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THE LAST MAN. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 Let no man seek 
 Henceforth to be foretold what shall befall 
 Him or his children. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 » • • 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 

 \^ 
 
 \J,P^ 
 
 ... . 
 . ',* • '. • • • 
 
 
 Shackell. Arrowsmitli, and Hodges, Johnson 's-court, Fleet-street. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 During this voyage, when on calm evenings 
 we conversed on deck, watching the glancing of 
 the waves and the changeful appearances of the 
 sky, I discovered the total revolution that the 
 disasters of Raymond had wrought in the 
 mind of my sister. Were they the same waters 
 of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice, 
 repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen 
 chains, flowed through the regions of her soul 
 in gushing and grateful exuberance ? She did 
 
 VOL. II. B 
 
J2 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 not believe that he was dead, but she knew that 
 he was in danger, and the hope of assisting in 
 his Kberation, and the idea of soothing by tender- 
 ness the ills that he might have undergone, 
 elevated and harmonized the late jarring ele- 
 ment of her being. I was not so sanguine as 
 she as to the result of our voyage. She was not 
 sanguine, but secure ; and the expectation of see- 
 ing the lover she had banished, the husband, 
 friend, heart's companion from whom she had 
 long been alienated, wrapt her senses in delight, 
 her mind in placidity. It was beginning life 
 again ; it was leaving barren sands for an 
 abode of fertile beauty ; it was a harbour after 
 a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a 
 happy waking from a terrible dream. 
 
 Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child 
 did not well understand what was going for- 
 ward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, 
 that she would see her father, and now, for the 
 first time, she prattled of him to her mother. 
 
 On landing at Athens we found difficulties 
 
THE LAST Man. 3 
 
 encrease upon us : nor could the storied earth or 
 balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or 
 pleasure, while the fate of Raymond was in jeo- 
 pardy. No man had ever excited so strong an 
 interest in the public mind; this was apparent even 
 among the phlegmatic English, from whom he had 
 long been absent. The Athenians had expected 
 their hero to return in triumph ; the women had 
 taught their children to lisp his name joined to 
 thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage, 
 his devotion to their cause, made him appear in 
 their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of 
 the soil descended from their native Olympus to 
 defend them. When they spoke of his probable 
 death and certain captivity, tears streamed from 
 their eyes ; even as the women of Syria sorrowed 
 for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece 
 lament our English Raymond — Athens was a 
 city of mourning. 
 
 All these shews of despair struck Perdita with 
 affright. With that sanguine but confused ex- 
 
 B 2 
 
4 THE LAST MAN 
 
 pectation, which desire engendered while she was 
 at a distance from reality, she had formed an 
 image in her mind of instantaneous change, when 
 she should set her foot on Grecian shores. She 
 fancied that Raymond would already be free, 
 and that her tender attentions would come to en- 
 tirely obliterate even the memory of his mis- 
 chance. But his fate was still uncertain; she 
 began to fear the worst, and to feel that her 
 souPs hope was cast on a chance that might 
 prove a blank. The wife and lovely child of 
 Lord Raymond became objects of intense interest 
 in Athens. The gates of their abode were be- 
 sieged, audible prayers were breathed for his 
 restoration ; all these circumstances added to the 
 dismay and fears of Perdita. 
 
 My exertions were unremitted : after a time I 
 left Athens, and joined the army stationed at 
 Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and in- 
 trigue, soon discovered the secret that Raymond 
 was alive, a prisoner, suffering the most rigorous 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in 
 movement every impulse of policy and money lo 
 redeem him from their hands. 
 
 The impatience of my sister's disposition now 
 returned on her, awakened by repentance, 
 sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the 
 Grecian climate, during the season of spring, 
 added torture to her sensations. The unex- 
 ampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth — the 
 genial sunshine and grateful shade — the melody 
 of tiie birds— the majesty of the woods — the 
 splendour of the marble ruins — the clear ef- 
 fulgence of the stars by night — the combi- 
 nation of all that was exciting and voluptuous 
 in this transcending land, by inspiring a quicker 
 spirit of life and an added sensitiveness to every 
 articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the 
 poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was 
 counted, and "-He suffers''' was the burthen of 
 all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she 
 lay on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of 
 his enforced torments, endeavoured to hold com- 
 
6 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 munion with his distant pain. I remembered in 
 one of her harshest moments a quotation of mine 
 had roused her to anger and disdain. " Perdita," 
 1 had said, " some day you will discover that 
 you have done wrong in again casting Raymond 
 on the thorns of hfe. When disappointment has 
 sulHed his beauty, when a soldier's hardships 
 have bent his manly form, and loneliness made 
 even triumph bitter to him, then you will repent ; 
 and regret for the irreparable change 
 
 " will move 
 In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."* 
 
 The stinging "remorse of love"" now pierced her 
 heart. She accused herself of his journey to 
 Greece— his dangers — his imprisonment. She 
 pictured to herself the anguish of his solitude ; 
 she remembered with what eager delight he had 
 in former days made her the partner of his joyful 
 hopes — with what grateful affection he received her 
 
 * Lord Byron's Fourth Cauto of Ciiiltle Harolde. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 7 
 
 sympathy in his cares. She called to mind how 
 often he had declared that solitude was to him the 
 greatest of ail evils, and how death itself was to 
 him more full of fear and pain when he pictured 
 to himself a lonely grave. " My best girl,"" he 
 had said, *' relieves me from these phantasies. 
 United to her, cherished in her dear heart, never 
 again shall I know the misery of finding myself 
 alone. Even if I die before you, my Perdita, 
 treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with 
 mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is 
 not a materialist, yet, methinks, even in that 
 dark cell, I may feel that my inanimate dust 
 mingles with yours, and thus have a companion 
 in decay." In her resentful mood, these ex- 
 pressions had been remembered with acrimony 
 and disdain ; they visited her in her softened 
 hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of 
 rest from her uneasy mind. 
 
 Two months passed thus, when at last we ob- 
 tained a promise of Raymond's release. Con- 
 ^nement and hardship had undermined his health; 
 
8 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the Turks feared an accomplishment of the 
 threats of the English government, if he died 
 under their hands; they looked upon his re- 
 covery as impossible ; they delivered him up as 
 a dying man, willingly making over to us the 
 rites of burial. 
 
 He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. 
 The wind, favourable to him, blew so strongly 
 in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first 
 intended, to meet him on his watery road. The 
 watch tower of Athens was besieged by in- 
 quirers, each sail eagerly looked out for ; till on 
 the first of May the gallant frigate bore in sight, 
 freighted with treasure more invaluable than the 
 wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed 
 Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its 
 tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At 
 early dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in 
 shore ; it was conjectured that it would cast an- 
 chor about five miles from land. The news 
 spread through Athens, and the whole city pour- 
 ed out at the gate of the Piraeus, down the roads^ 
 
THE LAST MAN. 9 
 
 through the vineyards, the olive woods 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 horses, 
 the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of 
 banners and sound of martial music added to the 
 high excitement of the scene; while round us 
 reposed in solemn majesty the relics of antient 
 time. To our right the Acropolis rose high, 
 spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient 
 glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of 
 dear-bought liberty ; tombs and cenotaphs were 
 strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing 
 vegetation ; the mighty dead hovered over their 
 monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm and 
 congregated numbers a renewal of the scenes in 
 which they had been the actors. Perdita and 
 Clara rode in a close carriage ; I attended them 
 on horseback. At length we arrived at the har- 
 bour ; it was agitated by the outward swell of the 
 sea; the beach, as far could be discerned, was 
 covered by a moving multitude, which, urged by 
 
 B 3 
 
10 THE LAST MATJ. 
 
 those behind toward the sea, again rushed back 
 as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close 
 to thern. T applied my glass, and could discern 
 that the frigate had already cast anchor, fearful 
 of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee 
 shore : a boat was lowered ; with a pang I saw 
 that Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's 
 side; he was let down in a chair, and lay wrapt 
 in cloaks at the bottom of the boat. 
 
 I dismounted, and called to some sailors who 
 were rowing about the harbour to pull up, and 
 take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same 
 moment alighted from her carriage — she seized 
 mv arm — " Take me with you," she cried ; 
 she was trembling and pale; Clara clung 
 to her — " You must not," I said, " the sea is 
 rough — he will soon be here — do you not see his 
 boat ?" The little bark to which I had beckoned 
 had now pulled up; before I could stop her, 
 Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in it — Clara 
 followed her mother — a loud shout echoed from 
 the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour ; 
 
THE L^\ST MAN. ll 
 
 while my sister at the prow, had caught hold of 
 one of the men who was using a glass, asking a 
 thousand questions, careless of the spray that 
 broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except the 
 little speck that, just visible on the top of 
 the waves, evidently neared. We approached 
 with all the speed six rowers could give; the 
 orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on 
 the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the 
 stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked 
 exclamations of the eager crowd, whose dark 
 looks and foreign garb were purely eastern ; the 
 sight of temple-crowned rock, the white marble 
 of the buildings glittering in the sun, and stand- 
 ing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty 
 mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea. the 
 splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my 
 soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the 
 common course of common life. Trembling, I 
 was unable to continue to look through the 
 glass with which I had watched the motion of 
 the crew, when the frigate's boat had first been 
 
12 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at 
 length the number and forms of those within 
 could be discerned ; its dark sides grew big, and 
 the splash of its oars became audible : I could 
 distinguish the languid form of my friend, as 
 he half raised himself at our approach. 
 
 Perdita's questions had ceased ; she leaned on 
 my arm, panting with emotions too acute for tears 
 — our men pulled alongside the other boat. As 
 a last effort, my sister mustered her strength, 
 her firmness ; she stepped from one boat to the 
 other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards 
 Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing her lips 
 to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by 
 her long hair, gave herself up to tears. 
 
 Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our 
 approach, but it was with difficulty that he ex- 
 erted himself even thus much. With sunken 
 cheek and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could 
 I recognize the beloved of Perdita ? I continued 
 awe-struck and mute — he looked smilingly on 
 the poor girl ; the smile was his. A day of sun- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 13 
 
 shine falling on a dark valley, displays its before 
 hidden characteristics ; and now this smile, the 
 same with which he first spoke love to Perdita, 
 with which he had welcomed the protectorate, 
 playing on his altered countenance, made 
 me in my heart's core feel that this was Ray- 
 mond. 
 
 He stretched out to me his other hand ; I dis- 
 cerned the trace of manacles on his bared wrist. 
 I heard my sister's sobs, and thought, happy 
 are women who can weep, and in a passionate 
 caress disburthen the oppression of their feel- 
 ings ; shame and habitual restraint hold back a 
 man. I would have given worlds to have acted 
 as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my 
 breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept 
 over him ; my swelling heart choked me ; the 
 natural current would not be checked ; the big 
 rebellious tears gathered in my eyes ; I turned 
 aside, and they dropped in the sea — they came 
 fast and faster ; — yet I could hardly be ashamed, 
 for I saw that the rough sailors were not un- 
 
14 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 moved, and Raymond'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 her mother's call. Perdita presented her to 
 Raymond ; her first words were : " Beloved, em- 
 brace our child:" " Come hither, sweet one," said 
 her father, " do you not know me .f"" she knew 
 his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half 
 bashful but uncontrollable emotion. 
 
 Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was 
 afraid of ill consequences from the pressure of 
 the crowd on his landing. But they were awed 
 as I had been, at the change of his appearance. 
 The music died away, the shouts abruptly 
 ended ; the soldiers had cleared a space in which 
 a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it ; 
 
THE LAST MAN. 15 
 
 Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his es- 
 cort closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to 
 the roaring of the near waves, went through the 
 multitude ; they fell back as the carriage ad- 
 vanced, and fearful of injuring him they had 
 come to welcome, by loud testimonies of joy, 
 they satisfied themselves with bending in a low 
 salaam as the carriage passed ; it went slowly 
 along the road of the Piraeus ; passed by antique 
 temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy 
 rock of the citadel. The sound of the waves was 
 left behind ; that of the multitude continued at 
 intervals, supressed and hoarse ; and though, in 
 the city, the houses, churches, and public build- 
 ings were decorated with tapestry and banners — 
 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 
 sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which, 
 
16 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 closed and encompassed by the city guards, 
 drew him to the palace allotted for his abode. 
 
 Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the 
 interest he perceived to be excited on his account, 
 filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly 
 killed with kindness. It is true, the populace 
 retained themselves; but there arose a perpetual 
 hum and bustle from the throng round the palace, 
 which added to the noise of fireworks, the frequent 
 explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of horse- 
 men and carriages, to which effervescence he was 
 the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired 
 awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care 
 added each day to the strength of our invalid. 
 The zealous attention of Perdita claimed the 
 first rank in the causes which induced his rapid 
 recovery ; but the second was surely the delight 
 he felt in the affection and good will of the 
 Greeks. We are said to love much those whom 
 we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and 
 conquered for the Athenians ; he had suffered, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 17 
 
 on their account, peril, imprisonment, and hard- 
 ship ; their gratitude affected him deeply, and 
 he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever to that 
 of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him. 
 
 Social feeling and sympathy constituted a 
 marked feature in my disposition. In early 
 youth, the living drama acted around me, drew 
 me heart and soul into its vortex. I was now 
 conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I 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 that they deeply interested me, arranged 
 themselves in pictures before me. I gave the 
 right place to every personage in the groupe, the 
 just balance to every sentiment. This under- 
 current of thought, often soothed me amidst 
 distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to 
 that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul 
 would have revolted : it bestowed pictorial co- 
 
18 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 lours on misery and disease, and not unfrequently 
 relieved me from despair in deplorable changes. 
 This faculty, or instinct, was now rouzed. I 
 watched the re-awakened devotion of my sister ; 
 Clara^s timid, but concentrated admiration of 
 her father, and Raymond's appetite for renown, 
 and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affec- 
 tion of the Athenians. Attentively perusing 
 this animated volume, I was the less surprised 
 at the tale I read on the new-turned page. 
 
 The Turkish army were at this time besieging 
 Rodosto ; and the Greeks, hastening their pre- 
 parations, and sending each day reinforcements, 
 were on the eve of forcing the enemy to battle. 
 Each people looked on the coming struggle as 
 that which would be to a great degree decisive ; 
 as, in case of victory, the next step would be the 
 siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. Ray- 
 mond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to 
 re-assume his command in the army. 
 
 Perdita did not oppose herself to this deter- 
 mination. She only stipulated to be permitted 
 
THE LAST MAN. 19 
 
 to accompany him. She had set down no rule 
 of conduct for herself ; but for her hfe she could 
 not have opposed his slightest wish, or do other 
 than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects. 
 One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than 
 battles or sieges, during which she trusted Ray- 
 mond's high command would exempt him from 
 danger. That word, as yet it was no more to 
 her, was Plagfe. This enemy to the human 
 race had begun early in June to raise 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 visitation, small 
 attention was paid to those accounts which de- 
 clared more people to have died there already, 
 than usually made up the accustomed prey of 
 the whole of the hotter months. However it 
 might be, neither plague nor war could prevent 
 Perdita from following her lord, or induce her 
 to utter one objection to the plans which he pro- 
 posed. To be near him, to be loved by him, to 
 
THE 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 Greek people, appetite for 
 glory, and hatred of the barbarian government 
 under which he had suffered even to the approach 
 of death, stimulated him. He wished to repay 
 the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive 
 the splendid associations connected with his 
 name, and to eradicate from Europe a power 
 which, while every other nation advanced in civi- 
 lization, stood still, a monument of antique bar- 
 barism. Having effected the reunion of Raymond 
 and Perdita, I was eager to return to England ; 
 but his earnest request, added to awakening 
 
THE LAST MAN. 21 
 
 curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold 
 the catastrophe, now apparently at hand, in 
 the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish 
 warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until 
 the autumn, the period of my residence in 
 Greece. 
 
 As soon as the health of Raymond was suffi- 
 ciently re-established, he prepared to join the 
 Grecian camp, near Kishan, a town of some 
 importance, situated to the east of the Hebrus ; 
 in which Perdita and Clara were to remain until 
 the event of the expected battle. We quitted 
 Athens on the Snd of June. Raymond had re- 
 covered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. 
 If I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on 
 his matured countenance, if care had besieged 
 his brow, 
 
 ** And dug deep tFenches in his beauty's field," * 
 
 if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his 
 look, considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs 
 
 * Shakspeare's Sonnets. 
 
22 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 of added years and past sufferings, yet there was 
 something irresistibly affecting in the sight of 
 one, lately snatched from the grave, renewing 
 his career, untamed by sickness or disaster. 
 The Athenians saw in him, not as heretofore, the 
 heroic boy or desperate man, who was ready to 
 die for them ; but the prudent commander, 
 who for their sakes was careful of his life, and 
 could make his own warrior-propensities second 
 to the scheme of conduct policy might point 
 out. 
 
 All Athens accompanied us for several miles. 
 When he had landed a month ago, the noisy 
 populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear ; 
 but this was a festival day to all. The air re- 
 sounded with their shouts; their picturesque 
 costumcj and the gay colours of which it was 
 composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager 
 gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their 
 wild appearance. Raymond was the theme of 
 every tongue, the hope of each wife, mother or 
 betrothed bride, who^e husband, child, or lover, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 23 
 
 making a part of the Greek army, were to be 
 conducted to victory by him. 
 
 Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our 
 journey, it was full of romantic interest, as we 
 passed through the vallies, and over the hills, of 
 tliis divine country. Raymond was inspirited 
 by the intense sensations of recovered health ; 
 he felt that in being general of the Athenians, 
 he filled a post worthy of his ambition ; and, in 
 his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he 
 counted on an event which would be as a 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 
 Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and 
 barbarism, and restored to a people illustrious 
 for genius, civilization, and a spirit of liberty. 
 Perdita rested on his restored societv, on 
 his love, his hopes and fame, even as a Sy- 
 barite on a luxurious couch ; every thought 
 
24 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 was transport, each emotion bathed as it were in 
 a congenial and balmy element. 
 
 We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. 
 The weather during our journey had been 
 serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our 
 night's encampment, and watched the shadows 
 as they retreated from hill and valley, and the 
 golden splendour of the sun's approach. The 
 accompanying soldiers received, with national 
 vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of 
 beautifid nature. The uprising of the star of 
 day was hailed by triumphant strains, while the 
 birds, heard by snatches, filled vip the intervals of 
 the music. At noon, we pitched our tents in 
 some shady valley, or embowering wood among 
 the mountains, while a stream prattling over 
 pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening 
 march, more calm, was yet more delightful than 
 the morning restlessness of spirit. If the band 
 played, involuntarily they chose airs of mode- 
 rated passion ; the farewell of love, or lament at 
 absence, was followed and closed by some solemn 
 
THE LAST MAX. 25 
 
 hymn, vvhicli harmonized with the tranquil love- 
 liness of evening, and elevated the soul to grand 
 and religious thought. Often all sounds were 
 suspended, that we might listen to the nightin- 
 gale, while the fire-flies danced in bright mea- 
 sure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of 
 fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a 
 valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks 
 tinged with beauteous hues. If we traversed a 
 mountain, Greece, a living map, was spread be- 
 neath, her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether ; 
 her rivers threading in silver line the fertile 
 land Afraid almost to breathe, we English tra. 
 vellers surveyed with extasy this splendid land- 
 scape, so different from the sober hues and 
 melancholy graces of our native scenery. When 
 we quitted Macedonia, the f rtile but low plains 
 of Thrace afforded fev/er beauties; yet our 
 journey continued to be interesting. An advanced 
 guard gave information of our approach, and 
 the country people were quickly in motion to do 
 honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were 
 
 VOL. II. c 
 
26 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by 
 day, and lamps by night ; tapestry waved from 
 the windows, the ground was strewed with flowers, 
 and the name of Raymond, joined to that of 
 Greece, was echoed in the Evive of the peasant 
 crowd. 
 
 When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that 
 on hearing of the advance of Lord Raymond 
 and his detachment, the Turkish army had re- 
 treated from Hodosto ; 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 
 inevitable. Perdita and her child woe to remain 
 at Kishan. Raymond asked me, if I would not 
 continue with them. " Now by the fells of 
 Cumberland," I cried, " by all of the vagabond 
 and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand 
 at your side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, 
 and be hailed as a victor along with you !" 
 
 All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a dis- 
 
THE LAST MAX. 27 
 
 tance of sixteen leagues, was alive with troops, 
 
 or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the 
 
 approach of a battle. The small garrisons were 
 
 drawn from the various towns and fortresses, 
 
 and went to swell the main army. We met 
 
 baggage waggons, and many females of high and 
 
 low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to 
 
 wait the issue of the expected day. When we 
 
 arrived at Rodosto, we found that the field had 
 
 been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged. 
 
 The sound of firing, early on the following 
 
 morning, informed us that advanced posts of the 
 
 armies were engaged. Regiment after regiment 
 
 advanced, their colours flying and bands playing. 
 
 They planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole 
 
 elevations in thi^ level country, and formed 
 
 themselves into column and hollow square; while 
 
 the pioneers threw up small mounds for their 
 
 protection. 
 
 These then were the preparations for a battle, 
 nay, the battle itself; far different from any 
 
 c 2 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 thing the imagination had pictured. We read 
 pf centre and wing in Greek and Roman history; 
 We fancy a spot, plain as a table, and soldiers 
 small as chessmen ; and drawn forth, so that the 
 most ignorant of the game can discover science 
 and order in the disposition of the forces. When 
 I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off 
 to the left far out of sight, fields intervening be- 
 tween the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently 
 near me to observe their motions, I gave up 
 all idea of understanding, even of seeing a battle, 
 but attaching myself to Raymond attended with 
 intense interest to his actions. He shewed him- 
 self collected, gallant and imperial ; his commands 
 were prompt, his intuition of the events of the 
 day to me miraculous. In the mean time the 
 cannon roared ; the music lifted up its enliven- 
 ing voice at intervals ; and we on the highest of 
 the mounds I mentioned, too far off' to observe 
 the fallen sheaves which death gathered into his 
 storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost ia 
 
THE LAST MAN. 29 
 
 smoke, now banners and staves peering above 
 the cloud, while shout and clamour drowned 
 every sound. 
 
 Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded 
 dangerously, and Raymond assumed tlie com- 
 mand of the whole army. He made few remarks, 
 till, on observing through his glass the sequel of 
 an order he had given, his face, clouded for 
 awhile with doubt, became radiant. '' The day 
 is ours," he cned, "the Turks fly from the 
 bayonet. And then swiftly he dispatched his 
 aides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on 
 the routed enemy. The defeat became total ; 
 the cannon ceased to roar ; the infantry rallied, 
 and horse pursued the flying Turks along the 
 dreary plain ; the staff* of Raymond was dis- 
 persed in various directions, to make observations, 
 and bear commands. Even I was dispatched 
 to a distant part of the field. 
 
 The ground on which the battle was fought, 
 was a level plain — so level, that from the tumuli 
 you saw the waving line of mountains on the 
 
30 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 wide-Stretched horizon ; yet the intervening space 
 was unvaried by the least irregularity, save 
 such undulations as resembled the waves of 
 the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had 
 been so long a scene of contest, that it had re- 
 mained uncultivated, and presented a dreary, 
 barren appearance. The order I had received, 
 was to make an observation of the direction 
 which a detachment of the enemy might have 
 taken, from a northern tumulus; the whole 
 Turkish army,followed by the Greek, had poured 
 eastward ; none but the dead remained in the 
 direction of my side. From the top of the 
 mound, I looked far round— all was silent and 
 deserted. 
 
 The last beams of the nearly sunken sun 
 shot up from behind the far summit of Mount 
 Athos ; the sea of Marmora still glittered be- 
 neath its rays, while the Asiatic coast beyond 
 was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a 
 casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen from un- 
 nerved arms, reflected the departing ray; they lay 
 
THE LAST MAN. 31 
 
 scattered far and near. From the east, a band of 
 ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, 
 came sailing along towards their harvest ; the 
 sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet 
 svreet, has always seemed to me the time when 
 we are most naturally led to commune with 
 higher powers ; our mortal sternness departs, and 
 gentle complacency invests the soul. But now, in 
 the midst of the dying and the dead, how could a 
 thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity 
 possess one of the murderers ? During the busy 
 day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave 
 to the state of things presented to it by its fellow- 
 beings ; historical association, hatred of the foe, 
 and military enthusiasm had held dominion over 
 me. Now, I looked on the evening star, as 
 softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the 
 orange hues of sunset. I turned to the corse- 
 strewn earth ; and felt ashamed of my species. 
 So perhaps were the placid skies; for they 
 quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this 
 change assisted the swift disappearance of twihght 
 
32 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 usual in the south ; heavy masses of cloud floated 
 up from the south east, and red and turbid 
 lightning shot from their dark edges ; the rush- 
 ing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and 
 was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. 
 Darkness gathered round ; the objects about me 
 became indistinct, I descended from my station, 
 and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to 
 avoid the slain. 
 
 Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form 
 seemed to rise from the earth ; it flew swiftly 
 towards me, sinking to the ground again as it 
 drew near. All this passed so suddenly, that I 
 with difficulty reined in my horse, so that it 
 should not trample on the prostrate being. The 
 dress of this person was that of a soldier, but the 
 bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks 
 discovered a female thus disguised. I 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 MAN. ~ 33 
 
 accents endeavoured to sootlie the sufferer. With 
 wild and terrific exclamations did the lost, dying 
 Evadne (for it was she) recognize the language 
 of her lover ; pain and fever from her wound 
 had deranged her intellects, while her piteous 
 cries and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me 
 with compassion. In wild delirium she called 
 upon the name of Raymond; she exclaimed that 
 I was keepino; him from her, while the Turks 
 with fearful instruments of torture were about 
 to take his life. Then ao-ain she sadlv lamented 
 her hard fate ; that a woman, with a woman's 
 heart and sensibility, should be driven by hope- 
 less love and vacant hopes to take up the trade 
 of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of 
 man privation, labour, and pain — the while 
 her dr}^, hot hand pressed mine, and her brow 
 and lips burned with consuming fire. 
 
 As her strength grew less, I lifted her from 
 the ground ; her emaciated form hung over my 
 arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast ; in 
 a sepulchral voice she murmured: — " This is 
 
 c3 
 
34 THE LAST MAlsT. 
 
 the end of love ! — Yet not the end !" — and 
 frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm np 
 to heaven : " there is the end ! there we meet 
 again. Many living deaths have I borne for 
 thee, O Raymond, and now I expire, thy vic- 
 tim ! — By my death I purchase thee — lo! the 
 instruments of war, fire, the plague are my 
 servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till 
 now ! I have sold myself to death, with the sole 
 condition that thou shouldst follow me — Fire, 
 and war, and plague, unite for thy destruction — 
 O my Raymond, there is no safety for thee !" 
 
 With an heavy heart I listened to the changes 
 of her delirium ; I made her a bed of cloaks ; 
 her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood 
 on her brow as the paleness of death 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 solemnly 
 declared that he was summoned ; sometimes she 
 bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew 
 
THE LAST MAV. 35 
 
 feebler, her speech interrupted ; a few convul- 
 sive movements, and her muscles relaxed, the 
 limbs fell, no more to be sustained, one deep 
 sigh, and life was gone. 
 
 I bore her from the near neighbourhood of 
 the dead ; wrapt in cloaks, I placed her beneath 
 a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face ; 
 the last time I saw her she was eighteen ; 
 beautiful as poet's vision, splendid as a Sultana 
 of the East — Twelve years had past; twelve 
 years of change, sorrow and hardship ; her 
 brilliant complexion had become worn and dark, 
 her limbs had lost the roundness of youth and 
 womanhood ; her eyes had sunk deep. 
 
 Crushed and o'erworn, 
 The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow 
 With lines and wrinkles. 
 
 With shuddering horror I veiled this monu- 
 ment of human passion and human misery ; I 
 heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutre- 
 ments I could find, to guard her from birds and 
 beasts of prey, until I could bestow on her a 
 
36 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemned my 
 course from among the heaps of slain, and, 
 guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at 
 length reached Rodosto. 
 
THE LAST MA^'. 73 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 On my arrival, I found that an order had 
 already gone forth for the army to proceed im- 
 mediately towards Constantinople ; and the troops 
 which had suffered least in the battle were already 
 on their way. The town was full of tumult. 
 The wound, and consequent inability of Ar- 
 gyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in com- 
 mand. He rode through the town, visiting the 
 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, I placed her in it, heaping 
 
B8 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and 
 glare of daylight, deprived the scene of solem- 
 nity ; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Ray- 
 mond and his staff, now on their way to the 
 Golden City. 
 
 Coniitantinople was invested, trenches dug^ 
 and advances made. The whole Greek fleet 
 blockaded it by sea ; on land from the river 
 Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet Waters, to the 
 Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Pro- 
 pontis, along the whole line of the ancient w^alls, 
 the trenches of the siege were drawn. We 
 already possessed Pera ; the Golden Horn itself, 
 the city, bastioned by the sea, and the ivy- 
 mantled walls of the Greek emperors was all 
 of Europe that the Mahometans could call 
 theirs. Our army looked on her as certain prey. 
 They counted the garrison ; it was impossible 
 that it should be relieved ; each sally was a vic- 
 tory ; for, even when the Turks were trium- 
 phant, the loss of men they sustained was an 
 irreparable injury. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 39 
 
 I rode one morning with Raymond to the 
 lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou, 
 (Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud planted his 
 standard, and first saw the city. Still the same 
 lofty domes and minarets towered above the ver- 
 durous walls, where Constantinehad died, and the 
 Turk had entered the city. The plain around was 
 interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and 
 Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees ; 
 and other woods of more cheerful aspect, 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. 
 
 Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. " I 
 have counted the hours of her life," said he; 
 " one month, and she falls. Remain with me 
 till then ; wait till you see the cross on St. Sophia; 
 and then return to your peaceful glades.''"' 
 
 " You then," I asked, " still remain in 
 Greece ?"" 
 
40 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 a 
 
 Assuredly,'** replied Raymond. " Yet Lio- 
 nel, when I say this, believe me I look back with 
 regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. I am 
 but half a soldier ; I love the renown, but not 
 the trade of war. Before the battle of Rodosto 
 I was full of hope and spirit ; to conquer there, 
 and afterwards to take Constantinople, was the 
 hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my ambition. 
 This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not why; 
 I seem to myself to be entering a darksome 
 gulph ; the ardent spirit of the army is irksome 
 to me, the rapture of triumph null.'' 
 
 He paused, and was lost in thought. His 
 serious mien recalled, by some association, the 
 half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized 
 this opportunity to make enquiries from him 
 concerning her strange lot. I asked him, if he 
 had ever seen among the troops any one resem- 
 bling her ; if since he had returned to Greece 
 he had heard of her ? 
 
 He started at her name, — he looked uneasily 
 
THE LAST MAN. 41 
 
 on me. " Even so," he cried, " I knew you 
 would speak of her. Long^ long I had forgotten 
 her. Since our encampment here, she daily, 
 hourly visits my thoughts. When I am addressed, 
 her name is the sound I expect : in every com- 
 munication, I imagine that she will form a part. 
 At length you have broken the spell ; tell me 
 what you know of her." 
 
 I related my meeting with her ; the story of 
 her death was told and re-told. With painful 
 earnestness he questioned me concerning her pro- 
 phecies with regard to him. I treated them as 
 the ravings of a maniac. " No, no," he said, 
 " do not deceive yourself, — me you cannot. 
 She has said nothing but what I knew before — 
 though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, 
 and plague ! They may all be found in yonder 
 city; on my head alone may they fall !" 
 
 From this day Raymond"'s melancholy in- 
 creased. He secluded himself as much as the 
 duties of his station permitted. When in com- 
 pany, sadness would in spite of every effort steal 
 
4^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 over hib features, and he sat absent and jTiute 
 among the busy crowd that thronged about 
 him. Perdita rejoined him, and before her he 
 forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even 
 as a mirror, changed as he changed, and if he 
 were silent and anxious, she solicitously inquired 
 concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause 
 of his seriousness. She resided at the palace of 
 Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the Sultan; 
 the beauty of the surrounding scenery, un defiled 
 by war, and the freshness of the river, made this 
 spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief, 
 received no pleasure from any show of heaven 
 or earth. He often left Perdita, to wander in 
 the grounds alone ; or in a light shallop he floated 
 idly on the pure waters, musing deeply. Some- 
 times I joined him ; at such times his counte- 
 nance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He 
 seemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk 
 with some degree of interest on the affairs of the 
 day. There was evidently something behind 
 all this ; yet, when he appeared about to speak 
 
THE LAST MAN. 43 
 
 of that which was nearest his heart, he would 
 abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour 
 to deliver the painful idea to the winds. 
 
 It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, 
 Raymond quitted ]*erdita's drawing-room, Clara 
 came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, 
 said, " Papa is gone; shall we go to him .'^ I 
 dare say he will be glad to see you." And, as 
 accident permitted, I complied with or refused 
 h(!Br request. One evening a numerous assembly 
 of Greek chieftains were gathered together in 
 the palace. The intriguing Palli, the accom- 
 plished Karazza, the warlike Ypsilanti, were 
 among the principal. They talked of the events 
 of the day ; the skirmish at noon ; the dimi- 
 nished numbers of the Infidels ; their defeat and 
 flight : they contemplated, after a short interxal 
 of time, the capture of the Golden City. They 
 endeavoured to picture forth what would then 
 happen, and spoke in lofty terms of the pros- 
 perity of Greece, when Constantinople should 
 become its capital. The conversation then re" 
 
44 THK LAST MAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 Kaymond had joined in the former part of thei 
 discussion. In lively terms 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 observed, and the in- 
 fidels would soon be obliged to take refuge in 
 their only hope — submission. Suddenly in the 
 midst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung 
 by some painful thought ; he rose uneasily, and 
 I perceived him at length quit the hall, and 
 through the long corridor seek the open air. 
 He did not return ; and soon Clara crept round 
 to me, making the accustomed invitation. I 
 consented to her request, and taking her little 
 hand, followed Raymond. We found him just 
 about to embark in his boat, and he readily 
 agreed to receive us as companions. After the 
 
tti» 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 45 
 
 heats of the dav, the cooling; land-breeze ruffled 
 the rher, and filled our little sail. The city 
 looked dark to the south, while numerous lights 
 along the near shores, and the beautiful aspect 
 of the banks reposing in placid night, the waters 
 keenly reflecting the»heavenly lights, gave to this 
 beauteous river a dower of loveline?s that might 
 have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our 
 single boatman attended to the sail ; Raymond 
 steered ; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees 
 with her arms, and laying her head on them. 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 more occupied. 
 Besides, I wish at once to tell you my wishes 
 and expectations, and then nev^er again to revert 
 to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you, 
 Lionel, for having remained here at my request. 
 Vanity first prompted me to ask you : vanity, I 
 call it ; yet even in this I see the hand of fate — 
 
46 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 your presence will soon be necessary ; you will 
 become the last resource of Perdita, her protec- 
 tor and consoler. You will take her back to 
 Windsor;^— 
 
 " Not without you,*'' I said. " You do not 
 mean to separate again ?" 
 
 " Do not deceive yourself," replied Kaymond, 
 '* the separation at hand is one over which I 
 have no control ; most near at hand is it ; the 
 days are already counted. May I trust you ? 
 For many days I have longed to disclose the 
 mysterious presentiments that weigh on me, 
 although I fear that you will ridicule them. 
 Yet do not, my gentle friend ; for, all childish 
 and unwise as they are, they have become a 
 part of me, and 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 divide the feel- 
 ing of identity from the mortal form that shapes 
 
THE LAST MAN. 47 
 
 forth Lionel. How then can you understand 
 me ? Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a 
 vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no 
 more, for I have stepped within the threshold 
 of eternity ; each man I meet appears a corse, 
 which will soon be deserted of its animating 
 spark, on the eve of decay and corruption. 
 
 Cada piedra un piramide levanta, 
 y cada flor costruye un monumento, 
 cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo, 
 cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."-!- 
 
 His accent was mournful, — he sighed deeply. 
 " A few mionths ago," he continued, " I was 
 thought to be dying ; but life was strong within 
 me. My affections were human ; hope and 
 love were the day-stars of my life. Now — they 
 dream that the brows of the conqueror of the 
 infidel faith are about to be encircled by tri- 
 umphant laurel ; they talk of honourable re- 
 ward, of title, power, ar^d wealth — all I ask of 
 Greece is a grave. Let them raise a mound 
 
 f Calderon de la Barca. ^ 
 
48 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 above my lifeless body, M'hicli may stand even 
 when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen. 
 
 " Wherefore do I feel thus ? At Rodosto I 
 was full of hope; but when first I saw Coiv 
 stantinople, 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 power can avert the stroke, and the shadow 
 of Fate's uplifted hand already darkens me. 
 
 " To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and 
 her child. Never mention to her the fatal name 
 of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the 
 strange link that enchains me to her, making 
 my spirit obey her dying voice, following her, 
 as it is about to do, to the unknown country.''' 
 
 J listened to him with wonder ; but that his 
 
THE LAST MAX. 49 
 
 sad demeanour and solemn utterance assured me 
 of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I should 
 with light derision have attempted to dissipate 
 his fears. Whatever I was about to reply, was 
 interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara. 
 Raymond had spoken, thoughtless of her pre- 
 sence, and she, poor child, heard with terror and 
 faith the prophecy of his death. Her father was 
 moved by her violent grief; he took her in his 
 arms and soothed her, but his very soothings were 
 solemn and fearful. '' Weep not, sweet child,'"' 
 said he, " the coming death of one you have 
 hardly known. I may die, but in death I can 
 never forget or desert my own Clara. In after 
 sorrow or joy, believe that your father's spirit is 
 near, to save or sympathize with you. Be proud 
 of me, and cherish your infant remembrance of 
 me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die. 
 One thing you must promise, —not to speak to 
 any one but your uncle, of the conversation you 
 have just overheard. When I am gone, you will 
 console your mother, and tell her that death was 
 VOL. li. D 
 
50 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 only bitter because it divided me from her ; that 
 my last thoughts will be spent on her. But 
 while I live, promise not to betray me ; promise, 
 my child.'" 
 
 With faltering accents Clara promised, while 
 she still clung to her father in a transport of 
 sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I en- 
 deavoured to obviate the impression made on the 
 child's mind, by treating Raymond's fears hghtly. 
 We heard no more of them ; for, as he had said, 
 the siege, now drawing to a conclusion, became 
 paramount in interest, engaging all his time and 
 attention. 
 
 The empire of the Mahometans in Europe 
 was at its close. The Greek fleet blockading 
 every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of 
 succour from Asia; all egress on the side towards 
 land had become impracticable, except to such 
 desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers of the 
 enemy without making any impression on our 
 lines. The garrison was now so much diminished, 
 that it was evident that the city could easily have 
 
THE LAST MAN. 51 
 
 been carried by storm ; but both humanity and 
 policy dictated a slower mode of proceeding. 
 We could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the 
 utmost, its palaces, its temples and store of 
 wealth would be destroyed in the fury of con- 
 tending triumph and defeat. Already the de- 
 fenceless citizens had suffered through the bar- 
 barity of the Janisaries; and, in time of storm, 
 tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decre- 
 pitude, would have alike been sacrificed to the 
 brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and 
 blockade were certain means of conquest ; and 
 on these we founded our hopes of victory. 
 
 Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted 
 our advanced posts, and impeded the accomplish- 
 ment of our works. Fire-boats were launched 
 from the various ports, while our troops some- 
 times recoiled from the devoted courage of men 
 who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives 
 dearly. These contests were aggravated by tke 
 season : they took place during summer, when 
 the southern Asiatic wind came laden with into- 
 
52 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 lerable heat, when the streams were dried up in 
 their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea 
 appeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of 
 the solsticial sun. Nor did night refresh the 
 earth. Dew was denied; herbage and flowers, 
 there were none ; the very trees drooped ; and 
 summer assumed the blighted appearance of 
 winter, as it went forth in silence and flame to 
 abridge the means of sustenance to man. In 
 vam did the eye strive to find the wreck of some 
 northern cloud in the stainless empyrean, which 
 might bring hope of change and moisture to the 
 oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was 
 serene, burning, annihilating. We the besiegers 
 were in the comparison little affected by these 
 evils. The woods around afforded us shade, — 
 the river secured to us a constant supply of 
 water ; nay, detachments were employed in fur- 
 nishing the army with ice, which had been laid 
 up on Hasmus, and Athos, and the mountains 
 of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and whole^ 
 some food r.na ^ated the strength of the labourers. 
 
THE LAST :MaN» 53 
 
 and made us bear with less impatience the weight 
 of the unrefreshing air. But in the city things 
 wore a different face. The sun''s rays were re- 
 fracted from the pavement and buildings — the 
 stoppage of the public fountains — the bad quality 
 of the food, and scarcity even of that, produced 
 a state of suffering, which was aggravated by the 
 scourge of disease ; while the garrison arrogated 
 evei'y superfluity to themselves, adding by waste 
 and riot to the necessary evils of the time. Still 
 they would not capitulate. 
 
 Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. 
 We experienced no more assauks ; and by night 
 and day we continued our labours unimpeded. 
 Stranger still, when the troops advanced near 
 the city, the walls were vacant, and no cannon 
 was pointed against the intruders. AVhen these 
 circumstances were reported to Raymond, he 
 caused minute observations to be made as to 
 what was doing within the walls, and when his 
 scouts returned, reporting only the continued 
 silence and desolation of the city, he commanded 
 
54 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the army to be drawn out before the gates. No 
 one appeared on the walls ; the very portals, 
 though locked and barred, seemed unguarded ; 
 above, the many domes and glittering crescents 
 pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of 
 ages, with ivy-crowned tower and weed-tangled 
 buttress, stood as rocks in an uninhabited waste. 
 From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor 
 aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke 
 the noon-day stillness. Even our soldiers were 
 awed to silence ; the music paused ; the clang of 
 arms was hushed. Each man asked his fellow 
 in whispers, the meaning of this sudden peace ; 
 while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by 
 means of glasses, to discover and observe the stra- 
 tagem of the enemy. No form could be dis- 
 cerned on the terraces of the houses ; in the 
 higher parts of the town no moving shadow be- 
 spoke the presence of any living being : the very 
 trees waved rot, and mocked the stability of 
 architecture with like immovability. 
 
 The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the 
 
THE LAST MAK. 55 
 
 Silence, was at length discerned. It was a trcop 
 sent by Karazza, the Admiral ; they bore dis- 
 patches to the Lord General. The contents of 
 these papers were important. The night before, 
 the watch, on board one of the smaller vessels 
 anchored near the seragUo wall, was roused by a 
 slight splashing as of muffled oars ; the alarm 
 was given : twelve small boats, each containing 
 three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to 
 make their way through the fleet to the opposite 
 shore of Scutari. When they found themselves 
 discovered they discharged their muskets, and 
 some came to the front to cover the others, whose 
 crews, exerting all their strength, endeavoured 
 to escape with their light barks from among the 
 dark hulls that environed them. They were in 
 the end all sunk, and, with the exception of two 
 or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little 
 could be got from the survivors ; but their cau- 
 tious answers caused it to be surmised that seve- 
 ral expeditions had preceded this last, and that 
 several Turks of rank and importance had been 
 
SQ THE LAST MAN". 
 
 Conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled 
 the idea of having deserted the defence of their 
 city; and one, the youngest among them, in an- 
 swer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed, " Take it. 
 Christian dogs ! take the palaces, the gardens, the 
 mosques, the abode of our fathers — take plague 
 with them ; pestilence is the enemy we fly ; if she 
 be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The 
 curse of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate."" 
 
 Such was the account sent by Karazza to 
 Raymond: but a taJe full of monstrous exag- 
 gerations, though founded on this, was spread 
 by the accompanying troop among our soldiers. 
 A murmur arose, the city was the prey of pes- 
 tilence ; already had a mighty power subju- 
 gated the inhabitants; Death had become lord 
 of Constantinople. 
 
 I have heard a picture described, wherein all 
 the inhabitants of earth were drawn out in 
 fear to stand the encounter of Death. The 
 feeble and decrepid fled ; the warriors retreated^ 
 though they threatened even in flight. WoIvqs 
 
THE LAST MAN. 57 
 
 and lions, and various monsters of the desert 
 roared against him ; while the grim Unreality 
 hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but 
 invincible assailant. Even so was it with the 
 army of Greece. I am convinced, that had the 
 myriad troops of Asia come from over the Pro- 
 pontis, and stood defenders of the Golden City, 
 each and every Greek would have marched against 
 the overwhelming numbers, and have devoted 
 himself with patriotic fury for his country. But 
 here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no 
 death-dealing artillery, no formidable array of 
 brave soldiers — the unguarded walls afforded 
 easy entrance — the vacant palaces luxurious 
 dwelhngs ; but above the dome of St. Sophia 
 the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and 
 shrunk in trepidation froni her influence. 
 
 Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. 
 He descended the hill with a face beaming with 
 triumph, and pointing with his sword to the 
 gates, commanded his troops to — down with 
 those barricades— the only obstacles now to com- 
 
 D 3 
 
58 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 pletest victory. The soldiers answered his 
 cheerful words with aghast and awe-struck 
 looks ; instinctively they drew back, and Ray- 
 mond rode in the front of the lines : — " By 
 my sword I swear,*' he cried, " that no ambush 
 or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is 
 already vanquished ; the pleasant places, the 
 noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already 
 yours ; force the gate ; enter and possess the seats 
 of your ancestors, your own inheritance !'* 
 
 An universal shudder and fearful whispering 
 passed through the lines ; not a soldier moved. 
 " Cowards !" exclaimed their general, exaspe- 
 rated, " give me an hatchet ! I alone will 
 enter ! I will plant your standard ; and when 
 you see it wave from yon highest minaret, you 
 may gain courage, and rally round it !" 
 
 One of the officers now came forward : " Ge- 
 neral,'* he said, " we neither fear the courage, 
 Hor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush 
 of the Moslems. We are ready to expose our 
 breasts, exposed ten thousand times before, to 
 
THE LAST MAN. 59 
 
 the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and to 
 fall gloriously for Greece. But we will not die 
 in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by 
 the pestilential air of that city — we dare not go 
 against the Plague P 
 
 A multitude of men are feeble and inert, 
 without a voice, a leader ; give them that, and 
 they regain the strength belonging to their num- 
 bers. Shouts from a thousand voices now rent 
 the air — the cry of applause became uni- 
 versal. Raymond saw the danger ; he was will- 
 ing to save his troops from the crime 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 
 the regiments repaired in good order to the 
 camp. 
 
 I hastened to carry the intelligence of these 
 strange proceedings to Perdita ; and we were 
 
6*0 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 soon joined by Raymond. He looked gloomy 
 and perturbed. My sister was struck by my 
 narrative : " How beyond the imagination of 
 man," she exclaimed, " are the decrees of 
 heaven, wondrous and inexplicable !" 
 
 " Foohsh girl," cried Raymond angrily, *' are 
 you like my valiant soldiers, panic-struck ? 
 -What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so 
 very natural an occurrence ? Does not the 
 plague rage each year in Stamboul? What 
 wonder, that this year, when as we are told, its 
 virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it should 
 have occasioned double havoc in that city ? 
 What wonder then, in time of siege, want, ex- 
 treme heat, and drought, that it should make un- 
 accustomed ravages? Less wonder far is it, 
 that the garrison, despairing of being able to hold 
 out longer, 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 1 it is not either plague or impending 
 
THE LAST MAX. 61 
 
 danger that makes us, like birds in harvest- time, 
 terrified by a scarecrow, abstain from the ready 
 prey — it is base superstition— And thus the aim 
 of the valiant is made the shuttlecock of fools; 
 the worthy ambition of the high-souled, the 
 plaything of these tamed hares ! But yet Stam- 
 boul shall be ours ! By my past labours, by 
 torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by 
 my victories, by my sword, I swear — by my 
 hopes of fame, by my former deserts now await- 
 ing their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands 
 to plant the cross on yonder mosque !"" 
 
 "Dearest Raymond!"" interrupted Perdita, 
 in a supplicating accent. 
 
 He had been walking to and fro in the marble 
 hall of the seraglio; his very lips were pale with 
 rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry 
 words — his eyes shot fire — his gestures seemed 
 restrained by their very vehemence. " Perdita," 
 he continued, impatiently, " I know what you 
 would say ; I know that you love me, that you 
 are good and gentle ; but this is no woman's 
 
62 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 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 followed him. 
 He was pacing the garden : his passions were in 
 a state of inconceivable turbulence. " Am I for 
 ever," he cried, " to be the sport of fortune ! 
 Must man, the heaven-climber, be for ever the 
 victim of the crawling reptiles of his species ! 
 Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many 
 years of life, to a succession of love-enlightened 
 days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing 
 hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General's 
 staff, seek repose in the glades of Windsor. 
 But I am about to die ! — nay, interrupt me not — 
 soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth, 
 from the sympathies of man, from the loved re- 
 sorts of my youth, from the kindness of my 
 friends, from the affection of my only beloved 
 Perdita, I am about to be removed. Such is the 
 will of fate ! Such the decree of the High Ruler 
 
THE LAST MAX. 63 
 
 from whom there is no appeal : to whom I sub- 
 mit. But to lose all — to lose with life and love, 
 glory also ! It shall not be ! 
 
 "I, and in a few brief years, all you, — this 
 panic-struck army, and all the population of fair 
 Greece, will no longer be. But other generations 
 will arise, and ever and for ever will continue, 
 to be made happier by our present acts, to be 
 glorified by our valour. The prayer of my 
 youth was to be one among those who render the 
 pages of earth's history splendid ; who exalt the 
 race of man, and make this little globe a dwell- 
 ing of the mighty. Alas, for Raymond ! the 
 prayer of his youth is wasted — the hopes of his 
 manhood are null ! 
 
 " From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, 
 soon I will be thy lord ! When Evadne pro- 
 nounced my death, I thought that the title of 
 Victor of Constantinople would be written on 
 my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I stand 
 before its vanquished walls, and dare not call 
 myself a conqueror. So shall it not be ! Did 
 
64 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 nat Alexander leap from the walls of the city of 
 the Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the 
 way to victory, encountering alone the swords 
 of its defenders ? Even so will I brave the plague 
 — and though no man follow, I will plant the 
 Grecian stindard on the height of St. Sophia/' 
 Reason came unavailing to such high-wroufflit 
 feelings. In vain I shewed him, that when 
 winter came, the cold would dissipate the pesti, 
 lential air, and restore courage to the Greeks. 
 " Talk not of other season than this !" he cried. 
 " I have lived my last winter, and the date of 
 this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb. 
 Already do I see," he continued, looking up 
 mournfully, " the bourne and precipitate edge of 
 my existence, over which I plunge into the gloomy 
 mystery of the life to come. I am prepared, 
 so that I leave behind a trail of light so radiant, 
 that my worst enemies cannot cloud it. I owe 
 this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita, 
 and to myself, the victim of ambition." 
 . We were interrupted by an attendant, who 
 
THE LAST MAN. 65 
 
 announced, that the staff of Raymond was as- 
 sembled in the council-chamber. He requested 
 me in the meantime to ride through the camp, 
 and to observe and report to him the disposi- 
 tions of the soldiers ; he then left me. I had 
 been excited to the utmost by the proceedings 
 of the day, and now more than ever by the pas- 
 sionate language of Raymond. Alas ! for 
 human reason ! He accused the Greeks of 
 superstition : what name did he give to the faith 
 he lent to the predictions of Evadne ? I passed 
 from the palace of Sweet Waters to the plain 
 on which the encampment lay, and found its in- 
 habitants in commotion. The arrival of several 
 with fresh stories of marvels, from the fleet ; the 
 exaggerations bestowed on what was already 
 known ; tales of old prophecies, of fearful his- 
 tories of whole regions which had been laid waste 
 during the present year by pestilence, alarmed 
 and occupied the troops. Discipline was lost ; 
 the army disbanded itself. Each individual, 
 before a part of a great whole moving only in 
 
66 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 unison with others, now became resolved into 
 the unit nature had made him, and thought of 
 himself only. They stole off at first by ones 
 and twos, then in larger companies, until, un- 
 impeded by the officers, whole battalions sought 
 the road that led to Macedonia. 
 
 About midnight I returned to the palace and 
 sought Raymond ; he was alone, and apparently 
 composed ; such composure, at least, was his as 
 is inspired by a resolve to adhere to a certain 
 line of conduct. He heard my account of the 
 self-dissolution of the army with calmness, and 
 then said, '' You know, Verney, my fixed 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 found. 
 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 naval 
 force ; if I can get but one regiment to second 
 me, the rest would follow of course. Let him 
 
THE LAST MAN. 67 
 
 send me this regiment. I shall expect your re- 
 turn by to-morrow noon."" 
 
 Methought this was but a poor expedient ; 
 but I assured him of my obedience and zeal. 
 I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With 
 the breaking of morning I was accoutred for my 
 ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking leave 
 of Perdita, and from my window observed the 
 approach of the sun. The golden splendour 
 arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer yet 
 another day of heat and thirsty decay. Vo 
 flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet 
 the dawn ; the dry grass had withered on the 
 plains ; the burning fields of air were vacant of 
 birds ; the cicale alone, children of the sun, be- 
 gan their shrill and deafening song among the 
 cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond's coal- 
 black charger brought to the palace gate; a 
 small company of officers arrived soon after ; 
 care and fear was painted on each cheek, and in 
 each eye. unrefreshed by sleep. I found Ray- 
 mond and Perdita together. He was watching 
 
68 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the risiiifj sun, while with one arm he encircled 
 his beloved's waist ; she looked on him, the sun 
 of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety 
 and tenderness. Raymond started angrily when 
 he saw me. " Here still ?" he cried. " Is this 
 your promised zeal ?''' 
 
 " Pardon me," I said, " but even as you 
 speak, I am gone." 
 
 '' Nay, pardon me," he replied ; " I have no 
 right to command or reproach ; but my life 
 hangs on your departure and speedy return. 
 Farewell !" 
 
 His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a 
 dark cloud still hung on his features. I would 
 have delayed ; I wished to recommend 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. 
 
 " Nay," said Perdita, " that task shall be 
 mine. Return speedily, Lionel." 
 
THE LAST MAN. 69 
 
 With an air of absence he was playing with 
 her auburn locks, while she leaned on him ; 
 twice I turned back, only to look again on this 
 matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy 
 steps, I had paced out of the hall, and sprung 
 upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew 
 towards me ; clasping my knee she cried, 
 " Make haste back, uncle ! Dear uncle, I have 
 such fearful dreams ; I dare not tell my mother. 
 Do not be long away !" I assured her of my ' 
 impatience to return, and then, with a small 
 escort rode along the plain towards the tower of 
 Marmora. 
 
 I fulfilled my commission ; I saw Karazza. 
 He was somewhat surprised ; he would see, he 
 said, what v;ould be done ; but it required time ; 
 and Raymond had ordered me to return by 
 noon. It was impossible to effect any thing in 
 so short a time. I must stay till the next day ; 
 or come back, after having reported the present 
 state of things to the general. My choice was 
 easily made. A restlessness, a fear of what was 
 
70 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 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 Waters. I took a 
 circuitous path, principally for the sake of going 
 to the top of the mount before mentioned, which 
 commanded a view of the city. I had my glass 
 with me. The city basked under the noon-day 
 sun, and the venerable walls formed its pic- 
 turesque boundary. Immediately before me was 
 the Top Kapou, the gate near which Mahomet 
 had made the breach by which he entered thecity. 
 Trees gigantic and aged grew near ; before the 
 gate I discerned a crowd of moving human figures 
 — with intense curiosity I lifted my glass to my 
 eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger ; a 
 small company of officers had gathered about 
 him ; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of 
 soldiers and subalterns, their discipline lost, their 
 arms thrown aside ; no music sounded, no ban 
 ners streamed. The only fiag among them was 
 pne which Raymond carried ; he pointed with 
 
THE LAST MAN. 71 
 
 it to the gate of the city. The circle round him 
 fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from 
 his horse, and seizing a hatchet that hung from 
 his saddle-bow, went with the apparent intention 
 of battering down the o] posing gate. A few 
 men came to aid him ; their numbers increased ; 
 imder their united blows the obstacle was van- 
 quished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demo- 
 hshed ; and the wide sun-lit way, leading to the 
 heart of the city, now lay open before them. 
 The men shrank back ; they seemed afraid of 
 what they had already done, and stood as if they 
 expected some Mighty Phantom to stalk in 
 offended majesty from the opening. Raymond 
 sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the stand- 
 ard, and with words which I could not hear (but 
 his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were 
 marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to ad- 
 jure their assistance and companionship ; even 
 as he spoke, the crowd receded from him. Indig- 
 nation now transported him ; his words I guessed 
 were fraught with disdain — then turning from 
 
72 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 his coward followers, he addressed himself to 
 enter the city alone. His very horse seemed 
 to back from the fatal entrance; his dog, his 
 faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in 
 his path — in a moment more, he had plunged the 
 rowels into the sides of the stung animal, who 
 bounded forward, and he, the gateway passed, 
 was galloping up the broad and desart street. 
 
 Until this moment my soul had been in my 
 eyes only. I had gazed with wonder, mixed 
 with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling 
 now predominated. I forgot the distance be- 
 tween us : " I will go with thee, Raymond !" 
 I cried ; but, my eye removed from the glass, 
 I could scarce discern the pigmy forms of the 
 crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded 
 the gate ; the form of Raymond was lost. Stung 
 with impatience, I urged my horse with force 
 of spur and loosened reins down the acclivity, 
 that, before danger could arrive, I might be at 
 the side of my noble, godlike friend. A num- 
 ber of buildings and trees intervened, when I 
 
THE LAST MAN. 7o 
 
 had reached the plain, hiding the city from my 
 view. But at that moment a crash was heard. 
 Thunderhke it reverberated through the sky, 
 while the air was darkened. A moment more 
 and the old walls again met my sight, while 
 over them hovered a murky cloud ; fragments of 
 buildings whirled above, half seen in smoke, 
 while flames burst out beneath, and continued 
 explosions filled the air with terrific thunders. 
 Flvinor from tlie mass of falling ruin which 
 leapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy 
 towers, a crowd of soldiers made for the road 
 by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed 
 in by them, unable to g^t forward. My 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, aye tears, 
 in warm flow gushed from my eyes — I would 
 not believe in his destruction ; yet every mass 
 that darkened the air seemed to bear with it a 
 portion of the martyred Raymond. Horrible 
 
 VOL. II. JE 
 
74 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 sights were shaped to me in the turbid cloud 
 tliat hovered over the city ; and my only relief 
 was derived from the struggles I made to ap- 
 proach the gate. Yet when I effected my pur- 
 pose, all I could discern within the precincts of 
 the massive walls was a city of fire : the open 
 way through which Raymond had ridden was 
 enveloped in smoke and flame. After an in- 
 terval 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 first blots on the blue expanse that I 
 had seen for months, and amidst this havoc and 
 despair they inspired pleasure. The vault 
 above became obscured, lightning flashed ft-om 
 the heavy masses, followed instantaneously by 
 crashing thunder; then the big rain fell. The 
 flames of the city bent beneath it; and the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 75 
 
 smoke and dust arising from the ruins was 
 dissipated. 
 
 I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames 
 than, huriied on by an irresistible impulse, I en- 
 deavoured 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 ceased; the clouds sunk behind the 
 horizon ; it was now evening, and the sun de- 
 scended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled 
 on, until I came to a street, whose wooden 
 houses, half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, 
 and w^ere 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, coiUd be 
 
 E 2 
 
76 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Raymond ; so I turned my eyes away, while my 
 heart sickened within me. I came to an open 
 space — a mountain of ruin in the midst, an- 
 nounced that some large mosque had occupied 
 the space — and here, scattered about, I saw va- 
 rious articles of luxury and wealth, singed, 
 destroyed — but shewing what they hadbeen in 
 their ruin — jewels, strings of pearls, embroidered 
 robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and oriental 
 ornaments, seemed to have been collected here 
 in a pile destined for destruction ; but the rain 
 had stopped the havoc midway. 
 
 Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I 
 sought for Raymond. Insurmountable heaps 
 sometimes opposed themselves ; the still burning 
 fires scorched me. The sun set : the 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 
 a moment I could yield to the creative power of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 77 
 
 the imagination, and for a moment was soothed 
 by the sublime fictions it presented to me. The 
 beatings of my human heart drew me back to 
 blank reahty. Where, in this wilderness of death, 
 art thou, O Raymond — ornament of England, 
 deliverer of Greece, " hero of unwritten story,'' 
 where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics 
 strewed ? I called aloud for him — through the 
 darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of 
 fallen Constantinople, his name was heard ; no 
 voice replied — echo even was mute. 
 
 I was overcome by weariness ; the solitude 
 depressed my spirits. The sultry air impreg- 
 nated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning 
 palaces, palsied my hmbs. Hunger suddenly 
 came acutely upon me. The excitement which 
 had hitherto sustained me was lost ; as a building, 
 whose props are loosened, and whose foundations 
 rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and 
 hope deserted me, did my strength fail. I sat 
 on the sole remaining step of an edifice, which 
 even in its downfall, was huge and magnificent ; 
 
78 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 a few broken walls, not dislodged by gunpowder, 
 stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame glim- 
 mered at intervals on the summit of the pile. 
 For a time hunger and sleep contended, till the j 
 constellations reeled before my eyes and then 
 were lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids 
 closed, my limbs over-wearied, claimed repose— 
 I rested my head on the stone, I yielded to the 
 grateful sensation of utter forgetfulness ; and in 
 that scene of desolation, on that night of despair 
 — I slept. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 79 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The stars still shone brightly when I awoke, 
 and Taurus high in the southern heaven shewed 
 that it Was midnight. I awoke from disturbed 
 dreams. Methought I had been invited to 
 Tiinon'*s last feast ; I came with keen appetite, 
 the covers were removed, the hot water sent up 
 its unsatisfying steams, while I fled before the 
 anger of the host, who assumed the form of Ray- 
 mond; while to my diseased fancy, the vessels 
 hurled by him after me, were surcharged with 
 fetid vapour, and my friend's shape, altered by a 
 thousand distortions, expanded into a gigantic 
 phantom, bearing on its brow the sign of pe&t.i- 
 
so THE LAST MAK;. 
 
 lence. The growing shadow rose and rof?e, filh'ng, 
 and then seeming to endeavour to burst beyond, 
 the adamantine vault that bent over, sustaining 
 and enclosing the world. The night-mare be- 
 came torture ; with a strong effort I threw off 
 sleep, and recalled reason to her wonted functions. 
 My first thought was Perdita ;, to her I must 
 return; her I must support, drawing such food 
 from despair as might best sustain her wounded 
 heart ; recalling her from the wild excesses, of 
 grief, by the austere laws of duty^ and the soft 
 tenderness of regret. 
 
 The position of the stars was my only guide. 
 I turned from the awful ruin of the Golden City, 
 and, after great exertion, succeeded in extricating 
 myself from its enclosure. I met a company of 
 soldiers outside the walls ; I borrowed a horse 
 from one of them, and hastened to my sister. 
 The appearance of the plain was changed during 
 this short interval ; the encampment was broken 
 up; the relics of the disbanded army met in 
 small companies here and there ; each face was 
 
THE LAST MA:NI. 81 
 
 clouded; every gesture spoke astonishment and 
 dismay. 
 
 With an heavy heart I entered the palace, 
 and stood fearful to advance, to speak, to look.. 
 In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat on 
 the marble pavement, her head fallen on her 
 bosom, her hair dishevelled, her fingers twined 
 busily one within the other; she was pale as 
 marble, and every feature was contracted by 
 agony. She perceived me, and looked up en- 
 quiringly ; her half glance of hope was misery ; 
 the words died before I could articulate them ; I 
 felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She under- 
 stood m}' gesture ; again her head fell ; again her 
 fingers worked restlessly. At last I recovered 
 speech, but my voice terrified her ; the hapless 
 girl had understood my look, and for worlds she 
 would not that the tale of her heavy misery should 
 have been shaped out and confirmed by hard? 
 irrevocable words. Nay, she seemed to wish to 
 distract my thoughts from the subject : she rose 
 from the floor : " Hush!" she said, whisperingly ; 
 
 E 3 
 
82 THE LAST MAl^, 
 
 " after much weeping, Clara sleeps ; we must 
 not disturb her." She seated herself then on the 
 same ottoman where I had left her in the mornino; 
 resting on the beating heart of her Raymond ; 
 I dared not approach her, but sat at a distant 
 corner, watching her starring and nervous ges- 
 tures. At length, in an abrupt manner she 
 asked, '^ Where is he ?" 
 
 " O, fear not,'' she continued, " fear not that 
 I should entertain hope! Yet tell me, have 
 you found him? To have him once more iir 
 my arms, to see him, however changed, is all I 
 desire. Though Constantinople be heaped above 
 him as a tomb, yet I must find him — then cover 
 us with the cit3^'s weight, with a mountain piled 
 above — I care 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 ? 
 Of myself I cannot find him— but you know 
 where he lies — lead me thither." 
 
 At first these agonizing plaints filled me with 
 
THE LAST MAN. 83 
 
 intolerable compassion. But soon I endeavoured 
 to extract patience for her from the ideas she 
 suggested. I related my adventures of the 
 night, my endeavours to find our lost one, and 
 my disappointment. Turning her thoughts this 
 way, I gave them an object which rescued them 
 from insanity. With a})parent calmness she 
 discussed with me the probable spot where he 
 might be found, and planned the means we 
 should use for that purpose. Then hearing of 
 my fatigue and abstinence, she herself lirought 
 me food. I seized the favourable moment, and 
 endeavoured to awaken in her something beyond 
 the killing torpor of grief. As I spoke, my 
 subject carried me away; deep admiration ; grief, 
 the offspring of truest affection, the overflowing 
 of a heart bursting with sympathy for all that 
 had been great and sublime in the career of my 
 friend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises 
 of Raymond. 
 
 "' Alas, for us,"" I cried, " who have lost this 
 latest honour of the world ! Beloved Raymond ! 
 
84 THE LAST MA]\T. 
 
 4 
 
 He is gone to the nations of the dead ; he has 
 become one of those, who render the dark abod^ 
 of the obscure gi^ave illustrious by dwelling 
 there. He has journied on the road that leads 
 to it, and joined the mighty of soul who went 
 before him. When the world was in its infancy 
 death must have been terrible^ and man left his 
 friends and kindred to dwell, a solitary stranger, 
 in an unknown country. But now, he who 
 dies finds many companions gone before to pre- 
 pare for his reception. The great of past ages 
 people it, the exalted hero of our own days is 
 counted among its inhabitants, while life becomes 
 doubly ' the desart and the solitude.' 
 
 *' What a noble creature was Raymond, the 
 first among the men of our time. By the 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 accused; but his death has 
 cancelled that. I have heard him called incon- 
 stant of purpose — when he deserted, for the sake 
 
THE LAST MAN. 85 
 
 of love, the hope of sovereignty, and when he 
 abdicated the protectorship of England, men 
 blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death 
 has crowned his hfe, and to the end of time it 
 will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a 
 willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such 
 • was his choice : he expected to die. He foresaw 
 that he should leave this cheerful earth, the 
 lightsome sky, and thy love, Perdita ; yet he 
 neither hesitated or turned back, going right 
 onward to his mark of fame. While the earth 
 lasts, his actions will be recorded with praise. 
 Grecian maidens will in devotion strew flowers 
 on his tomb, and make the air around it resonant 
 with patriotic hynms, in which hib name will find 
 high record." 
 
 I saw the features of Perdita soften ; the 
 sternness of grief yielded to tenderness — I con- 
 tinued : — " Thus to honour him, is the sacred 
 duty of his survivors. To make his name even 
 as an holy spot of ground, enclosing it from all 
 hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the 
 
86 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 blossoms of love and regret, guarding it from 
 decay, and bequeathing it untainted to posterity. 
 Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one 
 belongs to you, Perdita, mother of his child. 
 Do you remember in her infancy, with what 
 transport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her 
 the united being of yourself and Raymond ; joy- 
 ing to view in this living temple a manifestation 
 of your eternal loves. Even such is she still. 
 You say that you have lost Raymond. O, no ! 
 —yet he lives with you and in you there. From 
 him she sprung, flesh of his flesh, bone of his 
 bone — and not, as heretofore, are you content to 
 trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an 
 affinity to Raymond, but in her enthusiastic 
 affections, in the sweet qualities of her mind, 
 you may still find him living, the good, the 
 gi'eat, the beloved. Be it your care to foster 
 this similarity — be it your care to render het 
 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 MAN. 87 
 
 sister's thoughts to her duties in life, she did not 
 listen ^Yith the same patience as before. She 
 appeared to suspect a plan of consolation on my 
 part, from which she, cherishing her new-born 
 grief, revolted. " You talk of the future," she 
 said, " while the present is all to me. Let me 
 find the earthly dwelling of my beloved ; let us 
 rescue that from common dust, so that in ti-mes 
 to come men may point to the sacred tomb, and 
 name it his— then to other thoughts, and a new 
 course of life, or what else fate, in her cruel 
 tyranny, may have marked out for me." 
 
 After a short repose I prepared to leave her, 
 that I might endeavour to accomplish her wish. 
 In the mean time we were joined by Clara, whose 
 pallid cheek and scared look shewed fche deep 
 impression grief had made on her young mind. 
 She seemed to be full of something to which she 
 could not give words ; but, seizing an opportu- 
 nity afforded by Perdita's absence, she preferred 
 to me an earnest prayer, that I would take her 
 within view of the gate at which her father had 
 
88 THE tAST MAi;. 
 
 entered Constantinople. She promised to com- 
 mit no extravagance, to be docile, and imme- 
 diately to return. I could not refuse ; for Clara 
 was not an ordinary child ; her sensibility and 
 intelligence seemed already to have endowed her 
 with the rights of womanhood. With her there- 
 fore, before me on my horse, attended only by 
 the servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode 
 to the Top Kapou. We found a party of sol- 
 diers gathered round it. They were listening. 
 " They are human cries," said one : " More like 
 the howhng of a dog," replied another ; and 
 again they bent to catch the sound of regular 
 distant moans, which issued from the precincts 
 of the ruined city. " That, Clara," I said, " is 
 the gate, that the street which yestermorn your 
 father rode up." Whatever Clara's intention 
 had been in asking to be brought hither, it was 
 balked by the presence of the soldiers. With 
 earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth of 
 smoking piles which had been a city, and then 
 expressed her readiness to return home. At this 
 
THE LAST MAN. 89 
 
 moment a melancholy howl struck on our ears ; 
 it was repeated; "Hark!'' cried Clara, " he is 
 there; that is Florio, my father's dog." It 
 seemed to me impossible that she could recognise 
 the sound, but she persisted in her assertion till 
 she gained credit with the crowd about. At least 
 it would be a benevolent action to rescue the 
 sufferer, whether human or brute, from the 
 desolation of the town ; so, sending Clara back to 
 her home, I again entered Constantinople. En- 
 couraged by the impunity attendant on my former 
 visii, several soldiers who had made a part of 
 Raymond's body guard, who had loved him, and 
 sincerely mourned his loss, accompanied me. 
 
 It is impossible to conjecture the strange en- 
 chainment of events which restored the lifeless 
 form of m}" friend to our hands. In that part 
 of the town where the fire had most raged the 
 night before, and which now lay quenched, black 
 and cold, the dying dog of Raymond crouched 
 beside the mutilated form of its lord. At such 
 a time sorrow has no voice ; affliction, tamed by 
 
90 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 its very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal 
 recognised me, licked my hand, crept close to 
 its lord, and died. He had been evidently 
 thrown from his horse by some falling ruin, 
 which had crushed his head, and defaced his 
 whole person. I bent over the body, and took 
 in my hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in 
 appearance than the h.uman frame it clothed. 
 I pressed it to my lips, while the rough soldiers 
 gathered around, mourning over this worthiest 
 prey of death, as if regret and endless lamenta- 
 tion could re-illumine the extinguished spark, or 
 call to its shattered prison-house of flesh the 
 liberated spirit. Yesterday those limbs were 
 worth an universe ; they then enshrined a tran- 
 sceiidant power, whose intents, words, and actions 
 were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold ; 
 ' now tlie superstition of affection alone could give 
 value to the shattered mechanism, which, in- 
 capable and clod- like, no more resembled Ray- 
 mond, than the fallen rain is like the former 
 mansion of cloud in which it climbed the highest 
 
THE LAST MAN. 91 
 
 skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all eyes, 
 and satiated the sense by its excess of beauty. 
 
 Such as he had now become, such as was his 
 terrene vesture, defaced and spoiled, we wrapt 
 it in our cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our 
 arms, bore it from this city of the dead. The 
 question arose as to where we should deposit 
 him. In our road to the palace, w^e passed 
 through the Greek cemetery ; here on a tablet 
 of black marble I caused him to be laid ; the 
 cypresses waved high above, their death-like 
 gloom accorded with his state of nothingness. 
 We cut branches of the funereal trees and 
 placed them over him, and on these again his 
 sword. I left a guard to protect this treasure of 
 dust ; and ordered perpetual torches to be burned 
 around. 
 
 When I returned to Perdita, I found that 
 she had already been informed of the success of 
 my undertaking. He, her beloved, the sole and 
 eternal object of her passionate tenderness, was 
 restored her. Such was the maniac language 
 
92 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 of her enthusiasm. What though those limbs 
 moved not, and those lips could no more frame 
 modulated accents of wisdom and love ! What 
 though like a weed flung from the fruitless sea^ 
 he lay the prey of corruption — still that was the 
 form she had caressed, those the lips that meeting 
 hers, had drank the spirit of love from the 
 commingling breath ; that was the earthly me- 
 chanism of dissoluble clay she had called her 
 own« True, she looked forward to another 
 life ; true, the burning spirit of love seemed to 
 her unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet 
 at this time, with human fondness, she clung to 
 alL that her human senses permitted her to see 
 and feel to be a part of Raymond. 
 
 Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that, 
 she heard my tale, and enquired concerning the 
 spot where he had been deposited. Her features 
 had lost the distortion of grief; her eyes were 
 brightened, her very person seemed dilated ; 
 while the excessive whiteness and even trans- 
 parency of her skin, and something hollow in 
 
THE LAST MAN. 93 
 
 her voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but 
 excess of excitement, occasioned the treacherous 
 calm that settled on her countenance. I asked 
 her where he should be buried. She replied, 
 " At Athens; even at the Athens which he 
 loved. Without the town, on the acclivity of 
 Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he 
 pointed out to me as the spot where he would 
 wish to repose." 
 
 My own desire certainly was that he should 
 not' be remov^ed from the spot where he now 
 lay. But her wish was of course to be complied 
 with ; and I entreated her to prepare without de- 
 lay for our departure. 
 
 Behold now the melancholy train cross the 
 flats of Thrace, and wind through the defiles, 
 and over the mountains of Macedonia, coast the 
 clear waves of the Peneus, cross ihe Larissean 
 plain, pass the straits of Thermopylae, and ascend- 
 ing in succession CErta and Parnassus, descend to 
 the fertile plain of Athens. Women bear with 
 resignation these long drawn ills, but to a man's 
 
94 THE LAST MA^. 
 
 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 Raymond, the monotonous re- 
 cuiTence of day and night, unvaried by hope or 
 change, all the circumstances of our march were 
 intolerable. Perdita shut up in herself, spoke 
 little. Her carriage was closed ; and, when we 
 rested, she sat leaning her pale cheek on her 
 white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground, 
 indulging thoughts which refused communication 
 or sympathy. 
 
 We descended from Parnassus, emerging 
 from its many folds, and passed through Liva- 
 dia on our road to Attica. Perdita would 
 not enter Athens ; but reposing at Marathon 
 on the night of our arrival, conducted me on 
 the following day, to the spot selected by her as 
 the treasure house of Raymond's dear remains. 
 It was in a recess near the head of the ravine to 
 the south of Hymettus. The chasm, deep, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 95 
 
 black, and hoary, swept from the summit to the 
 base ; m the fissures of the rock myrtle under- 
 wood grew and wild thyme, the food of many 
 nations of bees ; enormous crags protruded into 
 the cleft, some beetling over, others rising per- 
 pendicularly from it. At the foot of this sub- 
 lime chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached 
 from sea to sea, and beyond was spread the blue 
 JEgean, sprinkled with islands, the light waves 
 glancing beneatli the sun. Close to the spot on 
 which we stood, was a solitary rock, high and 
 conical, which, divided on every side from the 
 mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid ; with 
 httle labour this block was reduced to a perfect 
 shape ; the narrow cell was scooped out beneath 
 in which Raymond was placed, and a short in- 
 scription, carved in the living stone, recorded 
 the name of its tenant, the cause and aera of his 
 death. 
 
 Every thing was accomplished with speed 
 under my directions. I agreed to leave the 
 finishing and guardianship of the tomb to the 
 
96 THE 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 that spoke of her lost one ; but to 
 Hnger here was vain, and my very soul was sick 
 with its yearning to rejoin my Idris and her 
 babes. In reply, my sister requested me to ac-» 
 company her the following evening to the tomb 
 of Raymond. Some days had passed since I 
 had visited the spot. The path to it had been 
 enlarged, and steps hewn in the rock led us less 
 circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the 
 platform on which the pyramid stood was 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 dai'k rocks received a 
 
THE LAST MAX. 97 
 
 glow from the descending sun^ "which glanced 
 along the cultivated valley, and dyed in purple 
 and orange the placid waves ; we sat on a rocky 
 elevation, and I gazed with rapture on the beau- 
 teous panorama of living and changeful colours, 
 which varied and enhanced the graces of earth 
 and ocean. 
 
 " Did I not do right," said Perdita, " in 
 having my loved one conveyed hither ? Here- 
 after this will be the cynosure of Greece. In 
 such a spot death loses half its terrors, and 
 even the inanimate dust appears to partake of 
 the spirit of beauty which hallows this region. 
 Lionel, he sleeps there ; that is the grave of 
 Raymond, he whom in my youth I first loved ; 
 whom my heart accompanied in days of separa- 
 tion and anger ; to whom I am now joined for 
 ever. Never — mark me — never will I leave this 
 spot. Methinks his spirit remains here as well 
 as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it 
 be, is more precious in its nothingness than 
 aught else widowed earth clasps to her sorrowing 
 
 VOL. II. F 
 
98 THE LAST MAN. . 
 
 bosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the 
 httle cyclamen, which peep from the fissures of 
 the rock, all the produce of the place, bear 
 affinity to him ; the light that invests the hills 
 participates in his essence, and sky and moun- 
 tains, sea and valley, are imbued by the presence 
 of his spirit. I will live and die here ! 
 
 " Go you to England, Lionel ; return to 
 sweet Idris and dearest Adrian ; return, and let 
 my orphan girl be as a child of your own in 
 your house. Look on me as dead ; and truly 
 if death be a mere change of state, I am dead. 
 This is another world, from that which late 
 I inhabited, from that which is now your home. 
 Here I hold communion only with the has been, 
 and to come. Go you to England, and leave 
 me where alone I can consent to drag out the 
 miserable days whicli T must still live." 
 
 A shower of tears terminated her sad 
 harangue. I had expected some extravagant 
 proposition, and remained silent awhile, collect- 
 ing my thoughts that I might the better combat 
 
THE LAST MAN. 99 
 
 her fanciful scheme. " You cherish dreary 
 thoughts, my dear Perdita," I said, " nor do I 
 wonder that for a time your better reason should 
 be influenced by passionate grief and a dis- 
 turbed imasination. Even I am in love with 
 this last home of Raymond's ; nevertheless we 
 must quit it." 
 
 '* I expected this," cried Perdita ; " I sup- 
 posed that you would treat me as a mad, foolish 
 girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage 
 is built by my order ; and here I shall remain, 
 until the hour arrives when I may share his hap- 
 pier dwelling." 
 
 '' My dearest girl !" 
 
 '' And what is there so strange in my design ? 
 I might have deceived you ; I might have talked 
 of remaining here only a few months ; in your 
 anxiety to reach Windsor you would have left 
 me, and without reproach or contention, I might 
 have pursued my plan. But I disdained the 
 artifice; or rather in my wretchedness it was my 
 only consolation to pour out my heart to you, 
 
 r 2 
 
100 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 my brother, my only friend. You will not 
 disj^ute 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 my self ; 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 rephed, 
 " in powerful words, yet that meaning is selfish 
 and unworthy of you. You have often agreed 
 with me that there is but one solution to the 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 LAST MA^^ 101 
 
 Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor, 
 the scene of your early happiness ? AVill you 
 commune less with his departed spirit^ while you 
 watch over and cultivate the rare excellence of 
 his child ? You have been sadly visited ; nor 
 do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should 
 drive you to bitter and unreasonable imagin- 
 ings. But a home of love awaits you in your 
 native England. My tenderness and affection 
 must soothe you ; the society of Raymond's 
 friends will be of more solace than these 
 dreary speculations. We will all make it our 
 first care, our dearest task, to contribute to your 
 happiness." 
 
 Perdita shook her head ; " If it could be so," 
 she replied, " I were much in the wrong to 
 disdain your offers. But it is not a matter of 
 choice ; I can live here only. I am a part of 
 this scene ; each and all its properties are a part 
 of me. This is no sudden fancy ; I live by it. 
 The knowledge that I am here, rises with me in 
 the morning, and enables me to endure the 
 
102 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 light ; it is mingled with my food, which else 
 were poison ; it walks, it sleeps with me, for 
 ever it accompanies me. Here I may even 
 cease to repine, and may add my tardy consent 
 to the decree which has taken him from me. 
 He would rather have died such a death, which 
 will be recorded in history to endless time, than 
 have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured. 
 Nor can I desire better, than, having been the 
 chosen and beloved of his heart, here, in youtli's 
 prime, before added years can tarnish the best 
 feelings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and 
 speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose. 
 
 " So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, 
 wishing to persuade you that I do right. If 
 you are unconvinced, I can add nothing further 
 by way of argument, and I can only declare my 
 fixed resolve. I stay here; force only can re- 
 move me. Be it so ; drag me away — I return ; 
 confine me, impiison me, still I escape, and come 
 here. Or would my brother rather devote t h 
 heart-broken Perdita to the straw and chains of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 103 
 
 a maniac, than suffer her to rest in peace beneatli 
 the shadow of His society, in this my own selected 
 and beloved recess ?" — 
 
 All this appeared to me, I own, methodized 
 madness. I imagined, that it was my imperative 
 duty to take her from scenes that thus forcibly 
 reminded her of her loss. Nor did I doubt, that 
 in the tranquillity of our family circle at Windsor, 
 she would recover some degree of composure, 
 and in the end, of happiness. My affection for 
 Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams of 
 cherished grief; her sensibility had already been 
 too much excited ; her infant heedlessness too 
 soon exchanged for deep and anxious thought. 
 The strange and romantic scheme of her mother, 
 might confirm and perpetuate the painful view of 
 life, which had intruded itself thus early on her 
 contemplation. 
 
 On returning home, the captain of the steam 
 packet with whom I had agreed to sail, came to 
 tell me, that accidental circumstances hastened 
 his departure, and that, if I went with him, I 
 
W'h THE LAST 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. Yet 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 Perdita and soothed her, by my 
 seeming assent to her wild scheme. She received 
 my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand 
 times over thanked her deceiving, deceitful 
 brother. As night came on, her spirits, en- 
 livened by my unexpected concession, regained 
 an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to 
 be alarmed by the feverish glow in her cheek ; 
 I entreated her to take a composing draught ; 
 I poured out the medicine, which she took 
 docilely from me. I watched her as she drank 
 
THE LAST MAN. 105 
 
 it. Falsehood and artifice are in themselves so 
 hateful, that, though I still thought I did right, 
 a feeling of shame and guilt came painfully upon 
 me. I left her, and soon heard that she slept 
 soundly under the influence of the opiate I had 
 administered. She was carried thus unconscious 
 on board ; the anchor weighed, and the wind 
 being favourable, we stood far out to sea ; with 
 all the canvas spread, and the power of the en- 
 gine to assist, we scudded swiftly and steadily 
 through the chafed element. 
 
 It was late in the day before Perdita 
 awoke, and a longer time elapsed before 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 blue and 
 troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was spread 
 shoreless around : the sky was covered by .*i 
 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 
 
 F 3 
 
106 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 above, all persuaded her that she was already 
 far from the shores of Greece. — " Where are 
 we i^" she cried, " where are we going .•^''— 
 
 The attendant whom I had stationed to watch 
 her, rephed, " to England." — 
 
 *' And my brother ?*" — 
 
 *' Is on deck, Madam.'"* 
 
 *' Unkind ! unkind !'' exclaimed the poor vic- 
 tim, as with a deep sigh she looked on the waste 
 of waters. Then without further remark, she 
 threw herself on her couch, and closing her eyes 
 remained motionless ; so that but for the deep 
 sighs that burst from her, it would have seemed 
 that she slept. 
 
 As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I 
 sent Clara to her, that the sight of the lovely 
 innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate 
 thoughts. But neither the presence of her 
 child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could rouse 
 my sister. She looked on Clara with a counte- 
 nance of woful meaning, but she did not speak. 
 When I appeared, she turned away, and in re- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 107 
 
 ply to my enquiries, only said, " You know 
 not what you have done !"*' — I trusted that thi^; 
 suUenn ess betokened merely the struggle between 
 disappointment and natural affection, and that 
 in a few days she would be reconciled to her 
 fate. 
 
 When night came on, she begged that Clara 
 might sleep in a separate cabin. Her servant, 
 however, remained with her. About midnight 
 she spoke to the latter, saying that she had had 
 a bad dream, and bade her go to her daughter, 
 and bring word whether she rested quietly. 
 The woman obeyed. 
 
 The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, 
 now rose again. I was on deck, enjoying our 
 swift progress. The quiet was disturbed only 
 by the rush of waters as they divided before 
 the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless 
 and full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds, 
 and the regular motion of the engine. The sea 
 was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, 
 and now resuming an uniform hue; the clouds 
 
108 THE LAST MAN. ^ 
 
 had disappeared; and dark ether dipt the broad 
 ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought 
 their accustomed mirror. Our rate could not 
 have been less than eight knots. 
 
 Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The 
 sailors on watch rushed to the side of the vessel, 
 with the cry — some one gone overboard. " It 
 is not from deck,"" said the man at the helm, 
 '' something has been thrown from the aft cabin." 
 A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed 
 from the deck. I rushed into my sister's cabin ; 
 it was empty. 
 
 With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel 
 remained unwillingly stationary, until, after an 
 hour's search, my poor Perdita was brought on 
 board. But no care could re-animate her, no 
 medicine cause her dear eyes to open, and the 
 blood to flow again from her pulseless heart. 
 One clenched hand contained a slip of paper, on 
 which was written, " To Athens." To ensure 
 her lemoval thither, and prevent the irrecover- 
 able loss of her body in the wide sea, she had 
 
THE LAST MAN. 109 
 
 had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round 
 her waist, and again to the staunchions of the 
 cabin window. She had drifted somewhat under 
 the keel of the vessel, and her being out of 
 sight occasioned the delay in finding her. And 
 thus the ill- starred girl died a victim to my 
 senseless rashness. Thus, in early day, she left 
 us for the company of the dead, and preferred 
 to share the rocky grave of Raymond, before the 
 animated scene this cheerful earth afforded, and 
 the society of loving friends. Thus in her 
 twenty-ninth year she died ; having enjoyed 
 some few years of the happiness of paradise, and 
 sustaining a reverse to which her impatient 
 spirit and affectionate disposition were unable to 
 submit. As I marked the placid expression that 
 had settled on her countenance in death, I felt, 
 in spite of the pangs of remorse, in spite of heart- 
 rending regret, that it was better to die so, 
 than to^^diag on long, miserable years of repining 
 and inconsolable grief. 
 
110 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic 
 Gulph ; and, our vessel being hardly fitted to 
 weather a storm, we took refuge in the port of 
 Ancona. Here I met Georgio Palli, the vice- 
 admiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and 
 warm partizan of Raymond. I committed the 
 remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the pur- 
 pose of having them transported to Hymettus, 
 and placed in the cell her Raymond already 
 occupied beneath the pyramid. This was all 
 accomplished even as I wished. She reposed 
 beside her beloved, and the tomb above was in- 
 scribed with the united names of Raymond and 
 Perdita. 
 
 I ihen came to a resolution of pursuing our 
 journey to England overland. My own heart 
 was racked by regrets and remorse. The appre- 
 hension, that Raymond had departed for ever, 
 that his name, blended eternally with the past, 
 must be erased from every anticipation of the 
 future, had come slowly upon me. I had al- 
 
THE LAST MAN. HI 
 
 ways admired his talents ; his noble aspirations ; 
 his grand conceptions of the glory and majesty 
 of his ambition : his utter want of mean pas- 
 sions ; his fortitude and daring. Tn Greece I 
 had learnt to love him ; his very waywardness, 
 and self-abandonment to the impulses of super- 
 stition, attached me to him doubly ; it might be 
 weakness, but it was the antipodes of all that was 
 grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were 
 added the loss of Perdita, lost through my own 
 accursed self-will and conceit. This dear one, 
 my sole relation ; whose progress I had marked 
 from tender childhood through the varied path 
 of life, and seen her throughout conspicuous for 
 integrity, devotion, and true affection ; for all 
 that constitutes the peculiar graces of the female 
 character, and beheld her at last the victim of 
 too much loving, too constant an attachment to 
 the perishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty 
 and life, had thrown aside the pleasant percep- 
 tion of the apparent world for the unreality of 
 the grave, and had left poor Clara quite an 
 
11^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 orphan. I concealed from this beloved child 
 that her mother's death was voluntary, and 
 tried every means to awaken cheerfulness in 
 her sorrow-stricken spirit. 
 
 One of my first acts for the recovery even of 
 my own composure, was to bid farewell to the 
 sea. Its hateful splash renewed again and again 
 to my sense the death of my sister ; its roar was 
 a dirge ; in every dark hull that was tossed on 
 its inconstant bosom, I imaged a bier, that 
 would convey to death all who trusted to its 
 treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea ! Come, 
 my Clara, sit beside me in this aerial bark ; 
 quickly and gently it cleaves the azure serene, 
 and ^vith 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 ; 
 
THE LAST MAN. 113 
 
 the ether opens before the prow, and the shadow 
 of the globe that upholds it, shelters us from 
 the noon-day sun. Beneath are the plains of 
 Italy, or the vast undulations of the wave-like 
 Apennines : fertility reposes in their many folds, 
 and woods crown the summits. The free and 
 
 happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, 
 bears the double harvest to the garner ; and the 
 refined citizens rear without dread the lone: 
 blighted tree of knowledge in this garden of 
 the world. We were lifted above the Alpine 
 peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines 
 entered the plain of fair France, and after an 
 airy journey of six days, we landed at Dieppe, 
 furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken 
 globe of our little pinnace. A heavy rain made 
 this mode of travelling now incommodious ; so we 
 embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short 
 passage landed at Portsmouth. 
 
 A strange story was rife here. A few days 
 before, a tempest-struck vessel had appeared off 
 the town : the hull was parched-looking and 
 
114 tHE LAST MAN. 
 
 cracked, the sails rent, and bent in a careless^ 
 unseamanlike manner, the shrouds tangled and 
 broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and 
 was stranded on the sands at the entrance. In 
 the morning the custom-house officers, together 
 with a crowd of idlers^ visited her. One only 
 of the crew appeared to have arrived with her. 
 He had got to shore^ and had walked a few 
 jpaces towards the town, and then, vanquished by 
 malady and approaching death, had fallen on 
 the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his 
 hands clenched, and pressed against his breast. 
 His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and 
 bristly beard, were signs of a long protracted 
 misery. It was whispered that he had died of 
 the plague. No one ventured on board the ves- 
 sel, and strange sights were averred to be seen 
 at night, walking the deck, and hanging on the 
 masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces ; 
 I was shewn where she had been, and saw her 
 disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The 
 bod}' of the man who had landed, had been 
 
THE LAST MAN. HS 
 
 buried deep in die sands ; and none could tell 
 more, than that the vessel was American built, 
 and that several months before the Fortunatus 
 had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no 
 tidings were afterwards received. 
 
116 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I RETURNED to my family estate in the autumn 
 of the year 2092. My heart had long been with 
 them ; and I felt sickwith the hope and delight 
 of seeing them again. The district which con- 
 tained them appeared the abode of every kindly 
 spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked the 
 forest paths, and tempered the atmosphere. 
 After all the agitation and sorrow I had endured 
 in Greece, I sought Windsor, as the storm-driven 
 bird does the nest in which it may fold its wings 
 in tranquillity. 
 
 How unwise had the wanderers been, who had 
 deserted its shelter, entangled themselves in 
 the web of society, and entered on what men of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 1 17 
 
 the world call " 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 feel ; we must 
 not be mere spectators of action, we must act ; 
 we must not describe, but be subjects of descrip- 
 tion. Deep sorroAv must have been the inmate 
 of our bosoms ; fraud must have lain in wait for 
 us; the artful must have deceived us; sickening 
 doubt and false hope must have chequered our 
 days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in 
 ecstasy, must at times have possessed us. Who 
 that knows what " life" is, would pine for this 
 feverish species of existence ? I have lived. I 
 have spent days and nights of festivity ; I have 
 joined in ambitious hopes, and exulted in victory: 
 now, — shut the door on the world, and build 
 high the wall that is to separate me from the 
 troubled scene enacted within its precincts. Let 
 us live for each other and for happiness ; let us 
 seek peace in our dear home, near the inland 
 murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of 
 
118 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sub- 
 Jime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave " life," 
 that we may Hve. 
 
 Idris was well content with this resolve of 
 mine. Her native sprightliness needed no undue 
 excitement^ and her placid heart reposed con- 
 tented on my love, the well-being of her children, 
 and the beauty of surrounding nature. Her 
 pride and blameless ambition was to create smiles 
 in all around her, and to shed repose on the fra- 
 gile existence of her brother. In spite of her 
 tender nursing, the health of Adrian perceptibly 
 declined. Walking, riding, the common occu- 
 pations of life, overcame him : he felt no pain, 
 but seemed to tremble for ever on the verge of 
 annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months 
 nearly in the same state, he did not inspire us 
 with any immediate fear ; and, though he talked 
 of death as an event most familiar to his thoughts, 
 he did not cease to exert himself to render others 
 happy, or to cultivate his own astonishing powers 
 of mind. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 119 
 
 Winter passed away ; and spring, led by the 
 months, awakened Ufe in all nature. The forest 
 was dressed in green ; the young calves frisked 
 on the new-sprung grass ; the wind-winged sha^ 
 dows of light clouds sped over the green corn- 
 fields ; the hermit cuckoo repeated his mono- 
 tonous all-hail to the season; the nightingale, 
 bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled 
 the woods with song ; while Venus lingered in 
 the warm sunset, and the young green of the 
 trees lay in gentle relief along the clear horizon. 
 
 Delight awoke in every heart, dehght and 
 exultation ; for there was peace through all the 
 world ; the temple of Universal Janus was shut, 
 and man died not that year by the hand of man. 
 
 " Let this last but twelve months," said 
 Adrian; *'and earth will become a Paradise. 
 The energies of man were before directed to the 
 destruction of his species : they now aim at its 
 liberation and preservation. Man cannot repose, 
 and his restless aspirations will now bring forth 
 good instead of evil. The favoured countries 
 
120 THE LAST man; 
 
 of the south will throw off the iron yoke of ser- 
 vitude ; poverty will quit us, and with that, 
 sickness. What may not the forces, never before 
 united, of liberty and peace achieve in this 
 dwelling of man ? 
 
 " Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor !" 
 said Ryland, the old adversary of Raymond, 
 and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing 
 election. " Be assured that earth is not, nor 
 ever can be heaven, while the seeds of hell are 
 natives of her soil. When the seasons have 
 become equal, when the air breeds no disorders, 
 when its surface is no longer liable to blights and 
 droughts, then sickness will cease ; when men's 
 passions are dead, poverty will depart. When 
 love is no longer akin to hate, then brotherhood 
 will exist: we are very far from that state at 
 present." 
 
 " Not so far as you may suppose," observed 
 a little old astronomer, by name Merrival, " the 
 poles precede slowly, but : ecurely ; in an hundred 
 thousand years — " 
 
THE LAST MAN. 121 
 
 '' We shall all be underground," said Ryland. 
 
 " The pole of the earth will coincide with the 
 pole of the ecliptic," continued the astronomer, 
 ** an universal spring will be produced, and earth 
 become a paradise."" 
 
 '* And we shall of course enjoy the benefit 
 of the change," said Ryland, contemptuously. 
 
 " We have strange news here,"" I observed 
 I had the newspaper in my hand, and, as usual, 
 had turned to the intellio^ence from Greece. *' It 
 seems that the total destruction of Constantinople, 
 and the supposition that winter had purified the 
 air of the fallen city, gave the Greeks courage 
 to visit its site, and begin to rebuild it. But 
 they tell us that the curse of God is on the place, 
 for everv one who has ventured within the w^alls 
 has been tainted by the plague; that this disease 
 has spread in Thrace and Macedonia ; and now, 
 fearing the virulence of infection during the 
 coming heats, a cordon has been drawn on the 
 frontiers of Thessaly, and a strict quarantine 
 exacted."" 
 
 VOL. II. G 
 
122 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 This intelligence brought us back from the 
 prospect of paradise, held out after the lapse of 
 an hundred thousand years, to the pain and 
 misery at present existent upon earth. We talked 
 of the ravages made last year by pestilence in 
 every quarter of the world ; and of the dreadful 
 consequences of a second visitation. We dis- 
 cussed the best means of preventing infection, 
 and of preserving health and activity in a large 
 city thus afflicted — London, for instance. Mer- 
 rival did not join in this conversation ; drawing 
 near Idris, he proceeded to assure her that the 
 joyful prospect of an earthly paradise after an 
 hundred thousand years, was clouded to him 
 by the knowledge that in a certain period of 
 time after, an earthly hell or purgatory, would 
 occur, when the ecliptic and equator would be 
 at right angles.* Our party at length broke 
 up ; " We are all dreaming this morning," said 
 
 * See an ingenious Essay, entitled, " The Mythological 
 Astronomy of the Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a 
 shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822. 
 
THE LAST MAN, 123 
 
 Ryland, " it is as wise to discuss the probability 
 of a visitation of the plague in our well-governed 
 metropolis, as to calculate the centuries which 
 must escape before we can grow pine -apples here 
 in the open air." 
 
 But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon 
 the arrival of the plague in London, I could not 
 reflect without extreme pain on the desolation 
 this evil would cause in Greece, The English 
 for the most part talked of Thrace and Mace- 
 donia, as they would of a lunar territory, which, 
 unknown to them, presented no distinct idea or 
 interest to the minds. I had trod the soil. The 
 faces of many of the inhabitants were familiar to 
 me ; in the towns, plains, hills, and defiles of 
 these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable 
 delight, as I journied through them the year 
 before. Some romantic village, some cottage, 
 or elegant abode there situated, inhabited 
 by the lovely and the good, rose before my 
 mental sight, and the question haunted me, is 
 the plague there also ?— That same invincible 
 
 G 2 
 
124 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 monster, which hovered over and devoured Con- 
 stantinople — that fiend more cruel than tempest, 
 less tame than fire, is, alas, unchained in that 
 beautiful country — these reflections would not 
 allow me to rest. 
 
 The political state of England became agitated 
 as the time drew near when the new Protector 
 was to be elected. This event excited the more 
 interest, since it was the current report, that 
 if the popular candidate (Ryland) should be 
 chosen, the question of the abolition of hereditary 
 rank, and other feudal relics, would come under 
 the consideration of parliament. Not a word had 
 been spoken during the present session on any 
 of these topics. Every thing would depend 
 upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections 
 of the ensuing year. Yet this very silence was 
 awful, shewing the deep weight attributed to 
 the question ; the fear of either party to hazard 
 an ill-timed attack, and the expectation of a 
 furious contention when it should becin. 
 
 But although St. Stephen's did not ec\\o with 
 
THE LAST MAN. 125 
 
 the voice which filled each heart, the newspapers 
 teemed with nothing else ; and in private com- 
 panies the conversation however remotely begun, 
 soon verged towards this central point, while 
 voices were lowered and chairs drawn closer. The 
 nobles did not hesitate to express their fear ; the 
 other party endeavoured to treat the matter 
 lightl3^ " 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 carriage-pannels and the 
 embroidery of footmen's coats."" 
 
 Yet could England indeed doff her lordly 
 trappings, and be content with the democratic 
 style of America ? Were the pride of ancestry, 
 tlie patrician spirit, the gentle courtesies and re- 
 fined pursuits, splendid attributes of rank, to be 
 erased among U:S ? We were told that this would 
 not be the case ; that we were by nature a poeti- 
 cal people, a nation easily duped by words, 
 ready to array clouds in splendour, and bestow 
 honour on tlie dust. This spirit we could never 
 
126 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 lose; and it was to diffuse this concentrated 
 spirit of birth, that the new law was to be 
 brought forward. We were assured that, when 
 the name and title of Englishman was the sole 
 patent of nobility, we should all be noble ; that 
 when no man born under English sway, felt 
 another his superior in rank, courtesy and re- 
 finement would become the birth-right of all our 
 countrymen. Let not England be so far dis- 
 graced, as to have it imagined that it can be 
 without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear 
 their patent in their mien, who are from their cradle 
 elevated above the rest of their species, because 
 they are better than the rest. Among a race of 
 independent, and generous, and well educated 
 men, in a country where the imagination is 
 empress of men's minds, there needs be no fear 
 that we should want a perpetual succession of 
 the high-born and lordly. That party, however, 
 could hardly yet be considered a minority in the 
 kingdom, who extolled the oriiament of the 
 column, " the Corinthian capital of pohshed 
 
THE LAST MAX. 127 
 
 society;" they appe<aled to prejudices without 
 number, to old attachments and young Tiopes ; 
 to the expectation of thousands who might one 
 day become peers ; they set up as a scarecrow, 
 the spectre of all that was sordid, mechanic and 
 base in the commercial republics. 
 
 The plague had come to Athens, Hundreds 
 of English residents returned to their own 
 country, Raymond's beloved Athenians, the 
 free, the noble people of the divinest town in 
 Greece, fell like ripe corn before the merciless 
 sickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places were 
 deserted ; its temples and palaces were converted 
 into tombs ; its energies, bent before towards the 
 highest objects of human ambition, were now 
 forced to converge to one point, the guarding 
 against the innumerous arroAAjs of the plague. 
 
 At any other time this disaster would have 
 excited extreme compassion among us; but it 
 was now passed over, while each mind was en- 
 gaged by the coming controversy. It was not 
 so with me; and the question of _ rank and right 
 
1^8 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 dwindled to insignificance in my eyes, when I 
 pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I heard 
 of the death of only sons ; of wives and 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 sufferers. It was the admirers, friends, 
 fellow soldiers of Raymond, families that 
 had welcomed Perdita to Greece, and lamented 
 with her the loss of her lord, that were swept 
 away, and went to dwell with them in the un- 
 distinguishing tomb. 
 
 The plague at Athens had been preceded 
 and caused by the contagion from the East ; 
 and the scene of havoc and death continued to 
 be acted there, on a scale of fearful magnitude. 
 A hope that the visitation of the present year 
 would prove the last, kept up the spirits of the 
 merchants connected with these countries ; but 
 
THE LAST MAN. 129 
 
 the inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a 
 resignation which, arivsing from fanaticism, as- 
 sumed the same dark hue. America had also 
 received the taint; and, were it yellow fever or 
 plague, the epidemic was gifted with a virulence 
 before unfelt. The devastation was not confined 
 to the towns, but spread throughout the coun- 
 try ; the hunter died in the woods, the peasant 
 in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his native 
 waters. 
 
 A strange story was brought to us from the 
 East, to which little credit would have been 
 given, had not the fact been attested by a mul- 
 titude of witnesses, in various parts of the 
 world. On the twenty-first of June, it was said 
 that an hour before noon, a black sun arose : an 
 orb, the size of that luminary, but dark, defined, 
 whose beams were shadows, ascended from the 
 west ; in about an hour it had reached the 
 meridian, and eclipsed the bright parent of 
 day. Night fell upon every country, night; 
 
 a 3 
 
130 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 sudden, rayless, entire. The stars came out, 
 shedding their ineffectual glimmeiings on the 
 light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb 
 passed from over the sun, and lingered down 
 the eastern heaven. As it descended, its dusky 
 rays crossed the brilhant ones of the sun, and 
 deadened or distorted them. The shadows of 
 things assumed strange and ghastly shapes. The 
 wild animals in the woods took fright at the 
 unknown shapes figured on the ground. They 
 fled they knew not whither; and the citizens 
 were filled with greater dread, it the convulsion 
 which " shook lions into civil streets ;" — birds, 
 strong-winged eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in 
 the market-places, while owls and bats shewed 
 themselves welcoming the early night. Gra^. 
 dually the object of fear sank beneath the 
 horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy beams 
 into the otherwise radiant air. Such was the 
 tale sent us from Asia, from the eastern extre- 
 mity of Europe, and from Africa as hr west as 
 the Golden Coast. 
 
THE Last ma^. 131 
 
 Whether this story were true or not, the 
 effects were certain. Through Asia, from the 
 banks of the Nile to the shores of the Caspian, 
 from the Hellespont even to the sea of Omar, 
 a sudden panic was driven. The men filled the 
 mosques ; the women, veiled, hastened to the 
 tombs, and carried offerings to the dead, thus 
 to preserve the living. The plague was forgot- 
 ten, in this new fear which the black sun had 
 spread^ and, though the dead multiplied, and 
 the streets of Ispahan, of Pekin, and of Delhi 
 were strewed with pestilence-struck corpses, 
 men passed on, gazing on the ominous sky^ 
 regardless of the death beneath their feet. The 
 christians sought their churches, — christian 
 maidens, even at the feast of roses, clad in 
 white, with shining veils, sought, in long pro- 
 cession, th« places consecrated to their religion, 
 •filling the air with their hymns ; while, ever and 
 anon, from the lips <5f some poor mourner in the 
 «rowd, a voice of wailing burst, and the rest 
 looked up, fancying they could discern the sweep 
 
13^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ing wings of angels, who passed over tlie earth, 
 lamenthig the disasters about to fall on man. 
 
 In the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded 
 cities of China, amidst the aromatic groves of 
 Cashmere, and along the southern shores of the 
 Mediterranean, such scenes had place. Even in 
 Greece the tale of the sun of darkness encreased 
 the fears and despair of the dying multitude. 
 We, in our cloudy isle, were far removed from 
 danger, and the only circumstance that brought 
 these disasters at all home to us, was the daily 
 arrival of vessels from the east, crowded with 
 emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems, 
 though the fear of death was spread keenly 
 among them, still clung together ; that, if they 
 were to die (and if they were, death would as 
 readily meet them on the homeless sea, or in far 
 England, as in Persia,)-if they were to die, their 
 bones might rest in earth made sacred by the 
 relics of true believers. Mecca had never be- 
 fore been so crowded with pilgrims ; yet the 
 Arabs neglected to pillage the caravans, but, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 133 
 
 humble and weaponless, they joined the pro- 
 cession, praying Mahomet to avert plague from 
 their tents and deserts. 
 
 I cannot describe the rapturous delight with 
 which I turned from political brawls at home, 
 and the physical evils of distant countries, to 
 my own dear home, to the selected abode of 
 goodness and love ; to peace, and the interchange 
 of every sacred sympathy. Had I never quitted 
 Windsor, these emotions would not have been 
 so intense ; but I had in Greece been the prey of 
 fear and deplorable change ; in Greece, after a 
 period of anxiety and sorrow, I had seen depart 
 two, whose very names were the symbol of 
 greatness and virtue. But such miseries could 
 never intrude upon the domestic circle left to 
 me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we 
 passed our lives in tranquilhty. Some small 
 change indeed the progress of years brought here; 
 and time, as it is wont, stamped the traces of 
 mortality on our pleasures and expectations. 
 
IS-i TiiE LAST MAiJ. 
 
 Idris, the most affectionate wife, sister and 
 friend, was a tender and loving mother. The 
 feehng was not with her as with many, a pastime ; 
 it was a passion. We had had three children ; 
 one, the second iti age, died while I was in 
 Greece. This had dashed the triumphant and 
 rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and 
 fear. Before this event, the little beings, sprung 
 from herself, the young heirs of her transient 
 life, seemed to have a sure lease of existence ; 
 now she dreaded that the pitiless destroyer might 
 snatch her remaining darlings, as it had snatched 
 their brother. The least illness caused throes of 
 terror ; she was miserable if she were at all ab- 
 sent from them ; her treasure of happiness she 
 had garnered in their fragile beings and kept foi> 
 ever on the watch, lest the insidious thief should 
 as before steal these valued gems. She had fcw*- 
 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 MAN. l35 
 
 in infancy ; but his doAyny cheek was sprinkled 
 with the roses of health, and 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 fears of Idris. 
 Clara was dear to her, to all. There was so 
 much intelligence combined with innocence, sen- 
 sibility with forbearance^ and seriousness with 
 perfect good-humour, a beauty so transcendant^ 
 united to such endearing simplicity, that she 
 hung like a pe^rl in the shrine of our posses^ 
 sions, a tl'easure of wonder and excellence 
 
 At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now 
 nine years of age, first went to school at Eton. 
 This appeared to him the primary step towards 
 manhood, and he was proportionably pleased. 
 Community of study and amusement developed 
 the best parts of his character, his steady per- 
 severance, generosity, and well-governed firm- 
 ness. What deep and sacred emotions are ex^ 
 cited in a father's bosom, when he first becomes 
 convinced that his love for his child is not a 
 
1S6 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 mere instinct, but worthily bestowed, and that 
 others, less akin, participate his approbation ! 
 It was supreme happiness to Idris and my- 
 self, to find that the frankness which Alfred's 
 open brow indicated, the intelhgence of his eyes, 
 the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not 
 delusions, but indications of talents and virtues, 
 which would " grow with his growth, and 
 strengthen with his strength." At this period, 
 the termination of an animal's love for its off- 
 spring, — the true affection of the human parent 
 commences. We no longer look on this dearest 
 part of ourselves, as a tender plant which we 
 must cherish, or a plaything for an idle hour. 
 We build now on his intellectual faculties, we 
 establish our hopes on his moral propensities. 
 His weakness still imparts anxiety to this feeling, 
 his ignorance prevents entire intimacy ; but we 
 begin to respect the future man, and to endea- 
 vour to secure his esteem, even as if he were our 
 equal. What can a parent have more at heart 
 than the good opinion of his child ? In all our 
 
THE LAST MAN. 137 
 
 transactions with him our honour must be in- 
 violate, the integrity of our relations untainted : 
 fate and circumstance may, when he arrives at 
 maturity, separate us for ever — but, as his asgis 
 in danger, his consolation in hardship, let the 
 ardent youth for ever bear with him through the 
 rough path of life, love and honour for his 
 parents. 
 
 We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, 
 that its population of young folks was well 
 known to us. Many of them had been Alfred's 
 playmates, before they became his school-fellows. 
 We now watched this youthful congregation 
 with redoubled interest. We marked the difter- 
 ence of character among the 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. Several of the Etonians 
 had these characteristics ; all were distinguished 
 by a sense of honour, and spirit of enterprize ; in 
 some, as they verged towards manhood, this de- 
 
138 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 generated into presumption; but the younger 
 ones, lads a little older than our own, were con- 
 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; here were the beings 
 who were to carry on the vast machine of society ; 
 here were the lovers, husbands, fathers ; here the 
 landlord, the politician, the soldier ; some fancied 
 that they were even now ready to appear on the 
 stage, eager to make one among the dramatis 
 personae of active life. It was not long since I 
 was like one of these beardless aspirants ; when 
 my boy shall have obtained the place I now 
 hold, I shall have tottered into a grey-headed, 
 wrinkled old man. Strange system ! riddle of 
 the Sphynx, most awe-striking ! that thus man 
 remains, while we the individuals pass away. 
 Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent 
 
THE LAST MAK. 139 
 
 and philosophic writer, *' the mode of existence 
 decreed to a permanent body composed of tran- 
 sitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a 
 stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great 
 mysterious incorporation of the human race, the 
 whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, 
 or young, but, in a condition of unchangeable^ . 
 constancy, moves on through the varied tenour 
 of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and pro- 
 gression."* 
 
 Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred ! 
 advance, offspring of tender love, child of our 
 hopes ; advance a soldier on the road to which 
 I have been the pioneer ! I will make way for 
 thee. I have already put off the carelessness 
 of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy 
 gait of early years, that they may adorn thee. 
 Advance ; and I will despoil myself still further 
 for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the 
 graces of maturity, shall take the fire from my 
 
 • Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution. 
 
140 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 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 
 taught 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 lead up the summer to which 
 no winter may succeed ! 
 
THE LAST MAN. 141 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Some disorder had surely crept into the course 
 of the elements, destroying their benignant in- 
 fluence. The wind, prince of air, raged through 
 his kingdom, lashing the sea into fury, and sub- 
 duing the rebel earth into some sort of obedience. 
 
 The God sends down his angry plagues from high. 
 
 Famine and pestilence in heaps they die. 
 
 Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls 
 
 On theii" great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls ; 
 
 Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain. 
 
 And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.* 
 
 Elton's translation of Hesiod's Works. 
 
142 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 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 effects. 
 
 That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority 
 to the sun over the wind. Who has not seen 
 the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and 
 basking nature become dark, cold and ungenial, 
 when the sleeping wind has awoke in the east ? 
 Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky, 
 while exhaustless stores of rain are poured down, 
 until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe the 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 
 
THE LAST MAN. 14S 
 
 pours forth its rays, re-animated and fed by the 
 breeze. 
 
 Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned 
 above all other vicegerents of nature's power ; 
 whether thou comest destroying from the east, 
 or pregnant with elementary life from the west ; 
 thee the clouds obey; the sun is subservient 
 to thee ; the shoreless ocean is thy slave ! Thou 
 sweepest over the earth, and oaks, the growth 
 of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe ; the 
 snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the 
 Alps, the avalanche thunders down their vallies. 
 Thou boldest the keys of the frost, and canst 
 first chain and then set free the streams ; under 
 thy gentle governance the buds and leaves are 
 born, they flourish nursed by thee. 
 
 Why dost thou howl thus, O wind ? By day 
 and by night for four long months thy roarings 
 have not ceased — the shores of the sea are strewn 
 \v ith wrecks, its keel-welcoming surface has become 
 impassable, the earth has shed her beauty in 
 obedience to thy command ; the frail balloon 
 
144j the last UAH. 
 
 dares no longer sail on the agitated air ; thy 
 ministers, the clouds, deluge the land with rain ; 
 rivers forsake their banks ; the wild torrent tears 
 up the mountain path ; plain and wood, and ' 
 verdant dell are despoiled of their loveliness ; 
 our very cities are wasted by thee. Alas, what 
 will become of us ? It seems as if the giant 
 waves of ocean, and vast arms of the sea, v»'ere 
 about to wrench the deep-rooted island from its 
 centre ; and cast it, a ruin and a wreck, upon 
 the fields of the Atlantic. 
 
 What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least 
 among the many that people infinite space? Our 
 minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of 
 our being is subject to merest accident. Day 
 by day we are forced to believe this. He whom 
 a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears 
 from apparent life under the influence of the 
 hostile agency at work around us, had the same 
 |X)Vvers as I — I also am subject to the same 
 laws. In the face of all this we call ourselves 
 lords of the creation, wielders of the elements, 
 
THE LAST MAN, 145 
 
 masters of life and death, and we allege in 
 excuse of this arrogance, that though the indi- 
 vidual is destroyed, man continues for ever. 
 
 Thus, losiiig our identity, that of which we 
 are chiefly conscious, we glory in the continuity 
 of our species, and learn to regard death without 
 terror. But when any whole nation becomes 
 the victim of the destructive powers of exterior 
 agents, then indeed man shrinks into insignifi- 
 cance, he feels his tenure of life insecure, his 
 inheritance on earth cut oiF, 
 
 T remember, after having witnessed the de- 
 structive effects of a fire, I could not even 
 behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation 
 of fear. The mounting flames had curled round 
 the building, as it fell, and was destroyed. They 
 insinuated themselves into the substances about 
 them, and the impediments to their progress 
 yielded at their touch. Could we take integral 
 parts of this power, and not be subject to its 
 operation ? Could we domesticate a cub of 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
14G THE LAST MAN. 
 
 this wild beast, and not fear its growth and 
 maturity ? 
 
 Thus we began to feel, with regard to many- 
 visaged death let loose on the chosen districts of 
 our fair habitation, and above all, with regard 
 to the plague. We feared the coming summer. 
 Nations, bordering on the already infected 
 countries, began to enter upon serious plans for 
 the better keeping out of the enemy. We, a 
 commercial people, were obliged to bring such 
 schemes under consideration ; and the question 
 of contagion became matter of earnest disquisi- 
 tion. 
 
 That the plague was not what is commonly 
 called contagious, like the scarlet fever, or ex- 
 tinct small-pox, was proved. It was called an 
 epidemic, But the grand question was still un- 
 settled of how this epidemic was generated 
 and increased. If infection depended upon 
 the air, the air was subject to infection. 
 As for instance, a typhus fever has been 
 brought by ships to one sea-port town ; yet the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 147 
 
 very people who brought it there, were incapable 
 of communicating it in a town more fortunately 
 situated. But how are we to judge of airs, and 
 pronounce — in such a city plague will die un- 
 productive; in such another, nature has provided 
 for it a plentiful harvest ? In the same way, 
 individuals may escape ninety-nine times, and 
 receive the death-blow at the hundredth ; 
 because bodies are sometimes in a state to reject 
 the infection of malady, and at others, thirsty 
 to imbibe it. These reflections made our legisla- 
 tors pause, before they could decide on the laws 
 to be put in force. The evil was so wide-spread- 
 ing, so violent and immedicable, that no care, no 
 prevention could be judged superfluous, which 
 even added a chance to our escape. 
 
 These were questions of prudence ; there was 
 no immediate necessity for an earnest caution. 
 England was still secure. France, Germany, 
 Italy and Spain, were interposed, walls yet with- 
 out a breach, between us and the plague. Our 
 vessels truly were the sport of winds and waves, 
 
 H 2 
 
148 THE LAST MA^r. 
 
 even as Gulliver was the toy of the Brobdigna- 
 gians ; but sv^e on our stable abode could not be 
 hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature. 
 We could not fear — we did not. Yet a feeling of 
 awe, a breathless sentiment of wonder, a painful 
 sense of the degradation of humanity, was in- 
 troduced into every heart. Nature, our nlother, 
 and our friend, had turned on us a brow of 
 menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she 
 permitted us to assign her laws and subdue her 
 apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a 
 finger, we must quake. She could take our 
 globe, fringed with mountains, girded by the at- 
 mosphere, containing the condition of our being, 
 and all that man's mind could invent or his 
 force achieve ; she could take the ball in her 
 hand, and cast it into space, where life would be 
 drunk up, and man and all his efforts for ever 
 annihilated. 
 
 These speculations were rife among us ; yet 
 not the less we proceeded in our daily occupa- 
 tions, and our plans, whose accomphshment 
 
THE LAST MAN. 149 
 
 demanded the lapse of many years. No voice 
 was heard teUing us to hold ! When foreign 
 distresses came to be felt by us through the 
 channels of commerce, we set ourselves to apply 
 remedies. Subscriptions were made for the 
 emigrants, and merchants bankrupt by the 
 failure of trade. The English spirit awoke to 
 its full activity, and, as it had ever done, set it- 
 self to resist the evil, and to stand in the breach 
 which diseased nature had suffered chaos and 
 death to make in the bounds and banks which 
 had hitherto kept them out. 
 
 At the commencement of summer, we began 
 to feel, that the mischief which had taken place 
 in distant countries was greater than we had at 
 first suspected. Quito was destroyed by an 
 earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the united 
 effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds 
 of emigrants inundated the west of Europe; and 
 oui? island had become the refuge of thousands. 
 In the mean time R viand had been chosen 
 Protector. He had sought this office with eager- 
 ness^ under the idea of turning his whole forces 
 
150 THE LAST MAK. 
 
 to the suppression of the privileged orders of 
 our community. His measures were thwarted, 
 and his schemes interrupted by this new state of 
 things. Many of the foreigners were utterly 
 destitute ; and their increasinfr num])ers at lenoth 
 forbade a recourse to the usual modes of relief. 
 Trade was stopped by the failure of the inter- 
 change of cargoes usual between us, and America, 
 India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden break 
 was made in the routine of our lives. In vain 
 our Protector and his partizans souglit to conceal 
 this truch ; in vain, day after day, he appointed 
 a period for the discussion of the new laws 
 concerning hereditary rank and privilege; in 
 vain he endeavoured to represent the evil as 
 partial and temporary. These disasters came 
 home to so many bosoms, and, through the various 
 chaimels of commerce, were carried so entirely 
 into every class and division of the community, 
 that of necessity they became the first question in 
 the state, the chief subjects to which we must 
 turn our attention. 
 
 Can it be true, each asked the other with 
 
THE LAST MAN. I5l 
 
 wonder and dismay, that whole countries are 
 laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these 
 disorders in nature? The vast cities of America, 
 the fertile plains of Hindostan, the crowded 
 abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter 
 ruin. Where late the busy multitudes assembled 
 for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of 
 wailing and misery is heard. The air is empoi- 
 soned, and each human being inhales death, 
 even while in youth and health, their hopes are 
 in the flower. We called to mind the plague of 
 134)8, when it was calculated that a third of 
 mankind had been destroyed. As yet western 
 Europe was uninfected ; would it always be so ? 
 Oy yes, it would — Counti-ymen, fear not l In 
 the still uncultivated wilds of America, what 
 wonder that among its other giant destroyers, 
 Plague should be numbered ! It is of old a 
 native of the East, sister of the tornado, the 
 earthquake, and the simoom. Child of the sun, 
 and nursling of the tropics, it would expire in 
 these climes. It drinks the dark blood of the 
 
152 THE LAST MAN, 
 
 inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts on 
 the pale-faced Celt. If perchance some stricken 
 Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him,, 
 uncommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep 
 for our brethren, though we can never experience 
 their reverse. Let us lament over and assist 
 the children of the garden of the earth. Late 
 we envied their abodes, their spicy groves, fertile 
 plains, and abundant loveliness. But in thi& 
 mortal life extremes are always matched ; the 
 thorn grows with the rose, the poison tree and 
 the cinnamon mingle their boughs. Persia, with 
 its cloth of gold, marble halls, and infinite wealth,, 
 is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is fallen 
 in the sands, and his horse spurns the ground 
 unbridled and unsaddled. The voice of lamen-- 
 tation fills the valley of Cashmere ; its dells and 
 woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses, 
 are polluted by the dead; in Circassia and 
 Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin 
 of its favourite temple — the form of woman. 
 Our own distresses^ though they were occa- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 153 
 
 -sioned by the fictitious reciprocity of commerce, 
 increased in due proportion. Bankers, mer- 
 chants, and manufacturers, whose trade depended 
 on exports and interchange of wealth, became 
 bankrupt. Such things, when they happen 
 singly, affect only the immediate parties ; but 
 the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by 
 frequent and extensive losses. Families, bred in 
 opulence and luxury, v/ere reduced to beggary. 
 The very state of peace in which we gloried was 
 injurious ; there were no means of employing 
 the idle, or of sending any overplus of population 
 out of the country. Even the source of colonies 
 was dried up, for in New Holland, Van Diemen'*s 
 Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, plague 
 raged. O, for some medicinal vial to purge un- 
 wholesome nature, and bring back the earth to 
 its accustomed health I 
 
 Ryland was a man of strong intellects and 
 quick and sound decision in the usual course of 
 things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of 
 evils that gathered round us. Must he tax the 
 
 H a 
 
154t TH£ LAST MA:sr, 
 
 Landed interest to assist our commercial popuk-- 
 tion ? To do this, he must gain the favour- of 
 the chief land-holders, the nobility of the country ; 
 and these were his vowed enemies — he must 
 conciliate them by abandoning his favourite 
 scheme of equalization ; he must confirm them 
 in their manorial rights ; he must sell his che- 
 rished plans for the permanent good of his 
 country, for temporary relief. He must aim no 
 more at the dear object of his ambition ; throw- 
 ing his arms aside, he must for present ends give 
 up the ultimate object of his endeavours. He 
 came to Windsor to consult with us. Every day 
 added to his difficulties ; the arrival of fresh ves- 
 sels with emigrants, the total cessation of com- 
 merce, the starving multitude that thronged 
 around the palace of the Protectorate, were cir- 
 cumstances not to be tampered with. The blow 
 was struck ; the aristocracy^ obtained all they 
 wished, and they subscribed to a twelvemonths' 
 Jbill, which levied twenty per cent, on all the 
 rent-rolls of the country. 
 
^Hk LAST UAiJ. 155 
 
 Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and 
 to the populous cities, before driven to despera- 
 tion ; and we returned to the consideration of 
 distant calamities, v/ondering if the future would 
 bring any alleviation to their excess. It was 
 August ; so there could be small hope of relief 
 during the heats. On the contrary, the disease 
 gained virulence, while starvation did its accus- 
 tomed w^ork. Thousands died unlamented ; for 
 beside the yet warm corpse the mourner was 
 
 stretched, made mute by death. 
 
 On the eighteenth of this month news arrived 
 in London that the plague was in France and 
 Italy. These tidings were at first whispered 
 about town ; but no one dared express aloud the 
 soul-quaihng intelligence. When any one met 
 a friend in the street, he only cried as he hurried 
 on, "You know!" — while the other, with an 
 ejaculation of fear and horror, w^ould answer, — 
 ^' What will become of us?" At length it was 
 mentioned in the newspapers. The paragraph 
 was inserted in an obscure part : " We regret 
 
i56 THE LAST MAJs% 
 
 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 bj a lurking hope of a mistake, till 
 he turns the corner, and sees his sheltering roof 
 enveloped in a flame. Before it had been a ru- 
 mour ; but now in words uneraseable, in definite 
 and undeniable print, the knowledge went forth. 
 Its obscurity of situation rendered it the more 
 conspicuous : the diminutive letters grew gigan- 
 tic to the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed 
 graven with a pen of iron, impressed by fire, 
 woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front 
 of the universe. 
 
 The English, whether travellers or residents, 
 came pouring in one great revulsive stream, back 
 on their own country ; and with them crowds of 
 Italians and Spaniards. Our little island was 
 filled even to bursting. At first an unusual 
 
THE LAST MAX. 157 
 
 quantity of specie made its appearance with the 
 emigrants ; but these people had no means of 
 receiving back into their hands what they spent 
 among us. With the advance of summer, and 
 the increase of the distemper, rents were un- 
 paid, and their remittances failed them. It was 
 impossible to see these crowds of wretched, 
 perishing creatures, late nurslings of luxury, 
 and not stretch out a hand to save them. As at 
 the conclusion of the eighteenth century, the 
 English unlocked their hospitable store, for the 
 relief of those driven from their homes by poli- 
 tical revolution ; so now they were not backward 
 in affording; aid to the victims of a more wide- 
 spreading calamity. We had many foreign 
 friends whom we eagerly sought out, and relieved 
 from dreadful penury. Our Castle became an 
 asylum for the unhappy. A little population 
 occupied its halls. The revenue of its possessor, 
 which had always found a mode of expenditure 
 congenial to his generous nature, was now at- 
 tended to more parsimoniously, that it might 
 
15S THE LAST MAK. 
 
 embrace a wider portion of utility. It was not 
 however money, except partially, but the neces- 
 saries of life, that became scarce. It was difficult 
 to find an immediate remedy. The usual one 
 of imports was entirely cut off. In this emergency, 
 to feed the very people to whom we had given 
 refuge, we were obliged to yield to the plough 
 and the mattock our pleasure-grounds and parks. 
 Live stock diminished sensibly in the country, 
 from the effects of the great demand in the 
 market. Even the poor deer, our antlered pro- 
 teges, were obliged to fall for the sake of wor- 
 thier pensioners. The labour necessary to bring 
 the lands to this sort of culture, employed and 
 fed the offcasts of the diminished manufactories. 
 Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he 
 could make with regard to his own possessions. 
 He addressed himself to the wealthy of the land; 
 he made proposals in parliament little adapted 
 to please the rich ; but his earnest pleadings and 
 benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give 
 up their pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist, 
 
THE LAST MAN. . 159 
 
 to diminish sensibly the number of horses kept 
 for the purposes of luxury throughout the coun» 
 try, were means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet, 
 to the honour of the English be it recorded, that, 
 although natural disinclination made them delay 
 a\yhile, yet when the misery of their fellow-crea- 
 tures became glaring, an enthusiastic generosity 
 inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were , 
 often the first to part with their indulgencies. 
 As is common in communities, a fashion was set. 
 The high-born ladies of the country would have 
 deemed themselves disgraced if they had now 
 enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the 
 ease of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden time, and 
 Indian palanquins were introduced for the infirm; 
 but else it was nothing singular to see females of 
 rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort. 
 It was more common, for all who possessed landed 
 property to secede to their estates, attended by 
 whole troops of the indigent, to cut down their 
 woods to erect temporary dwellings, and to por- 
 tion out their parks, parterres and flower-gardens, 
 
160 THE LAST MaK. 
 
 to necessitous families. Many of these, of high 
 rank in their own countries, now, with hoe in 
 hand, turned up the soil. It was found necessary 
 at last to check the spirit of sacrifice, and to re- 
 mind those whose generosity proceeded to lavish 
 waste, that, until the present state of things be- 
 came permanent, of which there was no likeli- 
 hood, it was wrong to carry change so far as to 
 make 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 fine breeds of 
 horses, or have utterly changed the face of the 
 ornamented portion of the country. 
 
 It may be imagined that things were in a bad 
 state indeed, before this spirit of benevolence 
 could have struck such deep roots. The infec- 
 tion had now spread in the southern provinces 
 of France. But that country had so many re- 
 sources in the way of agriculture, that the rush 
 of population from one part of it to another, and 
 its increase through foreign emigration, was less 
 
THE LAST MAN. 161 
 
 felt than with us. The panic struck appeared 
 of more injury, than disease and its natural con- 
 comitants. 
 
 Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing 
 physician. The embrowning woods, and swollen 
 rivers, the evening mists, and morning frosts, 
 were welcomed with gratitude. The effects of 
 purifying cold were immediately felt ; and the 
 lists of mortality abroad were curtailed each 
 week. Many of our visitors left us : those whose 
 homes were far in the south, fled delightedly from 
 our northern winter, and sought their native land> 
 secure of plenty even after their fearful visitation. 
 We breathed again. What the coming summer 
 would bring, we knew not; but the present 
 months were our own, and our hopes of a cessa- 
 tion of pestilence were high. 
 
I6je 
 
 THF LAST MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 I HAVE lingered thus long on the extreme 
 bank, the wasting shoal that stretched into the 
 stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death. 
 Thus long, 1 have cradled my heart in retro- 
 spection of past happiness, when hope was. 
 Why not for ever thus ? I am not immortal ; 
 and the thread of my history might be spun out 
 to the limits of my existence. But the same 
 sentiment that first led me to pourtray scenes 
 replete with tender recollections, now bids me 
 hurry on. The same yearning of this warm, 
 panting heart, that has made me in written 
 words record my vagabond youth, my serene 
 manhood, and the passions of my soul^ makes 
 
THE LAST MAN. 163 
 
 me now recoil from further delay. I must 
 complete my work. 
 
 Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet 
 waters of the flowing years, and now away ! 
 Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying 
 by dark impending crags, adown steep rapids, 
 even to the sea of desolation I have reached. 
 Yet one moment, one brief interval before I 
 put from shore — once, once again let me fancy 
 myself as I was in 2094? in my abode at Wind- 
 sor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that the 
 immeasurable boughs of its oaks still shadow 
 me, its castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray 
 the joyous scene of the twentieth of June, such 
 as even now my aching heart recalls it. 
 
 Circumstances had called me to London ; 
 here I heard talk that symptoms of the plague 
 had occurred in hospitals of that city. I re- 
 turned to Windsor; my brow was clouded, my 
 heart heavy ; I entered the Little Park, as was 
 my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to 
 the Castle. A great part of these grounds had 
 
164 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 been given to cult'wation, and strips of potatoe- 
 land and corn were scattered here and there. 
 The rooks cawed loudly in the trees above ; 
 mixed with their hoarse cries I heard a lively 
 strain of music. It vvas Alfred's birthday. The 
 young people, the Etonians, and children of the 
 neighbouring gentry, held a mock fair, to which 
 all the country people were invited. The park 
 was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours 
 and gaudy flags, waving in the sunshine, added 
 to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform 
 erected beneath the terrace, a number of the 
 younger part of the assembly were dancing. I 
 leaned against a tree to observe them. The band 
 played the wild eastern air of Weber introduced 
 in Abon Hassan ; its volatile notes gave wings 
 to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on 
 unconsciously beat time. At first the tripping 
 measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a mo- 
 ment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the 
 dance. The revulsion of thought passed like 
 keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 165 
 
 I thought ; already your tomb is built up around 
 you. Awhile, because you are gifted with agility 
 and strength, you fancy that you live : but 
 frail is the " bower of flesh '' that encaskets 
 life ; dissoluble the silver cord that binds you 
 to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure 
 to pleasure by the graceful mechanism of well- 
 formed limbs, will suddenly feel the axle-tree 
 give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust. 
 Not one of you, O ! fated crowd, can escape — not 
 one ! not my own ones ! not my Idris and her 
 babes ! Horror and misery ! Already the gay 
 dance vanished, the green sward was strewn with 
 corpses, the blue air above became fetid with 
 deathly exhalations. Shriek, ye clarions! ye 
 loud trumpets, howl i Pile dirge on dirge ; 
 rouse the funereal chords ; let the air ring with 
 dire wailing ; let wild discord rush on the wings 
 of the wind ! Already I hear it, while guardian 
 angels, attendant on humanity, their task 
 achieved, hasten away, and their departure is 
 announced by melancholy strains ; faces all un- 
 
166 , THE LAST MAN. 
 
 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 
 pale, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking 
 on with sad smiles. Adrian's countenance flitted 
 across, tainted by death — Idris, with eyes lan- 
 guidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide 
 into the wide grave. The confusion grew — their 
 looks of sorrow changed to mockery ; they 
 nodded their heads in time to the music, whose 
 clang became maddening. 
 
 I felt that this was insanity — I sprang for- 
 ward to throw it off; I rushed into the midst of 
 the crowd. Idris saw me : with light step she 
 advanced ; as I folded her in my arms, feeling, 
 as I did, that I thus enclosed"^what was to me a 
 world, yet frail as the waterdrop which the 
 noon-day sun will drink from the water lily's 
 cup ; tears filled my eyes, unwont to be thus 
 mo'isteaed. The joyful welcome of my boys, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 161 
 
 the soft gratulation of Clara, the pressure of 
 Adrian's hand, contributed to unman me. I 
 felt that they were near, that they were safe, 
 yet methought this was all deceit ; — the earth 
 reeled, the firm-enrooted trees moved — dizziness 
 came over me — I sank to the ground. 
 
 My beloved friends were alarmed— nay, they 
 expressed their alarm so anxiously, that I dared 
 not pronounce the word pltgue, that hovered on 
 my lips, lest they should construe my perturbed 
 looks into a symptom, and see infection in my 
 languor. I had scarcely recovered, and with 
 feigned hilarity had brought back smiles into 
 my little circle, when we saw R viand approach. 
 
 Ryland had something the appearance of a 
 farmer ; of a man whose muscles and full grown 
 stature had been developed under the influence 
 of vigorous exercise and exposure to the elements. 
 This was to a great degree the case : for, though 
 a large landed proprietor, yet, being a pro- 
 jector, and of an ardent and industrious dis- 
 position, he had on his own estate given himself 
 
168 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 up to agricultural labours. When he went as 
 ambassador to the Northern States of America, 
 he, for some time, planned his entire migration ; 
 and went so far as to make several journies far 
 westward on that immense continent, for the pur- 
 pose of choosing the site of his new abode. 
 Ambition turned his thoughts from these de- 
 signs — ambition, 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 intelligent — 
 his ample bro\^ and 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 "butterfly on 
 the wheel "" with better effect ; no man better 
 
THE LAST MAN. 169 
 
 cover a speedy retreat from a powerful adversary. 
 This had been the secret of his secession at the 
 time of Lord Raymond's election. In the un- 
 steady glance of his eye, in his extreme desire to 
 learn the opinions of all, in the feebleness of his 
 hand-writing, these qualities might be obscurely 
 traced, but they were not generally known. 
 He was now our Lord Protector. He had 
 canvassed eagerly for this post. His protec- 
 torate was to be distinguished by every kind 
 of innovation on the aristocracy. This his se- 
 lected task was exchanged for the far different 
 one of encountering the ruin caused by the con- 
 vulsions of physical nature. He was incapable 
 of meeting these evils by any comprehensive 
 system ; he had resorted to expedient after ex- 
 pedient, and could never be induced to put a 
 remedy in force, till it came too late to be of use. 
 
 Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards 
 us now, bore small resemblance to the powerful, 
 ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for the 
 first rank among Englishmen. Our native oak, 
 
 VOL. II. I 
 
170 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 as his partisans called him, was visited truly by 
 a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared half 
 his usual height; his joints were unknit, his 
 limbs would not support him ; his face was con- 
 tracted, his eye wandering ; debility of purpose 
 and dastard fear were expressed in every ges- 
 ture. 
 
 In answer to our eager questions, one word 
 alone fell, as it were involuntarily, from his con- 
 vulsed lips : The Plagzie. — "Where ?'' — "Every 
 where — we must fly — all fly — but whither ? No 
 man can tell — there is no refuge on earth, it 
 comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves — 
 we must all fly — where shall you go ? Where 
 can any of us go ?""* 
 
 These words were syllabled trembling by the 
 iron man. Adrian replied, " Whither indeed I 
 would you fly ? W^e must all remain ; and do 
 our best to help our suff'ering fellow-creatures."' 
 
 " Help !" said Ryland, " there is no help ! 
 — great God, who talks of help ! All the world 
 has the plague !" 
 
THE LAST MAN. 171 
 
 *' Then to avoid it, we must quit the world," 
 observed Adrian, with a gentle smile. 
 
 Ryland groaned ; cold drops stood on his 
 brow. It was useless to oppose his paroxysm of 
 terror : but we soothed and encouraged him, so 
 that after an interval he was better able to ex- 
 plain to us the ground of his alarm. It had 
 come sufficientlv home to him. One of his ser- 
 vants, while waiting on him, had suddenly 
 fallen down dead. The physician declared that 
 he died of the plague. We endeavoured to 
 calm him — but our own hearts were not calm, 
 I saw the eye of Idris wander from me to her 
 children, with an anxious appeal to my judg- 
 ment. Adrian was absorbed in meditation. 
 For myself, J own that Ry land's words rang in 
 my ears ; all the world was infected ; — in what 
 uncontaminated seclusion could I save my be- 
 loved treasures, until the shadow of death had 
 passed from over the earth ? We sunk into 
 silence : a silence that drank in the doleful ac- 
 counts and prognostications of our guest. 
 
 I 2 
 
172 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 We had receded from the crowd ; and ascend- 
 ing the steps of the terrace, sought the Castle. 
 Our change of cheer struck those nearest to us ; 
 and, by means of Ryland's servants, the report 
 soon spread that he had fled from the plague in 
 London, The sprightly parties broke up — 
 they assembled in whispering groups. The 
 spirit of gaiety was eclipsed ; the music ceased ; 
 the young people left their occupations and 
 gathered together. The lightness of heart which 
 had dressed them in masquerade habits, had 
 decorated their tents, and assembled them in 
 fantastic groups, appeared a sin against, and a 
 ^provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid 
 its palsying hand upon hope and life. The mer- 
 riment of the hour was an unholy mockery of 
 the sorrows of man. The foreigners whom we 
 had among us, who had fled from the plague in 
 their own country, now saw their last asylum 
 invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they 
 described to eager listeners the miseries they 
 had beheld in cities visited by the calamity, and 
 
THE LAST MAN. 173 
 
 gave fearful accounts of the insidious and 
 irremediable nature of the disease. 
 
 We had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a 
 window that over-looked the park ; her maternal 
 eyes sought her own children among the young 
 crowd. An Italian lad had got an audience 
 about him, and with animated gestures was de- 
 scribing some scene of horror. Alfred stood im- 
 moveable before him, his whole attention ab- 
 sorbed. Little Evelyn had endeavoured to 
 draw Clara away to play with him ; but the 
 Italian's tale arrested her, she crept near, he^ 
 lustrous eyes fixed on the speaker. Either 
 watching the crowd in the park, or occupied by 
 painful reflection, we were all silent ; Ryland 
 stood by himself in an embrasure of the window ; 
 Adrian paced the hall, revolving some new and 
 overpowering idea — suddenly he stopped and 
 said : "I have long expected this ; could we in 
 reason expect that this island should be exempt 
 from the universal visitation ? The evil is come 
 home to us, and we must not shrink from our fate- 
 
174 THE LAST MA:N. 
 
 What are your plans, my Lord Protector, for 
 the benefit of our country ?" 
 
 " For heaven''s love ! Windsor,'' cried Ry- 
 land, " do not mock me with that title. Death 
 and disease level all men. I neither pretend to 
 protect nor govern an iiospital— such will England 
 quickly become.'"^ 
 
 " Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to 
 recede from your duties i^" 
 
 " Duties I speak rationally, my Lord ! — when 
 I am a plague-spotted corpse, where will my 
 duties be .P Every man for himself! the devil 
 take the protectorship, say I, if it expose me to 
 danger !" 
 
 *' Faint-hearted man !" cried Adrian indig- 
 nantly — " Your countrymen put their trust in 
 you, and you betray them f 
 
 " I betray them !'' said Ryland, " the plague 
 betrays me. Faint-hearted ! It is well, shut up 
 in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself 
 out of fear. Take the Protectorship who will j 
 before God I renounce it !" 
 
THE LAST MAN. 175 
 
 *' And before God,'" replied his opponent, 
 fervently, " do I receive it ! No one will can- 
 vass for this honour now — none envy my danger 
 or labours. Deposit your powers in my hands. 
 Long have I fought with death, and much""* (he 
 stretched out his thin hand) " much have I suf- 
 fered in the struggle. It is not by flying, but 
 by facing the enemy, that we can conquer. If 
 my last combat is now about to be fought, and 
 I am to be worsted — so let it be ! "* 
 
 " But come, Ryland, recollect yourself i 
 Men have hitherto thought you magnanimous 
 and wise, will you cast aside these titles ? Con- 
 sider the panic your departure will occasion. 
 Return to London. I will go with you. En- 
 courage the people by your presence. I will in- 
 cur all the danoer. Shame ! shame ! if the first 
 magistrate of England be foremost to renounce 
 his duties." 
 
 Meanwhile among our guests in the park, all 
 thoughts of festivity had faded. As summer- 
 fli^es are scattered by rain, so did this congrega- 
 
176 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 tion, late noisy and happy, in sadness and me- 
 lancholy murmurs break up, dwindling away 
 apace. With the set sun and the deepening twi- 
 light the park became nearly empty. Adrian 
 and Ryland were still in earnest discussion. 
 We had prepared a banquet for our guests in 
 the lower hall of the castle ; and thither Idris and 
 I repaired to receive and entertain the few that 
 remained. There is nothing more melancholy 
 than a merry-meeting thus turned to sorrow : the 
 gala dresses — the decorations, gay as they might 
 otherwise be, receive a solemn and funereal ap- 
 pearance. If such change be painful from lighter 
 causes, it weighed with intolerable heaviness 
 from the knowledge that the earth's desolator 
 had at last, even as an arch-fiend, lightly over- 
 leaped the boundaries our precautions raised, 
 and at once enthroned himself in thefull and beat- 
 ing heart of our country. Idris sat at the top 
 of the half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she 
 almost forgot her duties as hostess; her eyes 
 were fixed on her children. Alfred's serious air 
 
THE LAST MAX. 177 
 
 shewed that he still revolved the tragic story re- 
 lated by the Italian boy. Evelyn was the only 
 mirthful creature present : he sat on Clara'^s lap ; 
 and, making matter of glee from his own fancies, 
 laughed aloud. The vaulted roof echoed again 
 his infant tone. The poor mother who had 
 brooded long over, and suppressed the expression 
 of her anguish, now burst into tears, and folding 
 her babe in her arms, hurried from the hall. 
 Clara and Alfred followed. While the rest of 
 the company, in confused murmur, which grew 
 louder and louder, gave voice to their many 
 fears. 
 
 The younger part gathered round me to ask 
 my advice ; and those who had friends in London 
 were anxious beyond the rest, to ascertain the 
 present extent of disease in the metropolis. . I 
 encouraged them with such thoughts of cheer 
 as presented themselves. I told them exceed- 
 ingly few deaths had yet been occasioned by 
 pestilence, and gave them hopes, as we were the 
 last visited, so the calamity might have lost its 
 
 i3 
 
178 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 most venomous power before it had reached us. 
 The cleanliness, habits of order, and the manner 
 in which our cities were built, were all in our 
 favour. As it was an epidemic, its chief force 
 was derived from pernicious qualities in the air, 
 and it would probably do little harm where this 
 was naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken 
 only to those nearest me; but the whole assembly 
 gathered about me, and I found that I was lis- 
 tened toby all. ''' My friends, ' I said, " our risk 
 is common ; our precautions and exertions shall 
 be common also. If manly courage and resist- 
 ance can save us, we will be saved. We will 
 fight the enemy to the last. Plague shall not 
 find us a ready prey ; we will dispute every inch 
 of ground; and, by methodical and inflexible 
 laws, pile invincible barriers to the progress of 
 our foe. Perhaps in no part of the world has 
 she met with so systematic and determined an 
 opposition. Perhaps no country is naturally so 
 well protected against our invader ; nor has nature 
 anywhere been so well assisted by the hand of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 179 
 
 man. We will not despair. We are neither 
 cowards nor fatalists; but, believing that God has 
 placed the means for our preservation in our own 
 hands, we will use those means to our utmost. 
 Remember that cleanliness, sobriety, and even 
 good-humour and benevolence, are our best 
 medicines," 
 
 There was little I could add to this general 
 exhortation ; for the plague, though in London, 
 was not among us. I dismissed the guests 
 therefore ; and they went thoughtful, more than 
 sad, to await the events in store for them. 
 
 I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the re^ 
 suit of his discussion with Ryland. He had in 
 part prevailed ; the Lord Protector consented 
 to return to London for a few weeks ; during 
 which time things should be so arranged, as to 
 occasion less consternation at his departure. 
 Adrian and Idris were together. The sadness 
 with which the former had first heard that the 
 plague was in London had vanished; the energy 
 of his purpovse informed his body with strength. 
 
180 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the solemn joy of enthusiasm and self-devotion 
 illuminated his countenance; and the weakness 
 of his physical nature seemed to pass from him, 
 as the cloud of humanity did, in the ancient 
 fable, from the divine lover of Semele. He was 
 endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to 
 bring her to look on his intent in a less tragic 
 light than she was prepared to do ; and with 
 passionate eloquence he unfolded his designs to 
 her. 
 
 " Let me, at the first word,"" he said, " relieve 
 your mind from all fear on my account. I will 
 not task myself beyond my powers, nor will 1 
 needlessly seek danger. I feel that I know what 
 ought to be done, and as my presence is neces- 
 sary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will 
 take especial care to preserve my life. 
 
 " I am now going to undertake an office fitted 
 for me. I cannot intrigue, or work a tortuous 
 path through the labyrinth of men's vices and 
 passions; but I can bring patience, and sympathy, 
 and such aid as art affords, to the bed of disease; 
 
THE LAST MAN. 181 
 
 I can raise from earth the miserable orphan, and 
 awaken to new hopes the shut heart of the 
 mourner. I can enchain the plague in limits, 
 and set a term to the misery it would occasion ; 
 courage, forbearance, and w^atchfulness, are the 
 forces I brino; towards this p-reat work. 
 
 " O, I shall be something now ! From my 
 birth I have aspired like the eagle — but, unlike 
 the eagle, my wings have failed, and ray vision 
 has been blinded. Disappointment and sickness 
 have hitherto held dominion over me ; twin 
 born with me, my would, was for ever enchained 
 by the shall not, of these my tyrants. A shep- 
 herd-boy that tends a silly flock on the moun- 
 tains, was more in the scale of society than I. 
 Congratulate me then that I have found fitting 
 scope for my powers. I have often thought of 
 offering my services to the pestilence-stricken 
 towns of France and Italy ; but fear of paining 
 you, and expectation of this catastrophe, with- 
 held me. To England and to Enghshmen I 
 dedicate myself. If I can save one of her 
 
182 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 mighty spirits from the deadly shaft ; if I can 
 ward disease from one of her smihng cottages, 
 I shall not have hved in vain." 
 
 Strange ambition this ! Yet such was Adrian. 
 He appeared given up (o contemplation, averse 
 to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions 
 — but afford him worthy theme, and — 
 
 Like to the lark at break of day arising. 
 
 From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,* 
 
 so did he spring up from listlessness and un- 
 productive thought, to the highest pitch of vir- 
 tuous action. 
 
 fWitli him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought 
 resolve, the eye that without blenching could 
 look at death. With us remained sorrow, 
 anxiety, and unendurable expectation of evil. 
 The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife and 
 children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain 
 was all philosophical reasoning — vain all forti- 
 
 • Shakespeare's Sonnets. 
 
THE LAST MAK. 183 
 
 tude— vain, vain, a reliance on probable good. 
 I might heap high the scale with logic, courage, 
 and resignation — but let one fear for Idris and 
 our children enter the opposite one, and. over- 
 weighed, it kicked the beam. 
 
 The plague was in London ! Fools that we 
 were not lono; ag-o to have foreseen this. We 
 wept over the ruin of the boundless continents 
 of the east, and the desolation of the western 
 world ; while we fancied that the little channel 
 between our island and the rest of the earth w^as 
 to preserve us alive among the dead. It were no 
 mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover. 
 The eye easily discerns the sister land ; tney 
 were united once ; and the little path that runs 
 between looks in a map but as a trodden foot- 
 way through high grass. Yet this small inter- 
 val was to save us : the sea was to rise a wall of 
 adamant — without, disease and misery — within^ 
 a shelter from evil, a nook of the garden of 
 paradise — a particle of celestial soil, which no 
 
184 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 evil could invade — truly we were wise in our 
 generation, to imagine all these things ! 
 
 But we are awake now. The plague is in 
 London; the air of England is tainted, and 
 her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome 
 earth. And now, the sea, late our defence, 
 seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its 
 gulphs, we shall die like the famished inhabit- 
 ants of a besieged town. Other nations have a 
 -fellowship in death ; but we, shut out from all 
 neighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and 
 little England become a wide, wide tomb. 
 
 This feeling of universal misery assumed con- 
 centration and shape, when I looked on my wife 
 and children : and the thought of danger to them 
 possessed my whole being with fear. How 
 could I save them ? I revolved a thousand and 
 a thousand plans. They should not die—first I 
 would be gathered to nothingness, ere infection 
 should come anear these idols of my soul. I would 
 walk barefoot through the world, to find an unin- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 185 
 
 fected spot ; I would build my home on some 
 wave- tossed plank, drifted about on the barren, 
 shoreless ocean. I would betake me with them 
 to some wild beast's den, where a tyger's cubs, 
 which I would slay, had been reared in health. 
 I would seek the mountain eagle's eirie, and 
 live years suspended in some inaccessible recess 
 of a sea-bounding cliff — no labour too great, no 
 scheme too wild, if it promised life to them. O ! 
 ye heart-strings of mine, could ye be torn 
 asunder, and my soul not spend itself in tears 
 of blood for sorrow ! 
 
 Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion 
 of fortitude. She studiously shut out all pros- 
 pect of the future, and cradled her heart in pre- 
 sent blessings. She never for a moment lost 
 sight of her children. But while they in health 
 sported about her, she could cherish content- 
 ment and hope. A strange and wild restlessness 
 came over me — the more intolerable, because I 
 was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian 
 were ceaseless; August had come; and the 
 
186 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 symptoms of plague encreased rapidly in Lon- 
 don. It was deserted by all who possessed the 
 power of removing ; and he, the brother of ray 
 soul, 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 the coun- 
 try. The better sort of houses were shut up; 
 the busy trade of the town palsied ; there was an 
 air of anxiety among the few passengers I met, 
 and they looked wonderingly at my carriage — 
 the first they had seen pass towards London, 
 since pestilence sat on its high places, and pos- 
 sessed its busy streets. I met several funerals ; 
 they were slenderly attended by mourners, and 
 
THE LAST MAN. 187 
 
 were regarded by the spectators as omens of 
 direst import. Some gazed on these proces- 
 sions with wild eagerness — others fled timidly 
 — some wept aloud. 
 
 Adrian's chief endeavour, after the immediate 
 succour of the sick, had been to disguise the 
 symptoms and progress of the plague from the 
 inhabitants of London. He knew that fear and 
 melancholy forebodings were powerful assistants 
 to disease ; that desponding and brooding care 
 rendered the physical nature of man peculiarly 
 susceptible of infection. No unseemly sights 
 were therefore discernible : the shops were in 
 general open, the concourse of passengers in 
 some degree kept up. But although the appear- 
 ance of an infected town was avoided, to me, 
 who had not beheld it since the commencement 
 of the visitation, London appeared sufficiently 
 changed. There were no carriages, and grass 
 had sprung high in the streets ; the houses had 
 a desolate look ; most of the shutters were closed ; 
 and there was a ghast and frightened star^ in 
 
188 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the persons I met, very different from the usual 
 business-hke demeanour of the Londoners. My 
 solitary carriage attracted notice, as it rattled 
 along towards the Protectoral Palace— and the 
 fashionable streets leading to it wore a still more 
 dreary and deserted appearance. I found 
 Adrian's anti-chamber crowded— it was his hour 
 for giving audience. I was unwilling to disturb 
 his labours, and waited, watching the ingress and 
 egress of the petitioners. They consisted of 
 people of the middling and lower classes of 
 society, whose means of subsistence failed with 
 the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of 
 money-making in all its branches, pecuUar to 
 our country. There was an air of anxiety, 
 sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly 
 contrasted with the resigned and even satisfied 
 mien of those who had had audience. I could 
 read the influence of my friend in their quicken- 
 ed motions and cheerful faces. Two o'clock 
 struck, after which none were admitted ; those 
 who had been disappointed went sullenly or sor- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 189 
 
 rowfully away, while I entered the audience- 
 chamber. 
 
 I was struck by the improvement that appeared 
 in the health of Adrian. He was no longer bent 
 to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of 
 spring, that, shooting up beyond its strength, is 
 weighed down even by its own coronal of blos- 
 soms. His eyes were bright, his countenance 
 composed, an air of concentrated energy was dif- 
 fused over his whole person, much unlike its 
 former languor. He sat at a table with several 
 secretaries, who were arranging petitions, or 
 registering the notes made during that day's 
 audience. Two or three petitioners were still 
 in attendance. I admired his justice and 
 patience. Those who possessed a power of 
 living out of London, he advised immediately 
 to quit it, affording them the means of so doing. 
 Others, whose trade was beneficial to the city, or 
 who possessed no other refuge, he provided with 
 advice for better avoiding the epidemic; re- 
 lieving overloaded families, supplying the gaps 
 
190 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 made in others by death. Order, comfort, and 
 even heaUh, rose under his influence, as from the 
 touch of a magician's wand. 
 
 " I am glad you are come," he said to me, 
 when we were at last alone ; " I can only spare a 
 few minutes, and must tell you much in that 
 time. The plague is now in progress— it is 
 useless closing one's eyes to the fact — the deaths 
 encrease each week. What will come I cannot 
 guess. As yet, thank God, I am equal to the 
 government of the town ; and I look only to the 
 present. Ryland, whom I have so long detain- 
 ed, has stipulated that I shall suffer him to depart 
 before the end of this month. The deputy ap- 
 pointed by parliament is dead ; another there- 
 fore must be named; I have advanced my 
 claim, and I believe that I shall have no com- 
 petitor. To-night the question is to be decided, 
 as there is a call of the house for the purpose. 
 You must nominate me, Lionel; Rylaad, for 
 shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my 
 friend, will do me this service.^" 
 
THE LAST MAN. J 91 
 
 How lovely is devotion ! Here was a youth, 
 royally sprung, bred in luxury, by nature averse 
 to the usual struggles of a public life, and now, 
 in time of danger, at a period when to live was 
 the utmost scope of the ambitious, he, the be- 
 loved and heroic Adrian, made, in sweet sim- 
 plicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the pub- 
 lic good. The very idea was generous and 
 noble, — but, beyond this, his unpretending 
 manner, his entire want of the assumption of a 
 virtue, rendered his act ten times more touching. 
 I would have withstood his request ; but I had 
 seen the good he diffused; I felt that his resolves 
 were not to be shaken, so, with an heavy heart, 
 I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my 
 hand affectionately: — "Thank you," he said, 
 *' you have relieved me from a painful dilemma, 
 and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends. 
 Farewell — I must now leave you for a few hours. 
 Go you and converse with Ryland. Although 
 he deserts his post in London, he may be of the 
 greatest service in the north of England, by re- 
 
19^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ceiving and assisting travellers, and contri- 
 buting to supply the metropolis with food. 
 Awaken him, I entreat you, to some sense of 
 duty."' 
 
 Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon 
 his daily task of visiting the hospitals, and in- 
 specting the crowded parts of London. I found 
 Ryland much altered, even from what lie had 
 been when he visited Windsor. Perpetual fear 
 had jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled his 
 whole person. I told him of the business of the 
 evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted 
 muscles. He desired to go ; each day he ex- 
 pected to be infected by pestilence, each day he 
 was unable to resist the gentle violence of 
 Adrian's detention. The moment Adrian should 
 be legally elected his deputy, he would es- 
 cape to safety. Under this impression he listen- 
 ed to all I said ; and, elevated almost to joy 
 by the near prospect of his departure, he 
 entered into a discussion concerning the plans he 
 should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for 
 
THE LAST MAN. 193 
 
 the moment J his cherished resolution of shutting 
 himself up from all communication in the man- 
 sion and grounds of his estate. 
 
 In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to 
 Westminster. As we went he reminded me of 
 what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, 
 I entered the chamber without having once re- 
 flected on my purpose. Adrian remained in the 
 coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his 
 desire, took my seat in St. Stephen's. There 
 reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I had 
 not visited it since Raymond's protectorate ; a 
 period conspicuous for a numerous attendance 
 of members, for the eloquence of the speakers, 
 and the warmth of the debate. The benches 
 were very empty, those by custom occupied by 
 the hereditary members were vacant ; the city 
 members were there — the members for the com- 
 mercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not 
 many of those who entered parliament for the 
 sake of a career. The first subject that occu- 
 pied the attention of the house was an address 
 
 VOL. II. K 
 
194 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 from the Lord Protector, praying them to appoint 
 a deputy during a necessary absence on his part. 
 
 A silence prevailed, till one of the members 
 coming to me, whispered that the Earl of 
 Windsor had sent him word that I was to move 
 his election, in the absence of the person who 
 had been first chosen for this office. Now for 
 the first time I saw the full extent of my task, 
 and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought 
 on myself. Ryland had deserted his post 
 through fear of the plague : from the same fear 
 Adrian had no competitor. And I, the nearest 
 kinsman of the Earl of Windsor, was to propose 
 his election. I was to thrust this selected and 
 matchless friend into the post of danger — 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 terminating the busi- 
 ness by securing a legal attendance, than under 
 the idea of a debate. I had risen mechanically 
 — my knees trembled ; irresolution hung on my 
 
THE LAST MAN. 195 
 
 voice, as I uttered a few words on the neces- 
 sity of choosing a person adequate to the dan- 
 gerous task in hand. But, when the idea of 
 presenting myself in the room of my friend in- 
 truded, the load of doubt and pain was taken 
 from off me. My words flowed spontaneously 
 — my utterance was firm and quick. I adverted 
 to what Adrian had already done — I promised 
 ^the same vigilance in furdiering all his views. 
 I drew a touching picture of his vacillating 
 health ; I boasted of my own strength. I 
 prayed them to save even from himself this 
 scion of the noblest family in England. My 
 alliance with him was the pledge of my sin- 
 cerity, my union with his sister, my children, his 
 presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth. 
 This unexpected turn in the debate was 
 quickly communicated to Adrian. He hurried 
 in, and witnessed the termination of my impas- 
 sioned harangue. I did not see him : my soul 
 was in my words, — my eyes could not perceive 
 that which was • while a vision of Adrian's form, 
 
 K 2 
 
196 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 tainted by pestilence, and sinking in death, 
 floated before them. He seized my hand, as I 
 concluded — " Unkind !" he cried, " you have 
 betrayed me !" then, springing forwards, with the 
 air of one who had a right to command, he 
 claimed the place of deputy as his own. He 
 had bouglit it, he said, with danger, and paid 
 for it with toil. His ambition rested there ; and, 
 after an interval devoted to the interests of his 
 country, was I to step in, and reap the profit ? 
 Let them remember what London had been when 
 he arrived: the panic that prevailed brought 
 famine, while every moral and legal tie was 
 loosened. He had restored order — this had 
 been a work which required perseverance, 
 patience, and energy ; and he had neither slept 
 nor waked but for the good of his country. — 
 Would they dare wrong him thus ? Would they 
 wrest his hard-earned reward from him, to be- 
 slow it on one, who, never having mingled in 
 public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in 
 which he was an adept. He demanded the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 197 
 
 place of deputy as his right. Ryland had 
 shewn that he preferred him. Never before 
 had he, who was born even to the inheritance of 
 the throne of England, never had he asked 
 favour or honour from those now his equals, but 
 who might have been his subjects. Would they 
 refuse him ? Could they thrust back from the 
 path of distinction and laudable ambition, the 
 heir of their ancient kings, and heap another 
 disappointment on a fallen house. 
 
 No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to 
 the rights of his ancestors. None had ever before 
 suspected, that posver, or the suffrage of the 
 many, could in any manner become dear to him. 
 He had begun his speech with vehemence ; he 
 ended with unassuming gentleness, making his 
 appeal with the same humility, as if he had 
 asked to be the first in wealth, honour, and 
 power among Englishmen, and not, as was the 
 truth, to be the foremost in the ranks of loath- 
 some toils and inevitable death. A murmur of 
 approbation rose after his speech. " Oh, do not 
 
198 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 listen to him," I cried, " he speaks false — false 
 to himself," — I was interrupted : and, silence 
 being restored, we were ordered, as was 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 
 recalled, and installed in his office of Lord De- 
 puty to the Protector. 
 
 We returned together to the palace. " Why, 
 Lione]," said Adrian, " what did you intend ? 
 you could not hope to conquer, and yet you 
 gave m.e the pain of a triumph over my dearest 
 friend." 
 
 " This is mockery," I replied, " you devote 
 yourself, — you, the adored brother of Idris, the 
 being, of all the world contains, dearest to our 
 hearts — you devote yourself to an early death. 
 I would have prevented this ; my death would " 
 be a small evil — or rather I should not die; 
 while you cannot hope to escape." 
 
THE LAST MAN. 199 
 
 *' As to the likelihood of escaping,"''' said 
 Adrian, " ten years hence the cold stars may 
 shine on the graves of all of us ; but as to my 
 peculiar liability to infection, I could easily 
 prove, both logically and physically, that in the 
 midst of contagion I have a better chance of life 
 than you. 
 
 '* This is my post : I was born for this — to 
 rule England in anarchy, to save her in danger — 
 to devote myself for her. The blood of my 
 forefathers cries aloud in my veins, and bids me 
 be first among my countrymen. Or, if this mode 
 of speech oifend you, let me say, that my mother, 
 the proud queen, instilled early into me a love 
 of distinction, and all that, if the weakness of my 
 physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not 
 prevented such a design, might have made me 
 long since struggle for the lost inheritance of 
 my race. But now my mother, or, if you will, 
 my mother's lessons, awaken within me. I can- 
 aiot lead on to battle ; I cannot, through intrigue 
 
200 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 and faithlessness rear again the throne upon the 
 wreck of Enghsh pubhc spirit. But I can be 
 the first to support and guard my country, 
 now that terrific disasters and ruin have laid 
 strong hands upon her. 
 
 " That country and my beloved sister are all 
 I have. I will protect the first — the latter I 
 commit to your charge. If I survive, and she 
 be lost, I were far better dead. Preserve her — 
 for her own sake I know that you will — if you 
 require any other spur, think that, in preserving 
 her, you preserve me. Her faultless nature, one 
 sum of perfections, is wrapt up in her affections 
 — if they were hurt, she would droop like an un- 
 watered floweret, and the slightest inj ury they re- 
 ceive is a nipping frost to her. Already she fears 
 for us. She fears for the children she adores, and 
 for you, the father of these, her lover, husband, 
 protector ; and you must be near her to sup- 
 port and encourage her. Return to Windsor 
 then, my brother ; for such you are by every 
 
THE LAST MAN. 201 
 
 tie — fill the double place my absence imposes on 
 you, and let me, in all my sufferings here, turn 
 my eyes towards that dear seclusion, and say — 
 There is peace." 
 
 K 3 
 
S02 THE Ly^ST MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I DID proceed to Windsor, but not with the 
 intention of remainino; there. I went but to ob- 
 tain the consent of Idris, and then to return and 
 take my station beside my unequalled friend ; 
 to share his labours, and save him, if so it must 
 be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded 
 to witness the anguish which my resolve might 
 excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart 
 never to shadow her countenance even with 
 transient grief, and should I prove recreant at 
 the hour of greatest need ? I had begun my 
 journey witli anxious haste ; now I desired to 
 draw it out through the course of days and 
 months, I longed to avoid the necessity of 
 
THE LAST MAN. SOS 
 
 action ; I strove to escape from thought — vainly 
 — futurity, Uke a dark image in a phantasma- 
 goria, came nearer and more near, till it clasped 
 the whole earth in its shadow. 
 
 A slight circumstance induced me to alter my 
 usual route, and to return home by Egham and 
 Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita's ancient 
 abode, her cottage ; and, sending forward the 
 carriage, determined to walk across the park to 
 the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest re- 
 collections, the deserted house and neglected 
 garden were well adapted to nurse my melan- 
 choly. In our happiest days, Perdita had 
 adorned her cottage with every aid art might 
 bring, to that which nature had selected to 
 favour. In the same spirit of exaggeration she 
 had, on the event of her separation from Ray- 
 mond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It 
 was now in ruin : the deer had climbed the 
 broken palings, and reposed among the flowers ; 
 grass grew on the threshold, and the swinging 
 lattice creaking to the wind, gave signal of utter 
 
^4 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 desertion. The sky ^vas blue above, and the 
 au' impregnated with fragrance by the rare 
 flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees 
 moved overhead, awakening nature's favourite 
 melody— but the melancholy appearance of the 
 choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, 
 dimmed even this gay summer scene. The time 
 when in proud and happy security we assembled 
 at this cottage, was gone — soon the present hours 
 would join those past, and shadows of future 
 ones rose dark and menacing from the womb of 
 time, their cradle and their bier. For the first 
 time in my life I envied the sleep of the dead, 
 and thought with pleasure of one''s bed under 
 the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I 
 passed through the gap of the broken paling — 
 I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears — I 
 rushed into the depths of the forest. O death 
 and change, rulers of our life, where are ye, that 
 I may grapple with you ! What was there in 
 our tranquillity, that excited your envy — in our 
 happiness, that ye should destroy it ? We were 
 
THE LAST MAN. ' 205 
 
 happy, loving, and beloved ; the horn of 
 Amalthea contained no blessing unshovvered 
 upon us, but, alas* 
 
 la fortuna 
 deidad barbara iraportuna , 
 oy cadaver y ayer flor, 
 no permanece jamas!* 
 
 As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number 
 of country people passed me. They seemed 
 full of careful thought, and a few words of their 
 conversation that reached me, induced me to 
 approach and make further enquiries. A party 
 of people flying from London, as was frequent 
 in those days, had come up the Thames in a 
 boat. No one at Windsor would afford them 
 shelter; so, going a little further up, they remain- 
 ed all night in a deserted hut near Bolter*'s lock. 
 They pursued their way the following morning, 
 leaving one of their company behind them, sick 
 
 * Calderon de la Barca. 
 
206 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 of the plague. This circumstance once spread 
 abroad, none dared approach within half a mile 
 of the infected neighbourhood, and the deserted 
 wretch was left to fight with disease and death 
 in solitude, as he best might. I was urged by 
 compassion to hasten to the hut, for the purpose 
 of ascertaining his situation, and administering 
 to his wants. 
 
 As I advanced I met knots of country-people 
 talking earnestly of this event : distant as they 
 were from the apprehended contagion, fear was 
 impressed on every countenance. I passed by 
 a group of these terrorists, in a lane in the direct 
 road to the hut. One of them stopped me, and, 
 conjecturing that I was ignorant of the circum- 
 stance, told me not to go on, for that an infected 
 person lay but at a short distance. 
 
 " I know it,"*' I replied, " and I am going to 
 see in what condition the poor fellow is." 
 
 A murmur of surprise and horror ran through 
 the assembly. I continued: — " This poor wretch 
 is deserted, dying, succourless ; in these unhappy 
 
THE LAST MAN. SOT 
 
 times, God knows how soon any or all of us may 
 be in like want. I am going to do, as I would 
 be done by." 
 
 " But you will never be able to return to the 
 Castle — Lady Idris — his children — '' in confused 
 speech w^ere the words that struck my ear. 
 
 " Do you not kno\v, my friends," I said, " that 
 the Earl himself, now Lord Protector, visits 
 daily, not only those probably infected by this 
 disease, but the hospitals and pest houses, going 
 near, and even touching the sick ? yet he w^as 
 never in better health. You labour under an 
 entire mistake as to the nature of the. plague ; 
 but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to ac- 
 company me, nor to believe me, until I return 
 safe and sound from my patient." 
 
 So I left them, and hurried on. I soon 
 arrived at the hut : the door was ajar^ I en- 
 tered, and one glance assured me that its former 
 inhabitant was no more — he la} on a heap of 
 straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious effluvia 
 
208 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 filled the room, and various stains and marks 
 served to sliew the virulence of the disorder. 
 
 I had never before beheld one killed by pes- 
 tilence. While every mind was full of dismay at 
 its effects, a craving for excitement had led us 
 to peruse De Foe's account, and the masterly 
 delineations of the author of Arthur Mervyn. 
 The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid, 
 that we seemed to have experienced the results 
 depicted by them. But cold were the sensations 
 excited by words, burning though they were, 
 and describing the death and misery of 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. As I was thus occu- 
 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 
 
THE LAST MAN. S09 
 
 this ? Was the coming painful ? You look as 
 if the enemy had tortured, before he murdered 
 you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and 
 escaped from the hut, before nature could re- 
 voke 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 mein added to their fear of 
 coming near one who had entered within the 
 verge of contagion. 
 
 At a distance from facts one draws conclusions 
 which appear infallible, which yet when put to 
 the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams. 
 I had ridiculed the fears of my countrymen, 
 when they related to others ; now that they came 
 home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I 
 felt, was passed ; and it behoved me well to re- 
 flect what I should do on this hither side of 
 disease and danger. According to the vulgar 
 superstition, my dress, my person, the air I 
 
210 TtlE LAST MAN. 
 
 breathed, bore in it mortal danger to myself and 
 others. Should I return to the Castle, to my 
 wife and children, with this taint upon me ? 
 Not surely if I were infected ; but I felt cer- 
 tain that I was not — a few hours would de- 
 termine the question — I would spend these in 
 the forest, in reflection on what was to come, and 
 what my future actions were to be. In the 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 the mist which had hitherto veiled them. 
 The question was no longer whether T should 
 share Adrian's toils and danger ; but in what 
 manner 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 earth out as a map before 
 
THE LAST MAN. 211 
 
 me. On no one spot of its surface could I put 
 my finger and say, here is safety. In the south, 
 the disease, virulent and immedicable, had 
 nearly annihilated the race of man ; storm and 
 inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled 
 up the measure of suffering. In the north it 
 was worse — the lesser population gradually de- 
 clined, and famine and plague kept watch on 
 the survivors, who, helpless and feeble, were 
 ready to fall an easy prey into their hands. 
 
 I contracted my view to England. The over- 
 grown metropolis, the great heart of mighty 
 Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased. 
 All resort for ambition or pleasure was cut off 
 — the streets were grass-grown — the houses 
 empty — the few, that from necessity remained, 
 seemed already branded with the taint of in- 
 evitable pestilence. In the larger manufactur- 
 ing towns the same tragedy was acted on a 
 smaller, yet more disastrous scale. There was 
 no Adrian to superintend and direct, while 
 whole flocks of the poor were struck and killed. 
 

 212 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Yet we were not all to die. No truly, though 
 thinned, the race of man would continue, and 
 the great plague would, in after years, become 
 matter of history and wonder. Doubtless this 
 visitation was for extent unexampled — more need 
 that we should work hard to dispute its pro- 
 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 one of them was of more worth than the 
 so called treasures of kings. Look at his thought- 
 endued countenance, his graceful limbs, his ma- 
 jestic brow, his wondrous mechanism — the type 
 and model of this best work of God is not to be 
 cast aside as a broken vessel — he shall be pre- 
 served, and his children and his children's 
 children carry down the name and form of man 
 to latest time. 
 
 -Above all I must guard those entrusted by 
 nature and fate to my especial care. And surely, 
 if among all my fellow-creatures I were to select 
 those who might stand forth examples of the 
 
THE LAST MAX. PAS 
 
 greatness and goodness of man, I could choose 
 no other than those aUied to me by the most 
 sacred ties. Some from among the family of man 
 must survive, and these should be among the 
 survivors ; that should be my task — to accom- 
 plish it my own life were a small sacrifice. 
 There then in that castle — in Windsor Castle, 
 birth-place of Idris and my babes, should be 
 the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark 
 of human society. Its forest should be our 
 world — its garden afford us food ; within its 
 walls I would establish the shaken throne of 
 health. I was an outcast and a vagabond, when 
 Adrian gently threw over me the silver net of 
 love and civilization, and linked me inextri- 
 cably ,to human charities and human ex- 
 cellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant 
 after good, and an ardent lover of wisdom, 
 was yet unenrolled in any list of worth, 
 when Idris, the princely born, who was herself 
 the personification of all that was divine in 
 woman, she who walked the earth like a poet's 
 
214 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 dream, as a carved goddess endued with sense, 
 or pictured saint stepping from the canvas— she, 
 the most worthy, chose me, and gave m.e herself 
 — a priceless gift. 
 
 During several hours I continued thus to 
 meditate, till hunger and fatigue brought me 
 back to the passing hour, then marked by long 
 shadows cast from the descending sun. I had 
 wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west of 
 Windsor. The feeling of perfect health which I 
 enjoyed, assured me that I was free from conta- 
 gion. I remembered that Idris had been kept in 
 ignorance of my proceedings. She might have 
 heard of my return from London, and my visit to 
 Bolter^s Lock, which, connected with my con- 
 tinued absence, might tend greatly to alarm her. 
 I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and 
 passing through the town towards the Castle, I 
 found it in a state of agitation and disturbance. 
 
 "It is too late to be ambitious," says Sir 
 Thomas Browne. " We cannot hope to live so 
 long in our names as some have done in their 
 
THE LAST MAN. 215 
 
 persons; one face of Janus holds no proportion to 
 the other." Upon this text many fanatics arose, 
 who prophesied that the end of time was come. 
 The spirit of superstition had birth, from the 
 wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and danger- 
 ous were played on the great theatre, while the 
 remaining particle of futurity dwindled into a 
 point in the eyes of the prognosticators. Weak- 
 spirited women died of fear as they listened to 
 their denunciations ; men of robust form and 
 seeming strength fell into idiotcy and madness, 
 racked by the dread of coming eternity. A 
 man of this kind was now pouring forth his elo- 
 quent despair among the inhabitants of Wind- 
 sor. The scene of the morning, and my visit to 
 tlie 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 wretch had lost his young wife and 
 lovely infant by the plague. He was a mecha- 
 nic ; and, rendered unable to attend to the occu- 
 
^16 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 pation which supplied his necessities, famine 
 was added to his other miseries. He left the 
 chamber which contained his wife and child — 
 wife and child no more, but '•' dead earth upon 
 the earth**' — wild with hunger, watching and 
 grief, his diseased fancy made him believe him- 
 self sent by heaven to preach the end of time to 
 the world. He entered the churches, and fore- 
 told to the congregations their speedy removal 
 to the vaults below. He appeared like the for- 
 gotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade 
 the spectators go home and die. He had been 
 seized and confined ; he had escaped and wan- 
 dered from London among the neighbouring 
 towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling 
 words, he unveiled to each their hidden fears, 
 and gave voice to the soundless thought they 
 dared not syllable. He stood under the arcade 
 of the town-hall of Windsor, and from this 
 elevation harangued a trembling crowd. 
 
 " Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth," he 
 cried, " hear thou, all seeing, but most pitiless 
 
THE LAST MAN. 21 T 
 
 Heaven ! hear thou too, O tempest- tossed heart, 
 which breathes out these words5yet faints beneatli 
 their meaning ! Death is among us ! The earth 
 is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our 
 grave ! The clouds of heaven weep for us — the 
 pageantry of the stars is but our funeral torch- 
 light. Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a 
 few years in your long-known abode — but tlie 
 lease is up, you must remove — children, ye will 
 never reach maturity, even now the small grave 
 is dug for ye — mothers, clasp them in your arms, 
 one death embraces you !'" 
 
 Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his 
 eyes cast up, seemed bursting from their sockets, 
 while he appeared to follow shapes, to vis invisible, 
 in the yielding air — " There they are,'' he cried, 
 " the dead ! They rise in their shrouds, and pass 
 in silent procession towards the far land of their 
 doom — their bloodless lips move not— their 
 shadowy limbs are void of motion, while still 
 they glide onwards. " We come," he exclaimed, 
 springing forwards, " for what should we wait ? 
 
 VOL. II. L 
 
218 THE LAST MAN» 
 
 Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves in the 
 court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you 
 to his presence. Why thus long ? they, the 
 good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone before. 
 Mothers, kiss your last — husbands, protectors 
 no mo¥e, lead on the partners of your death ! 
 Come, O come ! while the dear Ones are yet in 
 sight, for soon they will pass away, and we never 
 never shall join them more.'' 
 
 From such ravings as these, he would sud- 
 denly become collected, and with unexaggerated 
 but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time ; 
 describe with minute del ail, the effects of the 
 plague on the human frame, and tell heart- 
 breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities 
 — the gasping horror of despair over the death- 
 bed of the last beloved — so that groans and even 
 shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in 
 particular stood in front, his eyes fixt on the 
 prophet, his mouth open, his hmbs rigid, while 
 his face changed to various colours, yellow, blue, 
 and green, through intense fear. The maniac 
 
THE LAST MAN. 219 
 
 caught his glaiKe, and turned his eye on him — 
 one has heard of the gaze of tlie rattle-snake, 
 which allures the trembhnff victim till he falls 
 within his jaws. The maniac became composed ; 
 his person rose higher ; authority beamed from 
 his countenance. He looked on the peasant, 
 who began to tremble, while he still gazed ; his 
 knees knocked together; his teeth chattered. He 
 at last fell down in convulsions. " That man 
 has the plague,'"* said the maniac calmly. A 
 shriek burst from the lips of the poor wretch ; 
 and then sudden moiionlessness came over him ; 
 it was manifest to all that he was dead. 
 
 Cries of horror filled the place— erery one en- 
 deavoured to effect his escape — in a few minutes 
 the market place was cleared — the corpse lay on 
 the ground; and the maniac, subdued and ex- 
 hausted, sat beside it, leaning his gaunt cheek 
 upon his thin hand. Soon some people, deputed 
 by the magistrates, came to remove the body; the 
 unfortunate being saw a jailor in each — he fled 
 
 L a 
 
220 THE LAST MAN, 
 
 precipitately, while I passed onwards to the 
 Castle. 
 
 Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these 
 beloved walls. An old servant, who had nursed 
 Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on 
 the footing of a revered relative than a domestic, 
 had gone a few days before to visit a daughter,, 
 married, and settled in the neighbourhood of 
 London. On the night of her return she sickened 
 of the plague. From the haughty and unbend- 
 ing nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris 
 had few tender filial associations with her. This 
 good woman had stood in the place of a mother, 
 and her very deficiencies of education and know- " 
 ledge, by rendering her humble and defenceless, 
 endeared her to us — she was the especial favourite 
 of the children. I found my poor girl, there is 
 no exaggeration in the expression, wild with 
 grief and dread. She hung over the patient in 
 agony, which was not mitigated when her thoughts 
 wandered towards her babes, for whom she feared 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 infection. My arrival was like the newly dis- 
 covered lamp of a lighthouse to sailors, who are 
 weathering some dangerous point. She deposited 
 her appalling doubts in my hands ; she relied on 
 my judgment, and was comforted by my partici- 
 pation in her sorrow. Soon our poor nurse ex- 
 pired; 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 sovereign balm, at length 
 steeped her tearful eyes in forgetfulness. 
 
 She slept ; and quiet prevailed in the Castle, 
 whose inhabitants were hushed to repose. I was 
 awake, and during the long hours of dead night, 
 my busy thoughts worked in my brain, like ten 
 thousand mill-wheels, rapid, acute, untameable. 
 All slept— all England slept; and from my win- 
 dow, commanding a wide prospect of the star-il- 
 lumined country, I saw the land stretched out in 
 placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the brother 
 of death possessed my race. What, if the more 
 potent of these fraternal deities should obtain 
 
222 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 dominion over it ? The silence of midnight, to 
 speak truly, though apparently a paradox, rung 
 in my ears. The solitude became intolerable — 
 I placed my hand on the beating heart of Idris, 
 I bent my head to catch the sound of her breath, 
 to assure myself that she still existed — for a mo- 
 ment I doubted whether I should not awake her ; 
 so effeminate an horror ran through my frame. 
 — Great God i would it one day be thus ? One 
 day all extinct, save myself, should I walk the 
 earth alone ? Were these warning voices, whose 
 inarticulate and oracular sense forced belief upon 
 me ? 
 
 Yet I wouM not call I hem 
 
 Voices of warning, that announce to us 
 
 Only the inevitable. As the sun, 
 
 Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image 
 
 In the atmosphere — so often do the spirits 
 
 Of great events stride on before the events. 
 
 And in to-day already walks to-morrow.* 
 
 Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein. 
 
THE LAST MAN. S23 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 After a long interval, I am again impelled 
 
 by the restless spirit within me to continue my 
 
 narration ; but I must alter the mode which I 
 
 have hitherto adopted. The details contained 
 
 in the foregoing pages, apparently trivial, yet 
 
 each slightest one weighing like lead in the 
 
 depressed scale of human afflictions ; this tedious 
 
 dwelling on the sorrows of others, while my own 
 
 were only in apprehension ; this slowly laying 
 
 bare of my soul's wounds : this journal of death ; 
 
 this long drawn and tortuous path, leading to the 
 
 ocean of countless tears, awakens me again to 
 
 keen grief. I had used this history as an opiate ; 
 
 while it described my beloved friends, fresh with 
 
2^4 ' THE LAST MAN. 
 
 life and glowing with hope, active assistants 
 on the scenej I was soothed ; there will be a more 
 melancholy pleasure in painting the end of 
 all. But the intermediate steps, the climbing 
 the wall, raised up between what was and is, 
 while I still looked back nor saw the concealed 
 desert beyond, is a labour past my strength. 
 Time and experience have placed me on an 
 height from which I can comprehend the past 
 as a whole ; and in this way I must describe it, 
 bringing forward the leading incidents, and 
 disposing light and shade so as to form a picture 
 in whose very darkness there will be harmony. 
 
 It would be needless to narrate those disastrous 
 occurrences, for which a parallel might be found 
 in any slighter visitation of our gigantic calamity. 
 Does the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses, 
 where death is the comforter — of the mournful 
 passage of the death-cart — of the insensibility of 
 the worthless, and the anguish of the loving 
 heart — of harrowing shrieks and silence dire — of 
 the variety of disease, desertion, famine, despair^ 
 
THE LAST MAN. 225 
 
 and death ? There are many books which can 
 feed the appetite craving for these things ; let 
 them turn to the accounts of Boccaccio, Do Foe, 
 and Browne. The vast annihilation that has 
 swallowed all things — the voiceless solitude of 
 the once busy earth — the lonely state of single- 
 ness which hems me in, has deprived even such 
 details of their stinging reality, and mellowing 
 the lurid tints of past anguish with poetic 
 hues, I am able to escape from the mosaic of, 
 circumstance, by perceiving and reflecting back 
 the grouping and combined colouring of the past. 
 I had returned from London possessed by 
 the idea, with the intimate feeling that it was 
 my first duty to secure, as well as T w^as able, 
 the well-being of my family, and then to return 
 and take my post beside Adrian. The events 
 that immediately followed on my arrival at 
 Windsor changed this view of things. The 
 plague was not in London alone, it was every 
 where— it came on us, as Ryland had said, like 
 a thousand packs of wolves, howling through 
 
 l3 
 
226 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ^e winter night, gaunt and fierce. When once 
 disease was introduced into the rural districts, 
 its effects appeared more horrible, more exigent, 
 and more difficult to cure, than in towns. There 
 was a companionship in suffering there, and, the 
 ' neighbours keeping constant watch on each 
 other, and inspired by the active benevolence of 
 Adrian, succour was afforded, and the path of 
 destruction smoothed. But in the country, 
 among the scattered farm-houses, in lone cot- 
 tages, in fields, and bai^s, tragedies were acted 
 harrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard, un- 
 noticed. Medical aid was less easily procured, 
 food was more difficult to obtain, and human 
 beings, un withheld by shame, for they were un- 
 beheld of their fellows, ventured on deeds of 
 greater wickedness, or gave way more readily 
 to their abject fears. 
 
 Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose very 
 mention swells the heart and brings tears into 
 the eyes. Such is human nature, that beauty 
 and deformity are often closely linked. In read- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 227 
 
 ing history we are chiefly struck by the genero- 
 sity and self-devotion that follow close on the 
 heels of crime, veiling with supernal flowers the 
 stain of blood. Such acts were not wanting to 
 adorn the grim train that waited on the progress 
 of the plague. 
 
 The Inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had 
 been long aware that the plague was in London, 
 in Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, York, in 
 short, in all the more populous towns of England. 
 They were not however the less astonished and 
 dismayed when it appeared among themselves. 
 They were impatient and angry in the midst of 
 terror. They would do something to throw oft* 
 the clinging evil, and, while in action, they fancied 
 that a remedy was applied. The inhabitants of 
 the smaller towns left their houses, pitched tents 
 in the fields, wandering separate from each other 
 careless of hunger or the sky's inclemency, while 
 they imagined that they avoided the death-deal- 
 ing disease. The farmers and cottagers, on the 
 contrary, struck with the fear of solitude, and 
 
228 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 madly desirous of medical assistance, flocked 
 into the towns. 
 
 But winter was coming, and with winter, hope. 
 In August, the plague had appeared in the 
 country of England, and during September it 
 made its ravages. Towards the end of October 
 it dwindled away, and was in some degree 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, made 
 pale by wasting malady, became the inhabitants 
 of the grave. The crop had failed, the bad corn, 
 and want of foreign wines, added vigour to 
 disease. Before Christmas half England was 
 under water. The storms of the last winter were 
 renewed ; but the diminished shipping of this 
 year caused us to feel Jess the tempests of the 
 sea. The flood and storms did more harm to 
 continental Europe than to us — giving, as it 
 were, the last blow to the calamities which de- 
 stroyed it. In Italy the rivers were unwatched 
 
THE LAST MAN. S29 
 
 by the diminished peasantry; and, like wild beasts 
 from their lair when the hunters and dogs are 
 afar, did Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and 
 destroy the fertility of the plains. Whole vil- 
 lages were carried away. Rome, and Florence, 
 and Pisa were overflowed, and their marble 
 palaces, late mirrored in tranquil streams, had 
 their foundations shaken by their winter-gifted 
 power. In Germany and Russia the injury was 
 still more momentous. 
 
 But frost would come at last, and with it a re- 
 newal of our lease of earth. Frost would blunt 
 the arrows of pestilence, and enchain the furious 
 elements ; and the land would in spring throw off 
 her garment of snow, released from her menace 
 of destruction. It was not until February that 
 the desired signs of winter appeared. For three 
 days the snow fell, ice stopped the current of the 
 rivers, and the birds flew out from crackling 
 branches of the frost-whitened trees. On the 
 fourth morning all vanished. A south-west 
 wind brought up rain — the sun came out, and 
 
230 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 mocking the usual laws of nature, seemed even 
 at this early season to burn with solsticial force. 
 It was no consolation, that with the first winds of 
 March the lanes were filled with violets, the fruit 
 trees covered with blossoms, that the corn sprung 
 up, and the leaves came out, forced by the un- 
 seasonable heat. We feared the balmy air — we 
 feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered earth, 
 and delightful woods, for we looked on the fabric 
 of the universe no longer as our dwelling, but 
 our tomb, and the fragrant land smelled to the 
 apprehension of fear like a wide church-yard. 
 
 Plsando la tiena dura 
 de continuo el hombre estsl 
 y cada passo que dsl 
 es sobre su sepultura,* 
 
 Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages win- 
 ter was breathing time ; and we exerted ourselves 
 to make the best of it. Plague might not revive 
 
 • Calderon de la Barca. 
 
THE LAST MAN. S31 
 
 with the summer ; but if it did, it should find us 
 prepared. It is a part of man's nature to adapt 
 itself through habit even to pain and sorrow. 
 Pestilence had become a part of our future, our 
 existence ; it was to be guarded against, like the 
 flooding of rivers, the encroachments of ocean, 
 or the inclemency of the sky. After long suffer- 
 ing and bitter experience, some panacea might 
 be discovered ; as it was, all that received infec- 
 tion died — all however were not infected ; and 
 it became our part to fix deep the foundations, 
 and raise high the barrier between contagion and 
 the sane ; to introduce such order as would con- 
 duce to the well-being of the survivors, and as 
 w^ould preserve hope and some portion of happi- 
 ness to those who were spectators of the still re- 
 newed 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, vice 
 and folly, from rendering the awful fate of the 
 
.^32 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 hour still more tremendous. I wished to imitate 
 his example, but men are used to 
 
 — move all together, if they move at all,* 
 
 and I could find no means of leading the inha- 
 bitants of scattered towns and villages, who for- 
 got my words as soon as they heard them not, 
 and veered with every baffling wind, that might 
 arise from an apparent change of circumstance. 
 
 I adopted another plan. Those writers who 
 have imagined a reign of peace and happiness 
 on earth, have generally described a rural coun- 
 try, where each small township was directed by 
 the elders and wise men. This was the key 
 of my design. Each village, however small, 
 usually contains a leader, one among themselves 
 whom they venerate, whose advice they seek in 
 difficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly 
 value. I was immediately drawn to make this 
 
 • Wordsworth. 
 
THE LAST MAN. S3B 
 
 • 
 
 observation by occurrences that pra^ented them- 
 selves to my personal experience. 
 
 In the village of Little Mario w an old woman 
 ruled the community. She had lived for some 
 years in an alms-house, and on fine Sundays her 
 threshold was constantly beset by a crowd, 
 seeking^ her advice and listenino- to her admoni- 
 tions. She had been a soldier's wife, and had 
 seen the world ; infirmity, induced by fevers 
 caught in unwholesome quarters, had come on 
 her before its time, and she seldom moved from 
 her little cot. The plague entered the village ; 
 and, while fright and grief deprived the inhabi- 
 tants of the little wisdom they possessed, old 
 Martha stepped forward and said — " Before 
 now I have been in a town where there was the 
 plague." — " And you escaped?" — " No, but I 
 recovered." — After this Martha was seated more 
 firmly than ever on the regal seat, elevated by 
 reverence and love. She entered the cottages of 
 the sick ; she relieved their wants with her own 
 haiad ; she betraye J no fear, and inspired all * 
 
234 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 who saw her with some portion of her own na- 
 tive courao;e. She attended the markets — she 
 insisted upon being suppHed with food for those 
 who were too poor to purchase it. She shewed 
 them how the well-being of each included the 
 prosperity of all. She would not permit the 
 gardens to be neglected, nor the very flowers in 
 the cottage lattices to droop from want of care. 
 Hope, she said, was better than a doctor's pre- 
 scription, and every thing that could sustain 
 and enliven the spirits, of more worth than 
 drugs and mixtures. 
 
 It was the sight of liittle Marlow, and my 
 conversations with Martha, that led me to the 
 plan I formed. I had before visited the manor 
 houses and gentlemen's seats, and often found 
 the inhabitants actuated by the purest benevo- 
 lence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the wel- 
 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 MAN. 235 
 
 rich possessed otlier means of preservation than 
 those which could be partaken of by themselves, 
 seclusion, and, as far as circumstances permitted, 
 freedom from care. They could not place re- 
 
 Iliance on them, but turned with tenfold depend- 
 ence to the succour and advice of their equals. 
 I resolved therefore to go from village to village, 
 seeking out the rustic archon of the place, and by 
 I systematizing their exertions, and enlightening 
 
 their views, encrease both their power and their 
 
 I 
 
 use among their fellow-cottagers. Many changes 
 
 also now occurred in these spontaneous regal 
 elections : depositions and abdications were fre- 
 quent, while, in the place of the old and pru- 
 dent, the ardent youth would step forward, 
 eager for action, regardless of danger. Often 
 too, the voice to which ah listened was suddenly 
 silenced, the helping hand cold, the sympathe- 
 tic eye closed, and the villagers feared still more 
 the death that had selected a choice victim, 
 shivering in dust the heart that had beat for 
 them, reducing to incommunicable annihilation 
 
^6 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 the mind for ever occupied with projects for 
 their welfare. , 
 
 . Whoever labours for man must often find in- 
 gratitude, watered by vice and folly, spring 
 from the grain which he has sown. Death, 
 which had in our younger days walked the earth 
 like " a thief that comes in the night," now, 
 rising from his subterranean vault, girt with 
 power, with dark banner floating, came a con- 
 queror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal 
 throne, a supreme Providence, who directed 
 his shafts, and guided his progress, and they 
 bowed their heads in resignation, or at least in 
 obedience. Others perceived only a passing 
 casualty ; they endeavoured to exchange terror 
 for heedlessness, and plunged into licentious- 
 ness, to avoid the agonizing throes of worst ap- 
 prehension. Thus, while the wise, the good, 
 and the prudent were occupied by the labours 
 of benevolence, the truce of winter produced 
 other effects among the young, the thoughtless, 
 and the vicious. During the colder months there 
 
\ 
 
 THK LAST MAN. 237 
 
 was a general rush to London in search of amuse- 
 ment — the ties of pubhc opinion were loosened ; 
 many were rich, heretofore poor — many had 
 lost father and mother, the guardians of their 
 morals, their mentors and restraints. It would 
 have been useless to have opposed these im- 
 pulses by barriers, which would only have 
 driven those actuated by them to more perni- 
 cious indulgences. The theatres were open and 
 thronged ; dance and midnight festival were 
 frequented — in many of these decorum was vio- 
 lated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an 
 advanced state of civilization, were doubled. 
 Tiie student left his books, the artist his study : 
 the occupations of life were gone, but the amuse- 
 ments remained ; enjoyment might be 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 mo- 
 desty, the reserve of pride, the decorum of pru- 
 dery were frequently thrown aside as U5eles.s 
 veils. 
 
238 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 This was not universal. Among better na- 
 tures, anguish and dread, the fear of eternal 
 separation, and the awful wonder produced by 
 unprecedented calamity, drew closer the ties of 
 kindred and friendship. Philosophers opposed 
 their principles, as barriers to the inundation of 
 profligacy or despair, and the only ramparts to 
 protect the invaded territory of human life ; the 
 rehgious, hoping now for their reward, clung 
 fast to their creeds, as the rafts and planks which 
 over the tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would 
 bear them in safety to the harbour of the Un- 
 known Continent. The loving heart, obliged to 
 contract its view, bestowed its overflow of aff*ec- 
 tion in triple portion on the few that remained. 
 Yet, even among these, the present, as an un- 
 alienable possession, became all of time to which 
 they dared commit the precious freight of their 
 hopes. 
 
 The experience of immemorial time had 
 taught us formerly to count our enjoyments by 
 years, and extend our prospect of life through 
 
THE LAST MAN. 239 
 
 a lengthened period of progression and decay ; 
 the long road threaded a vast labyrinth, and the 
 Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it ter- 
 minated, was hid by intervening objects. But 
 an earthquake had changed the scene — under our 
 very feet the earth yawned —deep and precipitous 
 the gulph below opened to receive us, while the 
 hours charioted us towards the chasm. But it 
 was winter now, and months must elapse before 
 we are hurled from our security. We became 
 ephemera, to whom the interval between the 
 rising and setting sun was as a long drawn year 
 of common time. We should never see our 
 children ripen into maturity, nor behold their 
 downy cheeks roughen, their blithe hearts sub- 
 dued by passion or care ; but we had them now 
 — they lived, and we lived — \^ hat more could we 
 desire ? With such schooling did my poor Idris 
 try to hush thronging fears, and in some mea- 
 sure succeeded. It was not as in summer-time, 
 when each hour might bring the dreaded fate — 
 until summer, we felt sure ; and this certainty, 
 
240 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 short lived as it must be, yet for awhile satisfied 
 her maternal tenderness. I know not how to 
 express or communicate the sense of concen- 
 trated, intense, though evanescent transport, 
 that imparadized us in the present hour. Our 
 joys were dearer because we saw their end ; they 
 were keener because we feit, to its fullest ex- 
 tent, their value ; they were purer because their 
 essence was sympathy — as a meteor is brighter 
 than a star, did the felicity of this winter contain 
 in itself the extracted delights of a long, long life. 
 How lovely is spring ! As we looked from 
 Windsor Terrace on the sixteen fertile counties 
 spread beneath, speckled by happy cottages and 
 Avealthier towns, all looked as in former years, 
 heart-cheering and fair. The land was ploughed, 
 the slender blades of wheat broke through the 
 dark soil, the fruit trees were covered with buds, 
 the husbandman was abroad in the fields, the 
 milk-maid tripped home with well-filled pails, 
 the swallow^s and martins struck the sunny pools 
 w^th their long, pointed wings, the new dropped 
 
THE LAST MAN. 241 
 
 lambs reposed on the young grass, the tender 
 growth of leaves — 
 
 Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
 A silent space with ever sprouting green.* 
 
 Man himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the 
 frost of winter yield to an elastic and warm re- 
 newal of life — reason told us that care and sorrow 
 would grow with the opening year — but how 
 to believe the ominous voice breathed up witli 
 pestiferous vapours from fear''s dim cavern, 
 while nature, laughing and scattering from her 
 green lap flowers, and fruits, and sparkling 
 waters, invited vis to join the gay masque of 
 young life she led upon the scene ? 
 
 Where was the plague? " Here — every 
 where !" one voice of horror and dismay ex- 
 claimed, when in the pleasant days of a sunny 
 May the Destroyer of man brooded again over 
 the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic 
 
 • Keats. 
 VOL. II. M 
 
242 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 chrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life. 
 With one mighty sweep of its potent weapon, 
 all caution, all care, all prudence were levelled 
 low : death sat at the tables of the great, stretched 
 itself on the cottager's pallet, seized the dastard 
 who fled, quelled the brave man who resisted : 
 despondency entered every heart, sorrow dimmed 
 every eye. 
 
 Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and 
 were I to tell all of anguish and pain that I 
 witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and 
 the more terrible smiles of infancy in the bosom 
 of horror, my reader, his limbs quivering and 
 his hair on end, would wonder how I did not, 
 seized with sudden frenzy, dash myself from 
 some precipice, and so close my eyes for ever on 
 the sad end of the world. But the powers of 
 love, poetry, and creative fancy will dwell even 
 beside the sick of the plague, with the squalid, 
 and with the dying. A feeling of devotion, of 
 duty, of a high and steady purpose, elevated 
 me ; a strange joy filled my heart. In the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 243 
 
 midst of saddest grief I seemed to tread air, 
 while the spirit of good shed round me an am- 
 brosial atmosphere, which blunted the sting of 
 sympathy, and purified the air of sighs. If my 
 wearied soul flagged in its career, I thought of 
 my loved home, of the casket that contained 
 my treasures, of the kiss of love and the filial 
 caress, while my eyes were moistened by purest 
 dew, and my heart was at once softened and re- 
 freshed by thrilling tenderness. 
 
 Maternal affection had not rendered Idris 
 selfish ; at the beginning of our calamity she 
 had, with thoughtless enthusiasm, devoted her- 
 self to the care of the sick and helpless. I 
 checked her; and she submitted to my rule. I 
 told her how the fear of her danger palsied my 
 exertions, how the knowledge of her safety 
 strung my nerves to endurance. I shewed her 
 the dangers which lier children incurred during 
 her absence ; and she at length agreed not to go 
 beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed, 
 within the walls of the Castle we had a colony 
 
 M 2 
 
244 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 of the unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and 
 in themselves helpless, sufficient to occupy her 
 time and attention, while ceaseless anxiety for 
 my welfare and the health of her children, 
 however she strove to curb or conceal it, 
 absorbed all her thoughts, and undermined 
 the vital principle. After watching over and, 
 providing for their safety, her second care 
 was to hide from me her anguish and tears.. 
 Each night I returned to the Castle, and found 
 there repose and love awaiting me. Often I 
 waited beside the bed of death till midnight,, 
 and through the, obscurity of rainy, cloudy 
 nights rode many miles, sustained by one cir- 
 cumstance only, the safety and sheltered repose 
 of those I loved. If some scene of tremendous 
 agony shook my frame and fevered m}' brow, 1 
 would lay 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 heart in 
 calm peace. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 24i 
 
 ^• 
 
 Summer advanced, and, crowned with the 
 sun's potent rays, plague shot her unerring shafts 
 over the earth. The nations beneath their in- 
 fluence bowed their heads, and died. The corn 
 that sprung up in plenty, lay in autumn rotting 
 on the ground, while the melancholy wretch who 
 had gone out to gather bread for his children, 
 lay stiff and plague- struck in the furrow. The 
 green woods waved their boughs majestically, 
 while the dying were spread beneath their shade, 
 answering the solemn melody with inharmonious 
 cries. The painted birds flitted through the 
 shades ; the careless deer reposed unhurt upon 
 the fern — the oxen and the horses strayed from 
 their unguarded stables, and grazed among the 
 wheat, for death fell on man alone. 
 
 With summer and mortality grew our fears. 
 My poor love and I looked at each other, and 
 our babes. — " We will save them, Idris," I 
 said, " I will save them. Years hence we shall 
 recount to them our fears, then passed away 
 with their occasion. Though they only should 
 
246 THE LAST MAK. 
 
 remain on the earth, still they shall live, nor shall 
 their cheeks become pale nor their sweet voices 
 languish.'"* Our eldest in some degree under- 
 stood the scenes passing around, and at times, 
 he with serious looks questioned me concerning 
 the reason of so vast a desolation. But he was 
 only ten years old ; and the hilarity of youth 
 soon chased unreasonable care from his brow, 
 l^velyn, 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 thou- 
 sand artless ways attract our attention to his 
 play. Clara, our lovely gentle Clara, was our 
 stay, our solace, our delight. She made it her 
 task to attend the sick, comfort the sorrowing, 
 assist the aged, and partake the sports and 
 awaken the gaiety of the young. She flitted 
 through the rooms, like a good spirit, dispatched 
 from the celestial kingdom, to illumine our dark 
 hour with alien splendour. Gratitude and praise 
 marked where her footsteps had been. Yet^ 
 
THE LAST MAN. 24T 
 
 when she stood in unassuming simphcity before 
 us, playing with our children, or with girlish assi- 
 duity performing little kind offices for Idris, one 
 wondered in what fair lineament of her pure 
 loveliness, in what soft tone of her thrilling voice, 
 so much of heroism, sagacity and active good- 
 ness resided. 
 
 The summer passed tediously, for we trusted 
 that winter would at least check the disease. 
 That it would vanlsli altogether was an hope too 
 dear — too heartfelt, to be expressed. When such 
 a thought was heedlessly uttered, the hearers, 
 with a gush of tears and passionate sobs, bore 
 witness how deep their fears were, how small 
 their hopes. For my own part, my exertions 
 for the public good permitted me to observe 
 more closely than most others, the virulence and 
 extensive ravages of our sightless enemy. A 
 short month has destroyed a village, and where 
 in May the first person sickened, in June the 
 paths were deformed by unburied corpses — the 
 houses tenantless, no smoke arising from the 
 
248 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 chimneys ; and the housewife's clock marked 
 only the hour when death had been triumphant. 
 From such scenes I have sometimes saved a 
 deserted infant — sometimes led a young and 
 grieving mother from the hfeless image of her 
 first born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from 
 childish weeping over his extinct family. 
 
 July is gone. August must pass, and by the 
 middle of September we may hope. Each day 
 was eagerly counted ; and the inhabitants of 
 towns, desirous to leap this dangerous interval, 
 plunged into dissipation, and strove, by riot, and 
 what they wished to imagine to be pleasure, to 
 banish thought and opiate despair. None but 
 Adrian could have tamed the motley population of 
 London, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds 
 rushing to their pastures, had thrown aside all mi* 
 nor fears, through the operation of the fear para- 
 mount. Even Adrian was obliged in part to 
 yield, that he might be able, if not to guide, at 
 least to set bounds to the license of the times. 
 The theatres weie kept open ; every place of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 249 
 
 public resort was frequented ; though he endea- 
 voured so to modify them, as might best quiet 
 the agitation of the spectators, and at the same 
 time prevent a reaction of misery when the 
 excitement was over. Tragedies deep and dire ^ 
 were the chief favourites. Comedy brought ' 
 with it too great a contrast to the inner despair : 
 when such were attempted, it was not unfrequent 
 for a comedian, in the midst of the laughter oc- 
 casioned by his disproportioned buffoonery, to find 
 a word or thought in his part that jarred with his 
 own sense of wretchedness, and burst from mimic 
 merriment into sobs and tears, while the spec- 
 tators, seized with irresistible sympathy, wept, 
 and the pantomimic revelry was changed to a 
 real exhibition of tragic passion. 
 
 It was not in my nature to derive consolation 
 from such scenes ; from theatres, whose buffoon 
 lauo-hter and discordant mirth awakened dis- 
 tempered sympathy, or where fictitious tears 
 and wailings mocked the heart-felt grief within ; 
 from festival or crowded meeting, where hikj^. 
 
 M 3 
 
250 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 rity sprung from the worst feelings of our na- 
 ture, or such enthralment of the better ones, as 
 impressed it with garish and false varnish ; from 
 assemblies of mourners in the guise of revellers. 
 Once however I witnessed a scene of singular 
 interest at one of the theatres, where nature 
 overpowered art, as an overflowing cataract will 
 tear away the puny manufacture of a mock 
 cascade, which had before been fed by a small 
 portion of its waters. 
 
 I had come to London to see Adnan. He 
 was not at the palace ; and, though the attend- 
 ants did not know whither he had gone, they 
 did not expect him till late at night. It v/as 
 between six and seven o'clock, a fine summer 
 afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a 
 ramble through the empty streets of London ; 
 now turning to avoid an approaching funeral, 
 now urged by curiosity to observe the state of 
 a particular spot ; my wanderings were instinct 
 with pain, for silence and desertion characte- 
 rized every place I visited, and the few beings I 
 
THE LAST MAN, 251 
 
 met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked 
 with care and depressed by fear, that weary of 
 encountering only signs of misery, I began to 
 retread my steps towards home. 
 
 I was now in Hoi born, and passed by a pub- 
 lic house filled with uproarious companions, 
 whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more 
 sorrowful than the pale looks and silence of the 
 mourner. Such an one was near, hovering 
 round this house. The sorry plight of her 
 dress displayed her poverty, she was ghastly 
 pale, and continued approaching, first the win- 
 dow and then the door of the house, as if 
 fearful, yet longing to enter. A sudden burst 
 of song and merriment seemed to sting her to 
 the heart ; she murmured, " Can he have the 
 heart P'** and then mustering her courage, she 
 stepped within the threshold . The landlady 
 met her in the passage ; the poor creature asked, 
 " Is my husband here ? Can I see George ?''"* 
 
 " See him," cried the woman, "yes, if you 
 
» 25^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 go to him ; last night he was taken with the 
 plague, and we sent him to the hospital." 
 
 The unfortunate inquirer staggered against 
 a wall, a faint cry escaped her — " O ! were you 
 cruel enough," she exclaimed, " to send him 
 there .?" 
 
 The landlady meanwhile hurried away ; but 
 a more compassionate bar-maid gave her a de- 
 tailed account, the sum of which was^ that her 
 liusband 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 
 about the poor woman that interested me ; she 
 now tottered away from the door, walking as 
 well as she could down Holborn Hill ; but her 
 strength soon failed her ; she leaned against a 
 wall, and her head sunk on her bosom, while her 
 palhd cheek became still more white. I went 
 up to her and offered my services. She hardly 
 looked up — '' You can do me no good,'' she 
 
THE LAST MAN. 25^ 
 
 replied; " I must go to the hospital ; if I do not 
 die before I get there." 
 
 There were still a few hackney-coaches ac- 
 customed to stand about the streets, more truly 
 from habit than for use. I put her in one of 
 these, and entered with her that I might secure 
 her entrance into the hospital. Our way was 
 short, and she said little ; except interrupted 
 ejaculations of reproach that he had left her, ex- 
 clamations 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 m€n, 
 — had been so, till want of business during these 
 unhappy times had thrown him into bad com- 
 pany. " He could not bear to come home," 
 she said, " only to see our children die. A man 
 cannot have the patience a mother has, with her 
 own flesh and blood." 
 
 We were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and 
 -entered tlie wretched precincts of the house of 
 
S54 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 disease. The poor creature clung closer to me, 
 as she saw with what heartless haste they bore 
 the dead from the wards, and took them into a 
 room, whose half-opened door displayed a num- 
 ber of corpses, horrible to behold by one unac- 
 customed to such scenes. We were directed to 
 the ward where her husband had been first 
 taken, and still was, the nurse said, if alive. My 
 companion looked eagerly from one bed to the 
 other, till at the end of the ward she espied, on 
 a wretched bed, a squalid, haggard creature, 
 writhing under the torture of disease. She 
 rushed towards him, she embraced him, blessing 
 God for his preservation. 
 
 The enthusiasm that inspired her with this 
 strange joy, blinded her to the horrors about her; 
 but they v/ere intolerably agonizing to me. 
 The ward was filled with an effluvia that caused 
 my heart to heave with painful qualms. The 
 dead were carried out, and the sick brought in, 
 with like indifference ; some were screaming 
 with pain, others laughing from the influence of 
 
THE LAST MAN. 255 
 
 more terrible delirium ; some were attended by 
 weeping, despairing relations, others called aloud 
 with thrilling tenderness or reproach on tlie 
 friends who had deserted them, while tlie nurses 
 went from bed to bed, incarnate images of de- 
 spair, neglect, and death. I gave gold to my 
 1 uckless companion ; I recommended her to the 
 care of the attendants ; I then hastened away ; 
 while the tormentor, the imagination, busied 
 itself in picturing my own loved ones, stretched 
 on such beds, attended thus. The countrv 
 afforded no such mass of horrors ; solitary 
 wretches died in the open fields ; and I have 
 found a survivor in a vacant village, contending 
 at once with famine and disease ; but the assem- 
 bly 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 ]\Iacbeth 
 ■ — the first actor of the a<xe was there to exert 
 his powders to drug with irreflection the auditors ; 
 
^56 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered. The 
 theatre was tolerably well filled. Shakspeare, 
 whose popularity was established by the ap- 
 proval of four centuries, had not lost his in- 
 fluence even at this dread period ; but was still 
 " Ut magus," the wizard to rule our hearts 
 and govern our imaginations. I came in dur- 
 insj the interval between the third and fourth 
 act. 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 machinery of Macbeth, was a 
 pledge that it could contain little directly con- 
 nected with our present circumstances. Great 
 pains had been taken in the scenery to give the 
 semblance of reality to the impossible. The 
 extreme darkness of the stage, whose only light 
 was received from the fire under the cauldron, 
 
THE LAST MAX. 25t 
 
 joined to a kind of mist that floated about it> 
 rendered the unearthy shapes of the witches ob- 
 ,scure and shadowy. It was not there decrepid 
 old hags that bent over their pot throwing in the 
 grim ingredients of the magic charm, but forms 
 frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance 
 of Hecate, and the wild music that followed, 
 took us out of this world. The cavern shape 
 the stage assumed, the beetling rocks, the glare 
 of the fire, the misty shades that crossed the 
 scene at times, the music in harmony with all 
 witch-like fancies, permitted the imagination to re- 
 vel, without fear of contradiction, or reproof from 
 reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth 
 did not destroy the illusion, for he -was actuated 
 by the same feelings that inspired us, and while 
 the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in 
 his wonder and his daring, and gave ourselves 
 up with our whole souls to the influence of 
 scenic delu^on. I felt the beneficial result of 
 such excitement, in a renewal of those pleasing 
 flights of fancy to which I had long been a 
 
258 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Stranger. The effect of this scene of incanta- 
 tion communicated a portion of its power to that 
 which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and 
 Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon 
 by such simple passions as warmed our own 
 breasts. By slow degrees however we were 
 drawn to the real interest of the scene. A 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 ?'"' 
 
 Alas, poor country 3 
 Almost afraid to know itself ! It cannot 
 Be called our mother, but our grave : where nothing, 
 But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; 
 Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air, 
 Are made, not marked j where violent sorrow seems 
 A modern extasy : the dead man's knell 
 Js there scarce asked, for who ; and good men's lives 
 Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
 Dying, or ere they sicken. 
 
 Each word struck the sense, as our life's passing 
 bell ; we feared to look at each other, but bent 
 our gaze on the stage, as if our eyes could fall 
 innocuous on that alone. The person who 
 
i 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 259 
 
 played the part of Rosse, suddenly became 
 aware of the dangerous ground he trod. He 
 was an inferior actor, but truth now made him 
 excellent ; as he went on to announce to Mac- 
 duff the slaughter of his family, he was afraid 
 to speak, trembling from apprehension of a 
 burst of grief from the audience, not from his 
 fellow-mime. Each word was drawn out with 
 difficulty ; real anguish painted his features ; 
 his eyes were now lifted in sudden horror, now 
 fixed in dread upon the ground. This shew of 
 terror encreased ours, we gasped with him, 
 each neck was stretched out, each face changed 
 with the actor's changes — at length while Mac- 
 duff, who, attending to his part, was unob- 
 sei'vant of the high wrought sympathy of the 
 house, cried with well acted passion : 
 
 All my pretty ones > 
 Did you say all ?— O hell kite ! All ? 
 What ! all my pretty chickens, and their dam. 
 At one fell swoop ! 
 
 A pang of tameless grief wrenched every heart, 
 a burst of despair was echoed from every lip. — 
 
260 
 
 THE LAST MAX. 
 
 I had entered into the universal feehng — I had 
 been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse — I re- 
 echoed the cry of Macduff, and then rushed 
 out as from an hell of torture, to find calm in the 
 free air and silent street. 
 
 Free the air was not, or the street silent. 
 Oh, how I longed then for the dear soothings 
 of maternal Nature, as my wounded heart was 
 still further stung by the roar of heartless 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 oblivious 
 debauch, and by the more appalling salutations 
 of those melancholy beings to whom the name of 
 home was a mockery. I ran on at my utmost 
 speed until I found myself I knew not how, 
 close to Westminster Abbey, and was attracted 
 by the deep and swelling tone of the organ. I 
 entered with soothing awe the lighted chancel, 
 and listened to the solemn rehgious chaunt, 
 which spoke peace and hope to the unhappy. 
 The notes, freighted with man's dearest prayers, 
 
THE LAST MAN. 261 
 
 re-echoed through the dim aisles, and the bleed- 
 ing of the soul's wounds was staunched by hea- 
 venly balm. In spite of the misery I depre- 
 catecl, and could not understand ; in spite of the 
 cold hearths of wide London, and the corpse- 
 strewn fields of my native land ; in spite of all 
 the variety of agonizing emotions I had that 
 evening experienced, I thought that in reply to 
 our melodious adjurations, the Creator looked 
 down in compassion and promise of relief; the 
 awful peal of the heaven-winged music seemed 
 fitting voice wherewith to commune with the 
 Supreme ; calm was produced by its sound, and 
 by the sight of many other human creatures 
 offering up prayers and submission with me. A 
 sentiment approaching happiness followed the 
 total resignation of one's being to the 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 vaults 
 below were hastily opened — he was consigned 
 
262 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 with a few muttered prayers to the darksome 
 cavern, abode of thousands who had gone be- 
 fore — now wide yawning to receive even all who 
 fulfilled the funeral rites. In vain I would 
 then have turned from this scene, to darkened 
 aisle or lofty dome, echoing with melodious 
 praise. In the open air alone I found relief; 
 among nature''s beauteous works, her God re- 
 assumed his attribute of benevolence, and again 
 I could trust that he who built up the moun- 
 tains, planted the forests, and poured out the 
 rivers, would erect another state for lost hu- 
 manity, where we might awaken again to our 
 affections, our happiness, and our faith. 
 
 Fortunately for me those circumstances were 
 of rare occurrence that obliged me to visit Lon- 
 don, and my duties were confined to the rural 
 district which our lofty castle overlooked ; 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 
 endeavours were directed towards urging them 
 
THE LAST MAK. 263 
 
 to their usual attention to their crops, and to 
 the acting as if pestilence did not exist. The 
 mower's scythe was at times heard ; yet the joy- 
 less haymakers' after they had listlessly turned 
 the grass, forgot to cart it ; the shepherd, when 
 he had sheared his sheep, would let the wool lie 
 to be scattered by the winds, deeming it useless 
 to provide clotliing for another winter. At 
 times however the spirit of life was awakened 
 by these employments ; the sun, the refreshing 
 breeze, the sweet smell of the hay, the rustling 
 leaves and prattling rivulets brought repose to 
 the agitated bosom, and bestowed a feeling akin 
 to happiness on the apprehensive. Nor, strange 
 to say, was the time without its pleasures. 
 Young couples, who had loved long and hope- 
 lessly, suddenly found every impediment re- 
 moved, and wealth pour in from the death of 
 relatives. The very danger drew them closer. 
 The immediate peril urged them to seize the 
 immediate opportunity ; wildly and passionately 
 
S64 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 they sought to know what delights existence 
 aiforded, before they yielded to death, and 
 
 Snatching their pleasures with rough strife 
 Thorough the iron gates of life,* 
 
 they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy 
 what had been, or to erase even from their death- 
 bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness which 
 had been theirs. 
 
 One instance of this kind came immediately 
 under our notice, where a high-born girl had in 
 early youth given her heart to one of meaner 
 extraction. He was a schoolfellow and friend 
 of her brother''s5 p-nd usually spent a part of the 
 holidays at the mansion of the duke her father. 
 They had played together as children, been the 
 confidants of each other's little secrets, mutual 
 aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow. 
 Love had crept in, noiseless, terrorless at first, 
 till each felt their life bound up in the other, 
 
 * Andrew Marvell. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 265 
 
 and at the same time knew that they must part 
 Their extreme youth, and the purity of their 
 attachment, made them yield with less resistance 
 to the tyranny of circumstances. The father of 
 the fair Juliet separated them; but not until the 
 young lover had promised to remain absent 
 only till he had rendered himself worthy of her, 
 and she had vowed to preserve her virgin heart, 
 his treasure, till he returned to claim and pos- 
 sess it 
 
 Plague came, threatening to destroy at 
 once the aim of the ambitious and the hopes 
 
 of love. Long the Duke of L derided 
 
 the idea that there could be danger while 
 he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion ; and 
 he so far succeeded, that it was not till this 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. 
 Most of the servants fled on tiie first appearance 
 of disease, those who remained were infected 
 mortally ; no neighbour or rustic ventured 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
^66 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 within the verge of contagion. By a strange 
 fatality Juliet alone escaped, and she to the last 
 waited on her relatives, and smoothed the pillow 
 of death. The moment at length came, when 
 the last blow was given to the last of the house : 
 the youthful survivor of her race sat alone 
 among the dead. There was no living being 
 near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this 
 hideous company. With the declining heat of 
 a September night, a whirlwind of storm, thun- 
 der, and hail, rattled round the house, and with 
 ghastly harmony sung the dirge of her family. 
 She sat upon the ground absorbed in wordless 
 despair, when through the gusty wind and bicker- 
 ing rain she thought she heard her name called. 
 Whose could that familiar voice be ? Not one 
 of her relations, for they lay glaring on her with 
 stony eyes. Again her name was syllabled, 
 and she shuddered as she asked herself, am I 
 becoming mad, or am I dying, that I hear the 
 voices of the departed ? A second thought 
 passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain; she 
 rushed to the window ; and a flash of lightning 
 
THE LAST MAN. 267 
 
 shewed to her the expected vision, her lover in 
 the shrubbery beneath ; joy lent her strength 
 to descend the stairs, to open the door, and then 
 she fainted in his supporting arms. 
 
 A thousand times she reproached herself, as 
 with a crime, that she should revive to happi- 
 ness with him. The natural clinging of the 
 human mind to life and joy was in its full 
 energy in her young heart; she gave herself 
 impetuously up to the enchantment : they were 
 married; and in their radiant features I saw 
 incarnate, for the last time, the spirit of love, of 
 rapturous sympathy, which once had been the 
 life of the world. 
 
 I envied them, but felt how impossible it was 
 to imbibe the same feeling, now that years had 
 multiplied my ties in the world. Above all, the 
 anxious mother, my own beloved and drooping 
 Idris, claimed my earnest care ; I could not re- 
 proach the anxiety that never for a moment 
 slept in her heart, but I exerted myself to dis- 
 tract her attention from too keen an observation 
 
 N 2 
 
^6S THE LAST MAIT, 
 
 of the truth of things, of the near and nearer 
 approaches of disease, misery, and death, of the 
 wild look of our attendants as intelligence of 
 another and yet another death reached us; for 
 to the last something new occurred that seemed 
 to transcend in horror all that had gone before. 
 Wretched beings crawled to die under our suc- 
 couring roof ; the inhabitants of the Castle de- 
 creased daily, while the survivors huddled to- 
 gether in fear, and, as in a famine-struck boat, 
 the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each 
 looked in the other's face, to guess on whom the 
 death-lot would next fall. All this I 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, 
 seemed devoted to every disaster, to every 
 harrowing incident. Early in the day, I 
 heard of the arrival of the aged grand- 
 mother of one of our servants at the Castle. 
 
THE LAST MAN. S69 
 
 This old woman had reached her hundredth 
 year ; her skin was shrivelled, her form was bent 
 and lost in extreme decrepitude ; but as still 
 from year to year she continued in existence, 
 out-living many younger and stronger, she began 
 to feel as if she were to live for ever. The 
 plague came, and the inhabitants of her village 
 died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the 
 age 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 any. She 
 would wander out at night to get food, and re- 
 turned home, pleased that she had met no one, that 
 she was in no danger from the plague. As the earth 
 became more desolate, her difficulty in acquiring 
 sustenance increased ; at first, her son, who lived 
 near, had humoured her by placing articles of 
 food in her way: at last he died. But, even 
 though threatened by famine, her fear of the 
 plague was paramount ; and her greatest care 
 was to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew 
 
270 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 weaker each day, and each day she had further 
 to go. The night before, she had reached Dat- 
 chet; and, prowhng about, had found a baker''s 
 shop open and deserted. Laden with spoil, she 
 hastened to return, and lost her way. The night 
 was windless, hot, and cloudy ; her load became 
 too heavy for her; and one by one she threw 
 away her loaves, still endeavouring to get along, 
 though her hobbling fell into lameness, and hel* 
 weakness at last into inability to move. 
 
 She lay down among the tall corn, and fell 
 asleep. Deep in midnight, she was awaked by a 
 rustling near her ; she would have started up, 
 but her stiff joints refused to obey her will. A 
 low moan close to her ear followed, and the 
 rustling increased ; she heard a smothered voice 
 breathe out. Water, Water ' several times ; and 
 then again a sigh heaved from the heart of the 
 sufferer. The old woman shuddered, she con- 
 trived at length to sit upright ; but her teeth 
 chattered, and her knees knocked together — 
 close, very close, lay a half-naked figure, just 
 
THE LAST MAN. 271 
 
 discernible in the gloom, and the cry for water 
 and the stifled moan were again uttered. Her 
 motions at length attracted the attention of her 
 unknown companion ; her hand was seized with 
 a convulsive violence that made the grasp feel 
 like iron, the fingers like the keen teeth of a trap. 
 — " At last you are come !' were the words 
 given forth — but this exertion was the last effort 
 of the dying — the joints relaxed, the figure fell 
 prostrate, one low moan, the last, marked the 
 moment of death. Morning broke; and the old 
 woman saw the corpse, marked with the fatal 
 disease, close to her ; her wrist was livid with the 
 hold loosened by death. She felt struck by the 
 plague ; her aged frame was unable to bear her 
 away with sufficient speed ; and now, believing 
 herself infected, she no longer dreaded the asso ] 
 ciation of others ; but, as swiftly as she might, 
 came to her grand-daughter, at Windsor Castle, 
 there to lament and die. The sight was horri- 
 ble; still she clung to life, and lamented her mis- 
 chance with cries and hideous groans; while the 
 
272 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 swift advance of the disease shewed, what praved 
 to be the fact, that she could not survive many 
 hours. 
 
 While I was directing that the necessary care 
 should be taken of her, Clara came in ; she was 
 trembling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked 
 her the cause of her agitation, she tlirew herself 
 into my arms weeping and exclaiming — " Uncle, 
 dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever I I must 
 tell you, for you must know, that Evelyn, poor 
 little Evelyn"" — her voice was choked by sobs. 
 The fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of 
 our adored infant made the current of my blood 
 pause with chilly horror ; but the remembrance 
 of the mother restored my presence of mind. I 
 sought the little bed of my darling ; he was 
 oppressed by fever ; but I trusted, I fondly 'and 
 fearfully trusted, that there were no symptoms 
 of the plague. He was not three years old, and 
 his illness appeared only one of those attacks 
 incident to infancy. I watched him long — his 
 heavy half-closed lids, his burning cheeks and 
 
THE LAST MAN. 273 
 
 restless twiningof his small fingers — the fever was 
 violent, the torpor complete — enough, without 
 the greater fear of pestilence, to awaken alarm. 
 Idris must not see him in this state. Clara, 
 though only twelve years old, was rendered, 
 through extreme sensibility, so prudent and 
 careful, that I felt secure in entrusting the 
 charge of him to her, and it was my task to 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 observe. 
 
 I then went to Idris, contriving in my way, 
 plausible excuses for remaining all day in the 
 Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the traces 
 of care from my brow. Fortunately she was not 
 alone. I found Merrival, the astronomer, with 
 her. He was far too long sighted in his view of 
 humanity to heed the casualties of the day, and 
 lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of 
 its existence. This poor man, learned as La 
 Place, guileless and unforeseeing as a child, had 
 
 N 3 
 
^74! THE 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 absorbed him ; calculations were 
 scrawled with coal on the bare walls of his gar- 
 ret : a hard-earned guinea, or an article of 
 dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse ; 
 he neither heard his children cry, nor observed 
 his companion's emaciated form, and tne excess 
 of calamity was merely to him as the occurrence 
 of a cloudy night, when he would have given 
 his right hand to observe a celestial phenomenon. 
 His wife was one of those wondrous beings, 
 to be found only among women, with 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 one long-drawn, 
 melancholy dream. 
 
 He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a 
 
\ 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 275 
 
 request he made to observe some planetary mo- 
 tions from his glass. His poverty was easily 
 detected and relieved. He often thanked us for 
 the books we lent him, and for the use of our 
 instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode 
 c«* change of circumstances. His wife assured 
 us, that he had not observed any difference, 
 except in the absence of the children from his 
 study, and to her inlSnite surprise he complained 
 of this unaccustomed quiet 
 
 He came now to announce to us the comple- 
 tion of his Essay on the Pericyclical Motions 
 of the Earth's Axis, and the precession of the 
 equinoctial points. If an old Roman of the period 
 of the Republic had returned to life, and talked 
 of the impending election of some laurel-crowned 
 consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates, 
 his ideas would not have been more alien to the 
 times, than the conversation of Merrival. Man, 
 no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed 
 his thoughts in visible signs ; nor were there any 
 readers left : while each one, having thrown away 
 
276 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 his sword with opposing shield alone, awaited the 
 plague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind 
 six thousand years hence. He might with equal 
 interest to us, have added a commentary, to de- 
 scribe the unknown and unimaginable lineaments 
 of the creatures, who would then occupy the 
 vacated dwelling of mankind. We had not the 
 heart to undeceive the poor old man ; and at the 
 moment I came in, he was reading parts of his 
 book to Idris, asking what answer could be 
 given to this or that position. 
 
 Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she 
 listened ; she had already gathered from him 
 that his family was alive and in health ; though 
 not apt to forget the precipice of time on which 
 she stood, yet I could perceive that she was 
 amused for a moment, by the contrast between 
 the contracted view we had so long taken of 
 human life, and the seven league strides with 
 which Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was 
 glad to see her smile, because it assured me of 
 her total ignorance of her infants danger : but 
 
THE LAST MAN. 277 
 
 I shuddered to think of the revulsion that would 
 be occasioned by a discovery of the truth. 
 While Merrival was talking, Clara softly open- 
 ed a door behind Idris, and beckoned me to 
 come with a gesture and look of grief. A mir- 
 ror betrayed the sign to Idris — she started up. 
 To suspect evil, to perceive that, Alfred being 
 with us, the danger must regard her youngest 
 darling, to fly across the long chambers into his 
 apartment, was the work but of a moment. 
 There she beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken 
 and motionless. I followed her, and strove to 
 Inspire more hope than I could myself entertain; 
 but she shook her head mournfully. Anguish 
 deprived her of presence of mind ; she gave up 
 to me and Clara the physician's and nurse's 
 parts; she sat by the bed, holding one little 
 burning hand, and, with glazed eyes fixed on her 
 babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony. 
 It was not the plague that visited our little 
 boy so roughly ; but she could not listen to my 
 assurances ; apprehension deprived her of judg- 
 
S78 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ment and reflection ; even slight convulsion of 
 her child's features shook her frame — if he 
 moved, she dreaded 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 one looks forward 
 to passing the long hours of night beside a 
 sick bed, especially if the patient be an infant, 
 who cannot explain its pain, and whose flicker- 
 ing life resembles the wasting flame of the watch- 
 light, 
 
 Whose narrow fire 
 Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
 Devouring darkness hovers.* 
 
 With eagerness one turns toward the east, with 
 angry impatience one marks the unchequered 
 darkness ; the crowing of a cock, that sound of 
 glee during-day time, comes wailing and un- 
 tuneable — the creaking of rafters, and slight 
 
 * The Cenci 
 
THE LAST MAN. 279 
 
 Stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the 
 signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by 
 weariness, had seated herself at the foot of her 
 cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts slumber 
 weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she 
 shook it off; but at length she was conquered 
 and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding 
 Evelyn's hand ; we were afraid to speak to each 
 other; I watched the stars — I hung over my 
 child — I felt his little pulse — I drew near the 
 mother — again I receded. At the turn of morn- 
 ing a gentle sigh from the patient attracted me, 
 the burning spot on his cheek faded — his pulse 
 beat softly and regularly — torpor yielded to sleep. 
 For a long time I dared not hope ; but when his 
 unobstructed breathing and the moisture that 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 speedy con- 
 
S80 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 valescence 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 dreamed, but was 
 now awake ; she was 
 
 As one 
 In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened 
 From soothing visions of the home he loves. 
 Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roarj* 
 
 as one who has been cradled by a storm, and 
 awakes to find the vessel sinking. Before, she 
 had been visited by pangs of fear — now, slie 
 never enjoyed an interval of hope. No smile of 
 the heart ever irradiated her fair countenance ; 
 sometimes she forced one, and then gushing 
 tears would flow, and the sea of grief close above 
 these wrecks of past happiness. Still while I 
 was near her, she could not be in utter despair 
 — she fully confided herself to me — she did not 
 seem to fear my death, or revert to its possibility ; 
 
 * The Brides' Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 281 
 
 to my guardianship she consigned the full 
 freight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as 
 a wind-nipped fawn by the side of a doe, as a 
 wounded nestling under its mother's wing, as a 
 tiny, shattered boat, quivering still, beneath some 
 protecting willow-tree. While I, not proudly 
 as in days of joy, yet tenderly, and with glad 
 consciousness of the comfort I afforded, drew 
 my trembling girl close to my heart, and tried 
 to ward every painful thought or rough cir- 
 cumstance from her sensitive nature. 
 
 One other incident occurred at the end of this 
 summer. The Countess of Windsor, Ex-Queen 
 of England, returned from Germany. She had 
 at the beginning of the season quitted the vacant 
 city of Vienna; and, unable to tame her haughty 
 mind to anything like submission, she had 
 delayed at Hamburgh, and, when at last she 
 came to London, many weeks elapsed before 
 she gave Adrian notice of her arrival. In spite 
 of her coldness and long absence, he welcomed 
 her with sensibility, displaying such affection as 
 
282 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 sought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow, 
 and was repulsed only by her total apparent 
 want of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother"'s 
 return with pleasure. Her own maternal feel- 
 ings were so ardent, that she imagined her 
 parent must now, in this waste world, have lost 
 pride and harshness, and would receive with 
 delight her filial attentions. The first check to 
 her duteous demonstrations was a formal inti- 
 mation from the fallen majesty of England, that 
 I was in no manner to be intruded upon her. 
 She consented, she said, to forgive her daughter, 
 and acknowledge her grandchildren ; larger con- 
 cessions must not be expected. 
 
 To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a 
 term may be permitted) extremely whimsical. 
 Now that the race of man had lost in fact all 
 distinction of rank, this pride was doubly 
 fatuitous ; now that we felt a kindred, fraternal 
 nature with all who bore the stamp of humanity, 
 this angry reminiscence of times for ever gone, 
 was worse than foolish. Idris was too much 
 
THE LAST MAN. 283 
 
 taken up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry, 
 hardly grieved ; for she judged that insensibility 
 must be the source of this continued rancour. 
 This was not altogether the fact : but pre- 
 dominant self-will assumed the arms and masque 
 of callous feeling; 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 affections 
 of our nature, and the links of sympathy with 
 pleasure or pain. There was but one good and 
 one evil in the world— life and death. The 
 pomp of rank, the assumption of power, the 
 possessions of wealth vanished like morning mist. 
 One living beggar had become of more worth 
 than a national peerage of dead lords — alas the 
 day ! — than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of 
 genius. There was much of degradation in 
 this: for even vice and virtue had lost their 
 
284 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 attributes— life—life—the continuation of our 
 animal mechanism—was the Alpha and Omega of 
 the desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition of 
 human race. 
 
THE LAST MAN. J285 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Half England was desolate, when October 
 came, and the equinoctial winds swept over the 
 earth, chilhng the ardours of the unhealthy 
 season. The summer, which was uncom- 
 monly hot, had been protracted into the begin- 
 ning of this monthj when on the eighteenth 
 a sudden change was brought about from 
 summer temperature to winter frost. Pes- 
 tilence then made a pause in her death- 
 dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name 
 our hopes, yet full even to the brim with intense 
 expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor 
 stands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, 
 watching a distant vessel, fancying that now it 
 neaps, and then again that it is bearing from 
 
S86 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 sight. This promise of a renewed lease of life 
 turned rugged natures to melting tenderness, 
 and by contrast filled the soft with harsh and un- 
 natural sentiments. When it seemed destined that 
 all were to die, we were reckless of the how 
 and when — now that the virulence of the dis- 
 ease was mitigated, and it appeared willing 
 to spare some, each was eager to be among the 
 elect, and clung to life with dastard tenacity. 
 Instances of desertion became more frequent ; 
 and even murders, which made the hearer sick 
 with horror, where the fear of contagion had 
 armed those nearest in blood against each other. 
 But these smaller and separate tragedies were 
 about to yield to a mightier interest — and, while 
 we were promised calm from infectious influences, 
 a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest 
 bred by the passions of man, nourished by his 
 most violent impulses, unexampled and dire. 
 
 A number of people from North America, 
 the relics of that populous continent, had set 
 sail for the East with mad desire of change. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 287 
 
 leaving their native plains for lands not less 
 afflicted than their own. Several hundreds 
 landed in Ireland, about the first of November, 
 and took possession of such vacant habitations 
 as they could find ; seizing upon the superabun- 
 dant food, and the stray cattle. As they exhausted 
 the produce of one spot, they went on to ano- 
 ther. At length they began to interfere with 
 the inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated 
 numbers, ejected the natives from their dwellings, 
 and robbed them of their winter store. A few 
 events of this kind roused the fiery nature of 
 the Irish ; and they attacked the invaders. Some 
 were destroyed ; the major part escaped by 
 quick and well ordered movements ; and danger 
 made them careful. Their numbers ably ar- 
 ranged ; the very deaths among them concealed; 
 moving on in good order, and apparently given up 
 to enjoyment, they excited the envy of the Irish. 
 The Americans permitted a few to join their 
 band, and presently the recruits outnumbered 
 the strangers — nor did they join with them, nor 
 
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 encreasing ; each day becoming more 
 lawless. The Americans were eager to escape 
 from the spirit they had roused, and, reaching 
 the eastern shores of the island, embarked for 
 England. Their incursion would hardly have 
 been felt had they come alone ; but the Irish, 
 collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel 
 the inroads of famine, and they followed in the 
 wake of the Americans for England also. The 
 crossing of the sea could not arrest their pro- 
 gress. The harbours of the desolate sea-ports 
 of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels 
 of all sizes, from the man of war to the small 
 fishers' boat, which lay sailorless, and rotting on 
 the lazy deep. The emigrants embarked by hun- 
 dreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, 
 made strange havoc of buoy and cordage. 
 Those who modestly betook themselves to the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 289 
 
 smaller craft, for the most part achieved their 
 watery journey in safety. Some, in the true 
 spirit of reckless enterprise, went on board a 
 ship of an hundred and twenty guns ; the vast 
 hull drifted with the tide out of the bay, and 
 after many hours its crew of landsmen contrived 
 to spread a great part of her enormous canvass 
 — the wind took it, and while a thousand mis- 
 takes of the lielmsman made her present her 
 head now to one point, and now to another, 
 the vast fields of canvass that formed her sails 
 flapped with a sound like that of a huge cata- 
 ract; or such as a sea-like forest may give 
 forth when buffeted by an equinoctial north- 
 wind. The port-holes were open, and with 
 every sea, which as she lurched, washed her 
 decks, they received whole tons of water. The 
 difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze 
 which began to blow, whistling among the 
 shrowds, dashing the sails this way and that, 
 and rending them with horrid split, and such 
 whir as may have visited the dreams of Milton, 
 
 VOL. II. o 
 
290 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 when he imagined the winnowing of the arch- 
 fiend's van-hke wings, which encreased the 
 uproar of wild chaos. These sounds were 
 mingled with the roaring of the sea, the 
 splash of the chafed billows round the vessel's 
 sides, and the gurgling up of the water in the 
 hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen 
 the sea before, felt indeed as if heaven and 
 earth came ruining together, as the vessel dipped 
 her bows in the waves, or rose high upon them. 
 Their yells were drowned in the clamour of 
 elements, and the thunder rivings of their 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 encreased ; the 
 ship seemed to feel her danger, she was now 
 completely water-logged, and presented other 
 indications of settling before she went down. 
 The bay was crowded with vessels, whose 
 crews, for the most part, were observing the 
 
THE LAST MAN. 291 
 
 uncouth sportings of this huge unwieldy ma- 
 chine — they saw her gradually sink ; the wa- 
 ters now rising above her lower decks — they 
 could hardly wink before she had utterly 
 disappeared, nor could the place where the sea 
 had closed over her be at all discerned. Some 
 few of her crew were saved, but the greater 
 part clinging to her cordage and masts went 
 down with her, to rise only when death loosened 
 their hold. 
 
 This event caused manyof those who were about 
 to sail, to put foot again on firm land, ready to 
 encounter any evil rather than to rush into the 
 yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But these 
 were few, in comparison to the numbers who 
 actually crossed. Many went up as high as 
 Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then 
 journeying south through Scotland, they were 
 joined by the poorer natives of that coun- 
 try, and all poured with one consent into 
 England. 
 
 Such incursions struck the English with 
 
 o 2 
 
292 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 affright, in all those towns where there was still 
 sufficient population to feel the change. There 
 was room enough indeed in our hapless country 
 for twice the number of invaders; but their 
 lawless spirit instigated them to violence ; they 
 took a delight in thrusting the possessors from 
 their houses; in seizing on some mansion of 
 luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded them- 
 selves in fear of the plague ; in forcing these of 
 either sex to become their servants and purvey- 
 ors ; till, the ruin complete in one place, they 
 removed their locust visitation to another. 
 When unopposed they spread their ravages 
 wide; in cases of danger they clustered, and 
 by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and 
 despairing foes. They came from the east and 
 the north, and directed their course without ap- 
 parent motive, but unanimously towards our un- 
 happy metropolis. 
 
 Communication had been to a great degree 
 cut off through the paralyzing effects of pesti- 
 lence, so that the van of our invaders had pro- 
 
THE LAST MAN. 203 
 
 ceeded as far as Manchester and Derby, before 
 we received notice of their arrival. They swept 
 the country like a conquering army, burning — 
 laying waste — murdering. The lower and vaga- 
 bond English joined with them. Some few of 
 the Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavour- 
 ed to collect the militia — but the ranks were 
 vacant, panic seized on all, and the opposition 
 that was made only served to increase the auda- 
 city and cruelty of the enemy. They talked of 
 taking London, conquering England — calling to 
 mind the long detail of injuries which had for 
 many years been forgotten. Such vaunts 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. 
 
 We were now taught how, in the beginning of 
 the world, mankind clothed their enemies in im- 
 possible attributes — and how details proceeding 
 from mouth to mouth, might, like Virgil's ever- 
 
294? THE LAST MAN. 
 
 growing Rumour, reach the heavens with her 
 brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her 
 outstretched hands. Gorgon and Centaur, dra- 
 gon and iron-hoofed hon, vast sea-monster and 
 gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange 
 and appalHng accounts brought to London con- 
 cerning our invaders. Their landing was long 
 unknown, but having now advanced within an 
 hundred miles of London, the country people 
 flying before them arrived in successive ti'oops, 
 each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and cruelty 
 of the assailants. Tumult filled the before quiet 
 streets — women and children deserted their 
 homes, escaping they knew not whither — fa- 
 thers, husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not 
 for themselves, but for their loved and defence- 
 less relations. As the country people poured 
 into London, the citizens fled southwards — they 
 climbed the higher edifices of the town, fancying 
 that they could discern the smoke and flames 
 the enemy spread around them. As Windsor 
 lay, to a great degree, in the line of march from 
 
THE LAST MAN. 9,95 
 
 the west, I removed my family to London, as- 
 signing the Tower for their sojourn, and joining 
 Adrian, acted as his Lieutenant in the coming 
 struggle. 
 
 We employed only two days in our prepara- 
 tions, and made good use of them. Artillery 
 and arms were collected ; the remnants of 
 such regiments, as could be brought through 
 many losses into any show of muster, were put 
 under arms, with that appearance of military 
 discipline which might encourage our own party, 
 and seem most formidable to the disorganized 
 multitude of our enemies. Even music was not 
 wanting : banners floated in the air, and the 
 shrill fife and loud trumpet breathed forth 
 sounds of encouragement and victory. A prac- 
 tised ear might trace an undue faltering in the 
 step of the soldiers ; but this was not occa- 
 sioned 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 small relief to him that our discipline 
 should gain us success in such a conflict ; while 
 plague still hovered to equalize the conqueror 
 and the conquered, it was not victory that he 
 desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced, 
 we were met by bands of peasantry, whose 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 spoil blinded them, while with insane 
 fury they deluged the country in ruin. The 
 sight of the military restored hope to those who 
 fled, and revenge took place of fear. They 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 that deadly, filled the air, drowning 
 
THE LAST MAN. 297 
 
 the clang of arms and sound of music. Adrian 
 perceived the change, and feared that it would 
 be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their 
 utmost fury on the Irish. He rode through the 
 lines, charging the officers to restrain the troops, 
 exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and 
 quieting in some degree the violent agitation 
 that swelled every bosom. 
 
 We first came upon a few stragglers of the 
 Irish at St. Albans. They retreated, and, join- 
 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 ascer- 
 tain our situation. We remained for the night 
 at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous 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 bands, the neighings of the 
 
 o 3 
 
^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 
 unmingled with dread. It spoke of other days, 
 of days of concord and order; it was associated 
 with times when plague was not, and man lived 
 beyond the shadow of imminent fate. The pause 
 was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly 
 clamour, the barbarian shouts, the untimed step 
 of thousands coming on in disarray. Their 
 troops now came pouring on us from the open 
 country or narrow lanes ; a large extent of 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. When their 
 leaders perceived us drawn out in opposition, 
 they also gave the word to halt, and endeavoured 
 to form their men into some imitation of military 
 discipline. The first ranks had muskets ; some 
 were mounted, but their arms were such as they 
 had seized during their advance, their horses 
 
THE LAST MAN. 299 
 
 those they had taken from the peasantry ; there 
 was no uniformity, and httle obedience, but 
 their shouts and wild gestures showed the un- 
 tamed spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers 
 received the word, and advanced to quickest 
 time, but in perfect order : their uniform dresses, 
 the gleam of their polished arms, their silence, 
 and looks of sullen hate, were more appalling than 
 the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus 
 coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls 
 and shouts of the Irish increased ; the English 
 proceeded in obedience to their officers, until 
 they came near enough to distinguish the faces 
 of their enemies ; the sight inspired them with 
 fury: with one cry, that rent heaven and was 
 re-echoed by the furthest Hues, 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 THE XAST MAN. 
 
 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- 
 vent the effusion of blood ; the noise of cannon, 
 the sudden rush of the troops, and yell of the foe, 
 startled him : with flashing eyes he exclaimed, 
 " Not one of these must perish V and plunging 
 the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed be- 
 tween the conflicting bands. We, his staff*, 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 between the 
 opposing lines. Silence succeeded to clamour ; 
 about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead. 
 Adrian raised his sword in act to speak : " By 
 whose command," he cried, addressing his own 
 troops, " do you advance ? Who ordered your 
 attack ? Fall back ; these misguided men shall 
 not be slaughtered, while I am your general 
 
I 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 301 
 
 I 
 
 Sheath your weapons ; these are your brothers, 
 commit not fratricide ; soon the plague will not 
 leave one for you to glut your revenge upon: 
 will you be more pitiless than pestilence ? As 
 you honour me — as you worship God, in whose 
 image those also are created — as your children 
 and friends are dear to you,— shed not a drop 
 of precious human blood."*** 
 
 He spoke with outstretched hand and winning 
 voice, and then turning to our invaders, with a 
 severe brow, he commanded them to lay down 
 their arms : " Do you think," he said, " that 
 because we are wasted by plague, you can over- 
 come us ; the plague is also among you, and 
 when ye are vanquished by famine and disease, 
 the ghosts of those you have murdered will arise 
 to bid you not hope in death. Lay down your 
 arms, barbarous and cruel men — men whose 
 hands are stained with the blood of the innocent, 
 whose souls are weighed down by the orphan's 
 cry ! We shall conquer, for the right is on 
 our side; already your cheeks are pale — the 
 
302 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 weapons fall from your nerveless grasp. Lay 
 down your arms, fellow men ! brethren ! Par- 
 don, succour, and brotherly love await your 
 repentance. You are dear to us, because you 
 wear the frail shape of humanity; each one 
 among you will find a friend and host among 
 these forces. Shall man be the enemy of man, 
 while plague, the foe to all, even now is above 
 us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel than 
 her own ?''"' 
 
 Each army paused. On our side the soldiers 
 grasped their arms firmly, and looked with stern 
 glances on the foe. These had not thrown down 
 their weapons, more from fear than the spirit of 
 contest ; they looked at each other, each wishing 
 to follow some example given him, — but they 
 had no leader. Adrian threw himself from his 
 horse, and approaching one of those just slain ; 
 " He was a man,'' he cried, '^ and he is dead. 
 O quickly bind up the wounds of the fallen- 
 let not one die; let not one more soul escape 
 through your merciless gashes, to relate before 
 
THE LAST MAN. 303 
 
 the throne of God the tale of fratricide; bind up 
 their wounds— restore them to their friends. 
 Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your 
 breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and 
 hate ; in this pause of exterminating destiny, let 
 each man be brother, guardian, and stay to the 
 other. Away with those blood-stained arms, and 
 hasten some of you to bind up these wounds."" 
 
 As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and 
 
 raised in his arms a man from whose side the 
 
 warm tide of life gushed — the poor wretch 
 
 gasped — so still had either host become, that 
 
 his moans were distinctly heard, and every heart, 
 
 late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now 
 
 beat anxiously in hope and fear for the fate of 
 
 this one man. Adrian tore off his military 
 
 scarf and bound it round the sufferer — it was 
 
 too late — the man heaved a deep sigh, his head 
 
 fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining power. 
 
 — " He is dead !'' said Adrian, as the corpse 
 
 fell from his arms on the ground, and he bowed 
 
 his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the 
 
804! THE LAST MAN. 
 
 world seemed bound up in the death of this 
 single man. On either side the bands threw 
 down their arms, even the veterans wept, and our 
 party held out their hands to their foes, while 
 a gush of love and deepest amity filled every 
 heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed and 
 hand in hand, talking only how each might 
 assist the other, the adversaries conjoined ; each 
 repenting, the one side their former cruelties, 
 the other their late violence, they obeyed the 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 revived our 
 energy, that the passes of the country were de- 
 fended, and any increase of numbers prohibited. 
 
 On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after 
 a separation of nearly a year. Adrian had been 
 
THE LAST MAN. 305 
 
 occupied in fulfilling a laborious and painful 
 task. He had been familiar with every species 
 of human misery, and had for ever found his 
 powers inadequate, his aid of small avail. Yet 
 the purpose of his soul, his energy and ardent 
 resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow. 
 He seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent 
 than Medean alchemy, endued him with health 
 and strength. Idris hardly recognized the fra- 
 gile being, whose form had seemed to bend even 
 to the summer breeze, in the energetic man, 
 whose very excess of sensibility rendered him 
 more capable of fulfilling his station of pilot in 
 storm-tossed England. 
 
 It was not thus with Idris. She was 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 was broken and low. She tried to throw 
 a veil over the change which she knew her bro- 
 ther must observe in her, but the effort was 
 ineffectual : and when alone with him, with a 
 
306 THK LAST Mx\N. 
 
 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 Prometheus ; 
 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 happy and in health, 
 were then transformed to wild dreams, all her 
 terrors were realized, all her fears received their 
 dread fulfilment. To this state there was no 
 hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should 
 quickly receive its destined prey, and she be per- 
 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 
 
THE LAST MAN. 80? 
 
 the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting thus 
 her brother after a long absence, she could not 
 restrain the expression of her woe, but with all 
 the vividness of imagination with which misery 
 is always replete, she poured out the emotions 
 of her heart to her beloved and sympathizing 
 Adrian. 
 
 Her present visit to London tended to augment 
 her stats of inquietude, by shewing in its utmost 
 extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence. It 
 hardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited 
 city ; grass sprung up thick in the streets ; the 
 squares were weed- grown, the houses were shut 
 up, while silence and loneliness characterized 
 the busiest parts of the town. Yet in the midst 
 of desolation Adrian had preserved order ; and 
 each one continued to live according to law and 
 custom — human institutions thus surviving as 
 it were divine ones, and while the decree of 
 population was abrogated, property continued 
 sacred. It was a melancholy reflection ; and in 
 spite of the diminution of evil produced, it 
 
308 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 struck on the heart as a wretched mockery. 
 All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and 
 festivals had passed away. " Next summer,^' 
 said Adrian as we parted on our return to 
 Windsor, ^^ will decide the fate of the human 
 race. I shall not pause in my exertions until 
 that time ; but, if plague revives with the coming 
 year, all contest with her must cease, and our 
 only occupation be the choice of a grave." 
 
 I must not forget one incident that occurred 
 during this visit to London. The visits of 
 Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had 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 evil. 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 saw 
 his astronomical instruments put to strange uses, 
 
 1 
 
THE LAST MAN. 309 
 
 his globes defaced, his papers covered with ab- 
 struse calculations destroyed. The neighbours 
 could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor wo- 
 man who acted as nurse in these perilous 
 times. She told me that all the family were 
 dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone 
 mad — mad, she called it, yet on questioning 
 her further, it appeared that he was possessed 
 only by the delirium of excessive grief. This 
 old man, tottering on the edge of the grave, 
 and prolonging his prospect through millions 
 of calculated years, — this visionary who had 
 not seen starvation in tlie wasted forms of 
 his wife and children, or plague in the hor- 
 rible sights and sounds that surrounded him 
 — this astronomer, apparently dead on earth, 
 and living only in the motion of the spheres 
 — loved his family with unapparent but in- 
 tense affection. Through long habit they had 
 become a part of himself ; his want of worldly 
 knowledge, his absence of mind and infant 
 guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on 
 
310 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 them. It was not till one of them died that he 
 perceived their danger ; one by one they were 
 carried off by pestilence ; and his wife, his 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 voice always spoke peace 
 to him, closed her eyes in death. The old man 
 felt the svstem of universal nature which he had 
 so long studied and adored, slide from under 
 him, and he stood among the dead, and lifted 
 his voice in curses. — No wonder that the 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 early with patter- 
 ing rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from 
 the door, I saw Merrival, or rather the shadow 
 of Merrival, attenuated and wild, pass me, and 
 sit on the steps of his home. The breeze scat- 
 tered the grey locks on his temples, the rain 
 drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his 
 
THE LAST MAN. Sll 
 
 face in his withered hands. I pressed his 
 shoulder to awaken his attention, but he did 
 not alter his position. " Merrival," 1 said, 
 " it is long since we have seen you — you must 
 return to Windsor with me — Lady Idris desires 
 to see you, you will not refuse her request — 
 come home with me." 
 
 He replied in a hollow voice, " Why deceive 
 a helpless old man, why talk hypocritically to 
 one half crazed ? Windsor is not my home ; my 
 true home I have found ; the home that the 
 Creator has prepared for me." 
 
 His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me — *^ Do 
 not tempt me to speak,'" he continued, *'my 
 words would scare you — in an universe of cow- 
 ards I dare think — among the church-yard tombs 
 — among the victims of His merciless tyranny I 
 dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he 
 punish me ? Let him bare his arm and transfix 
 me with lightning — this is also one of his at- 
 tributes" — and the old man laughed. 
 
 He rose, and I followed him through the rain 
 
31^ THE LAST MAN. 
 
 to a neighbouring church-yard — he threw him- 
 self on the wet earth. "Here they are,'' he 
 cried, " beautiful creatures — breathing, speak- 
 ing, loving creatures. She who by day and 
 night cherished the age-worn lover of her youth 
 — they, parts of my flesh, my children — here 
 they are: call them, scream their names through 
 the night ; they will not answer !" He clung to 
 the little heaps that marked the graves. *' I 
 ask but one thing ; I do not fear His hell, for 
 I have it here ; I do not desire His heaven, let 
 me but die and be laid beside them ; let me but, 
 when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it moulders, 
 mingle with theirs. Promise," and he raised 
 himself painfully, and seized my arm, '' promise 
 to bury me with them."" 
 
 " So God help me and mine as I promise," 
 I replied, " on one condition : return with me 
 to Windsor." 
 
 " To Windsor !" he cried with a shriek, 
 " Never ! — from this place I never go — my bones, 
 my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and 
 
TJIE LAST MAN. S13 
 
 what you see of me is corrupted clay like them. 
 I will lie here, and cling here, till rain, and hail, 
 and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make 
 me one In substance with them below."" 
 
 In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. 
 I was obliged to leave London, and Adrian un- 
 dertook to watch over him ; the task was soon 
 fulfilled ; age, grief, and inclement weather, 
 all united to hush his sorrows, and bring repose 
 to his heart, whose beats were agony. He died 
 embracing the sod, which was piled above his 
 breast, when he was placed beside the beings 
 whom he regretted with such wild despair. 
 
 I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, 
 who seemed to think that there was o-reater 
 safety for her children at that spot ; and because, 
 CKice having taken on me the guardianship of 
 ihe district, I would not desert it while an in- 
 habitant survived. I went also to act in con- 
 formity with Adrian's plans, which was to con- 
 gregate in masses what remained of the popula- 
 tion ; for he possessed the conviction that it 
 
 VOL. II. p 
 
314 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 was only through the benevolent and social 
 vhrtues that any safety was to be hoped for 
 the remnant of mankind 
 
 It was a melancholy thing to return to this 
 spot so dear to us, as the scene of a happiness 
 rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction 
 of our species, and trace the deep uneraseable 
 footsteps of disease over the fertile and 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 ; 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 a north-east wind rendered out-door 
 
IHE LAST MAN. 315 
 
 exertions extremely painful. The altered state 
 of society made these accidents of nature, sources 
 of real misery. The luxury of command and 
 the attentions of servitude were lost. It is 
 true that the necessaries of life were assembled 
 in such quantities, as to supply to superfluity 
 the wants of the diminished population ; but 
 still much labour was required to arrange these, 
 as it were, raw materials ; and depressed by 
 sickness, and fearful of the future, we had not 
 energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any 
 system. 
 
 I can speak for myself — want of energy was 
 not my failing. The intense life that quickened 
 my pulses, and animated my frame, had the 
 effect, not of drawing me into the mazes of 
 active life, but of exalting my lowliness, and of 
 bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant 
 objects — T could have lived the life of a peasant 
 in the same way — my trifling occupations weie 
 swelled into important pursuits ; my affections 
 were impetuous and engrossing passions, and 
 
 p2 
 
316 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 nature with all her changes was invested in 
 divine attributes. The very spirit of the Greek 
 mythology inhabited my heart ; I deified the 
 uplands, glades, and streams, I 
 
 Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea ; 
 And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.* 
 
 Strange, that while the earth preserved her 
 monotonous course, I dwelt with ever-renew- 
 ing wonder on her antique laws, and now 
 that with excentric wheel she rushed into an 
 untried path, I should feel this spirit fade ; I 
 struggled with despondency and weariness, 
 but like a fog, they choked me. Peihaps, after 
 the labours and stupendous excitement of the 
 past summer, the calm of winter and the almost 
 menial toils it brought with it, were by natural 
 re-action doubly irksome. It was not the grasp- 
 ing passion of the preceding year, which gave 
 life and individuality to each moment — it was 
 
 * Wordsworth. 
 
THE LAST MAN. Sit 
 
 not the aching pangs induced by the distresses 
 of the times. The utter inutility that had at* 
 tended all my exertions took from them their 
 usual effects of exhilaration, and despair rendered 
 abortive the balm of self applause — I longed to 
 return to my old occupations, but of what 
 use were they ? To read were futile — to write, 
 vanity indeed. The earth, late wide circus for 
 the display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for 
 amagnificent drama, now presented a vacant space, 
 an empty stage — for actor or spectator there 
 was no longer aught to say or hear. 
 
 Our little town of Windsor, in which the sur- 
 vivors from the neighbouring counties were 
 chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect. 
 Its streets were blocked up with snow — the few 
 . passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by the 
 ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these 
 evils was the aim and scope of all our exer- 
 tions. Families late devoted to exalting and 
 refined pursuits, rich, blooming, and young, 
 with diminished numbers and care-fraught 
 
 p 3 
 
SIS THE LAST MAN. 
 
 hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish 
 and grovelling through suffering. W ithout the 
 aid of servants, it was necessary to discharge 
 all household duties; hands unused to such 
 labour must knead the bread, or in the absence 
 of flour, the statesmen or perfumed courtier 
 must undertake the butcher s office. Poor and 
 rich were now equal, or rather the poor were 
 the superior, since they entered on such tasks 
 with alacrity and experience ; while ignorance, 
 inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered them 
 fatiguing to the luxurious, galling to the 
 proud, disgustful to all whose minds, bent on 
 intellectual improvement, held it their dearest 
 privilege to be exempt from attending to mere 
 animal wants. 
 
 But in every change goodness and affection 
 can find field for exertion and display. Among 
 some these changes produced a devotion and 
 sacrifice of self at once graceful and heroic. It 
 was a siffht for the lovers of the human race to 
 enjoy ; to behold, as in ancient times, the patri- 
 
THE LAST MAN. S19 
 
 archal modes in which the variety of kindred 
 and friendship fulfilled their duteous and kindly 
 offices. Youtlis, nobles of the land, performed 
 for the sake of mother or sister, the services of 
 menials with amiable cheerfulness. They went 
 to the river to break the ice, and draw water : 
 they assembled on foraging expeditions, or axe 
 in hand felled the trees for fuel. The females 
 received them on their return with the simple 
 and affectionate welcome known before only to 
 the lowly cottage— a clean hearth and bright 
 fire ; the supper ready cooked by beloved hands ; 
 gratitude for the provision for to-morrow's meal: 
 strange enjoyments for the high-born English, 
 yet they were now dieir sole, hard earned, 
 and dearly prized luxuries. 
 
 None w^as more conspicuous for this graceful 
 submission to circumstances, noble humility, and 
 ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with romantic 
 colouiing, than our own Clara. She saw my 
 despondency, and the aching cares of Idris. 
 Her perpetual study was to relieve us from 
 
S20 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 labour and to spread ease and even elegance over 
 our altered mode of life. We still had some at- 
 tendants spared by disease, and warmly attached 
 to us. But Clara was jealous of their services ; 
 she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole minis- 
 ter to the wants of her little cousins ; nothing 
 gave her so much pleasure as our employing her 
 in this way ; she went beyond our desires, earnest, 
 diligent, and unwearied, — 
 
 Abra was ready ere we called her name. 
 And though we called another, Abra came.* 
 
 It was my task each day to visit the various 
 families assembled in our town, and when the 
 weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my 
 ride, and to muse in solitude over every 
 changeful appearance of our destiny, endeavour- 
 ing to gather lessons for the future from the 
 experience of the past. The impatience with 
 which, while in society, the ills that afflicted my 
 species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, 
 
 • Prior's "Solomon." 
 
THE LAST MAN. 321 
 
 when individual suffering was merged in the 
 general calamity, strange to say, less afflicting 
 to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way 
 with difficulty through the narrow snow-blocked 
 town, I crossed the bridge and passed through 
 Eton. No youthful congregation of gallant- 
 hearted boys thronged the portal of the college ; 
 sad silence pervaded the busy school-room and 
 noisy playground. I extended my ride towards 
 Salt Hill, on every side impeded by the snow. 
 Were those the fertile fields I loved — was that the 
 interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale, 
 once covered with waving corn, diversified by 
 stately trees, watered by the meandering Thames? 
 One sheet of white covered it, while bitter recol- 
 lection told me that cold as the winter-clothed 
 earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants. I met 
 troops of horses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, 
 wandering at will ; here throwing down a hay- 
 rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which 
 afforded them shelter and food — there having 
 taken possession of a vacant cottage. 
 
 \ 
 
322 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless 
 unsatisfying reflections, I sought a favourite haunt, 
 a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A 
 bubbling spring prattles over stones on one side, 
 and a plantation of a few elms and beeches, hardly 
 deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. This 
 spot had for me peculiar charms. It had been a 
 favourite resort of Adrian; it was secluded ; and 
 he often said that in boyhood, his happiest hours 
 were spent here ; having escaped the stately bond- 
 age of his mother, he sat on the rough hewn steps 
 that led to the spring, nowreading a 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 I should never see this place more ; so with 
 careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding 
 of the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, 
 that I might better call up its idea in absence. 
 A robin red-breast dropt from the frosty branches 
 of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet ; its pant- 
 ing breast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was 
 
THE LAST MAN. 323 
 
 dying : a hawk appeared in the air ; sudden 
 fear seized the little creature ; it exerted its last 
 strength, throwing itself on its back, raising its 
 talons in impotent defence against its powerful 
 enemy. I took it up and placed it in my breast. 
 I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit ; by 
 degrees it revived ; its warm fluttering heart beat 
 against me ; I cannot tell why I detail this 
 trifling incident — but the scene is still before me ; 
 the snow- clad fields seen through the silvered 
 trunks of the beeches, — the brook, in days of 
 happiness alive with sparkling waters, now 
 choked by ice — the leafless trees fantastically 
 dressed in hoar frost — the shapes of summer 
 leaves imaged by winter's frozen hand on the 
 hard ground — the dusky sky, drear cold, 
 and unbroken silence — while close in my 
 bosom, my feathered nursling lay warm, and 
 safe, speaking its content with a light chirp — 
 painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain 
 with wild commotion — cold and death-like as the 
 snowy fields was all earth — misery-stricken the 
 
3^4 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 life-tide of the inhabitants — why should I 
 oppose the cataract of destruction that swept us 
 away ? — why string my nerves and renew my 
 wearied efforts — ah, why ? But that my firm 
 courage and cheerful exertions might shelter the 
 dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my 
 life ; though the throbbings of my heart be 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 whil^ 
 you derive from its fostering care, comfort, and 
 hope, my struggles shall not cease, —I will not 
 call myself altogether vanquished. 
 
 One fine February day, when the sun had re- 
 assumed some of its genial power, I walked in 
 the forest with my family. It was one of those 
 lovely winter-days which assert the capacity of 
 nature to bestow beauty on barrenness. The 
 leafless trees spread their fibrous branches 
 against the pure sky; their intricate and pervious 
 tracery resembled delicate sea-weed ; the deer 
 were turning up the snow in search of the hidden 
 
THE LAST MAN. 325 
 
 grass ; the white was made intensely dazzhng by 
 the sun, and trunks of the trees, rendered more 
 conspicuous by the loss of preponderating fo- 
 liage, gathered around like the labyrinthine co- 
 lumns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to 
 receive pleasure from the sight of these things. 
 Our children, freed from the bondage of winter, 
 bounded before us ; pursuing the deer, or rous- 
 ing the pheasants and partridges from their 
 coverts. Idris leant on my arm ; her sadness 
 yielded to the present sense of pleasure. We 
 met other families on the Long Walk, enjoying 
 like ourselves the return of the genial season. 
 At once, I seemed to awake ; I cast off the 
 clinging sloth of the past months ; earth assumed 
 a new appearance, and my view of the future was 
 suddenly made clear. I exclaimed, " I have 
 now found out the secret !" 
 
 " What secret ?''' 
 
 In answer to this question, I described our 
 gloomy winter-life, our sordid cares, our menial 
 labours: — " This northern country," I said, " is 
 
 VOL. II. Q 
 
326 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 no place for our diminished race. When 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. We 
 must seek some natural Paradise, some garden 
 of the earth, where our simple wants may be 
 easily supplied, and the enjoyment of a delicious 
 climate compensate for the social pleasures we 
 have lost. If we survive this coming summer, 
 I will not spend the ensuing winter in England ; 
 neither I nor any of us." 
 
 I spoke without much heed, and the very 
 conclusion of what I said brought with it other 
 thoughts. Should we, any of us, survive the 
 coming summer .^^ I saw the brow of Idris 
 clouded ; I again felt, that we were enchained to 
 the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no 
 control. We could no longer say, This we will do, 
 and this we will leave undone. A mightier power 
 than the human was at hand to destroy our plans 
 or to achieve the work we avoided. It were mad- 
 ness to calculate upon another winter This wa?* 
 
THE LAST MAN. 327 
 
 our last. The coming summer was the extreme 
 end of our vista ; and, when we arrived there, 
 instead of a continuation of the long road, a 
 gulph yawned, into which we must of force be 
 precipitated. The last blessing of humanity 
 was wrested from us ; we might no longer hope. 
 Can the madman, as he clanks his chains, hope? 
 Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when 
 he lays his head on the block, marks the double 
 shadow of himself and the executioner, whose 
 uplifted arm bears the axe, hope ? Can the 
 ship-wrecked mariner, w^io spent with swimming, 
 hears close behind the splashing waters divided 
 by a shark which pursues him through the At- 
 lantic, hope ? Such hope as theirs, we also may 
 entertain ! 
 
 Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung 
 from the box of Pandora, else crammed with 
 evils ; but these were unseen and null, while all 
 admired the inspii'iting loveliness of young Hope; 
 each man's heart became her home ; she %^ as 
 enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and here- 
 
328 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 after ; she was deified and worshipped, declared 
 incorruptible and everlasting. But like all other 
 gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal ; her 
 life has attained its last hour. We have watched 
 over her ; nursed her flickering existence ; now 
 she has fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, 
 from health to immedicinable disease ; even as 
 we spend ourselves in struggles for her recovery, 
 she dies; to all nations the voice goes forth, 
 Hope is dead ! We are but mourners in the 
 funeral train, and what immortal essence or 
 perishable creation will refuse to make one in the 
 sad procession that attends to its grave the dead 
 comforter of humanity'^ 
 
 Does not the sua call in his light ? and day 
 Like a thin exhalation melt away — 
 Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be 
 Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.* 
 
 * Cleveland's Poems. 
 
 END OF VOL. II. 
 
 Shackell, Arrowsinitl), and Hodges, Fleet-street, London. 
 
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