hard-earned guinea, or an article of
    dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse;
    he neither hearrl his children cry, nor obserl"ed
    his companion's emaciated form, aud 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 WOOleD, with affec-
    tions 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 aile long-drawn,
    melancholy dream.
    He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a
    THE LAST MAN. 275

    request he made to obscrve some planetary mo_


    tions from his glass. His poverty was easily
    detected and relieved. He often thanked us fOl'
    the books we lent him, and for the lise of om
    instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode
    or change of circumstances, His wife assured
    us, that he had 1I0t observed any difference,
    except in the absence of the c11ildren from his
    study, and to her infinite surprise he complained
    of this unaccustomed quiet.
    He came now to announce to us the comple_
    tion of his Essay on the Pericyc1ieal Motions
    of tile Earth's Axis, and the prcCft;sion of the
    equinoctial points. If an old R oman 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 l\1ithridatcs,
    his ideas would not have been more alien to the
    times, than the conversation of Merrivnl. lUan.
    no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed
    his thoughts in visible signs; nor were ulere any
    readers left: while each one, ha"ing thrown away
    276 TilE LAST lIAS'.

    his sword with opposing shield alone, awaited the


    plague, l\Ierrival talked of the state of mankind
    six thousand years hence. He might with equal
    interest to us, have added n commentary, to de-
    scribe the unknown and unimaginable lineaments
    of tIle creatures, who would then occupy the
    ,'acated dwelling of mankind. 'Ve had not the
    heart to undeceive the poor old Ulan; and at the
    moment 1 came in, he was reading parts of his
    book to Idris, asking wllaL answer could be
    given to this or that position.
    Idris could not Tf'frain 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 "iew we had so IOllg taken of
    human life, and the SC\' Cll league strides with
    which 1\Ierrival paced a coming eternily. I was
    glad to sec her smile, because it assured me or
    her total ignorance of her infant's danger: but
    THE LAST MAN. 217

    I shuddered to think of the revulsiolllhat would


    he occasioneil by a discovery of the truth.
    'Vhile .l\Ierri\·nl wns talking, Clara softly OfK'n-
    co a door behind Idris, and beckoned mp to
    come with a gestUl'e and look of grief. A mir-
    ror betrayed the sign to Idris-she started lip.
    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.
    rl'here she beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken
    nnd motionless. I followed her, and strove to
    inspire more hope than I could mysclf 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 nurS("s
    parts; she sat by the bed, holding one little
    burning hand, and, with glazed eyes fixed on her
    babe, passed the long eJay in one unvaried agony.
    It was not the plague that visited our little
    boy so roughly; but she could 1I0t listen to my
    assuranccs; apprehension deprived her of judg_
    218 THE LAST )IAN.

    ment and reflection; ever} slight convulsion of


    her child's features shook her frame-if h~
    moved, she dreadeu the instant crisis; if he re_
    mained 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 olle looks forward
    to passing th e long hours of night beside a
    sick bro, especially if the patient be an infant,
    who ClUlIlOl explain its pnin, am.1 whose flicker_
    ing life rcscmbles the wasting flame of the watch_
    light,

    ,V hose narrow fire


    ] s shaken by the wind, and on whO!:e edge
    Devouring darkness ho\'crs. ·

    " ' jth eagerness one turns toward the east, with
    angry impatience one marks the unchcqucred
    darkness; the crowing of a cock, that sound of
    glee during-day time, comes wailing and un.
    tuneable-the crcnld ng of TnflCTs, and slight

    .. Tbr Cenci
    Tin: LAST MAN. 279
    stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the
    signal and type of desolation. Clara,ovcrcome by
    wem'iness, had seated herself at the foot of her
    cousin's bcd, and in spite of her efforts slumber
    weighed down her lids; tn'ice or thrice she
    shook it off; but at length she was conquered
    and slept. Idris sat at the hedside, holding
    Evelyn's hand; \\'e were afraid to speak to each
    other; I watched the stars-I hung over my
    ehild-I felt his little pulse-I drew near the
    mother-again I receded. At the turn of morn_
    ing a gentle sigh from the patient attracted me,
    the bU1'lling ilpot on his cheek fadrd-his pulse
    heat softly and regularly-torpor yielded to s]C<'p_
    For a long time I dared not hope; but when his
    unobstructed breathing and the moisture that suf-
    fused 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,
    But neither this assurance, nor the spcedycon_
    ~o TH~ LAST MAN'.

    valesccncc of our child could restore her, even to


    the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her
    fear had been too deep, too absorbing, too en-
    tire, to be changed to security. She felt as if
    during her past calm she had drcs.med, but \Vas
    now awake; she w,,"s

    As one
    In some lone walch-tower on the deep, awakened
    From soothing visions of the home he loves.
    Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar j-

    as one who has been cradled by a storm, and


    awakes to find the vessel sinking. Refore, &hc
    had been visited by pangs of fear-now, she
    never t'njnyefl :m int.erval of hope. No smilp of
    the heart ever irradiated her fair countenance;
    ~ometimes she forced one, and thell gUiihing
    tears would flow, and the sea of gri('f cl'Jsc above
    these wrecks of past happiness. Still while I
    was Ilcar her~ she could not be in utter despair
    -she fully confided herself to me-she did not
    iCCln to fear my death , or revert to its possibility;

    .. Tbe IJ ridu' Tro.gtcl) , by 'I. L. Bcddoes, E$I}.


    tIlE J..\ ST ~t.\N. 281

    to my g uardianshi p she consigned the full


    fre ight of her anxieties, rcpo~illg on my IU\'e,!l9
    a wind-nipped fawn by the side of a doc, as a
    wounded nestling under it! mother's wi ng, as a
    tiny, shattered boat, quivering still, beneath some
    protecting willow-tree. \Vhile 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 h eart, and tried
    to ward cyery painful thought or rough cir_
    cumstance from her scnsith'e nature.
    One other incident OCCUITC'd at th e end of this
    summer. The Countess of \Vindsor, Ex-Queen
    of Englnnd, returned from G ermany. She had
    at the beginning of the season quitled the Yacant
    city of Vienna ; and, unable to tame her haughty ,
    mind to anything like submission, shc had
    debyed at Hamburgli, and, when at last she
    c'ame to L ondon, many weeks elapsed before
    she ga"e Adrian notice of her arrintl. J n spite
    of her coldness and long absence, he welcomed
    her with sensibility, di~playing such affection as
    THE LAST ).rA~.

    sought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow,


    and was rcpulscil only by her total apparent
    w3nt of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother's
    return with pleasure. Her own maternal feel.
    ings were so arden t, that she imagined her
    parent must now, in this waste world, have lost
    pride :md harshness, and would receive with
    delight her filial attentions. The first check to
    her duteous dpmonstratiollS 'was a formal inti4
    mation from the fallen majesty of England, that
    I was in no manner to be intntded upon her.
    She consented, she said, to forgive her daughter,
    and ackuowlcdge her grandchildren; larger con.
    cessions must not be expected.
    '1'0 me this proceeding appeared (if so light a
    term may be pcnnitted) extremely '''himsicaJ.
    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
    TilE LAST MAN.

    taken lip by her own dreadful fl'ars, to be (lugry,


    hardly grieved; for she judl:,rcd that in.scnl>ibility
    must be the source of this continued rancour.
    This was not nltohrcther the fact: but pre--
    dominant self. will assumed the arms and masque
    of callous fcclillg; and the haughty lady dis-
    dained 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 nfl'cctions
    of our natu),e, and the links of sympnthy with
    pleasure or pain . There was but one good and
    one e\·il in the world-life and denth. The
    pomp of rank, the assumption of power, the
    possessions of wealth yanished like mornillg' mist.
    One living beggar had become of more worth
    than a national peerage of dead lords-alas thE'
    day !-tlllln of dead heroes, patriots, or men of
    genius. There was much of degradation in
    this: fOI' e\'ell vice and "irtue had lost their
    litH THE L .<\ST l.I.Al'O.

    attributcs-JiCe-lifc-lhe continuation of our


    animal mecha.nism-was the Alpha and Omega of
    the desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition of
    human race.
    THE LAST )IA1'.

    CHAPTER IX.

    HALl-' England was desolate, when October


    ctune, and the equinoctial winds swept over the
    earth, chilling the amours of the unhealthy
    ie~son. The iummer, which was uncom_
    monly hot, had been protracted into the begin-
    ning of this month, when on the eighteenth
    a sudden ehange was brought about from
    "mnmer temperature to winter frost. Pe~

    tilcnce then made a pause 10 her death-


    dM\ing career. Gasping, not daring to name
    our hopes, yet full cwn to the brim with intense
    cl(pcctatio~, wtj stood, as a. ~hip-wrecked sailor
    stands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean,
    watching a distant vessel, fancying that now it
    llcars, and then again that it is bearing from
    ~86 THE LAST "A~.

    sight. This promise of a renewed lease of life


    turned rugged natures to melting tender~css.
    and by contrast filled the soft with harsh tlnd un-
    natural sentiments. 'Vhenit seemed destined .that
    all were to die, we were reckless of the how
    and when-now that the virulence of the dis-
    ease wns 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 morc frequent;
    and even murders, which made the hearer sick
    with horror, where the fear of contagion had
    anned those nearest in blood against each other.
    But these smaller and separate tnlgedies were
    ahout to yield to a mightier interest-and, while
    we were promised calm from infectious inAuences,
    a tempe~t 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,
    TilE J.AST ~ IAN . QS7

    leaving their native plains for lands not less


    afflictcd than their ow n. SCl"eral huntircth
    landed in Ircland, about thc first of November,
    and took possession of such ,'acanl habitations
    as thcy could find; seizing upon the superabun-
    dantfood, and the siray cattle. As they exhausted
    the produce of one spot, they went on to ano-
    ther. At ll:-ngth they began to interfere with
    the inhabitants, and st rong in their concentrated
    numbers, ejected the nath'es from their dwellings,
    and robbed them of their winter store. .A few
    events of this kind rou sed the ficry nature of
    thc I rish; and they attacked the im·uders. Some
    were destroyed; the major pnrt escaped by
    quick and well ord ered movements; and danger
    made th em careful. Their numb('rs ably ar-
    ranged; th e very deaths among them conec.'l lcd~

    mO"ing on in good order, and app:..rently gi"cn up


    to enjoyment, they excited the em'y of the Irish.
    The Americans permitted a few to join their
    band, and presently the recnlits outnumbered
    the strangers-nor did they join with them, nor
    288 THE LAST MAN.

    imitate the admirable order which, preserved


    by the Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them
    at once secure and formidable. The Irish fol.
    lowed their track in disorganized multitudes;
    each day encrcasing; 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
    heen felt had they come alone; but the Irisl),
    collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel
    the inroads of famine, and they followed in th€
    wake of the Americans for England also. The
    crossing of the sea could not arrest their pro-
    gress. The harbours of the desolate sea-ports
    of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels
    of all sizes, from Ule man of war to the small
    fishers' boat, which lay sailorless, and rotting on
    the lazy deep. The emigrants embarked by hun-
    dreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands,
    made strange havoc of buoy and cordage.
    Those who modestly betook themselves to the
    TilE LAST llAN.

    ~maller craft, for the most part achi e" I~d their
    watery journey in safety. Some, in the true
    spirit of reckles8 enterpri se, went on board a
    ship of nn hundred nnd 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 grcnt part of her enormous canva5S
    -the wind took it, and while a thousand mis-
    takes of the helmsmnn made her present her
    bead now to one point, and now to another,
    the vast fields of canvass that formed her snih.
    flapped with a sound like that of n huge cntn-
    ract; or such as a sen-like forest may give
    forth when buffeted by nn equinoctial north-
    wind. The port-holes were open, and with
    e,·ery sea, which as she lurched, washed her
    decks, they received whole tons of water The
    difficulties were increased by n fresh bre<'ze
    which bcgnn to blow, whistling among the
    shrowds. dashing the sails this way and that ,
    and rending them with horrid spli t, and sllch
    whir as may ho.,·c ,·isited the dreams of Milton,
    VOL. II. o
    TIIE LAST lIAN.

    when he imagined the winnowing of the arch-


    fiend's ,-an-like wings, which encrcased the
    uproar of wild chaos. These sounds were
    mingled with the roaring of the sea, the
    splash of the chafed biUows round the vessel's
    sides, and the gurgling lip 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 un-
    wieldy habitation-they discovered at last that
    the water gained on them, and they betook them-
    selves to their pumps; they might as well have
    laboured to empty the ocean by bucketfuls.
    As the sun went down, the gale cncreased; the
    ship seemed to feel her danger, she was now
    completely water-logged, nnd presented other
    indications of settling hefore she wenl down.
    The bay was crowded with "essels, whose
    crews) for the most part, were obser\'ing the
    THE L ..\ ST MAN.

    uncouth spol'tings of this hnge unwieldy rna·


    chine-they S:l.\V 11cr gradually sink; the wa-
    ters now rising above her lower deck s -thcy
    could hardly wink before she hall utterly
    diSllppeared, nor could the place where the sca
    had closed over her be at all disccrnciJ. Saine
    few of her crew were saved, but the greater
    part clinging to her cordage and masts went
    down with her, to rise only whell death loosened
    their hold.
    This event caused manyofthosewhowcre about
    to sail, to put foot again on firm lund, rcady to
    encounter ::my evil rather than to rush into the
    yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. Dut thes~

    were few, in comparison to the numbers who


    actually crossed. 1\[any went up as high as
    Delfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then
    journeying south through Scotland, they wcre
    joined by the poorer nati\·cs of that COU ll.

    try, and all poured. with onc consent into


    England.
    Such incursions struck the English with

    02
    THE LAST llANo

    affright, in all those towns where thcrc was still


    sufficicnt population to feel the change. There
    was room enough indeed in our hapless country
    for twice the number of invaders; but their
    lawl~ spirit instigated them to violenc~; they
    took a delight in thru~ting the possessors from
    their houses; in seizing on some mansion of
    luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded them-
    seh'es in fear of the plague; in forcing these of
    either sex to become their servants and purvey_
    ors; till. the ruin complete in onc place, they
    remoyoo their locust visitation to another.
    'Vhen unopposed they sprcad their ravag<'s
    wide; in cases of danger they clustered, and
    by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and
    despairing foes. They came from the cast and
    the north, and directed their course without ap-
    parent motive, but unanimously towards ollr un-
    happy metropolis.
    Communication had been to a great degree
    cut off through the pnralyzing effects of pesti_
    lence, so that the van of our invaders han Pl'o-
    THY. LAST MA~ . 2D3

    cccdcd as far as Mnnchester and Derby, before


    we received notice of their arrival. They swept
    the country like tl conquering nrmy, burning-
    laying waste-murdering. The lower and vaga_
    bond English joined with them. Some few of
    the Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavour.
    ed to collcct the militin-but the ranks were
    vacant, panic seized on all, and the opposition
    that was made only served to increase the auda-
    city amI cruelty of the enemy. They talked of
    taking London, conqucring England-caUing to
    mind the long delnil of injuries which had for
    many yeurs been forgotten. Such vaunts dis-
    played their weakness, rather than their strength
    -yet still they might do extreme mischief,
    which, ending in their destruction, would ren-
    der them at last objects of compassion and
    remorse.
    \Ve were now taught how, in the beginning of
    the world, mankind clothed their enemies in im-
    possible attributes-and how details procccd.ing
    from mouth 10 mouth, might, like Virgil 's ever-
    294 TilE LAST MAN •
    •
    growing Rumour, rench the heavens with her
    brow, and clasp Hesperm and Lucifer with her
    outstretched hands. Gorgon and Centaur, dra-
    gon and iron.hoofed lion, vast sea-monster and
    gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange
    and appalling accounts brought to London con.
    cerning ollr invaders. Their landing was long
    unknown, but having now advanced within an
    hundred miles of London, the country people
    flying before them arrived in sllccessi,'c troops,
    each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and cruelty
    of the assailants. Tumult fille? the before quiet
    streets - women and children deserted their
    homes, escaping they knew not whither-fa-
    thers, husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not
    for themselves, but for their loved and defence.
    less relations. As the country peopl<' poured
    into London, the citizens fled soutbwards-lhey
    climbed the higher edifices of the town, fancying
    that they could discern the smoke and flames
    the enemy spread around them. As \Vindsor
    by, loa great degree, in the line of march from
    THE I.,\ ST li AS.

    th t! west, I remo\'cd my family to L ondon, as-


    signing the Tower fur thei r sojourn, and joilling
    Adrian, acted ns his Licutcnnm ill the colllin ~

    struggle.
    \Ve employed only two days in our prepara-
    tions, and made good usc of them. Artillery
    and nrms were collected; the remnants of
    such regiments, as could be brougllt 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. ·E,·en music was not
    wanting: banners Boated in the air, and the
    sllrill fife and loud trumpet brco.thed forth
    sounds of encouragement nnd victory. A prac-
    tised ear might trace an undue faltering ill the
    step of the soldiers; but this was not occa.-
    sioncd so much by fear of the adversary, as
    by disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostica-
    tions, which often weighed most potently on the
    296 THE LAST MAN.

    brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject


    subjection.
    Adrian led the troops. He was full of care.
    It was smllll 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 al-
    most naked condition, whose despair and horror,
    told at once the fierce nature of the coming
    enemy. The senseless spirit of conquest and
    thirst of spoiJ 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 in-
    spired 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 feel.
    ing, and Ulat deadly, filled the air, drowning
    'tilE LAST "I AN. ~7

    the clang of arms and sound of music. Adrian


    perceived the change, odd. feared that it would
    bc difficult to prevent them from wr(~aki ng their
    utmost fury all the Irish. H e rodc 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.
    'Ve first came upon a few stragglers of th('
    Irish at St. Albans. They retreated, and, joi n-
    ing 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 a.'"Cer-
    tain our situation. 'Ve remained for the night
    at Luton. In the morning a simultancous move-
    ment 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 b:mds, the neighings of thc
    03
    ~98 THE LAST MAN.

    horses, and regular step of the infantry. The


    first sound of martial instruments that came
    upon our undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not
    unminglcd with dread. It spoke of other days,
    of days of concord and order; it was associated
    with times when plague wa~ not, and man lived
    beyond the shadow of imminent fate. The pause
    was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly
    damour, the barbarian shouts, the untimed step
    of thousands coming on in disarray. Their
    troops now cnme pouring on us from the open
    country or narrow lanes j 11 large extent of . un.
    enclosed 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. 'Vhcn their
    leaders perceived us drawn out in opposition,
    they woo 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 us they
    had seized during their udvunce, their horses
    Tue LAST ::'lIAN.

    those they had taken from the peasantry; there


    was no uniformity, and liltle obedience, but
    their shouts and wild gestures showed the un~

    tamed spirit that inspired them. Our sold.iers


    received the word, and advanced to quickest
    time, but in perfC(t order: their uniform dresses,
    the gle:lm of their polished arms, their silence,
    and looks of sullen hate, were more appalling than
    ule savage clamour of our innumerous foc. Thus
    coming n~arcr and Dearer each other, the howls
    and shollts 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 crys that rent heaven and was
    re-cchoed 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 match·
    men lighted the cannon, whose deafening roar
    and blinding smoke filled up the horror of the
    scene.
    300 THB LAST )IAN.

    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 pre-
    yent the effusion of blood; the noise of cannon,
    the sudden rush oCthe troops, and yell or the foc,
    starLled him: with Bashing eyes he exclaimed,
    U Not one of these must perish!" and plunging
    the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed be-
    tween the conflicting bands. We, his staB', fol-
    lowed 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 betweeQ the
    opposing lines. Silence succeeded to clamour;
    about fifty mcn lay on the ground dying or dead.
    Adrian raised his sword in act to speak: II By
    whose command," he cried, addressing his own
    troops, " do you advance? 'Vho ordered your
    attack? Fall back; . these misguided men shall
    not he slnughtered, while I am your general.
    THE LA iT ".'tAN. 501
    Sheath your weapons; these arc 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 pcstilem..'C? As
    you honour me-as you worship God, in whose
    image those also arc created-as your children
    and friends nrc deM to you,-shed not a drop
    of precious human blood."
    H e spoke with outstretched hand and winning
    voice, and then turning to our invaders, with n
    severe brow, he commanded them to lay down
    their arms: "Do you think," he Said, " that
    because we arc wasted by plague, you can over-
    come WI; the plag ue is also among you, and
    when ye are \Oanquished 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 arc stained with the blood of the innocent,
    whose souls are weighed down by the orphan's
    cry! 'Ve shall conquer, for the right is on
    our side ; already your cheeks are pale-the
    802 THE LAST llAS".

    weapon~ fnll [rom your nerveless grasp. Lay


    down your arms, fellow men! brethren! Par-
    don, succour, and brot11crly love await your
    repentance. You are dear to us, beeause you
    wcar the frail shape of humanity; each one
    among you will find a friend anu host among
    these forces. Shall maD be the enemy of man,
    while plague, the foe to all, even now is above
    us, triumphing in our butchery, morc cruel than
    her own?"
    Each anny paused. On our side the soldiers
    grasped their arms firmly, and looked with stem
    glances on the foe. These had not thrown down
    their weapons, more from fear tban 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 h.is
    horse, and approaching onc of those just slain:
    cc 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
    THF. LAST MAN.

    the throne of God the true of fratricidc; bind up


    their wounds-restore them to their friend3.
    Cast away the hearts of tigers that bunt 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 \'{Qunds.",
    As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and
    raised in his arms a man from whose &ide the
    warm tide of life gushed-the poor wretch
    gasped-so still had either host becomc, that
    his llloans were distinctly heard, and every heart,
    late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now
    beat anxious} y in hope and fear for the fate of
    this one man. Adrian tore off his military
    scarf and bound it round the sufferer-it WR~

    too late-the lUan heaved a deep sigh, his head


    fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining power.
    _u He is <lead!" said Adrian, as the corpse
    fell from his arms on the ground, and he bowed
    his head in sorrow and awe. The fate at the
    304 THF. LAST AlAN.

    world seemed bound up in the death of this


    single man. On either side the bands threw
    down their arlllS, even the veterans wept, and our
    party held out their hands to their foes, whiJe
    a gush of love snd deepest amity fi'11OO every
    heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed Ilnd
    hand in hand, talking only how each might
    assist the other, the adversaries conjoined; each
    repenting, the one side their former cruelties,
    t he other their late violence, they obeyed the or-
    ders of the General to proceed towards London.
    Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost pru-
    dence, 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 rcvivro our
    energy, that the passes of the country were de-
    fended, and ally increase of numbers prohibited.
    On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after
    a separation of nearly a year. Adrian had been
    Tin-; LAST lIIAN. 305

    occupied ill fulfilling a laoorious and painful


    task. lIe had IJccn familiar with every species
    of human misery, and had for ever found his
    powers inadequate, hiIJ aid of small avail. Yet
    the purpose of his soul, his energy and ardent
    resolution, prevented any re.aelion of sorrow.
    He seemed oorn anew, and virtlle, more potent
    tlUlIl Medean alchemy, endued him with health
    and strength. lclris hardly recognized the fra-
    gile being, whose form had seemed to bend even
    to the slimmer breeze, in the energetic man,
    whose very excess of sensibility rendered him
    more capable of fulfilling his station of pilot in
    storm.tosscd England.
    It was not thus with Idris. She was un·
    complaining; 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 wns broken and low. She tricd to threw
    a veil over the c1umge which she knew her bro-
    ther must observe in her, but the effort was
    ineffccll1al j and when alone with him, with a
    THE L.\ST lIAN.

    burst of irrepressible grief she gave vent to her


    apprehensions and sorrow. She described in
    vivid terms the ceaseless care that with still re.
    newing hunger ate into her soul; she compared
    this gnawing of sleepless expectation of evil, to
    the vulture that fed on the heart of Prometheu!!;
    under the influence of this eternal excitement, and
    of the interminable struggles she endured to com.
    bat 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 llappy and in health,
    wet'e then transfonned to wild dreams, all her
    terrors were realized, all her fears received their
    dread fulfilment. To this sta~e there was no
    hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should
    quickly receive its destined prey, and she beper.
    mitted 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
    TUP. LAST ll.\:N. 807

    the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting thlls


    her brother after a long absencc, she could not
    rcstrain the expression of her woc, but with all
    the vividncils of imagination with which misery
    is always replete, she poured out the emotions
    of her heal-t to her beloved and sympathizing
    Adrian.
    Her present visit to London tended to augment
    her stnl~ ofinquietudc, by shewinr. in its utmost
    extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence. It
    h.wdly preserved the appearance of an inhabited
    city; grass sprung up thick in the strccts; 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
    eaeh one continued to live according to law and
    custom-human institutions ~hus surviving as
    it were divine ones, and while the decree of
    population was abrogated, properly continued
    sacred. It was 0. melancholy reflection; and in
    spite of the diminution of evil produced, it
    308 THE LAST r.fAN.

    struck on the he.1ft as a wretched mockery.


    All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and
    festivals had passed away. "Next summer,"
    said Adrian ns 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 j but, if plague revives with the coming
    year, all contcst with her must cea.~, 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 sud.
    denly 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 c,·il. On this occasion I went, dread.
    ing 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 in-
    vading strangers quartered in London. I snw
    his astronomical instruments put to strange uses,
    TilE LAST ilt\N. 309

    his glolJcs defaced, his papers covered with al)..


    struse calculations destroyed, 'The ncighbours
    ,could tell me little, till J lighted on n poor w~

    man who acted as nurse in thC!\C perilous


    timcs. She told me that all the family were
    dead, except l\Ierrival himself, who had gone
    mad-mnd, she called it, yet all 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 ycars,-this visionary who had
    not seen stan'alion in the wasted forms of
    his wife and children, or plague in the hor-
    rible sights and sounds that surrounded him
    -this astronomer, apparently dead 011 earth,
    aud living only in the motion of the spheres
    -loved his family with unapparent but in_
    teUSC affection, 'Through long habit they had
    bc-come a part of himself; his want of worldly
    knowledge, his absence of mind and infant
    guildessness, made him utterly dependent on
    310 THE LAST ),IAN.

    them. It was not till one of them died that he


    perceived their danger; one by onc they were
    carried off by pestilence; and his wife, his help.
    mate 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 ,'oice always spoke peace
    to him, closed her eye~ in death. The old man
    felt the svstcm of universal nature which he had
    so long studied and adored, s1ic1e from under
    him, and he stood among the dead, and lifted
    his voice in curses.-No wonder that the at-
    tendant should interpret as phrensy the harrow-
    ing maledictions of the grief_struck old man.
    I had commenced my search late in the day,
    a November day, that closed in carly with patter-
    ing rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from
    the door, I saw l\ferrival, or rather the shadow
    of l\Ierrival, attenuated and wild, pass me, and
    sit on the steps of Ilis home. The breeze scut-
    tered the grey locks on his temples, the rain
    drcncherl his uncovered head, he sat hiding hi&
    THE LAST MAN. 311

    face in his withered hands. I pressed hi5


    shoulder to awaken his attention, but he did
    not alter his position. " l\(crrivnl," I said,
    " it is long since we have seen you-you must
    return to 'Vindsor with me-Lady Idris desires
    to see you, you will not refuse her request-
    come hom e with me."
    He replied in a hollow voice, "'Vhy deceive
    a helpless old man, why talk hypocritieall.v to
    one half crazed? 'Vindsor is not my home; my
    true home I have found; the home that the
    Creator has prepared for m e."
    His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me_ U
    Do
    not. tempt me to speak ," llC continued, "my
    words would scare you-in an universe of cow-
    ards I dare think-among the church-yard tombs
    ---illOong the victim s of His merciless tyranny I
    dare r eproach the Supreme E\'il. How can he
    punish me? L et Jlim bare his arm and transfix
    me with lightning-this is also one of his nt_
    tributes"'-and the old man laughed.
    He rose, and I followed him through the rrun
    312 TilE l..A&T MAN.

    to a neighbouring church-yard-he threw hun.


    self on the wet earth. "Here they nre," he
    cried, H beautiful crcatures-brcatbing, speak-
    ing, Joving creatures. She who by day and
    night cherished the age-worn lo,-er 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. CI J
    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 hut,
    when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it moulders,
    mingle with theirs. rromise," and he raised
    himself painfully, and seized my arm, "promil.c
    to bury me wilh them."
    " So God help me and mine as I promise,"
    I replied, "on one condition: return with me
    to Windsor."
    "To 'Vindsor!" he cried with a shriek,
    "Ncvcr!-from this place I never go-my bones,
    my flesh, I myself, are alrf'ady buried here, nnrl
    TH i': l.' ! 313

    whnt )'OU sec of lIle is corrupted clay like them.


    I will lie here, and clillg h('re, till min, and hail,
    and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make
    me one in substancc \\ ith th em below."
    In a few words I nlust conclude this tr~"Cdy.
    I was obliged to leave L ondon, and Adrian un-
    dertook to watch over him j the task was soon
    fulfill ed ; age, grief, and inclement weather,
    nIl united to hush his sorrows, and bring repoie
    to his hean, whose beats were agony. H e died
    embracing the sod, which was piled above his
    breast, when he was placed beside the beings
    whom he regretted with such wiid despair.
    I l"Clunted 10 \V illdsor at the wish of Idns,
    who f'leCllled to think that th ere was greater
    safety for her children :l.t that spot; and bec:l.u~,

    ouce haxillg taken on me the guardianship of


    the district, I would 1I0t dc~ert it while an in_
    habitant survivcU. I went also to act in COll_

    formil), with Adrian's plans, which wtts to COIl_

    gregate in masses whal remained of the popula_


    tion; for II(' possessed the cOlwiction that it
    " OJ.. 11, p
    314 THE LAST )lAN.

    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 ro dear to us, as the scene of a happiness
    l'8rely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction
    of our species, and trace the deep uneraseable
    footsteps of di&ease over the fertile and che-
    rished 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 un·
    usual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws
    succeeding to floods, rendered the country im-
    passable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic
    appearance to the scenery j 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 win_
    dows were broken by the hail, while the preva-
    lence of n north~east wind rendered out-door
    111E LAST MAN. 315

    exertions extremely painful. The altered state


    of ~icty mnde tllCsc accidents of nature, sources
    of real misery. The luxury of comma.nd 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 entf.'f 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-T could have lived the life of a peasant
    in the !>arne ",ay-my trifling occupations were
    swelled into important pursuits; my affections
    were impetuous and engrossing passions, and
    .2
    316 THE LAST .'UN.

    nature with all her changes was invested in


    divine nttributes. The vf'ry spirit of the Greek
    mythology inhabited my heart; I deified the
    uplands, glades, nnd streams, I

    Had sight flf Proteus coming from the Ilea ;


    And heard old Triton blow his wre:<thed horn.·

    Strange, that while th(' earth preserved her


    monotonous course, I dwelt with ever-renew-
    ing wonder on her antique laws, and now
    that with cxccntric wheel she rushed into all
    untried path, I should fLoe! this spirit fade; ]
    struggled with despondency and wean ness,
    but like a fog. they choked me. PCI haps, aftel'
    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 grasp_
    ing passion of the preceding year, which ga"e
    life and indi,-iduality to each moment-it was

    • Wordsworth.
    TilE LAST ),IAN. 317

    not the aching pangs induced by the dis.tresses


    of the limes. The litter inutility that had at-
    tended all my exertions took fl"Om thcm their
    usual dft'Cts of cxhilarnlion, and despair rendered
    abortive the balm of self applausc-I longed to
    retum to myoid occupations, but of what
    usc were they? 'To read werc futile-to wntC',
    vanity indeed. The earth, late ,..ide circus for
    the display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for
    amagnificentdramu,Dowprescntc'd a vacant space,
    an empty stage - for actor or spectator there
    was no longer aught to sayar hear.
    Our little town of 'Vind sor, in which the sur-
    v,,'ors from the neighbouring counties wer('
    chicRy assembled, wore a melan.choly aspect.
    Its Jo.itreets were blocked up with sno\v-the few
    passengers seemed palsied, amI frozen by the
    ungcnial visitation of winter. To escape these
    evils was the aim and scope of a1l our exer-
    tions. Families late devoted to exalting and
    refined pursuits, rich, blooming, am.I young,
    with diminished numbers and care.fraught
    .3
    318 THE LAST MAo".

    heart.c:, huddled over 3 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 knend the bread, or in the absence
    of flour, the statesmen or perfumed courtier
    must undertake the butcher s office. I'oor and
    rich were now equal, or rather the px>l' were
    the superior, since they catered on such tasks
    with alacrity and experience; while ignorance,
    inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered them
    fatiguing to the luxuriou~ galling to the
    proud, disgustful to all whose minds, bent on
    intellectual imprm'cmcnt, held it their dearest
    privilege to be exempt from attending to mere
    animal wants.
    But in every change goodness and aifc'Ction
    can find field for exertion and display. Among
    some these changes produced a dc\'otion 3mI
    sacrifice of self at once graceful and heroic. It
    W.1S a sight for the lovers of the human race to
    enjoy j to behold, as in ancient times, the patti-
    ')' JI£ LAST M,\S, 319

    archal modes in \\ hich the variety of kindred


    and friend:.hip fulfilled their duteous and kindly
    offices, YOlllhs, noblcs of the land, pcdormed
    for the sake of mother or sister, the sei'vices of
    mcnials with amiable cheerfulncss. They went
    to the ri,'cr to break the ice, and draw water:
    they nsS<'mblcd on foraging expeditions, or axe
    in hand felled the tl'ees 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 suppel' rendy cooked by beloved hands;
    gratitude for the provision for to~morrow's meal:
    strange enjoyments for the high-born English,
    yet they were now dleir sole, hard earned,
    and dearly pl'ized luxuries.
    None was more conspicuous for this graceful
    submission to circumstances, noble humility, and
    ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with I'Omantic
    colouring, than our own Clara, She saw my
    desponDency, and the aching cares of ldl'i~.

    Her perpetual study was to relie,'e us from


    3~O THE LAST FolAN.

    labour and to spread ease and even elegallce over


    our nltercd mode of life. 'Ve still had some at-
    tendants spared by disease, and warmly attached
    to us. Dut Clara wns jealous of their services;
    she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole minis-
    ter to the wants of her little cOllsins; nothing
    gave her so much pleasure as our employing her
    in this way; she went beyond our desires, earnest,
    diligent, and unwearicd,-

    Abra was ready ere we called her name,


    And though we called anoth~r, Abra came.-

    It WRS my task each day to visit the '-arious


    families assembled in OUT town, and when the
    weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my
    Tide, and to muse in !Olitude over every
    changeful appearance of our ,destiny, endeavour_
    ing to gather lessons for the future from the
    experience of the past. The impatience wilh
    which, while ill socicty, thc ills that nfHicloo my
    species inspired me, were softened by loncliness,

    • Prior's .. Solomon."
    321

    "hell individual suffering was merged ill the


    general calamity, strange to say, less aAlicting
    to contemplate. Thus oflell, pushing my way
    with difliculty through the narrow sllow-blocked
    tawil, I cro:SSed the bridge and passed throllgh
    Elan. 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.
    'V ere those the fertile fields I loved- was that tbe
    interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale,
    oncc covered with waving corn, diversified by
    stately trees, watered bythct~can.deringThames?
    One sheet of white covered it, while bitter recol.
    lection told me that cold as the wintcr-clothcd
    earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants.. I met
    troops of horses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep,
    wandering at will; hlo're throwing down a hay-
    rick, and neslling from cold in its heart, which
    afforded them shelter and food-there having
    taken possession of a vacant cottage.
    322 TH E LAST MAS.

    Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless


    unsntisfyingreflections,l wughtafavourite haunt.
    a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A
    bubbling spring prattles over slones on one side,
    and a plantation of a few elms nnd beeches, hardly
    deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. Tllis
    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 t.he stately bond-
    age of his mother, he salon the rough hewn steps
    thatlcdtothcspring, nowreadinga favourite book,
    now musing, with speculation beyond his years,
    on the still unravelled skein of morals or meta-
    physics. A melancholy foreboding assured me
    that 1 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 J migllt better call up its idea in absence.
    A robin red-breast dropt from the frosty branches
    of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet i its pant-
    ing breast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was
    TilE LAST )IAN.

    dying: a hawk appeared in the air; sudden


    f('at" seized the little creature; it exerted its last
    strength, throwing itself on its b..'lck, raising its
    talons in impotent defence against its powerful
    enemy. I took it up and placed it in my breast.
    [ fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by
    degrees it revived; its warm fluttering heart beat
    against me; I cannot te11 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 d.:lYs of
    happiness alive ,yith sparkling waters, now
    choked by ie£'-the leafless trees fautastically
    dressed in hoar frost-the shapes or summer
    leaves imaged by winter"s frozen h:md on the
    hard ground-the dusky sky, drear cold,
    and unbroken sihmce-while close in my
    bosom, my feathered nursling lny 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
    silowy fields was aU earth-misery-stricken the
    324 TilE LAST l\oIAN.

    life-tide of the inhabitants-why should I


    oppose the cataract of destruction that swept u!
    away ?-why string my nerves and renew my
    wearied efforts-ah, why? But that my firm
    cournge and cheerful exertions might shelter the
    dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my
    life; though the throbbillgs of my heart be re-
    plete 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 vanqui shed.
    One fine February day, when the sun had re":
    assumed some of its genial power. I walhd in
    the forest with my family. It was one of those
    lovely winter-days which assert the capacit." of
    nature to bestow be:mty on barrennpss. The
    leafless trees spread their fibrous branches
    against the pure sky; their intricate and peryiou!
    tracery resembled delicate sea-weed; the deer
    were turning up the snow in seateh of the hidden
    TilE L A'> T MAX. 3~5

    gmss; lhe white '\:"'1S mnde intensely dnzzling by


    the sun, and trunks of the trees , rendered more
    conspicllolls by the l~s of preponderating fo-
    liage, gathered nrounu like the labyrintlline co-
    lumns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to
    recei,'e pleasure from the sight of these things.
    Our children, freed from the bondage of winter,
    bounded before us; pursuing the deer, or rOlIS-
    ing the pheasants and partridges from their
    coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her !imlnes:.
    yielded to the prcfiC nt sense of pleasure. 'Ve
    met other famili es on the Long 'Walk, enjoying
    like ollrselves the return of the genial season.
    At once, I se<;lIlcd to awake; I cast off' th('
    clinging sloth of the past months; enrth a~u lllcd
    a new appearance, and my view of the future was
    suddenly made clear. I exclaimed, ., 1 have
    now fOllnd out the secret !"
    H 'Vhat secret ?"
    In answer to this question, I described our
    gloomy winter_life, our sordid cnres, our menial
    labours:- " This northern COUll try," I ~aid, "is
    YOJ.. JI.
    S~6 THE LAST ,MAN.

    no place for our diminished race. \Vhen man~

    kind were few, it was not here that they battled


    with the powerful agents of nature, and were
    enabled to cover the globe with offspring. "r c
    must seek some natural Paradise, some garden
    of the earth, where our simple wants may be
    cnsi'y supplied, and the enjoyment of a deliciolls
    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 ,-cry
    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 wc:p;~ enchained to
    the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no
    control. 'Vc 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 pinus
    or to achieve the work we a,'oided. It were mnd-
    llC6S to calculate upon another winter This 'I n"
    '!' Uh LAS T M AN,

    our last. The coming summer was the extreme


    end of our vista; and, wheD we arrind tbere,
    instead of a. continuation of tbe long road, a
    gulph yawned, into which we must of force he
    precipitated. The last blessing of humanity
    was wrested from us; we might no longer hope.
    Can the madman, as he clanks his chain;;, hope ?
    Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when
    he lays his hend on the block, marks the double
    ;;hadowof himself and the executioner, whose
    uplifted arm bears the axe, hope? Can thc
    ship-wrecked mariner, who spent with swimming,
    hears close behind the splashing waters divided
    by a shark which pursues him through the At-
    1-"tntie, hope? Such hope as theirs, we also may
    entertain!
    Old fable tells li S, that this gentle spirit sprung
    from the box of Pundora, else crammed with
    c"i\s ; but these were unseen and null, while all
    admired the inspiriting lovelinessofyoung Hope ;
    eaeh man's heart became hel' home; she \\ as
    enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and Iw('c...
    TilE LAST MAK.

    after; ~hc \\ us deified and worshipped, declared


    incorruptible and eve-rlasting. nut like all other
    gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her
    life has attained its last hour. 'Ve have watched
    O\'e1' 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 aU nations the voice goes forth,
    Hope is dead! 'Ve are but mourners in the
    funeral train, nnd what immortal essence or
    perishable creation will refuse to make one in the
    sad procession that attends to it!) grave the dend
    comforter of humanity ~
    Dof'~ 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 tbiJ obsequie. ~

    • CleveJand's Poems.

    END OF VOL. II.

    H atktll. Arto\\,5rnltb , and lIodg~l, F1~et·strtct, Londun,


    THE LAST MAN.

    BY

    THE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    l.et no mlP nelr:


    Htocdorth 10 IH! fOl etold what 1!I.1I befall
    Him Or hil ebUdren.

    VOL. III.

    SECOND EDITION.

    LONDON:
    HENRY COLBURN>, NEW BURLINGTON STR£F.T.

    1826.
    PR
    53-
    "::(
    THE LAST MAN.

    CHAPTER I.

    HEAR you not the rushing sound of the


    coming tempe.;t? Do you not behold the
    clouds open, and destruction lurid and dire
    pour down on the blasted earth? Sec you nol
    the thunderbolt fall, and are deafened by the
    shout of heaven that follows its descent? Feel
    you not the earth quake and open with agoniz-
    ing groans, while ,t he air is pregnant with
    shricks and wailings,- all announcing the last
    days of man ?
    'fOL. HI. B

    •
    )
    2 THE LAST MAN.

    No! none of these things accompanied our


    fall! The balmy air of spring, breathed from
    nature's ambrosial home, invested the lovely
    earth, wh.ich
    , 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 seascnable
    juices, expanded into leaves, and the variegated
    foliage of spring, bending and singing in the
    bl'eez~, rejoiced in the genial warmth of the un-
    clouded empyrean: the brooks flowed mur-
    Uluring, the sea was waveless, and the promon-
    tories that over_hung it were reflected in the
    placid waters i birds awoke in the woods, while
    abundant food for man and beast sprung up
    from the dark ground. "There was pain and
    evil? Not in the calm air or weltering ocean;
    not in the woods or fertile fields, nor among
    the birds th:1t made the woods resonant with
    song, nor the animals thnt in the midst of
    plenty ba&ked in the sunshine. Our enemy,
    THE LAST MAN.

    like the Cal~mit~ 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., throl.lgh nighl, on casual wing they glide,
    Silent,-l. voice the power a11.wiae deoied.-

    Once man was a favourite of the Creator, as


    the royal psalmist sang, U God had made him a
    little lower tban the angels, and had erowned
    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
    50 j now is man lord of the creation? Look
    at him-hn! I see plague! She has invested
    his form, is incarnate in his flesh, has entwined
    herself with his being, and blinds his heaven-
    seeking eye3. Lie down, 0 man, on the flower-
    strown earth; give up all claim to your inhe-
    ritance, all you can ever possess of it i. the
    imaU cell which the dead require.

    • Elton', translatioll of He.ied.


    4 THE LAST lJAX .

    Plague is the companion of spring, of sun.


    shine, aml plenty. ' Ve no longer struggle with
    her. 'Ve have forgotten what we did when she
    was not. Of old navies used to stem the giant
    ocean.waves betwixt Indus and the role for
    slight articles of luxury. Men made perilous
    journics to possess themseh-es of earth's splen-
    did 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 ~hould be capable of containing its dweller.
    Our minds, late spread abroad through count-
    less spheres and endless combinations of thought,
    now ret renched themselns behind this wall of
    flesh , engf'f to preserve its well_being only. 'Ve
    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. "'c nerycd
    THE LASl' !olAN. 5

    ourselves to the task; "in the midst of despair


    we performed the tasks of hope," \Ve went
    out with the resolution of disputing with our
    foc. 'Ve 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 pru-amount the
    while, and laughed us to scorn.
    Have any of you, my readers, observed the
    ruins of an anthill immediately after iti destruc.
    tion? 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 hahitations
    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
    6 TJ-IE: LAST ;\!.·H t.

    wonder to transgress th~ accustomed use! o(


    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, thou~h at first the stop put to
    ali circulation of property, had reduced those
    before supported by the factitious wants of
    society to sudden and hideo..us poverty, yet
    when the boundaries of private possession were
    thrown down, the products of human labour at,
    present existing were more, fur morc, than
    the thinned generation could possibly consume.
    To some Ilmong the poor this was matter of
    exultation. 'Ve were all eyual now; magnifi-
    cent dwellings, luxurious carpets, and beds of
    down, were aflorded to aiL Carriages and
    horses, gardens, pir.tures, statues, and princely
    libraries, there were enough of these even to
    supel'Auity; and there was nothing to prevent
    C'aeh from assuming possession of his share. 'Ve
    were ali equal now; but near at hand was 110
    TilE LAST UAN. 7

    ~uality still more levelling. a state where beauty


    and strength, and wiSdom, would be as vain as
    riches and birth. The grave yawned beneath
    us a11, und its prospect prevented any of us
    from enjoying the ease and plenty which in so
    awful a manner was presented to us.
    Still thc bloom did not fade on the cheeks of
    my babes; and Clara sprung up in years and
    growth, unsullied by disease. We had no
    Teason to think the site of '¥indsor Castle pecu-
    liarly healthy, for many other families had ex-
    pired beneath ilS roof; we lived therefore with-
    out any pariicuhLr 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, ana agonizing
    dread, ate up the principle of lift' within her.
    I could not fail to perceive this change. I often
    8 TllE LAST )IAN.

    wished tbat I had perm#ted her to take her


    own course, and engage herself in such labours
    for the welfare of others as might have dis.
    tracted her thoughts. But it was too late now.
    Besides tbnt, with the nearly extinct race of
    man, all our toils grew near!l 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 moming hours, deprived her limbs of
    strength. At night, when she could leave me
    unperceived, she wandered through the house,
    or hung over the ("ouches of h~r 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 morc COD-

    firmed, and, in spite of her endeavours at con_


    cealmentmore apparent, I strove, though vainly,
    to awaken in her courage and hope. 1 could
    not wonder at the vehemence of her care; her
    very soul was tenderness; she trusted indeed
    THE LAST lU,~. 9

    that ihe 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 witllin 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 aflection 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. vVhy talk of infancy, man-
    hood, and old age? 'Ve all stood equal sharers
    of the last throes of time.worn nature. Arrivf'd
    at the same point of the world's age-there
    n 3
    10 THE LAST MAS'.

    was no difl:'erence in us; the name of parent


    and child had lost their meaning j young boys
    and girls were level now with men. This was all
    true; but it was not less agonizing to take the
    admonition borne.
    ,1\'hcre could ~ve turn, and not find a desola-
    tion 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 half.
    way, the ploughman had died beside the
    plough; the horses had deserted the furrow,
    and no seedsman had approached the dead; the
    cattle unattended wandered o\'er 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 wt'nt out to sow nor reap; but sauntered
    •
    about the meadows, or lay under the hedge",
    THE LAST MAY. 11

    " 'hen 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
    wifc 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 jour-
    nies to unite them.selves to those tlley loved, and
    arrived to find them dead.
    Londoll did not contain above a thousand
    inhabitants; and this number was continual1y
    diminishing. 'Most of them were country pe0-
    ple. come up for the sake of change; the Lon.
    doners had sought the country. The busy
    e:lstern 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
    THE LAST llANo

    goods, shawls of price, jewels, and spices, un.


    packed, strewed the floors. In some pluces 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, Jo"cleEs vic.
    tim of vulgar brutality, had wandered to the
    toilet of high-born beauty, and, arraying herself
    in the garb of splendour, had died before the
    muror which reflected to herself alone her
    altered appearance. '''omen whose delicate
    feet had seldom touched the earth in their
    luxury, had fled in fright and horror from their
    homes, till, losing themselves itt 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
    snw a specimen of this gloomy change, my soul
    ached with the fear of what might befall my
    beloved Idris and my babes. 'Were they, sur-
    viving Adrian and myself, to find t1lcmselves
    THE LAST MAN. 13

    protcctorless in the world? As yet the mind


    alone had suffered-could I for ever put off the
    time, when the delicate frame and sh.rinking
    nerves of my child of prosperity, the nur~

    ling of rank and wealth, who was my com-


    panion, should be invaded by famine, hardship,
    and disease? Better die at once-better plunge
    a poinard in her bosom, still untouched by drear
    adversity, {lnd then again sheathe it in my own!
    But, no; in times of misery we must fight
    against our destinies, and strive not to he over_
    comc by them. I would not yield, but to the
    last gasp resolutely defcnded my dear olles
    against sorrow and pain; and if I were van-
    quished at last, it should not be ingloriously.
    I stood in the gap, resisting the enemy-the
    impalpable, invisible foe, who had so long be-
    lieged us-as yet he had made no breach: itmust
    be my care that he should not, secretly under_
    mining, burst up wiulin the very threshold oC
    the temple of love, at whose altar I daily sa..
    crificcd.
    14 TH~ L.UT MAN.

    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 im~o-ery of
    sculptured stone; and the daily, nay, hourly
    decrease vi~ible in ollr numbers, visited the
    heart with sickening misery. This summer ex~

    tinguished our hopes, the ves~cl of society was


    wrecked, and the shattered raft, which carried
    the few survivors over the sea of misery, was
    riven and tempest t')st. Man existed by twos
    and threes; man, the individual who might
    sleep, and wake, and perform the animal func-
    tions; but man, in himself weak, yet more
    powerful in congregated numbers than wind or
    ocean; man, the quellcr of the elements, the
    lord of creatt.>d nature, the peer of demi_gods,
    existro no longer.
    Farewell to the patriotic scene, to the love of
    liberty and well earned meed of virtuous aspira-
    THE LAST l[AN. 15

    tion !-farewell to crowded senate, voc!li with the


    councils of the wise, whose laws were keener
    than the sword blade tj:!mpered 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 d esire of rule,
    and the hope of victory; to high vaulting am-
    bition, to the appetite for praise, and the crav-
    ing for the suffrage oft11eir fellows! Th e nations
    are no longer! No senate sits in coull(;il for
    th e dead; no scion of a time honoured dynasty
    pants to rule over the inhabitants of a charnel
    house ; th(> general's hand i ~ cold, and qle sol-
    dier has his untimely grave dug in his native
    fields, unhonoured, though in you th. The
    market-place is empty, the candidate for popular
    favour nnds none whom he C!lll represent. To
    chambers of painted state farewell !-To mid_
    night revelry, and the panting cmulation of
    beauty, to costly dress and birth-day shew, to
    title and the gilded coronet, farewell !
    Farewell to the giant powers of man,-to
    16 THE LAST llA~.

    Imowledge that could pilot the deep-drawing


    bark through the opposing waters of shoreless
    ocean,- to science that directed the silken balloon
    through t1le pathless rur,- lo 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 tile mountains plain!
    Farewell to the arts,- to eloquence, which is to
    the human mind as the winds to the sea, stir-
    ring, nnd then allaying it i-farewell to poetry
    and deep philosophy, for man's imagination is
    cold, and his enquiring mind can no longer expa-
    tiate on the wonders of life, for" there is no
    work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom
    in the grave, wllither thou goest !"- to the
    graceful building, which in its perfect propor-
    tion transcended the rude forms of nature, the
    fretted gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the
    stupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted
    column v.jth its capital, Corinthian, Ionic, or
    Doric, the peristyle and fair entablature, whose
    THE LAST MAN. 17
    harmony of form is to the eye as musical con.
    cord 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 artist's mind in pictured
    canvas-to paradisaical scenes, where trees are
    ever vernal, and the ambrosial air rests in per.
    petual gloW' :-to the stamped form of tempest,
    and wildest uproar of universal nature cncaged
    in the DalTOW frame, 0 farewell! :Fareweli 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 Jearn the hidden pleasures of the eternals !
    -Farewell to the well-trod stage; a truer tra-
    gedy 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.
    IS THE LAST MAN.

    Alas! to enumerate the adornments of hu..


    manity, shews, by what we have lost, hoW'
    supremely great mall was. It is all over no\\' ,
    H e is solitary; like our, first parents expelled
    from Paradi3e, he looks back towards the scene
    he has quitted. The high walls of the lomb,
    and the flaming sword of plague, lie between
    it and him. Like to our first parents, the whole
    earth is before him, a w:de desart. Unsup_
    ported and weak, let him wander through fields
    where the unrcapcd corn stands m barren
    plenty, through copsel planted by hi s father s,
    through towns built for his u se. Posterity is
    no more; fame, and ambition, and love, are
    words void of meaning; even as the cattle that
    grazes in the fi eld, do thou, 0 deserted onc, lie
    down at evening-tide, unknowing of the past,
    careless of the future, for from such fond igno-
    rance 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
    TilE LAST lfAX. 19

    witb priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook


    to their homely fare, and mingles intoxication
    with their simple drink. Joy strewl the hard
    couch with roses, and makes labour ease.
    Sorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down
    back i plants thorns in the unyielding pillow;
    mingles g~1l with water i adds saltness to their
    bitter bread; dootlling them in rags, and strew-
    ing ashes on their bare heads. To OOl' irrcmedi-
    able distress every small and pelting iocon-
    venience Cflme with added force; we had strung
    our framcs to endure the Allean weight thrown
    on us j 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 scrunts were gone, their powers of com-
    mand vanished like unreal shadows: the poor
    eyen suffered ,'arioul privations; and the idea
    of another winler like the last, brought affright
    to our ·minds. Was it not enough th~t we must
    die, hut toil must be added ?-rnust we prepare
    our funeral repast with labour, and with un·
    20 THE LAST MAN.

    seemly drudgery heap fuel on our deserted


    hearths-must we with servile bands fabricate
    the garments, soon to be our shroud ?
    Not. so! ,\Ve arc presently to die, let us then
    enjoy to its full reli~h the remnant of our lives.
    Sordid rore, avaunt! menial labours, and pains,
    slight in themselves, but too gigantic for our ex-
    hausted strength, shall make no part of our ephe-
    meral existences. In the beginning of time, when,
    as now, man lived by families, and not by tribes
    or nations, they ,vere placed in a genial clime,
    where earth fed them untilled, and the balmy air
    enwrapt their repcsing limbs with warmth morc
    pleasant than beds of down. The south is the
    native plnce of the human race; the land of
    fruits, morc grateful to man than the hard-earo€d
    Ceres of the north,---of trees, whose boughs are
    as a palace-roof, of couches of roses, and of the
    thirst-appeasing grape. 'Ve need not there
    fear cold nnd hunger.
    Look at England! the grass shoots up high
    in the meadows; but they are dank and cold,
    THE LAST MA)/'. 2J

    unfit bed for us. Corn we have none, and the


    crude fruits cannot suppOrt us. 'Ve must st"Ck
    firing in the bowels of the earth, or the unkind
    atmosphere will fill us with rheums and nches.
    The labour of hundreds of thousands alone could
    make this inclement nook fit habitation for one
    man, To the south then, to the sun I- where
    nature is kind, ",here Jove has showered forth
    the contents of Amalthea's horn, and earth is a
    garden,
    England, late birth-place of excellence and
    school of the wise, thy children arc gone, thy
    glory faded! Thou, Englnnd, wert the triumph
    of man! Small favour was ~hewn thee by thy
    Creator, thou Isle of the North j a ragged canvas
    naturally, painted by man with alien colours;
    but the hues he gave are faded, never marc to
    be renewed, So we must leave thee, thou marvel
    of the worlel; we mml bid farewell to thy clouds,
    and cold, and scarcity for ever! Thy manly
    hearts are still; thy tale of power nod' liberty at
    its close i Bereft of man, 0 little isle! the ocean
    THE L.AST lIAN.

    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,-
    Flll'ewell, sad Isle, farewell, thy latal glory
    Is summed, cast up, and cancelled in this story.•

    • Cleveland's Poem~.
    'THE LAST :YA~.

    CHAPTER II.

    IN the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of


    emigration crept in among the few survivors,
    who, congrcgatin~ from various parts of England,
    met in London. This spirit existed as a breath,
    a wish, 11 far off' thought, until communicated to
    Adrian, who imbibro it with ardour, and in":
    $t,antlyengaged himself in plam for its execution.
    The fear of immediate death vanished with the
    heats of September. .Another winter y..as before
    us, and we might elect our mqde of passing it to
    the best advantage. Perhaps in rational philo-
    "ophy l~ one could be better chosen than this
    24 THE LAST !oIAN.

    scheme of migration, which would draw us from


    the immediate scene of our WDe, and, leading us
    th,:ough pleasant ~nd picturesque countries,
    amuse for a time our despair. The idea once
    broached, all were impatient to put it in exe~

    cution.
    'Ve were still at 'Vindsor; 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
    'Vindsor Castle was a spot sacred from the
    plague; but our lease of life was renewed for
    some months, and even Idris lifted her bead, 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 fullaf 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 fic1ds and groves, and, placing the
    sea between us, to quit it, as a sailor quits the
    THE LAST MAN.

    rock on which he has J:>een .wrecked, wIlen the


    saving ship rides by. Such was his pla.n.
    To leave the country of our fathers, made
    holy by their graves !-'Ve 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 oC the day; he
    knew that, if he returned, and resumed his place
    in society, the entrance was still open, and it re-
    quired but the will, tu surround himself at once
    with the associations and babits oC boyhood.
    Not 50 with us, the remnant. 'Veleft none to re-
    present 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, ond we
    ",-ill choose for our residence its most fertile !pot.
    YOL o Ill. c
    26 THE LAST )IA~ .

    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. Tbe
    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
    SIlOWY vallies, we may come upon health, and
    committing our loved ones to its charge, replant
    the uprooted tree of humanity, and send to late
    po3tel'ity 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 t~is eager
    desire of change must be an omen of success.
    o come! Farewell to the dead! fare\vell to the
    tombs of those we loycd !-farewell to giant
    THE LAST MAN. 27

    London and the placid Thames, to river and


    mountain or fair district, birth-place of the wise
    and good, to ''''indsor Forest and its antique
    castle, farewell J themes for story alone are they,
    -we must live elsewhere.
    Such were in part the arguments of Adrian,
    uttered with enthusiam and unanswerable rapi-
    dity. 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
    adviSE'able to wait this sad consummation in our
    native oountry; 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 11ad laid her mighty
    towers low. 'Ve might lose our selfish griH in
    the sublime aspect of its desolation. All this
    was in the mind of Adrian; bnt he thought of
    my children, and, instead of communicating to
    c ~
    Q8 THE LAST MAN.

    me these resources of despair, he called up the


    image oC health and life to be found, where we
    knew not-when we knew not; but if never to
    be found, for eyer and for c\'cr to be sought.
    He won me over to his party, heart and soul.
    It devolved on me to discluse our plan to
    Idris. The images of health and hope which I
    presented to her, made her with a smile consent.
    'Vith a smile she agreed to leave her country,
    from which she had never before heen absent,
    and the spot she had inhabited from infancy;
    the forcst 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
    shC! hoped to purchase thus the Jives of her
    children. They were her life; de.'ucr than a
    spot consecrated to lovE', dearer than all else the
    earth contained. The boys heard wjth childish
    glee of our removal. Clara asked if we w('re
    to go to Athens. "It is possible," I replied;
    and her countenance became radiant with plea~
    THE LAST MAN.

    sure. There she would behold the tomb of her


    parents, and the t.erritory filled with recollec~

    tions 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 gaiet.v to seriousness, and
    had impressed her with high and restless
    thoughts.
    There were Dlany dear friends whom we
    must not leave behind, bumble though they
    were. There was the spirited and obed!ent
    steed which Lord Raymond had given his
    daughter; there was Alfred's dog and a pet
    eagle, whose sight was dimmed through age.
    But tllis catalogue of favourites to be taken
    with us, could Dot be made without grier 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 rooe tree,
    now a marble vase beautifully carved, insisting
    t hat these must go, and exclaiming on the pity
    30 THE LAST )lAS'.

    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 j 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 ,,,ill form a resistless IDOllDcl. 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 brokenexc1ama-
    lions 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, asshefelt
    THlC L.AST lIAN. 51

    my kisses on her eyelids, as she felt my arms press


    her, she revived to the knowledge of what re~

    mained to her. "You nre very kind not to re-


    proach me,1'I she said: "I w~p, and a bitter pang
    of intolerahle 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 I;.'\n 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 'Vind~
    sor, 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 spbke quickly, a~ if to convince herself.
    6he turned her eyes frolll the trees and forest.
    paths she loved; she hid her face in my boson1,
    32 THE LAST IIlAN.

    a.nd we-yes, my masculine firmness dissolved


    -we wept together consolatory tears, and then
    calm-nay, almost cheerful, we returned to the
    ca.5t1e.
    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
    nol tell her, that to spare her the pang of part-
    ing from inanimate objects, now the only things
    left, I had resolved that we should none of us re_
    turn to Windsor. For the last time we looked on
    the wide extentor 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 Elan
    college, stood in dark relief, a prominent ob-
    ject; the cawing of the myriad rooks which in_
    habited the trees of the little park, as in column
    or thick wedge they speeded to their nests,
    THE LAST MAN. 33

    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. 'Vhy should the breeze gently
    stir the trees, man felt not its refreshment?
    Why did dark night adorn heNelf with stars-
    man saw them not? Why are there or fruitA, or
    flowers, or streams, man is not here to enjoy
    them r
    Idris stood beside me, her dear hand locked
    m mmc. Her face was radiant with a smile.-
    .
    " The sun is ,alone," she said, H but we are
    not. A strange star, my Lionel, ruled our
    birth; Ioadly 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 rcmaincst, why should I complain?
    Thou and nature are still true to me. Deneath
    the shades of night, and through the day,
    whose garish light displays our solitude, thoil
    c 3
    34 THE LAST :n AN.

    wilt still be at my side, and even 'Vindsor 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 dro,'c us. We past down the
    steep hin, and entered the dusky avenue of the
    Long 'Valk. At times like these, minute circum-
    stances assume giant and majestic proportions;
    the very swinging open of the white gate that ad_
    mitted us into the forest, arrested my thoughts as
    matter of intere~t; it wa5an Cyety 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 !\Cared a troop
    of deer, that )100. bounding away in the forest
    shades. Our two boys quickly slept; once, be-.
    fore 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 U8

    waved a solemn dirge to the midnight breeze.


    THE LAST MAN. 35

    Idris leaned back in the carriage.; her tWo

    hands pressed mine, her countenance W!U placid,


    she seemed to lose the sense of what she llOW

    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,
    whiJ~ I felt Idris to be near, and heard the re-
    gular breathing of my children, I could not be
    unhappy. Clara was greatly moved; with
    streaming eyes, suppressing her sobs, she lcnned
    from the window, watching the last glimpse of
    her nativc Windsor.
    Adrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was
    all Wlimation; you could no longer trace in his
    36 THE LAST lIAN.

    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 nati~n, 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. I-lis care was the soul, to
    move the luckless crowd, who relied wholly on
    him. It was ust'less to provide many things,
    for we should find abundant provision in every
    town. It was Adrian's wish to prevent all
    l!1bouc; 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 wit-
    nessed the arrival of fresh numbers, and those
    who resided in the neighbouring towns, had re-
    ceived orders to assemble at. une place, on t.he
    Tn!:: LAST M.\N. 37

    lwen,J.ieth 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 :md s~..tion were not the
    qualifications of their election. ~'''le had no
    station among llS, but that which benevolence
    and prudence gave; no distinction save between
    the living and the dead. Although we were
    anxious to lea\'e England before the depth of
    wintf'r, yet we were detained. Small parties
    had been dispatched to various parts of Eng-
    land, in search of stragglers; we wonld not go,
    nntil we had assured ourselves th:l.t in all
    human probability we did not leave behind a
    single human being.
    On our arrival in London, we found that the
    aged Countcss of 'Vindsor was rcsiding with her
    son III the palace of the Protectorate; we re-
    ""ired to our accustomed abodc nenr Hyde
    58 THE. LAST MAli',

    Park. J dris now for the first time for 'iOany


    years saw her mother, aoxious to assure herself
    cllat the childishness, of old age did not mingle
    with unforgotten pride, to make this high-born
    dame still so iJ.lveterate against me. Age and
    care had furrowed her checks, and bent her fonn;
    but her eye was still bright, her manners autho.
    ritative and unchanged; she received her
    daughter coldly, but displayed more feeling as
    she folded her grand-ehildren in her arms. It is
    our nature to wish to continue our systems and
    thoughts to posterity through OUf 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
    Idl'is named me casually- a frown, a convulsive
    gesture of anger, shook her mothel'. anq, with
    voice trembling with hate, she said- " I am of
    little worth in this world; the young are impa-
    tient to push the old off' the scene; but, Idris, if
    you do not wish to see your mother expire at
    your fect, never again Dame that person to me;
    THE LAST MAN. 39

    !ill 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 in·
    strument 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.Quecn thought as Octavius Cresar 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.
    40 TH E LAST l lANo

    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 smo kel~ss air; the churches were
    open, but no prayer was offered at the altars;
    mildew and damp had already defaced their or-
    naments; birds. and tame animals, now homc4
    less, had built nests, and made their lairs in con-
    secrated spots. 'Ve passed St. Paul's. L ondon,
    which had extended so far in suburbs in all di-
    rection, had heen somewhat deserted in the
    midst, and much of what had in former days
    obscured this yast building was removed. Its
    ponderous mass, blackened. stOlle, and high
    dome, made it look, not like a temple, but a
    tomb. Methought abm'e the portico was en_
    graved the Hicjacet of England. 'Vc passed on
    eastwards, engugcd ill such solemn talk as the
    THE 1.A!lT &fAN. 41

    times inspired. No buman step was beard, nor


    human form discerned .. Troops of dogs, deserted
    of their masters, passed us; and now amI then
    a horse, unbridled and unsaddled, trotted to.
    wards 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 nndamaged buildings, and
    luxurious accommodation, in trim and fresh
    youth, was contrasted with the lonely silence
    of the un peopled streets.
    Night closed in, and it began to ram. 'Ve
    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. \Ve
    had traversed London from Hyde Park e,'en to
    where we now were in the Minories, and had
    met no person, heard no voice nor footstep. The
    42 THE LAST llANo

    singing was interrupted by laughing and ta1k~


    iug; neyer 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 ,,,'as a large magnificent house,
    in which doubtless some rich merchant had
    lived. The, singing again commenced, and
    rang through the high-roofl"d 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 an1y inhabitant, a littJe 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 gro-
    tesquely, 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 LAST M.-\N. 43
    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 re-
    !Jist, but with a stern brow, so strange in child-
    hood, 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 wiuning 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 t"
    while her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.
    " I will save you;' he replied, H of what are
    you afraid? you need 110t fear my friend, he
    will do you no harm. Are you alone?"
    " No, Lion is with me."
    U And your father and mother ?- "
    "I never had any; I am a charity girl.
    44 TUE L.-'\ST MAN.

    Every body is gone, gone for a great, great


    many days; but if they come back and find
    me Qut, they will beat me so !"
    Her unhappy story was told in these few
    words: an orphan, taken on pretended charity,
    ill.treated nnd 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 continuanee of her solitude her
    courage revived, her childish vivacity cau~d her
    to pIny a thousand freaks, and with her brute
    companion she passed a long holiday, fearing
    nothing but the return of the hOl'8h voices and
    cruel usage of her protectors. She readily con-
    ~ntcd to go with Adrian.
    In the mean time, while we descanted on alien
    SOtTOWS. and on a solitude which struck our eyes
    and not our hearts, while we imagined all of
    change and suffering-that had intervened in the--..e
    once thronged sU·eets, before, tenantless and
    abandoned, they became mere kennels for dogs,
    and stD.blcs for ca.ttle :-while we read the death
    THE LAST MAN. 45

    of the world upon the dal'k 'fane, and hugged


    ourselves in the remembrance that we possessed
    that which was all the world to us-in the mean-
    while---
    We had arriyed fro m Windsor early in Oc-
    tober, and had DOIV 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
    s.ervants 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 re-
    mained 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 h('r; I feared the plague only, and she
    was untouched by that.
    I had left her this evening, reposing after the
    46 THE LAST MAN.

    fatigues of her preparations. Clara sat beside


    her, relating a story to the two boys. The eyes
    of J dris were closed: but Clara perceived a
    sudden change in the appearance of our eldest
    darling; his heavy lids ,·ciled his eyes, an un_
    natural colour buntl in his cheeks, his breath
    became short. Clara looked fit the mother; she
    slept, yet started at the pause the narrator made
    -Fear of awakening and alamling her, caused
    Clara to go on at the eager call of Evelyn, who
    was unaware of what was pnssing Her eyes
    turned alternately from Alfred to Idris; with
    trembling accents she cominued her tale, till she
    saw the child about to fall,: starting forward she
    caught him, and her c'ry 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 flaved; perhaps it was not the plague.
    \VithoUl a counsellor, what could she do? stay
    THE LAST )lAN. 47
    and behold him die! " ' hy 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 WIlS plunged in a frightful state of
    torpor; again she rushed down stairs; all was
    dark,dcsert,andsilcnt; she lost all sclf.posscssion;
    she ran into the street; she called on my name.
    The pattering rain and howling wind alone
    replied to her. 'Vild fear ga"c wings to her
    feet; she darted forward to seck mc, shc knew
    not where; but, putting all her thoughts, all her
    energy, all llcr being in speed only, most mis-
    directed speed, she neither felt, nor feared, nor ~

    paused, but ran right on, till her strength sud-


    denly deserted her so suddenly, that she had
    not thought to save herself. Her knees failed
    her, and she fell heavily on the pavement.
    48 THE LAST MAh".

    She was stunned for a time; but at lenglll


    rose, and though sorely hurt, still walked aD,
    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; nod the inclemency of the night had
    driven the wandering animals to the habito.tions
    Ihey had usurped. Her thin dres5 was drenched
    with rain; he!" wet hair clung round l1cr neck;
    shctottered through the dark ~tr(>Cts; till, striking
    her foot against an unseen impediment, she ngnin
    fell; she could not risc; she hardly strove; but,
    gnthcring 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.
    '''hile hopeless of safety for herself, she ceased
    to lam~nt for her dying child, but shed kindly,
    bitter tears for the grief I sbould experience in
    10liing her.
    THE LAST lIAl'. 49
    ' Vhile she lay, life almost suspended, she felt
    n worm, soft hand on hcr brow, and a gentle
    femalc voice asked hl'r, with cxpressions of
    tender com passion, if she could not rise? That
    another human being, sympathetic and kind,
    should exist near, roused her; half rising, with
    c1a.sped hands, and fresh spri nging tears, she
    entreated her companion to seek for me, to bid
    me hasten to my dying child, to save him, (or
    the loye of heaven, to saye him'
    Thc woman raised her; she led her under
    ehelter, shc entreated her to return to her home,
    whither perhaps I had already returned. Idns
    easily yiclded to her persuasions, she leaned on
    thc arm of her fri end, she cndeavoured to walk
    on , but irresistible faintness madc her pause
    ngnin and again.
    Quickencd by the encrerui ng storm, ""' C had
    hastened our return, our little charge was placed
    before Adrian on his horse. Thcre was an as-
    semblage of persons under the portico of our
    house, in whose gestures I instinctively read
    VOL. Ill: D
    50 THE LAST MAN.

    IIOmc 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 1
    threw open the door of the first room that prc-
    ~ented itself. It was quite dark; but, as I stept
    within, a pernicious scent assnilcd 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 larof, and saw a negro half
    clad, writhing under the agony of disease, while
    he held me with a con vulsive gra"p. 'Vith
    mixed horror and impatience I strove to disco-
    I
    gage myself, and fell on the sufferer; he wound
    his naked festering anns round me, hi s face was
    close to mine. and his breath, death. laden,
    entered my vitals. For a moment I was over.
    come, my head was bowed by aching nausea;
    till, reflection returning, I sprung up, threw the
    TilE LAST )(AN. 51

    wretch from me, and darting up the staircase,


    ~ntered the chamber usually inhabited by my
    family. A dim light shewed me .l\lfrcd 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 or life existed in that ruined form, his
    fealurc& 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, aod
    turned to speak in a vain whisper, when loudest
    sound of thundcrlike 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 r.cc her ~l7tlin. I mounted my horse
    and rode out to 6cek her, fancying tbat I heard
    o 2
    52 THE LAS'l' MAN.

    her ,"oice in every gust, oppressed by fever and


    aching pain.
    I rooe in the dark and rain through the labyrin-
    thine streets of unpeopled London. My child
    lay dead at home; the seeds of mortal disease
    had taken root in my bosom;' J 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 cnld. A female stood
    on the step of a door, and called to me as I gal-
    lopped past. It was not Idris; ~ I rode swiftly
    aD, until a kind of second sight, a reRection back
    again Ob my senses of what I had seen but not
    marked, made me feel ~ure 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
    1 received the &inking . Idris in my arms.
    Lifting her up, I placed her on the horse; she
    had not&trength to support herself; so I mounted
    THE LAST MAN. 53

    behind her, and held her close to my bosom.


    wrapping my riding-cloak roun~ her, while her
    companion, whose well known, but changed coun~
    tenancc, (it. was Juliet., daughter of the Duke of
    L--:-) could at. t.bi3 mpment of horror obtain
    from me no more t.han a passing glance of com~

    passion. She took the abandoned rein, and


    conducted our obedient steed homewards. Dare
    ,I llvouch 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 deso-
    lation. hope was madness j 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
    marc; again and again I kissed her, and pressed
    her to my heart.
    \Ve 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. Rrie6y 1 assured Adrian of her
    HIE LAST !liAS'.

    aafety, and requested lhat we might be left (u


    repose. As the miser, who with trembling
    caution visits his treasure to count it again and
    again. so I lIumbered each moment; and grudged
    every ODe that was not spent with Idns. ]
    returned swiftly to the chamber where the life
    of my life reposed; before I entered the room
    1 paused for a few seconds; for a few seconds
    ] tried to examine my state; sidmess anJ shnd_
    dering 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
    wns lying on a couch; carefuny fastening the
    door to prevent aU intrusion; I sat by her, we
    embraced, and our lips met in a kiss long drawn
    and breathless-would that moment h:::d been
    my last!
    Maternal feeling no\'I" awoke in my poor girrs
    bosom, and she asked: H And Alfred r "Idri~,"

    1 replied, H we are spared to each other, ""C an


    ,

    THE LAST 1I1.\N'. 55

    together; do not let any other idea intrude.


    I am happy; even on this fatal night, I de.
    clare myself happy, beyond all name, aU thought
    -what would you more, sweet one ?"
    Idns understood me: she bowed her head on
    my shoulder and wept. "'Vhy," she again
    asked, "do you tremble, Lionel, what shake"
    you thus ?"
    " 'Veil may I be shaken,'"' I replied, "happy
    as I am. Our child is dead, and the present
    hour is dark and ominous. 'VeIl may I trem-
    ble! 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 ughast, thou wouldest
    assuage my grief by thy dear assurances. I
    am not happy," (and the tears flashed and fell
    (rom under her down.cast lids), "for we are
    inmates of a miserable prison, and there is no
    joy for us j but the true love I bear you will
    render this 'and every other loss endurable."
    56 TIlE LAST MAN.

    H \Ve have been happy together, at least," I


    said; "no future misery can deprive us of the
    past. 'Ve have been true to each other for ,
    years, ever since my sweet princess-love came
    through the snow to the lowly cottnge 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 ?"
    H Die! when we die! what mean you?
    'Vhat secret lies hid from me in those dread_
    fu1 words?"
    •
    "1\1ust we not all die, ·dearest r" J asked
    with a sad smile.
    " Graciolls God! arc you ill, Lionel, that
    you speak of death? :My only friend, heart
    of my hC.lrt, speak ,"
    If I do not think," rrplied I. H that we have
    any of 1.:5 long to live; and when the curtain
    drops on this mortal scene, where, think you l
    we shall find ourselves r
    TJlt: LAST AlAN. 57

    Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone


    and look; she answered :- " You . may easily
    1Jc1ieve 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 conclu-
    sion concerning the mystery of a future state_
    'Vhat a scare-crow, indeed, would death be, if
    wc were merely to cast aside the shadow in
    which we no~v walk, and, stepping forth into the
    unclouded sunshine of knowledge and love,
    revj"ed with the same companions, the same
    affections, and reached the fulfilment of aUf.

    hopes, leaving our fears with our earthly vesture


    in the grave. Alas! the same strong feeling
    which makes me sure that..l. shall not wholly
    die, makes me refuse to believe that I shall
    li\'e wholly as I do n.)W. Yet, Lionel, neyer,
    never, ('.an I loye any but you; through eternity
    I must desire your society; and, as I am iuno-
    DB
    58 THE 1.AS'I MA~.

    cent of harm to othcrst and as relying and COII-

    fident as my mortal llature permits, I trust


    that the Ruler of the world wi.1l ncyer tear us
    asunder."
    " Your remarks are like yourself, dear lo\'c,"
    replied I, u gentle and good;' let us cherish
    such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our
    minds. But, sweet, we arc so formed, (and
    there is no sin, if God made our nature, to yield
    to what he ordains), we arc so formed, that we
    mu st lo\'c lifc, and cling to it; we must lu\'e
    the living !;mile, the sympathetic touch, and
    thrilling voice, peculiar to Qur mortal mecha·
    lllsm. L et 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 OUf own unalienably.
    Thou, the hope of my futurity, art my present
    joy. Let me then look on thy dear eyes, and,
    reading lo\"c in them, drink intoxicating ple~
    sure. "
    Timidly. for my vehemence somewhat terrified
    THE LAST bUN. 59
    her, Idris looked on me. My eyes were blood-
    shot, starting from my head; every artery beat,
    methought, audibly, every muscle throbbed,
    each single nerve felt. Her look of wild af-
    {right 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 WC'! shun any longer the ine\·itable destiny.
    I cannot live long-but, again and again, I say,
    this moment is ours 1"
    Paler than "Olal'ble, with white lips and con.
    vulsed ft'atUl'eS, Idris became aware of my situa-
    tion. My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist, she
    felt the palm burn with fever, even on the heart
    it pre>£cd :-" One moment," she murmured,
    scarce audibly, H only onc 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. 'Vhile there was hope, the agony
    had been unendurable ;-all was now concluded;
    her feelings became solemn and ealm. Even as
    60 THE LAS'r MAN.

    Epicharis, unperturbed and firm, submitted to


    the instruments of torture, did Idns, suppressing
    every sigh and sign of grief. enlcr upon the
    endurance of torments, of which the rack and
    the wheel are but faint and metaphysical sym-
    bols.
    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 br~k on the remote shore towards which
    I mpidly ad"anced :-" It is true that I am
    sick," I said, " and your society, my Idris, is my
    only medicine; come, and sit J.x.side me,"
    She made me lie down on the couch,~ and,
    drawing a low ottoman near, sat close to my
    pillow, pressing my burning hands ill her cold
    palms. She yielded to my feverish rcstlessnesl!-,
    and Ie t me talk, and talked to me, on subjects
    THE I.AST MAN. 61

    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 Ray-
    mond, Perdita, and Evadne. We talked of
    what might arise on this desert earth, if, two or
    three being saved, it were slowly re-peopled.
    - 'Ve talked of what was beyond the tomb;
    and, man in his human shape being nearly ex_
    tinct, we felt with certaint.v of faith, that other
    slJirits, 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 lodg-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, e,'cn while asleep, she
    suffered. H If she were dead," I thought,
    " what difference? now that form is the tem ..
    TIlE LAST lolA:-/'.

    pIe of a residing deity; those eyes are the l'.. in_


    do\Vs of her soul; all grace, love, and intelli-
    gence are throned on that lovely bosom- were
    she dead, where would thi!) mind, the dl'tlfl'r
    half of mine, be? For quickly the fair propor-

    .
    tion of this edifice would be more defaced, than
    are the sand-choked ruins of the desert temples
    of Palmyra.
    TIl}: LAST llANo 63

    CHAPTER III.

    I1)~I S stirred and awoke; ala'S! she awoke to


    lIIisery. Sbe saw the signs of disease on my
    countenance, and wondered how she could per_
    mit the long night to pass without her ha\'ing
    sought, not cure, that was impossible, but. alle-
    viation to my sufferings. She called Adrian;
    my couch was quic!dy surrounded by fripnds
    And assislants, and such mroicines as were
    judged fitting were administererl. It was the
    peculiar and dreadful distinction of our \·isi-
    tation, that none who had been attackro by
    the pestilence had recovered. The first symp-
    tom of the disease was the death_warrant,
    which in no single instance had been followed
    6~ THI:: L.\ST MAN.

    by pardon or reprieve. No gleam of hope


    ther_efore cheered my friends.
    vVhile fever producing torpor, heavy pains,
    sitting like lead on my limbs, and making my
    breast heave, were upon me; I continued insen_
    sible to every thing hut 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 ldris had not
    moved from my side. She administered to all
    my wants, and never slept nor rested. She did
    not ]lOpc; and therefore she neither endeavoured
    to _ read the physician's countenanr::e, 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 wa~ suspended; to tbe eye
    and touch of all 1 was dead. ,Vith earnest
    prayer, almost with force, Adrian tried to draw
    .Idris from me. He exhausted every adjura-
    THE LAST lIA~. 65
    tion, her child's we1fare and his own. She shook
    her head, and wiped a stealing tear f~lll her
    sunk cheek, but would nOl yield; she entreated
    to be allowed to watch me that one night only,
    with such aflliction and meek earnestness, that
    she gained her point, and sat silent and motion-
    less, except when, stung by intolerable remem-
    brance, !lhe kissed my closed t:yes 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 he.
    raId 'oC the morning change, while hanging over
    me, and mourning in !Silent, bitter thought Cor
    the loss of an of love towards her thnt had been
    enshrined in my hp.art; her diliihevellcd 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, n~ by a breath.
    I t 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
    66 THE LAST MAY.

    reflection; till the whole ringlet ,vaved back,


    and she thought she saw my breast heave.
    Her firfil emotion was deadly fear, cold dew
    5tood on her brow; my eyes half opened; and,
    re-assured, she would have exclaimed. "He
    lives!" but the words were choked by a sp.:lsm,
    and she fell with a groan on the floor.
    Adrian was in the chamber. After long
    watching, he l~ad unwillingly fallen into a sleep..
    He started up, and beheld his sister senseles!I
    on the earth, weltering in a stream of blood that
    gushed from her mouth. Encrcasing signs DC
    life in me in some degree explained her state;
    the surprise, the burst of joy, the revulsion oC
    every sentiment, had been too muc~ for her
    frame, worn by long months of care, hte shat-
    tered by every species of woe and toil. She
    was now in far greater danger than"I, the wheels
    and sprinf.s 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 lh'e; during the reign of the
    TilE LAST MAN. 67
    plague upon earth, not one person, attacked by
    the grim disease, had recovered. 1\1 y restora-
    tion 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
    cncreasing strength, brought slow conviction
    that I had recovered from the plague.
    The restoration of Idds was more problemati_
    cal. When I had been attacked by iUness, hel'
    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 "'jvified her
    heart. Her hollow eyes and worn oountenance
    had a ghastly appearance; her cheek_bones, her
    o;>en fnh- 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 !lnd through.
    68 THE LAST !OIAN.

    It was strange that life could exist ltl what


    was wasted and worn into a very type of
    death.
    To take her from these heart-hreaking scenes,
    to lead her to forget the world's desolation in
    the variety of objects presented by travelling,
    and to nurse h.cr 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 re-
    newed. J did not revive to doubtful conva1e~
    cence; health spent her treasures upon me;
    as rthe tree in spring may feel from its wrinkled
    limbs the fresh green break forth, and the liv-
    ing sap rise and circulate, so did the renewed
    vigour of my frame, the cheerful current of my
    blood, the new.horn elasticity of my limbs, in_
    fluence my mind to cheerful endurance and
    pleasurable thoughts. My body,late the heavy
    weight that bound me to the tomb, was ex-
    uberant with health; mere common exer.::ises
    THE LAST '1IAN. 69
    were insufficient for my reviving strength; me·
    thought I could emulate the speed of the race-
    horse, discern through the 'hir objects at a blind-
    ing distance, hear the operations of nature in
    her mute al.xxlcs; my senses had become so re-
    fined 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 pre-
    parations.. Ac~rding to the plan first laid
    down, we were to have lluitted London on the
    twenty-fifth of November; and, in pursuance of
    this scheme, two-thirds of our people - tile
    people - all that remained of England, had gone
    forward, and had alrendy been some weeks in
    Pans. }o'irst 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,
    9l098. It was my wish to keep I dris as
    70 THE LAST MAN.

    distant as possible froro the hurry and c1amour


    of the crowd, and to hide from her those ap-
    pearances that would remind her most forcibly
    of our real situation. Vve separated ourselves
    to a great degree from Adrian, who was obliged
    to give his whole time to public business. The
    Countess of 'Vindsor trnvclleci. wilh her SOil.

    Clara, Evelyn, and a female who acted as Qur at-


    tcndant, were the only persons with whom we had
    contact. vVe occupied a commudiolls carriage,
    our servant officialed 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 se,rvicc out of a great
    number that offered, on account of the superior
    :il.1.gacity of the man who had been appointed
    their leader.
    Immediately on our departure, I was de-
    lighted to find 3 c113nge in Idris, which I fondly
    hoped prognosticated the happiest results. All
    the cheerfulness nnd gentle gaiety natural to
    THE LAST llANo 71

    her revived. She was wcak, and this alteration


    was rather displayed in looh; and . . oice than in
    acts i but it was permanent and real. l\:[y rcco-
    very from the plague and contil'med health ins!il-
    led into her a. fir m 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 li\'cs together in pleasant


    society, U Do not let my state of feebleness
    deceive you," she said; " I feci that I am
    better; there is a quick life within me, and a
    spirit of anticip..'I.tion that assures m£>, that I
    shall continue long to make a part of this world.
    I shall throw off' this degrading weakness of
    hody, which infects evfO my mind with debility,
    and I (lha11 cn,ter again on the performance of
    my dutil'S, I was sorry to leave Windsor: but
    TJlE LAST MAN.

    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, nol' 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 nearel'
    at hand than he really is."
    I was only half rc-assured by these expres-
    sions; I could not believe that the over-quick
    flow of her blood ,,;as n sign of health, or that
    her burning cheeks denoted convalescence. But
    I 11ad no fenrs of an immediate cawtrophe;
    nay. I persuade<! myself that she would ulti.
    mately recover. And thus cheerfulness reigned
    in our litt1e society. Idris conversed with anj~

    mation on a thousand topics. Her chief desire


    was to lead our thoughts from melancholy re-
    flections j so she drew charming pictures of a
    tranquil solitude, of a beauteous retreat, of the
    simple manners of our little tribe, and of the
    73

    patriarchal brotherhood of love, which would


    survive the ruins of the populous nations which
    had lately existed. ,\Ve shut out from our
    thoughts the present, and withdrew our eyes
    from the dreary landscape we traversed. "'inter
    reigned in nIl its gloom. The lenfless trees lay
    without motion against the dun sky; the form s
    of frost, mimicking the foliage of summer, strewed
    the ground; the paths were overgrown; the un.
    ploughctl 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 \\;od was blC:lk, and
    frequent sleet or snow.storms, added to the mc-
    lancholy appearance wintry nature assumed.
    " 7C arrived at Rochester, and an nccident
    caused us to be detained there a day. During
    that time, a circumstance occurred that changed
    our plans, and which, alas! in its result chal1ged
    the eternal course of e,tcnts, luming me from
    the pleasant new sprung hope I enjoyed, to an
    obscure and gloomy desert. But I must give
    VOL. lIl. E
    74 THE LAST l1.1ol".

    some little explanation before I proceed with the


    6nal 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 Vvorld.
    There resided a family in the neighbourhood
    of "rindso!", of very humble pretensions, but
    which had been an object of interest to us on
    8fcount of one of the persons of whom it was
    composed. The family of the Clay tons had
    known bettcr days; Qut, after a seric~ of reverses,
    the father died It bankrupt, and the mother heart-
    broken, and a con6rmed invalid, retired with her
    Ave children to a little cottage between Etan 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 ;s a tender pa-
    rent to her youngel' brothers and sisters, and in
    the meantime shewed herself so good-humoured,
    TIlE LAST MA~. 75

    socinl, nnd benevolent, that sh e was beloved as


    well a~ honoUl'ed, in her little neighbourhood .
    Luey wns 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 man-
    ners 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 an~ accompani~d

    by llim ill her evening walk with 11er sisters.


    She had another admirer, one of the head~waiter s
    "ul the inn at Salt Hill . H e also was not without
    pretensions to urbane superiority, such as h e
    learnt from gentlemen's servants and wailing-
    maids, who initiating him in all the slang of high
    E 2
    76 THE LAST MAN.

    life below stairs, rendered his arrogant temper


    ten times more intrusive. Lucy did not disclaim
    him-she was incapable of that feeling; , ~ut she
    was sorry when she saw him approai:ll; ' ~~~.
    quietly resisted all his endeav'ours 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 ad.. '
    ,,'
    vantage he enjoyed over himself.
    Poor Lucy's sad fltory 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 shQuld-
    soon acquire an independence:- and return to:
    Claim the llarftl C;r his beloved. H e became ill_
    "o}voo in the war carried on there, was taken
    prisoner, and years elnpsoo before tidings of his
    existence were received in his native land. In
    the meantime disastrous poverty came on Lucy.
    fler little cottage, which stood looking from its
    TilE LAST MAN. 77

    trellice, covered with woodbine and jessamio.e ,


    was burnt down; and the whole of their little
    property was included In the destruction.
    ,V hither betake them? By what exertion of
    in~u stry could Lucy procure them another
    abode? Her mother nearly bed-rid, could not
    survive imy extreme of famine-struck poverty.
    At ulis 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 Datch'ct. There was nothing alluring to Lucy
    in this offer, except the home it secured to her
    mother; and ihc felt more sure of this, since she
    was struck by the appare~t generosity which
    occasioned the present ofH;r. She accepted it;
    thus sacrificing herself for the comfort and wel-
    Fore of her parent.
    It was some years after her marriage that we
    became acquainted with h~r. The accident of a
    storm caused us to take refuge in the inn, where
    we witnessed the brutal nnd quarrelsome be..
    hnvil)ur of her husband, and her patient endu.
    78 THE I.A~T MAN".

    rance. Her lot ,,'as not a fortunate olle. Her


    first lover had returned with the hoire of making

    ....
    her his own, and mel her by accident, for Ule
    first time, as the mistress of this cOuntry' inrI,
    /

    and the wife of another. He withdrew despair-


    ingly to foreign parts; nothing went well with
    him; lit last he enlisted, and came b.'\ck again
    ,vounded and sick, and yet Lucy was debarred
    from nursing him. Her husband's brutal dispo-
    sition was aggravated by his yielding to the
    many temptations held out by his situatioll, 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 hi" avarice and ill temper soon drove from
    the house; they wel'e dispersed about the coun-
    try, earning their livelihood with toil and care.
    He even shewed. an inclination to get rid of her
    mother-but Lucy "as firm here-she had sa..
    crificed. herself for Her; she lived for her-she
    would not part with her-if the mother went, she
    would also go-beg bread for herJ die with her,
    TilE LAliT lU)l. 79
    t,ut never desert her. The presencc of Luc.\· Wll S

    too necessnry in keeping up the order of the


    house, and in prcyentinr. the whole establishment
    from going to wreck, for him to permit her to
    leave him. He yielded the point; but in nll ac-
    cesses of anger, or in his drunken fits, he re-
    curred to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy's
    beart by opprobrious epithets bestowed on hcr
    parent.
    A passion however, if it be wholly pure, en.
    tire, and reciprocal, brings with it its own solace.
    Lucy WllS truly, and from the dl.."pth of heart,
    devot.cd to her mother; the sole end she pro-
    posed to herself in life, was the comfort and
    preServation of this parent. Though she gric\'ed
    for the rcsult, yet sh e did not repent of her
    marriage, even when her iover returned to be-
    s!ow competence on her. Three years had in-
    tervened, and how, in their penny less state, could
    her mother have existed during this timc? This
    excellent woman was worthy of her child's de-
    yotion. A perfect confidence and fricndship ex-
    80 THE LAST MAN.

    sled 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 on1y person who
    could understand and appreciate her. Thus,
    though suffering, she was by no means desolate,
    and when, during fine s~mmer 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 morc involved; ruin was ncar at hand,
    and she was about to lose the fruit of all her
    labours, when pestilence came to cllange the
    aspect of the world. Her husband reaped
    benefit from the universal misery; but, as the
    disaster eDcreased, 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 fonner lover had
    THE LAST M.AN. 81

    been one of the first victims of the disease.


    Dut Lucy continued to live for and in her
    mother. H er courage only failed when she
    dreaded peril for her parent, or feared that
    death might prevent her from performing tllOse
    duties to which she was unalterably devott>d.
    '''hen we had quitted '''indsor for London,
    HS 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 necessi ty which forced
    her to qui t her native lanes and village, and to
    drag an inflnn 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 inevitahle.
    Subsequent circumstances, my iIIn('S5 and that
    of Id ris, 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 'Vindsor
    to join the emigrants, and that she wus already
    R S
    82 THE LAST !.L-\.N.

    in Paris. vVhen we arrived at Rochester


    therefore, we were surprised to receive, by 's
    man just come from Slough, a Jetter from this
    excmplury sufferer. His account was, that,
    journeying from his home, and passing through
    Datcbet, he was surprised to see smoke issue
    from the chimney of the inn, and .supposing
    that he should find comrades for his journ~y

    assembled there, he knocked and was admitted.


    There was no one in the house but Lucy. and
    her mother; the latter had been depri\'ed of
    the use of her limbs by an attack of rheuma-
    tism, and so, one by one, all the remaining inha-
    bitants of the country scl forward, leaving them
    nlone. Lucy illtreated 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 wel'e left thus helpless and
    forlorn. The Ulan said, that his wife and chil_
    dren were already aDlong tIle emigrants, and it
    was therefore, according to his notion, impossible
    for him to remain. Lucy, as a In&l rc5Ource, gave
    TilE LAST If.i~. 83

    him a lelter fat· Idns, to be delivered to her


    wherever he should meet us. This commission
    at least he' fulfilled, and Idns received with
    emotibn the following letter:-

    H ' HONOUM:D LADY,

    H I ain sure that you will r emember and


    pity mc, and I dare hope that you will assist
    me; what other hope have I? Pardon my
    manner of writing, I aill so bewildered. A
    mouth 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 tra-
    vel, in the way you were so kind as to say ybU
    would atTange for us. But now everybody is
    gone-everybody- as they went away, each said,
    that perh?ps my mother would be beUer, before
    we were quite deserted. But three days ~(J'() I
    went to Samuel 'Voods, who, on account of his
    new-born child, remained to the last; and there
    being a large family of them, I thought I could
    persuadc them to wait a little longer for us;
    84 THE LAST MA~.

    but I found the house deserted. I have not


    seen a soul since, till this good man came........
    'Vhat will become of us? l\fy mother does nol
    know our state; she is so ill, tnat I have hidden
    it from her.
    H '''ill you not send some one to us? J am
    sure we must perish miserably as we are. If
    J were to try to move my mother now, sh~
    would die on the road; and if, when she gets
    better, I wercable, 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. W hal would it be
    to me, 11 woman, who never saw it? \Ve 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
    [or myself; I could put my trust in God; and
    let the worst come, I think I could beaT it, if I
    werc alone. But my mother, my sick, "my dear,
    denr mother, who nevcr, since I was born, spoke
    THb: LAST MAN,

    a harsh word to me, who has been patient in


    many sufferings ; pity her, dear Lady, she must
    die 11 miserable deatn if you do not pity her.
    People speak careless!y of her, because she is old
    and infirm, as if we must not all, if we aresparcd,
    become so; and then, )Vhen the young are old
    themseh'c!>' 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 mc, 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 com-
    plain; but 1 s1Ulll sit g uessing at all that she is
    d\,i'elling upon, of famine and misery- I feel as if
    my heart must brenk, and I do not know what I
    liayor do; my mother-mother for whom I have
    borne much, God preserve you from this fate!
    Presen'c her, Lady, and H e will bless you; and
    It poor miserable cre3t~re as I am, wiU thank
    you and pray for you while I li,'e,
    I( Your unhappy and dutiful ser vant,
    H Dec. 30tlt,2097. Lu cy MA RTDI,"
    86 tHE LAST lf~~N.

    rl'his letter deeply affected Jdris, and she in~

    stantlyproposed, that we should return toDatchct,


    to assist Lucy and ' her mother. I Enid that I
    would without delay set out for that placc, but
    entreated her to join her brother, and there await
    my return with the children. But. Idris was in
    high spirits, and fun of hope. She dedared that
    "he could not consent even to a temporary sepa.
    T8tion 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.
    'Ve could dispatch messengers to Adrian, to
    inform him of our deviation from the original
    plan. She spoke with vivacity, and (h'ew 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
    iihould ver:y 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 r:eward of finding her excellence
    THE LAST ~IAN. 87
    avpre<=illted, and her necessity assisted, by those
    whom she respected and honou.red.
    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 n. desire and slight-
    est request had ever been A. law with me. I, of
    COUr&c, consellted. the moment that I saw that
    she had set her heart upon this step. 'Ve sent
    half our attendant troop on to Adrian; and with
    the other half our carriage took a retrograde
    course back to "\Vindsor.
    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 coold see the sure,
    though deceitful, advance of death in her burning
    cheek and cncreasing weakness. But she said
    she WLUI better; and I believed her. Extinction
    could not be near a being, whose vivacity and
    intelligence hourly cncreased, and whose frame
    was endowed with an intense, and I fondly
    88 THE LAST !IlAN,

    thought, It strong and pennauent spirit of lire.


    'Vho, after a great disaster, has not looked back
    with wonder at his inconceivable obtuseness
    of undcNitanding, that could not perceive the
    many minute threads with which fate weaves
    the inextricable net of our descinies, until he is
    inmcshed completely in it?
    The cross l'Oads which we now entered upon,
    were even in a worse state than the long neg-
    lected high_ways; and the incom'cnience seemed
    to menace the perishing frame of J dris with de-
    struction. Passing through Dartford, we arrived
    at Hampton on the second day. E\'cn 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 t]le thought pierced
    my brain-Is she dying?-as 1 saw her fair
    flesh less hand rest on mine, or observed lite
    feebleness with which she performed the accus-
    lomed acts of life. I drove away the idea, as if
    THE LAST ~IAN.

    it had been suggested by insanity; but it occurred


    again and again, only ta 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
    ~nsued; 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
    be 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 Idns in
    the lo.tter; while the children wert~ conveyed by
    the servant in the former. But these arrange-
    ments cost time; we had agreed to proceed
    that night to 'Vindsor, 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;
    90 THE LAST 1I1.4..X.

    my horse was a good onc; I would go forw81'd


    at a good pace with Idris, leaving the children
    to follow at a rate more consonant to the uses of
    their cumberous machine.
    'E\'cning closed in quickly, far more quickly
    than 1 was prepared to expect. At the going
    down of the sun it began to snow heavily. I
    attempted in vain to defend my beloved com-
    panion from the storm; the wind drove the snolV
    in OLll' 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. 'Ve had left our accompany-
    ing caravan far behind us; and now I pcrcei\·cd
    that the storm had made me~ ullconsciously
    deviate from my intended 'route. I hnd gone
    some miles out of my way. My knowledge or
    the country enabled me to regain the right road;
    but, instead of going, as at first agreed upon,
    hy n cross road through Stan well to Datcbet. I
    was obliged to take the wny of Eghnm and
    THE LA!"T IIAN. 91

    BishoJlsgute. It wos certain therefore that I


    :ihould 110t be rejoino!d by the other vehicle,
    that I should not meet a single fellow-creature
    till we arrived at ' Vindsor.
    The back of our carriage waS drawn up, nnd
    I hung n pelisse before it, thus to curtain the
    beloved sufferer from the pelting sleet. She
    leaned on my shoulder, growing every moment
    morc languid and feeble; at first she replied to
    my wOI'ds 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 alld frequent sighs,
    For a moment I resolved to SLOp, and, op-
    posing the back of the cnbriolet to the force of
    _ the tempest, to expect morning as well as I
    might. Dut the wi~d was bleak and piercing,
    whilc the occasional shudderings of my px>r
    Idns, tmd the intense cold I felt myself, de-
    monstrated that this would be a dangerous experi-
    ment. At length methought she slept-fatal
    sleep, induced by frost: nt this momcn~ I saw the
    92 THE LAST MA~.

    heavy outline oC a cottage traced on the dark


    horizon close to us: "Deal'est love," I said,
    " support younclf but one moment, and we shall
    have shQltcr; 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 carri3.e,oe, and, leaping out, scrambled
    through the snow to the cottage, \V hose door
    was open. I had apparatus about me for pro-
    curing light, and that shewed me a comfortable
    room, with a pile of wood in onc corner, and no
    appearance of disorder J 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. 'Vhen I
    recovered my sight-eternal God of this lawless
    world! 0 supreme Death! I will not disturb thy
    silent reign, or mar my ta1e with fruitless excla-
    mations of horror-I saw Idris, who had faUen
    THE LAST lU.N.

    from the scat to the bottom of the carriage; her


    head, its long hair pendent, with one ann, hung
    over the sillc.-Struck by a spasm of 110rror, I
    lifted her up; her heart was pulseles.i, her faded
    lips unfanned by the slighte~t breath.
    I carried her into the cottage j 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 be:JO\tcd, 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 E x-Queen,
    and she, true to her ruling passion, had caused
    him to be carried to '\Vindsor, and buried in the
    family vault, in St. George's Chapel. I must
    proceed to " ' indsor, to calm the anxiety of
    Clara, who \\'ould wait anxiously for us- yet I
    would fain spare her the heart-breaking spectacle
    of Jdris, brought in by me lifeless from the
    9-1 THE LAST MAN.

    journey. So first I would place my beloved


    beside her child in the vault, and then seek
    the pOOl' 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.
    'Ve proceeded through the snow, which lay in
    lllasseS 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 buti'e tted mc, and entered my aching flesh,
    were n. relief to me; blunting my mental su ffer-
    ing. The horses staggered on, and the reins
    hung loosely in my hand:::, I often thought I
    would lay my head close to the sweet, cold face
    of my lost angel, and thus resign myself to con-
    quering torpor. Yet· l 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

    ,
    THE LAST .vAN. 95
    forefathers, where a merciful God might permit
    me to rest also.
    The road we passed through Egham was
    familiar to me; but the winu and snow caused
    the horses to drag their load slowly and heavily.
    Suddenly the wind veered from south-west to
    west, :lnt! then again to north.wcst. As Samp-
    son with tug and strain stirred from their bases
    tbe columns that supported the Philistine temple,
    so did the gale shake the dense vapours propped
    all 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
    ()Il the glittering snow. Even the horses werc
    cheered, and moved on with renovated strength.
    'Ve entered the forest at Bishopgate, and at the
    end of the I,ong ,,, alk I saw the Castle, "the
    proud Keep of 'Vindsor, rising in the majesty
    of proportion, girt with the double helt of its
    kindred and coeval towers." I looked. with reve-
    96 THE LAST MAN.

    rence on a structure, ancient almost as the rock


    on which it stood, abode of kings, theme of ad.
    miration for the wise. ''Vilh greater reverence
    and tearful affection I beheld it, as the asylum of
    the long ·lease of love 1 had enjoyed there with
    the perishable, unmatchable lrcw.ure 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 'Valk was wide open, and I rode up the
    empty town through the first gate of the feudal
    tower; and now 51. George's Chapel, with its
    blackened fretted sides, was right before me. I
    halted at its door, which was open; T 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 whieh covered the step
    Tll~ LAST lIAN. 97
    leading to the communion table. The banners
    of the knights of the garter, and thei-c half
    drawn swords, were hung in vain emblazonry
    abcwe the stalls. The banner of her family
    hung there, still surmounted by its regal crown.
    Farewell to the glory and h~raldry of England!
    - I turned from such vanity with a slight feel~

    ing of wonder, at how mankind could have ever


    been interested in such things. 1 bent over the
    lifeless corpse ·o f my beloved; and, while looking
    on her uneo\'croo face, the features already con-
    tracted by the rigidity of death, 1 felt as if all
    the visible universe had grown as soulless, inane,
    and comfortless as the clay-cold image beneath
    me. 1 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 lo,'e recal1ed me
    to a more soothing tone of mind, and I proceed-
    ed to fulfil the last office that could now be paid
    her. For her 1 could not lament, so much I
    VOI..11T.
    "
    98 THE LAST :MAN.

    envied her enjoyment of "the sad immunities


    of the grave."
    The ...·sult had been lately opened to place Ollr

    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
    replace:1. I descended the steps, and walked
    through the long passage to the large vault which
    contained the kindred dust of my Idris. J dis-
    tinguished the small coffin of my babe. \Vith
    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 com-
    posing her limbs, and cover.ing them with a
    mantle, veiling all except her face, which re-
    mained lovely and placid. She appeared to rest
    like one over_wearied, her beautcolls eyes steeped
    THE LAST MAN. 99
    in sweet sl umber. 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 hatl never Bowed 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 cham_
    ber of mort~lity, 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 ~aain to the living, to this deal' friend. to
    Clara, a.nd to Evelyn, who were probably now
    in \Vindsor, 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,
    F2
    100 THE LAST lJAN.

    and did she seek me here? I must save her at I

    tellSt 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
    l'obes, advance through the dusky chapel, sup-
    ported by a slender cane, yet tottering even with
    this support. She heard mc, and looked up;
    the lamp 1 h eld illuminated my figure. and the
    moon-beams, struggling through the painted
    glass, fell upon her face, wrinkled anel gaunt,
    yet with a piercing eye and commanding brow-
    I recognized the Counte;;s of Windsor. 'Vith
    a hollow voice sht: asked, "vVhere is the prin-
    cesar
    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 lump I had
    left there to be discernible.
    " Your light," she said. I gave it her; and
    she regarded the nnw visible, but precipitous
    steps, as if calculating her capacity to descend.
    THE LAST MAN. 101

    Instinctively I made a silent offer of myassist-


    ance. 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 un-
    disturbed."
    She walked deliberately down, while I, over_
    come, miserable beyond wor~s, 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 figure'd 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. T~lIs wrapt in gloom, enclosed,
    walled up, vaulted over by the omnipotent
    pr~nt, I was startled by the sound 'o f feet
    on the steps of the tomb, and I remembered
    her whom I had utterly forgotten, my angry
    visitant; her taB form slowly rose upwards .
    from the vault, a living £latue, instinct with
    102 THJo; LAST MAN.

    hate, and humau, 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, per~iv~

    iog me close to her, she placed her wrinkled


    hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous
    accents, " Lionel Verney, my son P' This
    name, applied at sllch a moment by my angel'!.
    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 tlJat she trembled violently, sup-
    ported her to the end of the chancE'l, where she
    sat on the steps that led to the regal stall. Bile
    suffered herself to be led, and still holding
    my hand, she leaned her head back against the
    stall, while the moon beams, tinged with vario~s

    colours by the painted glass, fen on her glisten~

    jng 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,
    THE LAST )lA~. 103

    even HI death . No harsh feeling ever clouded


    her serene brow; hoW' did I treat her? wound.
    ing her gentle heart with sav~o-e coldness j 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 Efe once consulted
    her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged na-
    ture to do her pleasure, 1 should not feel thus.'"
    Idrii and her mother were unlike in per-
    son. The dark hair, deep-set black eyes, and
    prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in
    entire contrast to the golden tresses, the full
    blut' orbs, and the soft lines and contour of her
    daughter's ,countenance. Yet, in latter days,
    illness bad taken from my poor girl the fun
    outline of her face, and reduced it to the in_
    flexible 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;
    1040 THE LAST lIAN.

    nor, having lived so long together. was this


    wonderful.
    There is a magic power III resemblance.
    'Vhen one wc 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. Bnt these are
    ideas of the mind only. 1 "\Ve know that the
    instrument is shivered, the sensible image 'lies
    in miserable fragments, dissolved to dusty no-
    thingness; a look, a gesture, or a fashioning of
    the limbs similar to the dead in a living person,
    touches a thrilling chord, whose sacred har-
    mony .is felt in the heart's dearest recess.
    Strangely moved, prostrate before this spE'ctral
    image, and enslaved by the force of blood' mani-
    fested in 1ikeness of look and movement, I
    remained trembling in the presence of the
    harsh. proud, and till now unloved mother of
    Idris.
    Poor, mistaken woman! III her tenderest
    THE LAST llANo JO~

    mood before, !'Ihe 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 couhl. penetrate to the uncon-
    scious state, or inAuence the happiness of her
    who ),IY in the vnult beneath. This conviction,
    together with tllC remembrance of soft rl.'plies to
    bitter specchl"s, of gentle looks repaying angry
    glances; the perception of the falsehood, paltry-
    ness and futility of her cherished dreams of
    birth and power; the overpowering knO\"ledge~
    that love and life were the true emperors of our
    mortal state; all, as a tide, rosc, and filled her
    soul with Ltormy and bewildering confusion.
    It fell to my lot, to come as the iuAucntia1
    power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tuinul-
    lUOU S wa\'es. I spoke tQ her; I led her to
    reAcet how happy Idris had really been, and
    how her virtues and numerous excellencies had
    .3
    106 THE LAST llAN'o

    found scope and estimation in her past career.


    I praised her, the idol of my heru:fs dear wor.
    ship, the admired type of feminine pprfection.
    'Vith ardent and overflowing eloquence, I re_
    lieved my heart from it.!l bUl'thcll, and awoke to
    the"sense of a new pleasure in life, as J poured
    forth the funeral eulogy. Then I referred to
    Adrian, her loved brother, and to her sun-lv.
    iug 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 repeutant mother reflect, how
    she could best expiate unkindness towards the
    dend, by redoubled love of the survivors. Con_
    soling bel', my own sorrows were a<;suaged;
    my sincerity won her entire corviction.
    She turned to me. 'fhe hard, inflexible, per-
    secuting woman, turned with a mild expression
    of face, and said, H If our beloved angel sees
    us now, it will delight her to find that J do you .
    even tardy justice. You were worthy of her;
    and tram my heart I am glad that you won
    THE LAST MAN. 107
    her away from me. Pardon, my son, the many
    wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter
    words and unkind treatment-take me, and g0.-
    vern me as you will."
    I seized this docile moment to propose our
    departure from the church. H First," she said,
    H let us replace the pavement above the vault. "
    'Ve drew near to it; "Shall we look on her
    again ?" I askerl .
    •, I cannot," she replied, " and, 1 pray you ,
    neither do you. ,\Ve need not torture ourselves
    by gazing on the soulless body, while her
    li ving spirit is buried quick in our hearts, anel
    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 hcr brother and her child till
    death. The convulsive sob of my companion
    made me break off my internal orisons. I next
    108 THl!: LAST MAN.

    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 hnd
    quitted an happy nest of repose, for a dreary
    wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter, joyless,
    • hopeless pilgrimage.
    TilE LAST lIAN. log

    CHAPTER IV.

    pun escort had been directed to prepare our


    abode for the night at the inn, opposite the
    ascent to the Castle. 'Ve could not again "isi~
    hallll and familiar chmnbers of our home, on a
    the
    ,
    mere visit. ,Ve had already left for eyer the
    glades of Windsor, and aU of coppice, flowery
    hedgerow, and murmuring stream, which gave
    shape and intensity to the love of our CQuntry, and
    the almost superstitious attachment with which
    we regarded nati"e Englallrl. It had been our
    intention to have called. at Lucy's dwelling in
    Datchet, and to have re-assured her with pro-
    110 THE LAST MAN.

    mises of aid and protection before we repaired


    to Qur quarters for the night. Now, as the
    Countess of 'Viudsor 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 tmgic 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 Dat'chet.
    ,;V ell known indeed it was. Each cottage
    stoocl. on its accustomed sitt', each tree wore its
    fa:niliar appearance. Habit had graven unerase-
    ably on my memory, every turn and change of
    object on the road. At a short distnnce be-
    yond the Little Park, was an elm half blown
    down by a storm, some tcn years ago; and stilJ,
    ,\~th leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched
    across the pnthwny, which wound through a
    meadow, beside a shallow brook, whose brawl.
    THe 1.AST llANo 111
    iug" wns silenced by frost-that stile, that white
    gate, that hollow oak tree, which doubtless oncc
    belonged to the forest, and which now shewed
    in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose fan~

    dful appearance, tricked out by the dusk into


    a resemblance of the human form, the children
    had given the name of Falstaff ;-all thcse ob·
    jects were as well known to me as the cold
    hearth of my descrted home, and e\"cry moss-
    grown wall and plot of orchard ground, alike
    as twin lambs arc to each other in a stran~

    ger's eye, yet to my accustomed gaze bore dif.


    ferences, distinction, and a name. England re~
    mained, though England was dead-it was the
    ghost of merry England that I beheld, under
    whose greenwood shade passing generations had
    sported in security.and ease. To this painful re-
    cognition of familiar places, was added a feeling
    expericnced by an, understood by none-a fccl.
    ing 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
    II~ THE LAST MAX.

    beheld them-as if all my sensations were a


    duplex mirror of a former revelation. To get rid
    of this oppressiye 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 rcvcllers,or trim
    and neat on Sunday morning it had borne tes~
    timony to the In.bours and crdcrly habits ot'tI,e
    housewife. The snow Jay high about the door,
    as if it ~ad remained undosed for many days .
    .. What scene of death bath Roscius now to acU"
    I muttert!d to myself as I looked at the dark
    cn.semcnts. At first I thought I saw a light
    in one of them, but it proved to be merely the re-
    fraction of the moon-beams, while the only sound
    was the ern.ekling branches as the breeze whirred
    the snow flakes {rom them-the moon sailed
    high and unclouded in the intenninable ether,
    while the sharlow of the cottage Jay black on the
    garden behind. I entered this by the open
    THE LAST lIAN. 113

    wicket, and anxiously examined each window.


    At length I detected · a ray of light struggling
    through a clo$ed shutter in one of thc upper
    rooms-it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at
    any house and say there dwells its usual in-
    mate-the door of the house was merely on the
    latch: so I entered and asce'nded the moon· lit
    stairca.se. 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 imple-
    ments of needlework were about her, but her
    hand had fall(>n 'on her Jap, and her eyes, fixed
    on the ground, shewed by their vacancy that her
    thoughts wandered. Traces of care and watch-
    ing had diminished her former attractions-but
    her simple dress and cap, her desponding atti-
    tude, and tllC . single candle that cait its light
    upon her, gave for a moment a picturesque
    grouping to the wh,ole. A fearful reality re-
    called me from the thought-a figure lay
    stretched on the bed covercd by a silt'Cl-her
    mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all the
    IH TUE LA.5T MAN,

    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
    habitunl to her. "Did you not expect me?"
    I ask!2d, in that low voice which the presence of
    the dead makes us as it ,,,'ere instinctively as-
    sume.
    H You arc very good," replied she, "to hllxe
    come yourself; I can never thank you suffi-
    ciently; but it is too late."
    " Too late," cried I, U what do you mean?
    It is not too late to take you from this .deserted
    place, and conduct you to - - - "
    My own Joss, which I had forgotten as I
    li:pokc. now made me turn awa)', 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
    THE LAST l1A.N. 115

    along the moon.frozen crystal air ?-No, no, a


    more genial atmosphere, a lovelier habitation
    was surely hers!
    I indulg<!d in this meditation for a moment,
    and then again addressed the mourner, who
    stood leaning against the bed with that expres-
    sion of resigned despair, of complete misery, and
    "-
    a patient sufferance of it, which .is far more touch-
    ing than any of the insane ravings or wild gesti-
    culation 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 ap-
    pear to destroy them, and to cling to these with
    double tenacity from not being able to compre-
    hend any thing beyond. Thus Lucy, in desert
    England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the
    usual ceremonies of the dead, such as were cus-
    tomary to the English country people, when
    116
    death was a Tare visitant, and gave us time to
    receive his ureaded usurpation with pomp and
    circumstance- going forth in procession to de-
    liver the keys 'of the tomb into his conquering
    hand. She had already, a1~ne as she was, ac~
    complished some of these, and the work on
    which I fouud her employed, was her mOlher's
    shroud. 1\ly heart sickened at such detail of
    woe, which a female can endure, but which is
    more painful to the masculine spirit than dead-
    liest struggle, or throes of unutterable but tran-
    sient agony.
    This must not be, I told her; and then, as
    furth er inducement, I communicated to her my
    recent loss, and gal'e 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 nc\'er resisted. the call
    of a duty, so she yielded, and closing the case-
    ments and doors with care, she accompanied me
    back to " "indsor. As we went she communi_
    cated to me the occasion of her mother's death.
    THE LAST ),lAX. 117
    Either by some mischance she had got sight of
    Lucy's letter to Idris, or she bad overheard ber
    conyer~lion with the countryman who bore it;
    however it might be, she obtained a knowledge
    of the appalling situation of henelf and her
    daughter, her nged frame could not sustain the
    anxiety and horror this discovery instil1ed-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 hnd long
    been hovering on its extinction, now yielded at
    once to the united effects of mi sery and sickness,
    and that same morning ~h e had died.
    Aftcr the tumultuous emotions of the day, I
    was glad to find on my arri. al at the inn that
    01Y companions had retired to rest. I gnl'e
    Lucy in charge to the Countess's attendant, and
    then sought repose from my various struggles
    and imp.1ti ent regrets. For a. few lDoments the
    events of the day floated in disastrous pageant
    through my brain, till sleep bathed it in forget.
    118 TH E LAST MAN.

    fulness; 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 had passed
    the night in weeping. The Countess looked
    haggard and wan. Her firm spirit had not fonnd
    relief in tears, and she suffered the morc from all
    tile painful retrospect and agonizing regret that
    now occupied her. 'Ve departed from ~Vind­

    sor, as soon as the burial rites had been per-


    formed for Lucy's mother, and, urged on by an
    impat.ient dc£ire to change the scene, went for-
    ward towards Do,'cr with speed, our escort
    having gone before to provide horses; finding
    them either in the warm stables they instinc-
    tively sought during the cold weather, or stand.
    ing shherillg in thc bleak ficlds ready to SU1'_

    rcnder their liberty in exchange for offered


    oorn.
    During our ride the Countess recounted. to
    me the extraordinary cil'cumstaUl~s which had
    TilE LAST MAN. 119

    brought her so strangely to my side ill the


    chancel of St. George's chapel. When last she
    had tuken leave of Idris, as she looked anxiously
    on her faded person and pallid countenance, she
    had suddenly been viliiited by a conviction that
    she s:LW 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.
    ldris mildly refused, and thus they separated.
    The idt!tl that thf'y should ne,'cr again meet
    grew on the Countess's mind, and haunted her
    [>C'rpetually; a thousand times she had resolved
    to turn back and join us, Rnd was again and
    again restrain'cd 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
    c,'cnt, which she was wholly incapable of curb-

    ,
    HW THE LAST !OIAN.

    ing. She confessed that at this period her


    hatred of me knew no bounds, since she con-
    sidered me as the sale obstacle to the fulfilment
    of her deareet wish, that of attending upon her
    daughter in her last moments. She desired to
    exprcss her fears to her son, and to seek canso-'
    lation from his sympathy with, or courage from
    his rejection of, her auguries.
    On the first day of her aui val at Dover she
    walked with him on the sea beach, and with the
    timidity characteristic of passionate and exag_
    gerated feeling was by degrees bringing the
    conversation to the desired point. when she could
    co~municate her fears to him, when the mcs...
    ,
    senger who hore my letter -announcing our tem-
    porary retum to 'Vindsor, came .riding down to
    them He gaye some oral account of how he
    had left us, and added, that nOhvithstanding the
    cheerfulness and good courage of Lady Jdris: he
    was afraid that she would hardly reach \Vindsor
    alive.
    TilE LAST M ..\S. 1~1

    H True," said the Countess, "your fears are


    just, she is about to expire !"
    As she spoke, her eye:; were fixed on II tomb.
    like hollow of the cliff, and she saw, 1i.he
    averred the same to me ,vith solemnity, ldris
    pacing slowly towards this cavC'. She was
    turned from her, her head was bent do\m, her
    white drrss was such as she was accustomed to
    wear, except that lL thin cral?c.like veil covered
    her golden tresses, and concealed her as a dim
    transparent mist. She looked dejected, as do-
    cilelyyielding to a commanding power; she sub-
    lnissively entered. and was lost in the dark
    recess.
    " Were I subject to yisionary moods,'" said
    the yenerable lady, as she continued her no.rra.
    tive, "I might doubt my ey~ and condemn
    my credulity j but reality is the world I li,'e in,
    arid what I saw '1 doubt not hJ.d existentc be.
    yond myself. From that moment I could Dot
    rest; it was worth my existence to sec her
    onee again before she died- j I knew tb.t I
    VOL. 0. G
    122 THE LAST MAN .

    should 110t accomplish this, yet I must endea-


    vour. I immediately departed for Windsor;
    and, tbough I was assured that wc 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 angel', and hate, aud 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 remorsc, to prevent awaken.
    ing love aud new.born mildness from pro-
    ducing the s,ame bitter fruit that hate and
    harshness had done, I devoted all ' my endea-
    vours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our
    THY. LAST MAN. HIS

    party was a melancholy one; each was p0s-


    sessed 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. Defore the
    final accomplishment of any great voluntary
    change the mind vacillates, now soothing itself
    by fervent expectation, now ~ecoiling from ob-
    stacles which seem never to have presented
    themselves before with so frightful an aspect.
    An involuntary tremor ran through me when I
    tbought that in another day we might have
    crossed the watery barner, and have set forward
    on that hopeless, interminable, sad wander_
    ing, which hut 11 short time before I regarded
    as the only relief to sorrow that our situation
    afforded.
    Our approach to Dover was announced by
    tlle loud rourings of the wintry sea. They
    were borne miles inland by the sound-laden
    blast, aneI by their unaccustomed. uproar, impart-
    ed a feeling of insecurity and peril to our stable
    G 2
    12·1 THE LAST MAY. ,

    abode. At first y,oe hardly permitted ourselves


    to think that any unusual eruption of nature
    caused this tremendous war of air flnd water,
    but rather fancied that we mel'cly listl!ned to
    what we had heard a thousand timAs before,
    when we had watched the flocks off1eece-crowned
    waves, driven hy the winds, come to lament and
    die on the barren sands and pointed rocks. But
    we fOllnd upon advancing farther, that Doyer
    was overflowed-m any of the houses were oyer-
    thrown by the surges which filled the streets,
    and with hideous brawlings. sometimes retreated
    leaving the p~yement of th e town bare, till
    ngain hurried forward by the influx of ocean,
    they returned with thunder-sound to their
    usurped station.
    H::mlly less disturbl!d th.m the tempestuous .
    world of waters was the assembly of human
    beings, thnt from the cliff' fearfully wateilc-d its
    ra,·jugs. On the morning of the arrival of
    the emigrants under the conduct of Adrian,
    the sea had been serene and glassy, the slight
    'rnE LAST MA~, 125
    tipples refracted' the sunbeams, which shed lheir
    radiance through the clear blue frosty air. This
    placid appearance of nature was hailed as a good
    eugury for the voyage, and the chief immediate-
    ly repaired to the harbour to examine two steam.
    boats which were moored thert'. On the follow-
    ing midn;ght~ when all were at rest, a frightful
    storm of wind and c1attering.rain and hail first
    disturbed them, and the voice of one shrieking
    in the streets, Ulal the sleepers must awake or
    they would be drowned; and when they rushed
    out, half c1othed, to discover the meaning of
    this alarm, they found that tIle tide, rising above
    every mark, was rushing into tIle 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 ill dire
    accord with the· wild surges. The awful hOllr
    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.
    126 THE LAST )lAN .

    All the following day tllc same scene oon-


    tinued. When the tide ebbed, the tOwn was
    left dry; but on its flow, it rose even high~r

    than on the preceding night. The vast ships


    that lay r.otting 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.-wccd, 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'
    atlrighted crowd saw vast fragments of the near
    earth fall with crash and roar into the deep. This
    sight operated difl'erently on different persons.
    The greater part thought it a. judgment of God.
    to prevent or punish our emigration from our
    native land. MallY 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 aU required rest and sleep ;
    THE LAST MAN. 1~7

    but the scene acting around us soon drove away


    such ideas. We were drawn, along with the
    greater part of our companiom, 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 tw~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 divi-
    sion, with the tameless impassable ocean between~
    !>truck us with affright. At length, after loiter_
    ing for several hours on the cliff, we retired to
    Dover Castle, whose roof shelte~ed all who
    breathed the English ·air, and sought the sleep
    necessary to restore strength and courage to
    our worn frames and languid "pirits.
    Ear1y in the morning Adrian brought me
    the welcome intelligence that the wind had
    changed: it had been south-west; it was now
    128 TUE LAST MA!II.

    north.cast. The sky was stripped bare of


    clouds by the increasing gale, while the tide
    at its cbb secedcd enlirc1y from thc town. The
    challge of wind ratl1(;:r increased the fury of the
    sea, but it altered its Jate 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 raging of
    the mountainous wayes, and towards sunset a
    desire to dccypher the promise for the morrow
    at its setting, made us all gather with one accord
    on the edge of the cliff. "Vhen the mighty
    luminary approadlrd within a few' degrees of
    the tempest-tossed horizon, suddenly, a wonder!
    three olllCT wns, alike burning and bri}llant,
    rushed fl'Om yarious 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 dancc t
    while the sea burned like a furnace, like all
    Vesuyius a.light, with flowing la\'a beneath. The
    horses broke loose from their stalls in terror-a
    THE LAST lIAN. 129
    herd of cattle, panic struck, mced 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; sudden ly the
    three mock suns united in one, and plunged
    into the sea. A few seconds aftcrwards, a
    deafening watery sound came tip with awful
    peal from the spot where they had disappeared.
    Meanwhile the SUll, disencumbered from his
    strange satellites, paced with its accustomed
    majesty towards its western home. ' Vhen-we
    dared not trust our eyes lale dazzled, but it
    seemed that-the sea rose to meet it- i t mounted
    higher and higher, till the fiery globe was ob-
    scured, and the wall of watcr flti ll ascellded the
    horizon; it appeared as if suddenly the motion of
    earth was t evealed to us-as if no longer we were
    ruled by ancient laws, but were turned adrift ill

    an unknown region of space. Many cried aloud,


    that these were no meteors, but globes of bu rn-
    ing matter, which had set fire to the earth, and
    G 8
    130 THE LAST 'MAN.

    caused the vast cauldron at our feet to bubble


    up with its measureless waves; the day of
    judgment Wag 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
    phrenomenon. 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 pre-
    cipice? 'VonId not our little island be deluged
    by its approach? The crowd of spectators Reel.
    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 hcart-I awaited the approach of the
    destruction menaced, with that solemn resigna-
    tion which an unavoidable necessity instils.
    The ocean c\'ery moment assumed a more ter-
    131

    rifie aspect, while the twilight was dimmed by


    the rack which the west wind spread over the
    sky. Dy slow degrees however, as the \'I"8Ve

    advanced, it took n more mild appearance; fOmc


    under current of rur, 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 look frolo us the fear of an immediate
    catastrophe, although we were still anxious as to
    the final result. Vve 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 rushcdimpetuously; Lhethunder of COIl-
    flicting elements deprived us of all power to sleep.
    This endured ceaselessly for three days
    and nights. The stoutest Jlcarts quailed
    before the savage enmity of nature; pro-
    visions began to fail us, though e,·cry day
    foraging parties were dispersed to the nearer
    towns. In vain we schooled ourselves into the
    belief, thllt there was nothing out of the oommon
    132 THE: LAST MAN.

    order of nature in the strife \ve witnessed; oar


    disastcrous 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 sl.orms, was our
    footway overhanging the great sea of calamity-

    As an unslleltered northern shore


    h shaken by the wintry wave-
    And frequent storms for evermore,
    ( While from the west lilt! loud WiDd~ Tnt',
    Or from the east, or mountains hoar)
    Tbe struck aDd toU'ring sand-bluk bve."

    It req:lired mo~ than human energy to bear up


    against the menace-s of destruction that cl'er,
    where surrounded tis.
    After the lapse of three days, tIle gale died
    a\n:l} thc sea-gull sailed upon the calm bosom
    of the windless atmosphere, and the Jast yellow
    leaf on the topmost branch of the oak hung
    without motion. The sro no longer broke with

    Chorus in (Edipu~ Coloncw.


    THe LAST lIAN'. 13S

    fury; but a swell setting in steadily for sqore,


    with long sweep and sulleu burst replaced the
    roar of the breakers. YeL we derh'ed hope from
    ule change, and we did not d oubt that nIter the
    interval of a few days the sen would resume its
    unnquillity.· 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 spectnde j a dark
    speck-as it nenred, yisibly a boat, rode on the
    top of the WBves, every now and then lost in the
    steep ,'allies between. 'Ve marked its course
    with eag€r questionings; and, when we saw that it
    evidently made for shore, we descended to the
    only practicable landing place, and hoisted a
    iignal to direct them. By the help of glasses
    we distinguished her crew; it consisted of nine
    mell, Englishmen, belonging in truth to the
    two divisions of our people, who had preceded
    us, and had been for several weeks at Pans. As
    countryman was wont to meet countryman in
    distant lands, did we greet our visitors on their
    134 TlIE LAST lIIAN.

    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 apparent-
    ly 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 con-
    test. 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 keq>
    Adrian had watched the movements of the boat.
    He received them with the interest and wonder so
    strange tl "isitation created. In the confusion
    occasioned by their angry demands for prece-
    dence, it was long before we could discover the
    secret meaning of this strange scene. Dy degrees,
    THE LAST MAN. IS5

    from the furious declamations of one, the fierce in-


    terruptions of another, and the bitter scoffs of a
    third, we found that they were deputies from oW'
    colony at Paris, from three parties there formed,
    who, each with angry rivalry, tried to attain a
    superiority over the other two. These deputies
    bad been dispatched by them to Adrian, who
    had been selected arbiter; and they had j •.mmien
    from Paris to Calais, through the vacant towns
    and desolate country, indulging the wIllie violent
    hatred against each other; and no\'1 they plea.Jed
    their several causes with unmitigated party-
    spirit.
    By examining the deputies apart, Bnd after
    much investigation, we .learnt the true state of
    things at Earis. 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 la''1giver and our preserver. On the
    first arrangement of our scheme of emigration,
    no continued separation of our members was
    156 THE LAST lIAl-'.

    contemplated, and the command of the whole


    body in gradual ascent of power h ad its apex in
    the Earl of 'Vindsor. Dut unforeseen circum-
    .tanccs changed our plnns for us, and occasioned
    the greater part of our numbers to be di"ided
    for the space of nearly two months, from .the
    supreme chief. They h3.d gone o\"er in two
    distinct bodies; and on their arri,ral at Paris
    dissension arose between them.
    They had found Paris a desert. When first
    the plague had appeared, the return of travel.
    lers and merchants, and comm unications by
    letter, informed us regularly of the ravages
    made by disease on the continent. But with
    the encreased mortality th is intercourse declined
    and ccased. Even in England itself commu_
    nication from olle part of the island to the other
    bceamc slow and fafe. No vessel stemmed the
    flood that divided Calais from Dover; or if some
    melallcho1y " oyager, wishing to . assure 4imselC
    of the life or death of his celath'cs, put from the
    French shore to return among us, often the
    TilE LAST MAN. 137

    greedy ocean swallowed his little craft, or after


    a dny or two he was infected by the disorder,
    and died before he could tell the tale of the
    desolation of France. ' Ve were therefore to
    a great degree ignorant of the stale of things
    on the continent, and were not without some
    vague hope of finding numerou s companions in
    its wide track. }Jut the same causes that had
    80 fearfu lly diminished the English nalion had had
    even greater scope for mischief in the sister land.
    France was a blank; d uring the long line .of
    road from Calais to Paris not olle human being
    was found. In Paris tllere were a few, perhaps
    a hundred, ,,·ho, resigned to their coming
    fate, Bitted about the streets of the capital and
    assembled to converse of past times, with that
    vivacity and even gaiety that seldom deserts tht!
    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 distin-
    138 THE LAST MAN.

    guished at the accustomed resort at the Tui-


    Jeries; they wondered wherefore the islanders
    should approach their ill-fated city-for in the
    excess of wretchedness, the sufferers always ima.-
    gine, that their part of the calamity is the bit-
    terest, as, when enduring imcnse pain, we would
    exdlangc the particular torture we writhe under,
    for any other which should visit a different part
    of the frame. They listened to the aCC(lunt the
    emigrants gave of their motives for leaving their
    native land, with a shrug almost of disdain-
    II Return," they said, "return to your island,
    whose sea breezes, and division from the conti.
    nent gives some promise of health ; if Pestilence
    among you has slain its hundreds, with us it has
    slain its thousands. Are you not even no~

    more numerous than we arc ?-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 fe ..... you find
    here are patiently waiting the final blow. But
    THF. LAST MAN. 139

    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
    ha"e 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 pas-
    sions, that ought. -to have had no place among n
    brotherhood of unhappy survivors of the expiring
    world.
    The more numerous division of emigrants,
    which arrived first at Paris, assumed a supe.
    riority of rank and power; the second party
    asserted their~ independence. A third was formed
    by a sectarian, a self-crect.ed prophet, who, while
    he attributed all power and rule to God, slro\'e
    to get the real command of his comrades into
    his own hands. This third division consisted of
    fewest indh'iduals, but their purpose was more
    one, theiT obedience to their leader more entire,
    14<) THE LAST MAN.

    their fortitude and courage- morc unyielding and


    active.
    During the whole progress of the plague, the
    teachers of religion were in possession of great
    power; n power of good, if rigbtly directed, or
    of incalculable mischief, if fanaticism or in_
    tolerance guided their efforts. In the present
    instance, a worse feding 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 metho-
    dist preacher, an enthusiastic Dlan with simple in-
    tentions; but whose pernicious doctrines of elec-
    tion and special grace had contributed to dt.>stroy
    all conscientious feeling in his son. During the
    })rogress of the pestilence he had entered upon
    various schemes, by which to acquire adherenu
    and. power. Adrian had diScovered and defeated
    THE LAST ),(.\:-.1. 141
    these attempts i 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
    realom!1y propagated the creed of his divine
    mission, and believed lhat safety and salvation
    were to be afforded only to those who put their
    trust in him.
    'Vhen once the ~pirit of dissension had arisen,
    the most fri" olou s causes gave it activity. The
    first party, on arriving at Paris, had taken pos-
    5eSSion of the Tuileries; chance and fri endly
    feeling had induced the second to lodge near to
    them. A contest arose concerning the distribu_
    tion of the pillage ; the chiefs of the first divi_
    liion demanded that the whole should be pl aced
    at their disposal; with thi ~ assumption the op_
    posite p:trty r efu sed to comply . 'Vhen next
    the latter went to forage, tbe gates of Paris were
    shut on them. Mter o\"crcoming this difficulty,
    they marched in a body to the Tuilerics. T hey
    found that their enemies had been already ex-
    THE LAST MAN.

    pelled 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 G ad, and his delegate on earth,
    their chief. Such was the beginning of the strife,
    which at length proceeded so far, that the three
    divisions, anned, 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 beeu sufficient;
    and there the last of mankind would ha\'e bur~

    thened their souls with the crime of murder, and


    dipt their hands in each olher'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
    cou1d fill them up; that each man was as a
    priceless gem in a kingly crown, which if de.
    stroyed, the earth's deep entrails could yield no
    THE LAST MAN. U3

    paragon. He was a young man, and bad been


    hurried on by presumption, and the notion oC
    his high rank and superiority to all other pre-
    tenders; now he repented his work, he felt that
    all the blood about to be shed would be on his
    head j with sudden impulse therefore he spurred
    his horse bet.ween the bands, and, having fixed
    a white handkerchief all 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 Pro-
    tector; 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 parly should send deputies to the Earl
    of \Vindsor, inviting his interference and oJfering
    submission to his decision. His oJfer was ac-
    cepted so far, that each leader consented to com-
    mand a retreat, and moreover agreed, tha.t after
    the approbation of their several parties had been
    144 THE LAST M .... N.

    consulted, they should meet that night on some


    neutral spot to ratify the truce. At the meeting
    ot the chiefs, this plan was finally concluded
    upon. The leader of the fanatics indeed re.
    fused to admit the arbitration of Adrian; he
    sent ambassadors, rather than deputies, to ~sert

    his claim, not plead his cause.


    The truce was to continue until the 6rst of
    !"cbruary, wht'n the bands were again to assem-
    ble on the Place Vemlome; it was of the
    . utmost consequence therefore that Adrian
    should arrive in Paris by that day, since an hair
    might tum the scale, and peace, bcared away by
    intestine broils, might only return to watch by
    the silent dead. It was now the twenty-eighth
    of Januarj; evel'y vessel stationed ncar Dover
    had been beaten to pieces and destroyed by the
    furious storms I have commemorated. Our
    journey however would admit of no delay.
    Thilt very night, Adrian, nndI,and twelve others,
    either friends or attendants, put off' from the
    English shore, in the boot that had brought o,'er
    TilE LAST lIA~. 14.5

    the deputies. 'Ve all took our turn at the oar;


    and the immediate occasion of OUl' 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 wns :1 serene
    starlight night, and the dark line of the English
    coast continued for some time visible at intervals,
    3S we rose on the broad back of the waYes. 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 ,vith sad affection on this last glimpse
    of sea-girt England, and strai.ned my eyes not
    too soon to lose sight of the castellated cliff,
    which rose to protect the Jand of heroism and
    beuuty from the inroads of ocean, that, turbu"
    lent as I had lately seen it, requil'ed such cyclo-
    pean walls for its repulsion. A solitm'Y sea-gull
    winged its flight over our heads, to seek its nest
    in a cleft of the precipice. Yes, thou shalt rc.
    'l' OL. III. R
    146 THE LAST )IAt(.

    visit the land of thy birth, I thought, as I looked


    invidiously on the ail"y yoyager; but we shall,
    nc,'cr more! Tomb of Idris, farewell! Grave,
    in which my heart lies sepultured, farewell for
    evcr!
    lYe were twelve hours at sea, and the he:wy
    swell obliged liS to exert all our stlenglh. At
    length, by mere dint of rowing. we reached the
    French const. The stars faded, and the grey
    mOnling eRSt a dim veil ov('r the si lver horns of
    the waning moon-the sun rose bl'Oad and red
    from the sea, as we walked o\'cr the sands to
    Calais. Our first care was to procure horses,
    and although "caried by our night of watching
    and toil, some of our party immediately went in
    quest of these in the wide fieldlt of the unen~

    closed and now harren plain round Calais. " re


    dividerl ourselycs, like seamen, into watches,
    and 50Dle reposed, while others . prepared the
    morning's repast. Our foragers returned at noon
    with only fOix horses--on these, Ad ..lrul and I,
    and four others, proceeded on our journey to-
    THE LAST llANo 147

    wards the great city, which its inhabitants had


    fondly named the capital oC the civilized world.
    Our horses hnd become, thmugh their long ho-
    liday, almost wild, and we crossed the plain
    round Calais with impcfuous speed. Fro~ 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 wa-
    tcry barrier that divided us, never again to be
    crossed; she lay on the ocean plain,

    In the great pool a ,wan'. ne~t.

    Ruined the nest, alas! the swans or Albion


    had passed away Cor ever-an uninhabitro rock
    in the wide l'acific, which had remained since
    the creation uninhabited, unnamed, unmarked,
    would be or as much account in the world's
    future history, 113 desert England.
    Our journey was impeded by a thousand ob-
    stacles. As our horses grew tired, we had to
    seek for others; and hours were wasted, l"hile w~
    J[~
    148 TilE LAST MAN.

    exhausted our artifices to allUl'e some of these


    enfranchised slaves of man to resume tlle yoke;
    or as we wcnt from stable to stable through the
    towns, hoping to find some who had not forgotten
    tIle shelter of their native stalls. Our ill suc-
    cess ·in procuring them, ohliged -us continually
    to "leave some one of our companions behind;
    and on the first of February, Adrian and I en_
    tered Paris, wholly unaccompanied. '1'he serene
    mcrning hnd dawned when we arrived at Saint
    , Denis, and the ,:;un was high, when the clamour
    of voices, and the clash, as we feared, of wea-
    pons, guided us to where our countrymen
    had 'assembled on the Place Yendame. 'Ve
    passed a knot of Frenchmen, who wetc talking
    earnestly of the madness of the insular in.... aders,
    and then coming by a sudden turn upon the
    Place, we saw the sun glitter on drawn swords
    and fixed bayonets, wllile yens and clamours
    rent the rur. It was a scene of unaccllstomed
    confusion in these days of depopulation. Roused
    by fancied wrongs, and insliltin~ scoffs, the op.
    THE LAST ll.o\N. H9
    posite parties had rushed to attack each othel';
    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 alher, A merciful power inter-
    posed, and no blood was shed; for, while the in.
    sane mob were in the very act of attack, the fe.
    males, wives, mothers and daughters, rushed be-
    tween. they seized the bridles j they embraced
    the knees of the horsemen, and hung on thc
    necks, or enweaponed arms of their enraged re-
    latives; the shrill female scream was mingled
    with the manly shout, and formed the wild cla.
    mour that welcomed us on our arrival.
    Our voices could not be heacl in the tumul(;
    Adrian howe"cr 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 PrQ..
    tector, The late adversaries, warmed to affec-
    tion at the sight of him, joine(l in heedless con.
    150 THE LAST lIA~.

    fusion, 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 kind.
    ness 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 appear-
    ance or influence of Adrian. His slight figure,
    his fervent look, his gestll~e, more of deprecation
    than rule, were proofs that love, unmingled with
    fear, gave him dominion; O\'cr 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
    TilE LAST lIAN. 151

    to shed each other's blood, ror, though lleither


    would submit to the other, they both yielded
    ready obedience to the Earl or 'Vindsor.
    One party however remained, cut off from
    the rest, which did not sympathize ill the joy
    exhibited on Adrian's arrivw, or imbibe the
    spirit of peace, which fell li~e 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,
    percei\'ing themselves to be forgotten in the uni-
    versal jubilee, they advanced with threatening
    gestures: our friends had, as it were in \van_
    ton 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 or the world to come, there to
    entrench and incasteUate themselves, and to issue
    152 THE LAST MAN.

    with fearful sally, and apps.11iog denullciations,


    on the mere cornOlon children of the earth. The
    first advance of the little anny of the elect re-
    awakened their rage; they grasped their anns,
    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 re-
    questing 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 reso-
    lute than their male companions. They pressed
    rounu their leader, as if to shield him, while
    they loudly bestowed on him every sacred deno-
    mination and epithet of worship. Adrian met
    them half wny; they halted: "'Vhat;' he said,
    " do you seck ? D~ you require any thing of
    TilE LAST )1.\2'0:. 153

    us that we refuse to give, and that you nrc forced


    to acquire by arms and warfare?'"
    His questions were answered by a general
    cry, in which the words election, sin, and red
    light arm of God, could alone be heard.
    Adrian looked exprt'ssly at their leader, say-
    ing, "Can you not silence your followers r
    Mine, you perceive, obey me....
    The fellow answered by a scowl; and then,
    perhaps fearful that his people ~holiid become
    auditors of the debate he expectt.'d to ensue, he
    commanded them to fall back, and advanced by
    himself. (C 'Vhat, I again ask,'" said Adrian ,
    H do you require of us ?"
    " Repentance," replied the man, whose sinis-
    ter brow gathered clouds as he spoke. "Obe.
    dience to the will of the Most High, madc ma.
    nifest to these his Elected People. no we not
    all die through your sins, 0 generation of u n-
    belief, and have we not a right to demand of
    you repentance and obedit'nce?'"
    II :1
    154 .THE 1.AST MAN.

    " And if we refuse them, what then 1" his


    opponent inquired mildly.
    \( Beware,'" cried the man, " God hC:lrs YOll,
    and will smite your stony heart in his wrath;
    his poisoned arrows Ay, his dogs of death are
    unleashed! We will not perish unrevenged-
    and mighty will our avenger be, when he de-
    Scends in visible majesty, and scatters destruc-
    tion 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 how-
    ever, it is enough for me to know that you seek
    nothing of us; and, heal-en is our witness, we
    seek nothi~g of you. I should be sorry to em.
    bitter 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 bome, or stay;
    THE LAST MAN. 155

    pray to your God in your own mode; your


    friends may do the like. My orisons consist in
    peace and good win, in resignation and hope.
    Farewell !"
    He bowed slight1y 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 Ba.rrier, and then is..
    sued his orders that those who yielded obedience
    to him, shoul~ 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 pre-
    pared 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 ~ep..,.rted Bourbons.
    156 • TilE J..-\ST )lAX.

    CHAPTER Y.

    A 'F'TER the repo&e of a few days, we held a


    council, to decide on our future movements.
    OUl' Ilrst plan had been to quit our wintry na-
    ti\',,:: latitude, and seek for our diminished num-
    bers the luxuries and delights of a southern
    cli mate. 'Ve had not fixed on any precise spot
    as the termination of our wanderings; but a
    \'ague 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 our-
    selves in a worse situation than before, having
    exchanged our temperate climate for the into-
    THE LAST MAX. 157

    lerable heats of a summer in Egypt or Persia.


    'lVe were therefore obliged to modify our plan,
    as the season continued to be inclement; nnd
    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, defer-
    ring our southern progress until the ensuing au-
    tumn, if such a season was ever again to be
    h<held by u•.
    The castle and town of Versailles afforded our
    numbers ample accommodation, and foraging
    parties took it uy turns to supply ou: 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 oyer the
    far seas, struck root for the first time in a new
    country. But where was the bustle nnd in..
    duslry characteristic of such nn 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 culti-
    158 THE LAST )lA~.

    yation; the eager curiosity to discover unknown


    animah and herbs; the excursions tor the sake
    of exploring the country? Our habitations were
    palaces-our food was ready stored in granaries
    -there was no net>d of labour, no inquisitive-
    ,}css, no restless desire to get on. If we had
    been assured that we should secure the Jives of
    onr present numbers, there would have been
    more vivacity and hope in our councils. We
    should have discussed as to the period when the
    exi5ting 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 nent, and we dared not look forward.
    Every heart sickened at the thought of amuse_
    ment; if the younger part of our community
    were ever impelled, by youthful and untamed
    hilru:!ty, to enter on any dance or song, to cheer
    the melancholy time, they wou14 suddenly
    TilE LAST llAN". 159

    break off, checked by a mournful look or ago-


    ni~ing sigh from anyone 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; nnd, when-
    ever it chanced that I witnessed such attempts
    at pastime, they encrcased. 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. 'Vhen
    I again became aware of tbe prescnt hour,
    softest melody of Lydian Bute, or harmonious
    maze of graceful dance, was but as the de-
    moniac chorus in the Wolf's Glen, and the
    caperings of the reptiles that surrounded the
    magic circle.
    My dearest inten'al of peace occurred, when,
    released from the obligation of associating with
    the crowd, 1 could repose in the dear home
    where my children liyed. Children I say, for
    !GO THE LAST llAN'.

    the tenderest emotions of paternity bOWld me to


    Clara. She was now fourteen j sorrow, and deep
    insight into t.he scenes around her, calmed the
    restless spirit of girlhood; while the rcmcm·
    brance of her father whom she idolized, and
    respect for me 'a nd Adrian, implanted an high
    sense of duty in her young heart. Though
    serious she was not sad; the eager desire that
    makes us a11, ;vhen young, plume our wings, and
    stretch ' our necks, that we may morc swiftly
    alight tiptoe on the height of maturity, was sub-
    dued in her by early experience. All that she
    could spare of overflowing love from her parents'
    me~lOry, and attention to her living relati,'es, was
    spent upon rc1igion. This was the hidden law of
    her heart, which she concealed with childish rc-
    scrvc,and cherished the morc bccallseit wassecrct.
    'Vhat faith so entire, what charity so pure, what
    hope so fervcnt, 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 dhinity
    161
    in all, wld her best hope was to make herself
    acceptable to the power she worshipped. E,oclyn
    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 V\Tindsor had {nllen
    from her dream of power, rank and grandeur;
    she had been suddenly seized with the conviction,
    dUll 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 charac.-
    ter, 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 disnppointment and madness,
    caused him to feel eyen pain in her society. She
    saw this, and yet determined to win his love;
    tlu' obstacle served the rather to excite her
    ambition. As Henry, Emperor of Germany,
    162 THE LAST lIAN.

    lay in the snow before Pope Loo'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 sen'ant of love, and prince of tender
    courtesy, opened it wide for her admittance,
    bestowing, with fervency and gratitude, Ule
    tribute of filial affection she merited. Her under-
    standing. courage, and pre~ence of mind, became
    powerful auxiliaries to him in the difficult task
    of ruling the tumultuous crowd, which were sub-
    jected to his control, in truth by a single hair.
    The principal circllUlstances that disturbed our
    tranquillity during this inter\'al, originated in the
    vicinity of the impostor-prophet and his followers.
    They continued to reside at Paris; but mis-
    sionaries from among them oftcn visited
    Versailles- anp SUell was the power of assertions,
    howeycr false, yet vehemently iterated, over the
    ready credulity of the ignorant and fearful, tha~
    they seldom failed in drawing over to their party
    some from among our numbers. Au instance oC
    this nature coming immediately under our notice,
    TilE LAST llAN. 163
    we were led to consider the miserable stale in
    which we should leave our countrymen, when we
    should, at the approach of summer, move on to-
    wards Switzerland, and leave a deluded crew
    behind us in the hands of their miscreant leader.
    The sense of th~ smallness oC our numbers, and
    expectation oC decrease, pressed upon us; and,
    while it would be a subject of congratulation to
    ourselvea 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 yolllntnrily en-
    chained, groaned beneath it. If we had con-
    iidered 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 hi.s views.
    But he was instigated .by ambition, he desired to
    rule over these last str~aglers from the fold of
    death; his projects went so far, as to cause him
    16~ THE LAST llAN.

    to calculate that, if, from these crushed remains,


    a few sunrived, 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; ~uch as of
    old among the post-diluvillns 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 s.hare 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
    TilE LA5T ~lA~. 165

    had rcw hopes to hold rorth, nor could influence


    the imagination to diminish thc rears which he
    himself wns the first to cntertain. The preacher
    had persuaded his followers, that their escape
    from the plague, the salvation of thcir children,
    and the rise of a new race of Olcn from their seed,
    depended on their faith in, and their submission
    to him. They greedily imbibed this belief; and
    their ovcMvcening credulity even rendered them
    eager to make converts to the same faith.
    How to seduce any individuals from stich nn
    alliance of fraud, was a frequent subject of
    Adrian's meditations and discourse. H e fomled
    many plans for the purpose; but his own troop
    kept him in full occupation to ensure their
    fidelity ami safety ; beside which the preacher
    was as cau·jous and prud ent, 3l'l he WilS cruel.
    His victim s lived under the strictest rules and
    laws, "hich 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
    166 THE LAST l I AN.

    them however whom I resolved to save; she had


    been known to tiS fn happier days; Idris had
    loved her; and her exCt'Uent nnture made it
    peculiarly 1amentable that she should b e sacri-
    ficed by this merciless cannibal of souls.
    This man had between two and three hun-
    dred persons ~ nlis ted under his banners. More
    than half of them werc women; there wrre about
    fifty children of all ages; and not more than
    eighty men. They were mostly drawn from
    that which, when such distinclj ons existed,
    was denominated the lower rank of society.
    The exceptions COnsi3ted of a few high-born
    females, who, panic-struck, and tam ~d by sorrow,
    had joined him . Among these was one, young,
    lovely, and enthusiastic, whose Yery goodne5s
    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
    lOme 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 ill
    TilE LAST lLAS . 167

    misery. Su ch a one was the ill.starred Juliet.


    She had lost her inc.lulgent parents, her brothers
    and sister5, companions of her youth; iu one
    felt s~voop they had been carried off from her.
    Yet she had again dared to call herself happy;
    uuited to her admirer, to him who possessed and
    filled her whole heart, she yielded to the lethean
    powers of love, and knew and felt o:lly his
    life and presence, At the \'ery time when with
    keen delight she welcomed the- tokens of ma-
    ternity, this sole prolrof her life failed, her hus-
    band died of the plague. For a time she had
    been hilled in insanity; the birth of her child re·
    stored her to the cruel reality of things, but gave
    her at the same tiule an object for whom to pri"-
    &erve at once life and reason. Every friend and
    relative had died off, and she was reduced to
    solitude and penur),; deep melancholy and
    angry impatience distorted her judgment, so that
    .he could not persuade herself to disclose her
    distress to us. 'Vhen she heard of the plan of
    universal emigration, she resolved to remain be:
    168 TilE LAST lIAX.

    hind with her child, and alone in wide England


    to live or die, as fatf"! might decree, beside the
    gruyc of her belove~. She had hidden herself
    in one of the many empty habitations of Lon.
    dOll; it was she who rescued my ldris on the
    fatal twentieth of November, tho~gh my imme-
    diate danger, and the sub~u ent illness of Idris,
    caused us to forget our hapless frieud. This
    circumstance had however brou~ht her again in
    contnct with her fellow.creatures; a slight ill.
    ness of her infant, pro\'cd to her that she was
    still bound to humanity by an indestructible tie;
    to preserve this little creaturc's life became the
    object of her being. and she joined the first di,·i.
    sian of emigrants who went over to Paris.
    She became an easy prey to the methodist; her
    sensibility and acute fears rcndered her accessible
    to cycry impulse; hcr loye for her child made hel'
    eager to cling to the merest straw held out to
    S<lYC him. Her mind, once unstrung, and now
    tuned by roughest inharmonious hands, made
    her credulous: beautiful as fabled goddess, with
    THE L.-\.ST llAN'o 169

    yoice of unrivalled sweetness, hurning with new


    lighted enthusiasm, she became 11 stedfast prose.
    lYle, 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, recollect-
    ing suddenly her providential rescue of my lost
    one, on the night of the lwelltieth of November,
    I "reproached myself for my Df'glect and ingrati.
    tude, anel 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 hyp()..
    crite d est royer.
    I will 110t, at this pericxl of my story, r~rd
    the artifices I used to penetrate the asylum of
    the Tuileries, or give what would be a tedious
    accuunt of my stratagems, disappointments, and
    perseverance. I at la!>t succeeded in entering these
    walls, anrl rOllm~ its hails and corridors in
    eager hope to find my selected com"en. In the
    enning I contrived to mingle unobscn'ed with
    thl" congregation, which assembled in the chapel
    to listen to the crafty and eloquent harangue of
    YOLo In. I
    170 THE LAST MAN.

    their prophet. I ssw Juliet ncar him. Her dark


    eyes, fearfully impresS{.(i with the restless glare
    of madness, were fixed on him; she held her in.
    fant, not yet a year old, in her nmlS; and care
    of it alone could distract her attention from
    the words to which she eagedy listened. After
    tile sermon wusover, the congregation dispersed;
    aU quitted th e chapel except she whom I sought ;
    her babe had fallen aslccp ; so she placed it on
    a cushion, and sat on the floor beside, watching
    its tranquil slumber.
    I presented myself to her; for n moment na-
    tural feeling produced a sentiment of ghu.lncss,
    which disappeared again, when with ardent ~m d
    affectionate exhortation I besought her to ac-
    company me in flight from this den of supersti_
    tion and misery. In a moment she relapsed into
    the delirium of fanati.cism , and, but that her
    gentle nature forbade, would have loaded me
    with execrations. She conjured me, she com-
    manded me to leave her-" lleware, 0 l>eware,"
    she cried, "fly while yet your escap~ is practi("able.
    nIl:: L AST UAX. 171
    Now you are safe; but strange sounds and in_
    spirations come on me at times, and if the Eternal
    should in .:lwful 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 tuncie5s voice, and
    wild look; her child awoke, and, frightened,
    began to cry ; each sob went to the in-fated
    mother's heart, and she mingled the epithets ot
    endearment she addres~ to her infant, with
    ang ry command.; that I should leave her. Had
    I had the mea nll, I would have r ishd all, have
    Jorn 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 t he
    gallery, and the \'oi('e of the preacher drew near.
    Juliet, sar.lining her child in a close embrace,
    fled by another PasstloO'C. . Even then I would
    1 2
    172 TJlE LAST MAN.

    have followed her; but my foe and his satellites


    entered; I was sur.rounded, 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 !m·
    cere. "His own mouth condemns him," ex-
    claimed the impostor; " he confesses that hi.!; in-
    tention was to seduce from the way of salvation
    our wen-beloved sister in God; away with him
    to the dungeon; to..morrow he dies the death;
    we are manifestly called upon to make an exam-
    ple, tremendous and appalling, to scare the
    children of sin from our asylum of the saved."
    My heart revolted from his 11ypocritical jar-
    gon: hut 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 hoards of the scaffold,
    THE LAST l[AN. 175

    through the herd of these misguided manl:lC$.


    "Remember," I said, "who I am; and be well
    a.ssured that I shall not die unavenged. Y,our
    leglll magistrate, the Lord Prote.:tor, knew of
    my design, and is aware that I am here j the
    cry of blood will reach him, and you and your
    miserable victims will long lament the tragedy
    you are about to act."
    My antlloaonist did not deign to reply, even by
    a look;_H You know your duty," he said to
    his comrndes,-" obey."
    In a moment I wa; thrown on the e'lrth,
    bound, blindfolded, and burried away-liberty
    of limb and sight was only restored to me, when,
    surrounded by dungeon-,valls, 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 j the path of his am-
    bition had ever been dark and cruel; his power
    174 TUE LAST lIAN.

    was founded upon fear; the one word \\ hich


    might cause me to die, uuheard, 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 8!'Sa.5sination would at once terrify
    any of my companions from attempting a like
    fcat, 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 dO\m to die;
    now I shuddered at the approach of fate. 1'1 y
    imagination was busied;n shaping forth the kind
    of death he would inflict. " Tould 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, tbat I must be over~

    come? I lived upon an earth whose diminished


    THE LAST lLA~. 175

    population a child's arithmetic might number; I


    had lived through long months with death stalk-
    ing close at my side, while at intervals the
    shadow of his skeleton-shape darkened my path.
    I had believed that I de3pised the grim phantom,
    and laughed his power to scorn.
    Any allIer fate I should have met with
    courage, nay, have gone out gallantly to ~ncounter.
    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 d ie in combat, hate and execration- ah, why ,
    my angl"l love, didst thou restore me to life,
    when already I had stepped within the portals
    of the tomb, now that so soon agai.n I was to
    he flung back a mangled corpse 1
    H ours passed-centuries. Could I give
    words to the many thoughts which occupied me
    in endless successIon during this intenal, I
    should fill volumes. 'the air was dank, the
    dungeon-Hoor mildewed and icy cold; hunger
    came upon me too, and no so und reached me
    176 THE LAST l fA N'.

    from without. T~morrow the ruffian had


    declared that I should die. 'VheD would
    to-morrow come? \Vas it not already
    here?
    My door was about to be opened. I heard
    the key turn, and the bars and bolts slowly re-
    moved. The opening of intervening passages
    permitted sounds from the interior of the palace
    to leach me; and I heard the clock strike onc.
    They come to murder me, I thought; this hOllT

    does not befit a public execution. 1 drew my-


    self up against the waH 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 [or.
    ward to seize and grapple with the intruder, till
    the s.ight of who it was changed at once the tem-
    per of my mind. It was Juliet herself; pale
    and trembling she stood, a lamp in her hand, on
    thc threshold of the dungeon, looking at me
    with wistful countenance. nut in a moment she
    re-assumed her self-possession; and her languid
    THE LAST ~(AN. 177

    eyes recovered their brilliancy. She said. c, I


    am come to save you, Verney."
    " And yourself also," I cried: "dearest friend,
    can we indeed be saved ?"
    H Not a word," she rC"plied, "follow me!"
    I obeyed instantly. 'V e threaded with light
    steps many corridors, ascended several flights of
    stairs, and passed through long galleries; at the
    end of one ilhe 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
    fn~e of heaven. Then first Juliet spoke;-
    "You are safe," she said, H God bless you!-
    farewell !"
    I seized her reluctant hand_H Dear friend,'"
    I cried, cc :nisguidcd victim, do you not. intend
    to escapc with me? Have you not risked all in
    facilitating my flight? and do you think, that I
    will permit you to return, aod suffer alone the
    effccts of that miscre:lnt's rage? Never!"
    "Do not fcar for me," replied the lovely girl
    mournfully, "and do not imagine that without
    13
    178 THE L ,%'ST lU.~.

    the consent of our chief you could be without


    these walls. It is he that has saved you; he assign-
    ed to me the part of leading you hither, because
    I am bebt acquainted with your motives for
    coming here, and can best appreciate his mercy
    in permitting you to depart,"
    " And are you~.. I cried, H 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 ~f con-
    sistency 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, J uliel, 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 enn afford. Come,
    and fear not; long before day ,..-c 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, b~t with fervour: and ·
    THE LAST lIAN". 179

    while with gentle violence I drew her from the


    portal, some thought, SOUle recollection or
    past !Scenes of youth and happiness, made
    her listen Ilnd 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 cloS€d between us-sh e was left in the
    fangs of this man of crime, II. prisoner, still to in_
    hale 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 ha\"e
    escaped, yet me1ancholy in my very joy, I retrod
    my steps to Versailles.
    180 :rHE LAST MA~.

    CHAPTER VI.

    EVJeN TFUL winter passed; winter, the res-


    pite of our iUs. By degrees tne 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 \'Ilith time, allowing our passions, our
    hopes, and our mad desires to rule us, now
    heard the approaching roar of the ocean of de-
    struction, and would have fled ,tolsome (sheltered
    crevice, before the first wave broke oyer tis.
    TJlt. LAST M .-\:-<. lSI

    'Ve resolved without delay, to commence our


    journey to Switzerland; we became eager to
    leave l"rancc. Under th e icy vaults of the
    glaciers, beneath the shadow of the pines, the
    swinging of whose mighty branches W:1S arrested
    by a load of snow; beside the streams whose in-
    tense cold proclaimed their origin to be frot? the
    slow-melting p;le~ of congelated waters, amidst
    frequent storms which might purify the air, we
    should fin~l health, if in truth health were not
    herself diseased.
    'Ve lx>gan our preparations at fi rst with
    alaority. We did not now bid adieu to 'our
    Dative country, to the graves of those we 10yed,
    to the flow ers, and streams, and trccs;which had
    lived beside us from infancy, Small sor-
    row would be ours on leavi ng Paris, A scene
    of shame, when we remembered our late con-
    tentions, and thought that we lcft l>ehind a
    flock of miserable, deluded victims, bending
    under the tyranny of a selfish impostor, Small
    pangs should we feel in leaving the gardens,
    182 THE LAST lIAN.

    woods, and halls of the palaces of lhe Bourbom:


    at Versailles, which we feared would soon be
    tainted by the dead, when we looked forward to
    vollies lovelier than any garden, to mighty
    forests and halls, built not for mOfttU. majesty,
    uut palaces of nature's own, with the Alp of
    marmoreal whiteness for their walls, the sky for
    their roof.
    Yet our spmts flagged, as the day drc,,,
    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 natunl,.

    we felt them to be ominous, and dreaded the


    future event enchained to them. That the
    night owl should screech before the noon~ay

    sun, that the hard-winged bat should wheel

    • Sbakespeare-Juliul eresa:.
    TIIF. LAST MAN. ISS
    around the bed of beauty, that muttering thun-
    der should in early spring startle the cloudless
    air, that sudden and exterminating blight should
    faJl on the tree and shrub, were unaccustomed,
    but physical events, less horrible than the mental
    creations of almighty fear. Some had sight of
    funem} processions, and. faces all begrimed
    with lears, whieh flitted through the long
    avenues of th e gardens, and drew aside the
    clIrtruns of the sleepers at dead of night. Some
    heard wailing and cries in the air; a mournful
    chaunt would streall?- through the dark 3otmo-
    sphere. as if spirits above sang the requiem of
    the humnn race. What was there in 3011 this,
    but that fear crcnted other senses within our
    frames, m30king U f! see, hear, and feel what was
    not? ' Vhat 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 ,'oices
    struck dumb with harrowing dread, of those
    18. TH-"! LAST lLAN.

    among us who saw and heard these things. Of


    this number was Adrian, who knew the delu-
    sion, yet could not cast off the clillging terror.
    Even ignorant infancy appeared with timorous
    shrieks and convulsions to acknowledge the pre-
    sence of unseen powers. Vve must go: in change
    of scene, in occupation, and slich security as we
    still hoped to find, we should discover a cure
    for these gathering horTors.
    On mustering our company, we found them
    to consist of fourteen hundred souls, men, wo-
    men, 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 dh'isioll, deter-
    • mined Adrian to keep all in one body. I, with
    an hundred men, went forward first as pur-
    veyor, taking the road of the C ~ te d 'Or,
    through Auxerre, Dijon, Dole, over the Jura
    THE LAST MAX. 185

    to Geneva. I was to make nrrangements, at


    every ten miles, for the accommodation of such
    numbEl'S ali I found the town or village would
    receive, lea.ving behind a messenger with a writ-
    ten order, signifying how many were to be
    quartered there. The remainder of our tribe
    was then divided into bands of fiflY eRch, e"ery
    division containing eighteen men, and the
    remainder, consisting of wotnen and children.
    Each of these was headed by an officer, wllo
    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 a.ssemble; 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 E"elyn under her protectioll; TI...\o.
    mained also with him. Thus our order being
    determined, I departed. 1\1y plan was to go at
    first no further than Fontainebleau, where in a
    18G 1:HE LAST !lIAN.

    few days I should be joined by Adrian, before


    I took flight again further eastward.
    My friend accompanied me a few miles from
    Versaille&. He was sad; and, in a tone of unac-
    customed despondency, uttered a prayer for our
    speedy arrival among the Alps, accompanied
    with an expression of ,'ain regret that we were
    not already there. "In that case," I observed,
    " we c&.n quicken our march; why adhere to
    a plan whose dilatory proceeding you already
    di-sapprove ?"
    H Nay," replied he, U it is too late now. A
    month ago, a.nd we were masters of ourselves j

    no\\,,-" he turned his face from me; though


    gathering twilight had already veiled its expres-
    sion, he turned it yet more away, as he added-
    " a man died of the plague last night !"
    He spoke in a smothered voice, then sud-
    denly c1asping hi~ hands, he exclaimed, H Swift-
    ly, most swiftly advances the last hour for us
    all; as the stars vanish befQre the sun, so wi] I
    his n('ar approach destroy us. I have done
    THE LAST llANo 187

    my best; with grasping hands and impotent


    strength, I have hung on the wheel of the cha-
    riot of plague; but she drags me along with
    it, while, like Jaggernaut, she proceeds crushing
    out the being of all who strew the high road of
    life. 'Vould that it were over-WOll Id that her
    procession achie"ed, we had all entered the tomb
    togethl·r ,"
    Tears streamed from his eyes. "Again and
    again," he continued, "will the tragedy be
    act~d; again I must hear the groans of the
    dying, the wailing of the survivors ; again witness
    the -pangs, which, consummating all, envelope
    an etcrnity in their evanescent cxistence. 'Vhy
    am I reserved for this? 'Vhy the tainted
    wether of the flock, am I not struck to earth
    among the first 'I It is hard, very hard, for
    one of woman born to endure all that I
    endure !"
    Hitherto, with an undaunted spirit, and an
    high fecJing of dUly and worth, Adrian had
    rulfill ~d his self-imposed task. I had contem-
    1&l THE LAST nAN.

    plated him with reverence, and a fruitless desire


    of imitation. I now offered a few words of en~

    couragement and sympathy. He hid his face


    in his hands, and while he strove to calm him-
    self, he ejaculated, "For a few months, yet for
    a few months mOl'C, let not, 0 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 tllal it burst. I have
    believed it to be my destiny to guide and rule
    the last of the race of man, till d eath extin-
    guish my government; and to this dc!<tiny I
    submit.
    ~, Pardon me, Verney, 1 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 scnsitiveness, till the
    . latter became victors. You know how I placed
    THE LAST MAS. J89

    this wasted feeble hand on the abandoned helm


    of human government . I have been visited at
    times by intervals of"fluctuation j yet, until now,
    I have felt as jf 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 sho"" me how powerless I am without its
    inspiration. Yet, stay for a while, 0 Power of
    goOdness and strength; disdain not yet this
    rent shrine of fleshly mortality, 0 immortal Ca-
    pa.bility! 'Vhile one fellow creature remains to
    whom aid can be aff'orded, stay by and prop
    your shattered, falling engine !"
    His vehemence, and voice broken by irrepres-
    sible ~igh!l, sunk to my heart; his eyes gle:l.mcd
    in the gloom of night like two earthly 5tar~;
    and, his form dilating, his countenance beaming,
    truly it almost seemed as if at his eloquent ap-
    peal a more than mortal spirit entered his frame,
    exalting him abO\oe humanity.
    190 THE LAST ),lAN.

    He turned quickly tmvards me, and held


    out his hand. "Farcweli, "erney," he cried,
    U brother of my love, farewell; no other weak
    expression must ('ross these lips, I am alive
    ~O'8i 11: to our tasks, to our combats with our
    unvanquishable foe, for to the Inst I will struggle
    against her,'"
    He grasped roy hand, amI 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 (Iut of sight
    in a moment.
    A man last night had died of the plague. The
    quiver was not emptied, nor the bow unstrung.
    " re stood as marks, while Parthian Pestilence
    aimed and shot, insatiated by conquest, unob-.
    structed by the heaps of slain. A sickness of
    the soul, contogiou5 even to my physical mecha-
    nism , Catne over me. My knees knocked to-
    gether, my teeth chattered, th e current or my
    blood, clotted by sudden cold, pai nfully fOiced
    THE LAST llAN. 191

    its way from my heavy heart. 1 did not fear


    for myself, but it was misery to think that WE'

    could Ilot even save this remnant. Tha.t those


    I lovcd 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 thc blo\y.
    A seD,e of dogr.datioD caUle o,'er me, Did
    God create mall, merely in the end to become
    dead ea.rth in the midst of healthful vegetating
    nature? \Vas he of no more account to his
    Maker, than a Held of corn blighted in the ear?
    'Vere our proud dreams thus to fade? Our
    urune was written "a little lower than the
    angels;" and, behold, we were no beller than
    ephemera. 'Ve had called oursclveiO the H pa-
    ragon of animals,'" and, lo! we were a "quint_
    essence .... f dust." 'Vc repined that the pyra-
    mids hod 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
    192 THE L.-\ST llAN.

    the whole race of man. How reconcile this


    sad change to our past aspirations, to our appa-
    rent powers!
    Sudden an internal ,'oice, articulate and dear,
    seemed to say :- Thus from eternity, it was de-
    creed: the steeds that bear Time on~·a.rds had
    this hour and this fulfilment enchained to them,
    since the void brou~ht forth its burthen. Would
    yOll read backwards the unchangeable laws of
    Necessity?
    Mother of the world! Servant of the Omni-
    potent! eternal, changeless Nec('ssity! WllO \\>ith
    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.
    ,\-ViU 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
    TIIF. LAST llANo J9S

    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 dweUest, whether of
    race spiritual, or, sprung from some sun-iving
    pair, thy nature will be human, thy habitation
    the earth; thou wilt here rearl 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 thY8('lf. 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.
    Y ct the last events th:1t marked our progress
    through France were so fuU of strange horror
    and gloomy misery, that I darl,: not pall&e too
    long in the narration. If I were to dissect each
    incident, every small fragment of a second would
    VOL. JlI. K
    194 THE LASr MAN.

    contain -an harrowing tale, whose miuutest word


    would curdle the blood in thy young veins. It
    is right that I should erect for thy instruction
    this monument of the foregcne race; but not
    thllt I should drng 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 befor~ thee, swift as the
    rack driven hy the llonh 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 eYe!>; nay, sights far worse, ,of
    the unburied dead, and human forms which wcrc
    strewed all the road side, and on the steps of
    once frequented habitation!':, where.
    Through the fl esh that wastes away
    Beneath the parching sun, the whitening hoDes
    Stalt forth. and moulder in tIle ~ able dust.·

    • Elton's TransJation of lIesiod's .. Shield of Hercules.·' ·


    THE LAST lIAN. 195

    SighLSlike tbese had become-ah, woe the ",hile!


    50 familiar, that we had cen.sed 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
    enclosurcs, of cottages, and enn of pen.santry,
    was saddening to a traveller from sunny Italy,
    or busy England. Yet the towns were frequent
    and lively, nnd 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 cour-
    tier-like phrase; nor on holidays did the peasantry
    thread with slow grace the mazes of the dance.
    Silcncc, melancholy bride of death, went in pro-
    cession with him from town to town through the
    spacious region.
    \Ve arrived at :Fontainebleau, and speedily
    prepared for the reception of our friends. On
    mustering our numbers for the night, three were
    .2
    196 THE LAST UAN.

    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 Rlls~a and far America, had suffered
    famine, cold and danger, and men still sterner-
    ff'atured, once nightly depredators in our over~

    grown metropolis; men bred from their cradle


    to see the whole machine of society at work for
    their deitructi(ln. I looked round, and saw
    upon the faces of aU horror and deRprur written
    in glaring characters.
    'Vepassed four days at Fontainebleau. Seyeral
    sickened and died, and in the mean time neither
    Adrian nor any of our friends appeared. My
    own troop was in commotion; to reach S)vitzer_
    land, to plunge into rivers of snow, and to dwell
    in caves of ic~ became the mad desire of all.
    Yet we had promised to wait for the Earl; and
    he eame not. 1\1y people demanded to be led ·
    TIlE LAST !.!-U'. J97

    forwanl-rebcllion, if so we might call what


    was the mere c:tsting 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 pre..
    servation from every form oiindescribable suffer_
    ing, was our keeping together. I.told them this;
    while the most determined among them an-
    swered with sullenncss, that they could take care
    of themselves, and replied to my entreaties with
    scoffs and menaces.
    At length, on the fifth day, a messenger ar-
    rived 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
    lenglh 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 communica-
    tions of his messenger filled up his omissions,
    198 THE LAin MAN.

    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
    wus divulged, and the destruction already
    achieved, was exaggerated by the fe::..n. of the
    survivors. Som~ emissaries of the enemy of man.
    kind, the accursed Impostors weTe 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, nnd
    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 fean
    and passions, detained Adrian . . It required all
    his ardour in pursuit of an object, and his pa--
    tienc;e under difficulties, to calm. and animate
    tHE LAST lIAN. 199
    such a number ot his followers, as might coun-
    terbalance the panic of the rest, and lead them
    back to the means from which alone safety could'
    be derived. He !lad hoped immediate1y to fol-
    low mej but, being defeated in this intention, he
    sent his messenger urging me to secure my Qwn '
    troop at such a distance fro,m Versailles, as to
    prevent the contagion of rebellion from reaching
    the~ ; promising, at the same time, t~ join me '
    the moment a favourable occasion should occur,
    by means of which he could withdraw the main
    body of the ~migrants from the evil inRuence at
    present,exercised over them,
    I was thrown into a most painful state of un-.
    c~rtainty by these communications. My first
    imp,ulse was that we should aU return to Ver-
    there to assist in extricating our chief
    saill~s,

    from his perils. I accordingly assembled my ·


    troop, and proposed to them this retrograde
    ~ovement, insteaq of ,the continuation of our
    journey to Auxerre, With one voic~ they re_
    fused to comply. The notion circulated among
    THE LAST llANo

    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 pro-
    ceed 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 oppo-
    sition only served to bring their resolution to a
    crisis. That same evening they departed to-
    wards 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,
    wou ld impel them to desert each other; nnd the
    most dreadful :;ufferings would be the conse_
    quence of their j ourney in their present unor_
    dered and chiefless array. These feelings for a
    lime were paramoun* and, in obedience to them,
    I accompanied the rest towards Auxerre.
    THE LAST M.\N. 201

    lYe arrived the sallle night at Villeneuve-Ia-


    Guiard, a town at the distance of four posts
    from Fontainebleau. When my compaIT-OIlS had
    retired to rest, and I was left alone to revolve
    and ruminate lIpon the intelligence I received of
    Adrian's situation, another view of the subject
    presented itself to roe. \Vhat was I doing, and
    what was the object of my present movements?
    4pparelltly I was to lead this troop of selfish
    and JawJess men towards Switzerland, leaving
    behind my family and my selected friend, which,
    subject as they were hourly to the dE-ath 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 inclinatiom lead us,
    obstinately assumes the appearance of selfishness,
    even when we meditate a sacrifice. ,Ve are
    E'asily Jed at such times to make a compromise of
    the question; and this was my present resource.
    K 3
    THE LAST l lA No

    I resolved that very night to ride to Versailles;


    if I found aifairfl less desperate than I now
    deemed them, I would retnrn "t'iUlOut delay to
    my troop; I had a vague idea that my arrival
    at that town, "l'Ould occasion some sensation more
    or less strong, of which we might profit, for the
    purpose of leading forward the vacillating mul-
    titude-at 1e.:'lSt no time was to be 10st-l visited
    the stables, I saddled my f.9.yourite horse, and
    vaulting 011 his back, without giving myself time
    for further reflection or hesitation, quitted ViUe-·
    ncuve-la_Guial'd on my return to Versailles.
    I uns - 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
    fnte of Adrian, and grew reckless of any
    event, except what might lose or preserve my
    unequalled fri end. ·With an heavy heart, that
    sought relief in the rapidity of my course, I
    rode through the night to Versailles. I spurred
    THE LAST MAN. 203
    Illy horse, who addressed his free limbs to
    speed, and t~sed his gallant head iu pride.
    1~he constellations reeled swiftly by, swiftly
    each tree and stone and landmark fled past my
    onward career. I bared my head to the rush-
    ing wind, which bathed my brow in delightful
    coolncs.... As I lost sight of Villeneuve-Is..
    Guiard, I forgot the sad drama of human mi-
    sery ; methought it was happiness enough to live,
    sensitive the while of the beauty of the verdure-
    clad earth, the Mar-bespangled sky, and the ,
    tamelcss 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. H e was a
    gallant animal, and I did not wish to exchange
    him for any chance beast I might light on, leav-
    ing him never to be refound. All night we weot
    forward; in the morning he became sensible that
    we approlched Versailles, to reach whid{ as his
    home, he mustered his flagging RLrength. The
    distance we had come was not less than fifty
    ~04 THE LAST loIAN.

    miles, yet he shot down the long Boulevards


    swift as an arrow j poor fellow, as I dis-
    mounted at the gate of the castle, he sunk on
    his knees, his eyes were covered witll a film,
    he fell on his side, a few gasps inBated his
    noble chest, and he died. I saw him cxpi;e
    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-I
    heard Adrian's voice-O fool! 0 womnn, nur_
    tured, effeminate and contemptible bcing-I
    heard his Yoice, and answered it with convul-
    sive shrieks; I rushed into the Hall of Her_
    cules, where he stood surrounded. by a crowd,
    "hose eyes. turned in ,,"onder on me, reminded
    me that on the stage of the world, a mall mllst
    repress such girlish extacies. I would have
    given worlds to have embraced him; I elared
    not-Half in exhaustion, half volulltarily, I
    THE L.\ST lIAN. 205

    threw myself at my length on the ground-


    dare I disclos(" the truth to the gentle offspring
    of solitude? I did S0, that I might kiss the
    dear and sacred earth he trod.
    I found everything in a stale of tumult.
    An emissary of the leader of the elect, had
    been so worked up by his chief, and by his
    own fanatical aero, 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'Herculc. Although superstition and demo-
    niac 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 affec-
    tion rekindled by this detestable attempt. A
    phalanx oC faithful breasts closed round him;
    the wretch, who, .although a prisoner and in
    ~06 THE LAS'I' l I AN.

    bonds, vaunted his design, and madly claimed


    the crown of martyrdom, would have been torn
    to pieces, ~ad not his intended victim inter-
    posed. Adrian, springing forward, shielded
    him with his own person, and commanded with
    ener~y 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 rceal
    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 asStlssinatio." 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 mvenous wolf, played the driver to :.
    credulous flock.
    It was 1\ moment of suspense, that shook even
    THE LAST /IIA~. 207

    the resolution of the unyielding friend of man.


    Adrian for one moment l('ns about to give in,
    to cease the struggle, and quit, \'I'ith a few ad-
    hel'ents, the deluded crowd, leaving them a
    miserable prey to their passions, and to the
    worse tyrnnt who e);citoo them. But again,
    after a brief fluctuation of purpose, be resumed
    his courage and resoh'es, slistnined by the sin-
    glenesll of his purpo5C, and the untried spirit
    of bene\'oience which animated him. At this
    moment, as an omen of excellent import, his
    wretched enemy puUed def!ltrllction on his head,
    destroying- with his own hands the dominion
    he had erected.
    His ~..and hold upon the minds of men,
    took its rise from the doctrine inculcated by
    him, that those whu believed in, and followed
    him, were th(' remnant to be saved, while all
    the rest of mankind were marked out for death.
    Now, at the time of the Flood, the omnipotent
    repemed him that he had created man, and lIS

    then with water, now with the arrows of pesti-


    ~08 THF. LAST ~IAN.

    lence, was about to annihilate all, except


    those who obeyed his decrees, promulg"J.ted by
    the ipse dixit prophet. It is impossible to say
    on what foundations this man built his hopes of
    being able to carry Oll such an imposture. It
    is likely that he was fully aware of the lie which
    murderous nature might giyC t.o his as....o;cl'tiom,
    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.
    Al any rate he resolved to keep up the drama
    to the last act. 'Vhen, on the first approach of
    summer, the fatal disease again made its ra-
    vages among the fonowers of Adrian, the im-
    postor exultingly proclaimed the exemption of
    his own congregation from the universal cala-
    mity. He was believed; his followers, hitherto
    iihllt up in Paris, now eame to Versailles. Min_
    gling with the coward band thl:re assembled,
    they reviled their admirable leader, and asserted
    their own superiority and exemption.
    THE LAST llAN. 209

    At length the plague, slow-footed, but sure in


    her noiseless advance, destroyed the iUusion, in-
    vading the congregation of the elect, and
    I!howering 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
    slckened were immediately and quietly with_
    drawn, the cord and a midnigbt-.grave disposed
    of them for e,'er; while some plausible excuse
    was gi"en for their absence . At last a female,
    whose maternal vigilance subdued even the
    effects of the narcotics administered to her, be.
    came a witness of their murderous designs on
    her only child. Mad with horror, she would
    have burst among her deluded fel1ow-"jctims,
    a!ld, wildly shrieking, have awaked the dull car
    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.
    210 1;llE LA ST r.[AN.

    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, lfor it was she) denounced to the
    host of deceived believers, the wickedness of
    their leader. He saw the aghast looks of her
    atid it()r~, changing from horror to fury-the
    names of those already sacrificed were echoed
    by their relatives, 110W assured of their loss.
    The wret.:=h with that energy of purpose, which
    had borne him thus far in his guilty career, saw
    his danger~ and resoh-ed to e"ade the worst
    forms of it-he rushedon one of the foremost,
    seized a pistol from his girdle, and his loud
    la~gh of derision mingled with the report of
    the weapon with which he destroyed himsel!.
    They left his miserable remains e,'en where
    they lay; they placed the corpse of poor Juliet
    and her babe upon a bier, and aU, with hearts
    subdued to saddest regret, in long procession
    walked towards Versailles. They met troops
    TilE LAST )IA~. 211

    of those who had quitted the kindly protection


    of Adrian, and were j ourneying to join the
    fanatics. The tale of hOITOr was recounted-all
    turned back; and thus at last, accompanied by
    the undiminished numbers of surviving hu-
    manity, and preceded by the mournful emblem
    of their ret."Overed reason, they appeared before
    .'\drianJ and again :llld for ever VO\ved obedience
    to his commandsJ and fidelity to his cau!e.
    212 THE LAST )lAS.

    CHAPTER VII.

    THESE events occupiE'<l 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 Ver-
    sailles, six men, from among those I had left
    at Villeneuve-la-Guiard, arrived, with intelli-
    gence, that the Test of the troop had already
    proceeded towards Swilzerland. "re went for_
    ward in the same track.
    It is strange, after an int.crval of time, to
    look back on a period, which, though sllOrt 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
    THE LAST llANo 213

    those hour", dnys, and weeks had mingled with


    the ocean of forgotten time, which in their pas-
    ~age teemed with fatal events and agonizing
    sorrow. Dy the end of July, little more than
    a month had gone by. if man's life were mea-
    sured by the rising and setting of the Slln: but,
    alas! in that interval ardent youth had become
    grey-haired; furrows deep and uncrascable 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 dC<!rcpitude of age. Nights passed, during
    ,,·hose futal darkness the sun grew old before it
    rose; and burning days, to cool whose baleful
    heat th(' balmy eye, lingering far in ('astern
    clilDCS~ CIlme lagging and ineffectual; days, in
    which the dial, radiant in its noon-dny 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.
    'Ve departed from ,.ersailles fifteen hundred
    souls. 'Ve set out on the eighteenth oC June.
    214

    'Ve made n long procession. in which was con~

    tained every dear relationship, or tie of love,


    that existed in human society. Fath~rs 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 the;r
    eyes on the infant troop around. They were
    sad , but not hopeless. Each thought that some
    one would be saved; each, with that pertina-
    ciolls optimism, which to the last characterized
    our human nature, trusted that their be~o,,'ed

    family would be the one preserved.


    lVe 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
    ellcr~ase to our numbers, 3.!ld such decrease
    through death, that at last it became easier to
    count the scanty list of survivors. As we never
    deser~d any of the sick, until their death per_
    mitted us to commit their remains to the shelter
    TII~ LAST lIAN. 215

    of a grtlxe, our journey was long, \\ hile every


    day a frightful gap was made in ou r troop-
    they died by tens, by fifties, by hundreds. No
    mercy was shewn by death:; we ceased to ex-
    pect it, and every day welcomed the sun with
    the feeli ng that we might never sec it rise again.
    The nervous terrors and fearful visions which
    had scared us during th€" spring, continued to
    visit our' coward troop during this snd journey,
    Every evening brought its fl'csh creation of
    spectres; a ghost was depicted by every
    blighted tree; and appalling shnpes were ma-
    nufactured from each shaggy bush. By de-
    g rees these cmnmon marvels pa.1led on US, and
    then other wonders were called into being.
    Once it was confidently asserted, that the sun
    l'ose an hour Jater than its seasonable time:;
    again it was discovered that he grew pruer and
    paler; that shadows took an uncommon appear-
    ance . It was impossible to have imagined, dur_
    ing the usual calm routine of lire men had 'bf>-
    fore experienced, the terrible effects produced
    216 THE LAST MAS,
    .< -
    by these cxtramgant delusions: in trllth, of
    such-little worth arc our senses, when unsup-
    ported by concurring" testimony, that it. was
    with tIle utmost difficulty I kept myself free from
    the belief in su}X'rnnturnl events, to which the
    major part of our people readily gave credit.
    Being one sane amidst a crowd of the mad, I
    hardly dared as sert to my own mind, that the
    \'ast luminary had undergone 110 change__ that
    the slladows of night were unthickened by innu-
    merable 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 rea-
    lities 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 visior.ary semblance of all that
    we feared.
    Once, at the dusk of the evening, we sa,v a
    figure all in white, apparently of more than
    human stature, flourishing· about the road, now
    THF. LAST MA'N.

    1bro'Witig Up its arms, now leaping to an asto_


    -nishing height in the Jl1f, then turning round
    6everal times successively, th,en raising itself to
    its full height and gest.iculating viQlcntly~ OUf

    troop, on the alert to discover and believe in the


    supernatural. made a halt ·a t SOOle distance from
    this shape; and, as it became darker, there was
    -Klmething appalling even. to the incredulous, in
    the lonely spectrc, whose gllmbols, if they hardly
    accorded with spiritual dignity, were heyond
    human powers. Now it leapt rigllt up in the
    air, now sht.-er over a high hedge, and was
    agai~ the moment after in the road before us.
    By the time I Cilme lip, the fright experienced
    by the spectators of this ghostly exhibition, be-
    gan 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 ~
    shout of laughter ;-then, again springing up,
    YOt.. Ill. L
    ~18 THE LAST ?>lAX.

    as n last elfort, it sunk to the ground, and be-


    came almost invisible through the dusky night.
    This circu~siance again spread silence" and fear
    through th·c troop; tile more courageous at
    length advanced, and, raising tlie 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 Ville.
    neuve la-Guinrd: falling sick, he had been de.
    sertcd by his companions; in an access of de-
    lirium he had fancied him~lf 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 gan
    the appe1lation of the Black Spectre. 'Ve never
    saw it except at evening, when his coal black:
    steed, his mourning dres!'o', and plume of black
    feathers, had a majestic and awe-striking ap-
    pearanee; his face, one said, who harl seen it for
    'a mol'l.lent, was ashy pale; he had liogercd far
    THE LAST )lAX, ~19

    behind the rest of his troop, and suddenly at a


    turn in the roa!1, saw the Black Spectre coming
    tow"a ros him; he hid himself in fear, ,:md the
    horse and his rider slowly past, while the moon-
    beams fell on the face of the latter, displaying
    its unearthly hue. Sometimes at dead of night,
    as we walched the sick, we heard one galloping
    through the town; it was the Black Spectre come
    in token of inevitable death. He grew giannall
    to vulgar eyes; an icy atmosphere, they said,
    surrounded him j when he was heard, all ani-
    mals shuddered, and the dying knew that their
    last hOUl' was come, It was Death himself, they
    declared, come visibly to seize on subject earth,
    and quell at once our decreasing numhers, sole
    rebels to his law. One day at noon, we saw a
    dark mass on the road before us, and, coming
    up, beheld the Blaek Spectre fallen from his
    horse, lying in the agonies of disease upon the
    ground. He did not sun'ive many hours; and
    his last words disclosed the .secret of hi, mysteri.
    ous conduct. He was a French noble of dis-
    L2
    TilE LAST lL\N •
    •• .'.,! '!
    tinction, who, {rom the- effects of plague, had
    been left alone in his district; ~d~ring many
    moriths. 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. ,\7hen 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 gatherffi
    him to a larger congregation, even that of Dead
    Mankind.
    It had .been well, if such vain terrors could
    have distract~ our thoughts from more tangible
    evils. But these were too dreadful and too
    mnny not to force themselves into every thought,
    every mom~nt, of our lives. '\T e were obliged
    to halt at different period~ for. days together,
    till another llnd yet another was consigned ~ a
    clod to the vast clod which had been once our
    THE LAST WAX.

    li"illg 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,--cntered
    the gates of Dijon .
    Vic had expected this moment with eagerness,
    for now we had acoom plished 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? 'Vere
    these miserable beings, who, worn and wretched 9
    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?
    I t had come down clear and unimpeded from
    its primnl mountain source in Ararat, and
    grew from a puny streamlet to a vast perennial
    river, generation after generation flowing OD

    l.usclessly. The same, but diversifioo, 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

    ,
    THE LAST MAY.

    crept out of uncreative void into hght; but


    thought brought" forth power "and kno\vled"ge;
    and, clad with these, the race of man asSumed
    digni~y 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 illustra-
    ting ancestors; it had its ga1lery of pOrtraits) its
    monumental inscriptions, its records"and titles.".
    This was all over, now that the ocean of
    death"had sucked in the slackening tide, and its
    iOurce was dried. up. We first had bidden
    adieu to the state of things which having ex-
    isted many thousand years, seemed eternal;
    such a state of government, ~bedience, 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 ~untry, we had bidden farewell. 'Ve

    " Burke's ReRedioDs on the French Revolution.


    THE. LAST . )IAN. 223 '

    saw dCPfU't all ~pe of retrie\·jng our ancient I

    stat~-all ~xpecta.tion, except the feeble .one of


    saving our indi\'idual 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? 'Vith tenacio:us grasp we clung to ~uch
    rule and order as . ('ould best save us; trusting
    that, if a little colony could be presen·ed, that
    would..suffice at some remoter period to restore
    the lost. community of mankind.
    BUL .thcgameisQP! 'Ve mustalldiej . nor ,.
    leave survivor nor heir to .the wide inheritance .
    of eru:th. 'V~ must all die! The species of
    man must perish; his frame of exqllisite work.
    manship; the wondrous mechanism of .. his
    senses; the noble proportion of his . godlike
    limbs; his mind, the throned king of these;
    must perish. : 'VilL the earth still keep her ,
    place among the planets; will she still journey
    with unmarked regularity rou~d the sun; will
    the seasons c~ange, the trees adorn ~hemseh'C!
    -
    TJI'E LAST ")fAIf.
    .

    with leaves, and Bowen shed, their fragnma?,.


    ,in solitude? Will the mgonlains, remain un-
    moved, and strenms still keep a down..'ard
    cotJ:rse to ..... anls the Yast abyss;' wilt the ti,dfS'
    rise and fall, and the wind's fal) unh'ersal na-
    ture; wiH beasts pasture, birds fly, and fishes
    swim, whcn man, the IeI'd, possessor, perceiver,
    oDd rec&rder of a11 thcsEt things, has passed'
    away. as though he haclne\'er been? 0, what
    mockery is this! S'tM'ely death is not death-,
    and humanity is not extinct ;- but merely passeJ
    into other shopes, unsubjected to our percep-
    tions. Death is a vast portal, an high road to-
    life: let. us hasten to, pass; let us exist no more--
    in this liyin~ death, but die that we may live!'
    We had longed' with inexpressible earnestness
    to reach Dijion, since· we had fi"ed on it, as &

    kind of station in our progress. But no.w we


    cntered it with a torpor more paihful than
    acute suffering. We had come slowly but ir_
    revocably to the opinion} that our utmost efforts-.
    liQuId not preser'le one human being, nliv.e:. \V..

    ; .'
    THE LA ST ,"U. N.

    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
    wantoD profusion of tears, and vain laments, and
    overflowing " tenderness, and pnssionate - but
    fruitless clinging to the priceless few tllat re-
    mained, was followed by languor and reckless.
    ness.
    During this disastrous journey we lost all
    those, not of our own family , to whom we hnd
    particularly attached ourselves among the sur-
    VIVOrs. It were not well to fill these pages with
    a mere catalogue of lossc..s ; yet I cannot refrs.in
    from this last mention of tho!)e principally dear
    to us. The little girl whom Adrian had rescued
    {tom utter desertion, during our. ride througl,
    London 011 the twentieth of Novembel, died at
    Auxerrc. The poor child had attached herscdf
    greatly to UIi; and the suddenness of her d;ath
    adaed to our sorrow. In the morning 1"e "had
    L3
    THE LAST AlAN.

    seen her apparently in health-in the evening,


    Lucy, befo~e we retired t? rest, visited our
    quarters to say tllat she was dead. Poor Lucy
    herself only survived. till we arrived. at Dijon.
    She had devoted herself throughout 'to th~'
    nllning the sick, and attending the friendless.
    H er excessive exertions brought on a slow fever,
    which ended in the dread dist'ase whose approach
    soon released her from her sufferings. She had
    lhrou~ hout been endeared to us by her good
    qualities, by her ready and cheerful execution
    of every duty, and mild acquiescence in e"\""ery
    turn of adversity. ",Vhen we consigned her to
    the tomb, we seemed at the s.'\me time to bid n
    final adieu to thoS(' peculiarly feminin e virt~es
    conspicuous in her; uneducated and unpre-
    tending as she was, she was distinguished for
    patience, forbearance, and sweetness. These,
    with all their tra.in of qualities peculiarly Eng...
    lish, would nc\'er again be revived for us.
    This type of all that was most worthy of ad.
    miration in her class among my countrywomcn,
    THE LAST ).lA~_

    was placed under the sod of desert France; aud


    it was as a second separation from our country
    to have lost sight of her for ever.
    'rhe Countess of \¥indsor died during our
    abode at Dijon. One morning I was informed
    that she wished to see me. Her message -
    made me remember, that seve~31 days had
    elapsed since I had lust seen her. Such .3 cira.
    e umstance had often occurred during our jour-
    ney, when I remained behind to watch to their -
    -close the last moments of some one of our hap.
    Jess comrades, and the rest of the troop past Oil

    before me. But there \Vas something in the


    manner of her messenger, that made me f,US ·

    peet that all was not Tight. 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 011 the
    stretcll, demanded it nourishment of horror;
    and it seemed too natural an occurrence, too
    like past times, for the old to die before -t1le
    young.
    THE LA.9T It.&l'f.

    I found the venerable mother of my Id';"


    lying on a couch, her tall em:lfiated figure
    atretched 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-Sit.
    All was shrivelled aDd dried up, except these
    lights; her voice too was fearfully changed, 8$

    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 woul~ ha\-e been a greater
    mock to heaT suddenly that I was dead, than
    to see me first thus.~

    I elapsed her shrivelled hand: " Are YOll in_


    deed so ill?" I asked.
    " Do you not perceive death in my race,YI re.-
    plied she, II it is strange ; I ought to have ex-
    pected thi.~ end yet I confess it has taken me
    unaware. I never clung to life, or enjoyed it,
    till these 11lSt months, while among those I sense-
    lessly deserted : and it is hard to be 6D~hcd
    TH'E LAST lIAN.

    immediately away. 'i aD glad, however, tbat ~


    am not a victim of the plague; probably I
    should ha~e died at this hour, though the world ' ·
    had coutinued as it was in my youth."
    She spoke with difliculty,and I perceived that
    she regretted the necessity of death, even more
    than she cared to confess. Y ct shc had not to
    complain of an undue shortening of existence ;
    her fnded person shewed that !ifc had naturally '
    spent itself. 'IV e had been alonc at first; now '
    Clara entered; the Counteu 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 oC
    her aged friend; shc bent to kiss hcr, touching
    her withered mouth with the warm, full lips of
    youth. H Verney," said the Countess, If I need
    not recommend this dear girl to you, fOF> your
    own Sllke you will preserve her. 'Vere the
    world as it was, I should have a thousand sage
    precautions to impress, that one 60 sensili,'c,
    good, And beauteous, might escape the dangers
    THE LAST MAN.

    that used to lurk for the destruction of the fair


    ·a nd excellent. This is all nothing now.
    "I commi t you, my kind nur5C, to your
    uncle's care; to yours I entrust the dearest
    relic of my better self. Be to Adrian, sweet
    one, what. you have b~n to me-enlivcn his sad-
    ness with your sprightly sallies; soothe his
    anguish by your sober and inspired converse,
    when he is dying; nurse him as you ha~e done
    me"
    Clara burst into tears; "Kind girl," said the
    Countess, "do not weep for me. *any ~enT
    friends are left to you."
    u ..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 belm'ed protector to die before me, 1 could
    not nurse him; I could only die 100."
    The venerable Jady survived this scene only
    twenty_four hours. She was the last tie binding
    us to the ancient state of things. It was impos-
    sible to look on her, and not call to mind in their
    THE LAST l1AX. 281
    wonted guise, eVCDts and persons, as alien to
    our present situation ~ the disputes of Themis.
    tocles and Aristides~ or the wars of the two
    roses in' our native land. The crown of Eng.
    land 'had pres~ ber brow; the memory of my
    father and his misfortunes, the valn 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
    oC our number deserted the vacant ranks of liCe,
    we continued our way towards Gene\'a. At
    noon on the second day we arrh·ed at the foot
    of JUr;l. 'Ve balted here during the heat of
    the day. Here fifty human beings-fifty, the
    only human beings tbat survived of the food·
    teeming earth, assembled to read in the looks of
    each other ghastly plague, or v.·asting sorrow,
    •
    THE LAST IIAN.
    ~:[

    ~esperation, or worse, carelessn~ of future OJ"

    present evil. Here we assembled at the foot of


    this mighty wall of mountain, under Ii spreading
    walnut tree; a brawling stream refreshed th-c
    green sward by its . sprinkling; and the busy
    grasshopper cl~irped among the thyme. We
    clustered
    , togelher a groupe of wretched sut·
    (erers. A mother cradled in her enfeebled arms
    the: child, last of many, whose glazed eye was
    about to clo~e for c\'er. Here beauty, late glow_
    ing in youthful lustre and consciousness, no!,
    wan and neglected, knelt fanning with uncertain
    m~tion the beloyed, who "lay stri\'ing to paint
    hi~ feature!:, distorted by ilJne~, with a tha~kful
    ~mile. 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 utterl)" relaxed, tLS
    thought of wife and child, and dearest re1:ttivt',
    aU lost, passed acrOSi his recolleetion. Theft'
    sat a man who for faTty years had basked in
    !ortunc~s tranquil sunshine; he held the hand
    THE LAST WAS. 233
    ,.".
    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 hel'
    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 ~
    book in his hand, but his eye wandered from the
    pages, and sought mine; they mingled a sympa.-
    thetic glance; his looks confe£sed that his
    thoughts had quitted the inanimate print. for
    pages more pregnant with meaning, more absorb..
    ing. 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, some-
    times beating the water with large boughs,
    sometimes watching the summer.Hies that
    sported upon it. Evelyn now chased a butter.
    fly-now gathered a flower for his cousin; and
    his laughing cherub-face aDd dear brow told of
    234 THE LAST lIAN.

    the light heart that beat in ~is .bosom. Clara,


    though she endeavoured to gi\'e 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 ten4
    derest mother to my little orphan boy; to see het:
    playing with him, or attend~ng silently and sub-
    mi~ive1y on our wants, you th~ught only of her
    admirable docility and patience; but, in her son
    eyes, and the veined curtains that veiled them,
    in the clearness of her marmoreal brow, and the
    tender expression of her lips, there ",,'as an intel4
    ligcnce and beauty that at once excited admira-
    tion and love.
    'Vhen the sun had sunk towards the precipi4
    tate west, and the evening shadows grew long,
    we, prepared to ascend the mountain The at,..
    ten~ion 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
    THE LAST lLAN . 235

    farther ascent disclosed them in succession. ,Ve


    were seldom shaded 'from the declining suo,
    whose slant beams were instinct with exhausting
    hcat. , There arc times when minor difficulties
    grow gigantic - tUnes, wnen as the Hebrew poet
    expressively terms it, u the g rasshopper is a
    burthell;" so was it ,vith our ill fated party this
    evening. Adrian, usually the first to rally his
    spirits, and dash foremost iota fatigue and hard-
    ship, with relaxed limbs and declined hl)ad, the
    reins hanging loosely in his grasp, left the choice
    of thu path to the instinct of his horse, now and
    then painfully ronsing himself, when the steep-
    ness of the ascent 'required that he should ket"p
    his seat with better care. Fcar and horror en-
    compassed me. Did his languid air attest that
    hc alro was struck with' contagion? How long,
    when I look on this matchless specimcD of mor-
    tality, may I perceive that his thought answers
    mine? how long will those limbs obey the kindly
    spirit within? how long willlighi and life dwell
    THE LAST WAN.

    in the eyes of this my sole reniaining friend 1


    Thus pacing slowly, each hill surmounted, only
    presented another to be ascended; each jutting
    comer only discovered another, sister to the 1&54
    endlessly. Sometimes the pressure of sickness in
    one among us, caused the whole cavalcade to'

    halt; the call for ''Vater, the eagerly expressed"


    wish tb repose; the cry of pain, and suppressed
    soh of the mourner-such were the sorrowful
    attendants of our passage of the Jura.
    Adrian had gone first. I saw him, while I wa,
    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. H e SE'emed to behold
    something unexpected and wonderful; for,
    pausing, his head stretched out, bis anus for a
    moment extended, he seemed to give an All
    Hail! to some new vh;ion. Urged, by curiosity,
    I hurried to join him. After battling for many
    THE L.\ST MAN. 237
    <j '"~, ."" :"':"1
    tedious minutes with the precipice, the same
    IIceDe pl~.sentcd itself to me, which ' hnd ·wrapt
    ~im in extatic wonder.
    Nature, or nature's favourite, this lovely
    earth, prescnted her most unrivalled beauties in
    resplendcnt and sudden exhibition. Below, far,
    far below, even as it were in thc yawning abyss
    of the ponderous globe, lay the placid and
    azure expanse of lake Leman; vintl-c·overro
    hills hcdged it in, and behind dark mountains in
    cone-like shape, or irreg-ular cyclopean wall,
    served for further defencE'. Dut beyond, and
    high above ali, as if the spirits of· the ail" had
    luddcnly unveiled their bright "abodes, 'placed
    in scaleless altitude in the' stainless sky, heaven-
    .kissing, companions of the unattainable ether,
    were thc glorious Alps, clothed in dazzling robes
    of light by the setting sun. And, as if the world's
    ;. wonders were neyer to be exhausted, their vast im-
    tnensities. their jagged erags, and roseate paint-
    ing, appeared again in the lake below, dipping
    their proud heights beneath the unrufficd waves
    THJ:: L.A3T MAN .

    -palaces for the Naiads of the placid waters.


    Towns and villages lay seattere4 at the foot of
    Jura, w11ich, with dark ravine, and black pro-
    montories, stretched its roots into the watery
    expanse beneath. Carried away by wonder, I
    forgot the death of mon, and the Hving and
    beloved friend near me. 'Vhen I turned, I saw
    tears streaming from his eyes ; his thin hands
    pressed one against the other, his animated coun-
    tenance hE-aming with admiration; "'Vhy,"
    cried he, at last, H'Vhy, 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 lLDlong them, but gan
    visible tokens of admiration, surpassing :1Oy be-
    fore experienced. One cried, H God reveals his
    heaven to us; we may die blessed." Another
    and another, with broken exclamations, and ex-
    travagant phrases, endeavoured to express the
    intoxicating effect (If this wonder of nature. So
    TIlE L.UT llANo

    we remained Il\\ hile, lightened of the pressing


    burthen 'of fatc, forgetful of death, into whose
    night we were about to plunge; no longer re-
    Recting 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 ra,! 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 wnstc e"ery
    hope.
    This evening was marked by another (,,"cot.
    Passing through Ferney in our way to Gene"3,
    unaccustomed sounds of music arose from the
    rural church which stood embosomcd in trees,
    6urrounded by smokcless, ...·acant cottages. The
    peal of an organ with rich swell awoke the mute
    air, lingering along, and mingling with the in~

    tense beauty that clothed the rocks and woods,


    and waves around.
    240 THE LAST )LA!<l.

    Music-the language of the imOlorlals, dis-


    closed to us as testimony of their existence-
    roUSle, H sihter key of the fountain oC tears,"
    child of lov~ soother of grief, inspirer of
    beroism and radiant thoughts, 0 music, in this
    our desolation, we httd forbl'Otten thee! Nor
    pipe, at eve cheered liS, nor harmony of voice,
    nor linked ' thrill of string; ~ou camest upon
    u s now. like the revealing of other forms of
    being; and transported as we had been by the
    loveliness of nature, fancying dlat we beheld
    the abode of spirits, now we might well imagine
    that we heard their melodious communings.
    'Ve paused in such awe as would seize on a
    , pale votarist, visiting some holy shrine at mid_
    night; if she be1H:~Jd animated and smiling, the
    image which she worshipped. 'Ve all stood
    mute; many knelt. In a few minutes however,
    'We were recalled to human wonder and sympa-
    thy by a familiar strain. The air was Haydn'S
    H New-Created 'Vorld,'" and, old and droop-
    ing as humunity had become, the world yet
    THE LAST !o1AN". 241

    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;
    \ve went into the loft. A blind old man sat at
    the bellows; his whole soul was e:u j and as
    he sat in the attitude of attentive listening, a
    bright glow of pleasure was diffused over his
    countenance j for, though his lack-lustre eye
    could not reHect the beam, yet his parted
    lips, .::md 'cvery line of his face and yencrable
    brow spoke delight. A young woman sat at
    the keys, perhaps twenty years of age. Her
    auburn hair hung on her neck, and her fail'
    bro''V shone in its own Leauty; but her droop-
    ing eyes let fall fast-flowing tears, whilc the con_
    straint she cxercised to suppress her sobs, and
    still her trembling, flushed her else pule check;
    shc was thin; languor, and alas! sickness, bent
    her form.
    VOL. III.
    THE LAST )iAN.

    lV'e 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 lone, 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, rind, 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 siudent llad joined them. 'l'heir sim-
    ple history was easily divined. He, a noble,
    loved the fair daughter of the poor musician,
    and followed them in their Right from the per-
    secutions of his friends; but soon the mighty
    leveller came with unblunted scythe to mow,
    together with the grass, the tall Rowers of the
    THE LAST l{A)J.

    field. The youth was an early victim. She


    preserved herself for her father's sake. His
    blindn('55 permitted her to continue a delusion,
    at 6rst 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 audi-
    tors.
    The very day that we arrived she had been
    attacked by symptomatic illness. She was para-
    lyzed with horror at the idea of leaving her
    aged, sight1ess father alone on the empty earth;
    but she had not courage to disclose the truth,
    and the very excess of her desperation ani~

    mated her to f>urpassing 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

    "~
    244 THE LAST lorAN.

    the creation of the adorned earth, soon to he


    her tomb.
    ,.",.e came to her like visitors from heaven
    itself; her hig h-wrought cour~ooe; her hardly
    sustained finn ness, Bed ",;th the appearance of
    relief. With a shriek she rushed towards UIl,

    embraced the knees of Adrian, and uttering but


    the words, " 0 save my father !" witb sobs and
    hysterical cries, opened the long-shut floodgates
    of her woe.
    Poor girl I- 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
    spea'k , till, twelve hours after, kindly death took
    him to his brl.!akless repose. . They rest beneath
    the sod , the tree 'their monument ;-the hal~
    THE LAS1' lIAN.

    lowed ~pot is distinct in my memory. paled in


    by craggy Jura. and the far, immeasurable
    Alps ~ the spire of the church they frequented
    still poi~ts 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.
    ~46 THE. LAST MAN.

    CHAPTER VIII.

    ,V E 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 expeetation on .her congregation of
    hills and snowy crags, and opened our bosoms
    with renewed spirits to the icy Biz, which eYeD

    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 inhn.bitants. Nor bleak mountain-top, nor
    THE LA5r MAN. 247

    snow+llourished rivulet; not the ice-laden Biz,


    nor thunder, the tamer of contagion, had pr~ '

    5el'ved 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 rem~

    nant, tamed to mere submission to the coming


    blow. A train half dead, through fear of death
    - & hopeless, unresisting, almost reckless crew·,

    which, in the tossed bark of life, had given up


    all pilotage, nod resigned themselves to the de-
    structive 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 swift!y 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 hiU~side, while
    THE LAST ~[AN.

    the flock is in the pen, and dies before morning-


    dawn. Like a cloud, like one of many that
    were spread in impenetrable woof oYer the sky,
    which, when the shepherd north has dri\'en its
    companions H to drink Antipodean noon," fad es
    and dissolves in the clear ether-Such were we!
    'Ve left the fair margin of the beauteous lake
    of Geneva, and entered the Alpine ravines;
    tracing to its source the bra\vling Arve, through
    the rock-bound valley of Servox, beside the
    mighty waterfalls, and under the shadow of the
    inaccessible mOllntains, 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 thou-
    sand 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 n ~essary to give life and beauty." ·
    Strange that we should seek shelter here!

    .. Mary Wollstonecraft's LeUers from Norway,


    THE LAST !IAN. 249

    Surely, if, in those countries where earth was


    wont, like a tender mother, to nourish her chil-
    dren, we had found her a destroyer, we need
    not seek it here, where stricken by keen penury
    iibe 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 con-
    gelated waters, the leafless groves of tempest-
    battered pines, dells, mere paths for the loud
    ava1anche, and hill-tops, the resort of thunder-
    storms. Pestilence reigned paramount even
    here. By the time (hat day and night, like
    twin sisters of equal growth, shared equally
    their dominion over the hours, one by one, be-
    neath the ice-caves, beside the wnters springing
    from the thawed snows of a thousand winters,
    another and .yet anotber of the remnant of the
    race of Man, closed their eyes for ever to the
    light.
    Yet we were not quite wrong in seeking a
    scene like this. whereon to close the drama.
    ]o[ :1
    THE L.o\ST ~IAN.

    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 dE'SOlation. Many sorrows
    have befallen man dur;ng his chequered course;
    and many a woe-stricken mourner has found
    himself sole survivor among many. Our misery
    took its majestic shape nnd colouring from the
    vast ruin, that accompanied and made one with
    it. Thus on 10v~ly earth, many a dark ravine
    contains a brawling stream, fihadowed by roman-
    tic 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, t.o
    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 wretch-
    ed humanity. The funeral procession of mo-
    narchs of old, was transcended by our splendid
    TUE LAST )lAN. 261

    shews. Near the sources of the Arveiron we


    performed the rites for, four only excepted, the
    last of the species. Adrian Rnd 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 pro-
    fane 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 perwns had sufficed to disturb the repose of
    this thawless region; and we had hardly left the
    cavern, before vast blocks of ice, detaching them_
    selves from the roof, fell, and covered the human
    image we had deposited , within. ,:ye had
    chosen a fair moonlight night, but our journey
    thither had been long, and the crescent sank be-
    hind the western heights by the time we had ac-
    THE LAST lIAN.

    ·complished 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 j at our feet Arv~on, white
    and foaming, dashed over the pointed rocks that
    jutted into it, and, with whirring spray· and
    ceaseless roar, disturbed the stilly night. YeUow
    lightnings played around the vast dome of Mont
    Blanc, silent as the snow-clad rock they illu-
    minated; all was bare, ,vild, and &ublime,
    while the singing of the pines in melodious mur-
    murings 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.
    THE LAST )'I A~. !US5

    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 ob-
    sequies we now celebrated. '¥ith 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 natiyc Europe-the luxurious Ahlatic- the
    swarthy African and free American had been
    vanquished and destroyed by her. Her bar-
    barous tyranny came to its close llere in the
    rocky vale of Chamounix.
    Still recurring scenes of misery and pain, the
    fruits of this distemper, made no more a part of
    254 'CHE LAST lIAN.

    our Jives-the word plague no longer rung in


    our ears-the aspect of plague incarnate in tbe
    human countenance no longer appeared before
    our eyes. From this moment I saw plague no
    more. She abdicuted her throne, Ilnd 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
    P!lst, that I cannot say whether the knowledge of
    this change visited us, as we stood on tbis sterile
    spot. It seems to me that it did j that a cloud
    seemed to pass from o\'er us, that a weight was
    taken from the rur; that henceforth we breathed
    morc freely, and raised our heads with some por_
    tion of former liberty. Yet we did not hope.
    W e were impressed by the sentiment, that our
    race was run, but that plague would nol be our
    destroyer. The coming time wa.s as Il mighty
    river, down which a cha.rmed boat is driven,
    whose mortal steersman knows, that the obvious
    peri! is nol the one he needs fear, yet that danger
    is nigh; and who floats awe.struck under beet.
    TilE l.A.~T llANo 255

    ling precipkes, through the dark and turbid


    waters- seeing in the distance yet stranger and
    ruder shapes, towards which he is irresistibly
    impelled .• 'Vhat would become of us? 0 for
    some Delphic oracle, or Pythian maid, to utter
    the secrets of futurity! 0 for some <EdipliS to
    solve the riddle of the cruel Sphynx ! Such
    <Edipus 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, anel reveal the
    meaning of the enigma, whose explanation c1osro
    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 ber vital principle. " Thus
    arc we left," said Adrian, "two mebocholy
    blasted trees, where once a forest wa,'cd, We
    are left to mourn, and pine, and die. Yet even
    now we have onr duties, whic11 we must Itring
    256 THE LAST llANo

    ourselves to fulfil: the duty of bestowing plea-


    sure ,vhere we can, and by force of love, irradi.
    ating with rainbow hues the tempest of grief.
    Nor wil1 I repine if in this extremity we preserve
    what we now possess. Something tells me, Vcr-
    ·ney, that we need no longer dread our cruel
    enemy, and l "c1ing with delight to the oracular
    voice. Though strange, it will be sweet to roark
    the growth of your little boy, and the develop-
    ment of Clara's young heart. In the midst of a
    desert world, we are everything to them j 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 pmvers; but, long before
    that time, we may all be cold, as he who lies in
    yonder tomb of icc. 'lVe need only pro-
    vide for the present, and endeavour to fill with
    THE LAST llANo 257
    pleasant images the inexperienced fancy of your
    lovely niece. The scenes which now surround
    us, vast and sublime as they are, arc not such as
    can bt'St 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. 'Vinter will soon be
    here, to clothe this wilderness in double deso-
    lation; but we will cross the bleak hill-tops, and
    lead her to scenes of f(>rtility 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 Cha-
    mounix on the following day. We had no
    cause to hasten our steps; no e'-ent was trons-
    acted beyond our actual sphere to enchain our
    resolves, so we yieldcd to e'-ery idle whim, and
    deemed our time well spent, wben we could be-
    hold the passage of the hours witl!out dismay.
    ,Ve loitered along the lo·;ely Va1c of Scrvox;
    passed long hours on the bridge, which, crossing
    THE LAST AU.N.

    the ravine of Arve, commands a prospect of its


    pine-clothed depths, and the snowy mountains
    that wall it in. \Ve 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 reluc<ance 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 Im'ed. Perhaps, because we had now so
    few impulses urging to 8. choice between two
    modes of action, we were pleased to preserve the
    existence of onc, and preferred the prospect of
    wbat we were to do, to the recollection of what
    had been dune. We felt that for t~is year dCtflger
    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
    ,vith tumultuous heavings; frailer than the "snow
    TIll! LAST llANo 259

    Call in the river,» were we each and all-but. we


    strove to give liCe and individuality to the mete-
    oric course of our several existences, Ilnd to feel
    that no moment escaped us unenjoyed. Thus tot-.
    teringon the dizzy brink, we were happy. Yes!
    as we sat beneath the toppling rocks, beside the
    watcrfnlls, near
    - - Forests, ancient as the hills,
    And foldiog sunny spots of grceoery.

    where the cbamois grazed, and the timid squir-


    reI 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, 0 days of joy-days, when eye spoke to
    eye, and voices, sweeter than the music of the
    swinging branches of the pines, or rivulds gen.
    tIe murmur, answered mine-yet, 0 days replete
    with beatitude, days of loved society-days un.
    utterably dear to me forlorn-pass, 0 pass be-
    Core me, making me in your memory forget
    what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes
    blot this senseless paper-behold, how my fea-
    260 THE LAST 3IAX.

    tures are convulsed by agonizing throes, at your


    mere recollection, now that, alone, my tears flow,
    my lips quiver, my cries fill the air, unseen, un-
    marked, unheard! Y et, 0 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 ou r repast, and
    cheated our regrets by gay sallies or learned
    disquisitions. The live.loog day we sauntered
    on, still keeping in view the end of our jour-
    ney, but careless of the hour of its comple.
    tion. As the evening star shone out, and the
    orange sunset, far in the west, marked the posi.
    tion of the dear land we had for ever left, talk,
    thought enchaining, made the hours lIy- O that
    we had li"ed 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
    THE LAST lU.N. ~61

    of unknown men, we had wandered truly com.


    panionlcss till life's last term. In this manner,
    we endea\'oured to 'console each other; in this
    manner, true phjlosophy taught us to reason.
    It was the delight of Adrian and myself to
    wait on Clam, naming her the little queen of the
    world, ourscl"cs her humblest sen·itors. " Then
    we arri"cd 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 inha.
    bitants; to seek food for her, and minister to her
    wants with assiduous tenderness. Clara entered
    into our scheme ,dth childish gaiety, lIer chief
    business was to attend on En·lyn; but it was
    her sport to nrray herself in splendid robes,
    adorn herself with sunny gems, and ape a
    princely state. Her religion, deep nod pure,
    did not teach her to refuse to blunt thus the keen
    &ting of regret i her youthful "i"aeily made her
    enter, heart and soul, into these strange masque.
    rades.
    \Ve had resoh'ed to pass the ensuing winter.
    THE LAST MAN.

    at Milan, which, as being a large and luxurious


    city, would aH"ord us choice of homes. 'Ve bad
    descended the Alps, and left fur behind their
    vast forests and mighty crags. We entered
    smiling Italy. Mingled grass and corn grew in
    her plains, the unpruned vines threw their Juxu-
    riant branches around the elms. The grapes,
    overripe, had fallen on the ground, or hung pur-
    ple, 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 chesnuts, 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 fotatues-while in this genial clime
    the animn1s, in Dew found liberty, rambled
    through the gorgeous palaces, and hardly feared
    ,
    TUi: LAST MAN.

    our forgotten aspect The dov6-Coloured oxen


    turned their full eyes on us, and paced slowly
    by; Il startling throng of silly sheep, with patter.
    ing feet, would start up in some chamber, for.
    merly dedicated to the repose of bettuty, and
    rush, huddling past us, down the marble stair.
    case 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
    ex.hibition of change-when the palace had be.-
    come a mere tomb, pregnant with fetid stench,
    strewn with t~e dead; and we could perceive how
    pestilence and fcar had played strange antics,
    chasing the luxurious dame to the ~ank 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.
    lVe arrived at Milan, and stationed ourselves
    in the Vice-Roy's palace. Here we made laws
    for ourselves, dividing our day, and fixing di...
    ~64 THE LAST MAN.

    tinct occupations for each hour. In the morning


    we rode in the adjoining country, or wandered
    through the palaces, in search of pictures or an_
    tiquities. 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 re-
    calling combi~ations and emotions never more to
    be experienced by us. Metaphysical disquisi_
    tion; 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 tas to
    read of Atlantis and Utopia; or such as referred
    to nature only, and the workings of one partieu ..
    lar mind; but most of all, talk, varied and ever
    new, beguiled our hours.
    "\Vhile we paused thus In our onward career
    towards death, time held on its accustomed
    course. Still and for ever did the earth roll
    on, enlhroned in her atmospheric car, speeded
    by the force of the invisible coursers of never-
    .erring necessity. And now, this dew-drop III
    TllJ:.: LAST )IA~. 265

    the sky, this ball, ponderous with mountains,


    lucent with waxes, passing from the short ty_
    ranny of watery Pisces and the frigid Ram, en-
    tered the radian t demesne of Taurus and the
    Twins. There, fanned by vernal airs, the Spirit
    of B~auty sprung from her coJd repose; and,
    with winnowing wings and soft pacing feet, set
    a girdle of verd ure around the E'artb, sporting
    among the violets, hiding within the springing
    foliage of the trees, tripping ligh tly down the
    radiant streams into the sunny deep. " For 10 !
    winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the
    flowers appenr on the earth, the time of the
    singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
    lurtle is heard in our land; the 6g tree putteth
    for~h her green figs, and the vi nes, with the
    tender grape, give a good smell.'" Thus WIiS it
    in the time of the ancient regal poet; thus was
    it DOW.

    Yet how could we miscrable hail the op..

    • Solomon's Song.
    VOL. JIJ.
    266 THE LAST .!oIAN.

    proach of this delightful season? Vle hoped


    indeed that death did not now as hereto-
    fore 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. 'Ve 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 dif'nppcared from
    the hill tops. 'ren miles from Como, under the
    steep heights of the eastenl mountains, by the
    margin of the Jake, was a "ilIa called the
    Pliniana, from its being built on the site of a
    fountain, whose periodical ebb ai:d flow is de-
    scribed 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 ha1ls, hung with splendid tapestry, and
    paved with marble, o(X'ned on each side of a
    Tn~ LA ST MAX. 261
    conrt, of whose two other sides onc overlooked
    the deep dark lakc, and the other was bounded
    by a mountain, frolll whose stony side gushed,
    with roar and splash, the celebrated fountain.
    Above, underwood of myrtle and tufts of odor-
    ous plants crowned the rock, while the star-
    pointing g iant cyprcs.s:es reared themselves in
    the blu e air, and the recesses of the hill s were
    adorned with the luxuriant growth of chesnut-
    trees. He~e we fixed our summer residence.
    ,:ye had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed, now
    stemming the midmost waves, now coasting the
    over_hanging and craggy banks, thick sown with
    evergreen!', which dipped their !>hining leaves
    in the waters, and were mirrored in many a
    little bay and creek of waters of translucent
    darkness. H ere orange plants bloomed, here
    birds poured forth melodious hymn s; and here,
    during spring, the cold snake emerged fl"o~n the
    clefts, and basked on the sunny terraces of rock.
    ,V ere we not happy in this paradisaical
    retreat? If some kind spirit had whispered
    268 THE LAST MAK.

    forgetfulness to us, methinks we shol1ld haye


    b('en happy here, where the precipit.ous moun-
    tains, nearly pat hle~s, shu! from our "iew the
    far fields of desolate carlh, and with small exer-
    tion of the imagi nation, we might fan cy that the
    ('ities 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 remed il ess
    cutting off from our extinct species.
    Not one among us enj oyed the beauty of this
    ;iccnery so much as Clara. Before we quitted
    Milan, a change had taken place in her habits
    1I.Ild manners. She lost her gaiety, she laid
    agjde her sports, and assumed an almost "estal
    plainness of attire. She shunned us, retiring
    wi th Ew~lyn 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
    lllll1 watch him with sadly tender smiles, and
    eyes b right with tears, yet without a word of
    complnint. She appro3.chcd us timidly, avoided
    TilE I.AST U."N.

    our CaI'esses, liar shook off her embarrassment


    till some serious discussion or lofty theme called
    her for awhile out of herself. Her beauty g rew
    as n rosc, which, opening to the summer wi nd,
    discloses leaf after leaf till the sense aches with
    its excess of loveliness. A slig ht and variable
    colour ting€d her checks, and her motions seemed
    attuned by some hidden harmony of snrpassi ng
    l;weetness. We redoubled our tenderness and
    eU fl~est attentions, She received them with
    grateful smiles, that fled swift as sunny beam
    from a glittering wave on an April day.
    Our only acknowledged p oint of sympathy
    with her, appeared to be Evelyn. This dear
    little fellow was a comforter and delight to us
    beyond ull words. His buoyant spirit, and his
    innocent ignorance of our vast calamity, were
    balm to us, whose thoughts and feeling<3 were
    over_wrought and spun out in the immensity of
    apcculativc sorrow. To cherish, to caress, to
    amuse him was the common task of all. Clara,
    who felt towul'dshim in some degree like a young
    270 THE I, AST ~u.N.

    mother, grate,.fully acknowledged our kindne.s


    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 youtllfllI happiness,
    It was the custom of Adrian and myself to
    go out each day in our skiff. to forage in th~

    adjacent country. In these expeditions we were


    seldom accompanied by Clara or her little
    chargc-, but our return was an hour of hilarity.
    Evelyn ransacked our stores with childish eager-
    ness, and we always brought some new fouDd
    gift for our fair companion, Then too we made
    discoveries of lovely scenes or gay palaces,
    whither in the t!yening we all proceeded. Our
    sailing expeditions were most dh'ine, 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
    THE LAST llANo 271

    awoke the echoes, and gave the change to our


    careful minds. Clara at such times often re-
    turned to her fanner habits of free converse
    nnd 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 1I5uai
    10 he met at the- port by Clara and Evelyn, and
    we were somewhat surprised to !lee the beach
    vaCtlnt. I, as my nature prompted, would not
    prognosticate evil, but explained it away as a
    mere ca.<;ual incident. Not so Adrian. He
    was seized with sudden trembling and apprehen_
    sion, and he called to me with vehemence to
    steer qui~kly for land, and, when near, leapt
    from the boat, half falling into the water; and,
    scrambling up the steep bank, hastenod along
    the narrow strip of garden, the only level space
    between the lake and the mountain. I followed
    ,,;t!lOut delay; the garden and inner court were
    empty, so was the house, whose every room we
    272 THE LAST MAN.

    visited. Adrian called loudly upon Clara's


    name, and was abollt to rush up the near moun-
    tain-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 po~tllre 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 II.

    word, again entered the summer-hollse. Her


    quh'ering 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 {e"er, and now lny
    torpid and speechless on a little couch in the
    summer_house.
    For a whole fortnight \I'e unceasingly
    watched beside the poor child, as his life de-
    clined under the ravages of a virulent typhu!.
    His little form and tiny lineaments encagcd the
    embryo of the world-spanning n;ind of man.
    TirE LA ST MA N.

    Man's nature, brimful of passions and affection:.,


    would have h ad an home in that little heart,
    whose swift pulsntions hurried towards their
    close. Hh small hand's fin e mechani.im, now
    flaccid and unbent, would in the growth of sinew
    and muscle, have achieved works of beauty or oC
    itrength. 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.
    vVe watched at his bedside, and when the ae-
    cess of fever was on him, we neither spoke nor
    looked at each other, marking only his ob-
    structed 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 cou ld not express onr long drawn
    agony; yet how c:m words image sensations,
    whose tormenting keenness throw us back, as it
    were, on the deep roots and hidden foundation s
    of our nature, which shake our being with earth.
    N 5
    THE LAST MA N.

    quake-throe. so that we leave to coo6de in ac-


    customed feelings which like mother.earth sup-
    port us, and cling to some vain imagination or
    deceitful hope, which win soon be buried in the
    ruins occasioned by the 6nal shock. I have
    called that period a fortnight, which we passed
    watching the changes of the sweetchild'smalac1y
    -and snch it might have been-at night, we won.
    dered to find another day gone, while eaeh
    particular hour seemed endless. Day and night
    were exchanged for one another uncounted j

    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 oUler for a short


    period to conceal our sobs and tears. 'Ve en.
    deavoured in '"ain to 3bstr3ct Clara from this
    deplorable scene. She SIlt, hour after hour.
    ooking at him, now softly arranging his pillow,
    and, while he bad power to swallow, admini~

    tered his drink. At length the moment of his


    death came: the blood paused in its flow-his
    eyes opened, and then closed again: without
    THE ',A~T torAN.

    convulbion or sigh, the fmi l 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. 'Vas that my child-that moveless
    decaying inanimation? l\Iy child was en-
    raptured by my caresses; his dear voice c1oath-
    ed wilh 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 waf!. Take, 0 earth, thy debt! freely and
    for ever I consign to thee the garb thou
    didst aH'ord. But thou, sweet child, amiable
    and beloved boy, either thy spirit has sought a
    filter dwelling, or, shrined in my heart, thou
    livest while it lives.
    'Ve 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 some_
    thing in this scene of tran~ndent beauty, in
    ~76 THE LAST llAlf.

    these trees, and hills and waves, that for e"er


    whisper to me, leave thy cumbrous fl esh, 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 nnd noisy water-
    fall; to Eve1yn's- little gravt! we bade farewell!
    and then, with heavy hearts, we departed on
    our pilgrim~ae towards Rome
    TilE LAST loU.S.

    CHAPTER IX .

    Now-soft aw bile-have I arrived so near


    the end? , Yes! it is all over now-a step or
    two over those new made graves, llnd the weari.
    some way is done. Can I accomplish my task?
    Can I streak my paper with words capacious ot
    the grand conclusion? Arise, black Melo.n.
    choly! quit thy Cimmerian solitude! Bring
    with thee murky fogs from hell, which may
    drink up the day; bring blight and pes-
    tiferous exhalations, which, entering the hollow
    caverns nnd brcathing places of earth, may fill
    her stony veins with corruption, so that not only
    herbage may no longer flourish, the trees mtly
    rot, and the rivers run with gaIL-but the ever.
    ~78 THE r.AST MAN.

    lasting moulltains be decomposed, and the


    mighty deep putrify, and the genial atmosphere
    which clips the globe, lose all powers of gene.
    ration and sustenance. Do this, sad visaged
    power, while I write, while eyei read these
    pages.
    And 'I\'ho 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-be·
    warc, lest the cheerful current of thy blood be
    checked, thy golden locks turn grey, thy sweet
    dimpling smiles be changed to fixed, harsh
    ..... rinkles! Let not day look on these lines, lest
    garish day waste, turn pale, and die. Seek a
    cypress gI'OVC, whose moaning boughs will be
    }larmony befitting; seek some cave, deep em-
    bowered 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,
    TJlE J,.-\ST lIAN. 279
    \\ hich refuses to delineate distinctly succeedin~

    events. Sometimes the irradiation of my friend's


    gentle smile comes before me; and mcthin'ks
    ts light spans and fills eternity-then, again, I
    feel the gasping throes-
    \Ve quitted Como. nnd In compliance with
    Adrian's earnest desire, we took Venice III our
    way to )tome. There was something to the
    English peculiarly attractive in the idea of this
    wavc-encircled, islond.enthroned city. Adrian
    had neyer seen it. We went down the Po and
    the Drenla in n 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
    bank~ indistinct, and our solitude less remark.
    able; 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 e:mvass, ac·
    corded in harmonious strain. Clara, long over-
    come by excessive grief, had to a great degree
    !lRO THE LAST 1.l.o\N.

    cast aside her timid, cold reserve, and received


    OUf attentions with grateful tenderness. 'Vhile
    Adrian with poetic fervour discoursed of the
    glorious nations of the dead, of the beauteous
    ,
    earth and th e fate of mall, she crept near him,
    drinking in his speech with silent pleasure. 'Ve
    banished from our t.:llk, and as much as possible
    from ollr thoughts, the knowledge of our de-
    solation. And it would be incredible to an in-
    habitant of cities; to one among a busy throng,
    tn what extent we succeeded. It was as a mall
    confined in a dungeon, whose small and grated
    rift at first renders the doubtful light more sen-
    sibly obscure, till, the visual orb having drunk
    in the beam, and adapted itself to its scantiness,
    he finds that denr noon inhabits his cell. So
    we, a simple triad on empty earth, were multi-
    plied to each other, till we became all in all.
    W ~ stood like trees, whose roots are loosened by
    the wind, which support one Ilnother, leaning
    and clinging with encreased fervour while the
    wintry storms howl.
    TilE LA ST MAN. ~l

    Thus we floated down the widening stream of


    the Po, sleeping when the cicale so.'lng, awake
    with the stars. ,¥e 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
    cu~las and towers, and shed its ' penetrating
    light upon the glassy waters. 'Vrccks of gon_
    dolas, and some few uninjurro ones, were
    stre\voo. on the beach at Fusina, 'Ve embarked
    in one of these for the widowed daughter of
    ocean, who, abandoned and fallen, sat forlorn on
    her propping isles, looking towa.rd ~ the far moun~
    tains of Greece, "'e rowed lightly over the
    Laguna, and entered Canale Grande. The tide
    ebbed sullenly fl'om out the broken portals and
    violated hali,s of Venice: sea weed and sea mon_
    sters were left on the blackened marble, while
    the salt ooze defaced the matchless works of art
    that adorned their wans, and the sea gu 11 flew
    out from the shattered window. In the midst
    of this appalling ruin of the mODuments of
    THE LAST lU,N.

    man's power, nature asserted her as<:endancy,


    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 boot, so tranquil, so
    lovely, that it seemed to invite us to quit the
    land strewn with ruins, and to seek reruA'e from
    sorrow and fear on its placid extent.
    'Ve saw the ruins of this hapless city trom
    the height of the tower of San Marco, immedi-
    ately under us, and turned with sickening hearts
    to the sea, which, thougl1 it be a grave, rears
    no monument., discloses no ruin. Evening llad
    come apace. The sun set in calm majesty be-
    hind the misty summits of the A pennines, a.nd
    its golden and roseate hues painted the moun_
    tains oCthe opposite shore, "'l.'hat land," said
    Adrian, "tinged. with the last glories of the
    dRY, is Gree<:e." Greece! The sound had a
    responsive chord in the bosom of Clara. She
    vehemently reminded. us that we had promised
    'IRE LAST )IAN. 28S

    to take her once again to Greece, to th .. tomb of


    her parents. 'Yhy go to Rome? what should
    we do at Rome? 'Ve 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 dis-
    tance 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. 'fhe season was favourable;
    the north_west that blew would take us trans-
    "erscly 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
    lithmus of Corinth, without much land-travelling
    or fatigue, find ourselves at Athens. This ap-
    peared to me wild talk; but thc sea, glowing
    with a thousand purple hues, Jo..'lked so brilliant
    and safe; my beloved companions wereso earnest,
    so dctennined, that, when Adrian said, H 'VeIl,
    THE LAST lLo\s".

    though it is not exactly what )'ou wish, yet COil·

    sent, to ple..'\Se me"- I could no longer refuse.


    That evening we selected !l veisel, whose size
    just S<"CUleG fitted for our enterprize; we bent
    the sails and put the rigging in order, and re-
    posing that night in one of the city's thousand
    palaces, agreed to embark at sunt'isc the follow.
    ing mOl'ning.

    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


    l\Ioschus's poem, as in the clear morning light,
    we rowed o\'er the Laguna, past Lido, into the
    open sea-T would have added in continuation,

    But, when the roar


    Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam
    Gathers upon the sea, and vast wave. burst-

    nut my friends declared that such verses were


    evil augury; so in cheerful mood we left the
    shallow walen::,and, wIlen out at sea, unfurled our
    TUE LAST MAN. 258

    SAils to catch the fa\'Oumhle breeze. The laugh-


    inl!morning air filled them, whilesun·lighl bathed
    earth, sky anrl ocean- the placid waves divided
    to receive ou r keel, and playfully kissed the
    dark fJ.idcs of our litlle skiff, murmuring a
    welcome; as land receded, still the blue expanse,
    mMt waveless, twin siSler to the nzure empyrean,
    afforded smooth conduct to our hllrk. As the
    air anel waters were tranquil and balmy, 50 ',cre
    our minds steeped in quiet. In comparison with
    the unstained deep, funereal earth appeared a
    grave, its high rocks and stately mountains were
    hut monuments, its trees the plumes of a hene,
    the brooks and ri"ers brackish with tears for
    departed man. Farewell to d~solate towns-to
    fields with their S.1.\'age intermixture of corn and
    weed s-to e\'cr multiplying relics of our lost
    'pecies. Ocean, we commit ourselves to thee-
    even as the patriarch of old floated above the
    drowned world, let us be saved, as thus we be-
    take ourselves to thy perennial flood.
    Adrian sat at the helm; I attended to the
    !la6 TilE LAST MAN.

    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 pennitted us to hold our course. As
    lazy, fair-weather sailors, careless of the coming
    11our, we talked gaily of our coasting voyage, of
    our arrival at Athens. 'Ve would make Oilr

    home of ooc of the Cyclades, and there in myrtle-


    grove!;, amidst perpetual spring, fanned by the
    wholesome sea.-breezes-we would live long years
    in beatific union-'Vas there such a thing as
    death in the world ?-
    The sun passed its zenith, and lingered down
    the stainless floor of hea\'en. Lyin?, in the boat,
    my face turned up to the sky, ] thought I saw
    on its blue white, mlirblcd streaks, so slight, so
    immateria1, that now I said-They are thcre-
    and now, It is a mere imagination. A sudden
    fear stung me while I gazed i and, starting up,
    and running to the prow,-as I stood, Illy hair
    was gently lifted on my IJrow -a dark line of
    ripples appeared to the east, gaining rapidly on us
    THE 1..... !lT !lAN. 287

    -my breathless remark to Adrian, was followed


    by the flapping of the canvas, as the ad\~erse
    wind struck it, and our boat lurched-IOwift as
    .. speech, thc web of the storm thickened over head,
    the sun went down red, the dark sell was strewed
    with foam, and our skiff rose and fell in its en-
    creasing furrows.
    Behold us now in our fmil tenement, hem-
    moo in by hungry, roaring \vaves, buffeted
    by winds. In the inky east two vast clouds,
    sailing contrary ways, met; the lightning leapt
    forth, and the hoarse thunder muuered. 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 WDXes.
    Great God! And we alone-we thrce-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
    iCa around-rontracted to my "jew-they and
    THE LAS'l' nAN.

    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, " Y ct they shall b ~ saved!" Clara,
    visited by an human pang. pale and trembling,
    crept ncar him-he looked on her with an en_
    cournging smil e- H Do you fear, sweet girl?
    0, do not fear, we shall soon be on shore !"
    The darkness prevented me from seeing the
    changes of her countenence; but her voice was
    clear and sweet, as she replied, " ''''hy should
    J feal'? neither sea nor stonn can harm us, if
    mighty destiny or the ruler of destiny does not
    permit. And then the stinging fear of survivi ng
    either of you, is not here--one death will clasp
    us undi"ided."
    Meanwhile we took in all our sails, sa\'e a
    Wb; and, as soon as we might without danger,
    changed our course, running with the wind for
    the Italian shore. Dark night mixed every-
    TilE LAST )lAN. 289
    thing; we hardly discerned the white crests or
    the murderous surges, except when lightning
    made brief noon, and drank the darkness, shew-
    ing 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 re-
    doubled fury. We were certainly near the
    shofe-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, di::.-
    closing 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
    TOL. Ill. o
    THE LAST MAN.

    ground immediately at his feet. What to do


    we knew not-the breakers here, there, every~

    where, encompassed us--thcy roared, and


    dashed, and flung their hated spray in our
    faces. 'Vith considerable difficult) and danger we
    succ~ded at length in altering our course, nnd
    stretched out from shore. I urged my compa-
    nions to prepare for the wreck of 'ou r little sk iff,
    and to bind themselves to some oar or spar which
    might suffice to float them. I was myself an e:<~

    ceUent swimmer-the very sight of the sea was


    wont to raise in me such sensations, as a hunts-
    man experiences, when he hears a pack of hounds
    i n full cry; I loved to feel the waves wrap me
    and strive to ovel-pDwer me; while I, lord of my_
    self, moved this way or that, in spite of their
    angry buffeting'S. Adrian also could swi m-
    but the weakness of his fram e pre\'t'ntcd him
    from feeling pleasure in the exercise, or acquir~

    jng ~ny great expertness. Dut what power


    could tile su'Ongcst swimmer oppose to the over.
    powering violence of ocean in it s f~ry? My ef~
    £91

    forts 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 tne water
    out, 88 fast a .. it came in The while darknes5~
    fXllpablc and rayless, hemmed us round, dissi-
    pated only by the lightning; sometimes we be-
    held thunderbolts, fiery red, filII 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, OUl' single sail had been rent
    to ribbands, and borne down the stream of the
    wind. 'Ve 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 eyei to
    look 011 the lightning, I could discern by that
    momentary gleam, that reiignation had COIl-

    o ~
    THE 1.AST MAN,

    quered every fear. 'Ve 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 he
    given.
    Hours passed thus-hours which might write
    old Il,;,rYe on the face of beardless youth, and
    g rizzle the silky hair of infancy-hours, while
    the chaotic uproar continued, while each dread
    gust transcended in fury tllC - one before, and
    our skiff hung on the breaking wave, and then
    rushed into the valley below, and trembJed and
    spun between the watery precipices that seemed
    most to meet above her. For a moment the
    gale paused, and ocean sank to comparative
    TilE LAST MAN.

    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 ']05t," cried Clara, "Save
    yourselves-O save yourselves r' 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 ~ught 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; dark·
    ness was around. When the light of the tern·
    pest flashed, I saw the keel of our upset boat
    close to mc-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 ;
    TilE LAST llAN.

    I sprung from my hold, and with energy beyond


    my human strength, I dashed 3side the watcrs
    35 I strove to lay hold of him. As that hope
    failed, instinctive love of lifc animated me, and
    feelings of contention, as if a hostile will com_
    bated with mine. I breasted the surges. and
    flung thcm from me, as I "'ould the opposing
    front and sharpened claws of a lion about to
    enfang my bosom. ,"Vhen I had been beaten
    down by one "fV1l\'C. I rose on another, while I
    felt bitter pride cllr1 my lip.
    Ever since the storm had c81Tieu LIS near the
    shore, we had never attained any great distance
    from it. . ' Vilh every flash I saw the bordering
    coast; yet the progress I made 'Wll! small, while
    each wave, as it receded, earned me back into
    ocean's far abysses. At onc 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 thou-
    sand wild and delirious thoughts crossed me:
    TllE LAST lL\N. 295

    as well as I can now recall them, my chief feel-


    ing was, how sweet it would be to lay my head
    ou tbe 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, Rnd was ~rJ'3,in thrown down by the
    breakers-a point of rock to which I wns en-
    abled to cling. gave me a moment's respite; and
    then, taking advantage of the ebbing of the
    waves, I rau forwards-gained the dry sands,
    and fell seu:>eless on the oozy reeds that
    sprinkled them.
    I must have Jain long deprived of life; for
    when first, with a sickening feeling, I unclosed
    my eye<;., the light of mo~ing met them.
    Great change had taken place meanwhile: grey
    dawn dappled the flying clouds, which sped
    onwards, leaving visible at intervals vast lakes
    of pUl'e ether. A fountain of light arose in an
    cllcreasing stream from the east, behind the
    l'HE LAST MAN.

    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 retrospec-
    tive emotion I w~uld have started up, but my
    limbs refused to obey me; my knees trembled,
    the muscles had lost all power. I still ~elicved

    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 wannth. 'Vith the
    restoration of my bodily powers, my mind be-
    came in some degree aware of the universe oC
    misery, henceforth to be its dwelling. I ran
    to the water's edge, calling on the beloved
    names. Oceun drank in, and absorbed my feeble
    voice, replying with pitiless roar. I climbed a
    THE J.AST MAN. 297

    near tree; the level sands bounded by a pine


    forest, and thc sea clipped round by the horizon,
    was all that I could discern. In ,-run I ex~

    tended my researches alollg the beach; the mast


    we had thrown overboard, with tangled cordage,
    and remnants of a sail, was the sale relic land
    I'eceived of our wreck. Sometimes I stood
    still, and wrung my hands. I accused earth
    and sky~the universal machine and the AI.
    mighty power that misdirected it. Again I
    threw myself on the sands, and then the sigh.
    in'g wind, mimicking a human cry, roused rue to
    bitter, fallacious hope. Assuredly if any little
    bark or smallest canoe had been n{!Dr, I shouU
    have sought the savage plains of ocean, found
    the dear remains of my lost ones, and clinging
    round them, h<l;ve shared their grave.
    The day passed thus; each momenf) 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 fX>tion
    to the dregs; I was not yet persuaded of my
    03
    298 THE LAST lIAN.

    loss; I did not yet feel in every pulsation, in


    every nerve, in every thought, that I remained
    alone of my raee,_that I was the LAST llANo

    The day had clouded over, and a drizzling


    rain set in at sunset. E,"en the eternal skiC1
    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 arc described as dissolving away through
    weeping into c\rer_gushing fountains. A h ! that
    so it were; and then my destiny would be in
    some sort akin to the watery death of Adrian
    and Clara. Oh! grief i~ fantastic; it weaves a
    web on which to trace the history of its woe from
    every form and change around; it incorporates
    itself with aUllving nature; it finds sustenance
    in every object; as light, it fills all ulings, and,
    like light, it gives its own colours to all.
    I had wandered in my search to some dis..
    tance from the spot on which I had been cast,
    ,
    and C!lmc to one of those watch-towers, which
    at .
    . stated distances line the Italian shore.
    . I was
    TilE LAST MAX.

    glad of shelter, glad to find a work of human


    hands, after I had gazed so long on naturp's
    dr~ar barrenness; so 1 entered, and ascended the
    rough winding staircase into the guard-room . ,
    So far was fate kiud, that no harrowing vestige
    remained of its former inhabitants; a few planks
    laid across 1\""0 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 ap-
    petite, which perhap:ol existed before, but of
    which, until now, I was not awar~. Thirst also,
    violent anu parching, the result of the sea.
    water I had drank, and of the exhaustion of
    my frame, tormented me. Kind nature had
    gifted the stlpply of these wants with pleasurable.
    sensations, so that I _ even I !- was refreshed and
    calmed, ns 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 ..,.it:.
    tim of shipwreck. The earthy smell of the dried
    300 THE LAST MAN.

    leaves was balm to my sense after the hateful


    odour of sea-weed. I forgot my stale 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 cont,jn~nt and deep rooted mountains,
    together with tll C streams I loved, the woods,
    and the flocks-it raged around, with that con-
    tinued and dreadful roar which had accom.
    panied the last wreck of surviving humanity.
    ~s 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 onc', own hapless heart-to
    THE LAST MAN. SOl
    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-1 gasped-the
    veins and muscles of my throat swe1led, suffo.-
    cating 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
    30~ THE LAST iUAN.

    visited the detestedbeach-agrun 1 vainly looked


    far and wide-again I raised my unnnswcrcdcry,
    ifting up the only voice that could ever again
    force the mute air to syllable the human thought.
    'Vhat a pitiable, forlorn, disconsolate being
    1 was ! My very aspect and garb told the talc
    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 unut_
    terable cruelty.
    For a moment I compared myself to that mo-
    narch of the waste-Robinson Crusoe. " ' e had
    been both thrown companionless-he on the
    shore of a desolate island: Ion that of a desolate
    THE LAST !.lAN. 303

    world. I was rich in the so c<ll~ed goods of life.


    If I turned my steps from the near barren scene,
    and entered any of the earth's million citiel'!,
    I should find their wealth stored up for my
    accommodation-clothes, food, IJooks, and a choice
    of dwelling beyond the com~nand 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 whcse heats
    and storms he could ohtain small shelter.-
    Vie ..... ing the question thus, who would not have
    preferred the Sybarite enjoyments I could
    command, the philosophic leisure, and ample
    intf'llectual resources, to his life of labour and
    peril ? Yet he was Car happier than I: for he
    could hope, nor hope in vain-the de!ltincd
    ,'essel at last arrived, to bear him to country-
    men and kindred, where the events of his soli_
    tude bl'Came a fire-side talc. To none could I
    ever relate the story of my adversity; no hope
    had I. He knew that, beyond the ocean which
    304 THE LAST lIAN.

    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 though t ; and, when I slept,
    IJoth day and night were unbeheld of any. He
    had fled from his fellows, and was transported
    with terror at the print of n Imman foot. 1
    would have knelt dO\~n and worshipped the
    same. The wild and cruel Caribbec, the merei.
    Ics 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 na.
    ture 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 C<''''ODot be that I shall never be.
    hold D. fellow being more !-never !- never!-
    not in the course of years! -Shall I wake, and
    speak to none, pass the interminable hours, my
    !loul, islanded in the world, a solitary ..point;
    TUE LART MAN. 305

    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
    Crom 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 se-
    cond 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 stnirs of a palace, the bats and thE"
    owls were nestled in ·the tapestry; I step~
    softly, not to awaken the sleeping town: I re~

    buked a dog, that by yelling disturbed the sa-


    cref! stillness; I would not believe that an was
    306 THE LAST llANo

    as it seemed-The world was not dead, but I was


    Ulad; I was deprived of sight, hearing, and
    iellSC of touch; I was labouring under the force
    of a spell, which permitted me to behold all
    sight s of earlh, except its human inhabitants;
    they were pursuing their (jrdinary labours.
    Every house had its inmate; but I could not
    perceive them. ]f I could have deluded my.
    self in to a belief of this kind, I should have been
    far morc satisfied. But my brain, tenacious
    of it... reason, refused to lend itsc;r to such imn,...
    ginations-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 specie;;.
    '111e sun sank behind the western hill;;; 1 had
    fasted since the preceding evening, but, though
    faint and weary, I loathed food, nor ceased,
    while yet a ray of light remrunoo, to pace the
    lonely streets. Night came on, anu sent every
    living creature but me to the bosom of its mate.
    It \Vas my solAce, to blunt my mental agony
    THE LAST }JAN. 807

    by personal hardship-of the thousand beds


    around, I would not seek the luxury of one;
    I lay down on the pavement,-a cold mar_
    ble step served me for a pillow-midnight
    came; and then, though not before, did my
    wearied lids shut out the sight of thc twinkling
    stars, and their reflex nn the pavement ncar.
    Thus I passed the second night of lily desolalion.
    308 THE LAST MAl'J.

    CHAPTER X.

    I A WOKE in the morning, just as the higher


    windows of the lofty houses received the first
    beams of the rising sun. The birds were chirp-
    ing, perched on the window 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-morro,,-
    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 unta{.ght shepherd-boy, when
    TIlE L.AST lU:N . 309
    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-lowed 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 day's of ~he human race.
    l\ly 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 e::..:press. Y ct, as far as she
    , ..'as concerned, could I lament that she was .e-
    moved 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 counte-
    310 THlt LAST lfAX.

    113ncc expressed, was the prophet of many woes,


    not the Jess deep and drear, becauSE: she would
    have for ever conrealed them.
    . These two wondrously endowed beings had
    been spared fro!!l the universal wreck, to be my
    comp<'luions during the last year of solitude. I
    had felt, while they were with me, all their worth.
    I was canciolls that every other sentiment, regret,
    01' 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 de..'lrly recalled her to me; I enshrined h er
    meDlory in Adrian's form, and enoca\'oul'ed to
    confound the two dear ideas. I sollnd the
    depths of my heart, and try in ,'uin to draw
    thence the expressions that can typify my Jo\'e
    for these remnants of my race. If regret and
    sorrow came athwart me, as well it might in
    Gur solitary and uncertain state, the clear tonelii of
    THB r.AST JUAN. 311

    Adrian's voice, and his fervent look, dissipated


    the gloom ; or I was cheered unaware by the mild
    I01ltent and sweet resignation Clara's cloud.
    less brow and deep blue eyes expressed. They
    were all to me-the suns of my beni,ghted soul
    -repose in my weariness-slumber in my sleep-
    less 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'
    alld incommunicable abode.
    Nevel' shall I see them more. I am bereft of
    their dear converse-bereft of sight of them. I
    am n tree rent by lightning; never will the bark
    close over the bared fibres-never will their
    '1uivering life, torn by the winds, receive the
    upiate of a moment's balm. I am alone in the
    312 THE LAST .'1.-\1'(.

    world-but that expression as yet was less preg-


    nant with misery, than that Adrian an~ Clara
    are dead.
    The tide of thought and feeli.ng rolls on for
    ever the same, though the banks and shapes
    around, which govern its course, and the reflec-
    tion in the wavc, vary. Thus the sentiment of
    immediate loss in some sort decayed, while that
    of utter, irremediable loneliness grew on me with
    time. 'fhree days I wandered through Ra-
    venna-now thinking only of the beloved beings
    who slept in the oozy caves of ocean-llow
    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 1 ,wandered to and fro in
    this melancholy town. I passed whole hours in
    going from house to house, listening whether J
    could detect some lurking sign.of human exist-
    ence. Sometimes I rang at a bell; it tinkled
    through the vaulted rooms, and silence suc-
    THE LAST MA~. 313

    ceedcd to the sound. I called mysclf 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, n ceaseless, but con-
    fu~ 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, ulat
    the sun had set on the fifth day after my wreck,
    wheu, without purpose or aim, I quitted the
    town of Ravenna. I must have been very iU.
    Had I been possessed by more or less of de-
    lir~um, that night had surely been my last; for,
    as I continued to walk on the banks of the !\Ian_
    tone, whose upward course I follo\\'OO, I looked
    wistfully on the stream, acknowledging to my_
    VOL, 111. p
    TH~ LAST !'II-\:-I.

    self 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 exccl'.<;.j,·c
    weariness at length conquered my repugnance
    to the availing myself of the deserted habita-
    tions 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, guid.cd by the moon be..'lms, I found
    materials for striking.a light. 'Vithin this was
    a bed room; the couch was furnishe,l with
    sheets of snowy. whiteness; the wood piled on
    the hearth, and an array as for a meal, might
    almost ha"e deceived me into the dear belief
    that I had. here found what I had so long
    sought-on~ surviYol', a CQjlpanion for my
    loneliness, a . solace to my despair. I steeled
    TH~ LAST :MA):". 315

    'rnysplf against the delusion; the room itself was


    vacant: it VIas only prudent, I repeated to my.
    'self, to examine the rest of the house. I Inn-
    eied that I was proof agren's t 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. Dat"k nnd
    silent they were as vaults; so I r~tumed to the
    first chamber, wondering what sightless host
    had sp read the materials for my rCp!lSt, and my
    repose. I drew a chair to the table, and ex-
    a mined what the viands were of whieh I was to
    partake. In truth it was a death feast! The
    breed 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 tablecloth.; every utensil was covered
    with dust, with cobwebs, and myriads of dead.
    fli es : these were objccts each and 011 betokening
    llhc fallaciou sness bf my expectations. T ears
    rushed into my ~ycs ; surely this was a wanton
    display of the power of the destroyer. What
    .2
    816 THE LAST lIA:S-.

    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; man.
    kind was dead-I knew it wen-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-eut reality on my soul brought with it
    a fresh pang, telling me the yet unstudied les-
    son, 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-Dlen
    have accounted mine the prime of 1ife: 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
    TIlE LAST MAN. Sl7
    Cumberland; and with these advantages I wa..
    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 re-
    pose which I enjoyed, restored me the follow-
    ing morning to a greater portion of health and
    stteDgth, than I had experienced since my fatal
    shipwreck. Among the stores I had discoveJ'ed
    on searching the cottage the preceding night,
    was a quantity of dried grapes; these re-
    freshed me in the morning. as I left my lodging
    and proceeded towards a town which I dis-
    cerned at no great distance. As far as I could '
    di\'ine, 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 de-.
    lighted to traverse street after street, to look up
    at the taU houses, and repeat to myself, once
    they contained beings similar to myse1f-I was
    518 THE LAST lIAN.

    not always the wretch I am now. The wiele


    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 agairr
    peopled, we, the- lost< race; would" in the relics
    left behind, present no contemptible exhibitiol't'
    of our powers to the new comers.
    I entered one of the palaces, and opened the
    door ot a' magnificent saloon. I started-I
    looked> again with renewed wonder. 'Vhat
    wjld_loo~ing; unkempt, liaIC:..naked savage was
    11lat before me?' The surprise was momentary.
    1 perceived that it was I mySelf whom I be-
    held in a large mirror at the end of the han.
    No wonder that the lover of.' th~ princcly Idris'
    sllould fail to recognize himself in the miserable
    object d,ere pourtrayed. My tattered dress was-
    that in which I had- crawfed half alive from the
    empestuous sea. My long and tangled hair-
    hung in elf I~ks on my brow-my dark eyes)
    now hollow and wild, gleamed from under them
    -my cheeks were discoloured by the ja.undice-~
    THE T,AST MAN. 319

    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 re-
    mained, had not hope, without which I do not
    believe man could exist, whispercd to me, that, in
    such a plight, I should be an object of fcar
    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 win 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 fanner to my
    sorrowing heort.
    THE LAST MAN.

    After s~ch occupation, I visited every street,


    alley, and nook of Forli. These Italian towns
    presented an appearance of still greater deso-
    Jation, 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 b:e-
    tween the shores of Calabria and the northern Alp••
    My search was utterly vain, yet I did not de-
    spond. Reason methought wason my side; and
    the chances were by no means contemptible, that
    there .should exist in some part of Italy a survie
    vor like myself-of a wasted, depopulate land.
    As therefore I rambled through the empty
    town, I formed my plan for future operatioDi.
    I would continue to journey on towards Rome.
    After I should have satisfied myself, by a nar-
    row ~ch, that I left behind no human being
    in the towns through which I passed, I would
    write up in a conspicuous part of each, witli
    white paint, in three languages, that H 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 shou1d
    have consoled, and even enlivened me. But
    grief rp.nders ODe childish, despair fantastic. To
    this simple inscription, I merely, added the ad~

    juration, " Friend, come! I wait for thee!-


    Deh, vieni! ti aspetto ,'...
    On the following morning, with romething
    like hope for my companion, I quitted Forll on
    my way to Rome. Until now, agonizing retro..
    'spect, and dreary prospects for the future, had
    stung me when awake, and .cradled me to my
    repose. 1\Iany times I had delivered myself up
    to the tyranny of anguish-many times I re_
    solved a speedy end to my woes; and death by
    my own hands was a remedy, whose practica-
    bility was even .cheering to me. What could I
    fear in the other world? If there were an heiJ,
    and I were doomed to it, I should come an
    ~ 3
    TlI'E LAST MAN ..

    adept to the sufferance of its tortures-the ac'


    were easy, the speedy and certain end of my de '
    plorable tragedy. But now these thoughts faded
    before the' new born expectation. I went on my
    way, notns bcfore, feeling each hour, each minnte,.
    to be an age instinct with incalculable pain.
    As I wandered along the plain, at the foot of
    the AppenninCft-through their vallies. and over
    their bleak sunnnits, my path led me ' through
    a country wIucll 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 en-
    livening spirit had r~n11y ueserted me, and thus I
    wa,s obliged to call up all the fortitude I could
    command, Ilnd that was not much, to prevent, a
    r~uTrcnce of that chaotic and intolerable despair,
    that had succlJeded to the miserable shipwreck,.
    that had consummated every feaT, and dashed
    to annihilation every joy.
    I tose each day with the morning sun, ::md left
    TIIY. LAST MAN. 323

    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 pas-
    sage 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 se-
    lected, unable to lift the latch, and meet face to
    face blank · desertion within. Man'y nig bts,
    though autumnal mists were spread around, I
    passed under an ilex- many times I have supped
    on arbutus berries and chesnuts, making a fi re,
    gypsy-like, on the grourid-because wil d m:.-
    t.urnl scenery reminded me less acutely of my
    hopeless state of lonelines~. I counted the days,
    a1ld bore with me a peeled willow-wand, on
    which, as well as I could re:nerober, I had
    notched the days that had elapsed since my
    wreck, and each night I added another unit to
    tlle melancholy sum.
    I had toiled up a hill which led to Spolcto.
    524 THE LA!T llANo

    Around was spread a plain, encircled by the


    chesnut-covered Appennines. A dark ravine was
    on onc side, spanned by an aqueduct, whose taU
    arches were rooted in the dell below, and attested
    that man had once deigned to bestow labour and
    thought here, to adonl and civilize nature.
    Savage, ungrateful nature, which in wild sport
    defaced his remains, protruding her easily re-
    newed, and fragile growul of wild flowers and
    parasite plants around his eternal edifices. I
    sat on a fragment of rock, and lookro round.
    The iun bad bathed in gold the western atmo-
    sphere, 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 mttrks. Twenty-fi ve were already traced-
    twenty_five days had already elapsed, since hu-
    man 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
    TaE LAST MA)(. 525
    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 tIns was not a month!- Why talk of
    days-or weeks-or months-I must grasp year,
    in my imagination. if I would truly picture the
    future to myself-three, five~ ten, twenty, fifty
    anniversaries of that fatal epoch might elapsc-
    every year conlaining twelve plonths, each of
    more numerous calculation in a diary, than the
    twenty-five days gone by- Can it be P Will it
    be?-'Ve had b~n used to look forward to death
    tremulously-wherefore, but because its place
    was obscure P But more terrible, and far more
    obscure, was the unveiled coursc of my lone futu_
    rity. 1 broke my wand; I threw it from me.
    I needed no recorder of the inch and barley-
    corn growth of my life, whil~ my unquiet
    thoughts created other divisions, than those ruled
    over by the planets-and, in looking back on the
    age that had elapsed siD<:e I had been alone, I
    disdained to give the name of days and hours to
    3!!6 THE LAST MAN.

    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 stillevcning-air
    -the crickets chirped - the aziolo cooed at in.
    tervals. l\fy 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 pal)',
    crescent moon was visible, silver white, rumdst
    the orange sunset, and accompanied by one bright
    star, prolonged thus the twilight. A herd of
    ~ttle 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 ches.
    nut foliage. Yes, this is the earth; there is DO

    change-no ruin-no rent made in her verdu.


    rous expanse; she continues to \vbeel round and
    ·round, with alternate night and day, through
    THE LAST MAN. 327

    the sky, though man is not her &domer or in-


    habitant. Why could I not forget myself like
    one of those animals, and no longer suffer the
    wild tumult of . misery that I endu~e ? Yet,
    ah! what a deadly breach yawns between their
    stale and mine! Have not they companions?
    Have nOl they each their mate-their cheriihed
    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
    canDot 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 trnn~nds the fabulous
    nectar of the gods. Shall I not then complain ?
    Shall I not curse the murderous engine which
    hIlS mowed down the children of men, my
    THE LAST !lAN.

    brethren? Shall I not bestow a malediction on


    every other of nature's offspriqg, which dares
    live and enjoy, while I live and suffer ?
    Ah, no! I will discipline my sorrowing heart
    to sympnt11y in your joys; I will be happy, be.
    cause ye are so, Live on, ye innocents, nature'!
    selected darling(; I am not much unlike to you.
    Nervcs, pulsel brain, joint, and flesh, of such
    am I composed, nnd ye are organized by the
    same laws, I have something beyond this, but
    I will can it a defect, not an endowment, if it
    leads me to misery, while ye arc "h appy. 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 j I
    gathered a handful of fresh grass, and held it
    out; the little one nestled close to its mother,
    while she timidly withdrew. The malc stepped
    forward, fixing his eyes on me: I drew ncar,
    still holding out my lure, while he, depressing his
    head, rushed at me with his horns. ] was a
    THE LAST MAN. 329
    very fool; I knew it, yet I yidded to my rage.
    I snatched up a huge fragment of rock; it
    would have crushed my rash foe. I poiz~ it-
    aimed it-then my heart failed me. I hurled
    it wide of the mark; it rolled clattering among
    the bushes into dell. M y littl~ 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, S(lught to escape from my mise-·
    rable self.
    No, no, I will not live among the wild scene,
    of nature, the enemy of all that lives. I will seCk
    the towns-Rome, the capital of the world,
    the crown of man's achievements. Among i~

    itoried streets, hallowed ruins, and stvpendol.ls


    remains of human exertion, I shall not, 8S here,
    find every thing forgetful of man; trampling.
    on his memory, defacing his works, proclaiming
    from hill to hill, and vale to valc,-by the tor-
    rents freed from the boundaries which he imposed
    -by the vegetation liberated from the laws which
    THE LAST MAN.

    be enforced-by his · habitation abandoned to


    mildew and weeds, that his power is lost, his race
    annihilated for eVE'r.
    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 mort' dis-
    tinctly his power, since 11e had given: an
    honourable name and sacred title to what else
    would have been a worthless, barren track. I
    entered Eternal &me by the Porta del Popolo,
    and saluted with awe its time-honoured space.
    The wide square, the churches near, the long ex-
    tent of the Corso, the near eminence of Trinita
    dc' Monti appeared like fairy work, they were
    so silent, so peaceful, and so very fair. It W:loS

    evening; and the population of animals which


    still existed in thi! mighty city, had gone to
    rest; there was no sound,save the munnur~of

    its many fountains, whose soft monotony was


    harmony to my soul. The knowl~dge that I
    TJI:!. L.UT nAN. 3S1

    was in nome, soothed me j tha.t wondrous city,


    hardly more illustrious for its heroes and sages,
    than for the }X)wer it exercised over the ima. '
    gioation; of men. I went to rest that night;
    the eternal burning of my heart quenehed,-my
    senses tranquil.
    The nE'xt morning I eagerly began my ram-
    bles in search of oblivion. I ascended the
    many terraces of ·the garden of the Colonna
    Palace, under whose roofl had been sleeping;
    and passing out from it at its summit, I found
    myself on MonteCavalio. The fountain sparkled
    in the sun;· the obelisk abo"e pierced the clear
    dark-blue air. .The statues on each side, the
    works. ac; they are inscribed, ot Phidias and
    PraxiteJes, stood in undiminished grandeur,
    representing Castor and Pollux, who with
    majestic power tamed the rearing animal at
    their side. If those illustrious artists had ill
    truth chiselled these forms, how many pass-
    ing generations had their giant proportions
    outlived! and now they were viewed by the
    last of the species they were sculptured to
    THE LAST :MAN.

    represent and deify. I had shrunk into In-


    significance in my own eyes, as I considered the
    multitudinous l>eings 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 be-
    hold, and 8S 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 meo. I endea-
    voured 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 capimls-Corinthian and Ionic,
    and sparkling fragments of granite or porphyry.
    The walls of the most penurious dwellings en-
    close a fluted pillar or ponderous stone, which
    once made 'part of the palace of the Cresars;
    THE L.UT )fAN.

    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
    eheek I\.o-ainst 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 6gured 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
    TUE LAST llANo

    matchless specimens of humanity. At length,


    then, I had found a consolation. I . had not
    vainly sought the storied predncts of Rome-I
    had disCovered a medicine for my many llnd
    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 sun ..
    light on my right. Not far off, to the left, was
    the Tow& of the Capitol. Triumphal arches,
    the falling walls of many temples, strewed the
    ground at my feet. I strove,I resolYed, to force
    myself to see .the Plebeian multitude and lofty
    Patrician forms congregated around; and, as
    ule Diorama of ~rJ'(!5 passed across my subdued
    laney, they wer(> replaced by the modem Ro--
    man; the Pope, in his whit~ stole, distributing
    benedictions to the kneeling worshippers; the
    friar in his cowl; the dark-eyed girl, v(·iJed by
    her mezzera; the noisy, sun_burnt rustic, lead.
    ing his herd of buffaloes and oxen to the Campo
    Vaccine. The romance with which, dipping
    'lilE L.U'l blAN. 336

    our pencils in the rainbow hues of sky and


    transcendent nature, we to a degree gratuitously
    endow the I tali!llls, replaced the solemn gran~

    deur 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 hetoine to
    the author, reflected how the Enchantress Spirit
    of Rome held sovereign sway o,'er the minds of
    the imaginati,-e, until it rested on me-sole re-
    maining speCtllto!' 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 ahyss of the present-into self-knowledge--
    into tenfold sadness. I roused myself-I cast
    off my wak~l1g 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 Home sleeping
    336 THE LAST MAN.

    under its own blue eky; the shadows lay tran-


    quilly on the ground; sheep were grazipg un-
    tended on the Palatine, and a buffalo stalked
    down the Sacred'Vay that Jed to the Capitol I
    was alone in tbe Forum; alone in Rome; atone
    in the world. 'Vonid not one living man-onc
    companion in my weary solitude, be worth _aU
    the g:lory and remembered power of this time_
    honoured city? DOll hie sorrow-sadness, bred
    in Cimmerian caves, robed my soul in a mourn-
    ing 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 con:
    templation of the minutire of my situation. So far,
    I had not succeeded in the sole object of my de-
    sires, the finding a companion for my desolation.
    Yet I did not despair. It is true that my inscrip-
    tionswere set up for the most part, in insignificant
    THY. I.Asr MA~ . ssr
    towns and villages; yet, eyen without these me-
    morials, it was possible that the person, who like
    me should find himself alone in a depopulate
    land, should, like me, c?me to Uome. The more
    slender my expectation was~ the more I chose to
    build on it, and to ac~mmodate my 'actions to
    this vague possibility.
    It became necessary therefore, that for a time
    I should domc&ticate myself at Rome. It became
    necessary, that I should look my disaster in the
    face-not playing the school-boy's part of obe-
    dience without submission; enduring life, and
    yet rebelling against the laws by which I lived.
    Yet how could I resign myself? 'Vithout love,
    without sympathy, without communion with
    any, how could I meet the morning sun, and
    with it trace its oft repeated journey to the even-
    ing shades? 'Vhy did I continue to live-why
    not throw off the weary weight of tinie, and with
    my own hand, let out the fluttering prisoner from
    my ~l'I'()nized breast ?- It was not cowardice that
    withheld me; for the true fortitude was to endure;
    YOLo III.
    338 THE LAST MAN.

    and death had!l 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
    lliat my obedience was the result of sound reason.
    ing, pure feeling, and an exalted sense of the
    ,true excellence and nobility of my nature. Could
    I have seen in this empty earth, in tbe 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 100·c.
    liness for ever. But fate had administered life
    to me, when the plague had already seized on it!
    prey-she had dragged me by the hair from out
    the strangling waves-By such miracles she h3d
    bought me for her own; I admitted her autho-
    rity, and bowed to her decrees. If, after mature
    consideration, stich was my resolve, it was doubly
    necessary that 1 should not lose the end of life,
    the improvement of my faculties, and poison its
    TilE LAST .!oIAN. 339

    flow by repinings wi~hout end. Yet how cease


    to repine, since there was no hand ncar to ex-
    tract the barbed spear that had entered my heart
    of hearts? I stretched out my hand, and it
    touched none whose sensations were responsive to
    mme. I was girded, walled in, vaulted over, by
    aeven-fold barriers of loneliness. Occupation
    alone, if I could deliver myself up to it, would
    bc capable of affording an opiate to my sleepless
    sense of woe. Having determined to make Rome
    my abode, at least for some months, J made
    arrangements for my accommodation-I selected
    my home. The Colonna Palace was well adapted
    for Illy purpose. I ts grandeur-its treasure of
    paintings, its magnificent halls were objects sooth.
    ing and even exhilarating.
    I found the granaries of Rome well stored with
    grain, and particularly with Indian corn; this p~
    duct requiring less art in its preparation for food ,
    I selected as my principal support. I now found
    ule hardships and lawlessness of my youth turn
    W account. A man cannot throw off the habits
    340 THE LAST MAN.

    of sixteen years. Since that age, it is true, I had


    lived luxuriously, or at least surrounded by all
    the com'cniences civillzation afforded . But
    before that time, I had been " as UDroUth a
    savage, as the wolf-bred founder of old'Rome"-
    and now, in Rome itself, robber and shepherd
    propensities, similar to those aCits founder, were
    of advantage to its sole inhabitant. I spent the
    morning ;riding 8':ld shooting in the Campagna-
    I passed' long hours in the various gallcries- I
    gazed at each statue, and lost myself in a reverie
    before many a. fair Madonna or beauteous nymph.
    I haunted the V~tican, and stood sur:r:ounded
    hy marble fonns 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 accellts I reproached them. for their supreme
    indifference-for they were human sbapes, the
    human form divine was manifest in each fairest
    limb arid lineament. The perfect moulding
    brought with it the idea of colour and motion ;
    THE LAST ?!IAN.

    often, half in bitter mockery, half in self-delu sion,


    I clasped their icy proportion~, and, coming be-
    t ween Cupid and his P syche's lips, pressed the
    unconceiving marble.
    I endeavoured to read. I visited the libra_
    ries of Rome. I selected a volume, and, choosing
    some sequestered, shady nook, on the h:mk s of
    the Tiber, or opposite the fair temple in thc
    Dorghcsc Gardens, or under the old pyramid of
    Cestius, I endeavoured to conceal me from
    myself. and immerse myself in the subject traccd
    on tlle pages before me. As if in the same soil you
    plant nightshade and a myrtle tree, they will
    each appropriate the mould, moisturc, and air
    administered, for the fostering their several pro-
    perties-~o did my grief find sustenance, and
    power of ex istence, and growth, in what else
    had been divine manna, to feed radiant med ita_
    don. Ah! while I streak this IXlpcr with the
    tale of what my so named occupations werc-
    ovhile I shape the skeleton of my days- my
    Q S
    34~ THE LAST MAN.

    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. 0, worn and
    beating heart, may I dissect thy 6brt!S, and tell
    bow 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 aU 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 fuin, and through many a flowery
    glade, even to the mountain recess, (rom which
    in early youth I had first emerged.
    During one of my rambles through the habi_
    tations of Rome, I found writing materials on a
    ta.ble in an author's study. Parts of a manu_
    script lay scattered about. It contained a learned
    TliE LAST MAS.

    tlisquisition on the Italian language; one page


    an unfinished dC'dication to posterity, for whose
    profit the writer had sifted and selected the
    nicctie3 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 (w hat so capricious and childish as
    despair?) I wrotc,

    lIEDICATION

    TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD.

    SHADOWS, ARtSE, AND READ YOUR FALL!

    BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF TilE

    LAST )'!~N.

    Yet, will not this world here-peopled, and the


    children of a. saved pair of lovers, in some., to
    me unknown and unattainable seclusion, wan-
    dering to these prodlgious relics of the ante.pes~

    tilcntial race, seck to learn how beings so WOIl-


    844 THE LAST MAN.

    drOllS in their achievements, with imaginations


    infinite, and powers godlike, had departed from
    their home to nn 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 ~n cnd-I liftl my eyes from my
    paper-again they are lost to me. Again 1 feel
    that I am alone.
    A year has passed since I have been thus oc-
    cupied. The seasons have made their wonted
    round, and decked this eternal city in a change-
    ful robe of surpassing beauty. A year has
    passed; :md 1 no longer guess at my state or my
    prospects-loneliness is my familiar, SOITOW my
    TilE LAST MA.N. 345

    inseparable-companion. I have endeavoured to


    brave the storm-I have endeavoured to school
    myself to fortitude-I have sought ~ imbue
    myself with the lessons of wisdom. It will not
    do .• My hair has becom e 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
    butl could ever understand !- Noone haseDtered
    Rome. None will ever come. I sDlile bitterly
    at the delusion I have so long nourished, and
    stm 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 CllDlpagna, and has driven its
    brute inhabitants to take up their abode in the
    many dwellings of the deserted city-frost has
    346 THE LAST loIAX.

    suspended the gushing fountains-:,md Tre\·i


    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 So\'e~

    reign Pontiff was used to go in solemn pomp,


    and mark the renewal of the year by driving a
    nail in the gate o~ the temple of J anus. On that
    dny I ascended St. P eter's, and carved on it~

    topmost'stone Ule rera 2100, last year of the


    world!
    1\1y only companion was a dog, a shaggy fel_
    low, half water and half shepherd's dog, whom
    1 found tending sheep in the Campagna. His
    master was dead, but nevertheless h e continued
    fu lfilling 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
    e\'cry intruder. Riding in the Campagna I had
    come upon his sheep-walk, and {or some time
    obsen'ed his repetition of lessons lea~ned from
    mall, nOw useless, though unforgotten. His
    THE LAST MA"N. 347

    delight was excessive when he saw me. He


    sprung up to my knees; he capered round and
    lOund, wagging his tail, with thc 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 pat-
    tering steps and mine alone were he.'tro, when we
    entered the magnificent extent of naye and
    aisle of St. Peter's. We ascended the myriad
    steps together, when on the summit I achie,'ed
    my dC!'oign, 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 magni6cen~ abode.
    A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer,
    and that I would become. A hope of amelio-
    ration always attends on change of place, which
    would cven lighten the burthen of my life. I
    \

    818 THE LAST MAN.

    had been n fool to remain in Rome all this time:


    Rome noted for Mal'aria, the famous caterer
    for d,cath. But it was still possible, that, could
    I visit the whole extent of eMth, I should find
    in rome part of the wide extent a survivor.
    Mcthought the sea-side was the most prob..'\ble
    retreat to be chosen by such p. one. If le(t
    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 slopped their further pro-
    gr{'ss.
    '£0 that water-cause of my woes, perhaps
    now to be their cure, I would betake myself.
    Farewell, I taly ~-farewell, thou ornament of the
    world, matchless Rome, the retreat of the soli-
    tary one during long months I- to civilized life-
    to the settled 110me and succession of monotonous
    days, farewell! Peril will now be mine; and I
    hail her as a friend-death will perpetually cross
    THE LAST ~IAN.

    my path, and I will meet him as a benefactor;


    hardship. inclement weather, and dangerous
    tempests will be .my sworn mates. Ye spirits of
    stonn, receive me! yepowers 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 re-
    ward, and again feel my heart, bent nenr the
    heart of another like to mc.
    1~ibcr, the road which is spread by naturc's
    own hand, thrcading 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 nenr land, I would coast
    the lx-auteous shores and sunny promontories of
    the bluc Mediterranean, pass Naples, along Cula-
    bria, and would dare the twin perils of Scylla and
    Charybdis; then, with fear18s 3.im, (for ,vhat
    had I to lose?) skim ocean's surface towards
    Malta and the further Cyclades. I would
    VOL. In.
    350 THE LAST r,(AN .

    avoid Constantinople, the sight of whose well.


    known to{vcrs and inlet.;; 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 Carth~rre and deserted
    Lybia, I should reach the pillars of Hercules.
    And then-no matter where-the oozy cnves,
    and soundless depths of ocean may be my dwell.
    ing, 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 seck-
    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 tbe breE'zesof heaven, for ever round
    another and another promontory, anchoring in
    another and another bay, still ploughing seed.
    less ocean, lea"ing behind the verdant land of
    native Europe, ado,.... n the tawny shore of Afnell,
    THK LAST MAX. 351

    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 sinee, now a
    week ago, they came on me, as I stood on the
    height of St. Peter's, \hey have ruled my imagi-
    nation. 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 h~ve some task, however slight or ,"olun-
    tary, 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
    352 THE LAST ll..l..~.

    recOI·d dear to my heart in e\-erything. Thus


    around the shores of deserted earth, while the
    sun i.s high, and the moon ''fas:es or '''anes,
    angels, the spirits of the dead, aDd the cwr-open
    eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark,
    freighted ,.. ith Verney- the LAST :MAN_

    TH.t: E~D.

    Jutl/ Published, by the 8amtl AutRo",

    1.- FRA~"'KE~STEI~ ;

    THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.


    ;?,-oh.12J.

    2._ VALPERGA;
    OR, 'JR..E

    LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF C~\STRUCClO.


    3 'VOls. I~.

    (
    Brandeis University

    Waltham, Massachusetts

    The
    Henry
    and
    Hannah
    Hofheimer
    Collection

    You might also like