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<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><teiHeader><fileDesc><titleStmt><title>Untitled Document</title><author/></titleStmt><editionStmt><edition><date/></edition></editionStmt><publicationStmt><p>no publication statement available</p></publicationStmt><sourceDesc><p>Written by OpenOffice</p></sourceDesc></fileDesc><revisionDesc><listChange><change><name/><date/></change></listChange></revisionDesc></teiHeader><text><body><p>The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Man, by Mary Shelley </p><p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with </p><p>almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or</p><p>re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included </p><p>with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org </p><p>Title: The Last Man </p><p>Author: Mary Shelley </p><p>Release Date: April 24, 2006 [EBook #18247] </p><p>Language: English </p><p>Character set encoding: ASCII </p><p>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST MAN *** </p><p>The Last Man </p><p>Mary W. Shelley </p><p>First edition. </p><p>Henry Colburn </p><p>London </p><p>1826 </p><p>VOL. I. </p><p>INTRODUCTION. </p><p>I VISITED Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of December of that year, my </p><p>companion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities which are </p><p>scattered on the shores of Baiae. The translucent and shining waters of the </p><p>calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were interlaced by </p><p>sea-weed, and received diamond tints from the chequering of the sun-beams; </p><p>the blue and pellucid element was such as Galatea might have skimmed in her </p><p>car of mother of pearl; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile, have chosen </p><p>as the path of her magic ship. Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed </p><p>more appropriate to early spring; and its genial warmth contributed to </p><p>inspire those sensations of placid delight, which are the portion of every </p><p>traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil bays and radiant</p><p>promontories of Baiae. </p><p>We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus: and wandered through </p><p>various ruined temples, baths, and classic spots; at length we entered the </p><p>gloomy cavern of the Cumaean Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore flaring torches, </p><p>which shone red, and almost dusky, in the murky subterranean passages, </p><p>whose darkness thirstily surrounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and </p><p>more of the element of light. We passed by a natural archway, leading to a </p><p>second gallery, and enquired, if we could not enter there also. The guides </p><p>pointed to the reflection of their torches on the water that paved it, </p><p>leaving us to form our own conclusion; but adding it was a pity, for it led </p><p>to the Sibyl's Cave. Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this </p><p>circumstance, and we insisted upon attempting the passage. As is usually </p><p>the case in the prosecution of such enterprizes, the difficulties decreased </p><p>on examination. We found, on each side of the humid pathway, "dry land for </p><p>the sole of the foot." </p><p>At length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern, which the Lazzeroni </p><p>assured us was the Sibyl's Cave. We were sufficiently disappointed--Yet </p><p>we examined it with care, as if its blank, rocky walls could still bear </p><p>trace of celestial visitant. On one side was a small opening. Whither does </p><p>this lead? we asked: can we enter here?--"Questo poi, no,"--said the </p><p>wild looking savage, who held the torch; "you can advance but a short </p><p>distance, and nobody visits it." </p><p>"Nevertheless, I will try it," said my companion; "it may lead to the real </p><p>cavern. Shall I go alone, or will you accompany me?" </p><p>I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides protested against such </p><p>a measure. With great volubility, in their native Neapolitan dialect, with </p><p>which we were not very familiar, they told us that there were spectres, </p><p>that the roof would fall in, that it was too narrow to admit us, that there </p><p>was a deep hole within, filled with water, and we might be drowned. My </p><p>friend shortened the harangue, by taking the man's torch from him; and we </p><p>proceeded alone. </p><p>The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us, quickly grew narrower and </p><p>lower; we were almost bent double; yet still we persisted in making our way </p><p>through it. At length we entered a wider space, and the low roof </p><p>heightened; but, as we congratulated ourselves on this change, our torch </p><p>was extinguished by a current of air, and we were left in utter darkness. </p><p>The guides bring with them materials for renewing the light, but we had </p><p>none--our only resource was to return as we came. We groped round the </p><p>widened space to find the entrance, and after a time fancied that we had </p><p>succeeded. This proved however to be a second passage, which evidently </p><p>ascended. It terminated like the former; though something approaching to a </p><p>ray, we could not tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the space. </p><p>By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat accustomed to this dimness, and we </p><p>perceived that there was no direct passage leading us further; but that it </p><p>was possible to climb one side of the cavern to a low arch at top, which </p><p>promised a more easy path, from whence we now discovered that this light </p><p>proceeded. With considerable difficulty we scrambled up, and came to </p><p>another passage with still more of illumination, and this led to another </p><p>ascent like the former. </p><p>After a succession of these, which our resolution alone permitted us to </p><p>surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern with an arched dome-like roof. An </p><p>aperture in the midst let in the light of heaven; but this was overgrown </p><p>with brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil, obscuring the day, and</p><p>giving a solemn religious hue to the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly </p><p>circular, with a raised seat of stone, about the size of a Grecian couch, </p><p>at one end. The only sign that life had been here, was the perfect </p><p>snow-white skeleton of a goat, which had probably not perceived the opening </p><p>as it grazed on the hill above, and had fallen headlong. Ages perhaps had </p><p>elapsed since this catastrophe; and the ruin it had made above, had been </p><p>repaired by the growth of vegetation during many hundred summers. </p><p>The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of piles of leaves, </p><p>fragments of bark, and a white filmy substance, resembling the inner part </p><p>of the green hood which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian corn. We </p><p>were fatigued by our struggles to attain this point, and seated ourselves </p><p>on the rocky couch, while the sounds of tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of </p><p>shepherd-boy, reached us from above. </p><p>At length my friend, who had taken up some of the leaves strewed about, </p><p>exclaimed, "This is the Sibyl's cave; these are Sibylline leaves." On </p><p>examination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and other substances, were </p><p>traced with written characters. What appeared to us more astonishing, was </p><p>that these writings were expressed in various languages: some unknown to my </p><p>companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian hieroglyphics, old as the </p><p>Pyramids. Stranger still, some were in modern dialects, English and </p><p>Italian. We could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed to </p><p>contain prophecies, detailed relations of events but lately passed; names, </p><p>now well known, but of modern date; and often exclamations of exultation or </p><p>woe, of victory or defeat, were traced on their thin scant pages. This was </p><p>certainly the Sibyl's Cave; not indeed exactly as Virgil describes it, but </p><p>the whole of this land had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano, </p><p>that the change was not wonderful, though the traces of ruin were effaced </p><p>by time; and we probably owed the preservation of these leaves, to the </p><p>accident which had closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing </p><p>vegetation which had rendered its sole opening impervious to the storm. We </p><p>made a hasty selection of such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of </p><p>us could understand; and then, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to </p><p>the dim hypaethric cavern, and after much difficulty succeeded in rejoining </p><p>our guides. </p><p>During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this cave, sometimes alone, </p><p>skimming the sun-lit sea, and each time added to our store. Since that </p><p>period, whenever the world's circumstance has not imperiously called me </p><p>away, or the temper of my mind impeded such study, I have been employed in </p><p>deciphering these sacred remains. Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent, has </p><p>often repaid my toil, soothing me in sorrow, and exciting my imagination to </p><p>daring flights, through the immensity of nature and the mind of man. For </p><p>awhile my labours were not solitary; but that time is gone; and, with the </p><p>selected and matchless companion of my toils, their dearest reward is also </p><p>lost to me-- </p><p> Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro</p><p> Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta</p><p> Ne' nvidio insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?</p><p>I present the public with my latest discoveries in the slight Sibylline </p><p>pages. Scattered and unconnected as they were, I have been obliged to add </p><p>links, and model the work into a consistent form. But the main substance </p><p>rests on the truths contained in these poetic rhapsodies, and the divine </p><p>intuition which the Cumaean damsel obtained from heaven. </p><p>I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and at the English</p><p>dress of the Latin poet. Sometimes I have thought, that, obscure and </p><p>chaotic as they are, they owe their present form to me, their decipherer. </p><p>As if we should give to another artist, the painted fragments which form </p><p>the mosaic copy of Raphael's Transfiguration in St. Peter's; he would put </p><p>them together in a form, whose mode would be fashioned by his own peculiar </p><p>mind and talent. Doubtless the leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl have suffered </p><p>distortion and diminution of interest and excellence in my hands. My only </p><p>excuse for thus transforming them, is that they were unintelligible in </p><p>their pristine condition. </p><p>My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and taken me out of a </p><p>world, which has averted its once benignant face from me, to one glowing </p><p>with imagination and power. Will my readers ask how I could find solace </p><p>from the narration of misery and woeful change? This is one of the </p><p>mysteries of our nature, which holds full sway over me, and from whose </p><p>influence I cannot escape. I confess, that I have not been unmoved by the </p><p>development of the tale; and that I have been depressed, nay, agonized, at </p><p>some parts of the recital, which I have faithfully transcribed from my </p><p>materials. Yet such is human nature, that the excitement of mind was dear </p><p>to me, and that the imagination, painter of tempest and earthquake, or, </p><p>worse, the stormy and ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my real </p><p>sorrows and endless regrets, by clothing these fictitious ones in that </p><p>ideality, which takes the mortal sting from pain. </p><p>I hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For the merits of my </p><p>adaptation and translation must decide how far I have well bestowed my time </p><p>and imperfect powers, in giving form and substance to the frail and </p><p>attenuated Leaves of the Sibyl. </p><p>CHAPTER I. </p><p>I AM the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed land, which, </p><p>when the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless </p><p>continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as an inconsiderable </p><p>speck in the immense whole; and yet, when balanced in the scale of mental </p><p>power, far outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous </p><p>population. So true it is, that man's mind alone was the creator of all </p><p>that was good or great to man, and that Nature herself was only his first </p><p>minister. England, seated far north in the turbid sea, now visits my dreams </p><p>in the semblance of a vast and well-manned ship, which mastered the winds </p><p>and rode proudly over the waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to </p><p>me. When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and mountain stretch out </p><p>to the utmost limits of my vision, speckled by the dwellings of my </p><p>countrymen, and subdued to fertility by their labours, the earth's very </p><p>centre was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb was as a </p><p>fable, to have forgotten which would have cost neither my imagination nor </p><p>understanding an effort. </p><p>My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an exemplification of the power </p><p>that mutability may possess over the varied tenor of man's life. With </p><p>regard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My father was one of </p><p>those men on whom nature had bestowed to prodigality the envied gifts of </p><p>wit and imagination, and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these </p><p>winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment as the pilot for </p><p>the voyage. His extraction was obscure; but circumstances brought him early</p><p>into public notice, and his small paternal property was soon dissipated in </p><p>the splendid scene of fashion and luxury in which he was an actor. During </p><p>the short years of thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred </p><p>triflers of the day, nor least by the youthful sovereign, who escaped from </p><p>the intrigues of party, and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find </p><p>never-failing amusement and exhilaration of spirit in his society. My </p><p>father's impulses, never under his own controul, perpetually led him into </p><p>difficulties from which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the </p><p>accumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade, which would have bent to </p><p>earth any other, was supported by him with a light spirit and tameless </p><p>hilarity; while his company was so necessary at the tables and assemblies </p><p>of the rich, that his derelictions were considered venial, and he himself </p><p>received with intoxicating flattery. </p><p>This kind of popularity, like every other, is evanescent: and the </p><p>difficulties of every kind with which he had to contend, increased in a </p><p>frightful ratio compared with his small means of extricating himself. At </p><p>such times the king, in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his relief, </p><p>and then kindly take his friend to task; my father gave the best promises </p><p>for amendment, but his social disposition, his craving for the usual diet </p><p>of admiration, and more than all, the fiend of gambling, which fully </p><p>possessed him, made his good resolutions transient, his promises vain. With </p><p>the quick sensibility peculiar to his temperament, he perceived his power </p><p>in the brilliant circle to be on the wane. The king married; and the </p><p>haughty princess of Austria, who became, as queen of England, the head of </p><p>fashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and with contempt on the </p><p>affection her royal husband entertained for him. My father felt that his </p><p>fall was near; but so far from profiting by this last calm before the storm </p><p>to save himself, he sought to forget anticipated evil by making still </p><p>greater sacrifices to the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of </p><p>his destiny. </p><p>The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but easily led, had now </p><p>become a willing disciple of his imperious consort. He was induced to look </p><p>with extreme disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my father's </p><p>imprudence and follies. It is true that his presence dissipated these </p><p>clouds; his warm-hearted frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding </p><p>demeanour were irresistible: it was only when at a distance, while still </p><p>renewed tales of his errors were poured into his royal friend's ear, that </p><p>he lost his influence. The queen's dextrous management was employed to </p><p>prolong these absences, and gather together accusations. At length the king </p><p>was brought to see in him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he </p><p>should pay for the short-lived pleasure of his society by tedious homilies, </p><p>and more painful narrations of excesses, the truth of which he could not </p><p>disprove. The result was, that he would make one more attempt to reclaim </p><p>him, and in case of ill success, cast him off for ever. </p><p>Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and high-wrought </p><p>passion. A powerful king, conspicuous for a goodness which had heretofore </p><p>made him meek, and now lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty </p><p>and reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real interests, </p><p>resolutely to avoid those fascinations which in fact were fast deserting </p><p>him, and to spend his great powers on a worthy field, in which he, his </p><p>sovereign, would be his prop, his stay, and his pioneer. My father felt </p><p>this kindness; for a moment ambitious dreams floated before him; and he </p><p>thought that it would be well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler </p><p>duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the required promise: as a </p><p>pledge of continued favour, he received from his royal master a sum of </p><p>money to defray pressing debts, and enable him to enter under good auspices</p><p>his new career. That very night, while yet full of gratitude and good </p><p>resolves, this whole sum, and its amount doubled, was lost at the </p><p>gaming-table. In his desire to repair his first losses, my father risked </p><p>double stakes, and thus incurred a debt of honour he was wholly unable to </p><p>pay. Ashamed to apply again to the king, he turned his back upon London, </p><p>its false delights and clinging miseries; and, with poverty for his sole </p><p>companion, buried himself in solitude among the hills and lakes of </p><p>Cumberland. His wit, his bon mots, the record of his personal attractions, </p><p>fascinating manners, and social talents, were long remembered and repeated </p><p>from mouth to mouth. Ask where now was this favourite of fashion, this </p><p>companion of the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien </p><p>splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the gay--you heard that he </p><p>was under a cloud, a lost man; not one thought it belonged to him to repay </p><p>pleasure by real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit deserved </p><p>a pension on retiring. The king lamented his absence; he loved to repeat </p><p>his sayings, relate the adventures they had had together, and exalt his </p><p>talents--but here ended his reminiscence. </p><p>Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He repined for the loss </p><p>of what was more necessary to him than air or food--the excitements of </p><p>pleasure, the admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished living of </p><p>the great. A nervous fever was the consequence; during which he was nursed </p><p>by the daughter of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was </p><p>lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it afford </p><p>astonishment, that the late idol of high-bred beauty should, even in a </p><p>fallen state, appear a being of an elevated and wondrous nature to the </p><p>lowly cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to the ill-fated </p><p>marriage, of which I was the offspring. Notwithstanding the tenderness and </p><p>sweetness of my mother, her husband still deplored his degraded state. </p><p>Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way to contribute to the </p><p>support of his increasing family. Sometimes he thought of applying to the </p><p>king; pride and shame for a while withheld him; and, before his necessities </p><p>became so imperious as to compel him to some kind of exertion, he died. For </p><p>one brief interval before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the </p><p>future, and contemplated with anguish the desolate situation in which his </p><p>wife and children would be left. His last effort was a letter to the king, </p><p>full of touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant </p><p>spirit which was an integral part of him. He bequeathed his widow and </p><p>orphans to the friendship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by </p><p>this means, their prosperity was better assured in his death than in his </p><p>life. This letter was enclosed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not </p><p>doubt, would perform the last and inexpensive office of placing it in the </p><p>king's own hand. </p><p>He died in debt, and his little property was seized immediately by his </p><p>creditors. My mother, pennyless and burthened with two children, waited </p><p>week after week, and month after month, in sickening expectation of a </p><p>reply, which never came. She had no experience beyond her father's cottage; </p><p>and the mansion of the lord of the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur </p><p>she could conceive. During my father's life, she had been made familiar </p><p>with the name of royalty and the courtly circle; but such things, ill </p><p>according with her personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him who </p><p>gave substance and reality to them, vague and fantastical. If, under any </p><p>circumstances, she could have acquired sufficient courage to address the </p><p>noble persons mentioned by her husband, the ill success of his own </p><p>application caused her to banish the idea. She saw therefore no escape from </p><p>dire penury: perpetual care, joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous </p><p>being, whom she continued to contemplate with ardent admiration, hard </p><p>labour, and naturally delicate health, at length released her from the sad</p><p>continuity of want and misery. </p><p>The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly desolate. Her own </p><p>father had been an emigrant from another part of the country, and had died </p><p>long since: they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they were </p><p>outcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the most scanty pittance was </p><p>a matter of favour, and who were treated merely as children of peasants, </p><p>yet poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left them, a thankless </p><p>bequest, to the close-handed charity of the land. </p><p>I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my mother died. A </p><p>remembrance of the discourses of my parents, and the communications which </p><p>my mother endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father's friends, in </p><p>slight hope that I might one day derive benefit from the knowledge, floated </p><p>like an indistinct dream through my brain. I conceived that I was different </p><p>and superior to my protectors and companions, but I knew not how or </p><p>wherefore. The sense of injury, associated with the name of king and noble, </p><p>clung to me; but I could draw no conclusions from such feelings, to serve </p><p>as a guide to action. My first real knowledge of myself was as an </p><p>unprotected orphan among the valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the </p><p>service of a farmer; and with crook in hand, my dog at my side, I </p><p>shepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I cannot say much in </p><p>praise of such a life; and its pains far exceeded its pleasures. There was </p><p>freedom in it, a companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness; but </p><p>these, romantic as they were, did not accord with the love of action and </p><p>desire of human sympathy, characteristic of youth. Neither the care of my </p><p>flock, nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager spirit; </p><p>my out-door life and unemployed time were the temptations that led me early </p><p>into lawless habits. I associated with others friendless like myself; I </p><p>formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain. All shepherd-boys </p><p>alike, while our flocks were spread over the pastures, we schemed and </p><p>executed many a mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and revenge </p><p>of the rustics. I was the leader and protector of my comrades, and as I </p><p>became distinguished among them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon </p><p>me. But while I endured punishment and pain in their defence with the </p><p>spirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward their praise and obedience. </p><p>In such a school my disposition became rugged, but firm. The appetite for </p><p>admiration and small capacity for self-controul which I inherited from my </p><p>father, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was rough as </p><p>the elements, and unlearned as the animals I tended. I often compared </p><p>myself to them, and finding that my chief superiority consisted in power, I </p><p>soon persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was inferior to the </p><p>chiefest potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in refined philosophy, and </p><p>pursued by a restless feeling of degradation from my true station in </p><p>society, I wandered among the hills of civilized England as uncouth a </p><p>savage as the wolf-bred founder of old Rome. I owned but one law, it was </p><p>that of the strongest, and my greatest deed of virtue was never to submit. </p><p>Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have passed on myself. My </p><p>mother, when dying, had, in addition to her other half-forgotten and </p><p>misapplied lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other child to </p><p>my fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I performed to the best of my </p><p>ability, with all the zeal and affection of which my nature was capable. My </p><p>sister was three years younger than myself; I had nursed her as an infant, </p><p>and when the difference of our sexes, by giving us various occupations, in </p><p>a great measure divided us, yet she continued to be the object of my </p><p>careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of the term, we were poorest </p><p>among the poor, and despised among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage</p><p>obtained for me a kind of respectful aversion, her youth and sex, since </p><p>they did not excite tenderness, by proving her to be weak, were the causes </p><p>of numberless mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not so </p><p>constituted as to diminish the evil effects of her lowly station. </p><p>She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar </p><p>disposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes </p><p>were not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after </p><p>space in their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul which was </p><p>their soul, comprehended an universe of thought in its ken. She was pale </p><p>and fair, and her golden hair clustered on her temples, contrasting its </p><p>rich hue with the living marble beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little </p><p>consonant apparently with the refinement of feeling which her face </p><p>expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with it. She was like one of </p><p>Guido's saints, with heaven in her heart and in her look, so that when you </p><p>saw her you only thought of that within, and costume and even feature were </p><p>secondary to the mind that beamed in her countenance. </p><p>Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this was </p><p>the fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent), was not </p><p>altogether saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and repulsive. </p><p>If she had been nurtured by those who had regarded her with affection, she </p><p>might have been different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want of </p><p>kindness with distrust and silence. She was submissive to those who held </p><p>authority over her, but a perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as </p><p>if she expected enmity from every one who approached her, and her actions </p><p>were instigated by the same feeling. All the time she could command she </p><p>spent in solitude. She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and </p><p>scale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots she might wrap </p><p>herself in loneliness. Often she passed whole hours walking up and down the </p><p>paths of the woods; she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the </p><p>flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves; sometimes she sat </p><p>beside a stream, and as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or pebbles into </p><p>the waters, watching how those swam and these sank; or she would set afloat </p><p>boats formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather for a sail, and </p><p>intensely watch the navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows </p><p>of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a thousand combinations; she </p><p>dreamt "of moving accidents by flood and field"--she lost herself </p><p>delightedly in these self-created wanderings, and returned with unwilling </p><p>spirit to the dull detail of common life. Poverty was the cloud that veiled </p><p>her excellencies, and all that was good in her seemed about to perish from </p><p>want of the genial dew of affection. She had not even the same advantage as </p><p>I in the recollection of her parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her </p><p>only friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste that her </p><p>protectors felt for her; and every error was magnified by them into crimes. </p><p>If she had been bred in that sphere of life to which by inheritance the </p><p>delicate framework of her mind and person was adapted, she would have been </p><p>the object almost of adoration, for her virtues were as eminent as her </p><p>defects. All the genius that ennobled the blood of her father illustrated </p><p>hers; a generous tide flowed in her veins; artifice, envy, or meanness, </p><p>were at the antipodes of her nature; her countenance, when enlightened by </p><p>amiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of nations; her eyes were </p><p>bright; her look fearless. </p><p>Although by our situation and dispositions we were almost equally cut off </p><p>from the usual forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to </p><p>each other. I always required the stimulants of companionship and applause. </p><p>Perdita was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstanding my lawless habits, </p><p>my disposition was sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among tangible</p><p>realities, hers was a dream. I might be said even to love my enemies, since </p><p>by exciting me they in a sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost </p><p>disliked her friends, for they interfered with her visionary moods. All my </p><p>feelings, even of exultation and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if </p><p>unparticipated; Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and could go on </p><p>from day to day, neither expressing her emotions, nor seeking a </p><p>fellow-feeling in another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with </p><p>tenderness on the look and voice of her friend, while her demeanour </p><p>expressed the coldest reserve. A sensation with her became a sentiment, and </p><p>she never spoke until she had mingled her perceptions of outward objects </p><p>with others which were the native growth of her own mind. She was like a </p><p>fruitful soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth </p><p>again to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then she was </p><p>often dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with unseen </p><p>seed. </p><p>She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped down to the waters of </p><p>the lake of Ulswater; a beech wood stretched up the hill behind, and a </p><p>purling brook gently falling from the acclivity ran through poplar-shaded </p><p>banks into the lake. I lived with a farmer whose house was built higher up </p><p>among the hills: a dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the north, the </p><p>snow lay in its crevices the summer through. Before dawn I led my flock to </p><p>the sheep-walks, and guarded them through the day. It was a life of toil; </p><p>for rain and cold were more frequent than sunshine; but it was my pride to </p><p>contemn the elements. My trusty dog watched the sheep as I slipped away to </p><p>the rendezvous of my comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our </p><p>schemes. At noon we met again, and we threw away in contempt our peasant </p><p>fare, as we built our fire-place and kindled the cheering blaze destined to </p><p>cook the game stolen from the neighbouring preserves. Then came the tale of </p><p>hair-breadth escapes, combats with dogs, ambush and flight, as gipsey-like </p><p>we encompassed our pot. The search after a stray lamb, or the devices by </p><p>which we elude or endeavoured to elude punishment, filled up the hours of </p><p>afternoon; in the evening my flock went to its fold, and I to my sister. </p><p>It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an old-fashioned phrase, scot </p><p>free. Our dainty fare was often exchanged for blows and imprisonment. Once, </p><p>when thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month to the county jail. I </p><p>came out, my morals unimproved, my hatred to my oppressors encreased </p><p>tenfold. Bread and water did not tame my blood, nor solitary confinement </p><p>inspire me with gentle thoughts. I was angry, impatient, miserable; my only </p><p>happy hours were those during which I devised schemes of revenge; these </p><p>were perfected in my forced solitude, so that during the whole of the </p><p>following season, and I was freed early in September, I never failed to </p><p>provide excellent and plenteous fare for myself and my comrades. This was a </p><p>glorious winter. The sharp frost and heavy snows tamed the animals, and </p><p>kept the country gentlemen by their firesides; we got more game than we </p><p>could eat, and my faithful dog grew sleek upon our refuse. </p><p>Thus years passed on; and years only added fresh love of freedom, and </p><p>contempt for all that was not as wild and rude as myself. At the age of </p><p>sixteen I had shot up in appearance to man's estate; I was tall and </p><p>athletic; I was practised to feats of strength, and inured to the </p><p>inclemency of the elements. My skin was embrowned by the sun; my step was </p><p>firm with conscious power. I feared no man, and loved none. In after life I </p><p>looked back with wonder to what I then was; how utterly worthless I should </p><p>have become if I had pursued my lawless career. My life was like that of an </p><p>animal, and my mind was in danger of degenerating into that which informs </p><p>brute nature. Until now, my savage habits had done me no radical mischief; </p><p>my physical powers had grown up and flourished under their influence, and</p><p>my mind, undergoing the same discipline, was imbued with all the hardy </p><p>virtues. But now my boasted independence was daily instigating me to acts </p><p>of tyranny, and freedom was becoming licentiousness. I stood on the brink </p><p>of manhood; passions, strong as the trees of a forest, had already taken </p><p>root within me, and were about to shadow with their noxious overgrowth, my </p><p>path of life. </p><p>I panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits, and formed </p><p>distempered dreams of future action. I avoided my ancient comrades, and I </p><p>soon lost them. They arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil their </p><p>destined situations in life; while I, an outcast, with none to lead or </p><p>drive me forward, paused. The old began to point at me as an example, the </p><p>young to wonder at me as a being distinct from themselves; I hated them, </p><p>and began, last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I clung to my </p><p>ferocious habits, yet half despised them; I continued my war against </p><p>civilization, and yet entertained a wish to belong to it. </p><p>I revolved again and again all that I remembered my mother to have told me </p><p>of my father's former life; I contemplated the few relics I possessed </p><p>belonging to him, which spoke of greater refinement than could be found </p><p>among the mountain cottages; but nothing in all this served as a guide to </p><p>lead me to another and pleasanter way of life. My father had been connected </p><p>with nobles, but all I knew of such connection was subsequent neglect. The </p><p>name of the king,--he to whom my dying father had addressed his latest </p><p>prayers, and who had barbarously slighted them, was associated only with </p><p>the ideas of unkindness, injustice, and consequent resentment. I was born </p><p>for something greater than I was--and greater I would become; but </p><p>greatness, at least to my distorted perceptions, was no necessary associate </p><p>of goodness, and my wild thoughts were unchecked by moral considerations </p><p>when they rioted in dreams of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a </p><p>sea of evil rolled at my feet; I was about to precipitate myself into it, </p><p>and rush like a torrent over all obstructions to the object of my wishes-- </p><p>when a stranger influence came over the current of my fortunes, and changed </p><p>their boisterous course to what was in comparison like the gentle </p><p>meanderings of a meadow-encircling streamlet. </p><p>CHAPTER II. </p><p>I LIVED far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour of wars or </p><p>political changes came worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes. </p><p>England had been the scene of momentous struggles, during my early boyhood. </p><p>In the year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient friend of my father, </p><p>had abdicated in compliance with the gentle force of the remonstrances of </p><p>his subjects, and a republic was instituted. Large estates were secured to </p><p>the dethroned monarch and his family; he received the title of Earl of </p><p>Windsor, and Windsor Castle, an ancient royalty, with its wide demesnes </p><p>were a part of his allotted wealth. He died soon after, leaving two </p><p>children, a son and a daughter. </p><p>The ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had long impelled her </p><p>husband to withstand the necessity of the times. She was haughty and </p><p>fearless; she cherished a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him who </p><p>had despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her children's sake alone she </p><p>consented to remain, shorn of regality, a member of the English republic. </p><p>When she became a widow, she turned all her thoughts to the educating her</p><p>son Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accomplish her ambitious ends; </p><p>and with his mother's milk he imbibed, and was intended to grow up in the </p><p>steady purpose of re-acquiring his lost crown. Adrian was now fifteen years </p><p>of age. He was addicted to study, and imbued beyond his years with learning </p><p>and talent: report said that he had already begun to thwart his mother's </p><p>views, and to entertain republican principles. However this might be, the </p><p>haughty Countess entrusted none with the secrets of her family-tuition. </p><p>Adrian was bred up in solitude, and kept apart from the natural companions </p><p>of his age and rank. Some unknown circumstance now induced his mother to </p><p>send him from under her immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was about </p><p>to visit Cumberland. A thousand tales were rife, explanatory of the </p><p>Countess of Windsor's conduct; none true probably; but each day it became </p><p>more certain that we should have the noble scion of the late regal house of </p><p>England among us. </p><p>There was a large estate with a mansion attached to it, belonging to this </p><p>family, at Ulswater. A large park was one of its appendages, laid out with </p><p>great taste, and plentifully stocked with game. I had often made </p><p>depredations on these preserves; and the neglected state of the property </p><p>facilitated my incursions. When it was decided that the young Earl of </p><p>Windsor should visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the house and </p><p>grounds in order for his reception. The apartments were restored to their </p><p>pristine splendour, and the park, all disrepairs restored, was guarded with </p><p>unusual care. </p><p>I was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It roused all my </p><p>dormant recollections, my suspended sentiments of injury, and gave rise to </p><p>the new one of revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations; all my </p><p>plans and devices were forgotten; I seemed about to begin life anew, and </p><p>that under no good auspices. The tug of war, I thought, was now to begin. </p><p>He would come triumphantly to the district to which my parent had fled </p><p>broken-hearted; he would find the ill-fated offspring, bequeathed with such </p><p>vain confidence to his royal father, miserable paupers. That he should know </p><p>of our existence, and treat us, near at hand, with the same contumely which </p><p>his father had practised in distance and absence, appeared to me the </p><p>certain consequence of all that had gone before. Thus then I should meet </p><p>this titled stripling--the son of my father's friend. He would be hedged </p><p>in by servants; nobles, and the sons of nobles, were his companions; all </p><p>England rang with his name; and his coming, like a thunderstorm, was heard </p><p>from far: while I, unlettered and unfashioned, should, if I came in contact </p><p>with him, in the judgment of his courtly followers, bear evidence in my </p><p>very person to the propriety of that ingratitude which had made me the </p><p>degraded being I appeared. </p><p>With my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be said as if </p><p>fascinated, to haunt the destined abode of the young Earl. I watched the </p><p>progress of the improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as various </p><p>articles of luxury, brought from London, were taken forth and conveyed into </p><p>the mansion. It was part of the Ex-Queen's plan, to surround her son with </p><p>princely magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and silken hangings, ornaments </p><p>of gold, richly embossed metals, emblazoned furniture, and all the </p><p>appendages of high rank arranged, so that nothing but what was regal in </p><p>splendour should reach the eye of one of royal descent. I looked on these; </p><p>I turned my gaze to my own mean dress.--Whence sprung this difference? </p><p>Whence but from ingratitude, from falsehood, from a dereliction on the part </p><p>of the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and generous feeling. </p><p>Doubtless, he also, whose blood received a mingling tide from his proud </p><p>mother--he, the acknowledged focus of the kingdom's wealth and nobility, </p><p>had been taught to repeat my father's name with disdain, and to scoff at my</p><p>just claims to protection. I strove to think that all this grandeur was but </p><p>more glaring infamy, and that, by planting his gold-enwoven flag beside my </p><p>tarnished and tattered banner, he proclaimed not his superiority, but his </p><p>debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud of beautiful horses, his arms of </p><p>costly workmanship, the praise that attended him, the adoration, ready </p><p>servitor, high place and high esteem,--I considered them as forcibly </p><p>wrenched from me, and envied them all with novel and tormenting </p><p>bitterness. </p><p>To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary Perdita, seemed to </p><p>awake to real life with transport, when she told me that the Earl of </p><p>Windsor was about to arrive. </p><p>"And this pleases you?" I observed, moodily. </p><p>"Indeed it does, Lionel," she replied; "I quite long to see him; he is the </p><p>descendant of our kings, the first noble of the land: every one admires and </p><p>loves him, and they say that his rank is his least merit; he is generous, </p><p>brave, and affable." </p><p>"You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita," said I, "and repeat it so </p><p>literally, that you forget the while the proofs we have of the Earl's </p><p>virtues; his generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his bravery in the </p><p>protection he affords us, his affability in the notice he takes of us. His </p><p>rank his least merit, do you say? Why, all his virtues are derived from his </p><p>station only; because he is rich, he is called generous; because he is </p><p>powerful, brave; because he is well served, he is affable. Let them call </p><p>him so, let all England believe him to be thus--we know him--he is our </p><p>enemy--our penurious, dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he were gifted with </p><p>one particle of the virtues you call his, he would do justly by us, if it </p><p>were only to shew, that if he must strike, it should not be a fallen foe. </p><p>His father injured my father--his father, unassailable on his throne, </p><p>dared despise him who only stooped beneath himself, when he deigned to </p><p>associate with the royal ingrate. We, descendants from the one and the </p><p>other, must be enemies also. He shall find that I can feel my injuries; he </p><p>shall learn to dread my revenge!" </p><p>A few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the most miserable </p><p>cottage, went to swell the stream of population that poured forth to meet </p><p>him: even Perdita, in spite of my late philippic, crept near the highway, </p><p>to behold this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad, as I met party after </p><p>party of the country people, in their holiday best, descending the hills, </p><p>escaped to their cloud-veiled summits, and looking on the sterile rocks </p><p>about me, exclaimed--"They do not cry, long live the Earl!" Nor, when </p><p>night came, accompanied by drizzling rain and cold, would I return home; </p><p>for I knew that each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian; as I felt my </p><p>limbs grow numb and chill, my pain served as food for my insane aversion; </p><p>nay, I almost triumphed in it, since it seemed to afford me reason and </p><p>excuse for my hatred of my unheeding adversary. All was attributed to him, </p><p>for I confounded so entirely the idea of father and son, that I forgot that </p><p>the latter might be wholly unconscious of his parent's neglect of us; and </p><p>as I struck my aching head with my hand, I cried: "He shall hear of this! I </p><p>will be revenged! I will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know, beggar </p><p>and friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit to injury!" Each day, </p><p>each hour added to these exaggerated wrongs. His praises were so many </p><p>adder's stings infixed in my vulnerable breast. If I saw him at a distance, </p><p>riding a beautiful horse, my blood boiled with rage; the air seemed </p><p>poisoned by his presence, and my very native English was changed to a vile </p><p>jargon, since every phrase I heard was coupled with his name and honour. I</p><p>panted to relieve this painful heart-burning by some misdeed that should </p><p>rouse him to a sense of my antipathy. It was the height of his offending, </p><p>that he should occasion in me such intolerable sensations, and not deign </p><p>himself to afford any demonstration that he was aware that I even lived to </p><p>feel them. </p><p>It soon became known that Adrian took great delight in his park and </p><p>preserves. He never sported, but spent hours in watching the tribes of </p><p>lovely and almost tame animals with which it was stocked, and ordered that </p><p>greater care should be taken of them than ever. Here was an opening for my </p><p>plans of offence, and I made use of it with all the brute impetuosity I </p><p>derived from my active mode of life. I proposed the enterprize of poaching </p><p>on his demesne to my few remaining comrades, who were the most determined </p><p>and lawless of the crew; but they all shrunk from the peril; so I was left </p><p>to achieve my revenge myself. At first my exploits were unperceived; I </p><p>increased in daring; footsteps on the dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of </p><p>slaughter, at length betrayed me to the game-keepers. They kept better </p><p>watch; I was taken, and sent to prison. I entered its gloomy walls in a fit </p><p>of triumphant extasy: "He feels me now," I cried, "and shall, again and </p><p>again!"--I passed but one day in confinement; in the evening I was </p><p>liberated, as I was told, by the order of the Earl himself. This news </p><p>precipitated me from my self-raised pinnacle of honour. He despises me, I </p><p>thought; but he shall learn that I despise him, and hold in equal contempt </p><p>his punishments and his clemency. On the second night after my release, I </p><p>was again taken by the gamekeepers--again imprisoned, and again released; </p><p>and again, such was my pertinacity, did the fourth night find me in the </p><p>forbidden park. The gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my </p><p>obstinacy. They had received orders that if I were again taken, I should be </p><p>brought to the Earl; and his lenity made them expect a conclusion which </p><p>they considered ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had been from the </p><p>first the leader among those who had seized me, resolved to satisfy his own </p><p>resentment, before he made me over to the higher powers. </p><p>The late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I was obliged to use </p><p>in this my third expedition, consumed so much time, that something like a </p><p>qualm of fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to twilight. I </p><p>crept along by the fern, on my hands and knees, seeking the shadowy coverts </p><p>of the underwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome song above, and the </p><p>fresh morning wind, playing among the boughs, made me suspect a footfall at </p><p>each turn. My heart beat quick as I approached the palings; my hand was on </p><p>one of them, a leap would take me to the other side, when two keepers </p><p>sprang from an ambush upon me: one knocked me down, and proceeded to </p><p>inflict a severe horse-whipping. I started up--a knife was in my grasp; I </p><p>made a plunge at his raised right arm, and inflicted a deep, wide wound in </p><p>his hand. The rage and yells of the wounded man, the howling execrations of </p><p>his comrade, which I answered with equal bitterness and fury, echoed </p><p>through the dell; morning broke more and more, ill accordant in its </p><p>celestial beauty with our brute and noisy contest. I and my enemy were </p><p>still struggling, when the wounded man exclaimed, "The Earl!" I sprang out </p><p>of the herculean hold of the keeper, panting from my exertions; I cast </p><p>furious glances on my persecutors, and placing myself with my back to a </p><p>tree, resolved to defend myself to the last. My garments were torn, and </p><p>they, as well as my hands, were stained with the blood of the man I had </p><p>wounded; one hand grasped the dead birds--my hard-earned prey, the other </p><p>held the knife; my hair was matted; my face besmeared with the same guilty </p><p>signs that bore witness against me on the dripping instrument I clenched; </p><p>my whole appearance was haggard and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in </p><p>form, I must have looked like, what indeed I was, the merest ruffian that </p><p>ever trod the earth.</p><p>The name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the indignant blood that </p><p>warmed my heart to rush into my cheeks; I had never seen him before; I </p><p>figured to myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take me to task, if </p><p>he deigned to speak to me, with all the arrogance of superiority. My reply </p><p>was ready; a reproach I deemed calculated to sting his very heart. He came </p><p>up the while; and his appearance blew aside, with gentle western breath, my </p><p>cloudy wrath: a tall, slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the </p><p>excess of sensibility and refinement stood before me; the morning sunbeams </p><p>tinged with gold his silken hair, and spread light and glory over his </p><p>beaming countenance. "How is this?" he cried. The men eagerly began their </p><p>defence; he put them aside, saying, "Two of you at once on a mere lad-- </p><p>for shame!" He came up to me: "Verney," he cried, "Lionel Verney, do we </p><p>meet thus for the first time? We were born to be friends to each other; and </p><p>though ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknowledge the hereditary </p><p>bond of friendship which I trust will hereafter unite us?" </p><p>As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to read my very soul: my </p><p>heart, my savage revengeful heart, felt the influence of sweet benignity </p><p>sink upon it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest melody, awoke a mute </p><p>echo within me, stirring to its depths the life-blood in my frame. I </p><p>desired to reply, to acknowledge his goodness, accept his proffered </p><p>friendship; but words, fitting words, were not afforded to the rough </p><p>mountaineer; I would have held out my hand, but its guilty stain restrained </p><p>me. Adrian took pity on my faltering mien: "Come with me," he said, "I have </p><p>much to say to you; come home with me--you know who I am?" </p><p>"Yes," I exclaimed, "I do believe that I now know you, and that you will </p><p>pardon my mistakes--my crime." </p><p>Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to the gamekeepers, he </p><p>came up to me; putting his arm in mine, we walked together to the mansion. </p><p>It was not his rank--after all that I have said, surely it will not be </p><p>suspected that it was Adrian's rank, that, from the first, subdued my heart </p><p>of hearts, and laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor was it I </p><p>alone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His sensibility and </p><p>courtesy fascinated every one. His vivacity, intelligence, and active </p><p>spirit of benevolence, completed the conquest. Even at this early age, he </p><p>was deep read and imbued with the spirit of high philosophy. This spirit </p><p>gave a tone of irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with others, so </p><p>that he seemed like an inspired musician, who struck, with unerring skill, </p><p>the "lyre of mind," and produced thence divine harmony. In person, he </p><p>hardly appeared of this world; his slight frame was overinformed by the </p><p>soul that dwelt within; he was all mind; "Man but a rush against" his </p><p>breast, and it would have conquered his strength; but the might of his </p><p>smile would have tamed an hungry lion, or caused a legion of armed men to </p><p>lay their weapons at his feet. </p><p>I spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to the past, or indeed </p><p>to any personal occurrences. He wished probably to inspire me with </p><p>confidence, and give me time to gather together my scattered thoughts. He </p><p>talked of general subjects, and gave me ideas I had never before conceived. </p><p>We sat in his library, and he spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the </p><p>power which they had acquired over the minds of men, through the force of </p><p>love and wisdom only. The room was decorated with the busts of many of </p><p>them, and he described their characters to me. As he spoke, I felt subject </p><p>to him; and all my boasted pride and strength were subdued by the honeyed </p><p>accents of this blue-eyed boy. The trim and paled demesne of civilization,</p><p>which I had before regarded from my wild jungle as inaccessible, had its </p><p>wicket opened by him; I stepped within, and felt, as I entered, that I trod </p><p>my native soil. </p><p>As evening came on, he reverted to the past. "I have a tale to relate," he </p><p>said, "and much explanation to give concerning the past; perhaps you can </p><p>assist me to curtail it. Do you remember your father? I had never the </p><p>happiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my earliest recollections: </p><p>he stands written in my mind's tablets as the type of all that was gallant, </p><p>amiable, and fascinating in man. His wit was not more conspicuous than the </p><p>overflowing goodness of his heart, which he poured in such full measure on </p><p>his friends, as to leave, alas! small remnant for himself." </p><p>Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to his inquiries, to </p><p>relate what I remembered of my parent; and he gave an account of those </p><p>circumstances which had brought about a neglect of my father's testamentary </p><p>letter. When, in after times, Adrian's father, then king of England, felt </p><p>his situation become more perilous, his line of conduct more embarrassed, </p><p>again and again he wished for his early friend, who might stand a mound </p><p>against the impetuous anger of his queen, a mediator between him and the </p><p>parliament. From the time that he had quitted London, on the fatal night of </p><p>his defeat at the gaming-table, the king had received no tidings concerning </p><p>him; and when, after the lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover </p><p>him, every trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever, he clung to his </p><p>memory; and gave it in charge to his son, if ever he should meet this </p><p>valued friend, in his name to bestow every succour, and to assure him that, </p><p>to the last, his attachment survived separation and silence. </p><p>A short time before Adrian's visit to Cumberland, the heir of the nobleman </p><p>to whom my father had confided his last appeal to his royal master, put </p><p>this letter, its seal unbroken, into the young Earl's hands. It had been </p><p>found cast aside with a mass of papers of old date, and accident alone </p><p>brought it to light. Adrian read it with deep interest; and found there </p><p>that living spirit of genius and wit he had so often heard commemorated. He </p><p>discovered the name of the spot whither my father had retreated, and where </p><p>he died; he learnt the existence of his orphan children; and during the </p><p>short interval between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting in the park, </p><p>he had been occupied in making inquiries concerning us, and arranging a </p><p>variety of plans for our benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to </p><p>our notice. </p><p>The mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying to my vanity; the </p><p>veil which he delicately cast over his benevolence, in alledging a duteous </p><p>fulfilment of the king's latest will, was soothing to my pride. Other </p><p>feelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his conciliating manner </p><p>and the generous warmth of his expressions, respect rarely before </p><p>experienced, admiration, and love--he had touched my rocky heart with his </p><p>magic power, and the stream of affection gushed forth, imperishable and </p><p>pure. In the evening we parted; he pressed my hand: "We shall meet again; </p><p>come to me to-morrow." I clasped that kind hand; I tried to answer; a </p><p>fervent "God bless you!" was all my ignorance could frame of speech, and I </p><p>darted away, oppressed by my new emotions. </p><p>I could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept them, and the stars </p><p>glittered above. I ran on, careless of outward objects, but trying to </p><p>master the struggling spirit within me by means of bodily fatigue. "This," </p><p>I thought, "is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard of heart, ferocious, </p><p>and daring; but kind compassionate and soft."--Stopping short, I clasped </p><p>my hands, and with the fervour of a new proselyte, cried, "Doubt me not,</p><p>Adrian, I also will become wise and good!" and then quite overcome, I wept </p><p>aloud. </p><p>As this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more composed. I lay on the </p><p>ground, and giving the reins to my thoughts, repassed in my mind my former </p><p>life; and began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my heart, and </p><p>to discover how brutish, savage, and worthless I had hitherto been. I could </p><p>not however at that time feel remorse, for methought I was born anew; my </p><p>soul threw off the burthen of past sin, to commence a new career in </p><p>innocence and love. Nothing harsh or rough remained to jar with the soft </p><p>feelings which the transactions of the day had inspired; I was as a child </p><p>lisping its devotions after its mother, and my plastic soul was remoulded </p><p>by a master hand, which I neither desired nor was able to resist. </p><p>This was the first commencement of my friendship with Adrian, and I must </p><p>commemorate this day as the most fortunate of my life. I now began to be </p><p>human. I was admitted within that sacred boundary which divides the </p><p>intellectual and moral nature of man from that which characterizes animals. </p><p>My best feelings were called into play to give fitting responses to the </p><p>generosity, wisdom, and amenity of my new friend. He, with a noble goodness </p><p>all his own, took infinite delight in bestowing to prodigality the </p><p>treasures of his mind and fortune on the long-neglected son of his father's </p><p>friend, the offspring of that gifted being whose excellencies and talents </p><p>he had heard commemorated from infancy. </p><p>After his abdication the late king had retreated from the sphere of </p><p>politics, yet his domestic circle afforded him small content. The ex-queen </p><p>had none of the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage and daring </p><p>which she possessed were rendered null by the secession of her husband: she </p><p>despised him, and did not care to conceal her sentiments. The king had, in </p><p>compliance with her exactions, cast off his old friends, but he had </p><p>acquired no new ones under her guidance. In this dearth of sympathy, he had </p><p>recourse to his almost infant son; and the early development of talent and </p><p>sensibility rendered Adrian no unfitting depository of his father's </p><p>confidence. He was never weary of listening to the latter's often repeated </p><p>accounts of old times, in which my father had played a distinguished part; </p><p>his keen remarks were repeated to the boy, and remembered by him; his wit, </p><p>his fascinations, his very faults were hallowed by the regret of affection; </p><p>his loss was sincerely deplored. Even the queen's dislike of the favourite </p><p>was ineffectual to deprive him of his son's admiration: it was bitter, </p><p>sarcastic, contemptuous--but as she bestowed her heavy censure alike on </p><p>his virtues as his errors, on his devoted friendship and his ill-bestowed </p><p>loves, on his disinterestedness and his prodigality, on his pre-possessing </p><p>grace of manner, and the facility with which he yielded to temptation, her </p><p>double shot proved too heavy, and fell short of the mark. Nor did her angry </p><p>dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my father, as he had said, the type of </p><p>all that was gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It was not strange </p><p>therefore, that when he heard of the existence of the offspring of this </p><p>celebrated person, he should have formed the plan of bestowing on them all </p><p>the advantages his rank made him rich to afford. When he found me a </p><p>vagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher, an unlettered savage, still his </p><p>kindness did not fail. In addition to the opinion he entertained that his </p><p>father was to a degree culpable of neglect towards us, and that he was </p><p>bound to every possible reparation, he was pleased to say that under all my </p><p>ruggedness there glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be </p><p>distinguished from mere animal courage, and that I inherited a similarity </p><p>of countenance to my father, which gave proof that all his virtues and </p><p>talents had not died with him. Whatever those might be which descended to </p><p>me, my noble young friend resolved should not be lost for want of culture.</p><p>Acting upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he led me to wish to </p><p>participate in that cultivation which graced his own intellect. My active </p><p>mind, when once it seized upon this new idea, fastened on it with extreme </p><p>avidity. At first it was the great object of my ambition to rival the </p><p>merits of my father, and render myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian. </p><p>But curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love of knowledge, which caused me </p><p>to pass days and nights in reading and study. I was already well acquainted </p><p>with what I may term the panorama of nature, the change of seasons, and the </p><p>various appearances of heaven and earth. But I was at once startled and </p><p>enchanted by my sudden extension of vision, when the curtain, which had </p><p>been drawn before the intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the </p><p>universe, not only as it presented itself to my outward senses, but as it </p><p>had appeared to the wisest among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy </p><p>and its researches and classifications, alike awoke the sleeping ideas in </p><p>my mind, and gave me new ones. </p><p>I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first discovered the shore of </p><p>America; and like him I hastened to tell my companions of my discoveries in </p><p>unknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any breast the same craving </p><p>appetite for knowledge that existed in mine. Even Perdita was unable to </p><p>understand me. I had lived in what is generally called the world of </p><p>reality, and it was awakening to a new country to find that there was a </p><p>deeper meaning in all I saw, besides that which my eyes conveyed to me. The </p><p>visionary Perdita beheld in all this only a new gloss upon an old reading, </p><p>and her own was sufficiently inexhaustible to content her. She listened to </p><p>me as she had done to the narration of my adventures, and sometimes took an </p><p>interest in this species of information; but she did not, as I did, look on </p><p>it as an integral part of her being, which having obtained, I could no more </p><p>put off than the universal sense of touch. </p><p>We both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not having yet escaped from </p><p>childhood could not appreciate as I did the extent of his merits, or feel </p><p>the same sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever with him. </p><p>There was a sensibility and sweetness in his disposition, that gave a </p><p>tender and unearthly tone to our converse. Then he was gay as a lark </p><p>carolling from its skiey tower, soaring in thought as an eagle, innocent as </p><p>the mild-eyed dove. He could dispel the seriousness of Perdita, and take </p><p>the sting from the torturing activity of my nature. I looked back to my </p><p>restless desires and painful struggles with my fellow beings as to a </p><p>troubled dream, and felt myself as much changed as if I had transmigrated </p><p>into another form, whose fresh sensorium and mechanism of nerves had </p><p>altered the reflection of the apparent universe in the mirror of mind. But </p><p>it was not so; I was the same in strength, in earnest craving for sympathy, </p><p>in my yearning for active exertion. My manly virtues did not desert me, for </p><p>the witch Urania spared the locks of Sampson, while he reposed at her feet; </p><p>but all was softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian instruct me only in the </p><p>cold truths of history and philosophy. At the same time that he taught me </p><p>by their means to subdue my own reckless and uncultured spirit, he opened </p><p>to my view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to feel and </p><p>understand its wondrous character. </p><p>The ex-queen of England had, even during infancy, endeavoured to implant </p><p>daring and ambitious designs in the mind of her son. She saw that he was </p><p>endowed with genius and surpassing talent; these she cultivated for the </p><p>sake of afterwards using them for the furtherance of her own views. She </p><p>encouraged his craving for knowledge and his impetuous courage; she even </p><p>tolerated his tameless love of freedom, under the hope that this would, as </p><p>is too often the case, lead to a passion for command. She endeavoured to</p><p>bring him up in a sense of resentment towards, and a desire to revenge </p><p>himself upon, those who had been instrumental in bringing about his </p><p>father's abdication. In this she did not succeed. The accounts furnished </p><p>him, however distorted, of a great and wise nation asserting its right to </p><p>govern itself, excited his admiration: in early days he became a republican </p><p>from principle. Still his mother did not despair. To the love of rule and </p><p>haughty pride of birth she added determined ambition, patience, and </p><p>self-control. She devoted herself to the study of her son's disposition. By </p><p>the application of praise, censure, and exhortation, she tried to seek and </p><p>strike the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed her touch </p><p>seemed discord to her, she built her hopes on his talents, and felt sure </p><p>that she would at last win him. The kind of banishment he now experienced </p><p>arose from other causes. </p><p>The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of age; his fairy </p><p>sister, Adrian was wont to call her; a lovely, animated, little thing, all </p><p>sensibility and truth. With these, her children, the noble widow constantly </p><p>resided at Windsor; and admitted no visitors, except her own partizans, </p><p>travellers from her native Germany, and a few of the foreign ministers. </p><p>Among these, and highly distinguished by her, was Prince Zaimi, ambassador </p><p>to England from the free States of Greece; and his daughter, the young </p><p>Princess Evadne, passed much of her time at Windsor Castle. In company with </p><p>this sprightly and clever Greek girl, the Countess would relax from her </p><p>usual state. Her views with regard to her own children, placed all her </p><p>words and actions relative to them under restraint: but Evadne was a </p><p>plaything she could in no way fear; nor were her talents and vivacity </p><p>slight alleviations to the monotony of the Countess's life. </p><p>Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent much time together at </p><p>Windsor, the extreme youth of Adrian prevented any suspicion as to the </p><p>nature of their intercourse. But he was ardent and tender of heart beyond </p><p>the common nature of man, and had already learnt to love, while the </p><p>beauteous Greek smiled benignantly on the boy. It was strange to me, who, </p><p>though older than Adrian, had never loved, to witness the whole heart's </p><p>sacrifice of my friend. There was neither jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust </p><p>in his sentiment; it was devotion and faith. His life was swallowed up in </p><p>the existence of his beloved; and his heart beat only in unison with the </p><p>pulsations that vivified hers. This was the secret law of his life--he </p><p>loved and was beloved. The universe was to him a dwelling, to inhabit with </p><p>his chosen one; and not either a scheme of society or an enchainment of </p><p>events, that could impart to him either happiness or misery. What, though </p><p>life and the system of social intercourse were a wilderness, a </p><p>tiger-haunted jungle! Through the midst of its errors, in the depths of its </p><p>savage recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery pathway, through </p><p>which they might journey in safety and delight. Their track would be like </p><p>the passage of the Red Sea, which they might traverse with unwet feet, </p><p>though a wall of destruction were impending on either side. </p><p>Alas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this matchless specimen of </p><p>humanity? What is there in our nature that is for ever urging us on towards </p><p>pain and misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however we may be </p><p>attuned to the reception of pleasureable emotion, disappointment is the </p><p>never-failing pilot of our life's bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the </p><p>shoals. Who was better framed than this highly-gifted youth to love and be </p><p>beloved, and to reap unalienable joy from an unblamed passion? If his heart </p><p>had slept but a few years longer, he might have been saved; but it awoke in </p><p>its infancy; it had power, but no knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a </p><p>too early-blowing bud is nipt by the killing frost. </p><p>I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to deceive her lover; but </p><p>the first letter that I saw of hers convinced me that she did not love him; </p><p>it was written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with great command </p><p>of language. The hand-writing itself was exquisitely beautiful; there was </p><p>something in her very paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love, </p><p>and was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern as being tasteful. </p><p>There was much kindness, gratitude, and sweetness in her expression, but no </p><p>love. Evadne was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen, ever </p><p>loved one so much their junior? I compared her placid epistles with the </p><p>burning ones of Adrian. His soul seemed to distil itself into the words he </p><p>wrote; and they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a portion of the </p><p>life of love, which was his life. The very writing used to exhaust him; and </p><p>he would weep over them, merely from the excess of emotion they awakened in </p><p>his heart. </p><p>Adrian's soul was painted in his countenance, and concealment or deceit </p><p>were at the antipodes to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made </p><p>it her earnest request that the tale of their loves should not be revealed </p><p>to his mother; and after for a while contesting the point, he yielded it to </p><p>her. A vain concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret to the </p><p>quick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary prudence that characterized </p><p>her whole conduct, she concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her </p><p>son from the sphere of the attractive Greek. He was sent to Cumberland; but </p><p>the plan of correspondence between the lovers, arranged by Evadne, was </p><p>effectually hidden from her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the </p><p>purpose of separating, united them in firmer bonds than ever. To me he </p><p>discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancient </p><p>annals, its late memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her glory </p><p>and excellence. He submitted to be away from her, because she commanded </p><p>this submission; but for her influence, he would have declared his </p><p>attachment before all England, and resisted, with unshaken constancy, his </p><p>mother's opposition. Evadne's feminine prudence perceived how useless any </p><p>assertion of his resolves would be, till added years gave weight to his </p><p>power. Perhaps there was besides a lurking dislike to bind herself in the </p><p>face of the world to one whom she did not love--not love, at least, with </p><p>that passionate enthusiasm which her heart told her she might one day feel </p><p>towards another. He obeyed her injunctions, and passed a year in exile in </p><p>Cumberland. </p><p>CHAPTER III. </p><p>HAPPY, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and hours of that year. </p><p>Friendship, hand in hand with admiration, tenderness and respect, built a </p><p>bower of delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in America, as </p><p>the homeless wind or herbless sea. Insatiate thirst for knowledge, and </p><p>boundless affection for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart and </p><p>understanding occupied, and I was consequently happy. What happiness is so </p><p>true and unclouded, as the overflowing and talkative delight of young </p><p>people. In our boat, upon my native lake, beside the streams and the pale </p><p>bordering poplars--in valley and over hill, my crook thrown aside, a </p><p>nobler flock to tend than silly sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I </p><p>read or listened to Adrian; and his discourse, whether it concerned his </p><p>love or his theories for the improvement of man, alike entranced me. </p><p>Sometimes my lawless mood would return, my love of peril, my resistance to </p><p>authority; but this was in his absence; under the mild sway of his dear</p><p>eyes, I was obedient and good as a boy of five years old, who does his </p><p>mother's bidding. </p><p>After a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian visited London, and </p><p>came back full of plans for our benefit. You must begin life, he said: you </p><p>are seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary apprenticeship </p><p>more and more irksome. He foresaw that his own life would be one of </p><p>struggle, and I must partake his labours with him. The better to fit me for </p><p>this task, we must now separate. He found my name a good passport to </p><p>preferment, and he had procured for me the situation of private secretary </p><p>to the Ambassador at Vienna, where I should enter on my career under the </p><p>best auspices. In two years, I should return to my country, with a name </p><p>well known and a reputation already founded. </p><p>And Perdita?--Perdita was to become the pupil, friend and younger sister </p><p>of Evadne. With his usual thoughtfulness, he had provided for her </p><p>independence in this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous </p><p>friend?--I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart of hearts, I made </p><p>a vow to devote life, knowledge, and power, all of which, in as much as </p><p>they were of any value, he had bestowed on me--all, all my capacities and </p><p>hopes, to him alone I would devote. </p><p>Thus I promised myself, as I journied towards my destination with roused </p><p>and ardent expectation: expectation of the fulfilment of all that in </p><p>boyhood we promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in maturity. Methought </p><p>the time was now arrived, when, childish occupations laid aside, I should </p><p>enter into life. Even in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes the souls of </p><p>the happy as eager to drink of the wave which was to restore them to this </p><p>mortal coil. The young are seldom in Elysium, for their desires, </p><p>outstripping possibility, leave them as poor as a moneyless debtor. We are </p><p>told by the wisest philosophers of the dangers of the world, the deceits of </p><p>men, and the treason of our own hearts: but not the less fearlessly does </p><p>each put off his frail bark from the port, spread the sail, and strain his </p><p>oar, to attain the multitudinous streams of the sea of life. How few in </p><p>youth's prime, moor their vessels on the "golden sands," and collect the </p><p>painted shells that strew them. But all at close of day, with riven planks </p><p>and rent canvas make for shore, and are either wrecked ere they reach it, </p><p>or find some wave-beaten haven, some desart strand, whereon to cast </p><p>themselves and die unmourned. </p><p>A truce to philosophy!--Life is before me, and I rush into possession. </p><p>Hope, glory, love, and blameless ambition are my guides, and my soul knows </p><p>no dread. What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is good only </p><p>because it is about to change, and the to come is all my own. Do I fear, </p><p>that my heart palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of my blood; my </p><p>eyes seem to penetrate the cloudy midnight of time, and to discern within </p><p>the depths of its darkness, the fruition of all my soul desires. </p><p>Now pause!--During my journey I might dream, and with buoyant wings reach </p><p>the summit of life's high edifice. Now that I am arrived at its base, my </p><p>pinions are furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step by step I </p><p>must ascend the wondrous fane-- </p><p> Speak!--What door is opened?</p><p>Behold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among the pleasure-seeking </p><p>society of a gay city; a youth of promise; favourite of the Ambassador. All </p><p>was strange and admirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With breathless </p><p>amaze I entered on the gay scene, whose actors were</p><p> --the lilies glorious as Solomon,</p><p> Who toil not, neither do they spin.</p><p>Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting my studious hours, </p><p>and the companionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent </p><p>pursuit for a wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of beauty </p><p>entranced me, and attractive manners in man or woman won my entire </p><p>confidence. I called it rapture, when a smile made my heart beat; and I </p><p>felt the life's blood tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol which </p><p>for awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of animal spirits was Paradise, and </p><p>at night's close I only desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The </p><p>dazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely forms arrayed in splendid </p><p>dresses; the motions of a dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite music, </p><p>cradled my senses in one delightful dream. </p><p>And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to moralists and sages. I </p><p>ask if in the calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep meditations </p><p>which fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful tyro in the </p><p>school of pleasure? Can the calm beams of their heaven-seeking eyes equal </p><p>the flashes of mingling passion which blind his, or does the influence of </p><p>cold philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal to his, engaged </p><p> In this dear work of youthful revelry.</p><p>But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the hermit, nor the </p><p>tumultuous raptures of the reveller, are capable of satisfying man's heart. </p><p>From the one we gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The </p><p>mind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in the heartless </p><p>intercourse of those whose sole aim is amusement. There is no fruition in </p><p>their vacant kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling ripples of </p><p>these shallow waters. </p><p>Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back </p><p>upon my heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren. My </p><p>flagging spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and not </p><p>finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless delight that </p><p>waited on its commencement, the impression I have of my life at Vienna is </p><p>melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot be happy unless we </p><p>love. I did not love; but I was devoured by a restless wish to be something </p><p>to others. I became the victim of ingratitude and cold coquetry--then I </p><p>desponded, and imagined that my discontent gave me a right to hate the </p><p>world. I receded to solitude; I had recourse to my books, and my desire </p><p>again to enjoy the society of Adrian became a burning thirst. </p><p>Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of </p><p>envy, gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and exploits </p><p>of one of my countrymen filled the world with admiration. Relations of what </p><p>he had done, conjectures concerning his future actions, were the </p><p>never-failing topics of the hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I </p><p>felt as if the praises which this idol received were leaves torn from </p><p>laurels destined for Adrian. But I must enter into some account of this </p><p>darling of fame--this favourite of the wonder-loving world. </p><p>Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but impoverished family. From </p><p>early youth he had considered his pedigree with complacency, and bitterly </p><p>lamented his want of wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement; and the </p><p>means that led towards this end were secondary considerations. Haughty, yet </p><p>trembling to every demonstration of respect; ambitious, but too proud to</p><p>shew his ambition; willing to achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,-- </p><p>he entered upon life. He was met on the threshold by some insult, real or </p><p>imaginary; some repulse, where he least expected it; some disappointment, </p><p>hard for his pride to bear. He writhed beneath an injury he was unable to </p><p>revenge; and he quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good </p><p>time should arrive, when she might feel the power of him she now despised. </p><p>He became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless courage and </p><p>comprehensive genius brought him into notice. He became the darling hero of </p><p>this rising people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw off his </p><p>allegiance to his native country, alone prevented him from filling the </p><p>first offices in the state. But, though others might rank higher in title </p><p>and ceremony, Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond all this. He led </p><p>the Greek armies to victory; their triumphs were all his own. When he </p><p>appeared, whole towns poured forth their population to meet him; new songs </p><p>were adapted to their national airs, whose themes were his glory, valour, </p><p>and munificence. A truce was concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At the </p><p>same time, Lord Raymond, by some unlooked-for chance, became the possessor </p><p>of an immense fortune in England, whither he returned, crowned with glory, </p><p>to receive the meed of honour and distinction before denied to his </p><p>pretensions. His proud heart rebelled against this change. In what was the </p><p>despised Raymond not the same? If the acquisition of power in the shape of </p><p>wealth caused this alteration, that power should they feel as an iron yoke. </p><p>Power therefore was the aim of all his endeavours; aggrandizement the mark </p><p>at which he for ever shot. In open ambition or close intrigue, his end was </p><p>the same--to attain the first station in his own country. </p><p>This account filled me with curiosity. The events that in succession </p><p>followed his return to England, gave me keener feelings. Among his other </p><p>advantages, Lord Raymond was supremely handsome; every one admired him; of </p><p>women he was the idol. He was courteous, honey-tongued--an adept in </p><p>fascinating arts. What could not this man achieve in the busy English </p><p>world? Change succeeded to change; the entire history did not reach me; for </p><p>Adrian had ceased to write, and Perdita was a laconic correspondent. The </p><p>rumour went that Adrian had become--how write the fatal word--mad: that </p><p>Lord Raymond was the favourite of the ex-queen, her daughter's destined </p><p>husband. Nay, more, that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the house </p><p>of Windsor to the crown, and that, on the event of Adrian's incurable </p><p>disorder and his marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambitious </p><p>Raymond might be encircled with the magic ring of regality. </p><p>Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame; such a tale rendered my </p><p>longer stay at Vienna, away from the friend of my youth, intolerable. Now I </p><p>must fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side, and be his ally and </p><p>support till death. Farewell to courtly pleasure; to politic intrigue; to </p><p>the maze of passion and folly! All hail, England! Native England, receive </p><p>thy child! thou art the scene of all my hopes, the mighty theatre on which </p><p>is acted the only drama that can, heart and soul, bear me along with it in </p><p>its development. A voice most irresistible, a power omnipotent, drew me </p><p>thither. After an absence of two years I landed on its shores, not daring </p><p>to make any inquiries, fearful of every remark. My first visit would be to </p><p>my sister, who inhabited a little cottage, a part of Adrian's gift, on the </p><p>borders of Windsor Forest. From her I should learn the truth concerning our </p><p>protector; I should hear why she had withdrawn from the protection of the </p><p>Princess Evadne, and be instructed as to the influence which this </p><p>overtopping and towering Raymond exercised over the fortunes of my friend. </p><p>I had never before been in the neighbourhood of Windsor; the fertility and </p><p>beauty of the country around now struck me with admiration, which encreased</p><p>as I approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks which had </p><p>grown, flourished, and decayed during the progress of centuries, marked </p><p>where the limits of the forest once reached, while the shattered palings </p><p>and neglected underwood shewed that this part was deserted for the younger </p><p>plantations, which owed their birth to the beginning of the nineteenth </p><p>century, and now stood in the pride of maturity. Perdita's humble dwelling </p><p>was situated on the skirts of the most ancient portion; before it was </p><p>stretched Bishopgate Heath, which towards the east appeared interminable, </p><p>and was bounded to the west by Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water. </p><p>Behind, the cottage was shadowed by the venerable fathers of the forest, </p><p>under which the deer came to graze, and which for the most part hollow and </p><p>decayed, formed fantastic groups that contrasted with the regular beauty of </p><p>the younger trees. These, the offspring of a later period, stood erect and </p><p>seemed ready to advance fearlessly into coming time; while those out worn </p><p>stragglers, blasted and broke, clung to each other, their weak boughs </p><p>sighing as the wind buffetted them--a weather-beaten crew. </p><p>A light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage, which, low-roofed, </p><p>seemed to submit to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst the venerable </p><p>remains of forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the spring, adorned her </p><p>garden and casements; in the midst of lowliness there was an air of </p><p>elegance which spoke the graceful taste of the inmate. With a beating heart </p><p>I entered the enclosure; as I stood at the entrance, I heard her </p><p>voice, melodious as it had ever been, which before I saw her assured me of </p><p>her welfare. </p><p>A moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me in the fresh bloom </p><p>of youthful womanhood, different from and yet the same as the mountain girl </p><p>I had left. Her eyes could not be deeper than they were in childhood, nor </p><p>her countenance more expressive; but the expression was changed and </p><p>improved; intelligence sat on her brow; when she smiled her face was </p><p>embellished by the softest sensibility, and her low, modulated voice seemed </p><p>tuned by love. Her person was formed in the most feminine proportions; she </p><p>was not tall, but her mountain life had given freedom to her motions, so </p><p>that her light step scarce made her foot-fall heard as she tript across the </p><p>hall to meet me. When we had parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with </p><p>unrestrained warmth; we met again, and new feelings were awakened; when </p><p>each beheld the other, childhood passed, as full grown actors on this </p><p>changeful scene. The pause was but for a moment; the flood of association </p><p>and natural feeling which had been checked, again rushed in full tide upon </p><p>our hearts, and with tenderest emotion we were swiftly locked in each </p><p>other's embrace. </p><p>This burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed thoughts we sat </p><p>together, talking of the past and present. I alluded to the coldness of her </p><p>letters; but the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently explained </p><p>the origin of this. New feelings had arisen within her, which she was </p><p>unable to express in writing to one whom she had only known in childhood; </p><p>but we saw each other again, and our intimacy was renewed as if nothing had </p><p>intervened to check it. I detailed the incidents of my sojourn abroad, and </p><p>then questioned her as to the changes that had taken place at home, the </p><p>causes of Adrian's absence, and her secluded life. </p><p>The tears that suffused my sister's eyes when I mentioned our friend, and </p><p>her heightened colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the reports that had </p><p>reached me. But their import was too terrible for me to give instant credit </p><p>to my suspicion. Was there indeed anarchy in the sublime universe of </p><p>Adrian's thoughts, did madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and was </p><p>he no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend, this ill world was</p><p>no clime for your gentle spirit; you delivered up its governance to false </p><p>humanity, which stript it of its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare its </p><p>quivering life to the evil ministration of roughest winds. Have those </p><p>gentle eyes, those "channels of the soul" lost their meaning, or do they </p><p>only in their glare disclose the horrible tale of its aberrations? Does </p><p>that voice no longer "discourse excellent music?" Horrible, most horrible! </p><p>I veil my eyes in terror of the change, and gushing tears bear witness to </p><p>my sympathy for this unimaginable ruin. </p><p>In obedience to my request Perdita detailed the melancholy circumstances </p><p>that led to this event. </p><p>The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it was by every </p><p>natural grace, endowed with transcendant powers of intellect, unblemished </p><p>by the shadow of defect (unless his dreadless independence of thought was </p><p>to be construed into one), was devoted, even as a victim to sacrifice, to </p><p>his love for Evadne. He entrusted to her keeping the treasures of his soul, </p><p>his aspirations after excellence, and his plans for the improvement of </p><p>mankind. As manhood dawned upon him, his schemes and theories, far from </p><p>being changed by personal and prudential motives, acquired new strength </p><p>from the powers he felt arise within him; and his love for Evadne became </p><p>deep-rooted, as he each day became more certain that the path he pursued </p><p>was full of difficulty, and that he must seek his reward, not in the </p><p>applause or gratitude of his fellow creatures, hardly in the success of his </p><p>plans, but in the approbation of his own heart, and in her love and </p><p>sympathy, which was to lighten every toil and recompence every sacrifice. </p><p>In solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the haunts of men, he </p><p>matured his views for the reform of the English government, and the </p><p>improvement of the people. It would have been well if he had concealed his </p><p>sentiments, until he had come into possession of the power which would </p><p>secure their practical development. But he was impatient of the years that </p><p>must intervene, he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave not only a </p><p>brief denial to his mother's schemes, but published his intention of using </p><p>his influence to diminish the power of the aristocracy, to effect a greater </p><p>equalization of wealth and privilege, and to introduce a perfect system of </p><p>republican government into England. At first his mother treated his </p><p>theories as the wild ravings of inexperience. But they were so </p><p>systematically arranged, and his arguments so well supported, that though </p><p>still in appearance incredulous, she began to fear him. She tried to reason </p><p>with him, and finding him inflexible, learned to hate him. </p><p>Strange to say, this feeling was infectious. His enthusiasm for good which </p><p>did not exist; his contempt for the sacredness of authority; his ardour and </p><p>imprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual routine of life; the </p><p>worldly feared him; the young and inexperienced did not understand the </p><p>lofty severity of his moral views, and disliked him as a being different </p><p>from themselves. Evadne entered but coldly into his systems. She thought he </p><p>did well to assert his own will, but she wished that will to have been more </p><p>intelligible to the multitude. She had none of the spirit of a martyr, and </p><p>did not incline to share the shame and defeat of a fallen patriot. She was </p><p>aware of the purity of his motives, the generosity of his disposition, his </p><p>true and ardent attachment to her; and she entertained a great affection </p><p>for him. He repaid this spirit of kindness with the fondest gratitude, and </p><p>made her the treasure-house of all his hopes. </p><p>At this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two persons could be </p><p>more opposite than Adrian and he. With all the incongruities of his </p><p>character, Raymond was emphatically a man of the world. His passions were</p><p>violent; as these often obtained the mastery over him, he could not always </p><p>square his conduct to the obvious line of self-interest, but </p><p>self-gratification at least was the paramount object with him. He looked on </p><p>the structure of society as but a part of the machinery which supported the </p><p>web on which his life was traced. The earth was spread out as an highway </p><p>for him; the heavens built up as a canopy for him. </p><p>Adrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He owned affinity not </p><p>only with mankind, but all nature was akin to him; the mountains and sky </p><p>were his friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth his </p><p>playmates; while he the focus only of this mighty mirror, felt his life </p><p>mingle with the universe of existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedicated </p><p>to the worship of beauty and excellence. Adrian and Raymond now came into </p><p>contact, and a spirit of aversion rose between them. Adrian despised the </p><p>narrow views of the politician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt the </p><p>benevolent visions of the philanthropist. </p><p>With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that laid waste at one fell </p><p>blow the gardens of delight and sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that </p><p>he had secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and contumely. Raymond, </p><p>the deliverer of Greece, the graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge </p><p>of all that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as most dear-- </p><p>Raymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered by her new sensations, she did not </p><p>pause to examine them, or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except </p><p>the tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her heart. She </p><p>yielded to its influence, and the too natural consequence in a mind </p><p>unattuned to soft emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became </p><p>distasteful to her. She grew capricious; her gentle conduct towards him was </p><p>exchanged for asperity and repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild </p><p>or pathetic appeal of his expressive countenance, she would relent, and for </p><p>a while resume her ancient kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its </p><p>depths the soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed the world </p><p>subject to him, because he possessed Evadne's love; he felt in every nerve </p><p>that the dire storms of the mental universe were about to attack his </p><p>fragile being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent. </p><p>Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture that Adrian endured. </p><p>She loved him as a kind elder brother; a relation to guide, protect, and </p><p>instruct her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental authority. She </p><p>adored his virtues, and with mixed contempt and indignation she saw Evadne </p><p>pile drear sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly marked her. </p><p>In his solitary despair Adrian would often seek my sister, and in covered </p><p>terms express his misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of </p><p>his mind. Soon, alas! was one to conquer. Anger made no part of his </p><p>emotion. With whom should he be angry? Not with Raymond, who was </p><p>unconscious of the misery he occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul </p><p>wept tears of blood--poor, mistaken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and </p><p>amidst his own anguish he grieved for her future destiny. Once a writing of </p><p>his fell into Perdita's hands; it was blotted with tears--well might any </p><p>blot it with the like-- </p><p>"Life"--it began thus--"is not the thing romance writers describe it; </p><p>going through the measures of a dance, and after various evolutions </p><p>arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose. While </p><p>there is life there is action and change. We go on, each thought linked to </p><p>the one which was its parent, each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow </p><p>dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and generating, weaves the </p><p>chain that make our life: </p><p> Un dia llama a otro dia</p><p> y ass i llama, y encadena</p><p> llanto a llanto, y pena a pena.</p><p>Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human life; she sits </p><p>at the threshold of unborn time, and marshals the events as they </p><p>come forth. Once my heart sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the </p><p>world was doubly beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed from my own </p><p>soul. O wherefore are love and ruin for ever joined in this our mortal </p><p>dream? So that when we make our hearts a lair for that gently seeming </p><p>beast, its companion enters with it, and pitilessly lays waste what might </p><p>have been an home and a shelter." </p><p>By degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and then his intellect </p><p>yielded to the same tyranny. His manners grew wild; he was sometimes </p><p>ferocious, sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadne </p><p>quitted London for Paris; he followed, and overtook her when the vessel was </p><p>about to sail; none knew what passed between them, but Perdita had never </p><p>seen him since; he lived in seclusion, no one knew where, attended by such </p><p>persons as his mother selected for that purpose. </p><p>CHAPTER IV. </p><p>THE next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita's cottage, on his way to </p><p>Windsor Castle. My sister's heightened colour and sparkling eyes half </p><p>revealed her secret to me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted us </p><p>both with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into our feelings, and to </p><p>make one with us. I scanned his physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet </p><p>was beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his eyes was soft, </p><p>though at times he could make them even glare with ferocity; his complexion </p><p>was colourless; and every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was </p><p>pleasing, though disdain too often curled his lips--lips which to female </p><p>eyes were the very throne of beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, </p><p>often startled you by a sharp discordant note, which shewed that his usual </p><p>low tone was rather the work of study than nature. Thus full of </p><p>contradictions, unbending yet haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again </p><p>neglectful, he by some strange art found easy entrance to the admiration </p><p>and affection of women; now caressing and now tyrannizing over them </p><p>according to his mood, but in every change a despot. </p><p>At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear amiable. Wit, </p><p>hilarity, and deep observation were mingled in his talk, rendering every </p><p>sentence that he uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered my latent </p><p>distaste; I endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and to keep in mind every </p><p>thing I had heard to his disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous, and </p><p>all was so fascinating, that I forgot everything except the pleasure his </p><p>society afforded me. Under the idea of initiating me in the scene of </p><p>English politics and society, of which I was soon to become a part, he </p><p>narrated a number of anecdotes, and sketched many characters; his </p><p>discourse, rich and varied, flowed on, pervading all my senses with </p><p>pleasure. But for one thing he would have been completely triumphant. He </p><p>alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with that disparagement that the </p><p>worldly wise always attach to enthusiasm. He perceived the cloud gathering, </p><p>and tried to dissipate it; but the strength of my feelings would not permit </p><p>me to pass thus lightly over this sacred subject; so I said emphatically,</p><p>"Permit me to remark, that I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor; </p><p>he is my best friend and benefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord </p><p>with his opinions, and bitterly lament his present, and I trust temporary, </p><p>illness. That illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to me beyond </p><p>words to hear him mentioned, unless in terms of respect and affection." </p><p>Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in his reply. I saw </p><p>that in his heart he despised those dedicated to any but worldly idols. </p><p>"Every man," he said, "dreams about something, love, honour, and pleasure; </p><p>you dream of friendship, and devote yourself to a maniac; well, if that be </p><p>your vocation, doubtless you are in the right to follow it."-- </p><p>Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of pain that for a </p><p>moment convulsed his countenance, checked my indignation. "Happy are </p><p>dreamers," he continued, "so that they be not awakened! Would I could </p><p>dream! but 'broad and garish day' is the element in which I live; the </p><p>dazzling glare of reality inverts the scene for me. Even the ghost of </p><p>friendship has departed, and love"----He broke off; nor could I guess </p><p>whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed against the passion, </p><p>or against himself for being its slave. </p><p>This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse with Lord Raymond. </p><p>I became intimate with him, and each day afforded me occasion to admire </p><p>more and more his powerful and versatile talents, that together with his </p><p>eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his wealth now immense, caused </p><p>him to be feared, loved, and hated beyond any other man in England. </p><p>My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my former connection </p><p>with Adrian, the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary I had been, and </p><p>now my intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to the fashionable </p><p>and political circles of England. To my inexperience we at first appeared </p><p>on the eve of a civil war; each party was violent, acrimonious, and </p><p>unyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions, aristocrats, </p><p>democrats, and royalists. After Adrian's declared predeliction to the </p><p>republican form of government, the latter party had nearly died away, </p><p>chiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came forward as its leader, it </p><p>revived with redoubled force. Some were royalists from prejudice and </p><p>ancient affection, and there were many moderately inclined who feared alike </p><p>the capricious tyranny of the popular party, and the unbending despotism of </p><p>the aristocrats. More than a third of the members ranged themselves under </p><p>Raymond, and their number was perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built </p><p>their hopes on their preponderant wealth and influence; the reformers on </p><p>the force of the nation itself; the debates were violent, more violent the </p><p>discourses held by each knot of politicians as they assembled to arrange </p><p>their measures. Opprobrious epithets were bandied about, resistance even to </p><p>the death threatened; meetings of the populace disturbed the quiet order of </p><p>the country; except in war, how could all this end? Even as the destructive </p><p>flames were ready to break forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed by the </p><p>absence of the military, by the aversion entertained by every one to any </p><p>violence, save that of speech, and by the cordial politeness and even </p><p>friendship of the hostile leaders when they met in private society. I was </p><p>from a thousand motives induced to attend minutely to the course of events, </p><p>and watch each turn with intense anxiety. </p><p>I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also that he </p><p>regarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and tenderness. Yet I </p><p>knew that he was urging forward his marriage with the presumptive heiress </p><p>of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of the advantages that </p><p>would thence accrue to him. All the ex-queen's friends were his friends; no</p><p>week passed that he did not hold consultations with her at Windsor. </p><p>I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely, </p><p>amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times when </p><p>we have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or for </p><p>worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse, we fear </p><p>the change, and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this high-born </p><p>damsel. To me she was everything and nothing; her very name mentioned by </p><p>another made me start and tremble; the endless discussion concerning her </p><p>union with Lord Raymond was real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian </p><p>withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a victim probably to </p><p>her mother's ambitious schemes, I ought to come forward to protect her from </p><p>undue influence, guard her from unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of </p><p>choice, the right of every human being. Yet how was I to do this? She </p><p>herself would disdain my interference. Since then I must be an object of </p><p>indifference or contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose </p><p>myself before her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad </p><p>game of a fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to </p><p>England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief </p><p>solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of seeing </p><p>her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and discernment; in her </p><p>pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by magnificent </p><p>casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest pictures of Raphael, </p><p>Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy </p><p>retreat untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions of </p><p>politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion. On this occasion, my </p><p>sister was not alone; nor could I fail to recognise her companion: it was </p><p>Idris, the till now unseen object of my mad idolatry. </p><p>In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression and </p><p>soft flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in </p><p>poor assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that surrounded her, the </p><p>thousand graces that waited unwearied on her. The first thing that struck </p><p>you on beholding that charming countenance was its perfect goodness and </p><p>frankness; candour sat upon her brow, simplicity in her eyes, heavenly </p><p>benignity in her smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar to </p><p>the breezy west, and her gait, goddess-like, was as that of a winged angel </p><p>new alit from heaven's high floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion </p><p>was stained by a pure suffusion; her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor </p><p>of a flute. It is easiest perhaps to describe by contrast. I have detailed </p><p>the perfections of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris. </p><p>Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid; Idris was frank and </p><p>confiding. The one recoiled to solitude, that she might there entrench </p><p>herself from disappointment and injury; the other walked forth in open day, </p><p>believing that none would harm her. Wordsworth has compared a beloved </p><p>female to two fair objects in nature; but his lines always appeared to me </p><p>rather a contrast than a similitude: </p><p> A violet by a mossy stone</p><p> Half hidden from the eye,</p><p> Fair as a star when only one</p><p> Is shining in the sky.</p><p>Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust herself to the very </p><p>air, cowering from observation, yet betrayed by her excellences; and </p><p>repaying with a thousand graces the labour of those who sought her in her </p><p>lonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in single splendour in the </p><p>dim anadem of balmy evening; ready to enlighten and delight the subject </p><p>world, shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined distance from</p><p>all that was not like herself akin to heaven. </p><p>I found this vision of beauty in Perdita's alcove, in earnest conversation </p><p>with its inmate. When my sister saw me, she rose, and taking my hand, said, </p><p>"He is here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my brother." Idris arose </p><p>also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial blue, and with grace peculiar </p><p>said--"You hardly need an introduction; we have a picture, highly valued </p><p>by my father, which declares at once your name. Verney, you will </p><p>acknowledge this tie, and as my brother's friend, I feel that I may trust </p><p>you." </p><p>Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice, she continued-- </p><p>"Dear friends, do not think it strange that now, visiting you for the first </p><p>time, I ask your assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to you. To you </p><p>alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended by impartial spectators; </p><p>you are my brother's friends, therefore you must be mine. What can I say? </p><p>if you refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!" She cast up her eyes, while </p><p>wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if carried away by her feelings, </p><p>she cried--"My brother! beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your </p><p>misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard the current tale; perhaps </p><p>believe the slander; but he is not mad! Were an angel from the foot of </p><p>God's throne to assert it, never, never would I believe it. He is wronged, </p><p>betrayed, imprisoned--save him! Verney, you must do this; seek him out in </p><p>whatever part of the island he is immured; find him, rescue him from his </p><p>persecutors, restore him to himself, to me--on the wide earth I have none </p><p>to love but only him!" </p><p>Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me with </p><p>wonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and look, </p><p>"Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?" I vowed, with energy and </p><p>truth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration and welfare of </p><p>Adrian. We then conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed the </p><p>probable means of discovering his residence. While we were in earnest </p><p>discourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced: I saw Perdita tremble and grow </p><p>deadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes. He must have </p><p>been astonished at our conclave, disturbed by it I should have thought; but </p><p>nothing of this appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me with a </p><p>cordial greeting. Idris appeared suspended for a moment, and then with </p><p>extreme sweetness, she said, "Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and </p><p>honour." </p><p>Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with emphasis, "Do you </p><p>indeed confide, Lady Idris?" </p><p>She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered with dignity, "As </p><p>you please. It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by any </p><p>concealment." </p><p>"Pardon me," he replied, "if I have offended. Whether you trust me or not, </p><p>rely on my doing my utmost to further your wishes, whatever they may be." </p><p>Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord Raymond requested </p><p>permission to accompany her to Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and </p><p>they quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were left--truly like </p><p>two fools, who fancied that they had obtained a golden treasure, till </p><p>daylight shewed it to be lead--two silly, luckless flies, who had played </p><p>in sunbeams and were caught in a spider's web. I leaned against the </p><p>casement, and watched those two glorious creatures, till they disappeared </p><p>in the forest-glades; and then I turned. Perdita had not moved; her eyes</p><p>fixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless and </p><p>rigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat. Half frightened, I would </p><p>have taken her hand; but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to </p><p>collect herself. I entreated her to speak to me: "Not now," she replied, </p><p>"nor do you speak to me, my dear Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know </p><p>nothing. I will see you to-morrow; in the meantime, adieu!" She rose, and </p><p>walked from the room; but pausing at the door, and leaning against it, as </p><p>if her over-busy thoughts had taken from her the power of supporting </p><p>herself, she said, "Lord Raymond will probably return. Will you tell him </p><p>that he must excuse me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow </p><p>if he wishes it, and you also. You had better return to London with him; </p><p>you can there make the enquiries agreed upon, concerning the Earl of </p><p>Windsor and visit me again to-morrow, before you proceed on your </p><p>journey--till then, farewell!" </p><p>She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh. I gave my assent to </p><p>her request; and she left me. I felt as if, from the order of the </p><p>systematic world, I had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary, </p><p>unintelligible. That Raymond should marry Idris was more than ever </p><p>intolerable; yet my passion, though a giant from its birth, was too </p><p>strange, wild, and impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery I </p><p>perceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not confided in me; I could </p><p>not demand an explanation from Raymond without the hazard of betraying what </p><p>was perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain the truth from her </p><p>the following day--in the mean time--But, while I was occupied by </p><p>multiplying reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked for my sister; and </p><p>I delivered her message. After musing on it for a moment, he asked me if I </p><p>were about to return to London, and if I would accompany him: I consented. </p><p>He was full of thought, and remained silent during a considerable part of </p><p>our ride; at length he said, "I must apologize to you for my abstraction; </p><p>the truth is, Ryland's motion comes on to-night, and I am considering my </p><p>reply." </p><p>Ryland was the leader of the popular party, a hard-headed man, and in his </p><p>way eloquent; he had obtained leave to bring in a bill making it treason to </p><p>endeavour to change the present state of the English government and the </p><p>standing laws of the republic. This attack was directed against Raymond and </p><p>his machinations for the restoration of the monarchy. </p><p>Raymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House that evening. I </p><p>remembered my pursuit for intelligence concerning Adrian; and, knowing that </p><p>my time would be fully occupied, I excused myself. "Nay," said my </p><p>companion, "I can free you from your present impediment. You are going to </p><p>make enquiries concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at once, </p><p>he is at the Duke of Athol's seat at Dunkeld. On the first approach of his </p><p>disorder, he travelled about from one place to another; until, arriving at </p><p>that romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and we made arrangements </p><p>with the Duke for his continuing there." </p><p>I was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed this information, </p><p>and replied coldly: "I am obliged to you for your intelligence, and will </p><p>avail myself of it." </p><p>"You shall, Verney," said he, "and if you continue of the same mind, I will </p><p>facilitate your views. But first witness, I beseech you, the result of this </p><p>night's contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if I may so call </p><p>it, while I fear that victory is to me defeat. What can I do? My dearest </p><p>hopes appear to be near their fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris; </p><p>Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom, and that earldom in</p><p>my hands becomes a kingdom. By the reigning God it is true; the paltry </p><p>earldom of Windsor shall no longer content him, who will inherit the rights </p><p>which must for ever appertain to the person who possesses it. The Countess </p><p>can never forget that she has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a </p><p>diminished inheritance to her children; her power and my wit will rebuild </p><p>the throne, and this brow will be clasped by a kingly diadem.--I can do </p><p>this--I can marry Idris."--- </p><p>He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its expression changed </p><p>again and again under the influence of internal passion. I asked, "Does </p><p>Lady Idris love you?" </p><p>"What a question," replied he laughing. "She will of course, as I shall </p><p>her, when we are married." </p><p>"You begin late," said I, ironically, "marriage is usually considered the </p><p>grave, and not the cradle of love. So you are about to love her, but do not </p><p>already?" </p><p>"Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her, be assured. Love! I </p><p>must steel my heart against that; expel it from its tower of strength, </p><p>barricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to play, its waters be </p><p>dried up, and all passionate thoughts attendant on it die--that is to </p><p>say, the love which would rule me, not that which I rule. Idris is a </p><p>gentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible not to have an </p><p>affection for her, and I have a very sincere one; only do not speak of love </p><p>--love, the tyrant and the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror, </p><p>now my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable beast, the fanged </p><p>snake--no--no--I will have nothing to do with that love. Tell me, </p><p>Lionel, do you consent that I should marry this young lady?" </p><p>He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable heart swelled in my </p><p>bosom. I replied in a calm voice--but how far from calm was the thought </p><p>imaged by my still words--"Never! I can never consent that Lady Idris </p><p>should be united to one who does not love her." </p><p>"Because you love her yourself." </p><p>"Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not, dare not love her." </p><p>"At least," he continued haughtily, "she does not love you. I would not </p><p>marry a reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her heart was free. But, </p><p>O, Lionel! a kingdom is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms </p><p>that compose the style of royalty. Were not the mightiest men of the olden </p><p>times kings? Alexander was a king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king; </p><p>Napoleon was a king; Caesar died in his attempt to become one, and </p><p>Cromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to regality. The father of </p><p>Adrian yielded up the already broken sceptre of England; but I will rear </p><p>the fallen plant, join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above all the </p><p>flowers of the field. </p><p>"You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian's abode. Do not </p><p>suppose that I am wicked or foolish enough to found my purposed </p><p>sovereignty on a fraud, and one so easily discovered as the truth </p><p>or falsehood of the Earl's insanity. I am just come from him. Before I </p><p>decided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to see him myself again, and </p><p>to judge of the probability of his recovery.--He is irrecoverably mad." </p><p>I gasped for breath--</p><p>"I will not detail to you," continued Raymond, "the melancholy particulars. </p><p>You shall see him, and judge for yourself; although I fear this visit, </p><p>useless to him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has weighed on my </p><p>spirits ever since. Excellent and gentle as he is even in the downfall of </p><p>his reason, I do not worship him as you do, but I would give all my hopes </p><p>of a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him restored to himself." </p><p>His voice expressed the deepest compassion: "Thou most unaccountable </p><p>being," I cried, "whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze of </p><p>purpose in which thou seemest lost?" </p><p>"Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown, I hope; and yet I </p><p>dare not trust and though I dream of a crown and wake for one, ever and </p><p>anon a busy devil whispers to me, that it is but a fool's cap that I seek, </p><p>and that were I wise, I should trample on it, and take in its stead, that </p><p>which is worth all the crowns of the east and presidentships of the west." </p><p>"And what is that?" </p><p>"If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at present I dare not </p><p>speak, even think of it." </p><p>Again he was silent, and after a pause turned to me laughingly. When scorn </p><p>did not inspire his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that painted his </p><p>features with a joyous expression, his beauty became super-eminent, divine. </p><p>"Verney," said he, "my first act when I become King of England, will be to </p><p>unite with the Greeks, take Constantinople, and subdue all Asia. I intend </p><p>to be a warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon's name shall vail to mine; and </p><p>enthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky grave, and exalting the merits </p><p>of the fallen, shall adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious </p><p>achievements." </p><p>I listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be other than all ear, </p><p>to one who seemed to govern the whole earth in his grasping imagination, </p><p>and who only quailed when he attempted to rule himself. Then on his word </p><p>and will depended my own happiness--the fate of all dear to me. I </p><p>endeavoured to divine the concealed meaning of his words. Perdita's name </p><p>was not mentioned; yet I could not doubt that love for her caused the </p><p>vacillation of purpose that he exhibited. And who was so worthy of love as </p><p>my noble-minded sister? Who deserved the hand of this self-exalted king </p><p>more than she whose glance belonged to a queen of nations? who loved him, </p><p>as he did her; notwithstanding that disappointment quelled her passion, and </p><p>ambition held strong combat with his. </p><p>We went together to the House in the evening. Raymond, while he knew that </p><p>his plans and prospects were to be discussed and decided during the </p><p>expected debate, was gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten thousand </p><p>hives of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the coffee-room. Knots of </p><p>politicians were assembled with anxious brows and loud or deep voices. The </p><p>aristocratical party, the richest and most influential men in England, </p><p>appeared less agitated than the others, for the question was to be </p><p>discussed without their interference. Near the fire was Ryland and his </p><p>supporters. Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of immense wealth, </p><p>inherited from his father, who had been a manufacturer. He had witnessed, </p><p>when a young man, the abdication of the king, and the amalgamation of the </p><p>two houses of Lords and Commons; he had sympathized with these popular </p><p>encroachments, and it had been the business of his life to consolidate and </p><p>encrease them. Since then, the influence of the landed proprietors had</p><p>augmented; and at first Ryland was not sorry to observe the machinations of </p><p>Lord Raymond, which drew off many of his opponent's partizans. But the </p><p>thing was now going too far. The poorer nobility hailed the return of </p><p>sovereignty, as an event which would restore them to their power and </p><p>rights, now lost. The half extinct spirit of royalty roused itself in the </p><p>minds of men; and they, willing slaves, self-constituted subjects, were </p><p>ready to bend their necks to the yoke. Some erect and manly spirits still </p><p>remained, pillars of state; but the word republic had grown stale to the </p><p>vulgar ear; and many--the event would prove whether it was a majority-- </p><p>pined for the tinsel and show of royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance; </p><p>he asserted that his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of this </p><p>party; but the time for indulgence was passed, and with one motion of his </p><p>arm he would sweep away the cobwebs that blinded his countrymen. </p><p>When Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was hailed by his </p><p>friends almost with a shout. They gathered round him, counted their </p><p>numbers, and detailed the reasons why they were now to receive an addition </p><p>of such and such members, who had not yet declared themselves. Some </p><p>trifling business of the House having been gone through, the leaders took </p><p>their seats in the chamber; the clamour of voices continued, till Ryland </p><p>arose to speak, and then the slightest whispered observation was audible. </p><p>All eyes were fixed upon him as he stood--ponderous of frame, sonorous of </p><p>voice, and with a manner which, though not graceful, was impressive. I </p><p>turned from his marked, iron countenance to Raymond, whose face, veiled by </p><p>a smile, would not betray his care; yet his lips quivered somewhat, and his </p><p>hand clasped the bench on which he sat, with a convulsive strength that </p><p>made the muscles start again. </p><p>Ryland began by praising the present state of the British empire. He </p><p>recalled past years to their memory; the miserable contentions which in the </p><p>time of our fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of the late </p><p>king, and the foundation of the republic. He described this republic; </p><p>shewed how it gave privilege to each individual in the state, to rise to </p><p>consequence, and even to temporary sovereignty. He compared the royal and </p><p>republican spirit; shewed how the one tended to enslave the minds of men; </p><p>while all the institutions of the other served to raise even the meanest </p><p>among us to something great and good. He shewed how England had become </p><p>powerful, and its inhabitants valiant and wise, by means of the freedom </p><p>they enjoyed. As he spoke, every heart swelled with pride, and every cheek </p><p>glowed with delight to remember, that each one there was English, and that </p><p>each supported and contributed to the happy state of things now </p><p>commemorated. Ryland's fervour increased--his eyes lighted up--his </p><p>voice assumed the tone of passion. There was one man, he continued, who </p><p>wished to alter all this, and bring us back to our days of impotence and </p><p>contention:--one man, who would dare arrogate the honour which was due to </p><p>all who claimed England as their birthplace, and set his name and style </p><p>above the name and style of his country. I saw at this juncture that </p><p>Raymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn from the orator, and cast </p><p>on the ground; the listeners turned from one to the other; but in the </p><p>meantime the speaker's voice filled their ears--the thunder of his </p><p>denunciations influenced their senses. The very boldness of his language </p><p>gave him weight; each knew that he spoke truth--a truth known, but not </p><p>acknowledged. He tore from reality the mask with which she had been </p><p>clothed; and the purposes of Raymond, which before had crept around, </p><p>ensnaring by stealth, now stood a hunted stag--even at bay--as all </p><p>perceived who watched the irrepressible changes of his countenance. Ryland </p><p>ended by moving, that any attempt to re-erect the kingly power should be </p><p>declared treason, and he a traitor who should endeavour to change the </p><p>present form of government. Cheers and loud acclamations followed the close</p><p>of his speech. </p><p>After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond rose,--his countenance </p><p>bland, his voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and </p><p>sweetness came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the loud, </p><p>organ-like voice of his adversary. He rose, he said, to speak in favour of </p><p>the honourable member's motion, with one slight amendment subjoined. He was </p><p>ready to go back to old times, and commemorate the contests of our fathers, </p><p>and the monarch's abdication. Nobly and greatly, he said, had the </p><p>illustrious and last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the </p><p>apparent good of his country, and divested himself of a power which could </p><p>only be maintained by the blood of his subjects--these subjects named so </p><p>no more, these, his friends and equals, had in gratitude conferred certain </p><p>favours and distinctions on him and his family for ever. An ample estate </p><p>was allotted to them, and they took the first rank among the peers of Great </p><p>Britain. Yet it might be conjectured that they had not forgotten their </p><p>ancient heritage; and it was hard that his heir should suffer alike with </p><p>any other pretender, if he attempted to regain what by ancient right and </p><p>inheritance belonged to him. He did not say that he should favour such an </p><p>attempt; but he did say that such an attempt would be venial; and, if the </p><p>aspirant did not go so far as to declare war, and erect a standard in the </p><p>kingdom, his fault ought to be regarded with an indulgent eye. In his </p><p>amendment he proposed, that an exception should be made in the bill in </p><p>favour of any person who claimed the sovereign power in right of the earls </p><p>of Windsor. Nor did Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid and glowing </p><p>colours, the splendour of a kingdom, in opposition to the commercial spirit </p><p>of republicanism. He asserted, that each individual under the English </p><p>monarchy, was then as now, capable of attaining high rank and power--with </p><p>one only exception, that of the function of chief magistrate; higher and </p><p>nobler rank, than a bartering, timorous commonwealth could afford. And for </p><p>this one exception, to what did it amount? The nature of riches and </p><p>influence forcibly confined the list of candidates to a few of the </p><p>wealthiest; and it was much to be feared, that the ill-humour and </p><p>contention generated by this triennial struggle, would counterbalance its </p><p>advantages in impartial eyes. I can ill record the flow of language and </p><p>graceful turns of expression, the wit and easy raillery that gave vigour </p><p>and influence to his speech. His manner, timid at first, became firm--his </p><p>changeful face was lit up to superhuman brilliancy; his voice, various as </p><p>music, was like that enchanting. </p><p>It were useless to record the debate that followed this harangue. Party </p><p>speeches were delivered, which clothed the question in cant, and veiled its </p><p>simple meaning in a woven wind of words. The motion was lost; Ryland </p><p>withdrew in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and exulting, retired to </p><p>dream of his future kingdom. </p><p>CHAPTER IV. </p><p>IS there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if there be, in what </p><p>does its nature differ from love founded in long observation and slow </p><p>growth? Perhaps its effects are not so permanent; but they are, while they </p><p>last, as violent and intense. We walk the pathless mazes of society, vacant </p><p>of joy, till we hold this clue, leading us through that labyrinth to </p><p>paradise. Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch, sleeps in formless </p><p>blank till the fire attain it; this life of life, this light to moon, and</p><p>glory to the sun. What does it matter, whether the fire be struck from </p><p>flint and steel, nourished with care into a flame, slowly communicated to </p><p>the dark wick, or whether swiftly the radiant power of light and warmth </p><p>passes from a kindred power, and shines at once the beacon and the hope. In </p><p>the deepest fountain of my heart the pulses were stirred; around, above, </p><p>beneath, the clinging Memory as a cloak enwrapt me. In no one moment of </p><p>coming time did I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit of Idris </p><p>hovered in the air I breathed; her eyes were ever and for ever bent on </p><p>mine; her remembered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused me to walk as </p><p>one, not in eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy--but in a new and </p><p>brilliant light, too novel, too dazzling for my human senses. On every </p><p>leaf, on every small division of the universe, (as on the hyacinth ai is </p><p>engraved) was imprinted the talisman of my existence--SHE LIVES! SHE IS! </p><p>--I had not time yet to analyze my feeling, to take myself to task, and </p><p>leash in the tameless passion; all was one idea, one feeling, one knowledge </p><p>--it was my life! </p><p>But the die was cast--Raymond would marry Idris. The merry marriage bells </p><p>rung in my ears; I heard the nation's gratulation which followed the union; </p><p>the ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from the lowly ground </p><p>to regal supremacy--and to the love of Idris. Yet, not so! She did not </p><p>love him; she had called me her friend; she had smiled on me; to me she had </p><p>entrusted her heart's dearest hope, the welfare of Adrian. This reflection </p><p>thawed my congealing blood, and again the tide of life and love flowed </p><p>impetuously onward, again to ebb as my busy thoughts changed. </p><p>The debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul was in tumults; I </p><p>traversed the streets with eager rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night-- </p><p>love--which I have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with despair! </p><p>My heart, the field of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the one, </p><p>watered by the gushing tears of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned; I </p><p>retreated to my lodgings--I threw myself on a couch--I slept--was it </p><p>sleep?--for thought was still alive--love and despair struggled still, </p><p>and I writhed with unendurable pain. </p><p>I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on me, but knew not </p><p>wherefore; I entered, as it were, the council-chamber of my brain, and </p><p>questioned the various ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon I </p><p>remembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the tormenting power; </p><p>soon, too soon, I knew myself a slave! </p><p>Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my apartment. He came in gaily, </p><p>singing the Tyrolese song of liberty; noticed me with a gracious nod, and </p><p>threw himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the Apollo </p><p>Belvidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to which I sullenly replied, </p><p>he suddenly cried, looking at the bust, "I am called like that victor! Not </p><p>a bad idea; the head will serve for my new coinage, and be an omen to all </p><p>dutiful subjects of my future success." </p><p>He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner, and smiled, not </p><p>disdainfully, but in playful mockery of himself. Then his countenance </p><p>suddenly darkened, and in that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he cried, </p><p>"I fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the plains of Greece </p><p>never saw me achieve. Now I am the first man in the state, burthen of every </p><p>ballad, and object of old women's mumbled devotions. What are your </p><p>meditations? You, who fancy that you can read the human soul, as your </p><p>native lake reads each crevice and folding of its surrounding hills--say </p><p>what you think of me; king-expectant, angel or devil, which?" </p><p>This ironical tone was discord to my bursting, over-boiling-heart; I was </p><p>nettled by his insolence, and replied with bitterness; "There is a spirit, </p><p>neither angel or devil, damned to limbo merely." I saw his cheeks become </p><p>pale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his anger served but to enkindle </p><p>mine, and I answered with a determined look his eyes which glared on me; </p><p>suddenly they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I thought, wetted the dark </p><p>lashes; I was softened, and with involuntary emotion added, "Not that you </p><p>are such, my dear lord." </p><p>I paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; "Yes," he said at length, </p><p>rising and biting his lip, as he strove to curb his passion; "Such am I! </p><p>You do not know me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience of last night, </p><p>nor does universal England know aught of me. I stand here, it would seem, </p><p>an elected king; this hand is about to grasp a sceptre; these brows feel in </p><p>each nerve the coming diadem. I appear to have strength, power, victory; </p><p>standing as a dome-supporting column stands; and I am--a reed! I have </p><p>ambition, and that attains its aim; my nightly dreams are realized, my </p><p>waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my acceptance, my enemies are </p><p>overthrown. But here," and he struck his heart with violence, "here is the </p><p>rebel, here the stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which I may drain </p><p>of its living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsation remains, I am its </p><p>slave." </p><p>He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and, hiding his face in </p><p>his hands, wept. I was still smarting from my own disappointment; yet this </p><p>scene oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his access of </p><p>passion. It subsided at length; and, throwing himself on the couch, he </p><p>remained silent and motionless, except that his changeful features shewed a </p><p>strong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said in his usual tone of </p><p>voice, "The time grows on us, Verney, I must away. Let me not forget my </p><p>chiefest errand here. Will you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow? You will </p><p>not be dishonoured by my society, and as this is probably the last service, </p><p>or disservice you can do me, will you grant my request?" </p><p>He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly I thought--Yes, I </p><p>will witness the last scene of the drama. Beside which, his mien conquered </p><p>me, and an affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled my heart--I </p><p>bade him command me. "Aye, that I will," said he gaily, "that's my cue now; </p><p>be with me to-morrow morning by seven; be secret and faithful; and you </p><p>shall be groom of the stole ere long." </p><p>So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and with a gesture as if </p><p>he gave me his hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu. Left to </p><p>myself, I strove with painful intensity to divine the motive of his request </p><p>and foresee the events of the coming day. The hours passed on unperceived; </p><p>my head ached with thought, the nerves seemed teeming with the over full </p><p>fraught--I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered hand could medicine </p><p>its pain. I was punctual to the appointed hour on the following day, and </p><p>found Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into his carriage, and proceeded </p><p>towards Windsor. I had tutored myself, and was resolved by no outward sign </p><p>to disclose my internal agitation. </p><p>"What a mistake Ryland made," said Raymond, "when he thought to overpower </p><p>me the other night. He spoke well, very well; such an harangue would have </p><p>succeeded better addressed to me singly, than to the fools and knaves </p><p>assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have listened to him with a </p><p>wish to hear reason, but when he endeavoured to vanquish me in my own </p><p>territory, with my own weapons, he put me on my mettle, and the event was </p><p>such as all might have expected."</p><p>I smiled incredulously, and replied: "I am of Ryland's way of thinking, and </p><p>will, if you please, repeat all his arguments; we shall see how far you </p><p>will be induced by them, to change the royal for the patriotic style." </p><p>"The repetition would be useless," said Raymond, "since I well remember </p><p>them, and have many others, self-suggested, which speak with unanswerable </p><p>persuasion." </p><p>He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark on his reply. Our </p><p>silence endured for some miles, till the country with open fields, or shady </p><p>woods and parks, presented pleasant objects to our view. After some </p><p>observations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said: "Philosophers have </p><p>called man a microcosm of nature, and find a reflection in the internal </p><p>mind for all this machinery visibly at work around us. This theory has </p><p>often been a source of amusement to me; and many an idle hour have I spent, </p><p>exercising my ingenuity in finding resemblances. Does not Lord Bacon say </p><p>that, 'the falling from a discord to a concord, which maketh great </p><p>sweetness in music, hath an agreement with the affections, which are </p><p>re-integrated to the better after some dislikes?' What a sea is the tide of </p><p>passion, whose fountains are in our own nature! Our virtues are the </p><p>quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm and low water; but let the waves </p><p>arise and the winds buffet them, and the poor devil whose hope was in their </p><p>durability, finds them sink from under him. The fashions of the world, its </p><p>exigencies, educations and pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like </p><p>clouds all one way; but let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of love, </p><p>hate, or ambition, and the rack goes backward, stemming the opposing air in </p><p>triumph." </p><p>"Yet," replied I, "nature always presents to our eyes the appearance of a </p><p>patient: while there is an active principle in man which is capable of </p><p>ruling fortune, and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in some </p><p>mode conquers it." </p><p>"There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction," said my </p><p>companion. "Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and our </p><p>powers? I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with chords and </p><p>stops--but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my thoughts to a </p><p>higher or lower key." </p><p>"Other men," I observed, "may be better musicians." </p><p>"I talk not of others, but myself," replied Raymond, "and I am as fair an </p><p>example to go by as another. I cannot set my heart to a particular tune, or </p><p>run voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose neither our </p><p>parents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by the world's </p><p>circumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our innate disposition, </p><p>is the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives grow." </p><p>"There is much truth in what you say," said I, "and yet no man ever acts </p><p>upon this theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I choose, because </p><p>I am necessitated? Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will </p><p>within him, which, though you may call it fallacious, still actuates him as </p><p>he decides?" </p><p>"Exactly so," replied Raymond, "another link of the breakless chain. </p><p>Were I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and </p><p>pluck the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary </p><p>weeds, would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?"</p><p>As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road to </p><p>Windsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I began to </p><p>divine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was brought </p><p>to witness the scene that was to decide the fate of Raymond--and of </p><p>Perdita. Raymond had evidently vacillated during his journey, and </p><p>irresolution was marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita's cottage. I </p><p>watched him curiously, determined that, if this hesitation should continue, </p><p>I would assist Perdita to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the </p><p>wavering love of him, who balanced between the possession of a crown, and </p><p>of her, whose excellence and affection transcended the worth of a </p><p>kingdom. </p><p>We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the newspaper </p><p>report of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed her to </p><p>hopelessness. That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes and </p><p>spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and frequent sighs were </p><p>tokens of her distress. This sight had an instantaneous effect on Raymond; </p><p>his eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse clothed his manners with </p><p>earnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking the paper from her </p><p>hand, said, "Not a word more shall my sweet Perdita read of this contention </p><p>of madmen and fools. I must not permit you to be acquainted with the extent </p><p>of my delusion, lest you despise me; although, believe me, a wish to appear </p><p>before you, not vanquished, but as a conqueror, inspired me during my wordy </p><p>war." </p><p>Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone for </p><p>a moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness. But a bitter </p><p>thought swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground, </p><p>endeavouring to master the passion of tears that threatened to overwhelm </p><p>her. Raymond continued, "I will not act a part with you, dear girl, or </p><p>appear other than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite your </p><p>disdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel and know that you do, </p><p>and thence I draw my most cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even </p><p>reason, you might well reject me. Do so; if your high heart, incapable of </p><p>my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend to the lowness of mine. Turn from </p><p>me, if you will,--if you can. If your whole soul does not urge you to </p><p>forgive me--if your entire heart does not open wide its door to admit me </p><p>to its very centre, forsake me, never speak to me again. I, though sinning </p><p>against you almost beyond remission, I also am proud; there must be no </p><p>reserve in your pardon--no drawback to the gift of your affection." </p><p>Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence embarrassed her; so </p><p>that she dared not turn to meet her lover's eye, or trust her voice to </p><p>assure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her </p><p>disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt joy. Raymond </p><p>encircled her waist with his arm, and continued, "I do not deny that I have </p><p>balanced between you and the highest hope that mortal men can entertain; </p><p>but I do so no longer. Take me--mould me to your will, possess my heart </p><p>and soul to all eternity. If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I </p><p>quit England to-night, and will never set foot in it again. </p><p>"Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister to forgive the </p><p>injury I have done her; persuade her to be mine." </p><p>"There needs no persuasion," said the blushing Perdita, "except your own </p><p>dear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me that they are </p><p>true." </p><p>That same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with the </p><p>garrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history of </p><p>their loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved </p><p>Perdita changed through happy love into prattling, playful children, both </p><p>losing their characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual contentment. A </p><p>night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and a heart oppressed </p><p>with thought, bent all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators </p><p>of England that a sceptre was not too weighty for his hand, while visions </p><p>of dominion, war, and triumph floated before him; now, frolicsome as a </p><p>lively boy sporting under his mother's approving eye, the hopes of his </p><p>ambition were complete, when he pressed the small fair hand of Perdita to </p><p>his lips; while she, radiant with delight, looked on the still pool, not </p><p>truly admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the reflection there </p><p>made of the form of herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear </p><p>conjunction. </p><p>I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was theirs, I </p><p>enjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers of Windsor. </p><p>High is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of </p><p>Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few more years dwell in </p><p>thy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire a right to </p><p>gather thee. Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now? First I </p><p>must seek Adrian, and restore him to her. Patience, gentleness, and untired </p><p>affection, shall recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is </p><p>mad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be unjustly imprisoned. </p><p>After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove. Truly </p><p>it was a fairy's supper; for though the air was perfumed by the scent of </p><p>fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank--even the beauty of </p><p>the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased by outward </p><p>objects, and I was wrapt in reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took </p><p>leave of my sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps of songs </p><p>fell from his lips; every thought of his mind--every object about us, </p><p>gleamed under the sunshine of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of </p><p>ill-humour and envy. </p><p>"Not so," said I, "though I confess that my thoughts are not occupied as </p><p>pleasantly as yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I </p><p>conjure you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I long to soothe </p><p>--perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend. I shall </p><p>immediately depart for Dunkeld." </p><p>"Thou bird of night," replied Raymond, "what an eclipse do you throw across </p><p>my bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy ruin, which </p><p>stands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of a carved </p><p>column in a weed-grown field. You dream that you can restore him? Daedalus </p><p>never wound so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has woven </p><p>about his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can thread the </p><p>labyrinth, to which perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue." </p><p>"You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in England." </p><p>"And were she," said Raymond, "I would not advise her seeing him. Better to </p><p>decay in absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the methodical </p><p>unreason of ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his malady has probably </p><p>erased from his mind all vestige of her; and it were well that it should </p><p>never again be imprinted. You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and </p><p>tractable he wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits listening </p><p>beside the waterfall. You may see him--his hair stuck with wild flowers</p><p>--his eyes full of untraceable meaning--his voice broken--his person </p><p>wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves chaplets of </p><p>them, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in </p><p>their safety, or weeping at their wreck. The very memory half unmans me. By </p><p>Heaven! the first tears I have shed since boyhood rushed scalding into my </p><p>eyes when I saw him." </p><p>It needed not this last account to spur me on to visit him. I only doubted </p><p>whether or not I should endeavour to see Idris again, before I departed. </p><p>This doubt was decided on the following day. Early in the morning Raymond </p><p>came to me; intelligence had arrived that Adrian was dangerously ill, and </p><p>it appeared impossible that his failing strength should surmount the </p><p>disorder. "To-morrow," said Raymond, "his mother and sister set out for </p><p>Scotland to see him once again." </p><p>"And I go to-day," I cried; "this very hour I will engage a sailing </p><p>balloon; I shall be there in forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in </p><p>less, if the wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having chosen the </p><p>better part in life. This turn of fortune revives me. I feared madness, not </p><p>sickness--I have a presentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps this </p><p>illness is a crisis, and he may recover." </p><p>Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about half a mile from the </p><p>earth, and with a favourable wind it hurried through the air, its feathered </p><p>vans cleaving the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the melancholy </p><p>object of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated by reviving hope, by the </p><p>swift motion of the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny </p><p>air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and the slender mechanism </p><p>of the wings, wide unfurled, gave forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the </p><p>sense. Plain and hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible below, while </p><p>we unimpeded sped on swift and secure, as a wild swan in his spring-tide </p><p>flight. The machine obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind </p><p>blowing steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our course. Such was the </p><p>power of man over the elements; a power long sought, and lately won; yet </p><p>foretold in by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I quoted much </p><p>to the astonishment of my pilot, when I told him how many hundred years ago </p><p>they had been written:-- </p><p> Oh! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill,</p><p> Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,</p><p> An heavy man like a light bird should stray,</p><p> And through the empty heavens find a way?</p><p>I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a constant exposure to </p><p>the air for many hours, I would not rest, but merely altering my mode of </p><p>conveyance, I went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was rising </p><p>as I entered the opening of the hills. After the revolution of ages Birnam </p><p>hill was again covered with a young forest, while more aged pines, planted </p><p>at the very commencement of the nineteenth century by the then Duke of </p><p>Athol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene. The rising sun first tinged </p><p>the pine tops; and my mind, rendered through my mountain education deeply </p><p>susceptible of the graces of nature, and now on the eve of again beholding </p><p>my beloved and perhaps dying friend, was strangely influenced by the sight </p><p>of those distant beams: surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded </p><p>them, good omens for Adrian, on whose life my happiness depended. </p><p>Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his cheeks glowing with </p><p>the hues of fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irregular and </p><p>difficult. Yet it was less painful to see him thus, than to find him</p><p>fulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick the while. I </p><p>established myself at his bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter </p><p>task was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and life: to see his </p><p>warm cheek, and know that the very fire which burned too fiercely there, </p><p>was consuming the vital fuel; to hear his moaning voice, which might never </p><p>again articulate words of love and wisdom; to witness the ineffectual </p><p>motions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in their mortal shroud. Such for </p><p>three days and nights appeared the consummation which fate had decreed for </p><p>my labours, and I became haggard and spectre-like, through anxiety and </p><p>watching. At length his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a look of returning </p><p>life; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his features was </p><p>softened by approaching convalescence. He knew me. What a brimful cup of </p><p>joyful agony it was, when his face first gleamed with the glance of </p><p>recognition--when he pressed my hand, now more fevered than his own, and </p><p>when he pronounced my name! No trace of his past insanity remained, to dash </p><p>my joy with sorrow. </p><p>This same evening his mother and sister arrived. The Countess of Windsor </p><p>was by nature full of energetic feeling; but she had very seldom in her </p><p>life permitted the concentrated emotions of her heart to shew themselves on </p><p>her features. The studied immovability of her countenance; her slow, </p><p>equable manner, and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask, hiding her </p><p>fiery passions, and the impatience of her disposition. She did not in the </p><p>least resemble either of her children; her black and sparkling eye, lit up </p><p>by pride, was totally unlike the blue lustre, and frank, benignant </p><p>expression of either Adrian or Idris. There was something grand and </p><p>majestic in her motions, but nothing persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall, </p><p>thin, and strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair hardly tinged </p><p>with grey, her forehead arched and beautiful, had not the eye-brows been </p><p>somewhat scattered--it was impossible not to be struck by her, almost to </p><p>fear her. Idris appeared to be the only being who could resist her mother, </p><p>notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her character. But there was a </p><p>fearlessness and frankness about her, which said that she would not </p><p>encroach on another's liberty, but held her own sacred and unassailable. </p><p>The Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out frame, though </p><p>afterwards she thanked me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris; her first </p><p>glance was for her brother; she took his hand, she kissed his eye-lids, and </p><p>hung over him with looks of compassion and love. Her eyes glistened with </p><p>tears when she thanked me, and the grace of her expressions was enhanced, </p><p>not diminished, by the fervour, which caused her almost to falter as she </p><p>spoke. Her mother, all eyes and ears, soon interrupted us; and I saw, that </p><p>she wished to dismiss me quietly, as one whose services, now that his </p><p>relatives had arrived, were of no use to her son. I was harassed and ill, </p><p>resolved not to give up my post, yet doubting in what way I should assert </p><p>it; when Adrian called me, and clasping my hand, bade me not leave him. His </p><p>mother, apparently inattentive, at once understood what was meant, and </p><p>seeing the hold we had upon her, yielded the point to us. </p><p>The days that followed were full of pain to me; so that I sometimes </p><p>regretted that I had not yielded at once to the haughty lady, who watched </p><p>all my motions, and turned my beloved task of nursing my friend to a work </p><p>of pain and irritation. Never did any woman appear so entirely made of </p><p>mind, as the Countess of Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appetites, </p><p>even her natural wants; she slept little, and hardly ate at all; her body </p><p>was evidently considered by her as a mere machine, whose health was </p><p>necessary for the accomplishment of her schemes, but whose senses formed no </p><p>part of her enjoyment. There is something fearful in one who can thus </p><p>conquer the animal part of our nature, if the victory be not the effect of</p><p>consummate virtue; nor was it without a mixture of this feeling, that I </p><p>beheld the figure of the Countess awake when others slept, fasting when I, </p><p>abstemious naturally, and rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was </p><p>forced to recruit myself with food. She resolved to prevent or diminish my </p><p>opportunities of acquiring influence over her children, and circumvented my </p><p>plans by a hard, quiet, stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong to </p><p>flesh and blood. War was at last tacitly acknowledged between us. We had </p><p>many pitched battles, during which no word was spoken, hardly a look was </p><p>interchanged, but in which each resolved not to submit to the other. The </p><p>Countess had the advantage of position; so I was vanquished, though I would </p><p>not yield. </p><p>I became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with the hues of ill </p><p>health and vexation. Adrian and Idris saw this; they attributed it to my </p><p>long watching and anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of myself, </p><p>while I most truly assured them, that my best medicine was their good </p><p>wishes; those, and the assured convalescence of my friend, now daily more </p><p>apparent. The faint rose again blushed on his cheek; his brow and lips lost </p><p>the ashy paleness of threatened dissolution; such was the dear reward of my </p><p>unremitting attention--and bounteous heaven added overflowing recompence, </p><p>when it gave me also the thanks and smiles of Idris. </p><p>After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris and her mother </p><p>returned immediately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed by slow </p><p>journies and frequent stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness. As </p><p>we traversed the various counties of fertile England, all wore an </p><p>exhilarating appearance to my companion, who had been so long secluded by </p><p>disease from the enjoyments of weather and scenery. We passed through busy </p><p>towns and cultivated plains. The husbandmen were getting in their plenteous </p><p>harvests, and the women and children, occupied by light rustic toils, </p><p>formed groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very sight of whom carried </p><p>cheerfulness to the heart. One evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down </p><p>a shady lane, then up a grassy slope, till we came to an eminence, that </p><p>commanded an extensive view of hill and dale, meandering rivers, dark </p><p>woods, and shining villages. The sun was setting; and the clouds, straying, </p><p>like new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields of sky, received the golden </p><p>colour of his parting beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy </p><p>hum of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear. Adrian, who felt </p><p>all the fresh spirit infused by returning health, clasped his hands in </p><p>delight, and exclaimed with transport: </p><p>"O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A stately palace has God </p><p>built for you, O man! and worthy are you of your dwelling! Behold the </p><p>verdant carpet spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the fields </p><p>of earth which generate and nurture all things, and the track of heaven, </p><p>which contains and clasps all things. Now, at this evening hour, at the </p><p>period of repose and refection, methinks all hearts breathe one hymn of </p><p>love and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops, </p><p>give a voice to their sentiment. </p><p>"Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic fabric we inhabit, </p><p>and framed the laws by which it endures. If mere existence, and not </p><p>happiness, had been the final end of our being, what need of the profuse </p><p>luxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place be so lovely, and </p><p>why should the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sensations? The </p><p>very sustaining of our animal machine is made delightful; and our </p><p>sustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted with transcendant hues, </p><p>endued with grateful odours, and palatable to our taste. Why should this </p><p>be, if HE were not good? We need houses to protect us from the seasons, and</p><p>behold the materials with which we are provided; the growth of trees with </p><p>their adornment of leaves; while rocks of stone piled above the plains </p><p>variegate the prospect with their pleasant irregularity. </p><p>"Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the Spirit of Good. Look </p><p>into the mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned; where imagination, the </p><p>painter, sits, with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of sunset, </p><p>adorning familiar life with glowing tints. What a noble boon, worthy the </p><p>giver, is the imagination! it takes from reality its leaden hue: it </p><p>envelopes all thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an hand of </p><p>beauty beckons us from the sterile seas of life, to her gardens, and </p><p>bowers, and glades of bliss. And is not love a gift of the divinity? Love, </p><p>and her child, Hope, which can bestow wealth on poverty, strength on the </p><p>weak, and happiness on the sorrowing. </p><p>"My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long with grief, entered </p><p>the gloomy labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half alive. Yet I thank </p><p>God that I have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his throne, the </p><p>heavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad that I have seen the changes </p><p>of his day; to behold the sun, fountain of light, and the gentle pilgrim </p><p>moon; to have seen the fire bearing flowers of the sky, and the flowery </p><p>stars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing and the harvest. I am glad </p><p>that I have loved, and have experienced sympathetic joy and sorrow with my </p><p>fellow-creatures. I am glad now to feel the current of thought flow through </p><p>my mind, as the blood through the articulations of my frame; mere existence </p><p>is pleasure; and I thank God that I live! </p><p>"And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not echo my words? Ye </p><p>who are linked by the affectionate ties of nature, companions, friends, </p><p>lovers! fathers, who toil with joy for their offspring; women, who while </p><p>gazing on the living forms of their children, forget the pains of </p><p>maternity; children, who neither toil nor spin, but love and are loved! </p><p>"Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our earthly home! that </p><p>hatred, tyranny, and fear could no longer make their lair in the human </p><p>heart! that each man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of </p><p>repose amid the wide plains of his inheritance! that the source of tears </p><p>were dry, and that lips might no longer form expressions of sorrow. </p><p>Sleeping thus under the beneficent eye of heaven, can evil visit thee, O </p><p>Earth, or grief cradle to their graves thy luckless children? Whisper it </p><p>not, let the demons hear and rejoice! The choice is with us; let us will </p><p>it, and our habitation becomes a paradise. For the will of man is </p><p>omnipotent, blunting the arrows of death, soothing the bed of disease, and </p><p>wiping away the tears of agony. And what is each human being worth, if he </p><p>do not put forth his strength to aid his fellow-creatures? My soul is a </p><p>fading spark, my nature frail as a spent wave; but I dedicate all of </p><p>intellect and strength that remains to me, to that one work, and take upon </p><p>me the task, as far as I am able, of bestowing blessings on my </p><p>fellow-men!" </p><p>His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands clasped, and his </p><p>fragile person was bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The spirit of </p><p>life seemed to linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar flickers on </p><p>the embers of an accepted sacrifice. </p><p>CHAPTER V.</p><p>WHEN we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and Perdita had departed </p><p>for the continent. I took possession of my sister's cottage, and blessed </p><p>myself that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a curious fact, </p><p>that at this period, when by the marriage of Perdita I was allied to one of </p><p>the richest individuals in England, and was bound by the most intimate </p><p>friendship to its chiefest noble, I experienced the greatest excess of </p><p>poverty that I had ever known. My knowledge of the worldly principles of </p><p>Lord Raymond, would have ever prevented me from applying to him, however </p><p>deep my distress might have been. It was in vain that I repeated to myself </p><p>with regard to Adrian, that his purse was open to me; that one in soul, as </p><p>we were, our fortunes ought also to be common. I could never, while with </p><p>him, think of his bounty as a remedy to my poverty; and I even put aside </p><p>hastily his offers of supplies, assuring him of a falsehood, that I needed </p><p>them not. How could I say to this generous being, "Maintain me in idleness. </p><p>You who have dedicated your powers of mind and fortune to the benefit of </p><p>your species, shall you so misdirect your exertions, as to support in </p><p>uselessness the strong, healthy, and capable?" </p><p>And yet I dared not request him to use his influence that I might obtain an </p><p>honourable provision for myself--for then I should have been obliged to </p><p>leave Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its Castle, beneath </p><p>its enshadowing thickets; my sole companions were my books and my loving </p><p>thoughts. I studied the wisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the happy </p><p>walls that sheltered the beloved of my soul. My mind was nevertheless idle. </p><p>I pored over the poetry of old times; I studied the metaphysics of Plato </p><p>and Berkeley. I read the histories of Greece and Rome, and of England's </p><p>former periods, and I watched the movements of the lady of my heart. At </p><p>night I could see her shadow on the walls of her apartment; by day I viewed </p><p>her in her flower-garden, or riding in the park with her usual companions. </p><p>Methought the charm would be broken if I were seen, but I heard the music </p><p>of her voice and was happy. I gave to each heroine of whom I read, her </p><p>beauty and matchless excellences--such was Antigone, when she guided the </p><p>blind Oedipus to the grove of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral </p><p>rites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the unvisited cave of Prospero; </p><p>such Haidee, on the sands of the Ionian island. I was mad with excess of </p><p>passionate devotion; but pride, tameless as fire, invested my nature, and </p><p>prevented me from betraying myself by word or look. </p><p>In the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with rich mental repasts, a </p><p>peasant would have disdained my scanty fare, which I sometimes robbed from </p><p>the squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often tempted to recur to the </p><p>lawless feats of my boy-hood, and knock down the almost tame pheasants that </p><p>perched upon the trees, and bent their bright eyes on me. But they were the </p><p>property of Adrian, the nurslings of Idris; and so, although my imagination </p><p>rendered sensual by privation, made me think that they would better become </p><p>the spit in my kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest, </p><p> Nathelesse,</p><p> I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;</p><p>but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of "such morsels sweet," as </p><p>I might not waking attain. </p><p>But, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence was about to change. </p><p>The orphan and neglected son of Verney, was on the eve of being linked to </p><p>the mechanism of society by a golden chain, and to enter into all the </p><p>duties and affections of life. Miracles were to be wrought in my favour,</p><p>the machine of social life pushed with vast effort backward. Attend, O </p><p>reader! while I narrate this tale of wonders! </p><p>One day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the forest, with their </p><p>mother and accustomed companions, Idris, drawing her brother aside from the </p><p>rest of the cavalcade, suddenly asked him, "What had become of his friend, </p><p>Lionel Verney?" </p><p>"Even from this spot," replied Adrian, pointing to my sister's cottage, </p><p>"you can see his dwelling." </p><p>"Indeed!" said Idris, "and why, if he be so near, does he not come to see </p><p>us, and make one of our society?" </p><p>"I often visit him," replied Adrian; "but you may easily guess the motives, </p><p>which prevent him from coming where his presence may annoy any one among </p><p>us." </p><p>"I do guess them," said Idris, "and such as they are, I would not </p><p>venture to combat them. Tell me, however, in what way he passes his time; </p><p>what he is doing and thinking in his cottage retreat?" </p><p>"Nay, my sweet sister," replied Adrian, "you ask me more than I can well </p><p>answer; but if you feel interest in him, why not visit him? He will feel </p><p>highly honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the obligation I owe him, </p><p>and compensate for the injuries fortune has done him." </p><p>"I will most readily accompany you to his abode," said the lady, "not that </p><p>I wish that either of us should unburthen ourselves of our debt, which, </p><p>being no less than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But let us go; </p><p>to-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and proceeding towards that </p><p>part of the forest, call upon him." </p><p>The next evening therefore, though the autumnal change had brought on cold </p><p>and rain, Adrian and Idris entered my cottage. They found me Curius-like, </p><p>feasting on sorry fruits for supper; but they brought gifts richer than the </p><p>golden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I refuse the invaluable store of </p><p>friendship and delight which they bestowed. Surely the glorious twins of </p><p>Latona were not more welcome, when, in the infancy of the world, they were </p><p>brought forth to beautify and enlighten this "sterile promontory," than </p><p>were this angelic pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart. We sat like </p><p>one family round my hearth. Our talk was on subjects, unconnected with the </p><p>emotions that evidently occupied each; but we each divined the other's </p><p>thought, and as our voices spoke of indifferent matters, our eyes, in mute </p><p>language, told a thousand things no tongue could have uttered. </p><p>They left me in an hour's time. They left me happy--how unspeakably </p><p>happy. It did not require the measured sounds of human language to syllable </p><p>the story of my extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should again and </p><p>again see--my imagination did not wander beyond the completeness of this </p><p>knowledge. I trod air; no doubt, no fear, no hope even, disturbed me; I </p><p>clasped with my soul the fulness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring, </p><p>beatified. </p><p>For many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me thus. In this dear </p><p>intercourse, love, in the guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused more </p><p>and more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of the </p><p>world, I read your characters in her looks and gesture; I heard your </p><p>melodious voice echoed by her--you prepared for us a soft and flowery</p><p>path, all gentle thoughts adorned it--your name, O Love, was not spoken, </p><p>but you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand, </p><p>might raise the curtain. Organs of articulate sound did not proclaim the </p><p>union of our hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed no opportunity for </p><p>the expression that hovered on our lips. Oh my pen! haste thou to write what </p><p>was, before the thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee. If I </p><p>lift up my eyes and see the desart earth, and feel that those dear eyes </p><p>have spent their mortal lustre, and that those beauteous lips are silent, </p><p>their "crimson leaves" faded, for ever I am mute! </p><p>But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me! There was a glade, O </p><p>reader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its velvet </p><p>expanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one side, and </p><p>a willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair, dishevelled by the </p><p>wind's viewless hand. The oaks around were the home of a tribe of </p><p>nightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear prime, is by my side </p><p>--remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarcely </p><p>passed over the beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal rains, </p><p>deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is employed in the </p><p>dangerous pastime of plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are </p><p>you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with danger?-- </p><p>He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood; our </p><p>eyes were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us; </p><p>he was forced to land far lower down, and to make a considerable circuit </p><p>before he could join us. "He is safe!" said Idris, as he leapt on shore, </p><p>and waved the bough over his head in token of success; "we will wait for </p><p>him here." </p><p>We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales </p><p>began; the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was yet </p><p>unfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on this </p><p>sweet emblem of herself: "How the light palpitates," she said, "which is </p><p>that star's life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state, </p><p>even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears, methinks, </p><p>and it loves." </p><p>"Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend," I cried, "read not love in </p><p>its trembling rays; look not upon distant worlds; speak not of the mere </p><p>imagination of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to sickness </p><p>have I desired to speak to you, and submit my soul, my life, my entire </p><p>being to you. Look not on the star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal </p><p>spark plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate, silent as it </p><p>shines--love is to me as light to the star; even so long as that is </p><p>uneclipsed by annihilation, so long shall I love you." </p><p>Veiled for ever to the world's callous eye must be the transport of that </p><p>moment. Still do I feel her graceful form press against my full-fraught </p><p>heart--still does sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and fail, at the </p><p>remembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we went to meet Adrian, </p><p>whom we heard approaching. </p><p>I entreated Adrian to return to me after he had conducted his sister home. </p><p>And that same evening, walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I poured </p><p>forth my whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my friend. For a </p><p>moment he looked disturbed--"I might have foreseen this," he said, "what </p><p>strife will now ensue! Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expectation </p><p>of contest with my mother should jar me, when else I should delightedly </p><p>confess that my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my sister to your</p><p>protection. If you do not already know it, you will soon learn the deep </p><p>hate my mother bears to the name Verney. I will converse with Idris; then </p><p>all that a friend can do, I will do; to her it must belong to play the </p><p>lover's part, if she be capable of it." </p><p>While the brother and sister were still hesitating in what manner they </p><p>could best attempt to bring their mother over to their party, she, </p><p>suspecting our meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair </p><p>daughter with deceit, and an unbecoming attachment for one whose only merit </p><p>was being the son of the profligate favourite of her imprudent father; and </p><p>who was doubtless as worthless as he from whom he boasted his descent. The </p><p>eyes of Idris flashed at this accusation; she replied, "I do not deny that </p><p>I love Verney; prove to me that he is worthless; and I will never see him </p><p>more." </p><p>"Dear Madam," said Adrian, "let me entreat you to see him, to cultivate his </p><p>friendship. You will wonder then, as I do, at the extent of his </p><p>accomplishments, and the brilliancy of his talents." (Pardon me, gentle </p><p>reader, this is not futile vanity;--not futile, since to know that Adrian </p><p>felt thus, brings joy even now to my lone heart). </p><p>"Mad and foolish boy!" exclaimed the angry lady, "you have chosen with </p><p>dreams and theories to overthrow my schemes for your own aggrandizement; </p><p>but you shall not do the same by those I have formed for your sister. I but </p><p>too well understand the fascination you both labour under; since I had the </p><p>same struggle with your father, to make him cast off the parent of this </p><p>youth, who hid his evil propensities with the smoothness and subtlety of a </p><p>viper. In those days how often did I hear of his attractions, his wide </p><p>spread conquests, his wit, his refined manners. It is well when flies only </p><p>are caught by such spiders' webs; but is it for the high-born and powerful </p><p>to bow their necks to the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pretensions? Were </p><p>your sister indeed the insignificant person she deserves to be, I would </p><p>willingly leave her to the fate, the wretched fate, of the wife of a man, </p><p>whose very person, resembling as it does his wretched father, ought to </p><p>remind you of the folly and vice it typifies--but remember, Lady Idris, </p><p>it is not alone the once royal blood of England that colours your veins, </p><p>you are a Princess of Austria, and every life-drop is akin to emperors and </p><p>kings. Are you then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-boy, whose only </p><p>inheritance is his father's tarnished name?" </p><p>"I can make but one defence," replied Idris, "the same offered by my </p><p>brother; see Lionel, converse with my shepherd-boy"---The Countess </p><p>interrupted her indignantly--"Yours!"--she cried: and then, smoothing </p><p>her impassioned features to a disdainful smile, she continued--"We will </p><p>talk of this another time. All I now ask, all your mother, Idris, requests </p><p>is, that you will not see this upstart during the interval of one month." </p><p>"I dare not comply," said Idris, "it would pain him too much. I have no </p><p>right to play with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and then </p><p>sting him with neglect." </p><p>"This is going too far," her mother answered, with quivering lips, and eyes </p><p>again instinct by anger. </p><p>"Nay, Madam," said Adrian, "unless my sister consent never to see him </p><p>again, it is surely an useless torment to separate them for a month." </p><p>"Certainly," replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn, "his love, and her </p><p>love, and both their childish flutterings, are to be put in fit comparison</p><p>with my years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the offspring of </p><p>kings, with the high and dignified conduct which one of her descent ought </p><p>to pursue. But it is unworthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps you will </p><p>have the goodness to promise me not to marry during that interval?" </p><p>This was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered why her mother </p><p>should extort from her a solemn vow not to do, what she had never dreamed </p><p>of doing--but the promise was required and given. </p><p>All went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked without dread of </p><p>our future plans. The Countess was so gentle, and even beyond her wont, </p><p>amiable with her children, that they began to entertain hopes of her </p><p>ultimate consent. She was too unlike them, too utterly alien to their </p><p>tastes, for them to find delight in her society, or in the prospect of its </p><p>continuance, but it gave them pleasure to see her conciliating and kind. </p><p>Once even, Adrian ventured to propose her receiving me. She refused with a </p><p>smile, reminding him that for the present his sister had promised to be </p><p>patient. </p><p>One day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian received a letter from a </p><p>friend in London, requesting his immediate presence for the furtherance of </p><p>some important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared no deceit. I rode </p><p>with him as far as Staines: he was in high spirits; and, since I could not </p><p>see Idris during his absence, he promised a speedy return. His gaiety, </p><p>which was extreme, had the strange effect of awakening in me contrary </p><p>feelings; a presentiment of evil hung over me; I loitered on my return; I </p><p>counted the hours that must elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore </p><p>should this be? What evil might not happen in the mean time? Might not her </p><p>mother take advantage of Adrian's absence to urge her beyond her </p><p>sufferance, perhaps to entrap her? I resolved, let what would befall, to </p><p>see and converse with her the following day. This determination soothed me. </p><p>To-morrow, loveliest and best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will </p><p>see thee--Fool, to dream of a moment's delay! </p><p>I went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a violent knocking. It was </p><p>now deep winter; it had snowed, and was still snowing; the wind whistled in </p><p>the leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as they fell; its </p><p>drear moaning, and the continued knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams-- </p><p>at length I was wide awake; hastily dressing myself, I hurried to discover </p><p>the cause of this disturbance, and to open my door to the unexpected </p><p>visitor. Pale as the snow that showered about her, with clasped hands, </p><p>Idris stood before me. "Save me!" she exclaimed, and would have sunk to the </p><p>ground had I not supported her. In a moment however she revived, and, with </p><p>energy, almost with violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her </p><p>away, away to London--to her brother--at least to save her. I had no </p><p>horses--she wrung her hands. "What can I do?" she cried, "I am lost--we </p><p>are both for ever lost! But come--come with me, Lionel; here I must not </p><p>stay,--we can get a chaise at the nearest post-house; yet perhaps we have </p><p>time! come, O come with me to save and protect me!" </p><p>When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered dress, dishevelled </p><p>hair, and aghast looks, she wrung her hands--the idea shot across me is </p><p>she also mad?--"Sweet one," and I folded her to my heart, "better repose </p><p>than wander further;--rest--my beloved, I will make a fire--you are </p><p>chill." </p><p>"Rest!" she cried, "repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we are lost; </p><p>come, I pray you, unless you would cast me off for ever." </p><p>That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should have </p><p>come through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode, and </p><p>standing at my lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness and </p><p>storm--was surely a dream--again her plaintive tones, the sight of her </p><p>loveliness assured me that it was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if </p><p>she feared to be overheard, she whispered: "I have discovered--to-morrow </p><p>--that is, to-day--already the to-morrow is come--before dawn, </p><p>foreigners, Austrians, my mother's hirelings, are to carry me off to </p><p>Germany, to prison, to marriage--to anything, except you and my brother </p><p>--take me away, or soon they will be here!" </p><p>I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some mistake in her </p><p>incoherent tale; but I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had come by </p><p>herself from the Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the heavy </p><p>snow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and a half further, before we </p><p>could obtain a chaise. She told me, that she had kept up her strength and </p><p>courage till her arrival at my cottage, and then both failed. Now she could </p><p>hardly walk. Supporting her as I did, still she lagged: and at the distance </p><p>of half a mile, after many stoppages, shivering fits, and half faintings, </p><p>she slipt from my supporting arm on the snow, and with a torrent of tears </p><p>averred that she must be taken, for that she could not proceed. I lifted </p><p>her up in my arms; her light form rested on my breast.--I felt no </p><p>burthen, except the internal one of contrary and contending emotions. </p><p>Brimming delight now invested me. Again her chill limbs touched me as a </p><p>torpedo; and I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head lay </p><p>on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine, </p><p>transport made me tremble, blinded me, annihilated me--till a suppressed </p><p>groan, bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she </p><p>strove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced, </p><p>recalled me to the necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her, </p><p>"There is Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus </p><p>strangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your </p><p>flight too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will </p><p>put you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately." </p><p>She answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased. I </p><p>observed the door of a small out-house a-jar. I pushed it open; and, with </p><p>some hay strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted </p><p>frame on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared to leave her, she </p><p>looked so wan and faint--but in a moment she re-acquired animation, and, </p><p>with that, fear; and again she implored me not to delay. To call up the </p><p>people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and horses, even though I </p><p>harnessed them myself, was the work of many minutes; minutes, each </p><p>freighted with the weight of ages. I caused the chaise to advance a little, </p><p>waited till the people of the inn had retired, and then made the post-boy </p><p>draw up the carriage to the spot where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat </p><p>recovered, stood waiting for me. I lifted her into the chaise; I assured </p><p>her that with our four horses we should arrive in London before five </p><p>o'clock, the hour when she would be sought and missed. I besought her to </p><p>calm herself; a kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she </p><p>related her tale of fear and peril. </p><p>That same night after Adrian's departure, her mother had warmly </p><p>expostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me. Every motive, </p><p>every threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed to consider </p><p>that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil influence of her life; </p><p>I was even accused of encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy </p><p>of Adrian from all views of advancement and grandeur; and now this </p><p>miserable mountaineer was to steal her daughter. Never, Idris related, did</p><p>the angry lady deign to recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she had, the </p><p>task of resistance would have been exquisitely painful. As it was, the </p><p>sweet girl's generous nature was roused to defend, and ally herself with, </p><p>my despised cause. Her mother ended with a look of contempt and covert </p><p>triumph, which for a moment awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they </p><p>parted for the night, the Countess said, "To-morrow I trust your tone will </p><p>be changed: be composed; I have agitated you; go to rest; and I will send </p><p>you a medicine I always take when unduly restless--it will give you a </p><p>quiet night." </p><p>By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her fair cheek upon her </p><p>pillow, her mother's servant brought a draught; a suspicion again crossed </p><p>her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to determine her not to </p><p>take the potion; but dislike of contention, and a wish to discover whether </p><p>there was any just foundation for her conjectures, made her, she said, </p><p>almost instinctively, and in contradiction to her usual frankness, pretend </p><p>to swallow the medicine. Then, agitated as she had been by her mother's </p><p>violence, and now by unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep, starting </p><p>at every sound. Soon her door opened softly, and on her springing up, she </p><p>heard a whisper, "Not asleep yet," and the door again closed. With a </p><p>beating heart she expected another visit, and when after an interval her </p><p>chamber was again invaded, having first assured herself that the intruders </p><p>were her mother and an attendant, she composed herself to feigned sleep. A </p><p>step approached her bed, she dared not move, she strove to calm her </p><p>palpitations, which became more violent, when she heard her mother say </p><p>mutteringly, "Pretty simpleton, little do you think that your game is </p><p>already at an end for ever." </p><p>For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother believed that she had </p><p>drank poison: she was on the point of springing up; when the Countess, </p><p>already at a distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to her companion, </p><p>and again Idris listened: "Hasten," said she, "there is no time to lose-- </p><p>it is long past eleven; they will be here at five; take merely the clothes </p><p>necessary for her journey, and her jewel-casket." The servant obeyed; few </p><p>words were spoken on either side; but those were caught at with avidity by </p><p>the intended victim. She heard the name of her own maid mentioned;--"No, </p><p>no," replied her mother, "she does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget </p><p>England, and all belonging to it." And again she heard, "She will not wake </p><p>till late to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea."----"All is ready," at </p><p>length the woman announced. The Countess again came to her daughter's </p><p>bedside: "In Austria at least," she said, "you will obey. In Austria, where </p><p>obedience can be enforced, and no choice left but between an honourable </p><p>prison and a fitting marriage." </p><p>Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess said, "Softly; all </p><p>sleep; though all have not been prepared for sleep, like her. I would not </p><p>have any one suspect, or she might be roused to resistance, and perhaps </p><p>escape. Come with me to my room; we will remain there till the hour agreed </p><p>upon." They went. Idris, panic-struck, but animated and strengthened even </p><p>by her excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and going down a flight </p><p>of back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of her mother's apartment, she </p><p>contrived to escape from the castle by a low window, and came through snow, </p><p>wind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor lost her courage, until she arrived, </p><p>and, depositing her fate in my hands, gave herself up to the desperation </p><p>and weariness that overwhelmed her. </p><p>I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation, were mine, to </p><p>possess, and to save her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her, "per </p><p>non turbar quel bel viso sereno," I curbed my delight. I strove to quiet</p><p>the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her my eyes, beaming with too </p><p>much tenderness, and proudly, to dark night, and the inclement atmosphere, </p><p>murmured the expressions of my transport. We reached London, methought, all </p><p>too soon; and yet I could not regret our speedy arrival, when I witnessed </p><p>the extasy with which my beloved girl found herself in her brother's arms, </p><p>safe from every evil, under his unblamed protection. </p><p>Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her that Idris was under </p><p>his care and guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at last an answer </p><p>came, dated from Cologne. "It was useless," the haughty and disappointed </p><p>lady wrote, "for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to address again the </p><p>injured parent, whose only expectation of tranquillity must be derived from </p><p>oblivion of their existence. Her desires had been blasted, her schemes </p><p>overthrown. She did not complain; in her brother's court she would find, </p><p>not compensation for their disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of </p><p>none), but such a state of things and mode of life, as might best reconcile </p><p>her to her fate. Under such circumstances, she positively declined any </p><p>communication with them." </p><p>Such were the strange and incredible events, that finally brought about my </p><p>union with the sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris. With </p><p>simplicity and courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition which </p><p>were obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand, where she </p><p>had given her heart. To be worthy of her, to raise myself to her height </p><p>through the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her love with devoted, </p><p>unwearied tenderness, were the only thanks I could offer for the matchless </p><p>gift. </p><p>CHAPTER VI. </p><p>AND now let the reader, passing over some short period of time, be </p><p>introduced to our happy circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established in </p><p>Windsor Castle; Lord Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which the </p><p>former had built on the borders of the Great Park, near Perdita's cottage, </p><p>as was still named the low-roofed abode, where we two, poor even in hope, </p><p>had each received the assurance of our felicity. We had our separate </p><p>occupations and our common amusements. Sometimes we passed whole days under </p><p>the leafy covert of the forest with our books and music. This occurred </p><p>during those rare days in this country, when the sun mounts his etherial </p><p>throne in unclouded majesty, and the windless atmosphere is as a bath of </p><p>pellucid and grateful water, wrapping the senses in tranquillity. When the </p><p>clouds veiled the sky, and the wind scattered them there and here, rending </p><p>their woof, and strewing its fragments through the aerial plains--then we </p><p>rode out, and sought new spots of beauty and repose. When the frequent </p><p>rains shut us within doors, evening recreation followed morning study, </p><p>ushered in by music and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her </p><p>voice, which had been carefully cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and </p><p>I made a part of the concert, and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners. </p><p>Then we were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we ever met one </p><p>another with smiles, and read content and joy in each other's countenances. </p><p>Our prime festivals were held in Perdita's cottage; nor were we ever weary </p><p>of talking of the past or dreaming of the future. Jealousy and disquiet </p><p>were unknown among us; nor did a fear or hope of change ever disturb our </p><p>tranquillity. Others said, We might be happy--we said--We are. </p><p>When any separation took place between us, it generally so happened, that </p><p>Idris and Perdita would ramble away together, and we remained to discuss </p><p>the affairs of nations, and the philosophy of life. The very difference of </p><p>our dispositions gave zest to these conversations. Adrian had the </p><p>superiority in learning and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a quick </p><p>penetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which usually displayed </p><p>itself in opposition to Adrian, and thus kept up the ball of discussion. At </p><p>other times we made excursions of many days' duration, and crossed the </p><p>country to visit any spot noted for beauty or historical association. </p><p>Sometimes we went up to London, and entered into the amusements of the busy </p><p>throng; sometimes our retreat was invaded by visitors from among them. This </p><p>change made us only the more sensible to the delights of the intimate </p><p>intercourse of our own circle, the tranquillity of our divine forest, and </p><p>our happy evenings in the halls of our beloved Castle. </p><p>The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft, and affectionate. Her </p><p>temper was unalterably sweet; and although firm and resolute on any point </p><p>that touched her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The nature of </p><p>Perdita was less perfect; but tenderness and happiness improved her temper, </p><p>and softened her natural reserve. Her understanding was clear and </p><p>comprehensive, her imagination vivid; she was sincere, generous, and </p><p>reasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of my soul, the sensitive and </p><p>excellent Adrian, loving all, and beloved by all, yet seemed destined not </p><p>to find the half of himself, which was to complete his happiness. He often </p><p>left us, and wandered by himself in the woods, or sailed in his little </p><p>skiff, his books his only companions. He was often the gayest of our party, </p><p>at the same time that he was the only one visited by fits of despondency; </p><p>his slender frame seemed overcharged with the weight of life, and his soul </p><p>appeared rather to inhabit his body than unite with it. I was hardly more </p><p>devoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she loved him as her teacher, </p><p>her friend, the benefactor who had secured to her the fulfilment of her </p><p>dearest wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless Raymond, reposed midway on </p><p>the great high-road of life, and was content to give up all his schemes of </p><p>sovereignty and fame, to make one of us, the flowers of the field. His </p><p>kingdom was the heart of Perdita, his subjects her thoughts; by her he was </p><p>loved, respected as a superior being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no </p><p>devotion, no watching was irksome to her, as it regarded him. She would sit </p><p>apart from us and watch him; she would weep for joy to think that he was </p><p>hers. She erected a temple for him in the depth of her being, and each </p><p>faculty was a priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might be </p><p>wayward and capricious; but her repentance was bitter, her return entire, </p><p>and even this inequality of temper suited him who was not formed by nature </p><p>to float idly down the stream of life. </p><p>During the first year of their marriage, Perdita presented Raymond with a </p><p>lovely girl. It was curious to trace in this miniature model the very </p><p>traits of its father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of triumph, </p><p>the same intelligent eyes, the same brow and chestnut hair; her very hands </p><p>and taper fingers resembled his. How very dear she was to Perdita! In </p><p>progress of time, I also became a father, and our little darlings, our </p><p>playthings and delights, called forth a thousand new and delicious </p><p>feelings. </p><p>Years passed thus,--even years. Each month brought forth its successor, </p><p>each year one like to that gone by; truly, our lives were a living comment </p><p>on that beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that "our souls have a natural </p><p>inclination to love, being born as much to love, as to feel, to reason, to </p><p>understand and remember." We talked of change and active pursuits, but </p><p>still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the charm that attached</p><p>us to our secluded life. </p><p> Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto</p><p> Che fra mortali in piu parte si rimembra.</p><p>Now also that our children gave us occupation, we found excuses for </p><p>our idleness, in the idea of bringing them up to a more splendid </p><p>career. At length our tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events, </p><p>which for five years had flowed on in hushing tranquillity, was broken by </p><p>breakers and obstacles, that woke us from our pleasant dream. </p><p>A new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and, at Raymond's </p><p>request, we removed to London, to witness, and even take a part in the </p><p>election. If Raymond had been united to Idris, this post had been his </p><p>stepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for power and fame had </p><p>been crowned with fullest measure. He had exchanged a sceptre for a lute, a </p><p>kingdom for Perdita. </p><p>Did he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I watched him, but could </p><p>make but little of him. He was particularly gay, playing with his child, </p><p>and turning to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did this </p><p>because he saw a cloud upon Perdita's brow. She tried to rouse herself, but </p><p>her eyes every now and then filled with tears, and she looked wistfully on </p><p>Raymond and her girl, as if fearful that some evil would betide them. And </p><p>so she felt. A presentiment of ill hung over her. She leaned from the </p><p>window looking on the forest, and the turrets of the Castle, and as these </p><p>became hid by intervening objects, she passionately exclaimed--"Scenes of </p><p>happiness! scenes sacred to devoted love, when shall I see you again! and </p><p>when I see ye, shall I be still the beloved and joyous Perdita, or shall I, </p><p>heart-broken and lost, wander among your groves, the ghost of what I </p><p>am!" </p><p>"Why, silly one," cried Raymond, "what is your little head pondering </p><p>upon, that of a sudden you have become so sublimely dismal? Cheer up, or I </p><p>shall make you over to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I see </p><p>by his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits." </p><p>Adrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage, and his gaiety, in </p><p>addition to that of Raymond, dispelled my sister's melancholy. We entered </p><p>London in the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde Park. </p><p>The following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. "I come to you," he </p><p>said, "only half assured that you will assist me in my project, but </p><p>resolved to go through with it, whether you concur with me or not. Promise </p><p>me secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my success, at least </p><p>you must not baffle me." </p><p>"Well, I promise. And now---" </p><p>"And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to London? To be present at </p><p>the election of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for his shuffling </p><p>Grace of----? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe, Verney, that I </p><p>brought you to town for that? No, we will have a Protector of our own. We </p><p>will set up a candidate, and ensure his success. We will nominate Adrian, </p><p>and do our best to bestow on him the power to which he is entitled by his </p><p>birth, and which he merits through his virtues. </p><p>"Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will reply to them in </p><p>order. First, Whether he will or will not consent to become a great man?</p><p>Leave the task of persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you to </p><p>assist me there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange his employment of </p><p>plucking blackberries, and nursing wounded partridges in the forest, for </p><p>the command of a nation? My dear Lionel, we are married men, and find </p><p>employment sufficient in amusing our wives, and dancing our children. But </p><p>Adrian is alone, wifeless, childless, unoccupied. I have long observed him. </p><p>He pines for want of some interest in life. His heart, exhausted by his </p><p>early sufferings, reposes like a new-healed limb, and shrinks from all </p><p>excitement. But his understanding, his charity, his virtues, want a field </p><p>for exercise and display; and we will procure it for him. Besides, is it </p><p>not a shame, that the genius of Adrian should fade from the earth like a </p><p>flower in an untrod mountain-path, fruitless? Do you think Nature composed </p><p>his surpassing machine for no purpose? Believe me, he was destined to be </p><p>the author of infinite good to his native England. Has she not bestowed on </p><p>him every gift in prodigality?--birth, wealth, talent, goodness? Does not </p><p>every one love and admire him? and does he not delight singly in such </p><p>efforts as manifest his love to all? Come, I see that you are already </p><p>persuaded, and will second me when I propose him to-night in parliament." </p><p>"You have got up all your arguments in excellent order," I replied; "and, </p><p>if Adrian consent, they are unanswerable. One only condition I would make, </p><p>--that you do nothing without his concurrence." </p><p>"I believe you are in the right," said Raymond; "although I had thought at </p><p>first to arrange the affair differently. Be it so. I will go instantly to </p><p>Adrian; and, if he inclines to consent, you will not destroy my labour by </p><p>persuading him to return, and turn squirrel again in Windsor Forest. Idris, </p><p>you will not act the traitor towards me?" </p><p>"Trust me," replied she, "I will preserve a strict neutrality." </p><p>"For my part," said I, "I am too well convinced of the worth of our friend, </p><p>and the rich harvest of benefits that all England would reap from his </p><p>Protectorship, to deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if he consent </p><p>to bestow it on them." </p><p>In the evening Adrian visited us.--"Do you cabal also against me," said </p><p>he, laughing; "and will you make common cause with Raymond, in dragging a </p><p>poor visionary from the clouds to surround him with the fire-works and </p><p>blasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays and airs? I thought </p><p>you knew me better." </p><p>"I do know you better," I replied "than to think that you would be happy in </p><p>such a situation; but the good you would do to others may be an inducement, </p><p>since the time is probably arrived when you can put your theories into </p><p>practice, and you may bring about such reformation and change, as will </p><p>conduce to that perfect system of government which you delight to </p><p>portray." </p><p>"You speak of an almost-forgotten dream," said Adrian, his countenance </p><p>slightly clouding as he spoke; "the visions of my boyhood have long since </p><p>faded in the light of reality; I know now that I am not a man fitted to </p><p>govern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in wholesome rule the little </p><p>kingdom of my own mortality. </p><p>"But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble friend; a drift, </p><p>perhaps, unknown to himself, but apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never </p><p>born to be a drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral life. </p><p>He thinks, that he ought to be satisfied; he imagines, that his present</p><p>situation precludes the possibility of aggrandisement; he does not </p><p>therefore, even in his own heart, plan change for himself. But do you not </p><p>see, that, under the idea of exalting me, he is chalking out a new path for </p><p>himself; a path of action from which he has long wandered? </p><p>"Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the great in every quality </p><p>that can adorn the mind and person of man; he is fitted to be the Protector </p><p>of England. If I--that is, if we propose him, he will assuredly be </p><p>elected, and will find, in the functions of that high office, scope for the </p><p>towering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will rejoice. Perdita, in whom </p><p>ambition was a covered fire until she married Raymond, which event was for </p><p>a time the fulfilment of her hopes; Perdita will rejoice in the glory and </p><p>advancement of her lord--and, coyly and prettily, not be discontented </p><p>with her share. In the mean time, we, the wise of the land, will return to </p><p>our Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual labours, until our </p><p>friend shall require our presence and assistance here." </p><p>The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more feasible it appeared. </p><p>His own determination never to enter into public life was insurmountable, </p><p>and the delicacy of his health was a sufficient argument against it. The </p><p>next step was to induce Raymond to confess his secret wishes for dignity </p><p>and fame. He entered while we were speaking. The way in which Adrian had </p><p>received his project for setting him up as a candidate for the </p><p>Protectorship, and his replies, had already awakened in his mind, the view </p><p>of the subject which we were now discussing. His countenance and manner </p><p>betrayed irresolution and anxiety; but the anxiety arose from a fear that </p><p>we should not prosecute, or not succeed in our idea; and his irresolution, </p><p>from a doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A few words from us decided </p><p>him, and hope and joy sparkled in his eyes; the idea of embarking in a </p><p>career, so congenial to his early habits and cherished wishes, made him as </p><p>before energetic and bold. We discussed his chances, the merits of the </p><p>other candidates, and the dispositions of the voters. </p><p>After all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of his popularity, and </p><p>was deserted by his peculiar partizans. Absence from the busy stage had </p><p>caused him to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary </p><p>supporters were principally composed of royalists, who had been willing to </p><p>make an idol of him when he appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Windsor; </p><p>but who were indifferent to him, when he came forward with no other </p><p>attributes and distinctions than they conceived to be common to many among </p><p>themselves. Still he had many friends, admirers of his transcendent </p><p>talents; his presence in the house, his eloquence, address and imposing </p><p>beauty, were calculated to produce an electric effect. Adrian also, </p><p>notwithstanding his recluse habits and theories, so adverse to the spirit </p><p>of party, had many friends, and they were easily induced to vote for a </p><p>candidate of his selection. </p><p>The Duke of----, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond's old antagonist, were the </p><p>other candidates. The Duke was supported by all the aristocrats of the </p><p>republic, who considered him their proper representative. Ryland was the </p><p>popular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first added to the list, his </p><p>chance of success appeared small. We retired from the debate which had </p><p>followed on his nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he dispirited to </p><p>excess. Perdita reproached us bitterly. Her expectations had been strongly </p><p>excited; she had urged nothing against our project, on the contrary, she </p><p>was evidently pleased by it; but its evident ill success changed the </p><p>current of her ideas. She felt, that, once awakened, Raymond would never </p><p>return unrepining to Windsor. His habits were unhinged; his restless mind </p><p>roused from its sleep, ambition must now be his companion through life; and</p><p>if he did not succeed in his present attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness </p><p>and cureless discontent would follow. Perhaps her own disappointment added </p><p>a sting to her thoughts and words; she did not spare us, and our own </p><p>reflections added to our disquietude. </p><p>It was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to persuade Raymond to </p><p>present himself to the electors on the following evening. For a long time </p><p>he was obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail for a distant </p><p>quarter of the world, where his name and humiliation were unknown. But this </p><p>was useless; his attempt was registered; his purpose published to the </p><p>world; his shame could never be erased from the memories of men. It was as </p><p>well to fail at last after a struggle, as to fly now at the beginning of </p><p>his enterprise. </p><p>From the moment that he adopted this idea, he was changed. His depression </p><p>and anxiety fled; he became all life and activity. The smile of triumph </p><p>shone on his countenance; determined to pursue his object to the uttermost, </p><p>his manner and expression seem ominous of the accomplishment of his wishes. </p><p>Not so Perdita. She was frightened by his gaiety, for she dreaded a greater </p><p>revulsion at the end. If his appearance even inspired us with hope, it only </p><p>rendered the state of her mind more painful. She feared to lose sight of </p><p>him; yet she dreaded to remark any change in the temper of his mind. She </p><p>listened eagerly to him, yet tantalized herself by giving to his words a </p><p>meaning foreign to their true interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She </p><p>dared not be present at the contest; yet she remained at home a prey to </p><p>double solicitude. She wept over her little girl; she looked, she spoke, as </p><p>if she dreaded the occurrence of some frightful calamity. She was half mad </p><p>from the effects of uncontrollable agitation. </p><p>Lord Raymond presented himself to the house with fearless confidence and </p><p>insinuating address. After the Duke of----and Mr. Ryland had finished </p><p>their speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his lesson; and </p><p>at first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in the choice of his </p><p>expressions. By degrees he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his language </p><p>was full of vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He reverted to his past </p><p>life, his successes in Greece, his favour at home. Why should he lose this, </p><p>now that added years, prudence, and the pledge which his marriage gave to </p><p>his country, ought to encrease, rather than diminish his claims to </p><p>confidence? He spoke of the state of England; the necessary measures to be </p><p>taken to ensure its security, and confirm its prosperity. He drew a glowing </p><p>picture of its present situation. As he spoke, every sound was hushed, </p><p>every thought suspended by intense attention. His graceful elocution </p><p>enchained the senses of his hearers. In some degree also he was fitted to </p><p>reconcile all parties. His birth pleased the aristocracy; his being the </p><p>candidate recommended by Adrian, a man intimately allied to the popular </p><p>party, caused a number, who had no great reliance either on the Duke or Mr. </p><p>Ryland, to range on his side. </p><p>The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor myself would have </p><p>been so anxious, if our own success had depended on our exertions; but we </p><p>had egged our friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to ensure his </p><p>triumph. Idris, who entertained the highest opinion of his abilities, was </p><p>warmly interested in the event: and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and </p><p>to whom fear was misery, was plunged into a fever of disquietude. </p><p>Day after day passed while we discussed our projects for the evening, and </p><p>each night was occupied by debates which offered no conclusion. At last the </p><p>crisis came: the night when parliament, which had so long delayed its </p><p>choice, must decide: as the hour of twelve passed, and the new day began,</p><p>it was by virtue of the constitution dissolved, its power extinct. </p><p>We assembled at Raymond's house, we and our partizans. At half past five </p><p>o'clock we proceeded to the House. Idris endeavoured to calm Perdita; but </p><p>the poor girl's agitation deprived her of all power of self-command. She </p><p>walked up and down the room,--gazed wildly when any one entered, fancying </p><p>that they might be the announcers of her doom. I must do justice to my </p><p>sweet sister: it was not for herself that she was thus agonized. She alone </p><p>knew the weight which Raymond attached to his success. Even to us he </p><p>assumed gaiety and hope, and assumed them so well, that we did not divine </p><p>the secret workings of his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling, a sharp </p><p>dissonance of voice, and momentary fits of absence revealed to Perdita the </p><p>violence he did himself; but we, intent on our plans, observed only his </p><p>ready laugh, his joke intruded on all occasions, the flow of his spirits </p><p>which seemed incapable of ebb. Besides, Perdita was with him in his </p><p>retirement; she saw the moodiness that succeeded to this forced hilarity; </p><p>she marked his disturbed sleep, his painful irritability--once she had </p><p>seen his tears--hers had scarce ceased to flow, since she had beheld the </p><p>big drops which disappointed pride had caused to gather in his eye, but </p><p>which pride was unable to dispel. What wonder then, that her feelings were </p><p>wrought to this pitch! I thus accounted to myself for her agitation; but </p><p>this was not all, and the sequel revealed another excuse. </p><p>One moment we seized before our departure, to take leave of our beloved </p><p>girls. I had small hope of success, and entreated Idris to watch over my </p><p>sister. As I approached the latter, she seized my hand, and drew me into </p><p>another apartment; she threw herself into my arms, and wept and sobbed </p><p>bitterly and long. I tried to soothe her; I bade her hope; I asked what </p><p>tremendous consequences would ensue even on our failure. "My brother," she </p><p>cried, "protector of my childhood, dear, most dear Lionel, my fate hangs by </p><p>a thread. I have you all about me now--you, the companion of my infancy; </p><p>Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of blood; Idris, the sister </p><p>of my heart, and her lovely offspring. This, O this may be the last time </p><p>that you will surround me thus!" </p><p>Abruptly she stopped, and then cried: "What have I said?--foolish false </p><p>girl that I am!" She looked wildly on me, and then suddenly calming </p><p>herself, apologized for what she called her unmeaning words, saying that </p><p>she must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived, she must be happy; and </p><p>then, though she still wept, she suffered me tranquilly to depart. Raymond </p><p>only took her hand when he went, and looked on her expressively; she </p><p>answered by a look of intelligence and assent. </p><p>Poor girl! what she then suffered! I could never entirely forgive Raymond </p><p>for the trials he imposed on her, occasioned as they were by a selfish </p><p>feeling on his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his present attempt, </p><p>without taking leave of any of us, to embark for Greece, and never again to </p><p>revisit England. Perdita acceded to his wishes; for his contentment was the </p><p>chief object of her life, the crown of her enjoyment; but to leave us all, </p><p>her companions, the beloved partners of her happiest years, and in the </p><p>interim to conceal this frightful determination, was a task that almost </p><p>conquered her strength of mind. She had been employed in arranging for </p><p>their departure; she had promised Raymond during this decisive evening, to </p><p>take advantage of our absence, to go one stage of the journey, and he, </p><p>after his defeat was ascertained, would slip away from us, and join her. </p><p>Although, when I was informed of this scheme, I was bitterly offended by </p><p>the small attention which Raymond paid to my sister's feelings, I was led </p><p>by reflection to consider, that he acted under the force of such strong</p><p>excitement, as to take from him the consciousness, and, consequently, the </p><p>guilt of a fault. If he had permitted us to witness his agitation, he would </p><p>have been more under the guidance of reason; but his struggles for the shew </p><p>of composure, acted with such violence on his nerves, as to destroy his </p><p>power of self-command. I am convinced that, at the worst, he would have </p><p>returned from the seashore to take leave of us, and to make us the partners </p><p>of his council. But the task imposed on Perdita was not the less painful. </p><p>He had extorted from her a vow of secrecy; and her part of the drama, since </p><p>it was to be performed alone, was the most agonizing that could be devised. </p><p>But to return to my narrative. </p><p>The debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had often been protracted </p><p>merely for the sake of delay. But now each seemed fearful lest the fatal </p><p>moment should pass, while the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted silence </p><p>reigned in the house, the members spoke in whispers, and the ordinary </p><p>business was transacted with celerity and quietness. During the first stage </p><p>of the election, the Duke of----had been thrown out; the question </p><p>therefore lay between Lord Raymond and Mr. Ryland. The latter had felt </p><p>secure of victory, until the appearance of Raymond; and, since his name had </p><p>been inserted as a candidate, he had canvassed with eagerness. He had </p><p>appeared each evening, impatience and anger marked in his looks, scowling </p><p>on us from the opposite side of St. Stephen's, as if his mere frown would </p><p>cast eclipse on our hopes. </p><p>Every thing in the English constitution had been regulated for the better </p><p>preservation of peace. On the last day, two candidates only were allowed to </p><p>remain; and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle between these, a </p><p>bribe was offered to him who should voluntarily resign his pretensions; a </p><p>place of great emolument and honour was given him, and his success </p><p>facilitated at a future election. Strange to say however, no instance had </p><p>yet occurred, where either candidate had had recourse to this expedient; in </p><p>consequence the law had become obsolete, nor had been referred to by any of </p><p>us in our discussions. To our extreme surprise, when it was moved that we </p><p>should resolve ourselves into a committee for the election of the Lord </p><p>Protector, the member who had nominated Ryland, rose and informed us that </p><p>this candidate had resigned his pretensions. His information was at first </p><p>received with silence; a confused murmur succeeded; and, when the chairman </p><p>declared Lord Raymond duly chosen, it amounted to a shout of applause and </p><p>victory. It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat even if Mr. Ryland </p><p>had not resigned, every voice would have been united in favour of our </p><p>candidate. In fact, now that the idea of contest was dismissed, all hearts </p><p>returned to their former respect and admiration of our accomplished friend. </p><p>Each felt, that England had never seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling </p><p>the arduous duties of that high office. One voice made of many voices, </p><p>resounded through the chamber; it syllabled the name of Raymond. </p><p>He entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw him walk up the </p><p>passage to the table of the speaker. The native modesty of his disposition </p><p>conquered the joy of his triumph. He looked round timidly; a mist seemed </p><p>before his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to him, and jumping </p><p>down the benches, was at his side in a moment. His appearance re-animated </p><p>our friend; and, when he came to speak and act, his hesitation vanished, </p><p>and he shone out supreme in majesty and victory. The former Protector </p><p>tendered him the oaths, and presented him with the insignia of office, </p><p>performing the ceremonies of installation. The house then dissolved. The </p><p>chief members of the state crowded round the new magistrate, and conducted </p><p>him to the palace of government. Adrian suddenly vanished; and, by the time </p><p>that Raymond's supporters were reduced to our intimate friends merely, </p><p>returned leading Idris to congratulate her friend on his success.</p><p>But where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an unobserved retreat in </p><p>case of failure, Raymond had forgotten to arrange the mode by which she was </p><p>to hear of his success; and she had been too much agitated to revert to </p><p>this circumstance. When Idris entered, so far had Raymond forgotten </p><p>himself, that he asked for my sister; one word, which told of her </p><p>mysterious disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true had already gone </p><p>to seek the fugitive, imagining that her tameless anxiety had led her to </p><p>the purlieus of the House, and that some sinister event detained her. But </p><p>Raymond, without explaining himself, suddenly quitted us, and in another </p><p>moment we heard him gallop down the street, in spite of the wind and rain </p><p>that scattered tempest over the earth. We did not know how far he had to </p><p>go, and soon separated, supposing that in a short time he would return to </p><p>the palace with Perdita, and that they would not be sorry to find </p><p>themselves alone. </p><p>Perdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping and inconsolable. </p><p>She directed everything to be prepared for the continuance of their </p><p>journey, and placing her lovely sleeping charge on a bed, passed several </p><p>hours in acute suffering. Sometimes she observed the war of elements, </p><p>thinking that they also declared against her, and listened to the pattering </p><p>of the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes she hung over her child, tracing </p><p>her resemblance to the father, and fearful lest in after life she should </p><p>display the same passions and uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him </p><p>unhappy. Again, with a gush of pride and delight, she marked in the </p><p>features of her little girl, the same smile of beauty that often irradiated </p><p>Raymond's countenance. The sight of it soothed her. She thought of the </p><p>treasure she possessed in the affections of her lord; of his </p><p>accomplishments, surpassing those of his contemporaries, his genius, his </p><p>devotion to her.--Soon she thought, that all she possessed in the world, </p><p>except him, might well be spared, nay, given with delight, a propitiatory </p><p>offering, to secure the supreme good she retained in him. Soon she </p><p>imagined, that fate demanded this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was </p><p>devoted to Raymond, and that it must be made with cheerfulness. She figured </p><p>to herself their life in the Greek isle he had selected for their retreat; </p><p>her task of soothing him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her rides in </p><p>his company, her dedication of herself to his consolation. The picture then </p><p>presented itself to her in such glowing colours, that she feared the </p><p>reverse, and a life of magnificence and power in London; where Raymond </p><p>would no longer be hers only, nor she the sole source of happiness to him. </p><p>So far as she merely was concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it </p><p>was only on his account that her feelings vacillated, as she heard him </p><p>gallop into the court-yard of the inn. That he should come to her alone, </p><p>wetted by the storm, careless of every thing except speed, what else could </p><p>it mean, than that, vanquished and solitary, they were to take their way </p><p>from native England, the scene of shame, and hide themselves in the myrtle </p><p>groves of the Grecian isles? </p><p>In a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his success had become so </p><p>much a part of himself, that he forgot that it was necessary to impart it </p><p>to his companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear assurance that while </p><p>he possessed her, he would not despair. "This is kind," she cried; "this is </p><p>noble, my own beloved! O fear not disgrace or lowly fortune, while you have </p><p>your Perdita; fear not sorrow, while our child lives and smiles. Let us go </p><p>even where you will; the love that accompanies us will prevent our </p><p>regrets." </p><p>Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back her head, seeking an </p><p>assent to her words in his eyes--they were sparkling with ineffable</p><p>delight. "Why, my little Lady Protectress," said he, playfully, "what is </p><p>this you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven of exile and obscurity, </p><p>while a brighter web, a gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, you </p><p>ought to contemplate?" </p><p>He kissed her brow--but the wayward girl, half sorry at his triumph, </p><p>agitated by swift change of thought, hid her face in his bosom and wept. He </p><p>comforted her; he instilled into her his own hopes and desires; and soon </p><p>her countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy were they that night! </p><p>How full even to bursting was their sense of joy! </p><p>CHAPTER VII. </p><p>HAVING seen our friend properly installed in his new office, we turned our </p><p>eyes towards Windsor. The nearness of this place to London was such, as to </p><p>take away the idea of painful separation, when we quitted Raymond and </p><p>Perdita. We took leave of them in the Protectoral Palace. It was pretty </p><p>enough to see my sister enter as it were into the spirit of the drama, and </p><p>endeavour to fill her station with becoming dignity. Her internal pride and </p><p>humility of manner were now more than ever at war. Her timidity was not </p><p>artificial, but arose from that fear of not being properly appreciated, </p><p>that slight estimation of the neglect of the world, which also </p><p>characterized Raymond. But then Perdita thought more constantly of others </p><p>than he; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish to take from those </p><p>around her a sense of inferiority; a feeling which never crossed her mind. </p><p>From the circumstances of her birth and education, Idris would have been </p><p>better fitted for the formulae of ceremony; but the very ease which </p><p>accompanied such actions with her, arising from habit, rendered them </p><p>tedious; while, with every drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her </p><p>situation. She was too full of new ideas to feel much pain when we </p><p>departed; she took an affectionate leave of us, and promised to visit us </p><p>soon; but she did not regret the circumstances that caused our separation. </p><p>The spirits of Raymond were unbounded; he did not know what to do with his </p><p>new got power; his head was full of plans; he had as yet decided on none-- </p><p>but he promised himself, his friends, and the world, that the aera of his </p><p>Protectorship should be signalized by some act of surpassing glory. Thus, we </p><p>talked of them, and moralized, as with diminished numbers we returned to </p><p>Windsor Castle. We felt extreme delight at our escape from political </p><p>turmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled zest. We did not want for </p><p>occupation; but my eager disposition was now turned to the field of </p><p>intellectual exertion only; and hard study I found to be an excellent </p><p>medicine to allay a fever of spirit with which in indolence, I should </p><p>doubtless have been assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back </p><p>with us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants were perpetual </p><p>sources of interest and amusement. </p><p>The only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the health of Adrian. </p><p>It evidently declined, without any symptom which could lead us to suspect </p><p>his disease, unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated look, and </p><p>flustering cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he was without pain or </p><p>fear. He betook himself to books with ardour, and reposed from study in the </p><p>society he best loved, that of his sister and myself. Sometimes he went up </p><p>to London to visit Raymond, and watch the progress of events. Clara often </p><p>accompanied him in these excursions; partly that she might see her parents, </p><p>partly because Adrian delighted in the prattle, and intelligent looks of</p><p>this lovely child. </p><p>Meanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections were finished; </p><p>parliament met, and Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial schemes. </p><p>Canals, aqueducts, bridges, stately buildings, and various edifices for </p><p>public utility, were entered upon; he was continually surrounded by </p><p>projectors and projects, which were to render England one scene of </p><p>fertility and magnificence; the state of poverty was to be abolished; men </p><p>were to be transported from place to place almost with the same facility as </p><p>the Princes Houssain, Ali, and Ahmed, in the Arabian Nights. The physical </p><p>state of man would soon not yield to the beatitude of angels; disease was </p><p>to be banished; labour lightened of its heaviest burden. Nor did this seem </p><p>extravagant. The arts of life, and the discoveries of science had augmented </p><p>in a ratio which left all calculation behind; food sprung up, so to say, </p><p>spontaneously--machines existed to supply with facility every want of the </p><p>population. An evil direction still survived; and men were not happy, not </p><p>because they could not, but because they would not rouse themselves to </p><p>vanquish self-raised obstacles. Raymond was to inspire them with his </p><p>beneficial will, and the mechanism of society, once systematised according </p><p>to faultless rules, would never again swerve into disorder. For these hopes </p><p>he abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being enregistered in the </p><p>annals of nations as a successful warrior; laying aside his sword, peace </p><p>and its enduring glories became his aim--the title he coveted was that of </p><p>the benefactor of his country. </p><p>Among other works of art in which he was engaged, he had projected the </p><p>erection of a national gallery for statues and pictures. He possessed many </p><p>himself, which he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the edifice </p><p>was to be the great ornament of his Protectorship, he was very fastidious </p><p>in his choice of the plan on which it would be built. Hundreds were brought </p><p>to him and rejected. He sent even to Italy and Greece for drawings; but, as </p><p>the design was to be characterized by originality as well as by perfect </p><p>beauty, his endeavours were for a time without avail. At length a drawing </p><p>came, with an address where communications might be sent, and no artist's </p><p>name affixed. The design was new and elegant, but faulty; so faulty, that </p><p>although drawn with the hand and eye of taste, it was evidently the work of </p><p>one who was not an architect. Raymond contemplated it with delight; the </p><p>more he gazed, the more pleased he was; and yet the errors multiplied under </p><p>inspection. He wrote to the address given, desiring to see the draughtsman, </p><p>that such alterations might be made, as should be suggested in a </p><p>consultation between him and the original conceiver. </p><p>A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence of manner, but with </p><p>so common-place a physiognomy, that Raymond could scarcely believe that he </p><p>was the designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect; but the </p><p>idea of the building had struck him, though he had sent it without the </p><p>smallest hope of its being accepted. He was a man of few words. Raymond </p><p>questioned him; but his reserved answers soon made him turn from the man to </p><p>the drawing. He pointed out the errors, and the alterations that he wished </p><p>to be made; he offered the Greek a pencil that he might correct the sketch </p><p>on the spot; this was refused by his visitor, who said that he perfectly </p><p>understood, and would work at it at home. At length Raymond suffered him to </p><p>depart. </p><p>The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn; but many defects </p><p>still remained, and several of the instructions given had been </p><p>misunderstood. "Come," said Raymond, "I yielded to you yesterday, now </p><p>comply with my request--take the pencil." </p><p>The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like way; at length he </p><p>said: "I must confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make this drawing. It </p><p>is impossible for you to see the real designer; your instructions must pass </p><p>through me. Condescend therefore to have patience with my ignorance, and to </p><p>explain your wishes to me; in time I am certain that you will be </p><p>satisfied." </p><p>Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would say no more. Would an </p><p>architect be permitted to see the artist? This also was refused. Raymond </p><p>repeated his instructions, and the visitor retired. Our friend resolved </p><p>however not to be foiled in his wish. He suspected, that unaccustomed </p><p>poverty was the cause of the mystery, and that the artist was unwilling to </p><p>be seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond was only the more excited by </p><p>this consideration to discover him; impelled by the interest he took in </p><p>obscure talent, he therefore ordered a person skilled in such matters, to </p><p>follow the Greek the next time he came, and observe the house in which he </p><p>should enter. His emissary obeyed, and brought the desired intelligence. He </p><p>had traced the man to one of the most penurious streets in the metropolis. </p><p>Raymond did not wonder, that, thus situated, the artist had shrunk from </p><p>notice, but he did not for this alter his resolve. </p><p>On the same evening, he went alone to the house named to him. Poverty, </p><p>dirt, and squalid misery characterized its appearance. Alas! thought </p><p>Raymond, I have much to do before England becomes a Paradise. He knocked; </p><p>the door was opened by a string from above--the broken, wretched </p><p>staircase was immediately before him, but no person appeared; he knocked </p><p>again, vainly--and then, impatient of further delay, he ascended the </p><p>dark, creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly now that he </p><p>witnessed the abject dwelling of the artist, was to relieve one, possessed </p><p>of talent, but depressed by want. He pictured to himself a youth, whose </p><p>eyes sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated by famine. He half </p><p>feared to displease him; but he trusted that his generous kindness would be </p><p>administered so delicately, as not to excite repulse. What human heart is </p><p>shut to kindness? and though poverty, in its excess, might render the </p><p>sufferer unapt to submit to the supposed degradation of a benefit, the zeal </p><p>of the benefactor must at last relax him into thankfulness. These thoughts </p><p>encouraged Raymond, as he stood at the door of the highest room of the </p><p>house. After trying vainly to enter the other apartments, he perceived just </p><p>within the threshold of this one, a pair of small Turkish slippers; the </p><p>door was ajar, but all was silent within. It was probable that the inmate </p><p>was absent, but secure that he had found the right person, our adventurous </p><p>Protector was tempted to enter, to leave a purse on the table, and silently </p><p>depart. In pursuance of this idea, he pushed open the door gently--but </p><p>the room was inhabited. </p><p>Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and the scene that now </p><p>presented itself struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in many </p><p>places; the walls ragged and bare--the ceiling weather-stained--a </p><p>tattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two chairs in the room, </p><p>and a rough broken table, on which was a light in a tin candlestick;--yet </p><p>in the midst of such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was an air of </p><p>order and cleanliness that surprised him. The thought was fleeting; for his </p><p>attention was instantly drawn towards the inhabitant of this wretched </p><p>abode. It was a female. She sat at the table; one small hand shaded her </p><p>eyes from the candle; the other held a pencil; her looks were fixed on a </p><p>drawing before her, which Raymond recognized as the design presented to </p><p>him. Her whole appearance awakened his deepest interest. Her dark hair was </p><p>braided and twined in thick knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue; </p><p>her garb was mean, but her attitude might have been selected as a model of</p><p>grace. Raymond had a confused remembrance that he had seen such a form </p><p>before; he walked across the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely </p><p>asking in Romaic, who is there? "A friend," replied Raymond in the same </p><p>dialect. She looked up wondering, and he saw that it was Evadne Zaimi. </p><p>Evadne, once the idol of Adrian's affections; and who, for the sake of her </p><p>present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and then, neglected by him </p><p>she loved, with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery, had returned </p><p>to her native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have brought her to </p><p>England, and housed her thus? </p><p>Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from polite beneficence to </p><p>the warmest protestations of kindness and sympathy. The sight of her, in </p><p>her present situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He sat by her, </p><p>he took her hand, and said a thousand things which breathed the deepest </p><p>spirit of compassion and affection. Evadne did not answer; her large dark </p><p>eyes were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the lashes. "Thus," she </p><p>cried, "kindness can do, what no want, no misery ever effected; I weep." </p><p>She shed indeed many tears; her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder of </p><p>Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed her sunken tear-stained cheek. He told </p><p>her, that her sufferings were now over: no one possessed the art of </p><p>consoling like Raymond; he did not reason or declaim, but his look shone </p><p>with sympathy; he brought pleasant images before the sufferer; his caresses </p><p>excited no distrust, for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a </p><p>mother to kiss her wounded child; a desire to demonstrate in every possible </p><p>way the truth of his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm </p><p>into the lacerated mind of the unfortunate. As Evadne regained her </p><p>composure, his manner became even gay; he sported with the idea of her </p><p>poverty. Something told him that it was not its real evils that lay heavily </p><p>at her heart, but the debasement and disgrace attendant on it; as he </p><p>talked, he divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her fortitude with </p><p>energetic praise; then, alluding to her past state, he called her his </p><p>Princess in disguise. He made her warm offers of service; she was too much </p><p>occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept or reject them; at </p><p>length he left her, making a promise to repeat his visit the next day. He </p><p>returned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain excited by Evadne's </p><p>wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of relieving it. Some motive for </p><p>which he did not account, even to himself, prevented him from relating his </p><p>adventure to Perdita. </p><p>The next day he threw such disguise over his person as a cloak afforded, </p><p>and revisited Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of costly fruits, such </p><p>as were natives of her own country, and throwing over these various </p><p>beautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable garret of his friend. </p><p>"Behold," cried he, as he entered, "what bird's food I have brought for my </p><p>sparrow on the house-top." </p><p>Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her father, though of high </p><p>rank, had in the end dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed his </p><p>reputation and influence through a course of dissolute indulgence. His </p><p>health was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became his earnest wish, </p><p>before he died, to preserve his daughter from the poverty which would be </p><p>the portion of her orphan state. He therefore accepted for her, and </p><p>persuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage, from a wealthy Greek </p><p>merchant settled at Constantinople. She quitted her native Greece; her </p><p>father died; by degrees she was cut off from all the companions and ties of </p><p>her youth. </p><p>The war, which about a year before the present time had broken out between </p><p>Greece and Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune. Her husband</p><p>became bankrupt, and then in a tumult and threatened massacre on the part </p><p>of the Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight, and reached in an open </p><p>boat an English vessel under sail, which brought them immediately to this </p><p>island. The few jewels they had saved, supported them awhile. The whole </p><p>strength of Evadne's mind was exerted to support the failing spirits of her </p><p>husband. Loss of property, hopelessness as to his future prospects, the </p><p>inoccupation to which poverty condemned him, combined to reduce him to a </p><p>state bordering on insanity. Five months after their arrival in England, he </p><p>committed suicide. </p><p>"You will ask me," continued Evadne, "what I have done since; why I have </p><p>not applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident here; why I have not </p><p>returned to my native country? My answer to these questions must needs </p><p>appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to lead me on, day </p><p>after day, enduring every wretchedness, rather than by such means to seek </p><p>relief. Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal Zaimi, appear a </p><p>beggar before her compeers or inferiors--superiors she had none. Shall I </p><p>bow my head before them, and with servile gesture sell my nobility for </p><p>life? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me to existence, I might descend to </p><p>this--but, as it is--the world has been to me a harsh step-mother; fain </p><p>would I leave the abode she seems to grudge, and in the grave forget my </p><p>pride, my struggles, my despair. The time will soon come; grief and famine </p><p>have already sapped the foundations of my being; a very short time, and I </p><p>shall have passed away; unstained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung </p><p>by the memory of degradation, my spirit will throw aside the miserable </p><p>coil, and find such recompense as fortitude and resignation may deserve. </p><p>This may seem madness to you, yet you also have pride and resolution; do </p><p>not then wonder that my pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable." </p><p>Having thus finished her tale, and given such an account as she deemed fit, </p><p>of the motives of her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid from her </p><p>countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more to say, to which she </p><p>was unable to give words. In the mean time Raymond was eloquent. His desire </p><p>of restoring his lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her lost </p><p>prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth with energy, all his wishes </p><p>and intentions on that subject. But he was checked; Evadne exacted a </p><p>promise, that he should conceal from all her friends her existence in </p><p>England. "The relatives of the Earl of Windsor," said she haughtily, </p><p>"doubtless think that I injured him; perhaps the Earl himself would be the </p><p>first to acquit me, but probably I do not deserve acquittal. I acted then, </p><p>as I ever must, from impulse. This abode of penury may at least prove the </p><p>disinterestedness of my conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause </p><p>before any of them, not even before your Lordship, had you not first </p><p>discovered me. The tenor of my actions will prove that I had rather die, </p><p>than be a mark for scorn--behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on </p><p>the beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the thought--promise me that </p><p>my secret shall not be violated by you." </p><p>Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued. Evadne required another </p><p>engagement on his part, that he would not without her concurrence enter </p><p>into any project for her benefit, nor himself offer relief. "Do not degrade </p><p>me in my own eyes," she said; "poverty has long been my nurse; hard-visaged </p><p>she is, but honest. If dishonour, or what I conceive to be dishonour, come </p><p>near me, I am lost." Raymond adduced many arguments and fervent persuasions </p><p>to overcome her feeling, but she remained unconvinced; and, agitated by the </p><p>discussion, she wildly and passionately made a solemn vow, to fly and hide </p><p>herself where he never could discover her, where famine would soon bring </p><p>death to conclude her woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing </p><p>offers. She could support herself, she said. And then she shewed him how,</p><p>by executing various designs and paintings, she earned a pittance for her </p><p>support. Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after he had for </p><p>awhile humoured her self-will, that in the end friendship and reason would </p><p>gain the day. </p><p>But the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in the depths of her </p><p>being, and were such in their growth as he had no means of understanding. </p><p>Evadne loved Raymond. He was the hero of her imagination, the image carved </p><p>by love in the unchanged texture of her heart. Seven years ago, in her </p><p>youthful prime, she had become attached to him; he had served her country </p><p>against the Turks; he had in her own land acquired that military glory </p><p>peculiarly dear to the Greeks, since they were still obliged inch by inch </p><p>to fight for their security. Yet when he returned thence, and first </p><p>appeared in public life in England, her love did not purchase his, which </p><p>then vacillated between Perdita and a crown. While he was yet undecided, </p><p>she had quitted England; the news of his marriage reached her, and her </p><p>hopes, poorly nurtured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory of life was </p><p>gone for her; the roseate halo of love, which had imbued every object with </p><p>its own colour, faded;--she was content to take life as it was, and to </p><p>make the best of leaden-coloured reality. She married; and, carrying her </p><p>restless energy of character with her into new scenes, she turned her </p><p>thoughts to ambition, and aimed at the title and power of Princess of </p><p>Wallachia; while her patriotic feelings were soothed by the idea of the </p><p>good she might do her country, when her husband should be chief of this </p><p>principality. She lived to find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her </p><p>intrigues with Russia for the furtherance of her object, excited the </p><p>jealousy of the Porte, and the animosity of the Greek government. She was </p><p>considered a traitor by both, the ruin of her husband followed; they </p><p>avoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the height of her </p><p>desires to penury in England. Much of this tale she concealed from Raymond; </p><p>nor did she confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal convicted of </p><p>the worst of crimes, that of bringing the scythe of foreign despotism to </p><p>cut away the new springing liberties of her country, would have followed </p><p>her application to any among the Greeks. </p><p>She knew that she was the cause of her husband's utter ruin; and she strung </p><p>herself to bear the consequences. The reproaches which agony extorted; or </p><p>worse, cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind was sunk in a </p><p>torpor, not the less painful because it was silent and moveless. She </p><p>reproached herself with the crime of his death; guilt and its punishments </p><p>appeared to surround her; in vain she endeavoured to allay remorse by the </p><p>memory of her real integrity; the rest of the world, and she among them, </p><p>judged of her actions, by their consequences. She prayed for her husband's </p><p>soul; she conjured the Supreme to place on her head the crime of his </p><p>self-destruction--she vowed to live to expiate his fault. </p><p>In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have destroyed her, one </p><p>thought only was matter of consolation. She lived in the same country, </p><p>breathed the same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the burthen of </p><p>every tongue; his achievements, projects, and magnificence, the argument of </p><p>every story. Nothing is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory and </p><p>excellence of him she loves; thus in every horror Evadne revelled in his </p><p>fame and prosperity. While her husband lived, this feeling was regarded by </p><p>her as a crime, repressed, repented of. When he died, the tide of love </p><p>resumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves, </p><p>and she gave herself up a prey to its uncontrollable power. </p><p>But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded state. Never should </p><p>he behold her fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty, the</p><p>poverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a </p><p>reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though impenetrably veiled </p><p>from him, his public office permitted her to become acquainted with all his </p><p>actions, his daily course of life, even his conversation. She allowed </p><p>herself one luxury, she saw the newspapers every day, and feasted on the </p><p>praise and actions of the Protector. Not that this indulgence was devoid of </p><p>accompanying grief. Perdita's name was for ever joined with his; their </p><p>conjugal felicity was celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts. </p><p>They were continually together, nor could the unfortunate Evadne read the </p><p>monosyllable that designated his name, without, at the same time, being </p><p>presented with the image of her who was the faithful companion of all his </p><p>labours and pleasures. They, their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line, </p><p>mingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood. </p><p>It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement for the design for a </p><p>national gallery. Combining with taste her remembrance of the edifices </p><p>which she had seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing them </p><p>with unity of design, she executed the plan which had been sent to the </p><p>Protector. She triumphed in the idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as </p><p>she was, a benefit upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride looked </p><p>forward to the accomplishment of a work of hers, which, immortalized in </p><p>stone, would go down to posterity stamped with the name of Raymond. She </p><p>awaited with eagerness the return of her messenger from the palace; she </p><p>listened insatiate to his account of each word, each look of the Protector; </p><p>she felt bliss in this communication with her beloved, although he knew not </p><p>to whom he addressed his instructions. The drawing itself became ineffably </p><p>dear to her. He had seen it, and praised it; it was again retouched by her, </p><p>each stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music, and bore to </p><p>her the idea of a temple raised to celebrate the deepest and most </p><p>unutterable emotions of her soul. These contemplations engaged her, when </p><p>the voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once heard, never to be </p><p>forgotten; she mastered her gush of feelings, and welcomed him with quiet </p><p>gentleness. </p><p>Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made a compromise </p><p>together. She would see Raymond, since destiny had led him to her, and her </p><p>constancy and devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights with </p><p>regard to him, and her cherished independence, should not be injured by the </p><p>idea of interest, or the intervention of the complicated feelings attendant </p><p>on pecuniary obligation, and the relative situations of the benefactor, and </p><p>benefited. Her mind was of uncommon strength; she could subdue her sensible </p><p>wants to her mental wishes, and suffer cold, hunger and misery, rather than </p><p>concede to fortune a contested point. Alas! that in human nature such a </p><p>pitch of mental discipline, and disdainful negligence of nature itself, </p><p>should not have been allied to the extreme of moral excellence! But the </p><p>resolution that permitted her to resist the pains of privation, sprung from </p><p>the too great energy of her passions; and the concentrated self-will of </p><p>which this was a sign, was destined to destroy even the very idol, to </p><p>preserve whose respect she submitted to this detail of wretchedness. </p><p>Their intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related to her friend the </p><p>whole of her story, the stain her name had received in Greece, the weight </p><p>of sin which had accrued to her from the death of her husband. When Raymond </p><p>offered to clear her reputation, and demonstrate to the world her real </p><p>patriotism, she declared that it was only through her present sufferings </p><p>that she hoped for any relief to the stings of conscience; that, in her </p><p>state of mind, diseased as he might think it, the necessity of occupation </p><p>was salutary medicine; she ended by extorting a promise that for the space </p><p>of one month he would refrain from the discussion of her interests,</p><p>engaging after that time to yield in part to his wishes. She could not </p><p>disguise to herself that any change would separate her from him; now she </p><p>saw him each day. His connection with Adrian and Perdita was never </p><p>mentioned; he was to her a meteor, a companionless star, which at its </p><p>appointed hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity, </p><p>and which, although it set, was never eclipsed. He came each day to her </p><p>abode of penury, and his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with </p><p>sweets, radiant with heaven's own light; he partook of her delirium. "They </p><p>built a wall between them and the world"--Without, a thousand harpies </p><p>raved, remorse and misery, expecting the destined moment for their </p><p>invasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence, reckless blindless, </p><p>deluding joy, hope, whose still anchor rested on placid but unconstant </p><p>water. </p><p>Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power and fame, while he </p><p>looked forward to entire dominion over the elements and the mind of man, </p><p>the territory of his own heart escaped his notice; and from that unthought </p><p>of source arose the mighty torrent that overwhelmed his will, and carried </p><p>to the oblivious sea, fame, hope, and happiness. </p><p>CHAPTER VIII. </p><p>IN the mean time what did Perdita? </p><p>During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond and she had been </p><p>inseparable; each project was discussed with her, each plan approved by </p><p>her. I never beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister. Her </p><p>expressive eyes were two stars whose beams were love; hope and </p><p>light-heartedness sat on her cloudless brow. She fed even to tears of joy </p><p>on the praise and glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one sacrifice </p><p>to him, and if in the humility of her heart she felt self-complacency, it </p><p>arose from the reflection that she had won the distinguished hero of the </p><p>age, and had for years preserved him, even after time had taken from love </p><p>its usual nourishment. Her own feeling was as entire as at its birth. Five </p><p>years had failed to destroy the dazzling unreality of passion. Most men </p><p>ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which the female heart is wont to </p><p>adorn the idol of its affections. Not so Raymond; he was an enchanter, </p><p>whose reign was for ever undiminished; a king whose power never was </p><p>suspended: follow him through the details of common life, still the same </p><p>charm of grace and majesty adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the </p><p>innate deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita grew in </p><p>beauty and excellence under his eye; I no longer recognised my reserved </p><p>abstracted sister in the fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond. The </p><p>genius that enlightened her countenance, was now united to an expression of </p><p>benevolence, which gave divine perfection to her beauty. </p><p>Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of goodness. Suffering and </p><p>amiability may exist together, and writers have loved to depict their </p><p>conjunction; there is a human and touching harmony in the picture. But </p><p>perfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and those who possess it, </p><p>appear angelic. Fear has been said to be the parent of religion: even of </p><p>that religion is it the generator, which leads its votaries to sacrifice </p><p>human victims at its altars; but the religion which springs from happiness </p><p>is a lovelier growth; the religion which makes the heart breathe forth </p><p>fervent thanksgiving, and causes us to pour out the overflowings of the</p><p>soul before the author of our being; that which is the parent of the </p><p>imagination and the nurse of poetry; that which bestows benevolent </p><p>intelligence on the visible mechanism of the world, and makes earth a </p><p>temple with heaven for its cope. Such happiness, goodness, and religion </p><p>inhabited the mind of Perdita. </p><p>During the five years we had spent together, a knot of happy human beings </p><p>at Windsor Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent theme of my </p><p>sister's conversation. From early habit, and natural affection, she </p><p>selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be the partner in her </p><p>overflowings of delight; perhaps, though apparently much unlike, some </p><p>secret point of resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, induced this </p><p>preference. Often at sunset, I have walked with her, in the sober, </p><p>enshadowed forest paths, and listened with joyful sympathy. Security gave </p><p>dignity to her passion; the certainty of a full return, left her with no </p><p>wish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter, embryo copy of her Raymond, </p><p>filled up the measure of her content, and produced a sacred and </p><p>indissoluble tie between them. Sometimes she felt proud that he had </p><p>preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she remembered that she </p><p>had suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in his choice. But this memory </p><p>of past discontent only served to enhance her present joy. What had been </p><p>hardly won, was now, entirely possessed, doubly dear. She would look at him </p><p>at a distance with the same rapture, (O, far more exuberant rapture!) that </p><p>one might feel, who after the perils of a tempest, should find himself in </p><p>the desired port; she would hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his </p><p>arms, the reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection, added to the </p><p>depth of her understanding, and the brilliancy of her imagination, made her </p><p>beyond words dear to Raymond. </p><p>If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it arose from the idea </p><p>that he was not perfectly happy. Desire of renown, and presumptuous </p><p>ambition, had characterized his youth. The one he had acquired in Greece; </p><p>the other he had sacrificed to love. His intellect found sufficient field </p><p>for exercise in his domestic circle, whose members, all adorned by </p><p>refinement and literature, were many of them, like himself, distinguished </p><p>by genius. Yet active life was the genuine soil for his virtues; and he </p><p>sometimes suffered tedium from the monotonous succession of events in our </p><p>retirement. Pride made him recoil from complaint; and gratitude and </p><p>affection to Perdita, generally acted as an opiate to all desire, save that </p><p>of meriting her love. We all observed the visitation of these feelings, and </p><p>none regretted them so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a </p><p>slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that sufficient--Did </p><p>he need any gratification that she was unable to bestow? This was the only </p><p>cloud in the azure of her happiness. </p><p>His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He however attained his </p><p>wish; he filled the situation for which nature seemed to have moulded him. </p><p>His activity was fed in wholesome measure, without either exhaustion or </p><p>satiety; his taste and genius found worthy expression in each of the modes </p><p>human beings have invented to encage and manifest the spirit of beauty; the </p><p>goodness of his heart made him never weary of conducing to the well-being </p><p>of his fellow-creatures; his magnificent spirit, and aspirations for the </p><p>respect and love of mankind, now received fruition; true, his exaltation </p><p>was temporary; perhaps it were better that it should be so. Habit would not </p><p>dull his sense of the enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and </p><p>defeat await the end of that which would expire at its maturity. He </p><p>determined to extract and condense all of glory, power, and achievement, </p><p>which might have resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his </p><p>Protectorate.</p><p>Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed would have been </p><p>devoid of pleasure to him, had it been unparticipated. But in Perdita he </p><p>possessed all that his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to sympathy; </p><p>her intelligence made her understand him at a word; her powers of intellect </p><p>enabled her to assist and guide him. He felt her worth. During the early </p><p>years of their union, the inequality of her temper, and yet unsubdued </p><p>self-will which tarnished her character, had been a slight drawback to the </p><p>fulness of his sentiment. Now that unchanged serenity, and gentle </p><p>compliance were added to her other qualifications, his respect equalled his </p><p>love. Years added to the strictness of their union. They did not now guess </p><p>at, and totter on the pathway, divining the mode to please, hoping, yet </p><p>fearing the continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty to </p><p>their emotions, though it did not rob them of their etherial nature. It had </p><p>given them a child; but it had not detracted from the personal attractions </p><p>of my sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to awkwardness, </p><p>was exchanged for a graceful decision of manner; frankness, instead of </p><p>reserve, characterized her physiognomy; and her voice was attuned to </p><p>thrilling softness. She was now three and twenty, in the pride of </p><p>womanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and mother, possessed of </p><p>all her heart had ever coveted. Raymond was ten years older; to his </p><p>previous beauty, noble mien, and commanding aspect, he now added gentlest </p><p>benevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and unwearied attention to the </p><p>wishes of another. </p><p>The first secret that had existed between them was the visits of Raymond to </p><p>Evadne. He had been struck by the fortitude and beauty of the ill-fated </p><p>Greek; and, when her constant tenderness towards him unfolded itself, he </p><p>asked with astonishment, by what act of his he had merited this passionate </p><p>and unrequited love. She was for a while the sole object of his reveries; </p><p>and Perdita became aware that his thoughts and time were bestowed on a </p><p>subject unparticipated by her. My sister was by nature destitute of the </p><p>common feelings of anxious, petulant jealousy. The treasure which she </p><p>possessed in the affections of Raymond, was more necessary to her being, </p><p>than the life-blood that animated her veins--more truly than Othello she </p><p>might say, </p><p> To be once in doubt,</p><p> Is--once to be resolved.</p><p>On the present occasion she did not suspect any alienation of affection; but </p><p>she conjectured that some circumstance connected with his high place, had </p><p>occasioned this mystery. She was startled and pained. She began to count </p><p>the long days, and months, and years which must elapse, before he would be </p><p>restored to a private station, and unreservedly to her. She was not content </p><p>that, even for a time, he should practice concealment with her. She often </p><p>repined; but her trust in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed; </p><p>and, when they were together, unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to </p><p>the fullest delight. </p><p>Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild career, paused suddenly </p><p>to think of consequences. Two results presented themselves in the view he </p><p>took of the future. That his intercourse with Evadne should continue a </p><p>secret to, or that finally it should be discovered by Perdita. The </p><p>destitute condition, and highly wrought feelings of his friend prevented </p><p>him from adverting to the possibility of exiling himself from her. In the </p><p>first event he had bidden an eternal farewell to open-hearted converse, and </p><p>entire sympathy with the companion of his life. The veil must be thicker </p><p>than that invented by Turkish jealousy; the wall higher than the</p><p>unscaleable tower of Vathek, which should conceal from her the workings of </p><p>his heart, and hide from her view the secret of his actions. This idea was </p><p>intolerably painful to him. Frankness and social feelings were the essence </p><p>of Raymond's nature; without them his qualities became common-place; </p><p>without these to spread glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his </p><p>vaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak and empty as the </p><p>rainbow hues which vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy. </p><p>Genius, devotion, and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies </p><p>of his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back </p><p>one hair's breadth the wheel of time's chariot; that which had been was </p><p>written with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of </p><p>the past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the </p><p>act fulfilled. </p><p>But this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance should </p><p>lead Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his </p><p>frame became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at this idea. </p><p>Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read the future; and the peace of </p><p>Perdita was too dear to him, her speechless agony too certain, and too </p><p>fearful, not to unman him. His course was speedily decided upon. If the </p><p>worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would neither stand her </p><p>reproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks. He would forsake her, </p><p>England, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming time, he </p><p>would seek another country, and in other scenes begin life again. Having </p><p>resolved on this, he became calmer. He endeavoured to guide with prudence </p><p>the steeds of destiny through the devious road which he had chosen, and </p><p>bent all his efforts the better to conceal what he could not alter. </p><p>The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered </p><p>every communication common between them. They opened each other's letters, </p><p>even as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed to </p><p>the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it contained </p><p>confirmation, she must have been annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold, </p><p>and pale, she sought Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions lately </p><p>presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa opposite to him, and gazed </p><p>on him with a look of such despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans </p><p>would have been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to the living </p><p>incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her. </p><p>At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them, he </p><p>was struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment </p><p>he forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with consternation--"Dearest </p><p>girl, what is the matter; what has happened?" </p><p>"Nothing," she replied at first; "and yet not so," she continued, hurrying </p><p>on in her speech; "you have secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately, </p><p>whom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I banished from </p><p>your confidence? Yet this is not it--I do not intend to entrap you with </p><p>questions--one will suffice--am I completely a wretch?" </p><p>With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and motionless </p><p>looking at him while he read it. He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne, </p><p>and the colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the </p><p>contents of the letter; all was now cast on one die; falsehood and artifice </p><p>were trifles in comparison with the impending ruin. He would either </p><p>entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or quit her for ever. "My dear girl," </p><p>he said, "I have been to blame; but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong </p><p>to commence a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of sparing </p><p>you pain; and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to alter my</p><p>plan. Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of </p><p>these few lines." </p><p>Perdita gasped: "Well," she cried, "well, go on!" </p><p>"That is all--this paper tells all. I am placed in the most difficult </p><p>circumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong. My </p><p>love for you is inviolate." </p><p>Perdita shook her head doubtingly: "It cannot be," she cried, "I know that </p><p>it is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived. I have lost </p><p>you, myself, my life!" </p><p>"Do you not believe me?" said Raymond haughtily. </p><p>"To believe you," she exclaimed, "I would give up all, and expire with joy, </p><p>so that in death I could feel that you were true--but that cannot be!" </p><p>"Perdita," continued Raymond, "you do not see the precipice on which you </p><p>stand. You may believe that I did not enter on my present line of conduct </p><p>without reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that your </p><p>suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my simple word would cause </p><p>them to disappear. I built my hope on your confidence. Do you think that I </p><p>will be questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do you think </p><p>that I will be suspected, perhaps watched, cross-questioned, and </p><p>disbelieved? I am not yet fallen so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished. </p><p>You have loved me; I adored you. But all human sentiments come to an end. </p><p>Let our affection expire--but let it not be exchanged for distrust and </p><p>recrimination. Heretofore we have been friends--lovers--let us not </p><p>become enemies, mutual spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion--you </p><p>cannot believe me--let us part!" </p><p>"Exactly so," cried Perdita, "I knew that it would come to this! Are we not </p><p>already parted? Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn </p><p>between us?" </p><p>Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features convulsed, his manner calm </p><p>as the earthquake-cradling atmosphere, he replied: "I am rejoiced that you </p><p>take my decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play the part of </p><p>the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you may be stung with the feeling </p><p>that you have wronged me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of </p><p>the world, the complacency which the consciousness of your own immaculate </p><p>innocence will bestow, will be excellent balm;--me you will never see </p><p>more!" </p><p>Raymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each word he spoke was </p><p>false. He personated his assumption of innocence even to self-deception. </p><p>Have not actors wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more intense </p><p>feeling of the reality of fiction possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride; </p><p>he felt injured. Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance; his hand was </p><p>on the lock of the door. She started up, she threw herself on his neck, she </p><p>gasped and sobbed; he took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down </p><p>near her. Her head fell on his shoulder, she trembled, alternate changes of </p><p>fire and ice ran through her limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with </p><p>softened accents: </p><p>"The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;--I owe you too </p><p>much. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I </p><p>will not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you too</p><p>well. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for dignity and </p><p>propriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our true </p><p>characters. Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of our </p><p>intercourse;--these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of life, </p><p>the unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian"-- </p><p>"And you," cried Perdita, "the writer of that letter." </p><p>Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew that </p><p>this accusation at least was false. "Entertain this belief," he cried, "hug </p><p>it to your heart--make it a pillow to your head, an opiate for your eyes </p><p>--I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not more false than </p><p>the word you have spoken!" </p><p>Perdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of his asseverations. She </p><p>replied with earnestness, "I do not refuse to believe you, Raymond; on the </p><p>contrary I promise to put implicit faith in your simple word. Only assure </p><p>me that your love and faith towards me have never been violated; and </p><p>suspicion, and doubt, and jealousy will at once be dispersed. We shall </p><p>continue as we have ever done, one heart, one hope, one life." </p><p>"I have already assured you of my fidelity," said Raymond with disdainful </p><p>coldness, "triple assertions will avail nothing where one is despised. I </p><p>will say no more; for I can add nothing to what I have already said, to </p><p>what you before contemptuously set aside. This contention is unworthy of </p><p>both of us; and I confess that I am weary of replying to charges at once </p><p>unfounded and unkind." </p><p>Perdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily averted. There was </p><p>so much of truth and nature in his resentment, that her doubts were </p><p>dispelled. Her countenance, which for years had not expressed a feeling </p><p>unallied to affection, became again radiant and satisfied. She found it </p><p>however no easy task to soften and reconcile Raymond. At first he refused </p><p>to stay to hear her. But she would not be put off; secure of his unaltered </p><p>love, she was willing to undertake any labour, use any entreaty, to dispel </p><p>his anger. She obtained an hearing, he sat in haughty silence, but he </p><p>listened. She first assured him of her boundless confidence; of this he </p><p>must be conscious, since but for that she would not seek to detain him. She </p><p>enumerated their years of happiness; she brought before him past scenes of </p><p>intimacy and happiness; she pictured their future life, she mentioned their </p><p>child--tears unbidden now filled her eyes. She tried to disperse them, </p><p>but they refused to be checked--her utterance was choaked. She had not </p><p>wept before. Raymond could not resist these signs of distress: he felt </p><p>perhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted of the injured man, he who </p><p>was in truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita; the bend of </p><p>her head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of her form were to him subjects of </p><p>deep tenderness and admiration; as she spoke, her melodious tones entered </p><p>his soul; he soon softened towards her, comforting and caressing her, and </p><p>endeavouring to cheat himself into the belief that he had never wronged </p><p>her. </p><p>Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might do, who had been </p><p>just put to the torture, and looked forward to when it would be again </p><p>inflicted. He had sinned against his own honour, by affirming, swearing to, </p><p>a direct falsehood; true this he had palmed on a woman, and it might </p><p>therefore be deemed less base--by others--not by him;--for whom had </p><p>he deceived?--his own trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita, whose </p><p>generous belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade of </p><p>innocence with which it had been exacted. The mind of Raymond was not so</p><p>rough cast, nor had been so rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as </p><p>to make him proof to these considerations--on the contrary, he was all </p><p>nerve; his spirit was as a pure fire, which fades and shrinks from every </p><p>contagion of foul atmosphere: but now the contagion had become incorporated </p><p>with its essence, and the change was the more painful. Truth and falsehood, </p><p>love and hate lost their eternal boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle </p><p>with hell; while his sensitive mind, turned to a field for such battle, was </p><p>stung to madness. He heartily despised himself, he was angry with Perdita, </p><p>and the idea of Evadne was attended by all that was hideous and cruel. His </p><p>passions, always his masters, acquired fresh strength, from the long sleep </p><p>in which love had cradled them, the clinging weight of destiny bent him </p><p>down; he was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of that worst of </p><p>miseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state yielded by degrees, to </p><p>sullen animosity, and depression of spirits. His dependants, even his </p><p>equals, if in his present post he had any, were startled to find anger, </p><p>derision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished for suavity and </p><p>benevolence of manner. He transacted public business with distaste, and </p><p>hastened from it to the solitude which was at once his bane and relief. He </p><p>mounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him forward to victory in </p><p>Greece; he fatigued himself with deadening exercise, losing the pangs of a </p><p>troubled mind in animal sensation. </p><p>He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might from the effects of </p><p>poison, he lifted his head from above the vapours of fever and passion into </p><p>the still atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated on what was best to </p><p>be done. He was first struck by the space of time that had elapsed, since </p><p>madness, rather than any reasonable impulse, had regulated his actions. A </p><p>month had gone by, and during that time he had not seen Evadne. Her power, </p><p>which was linked to few of the enduring emotions of his heart, had greatly </p><p>decayed. He was no longer her slave--no longer her lover: he would never </p><p>see her more, and by the completeness of his return, deserve the confidence </p><p>of Perdita. </p><p>Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the miserable abode of the </p><p>Greek girl. An abode, which from noble and lofty principle, she had refused </p><p>to exchange for one of greater luxury. He thought of the splendour of her </p><p>situation and appearance when he first knew her; he thought of her life at </p><p>Constantinople, attended by every circumstance of oriental magnificence; of </p><p>her present penury, her daily task of industry, her lorn state, her faded, </p><p>famine-struck cheek. Compassion swelled his breast; he would see her once </p><p>again; he would devise some plan for restoring her to society, and the </p><p>enjoyment of her rank; their separation would then follow, as a matter of </p><p>course. </p><p>Again he thought, how during this long month, he had avoided Perdita, </p><p>flying from her as from the stings of his own conscience. But he was awake </p><p>now; all this should be remedied; and future devotion erase the memory of </p><p>this only blot on the serenity of their life. He became cheerful, as he </p><p>thought of this, and soberly and resolutely marked out the line of conduct </p><p>he would adopt. He remembered that he had promised Perdita to be present </p><p>this very evening (the 19th of October, anniversary of his election as </p><p>Protector) at a festival given in his honour. Good augury should this </p><p>festival be of the happiness of future years. First, he would look in on </p><p>Evadne; he would not stay; but he owed her some account, some compensation </p><p>for his long and unannounced absence; and then to Perdita, to the forgotten </p><p>world, to the duties of society, the splendour of rank, the enjoyment of </p><p>power. </p><p>After the scene sketched in the preceding pages, Perdita had contemplated</p><p>an entire change in the manners and conduct of Raymond. She expected </p><p>freedom of communication, and a return to those habits of affectionate </p><p>intercourse which had formed the delight of her life. But Raymond did not </p><p>join her in any of her avocations. He transacted the business of the day </p><p>apart from her; he went out, she knew not whither. The pain inflicted by </p><p>this disappointment was tormenting and keen. She looked on it as a </p><p>deceitful dream, and tried to throw off the consciousness of it; but like </p><p>the shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very flesh, and ate with sharp agony </p><p>into her vital principle. She possessed that (though such an assertion may </p><p>appear a paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity of happiness. Her </p><p>delicate organization and creative imagination rendered her peculiarly </p><p>susceptible of pleasurable emotion. The overflowing warmth of her heart, by </p><p>making love a plant of deep root and stately growth, had attuned her whole </p><p>soul to the reception of happiness, when she found in Raymond all that </p><p>could adorn love and satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which </p><p>the fabric of her existence was founded, became common place through </p><p>participation, the endless succession of attentions and graceful action </p><p>snapt by transfer, his universe of love wrested from her, happiness must </p><p>depart, and then be exchanged for its opposite. The same peculiarities of </p><p>character rendered her sorrows agonies; her fancy magnified them, her </p><p>sensibility made her for ever open to their renewed impression; love </p><p>envenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was neither submission, patience, </p><p>nor self-abandonment in her grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath </p><p>it, and rendered every pang more sharp by resistance. Again and again the </p><p>idea recurred, that he loved another. She did him justice; she believed </p><p>that he felt a tender affection for her; but give a paltry prize to him who </p><p>in some life-pending lottery has calculated on the possession of tens of </p><p>thousands, and it will disappoint him more than a blank. The affection and </p><p>amity of a Raymond might be inestimable; but, beyond that affection, </p><p>embosomed deeper than friendship, was the indivisible treasure of love. </p><p>Take the sum in its completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its </p><p>price; take from it the smallest portion, give it but the name of parts, </p><p>separate it into degrees and sections, and like the magician's coin, the </p><p>valueless gold of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There is a </p><p>meaning in the eye of love; a cadence in its voice, an irradiation in its </p><p>smile, the talisman of whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit </p><p>is elemental, its essence single, its divinity an unit. The very heart and </p><p>soul of Raymond and Perdita had mingled, even as two mountain brooks that </p><p>join in their descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over shining </p><p>pebbles, beside starry flowers; but let one desert its primal course, or be </p><p>dammed up by choaking obstruction, and the other shrinks in its altered </p><p>banks. Perdita was sensible of the failing of the tide that fed her life. </p><p>Unable to support the slow withering of her hopes, she suddenly formed a </p><p>plan, resolving to terminate at once the period of misery, and to bring to </p><p>an happy conclusion the late disastrous events. </p><p>The anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of Raymond to the office of </p><p>Protector; and it was customary to celebrate this day by a splendid </p><p>festival. A variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double magnificence </p><p>over the scene; yet, as she arrayed herself for the evening gala, she </p><p>wondered herself at the pains she took, to render sumptuous the celebration </p><p>of an event which appeared to her the beginning of her sufferings. Woe </p><p>befall the day, she thought, woe, tears, and mourning betide the hour, that </p><p>gave Raymond another hope than love, another wish than my devotion; and </p><p>thrice joyful the moment when he shall be restored to me! God knows, I put </p><p>my trust in his vows, and believe his asserted faith--but for that, I </p><p>would not seek what I am now resolved to attain. Shall two years more be </p><p>thus passed, each day adding to our alienation, each act being another </p><p>stone piled on the barrier which separates us? No, my Raymond, my only</p><p>beloved, sole possession of Perdita! This night, this splendid assembly, </p><p>these sumptuous apartments, and this adornment of your tearful girl, are </p><p>all united to celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you relinquished the </p><p>prospect of a crown. That was in days of early love, when I could only hold </p><p>out the hope, not the assurance of happiness. Now you have the experience </p><p>of all that I can give, the heart's devotion, taintless love, and </p><p>unhesitating subjection to you. You must choose between these and your </p><p>protectorate. This, proud noble, is your last night! Perdita has bestowed </p><p>on it all of magnificent and dazzling that your heart best loves--but, </p><p>from these gorgeous rooms, from this princely attendance, from power and </p><p>elevation, you must return with to-morrow's sun to our rural abode; for I </p><p>would not buy an immortality of joy, by the endurance of one more week </p><p>sister to the last. </p><p>Brooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should come, to propose, </p><p>and insist upon its accomplishment, secure of his consent, the heart of </p><p>Perdita was lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was flushed by the </p><p>expectation of struggle; her eyes sparkled with the hope of triumph. Having </p><p>cast her fate upon a die, and feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have </p><p>named as bearing the stamp of queen of nations on her noble brow, now rose </p><p>superior to humanity, and seemed in calm power, to arrest with her finger, </p><p>the wheel of destiny. She had never before looked so supremely lovely. </p><p>We, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to be present at this </p><p>festivity, but Perdita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to absent </p><p>ourselves from Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her scheme to </p><p>us) resolved the next morning to return with Raymond to our dear circle, </p><p>there to renew a course of life in which she had found entire felicity. </p><p>Late in the evening she entered the apartments appropriated to the </p><p>festival. Raymond had quitted the palace the night before; he had promised </p><p>to grace the assembly, but he had not yet returned. Still she felt sure </p><p>that he would come at last; and the wider the breach might appear at this </p><p>crisis, the more secure she was of closing it for ever. </p><p>It was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn was far advanced </p><p>and dreary. The wind howled; the half bare trees were despoiled of the </p><p>remainder of their summer ornament; the state of the air which induced the </p><p>decay of vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or hope. Raymond had been </p><p>exalted by the determination he had made; but with the declining day his </p><p>spirits declined. First he was to visit Evadne, and then to hasten to the </p><p>palace of the Protectorate. As he walked through the wretched streets in </p><p>the neighbourhood of the luckless Greek's abode, his heart smote him for </p><p>the whole course of his conduct towards her. First, his having entered into </p><p>any engagement that should permit her to remain in such a state of </p><p>degradation; and then, after a short wild dream, having left her to drear </p><p>solitude, anxious conjecture, and bitter, still--disappointed </p><p>expectation. What had she done the while, how supported his absence and </p><p>neglect? Light grew dim in these close streets, and when the well known </p><p>door was opened, the staircase was shrouded in perfect night. He groped his </p><p>way up, he entered the garret, he found Evadne stretched speechless, almost </p><p>lifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people of the house, but </p><p>could learn nothing from them, except that they knew nothing. Her story was </p><p>plain to him, plain and distinct as the remorse and horror that darted </p><p>their fangs into him. When she found herself forsaken by him, she lost the </p><p>heart to pursue her usual avocations; pride forbade every application to </p><p>him; famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of death, within </p><p>whose opening folds she should now, without sin, quickly repose. No </p><p>creature came near her, as her strength failed. </p><p>If she died, where could there be found on record a murderer, whose cruel </p><p>act might compare with his? What fiend more wanton in his mischief, what </p><p>damned soul more worthy of perdition! But he was not reserved for this </p><p>agony of self-reproach. He sent for medical assistance; the hours passed, </p><p>spun by suspense into ages; the darkness of the long autumnal night yielded </p><p>to day, before her life was secure. He had her then removed to a more </p><p>commodious dwelling, and hovered about her, again and again to assure </p><p>himself that she was safe. </p><p>In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to the event, he </p><p>remembered the festival given in his honour, by Perdita; in his honour </p><p>then, when misery and death were affixing indelible disgrace to his name, </p><p>honour to him whose crimes deserved a scaffold; this was the worst mockery. </p><p>Still Perdita would expect him; he wrote a few incoherent words on a scrap </p><p>of paper, testifying that he was well, and bade the woman of the house take </p><p>it to the palace, and deliver it into the hands of the wife of the Lord </p><p>Protector. The woman, who did not know him, contemptuously asked, how he </p><p>thought she should gain admittance, particularly on a festal night, to that </p><p>lady's presence? Raymond gave her his ring to ensure the respect of the </p><p>menials. Thus, while Perdita was entertaining her guests, and anxiously </p><p>awaiting the arrival of her lord, his ring was brought her; and she was </p><p>told that a poor woman had a note to deliver to her from its wearer. </p><p>The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her commission, which, after </p><p>all, she did not understand, since she had no suspicion, even now that </p><p>Evadne's visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from his horse, </p><p>or some similar accident--till the woman's answers woke other fears. From </p><p>a feeling of cunning blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant </p><p>messenger, did not speak of Evadne's illness; but she garrulously gave an </p><p>account of Raymond's frequent visits, adding to her narration such </p><p>circumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated </p><p>the unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all, his absence now from </p><p>the festival, his message wholly unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful </p><p>hints of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult. Again she looked at the </p><p>ring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped, which she had herself given </p><p>him. She looked at the hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and </p><p>repeated to herself the words--"Do not, I charge you, I entreat you, </p><p>permit your guests to wonder at my absence:" the while the old crone going </p><p>on with her talk, filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and </p><p>falsehood. At length Perdita dismissed her. </p><p>The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had not been </p><p>missed. She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning against an </p><p>ornamental column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her faculties </p><p>were palsied. She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a carved vase: </p><p>that morning she had arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even </p><p>now all aghast as she was, she observed their brilliant colours and starry </p><p>shapes.--"Divine infoliations of the spirit of beauty," she exclaimed, </p><p>"Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart, has </p><p>not spread contagion over you!--Why am I not a partner of your </p><p>insensibility, a sharer in your calm!" </p><p>She paused. "To my task," she continued mentally, "my guests must not </p><p>perceive the reality, either as it regards him or me. I obey; they shall </p><p>not, though I die the moment they are gone. They shall behold the antipodes </p><p>of what is real--for I will appear to live--while I am--dead." It </p><p>required all her self-command, to suppress the gush of tears self-pity </p><p>caused at this idea. After many struggles, she succeeded, and turned to </p><p>join the company.</p><p>All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal conflict. </p><p>She had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine </p><p>the focus of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this, while in deep woe she </p><p>sighed for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged her crowded rooms </p><p>for dark forest depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath. But she became </p><p>gay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be, as was usual with her, </p><p>placidly content. Every one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all </p><p>actions appear graceful in the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her </p><p>applaudingly, although there was a sharpness in her laugh, and an </p><p>abruptness in her sallies, which might have betrayed her secret to an </p><p>attentive observer. She went on, feeling that, if she had paused for a </p><p>moment, the checked waters of misery would have deluged her soul, that her </p><p>wrecked hopes would raise their wailing voices, and that those who now </p><p>echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would have shrunk in fear </p><p>from her convulsive despair. Her only consolation during the violence which </p><p>she did herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated clock, and </p><p>internally count the moments which must elapse before she could be alone. </p><p>At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own desires, she rallied her </p><p>guests on their early departure. One by one they left her--at length she </p><p>pressed the hand of her last visitor. "How cold and damp your hand is," </p><p>said her friend; "you are over fatigued, pray hasten to rest." Perdita </p><p>smiled faintly--her guest left her; the carriage rolling down the street </p><p>assured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an enemy, as if wings </p><p>had been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her </p><p>attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself wildly on the floor, </p><p>she bit her lips even to blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey </p><p>to the vulture of despair, striving not to think, while multitudinous ideas </p><p>made a home of her heart; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and </p><p>poured in with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound </p><p>each other, while they worked her up to madness. </p><p>At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before a </p><p>large mirror--she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful </p><p>dress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous arms </p><p>and neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy tresses, all </p><p>were to her clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame </p><p>to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. "Vase am I," she thought, "vase </p><p>brimful of despair's direst essence. Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor </p><p>girl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no </p><p>longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy the homeless </p><p>beggar; most truly am I without a home! I live on a barren desart, which, </p><p>wide and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in the midst </p><p>is a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita, art chained, and thou seest the </p><p>dreary level stretch far away." </p><p>She threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden. Light and </p><p>darkness were struggling together, and the orient was streaked by roseate </p><p>and golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the kindling </p><p>atmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly over the dewy plants, rushed </p><p>into the heated room. "All things go on," thought Perdita, "all things </p><p>proceed, decay, and perish! When noontide has passed, and the weary day has </p><p>driven her team to their western stalls, the fires of heaven rise from the </p><p>East, moving in their accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey </p><p>hill. When their course is fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an </p><p>uncertain shadow; the eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers, </p><p>the startled vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length </p><p>appears, and in majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven. All</p><p>proceeds, changes and dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting </p><p>heart. </p><p>"Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has journied on </p><p>to its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed? We call the </p><p>supernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I look </p><p>again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal heavens is </p><p>altered. The silly moon and inconstant planets vary nightly their erratic </p><p>dance; the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon deserts his </p><p>throne, and leaves his dominion to night and winter. Nature grows old, and </p><p>shakes in her decaying limbs,--creation has become bankrupt! What wonder </p><p>then, that eclipse and death have led to destruction the light of thy life, </p><p>O Perdita!" </p><p>CHAPTER IX. </p><p>THUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sister, when she </p><p>became assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and all her </p><p>defects tended to make the blow incurable. Her affection for me, her </p><p>brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to the reigning </p><p>passion of her heart; even her maternal tenderness borrowed half its force </p><p>from the delight she had in tracing Raymond's features and expression in </p><p>the infant's countenance. She had been reserved and even stern in </p><p>childhood; but love had softened the asperities of her character, and her </p><p>union with Raymond had caused her talents and affections to unfold </p><p>themselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost, she in some degree </p><p>returned to her ancient disposition. The concentrated pride of her nature, </p><p>forgotten during her blissful dream, awoke, and with its adder's sting </p><p>pierced her heart; her humility of spirit augmented the power of the venom; </p><p>she had been exalted in her own estimation, while distinguished by his </p><p>love: of what worth was she, now that he thrust her from this preferment? </p><p>She had been proud of having won and preserved him--but another had won </p><p>him from her, and her exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember. </p><p>We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfortune. Soon </p><p>after the festival she had sent for her child, and then she seemed to have </p><p>forgotten us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he afterward </p><p>paid them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine the cause. They </p><p>still appeared in public together, and lived under the same roof. Raymond </p><p>was as usual courteous, though there was, on occasions, an unbidden </p><p>haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his manners, which startled his </p><p>gentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain sat on his lips, and </p><p>his voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention to her lord; </p><p>but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She had grown thin and pale; and </p><p>her eyes often filled with tears. Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to </p><p>say--That it should be so! At others her countenance expressed--I will </p><p>still do all I can to make you happy. But Adrian read with uncertain aim </p><p>the charactery of her face, and might mistake.--Clara was always with </p><p>her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit </p><p>holding her child's hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to </p><p>guess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they </p><p>promised to come during the following month. </p><p>It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees with </p><p>leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of their</p><p>intention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived with </p><p>her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had been detained by </p><p>business. According to Adrian's account, I had expected to find her sad; </p><p>but, on the contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true, she had </p><p>grown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though </p><p>tinged by a bright glow. She was delighted to see us; caressed our </p><p>children, praised their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to </p><p>meet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of childish games were </p><p>entered into, in which Perdita joined. She communicated her gaiety to us, </p><p>and as we amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a </p><p>happier, less care-worn party could not have been assembled. "This is </p><p>better, Mamma," said Clara, "than being in that dismal London, where you </p><p>often cry, and never laugh as you do now."--"Silence, little foolish </p><p>thing," replied her mother, "and remember any one that mentions London is </p><p>sent to Coventry for an hour." </p><p>Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual in the playful spirit </p><p>of the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and myself, by </p><p>degrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only remained </p><p>with the children. Raymond talked of his new buildings; of his plan for an </p><p>establishment for the better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he </p><p>entered into argument, and the time slipped away unperceived. </p><p>We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having </p><p>recourse to music. She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her new </p><p>accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied herself </p><p>to music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal of sweetness. </p><p>We were not permitted by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and </p><p>all the Operas of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the </p><p>most exhilarating of his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of </p><p>Mozart's music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing to come </p><p>from the heart; you enter into the passions expressed by him, and are </p><p>transported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul's master, </p><p>chooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but, </p><p>at length, Perdita receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the </p><p>trio of "Taci ingiusto core," in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was </p><p>softened by him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of </p><p>the changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same </p><p>sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of </p><p>love to her--no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its </p><p>dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon after </p><p>Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in </p><p>Figaro, "Porgi, amor, qualche risforo," in which the deserted Countess </p><p>laments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The soul of tender sorrow is </p><p>breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by </p><p>the mournful chords of her instrument, added to the expression of the </p><p>words. During the pathetic appeal with which it concludes, a stifled sob </p><p>attracted our attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music recalled her </p><p>to herself, she hastened out of the hall--I followed her. At first, she </p><p>seemed to wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning, </p><p>she threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:--"Once more," she cried, </p><p>"once more on your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the lost </p><p>Perdita pour forth her sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself; </p><p>and for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong </p><p>in giving words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know </p><p>that I am miserable--be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil </p><p>of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that </p><p>grief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!" </p><p>I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed her, </p><p>assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the changes </p><p>of her fortune:--"Dear words," she cried, "expressions of love come upon </p><p>my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that had been dear </p><p>to me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe or </p><p>comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered during </p><p>these long months. I have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed </p><p>themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread </p><p>mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops, </p><p>reproaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the </p><p>very luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day contriving new </p><p>extravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the </p><p>appurtenances of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness </p><p>that consumes me. I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my </p><p>grief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful </p><p>smiles--even in solitude I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become </p><p>insane and rave." </p><p>The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to return </p><p>to the circle we had left--so I persuaded her to let me drive her through </p><p>the park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale of her </p><p>unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would lighten the burthen, </p><p>and certain that, if there were a remedy, it should be found and secured to </p><p>her. </p><p>Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and she </p><p>had been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any regular </p><p>train. Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly to heart, </p><p>that which many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was no subject for </p><p>reason; and, ignorant as she was of the motives and true conduct of </p><p>Raymond, things assumed for her even a worse appearance, than the reality </p><p>warranted. He was seldom at the palace; never, but when he was assured that </p><p>his public duties would prevent his remaining alone with Perdita. They </p><p>seldom addressed each other, shunning explanation, each fearing any </p><p>communication the other might make. Suddenly, however, the manners of </p><p>Raymond changed; he appeared to desire to find opportunities of bringing </p><p>about a return to kindness and intimacy with my sister. The tide of love </p><p>towards her appeared to flow again; he could never forget, how once he had </p><p>been devoted to her, making her the shrine and storehouse wherein to place </p><p>every thought and every sentiment. Shame seemed to hold him back; yet he </p><p>evidently wished to establish a renewal of confidence and affection. From </p><p>the moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered herself to form any plan of </p><p>action, she had laid one down, which now she prepared to follow. She </p><p>received these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did not shun </p><p>his company; but she endeavoured to place a barrier in the way of familiar </p><p>intercourse or painful discussion, which mingled pride and shame prevented </p><p>Raymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew signs of angry </p><p>impatience, and Perdita became aware that the system she had adopted could </p><p>not continue; she must explain herself to him; she could not summon courage </p><p>to speak--she wrote thus:-- </p><p>"Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will contain no </p><p>reproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word: for what should I reproach </p><p>you? </p><p>"Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without that, we shall both </p><p>grope in the dark, mistaking one another; erring from the path which may </p><p>conduct, one of us at least, to a more eligible mode of life than that led </p><p>by either during the last few weeks.</p><p>"I loved you--I love you--neither anger nor pride dictates these lines; </p><p>but a feeling beyond, deeper, and more unalterable than either. My </p><p>affections are wounded; it is impossible to heal them:--cease then the </p><p>vain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours tend. Forgiveness! </p><p>Return! Idle words are these! I forgive the pain I endure; but the trodden </p><p>path cannot be retraced. </p><p>"Common affection might have been satisfied with common usages. I believed </p><p>that you read my heart, and knew its devotion, its unalienable fidelity </p><p>towards you. I never loved any but you. You came the embodied image of my </p><p>fondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high aspirations attended your </p><p>career. Love for you invested the world for me in enchanted light; it was </p><p>no longer the earth I trod--the earth, common mother, yielding only trite </p><p>and stale repetition of objects and circumstances old and worn out. I lived </p><p>in a temple glorified by intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I walked, </p><p>a consecrated being, contemplating only your power, your excellence; </p><p> For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,</p><p> Transformed for me the real to a dream,</p><p> Cloathing the palpable and familiar</p><p> With golden exhalations of the dawn.</p><p>'The bloom has vanished from my life'--there is no morning to this all </p><p>investing night; no rising to the set-sun of love. In those days the </p><p>rest of the world was nothing to me: all other men--I never </p><p>considered nor felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one of them. </p><p>Separated from them; exalted in my heart; sole possessor of my affections; </p><p>single object of my hopes, the best half of myself. </p><p>"Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on any, who could enjoy </p><p>its light with purer and more intense bliss? It was not--it is not a </p><p>common infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an whole which </p><p>may not have parts; it is the carelessness with which you have shaken off </p><p>the mantle of election with which to me you were invested, and have become </p><p>one among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not love a divinity, </p><p>because it is immortal? Did not I appear sanctified, even to myself, </p><p>because this love had for its temple my heart? I have gazed on you as you </p><p>slept, melted even to tears, as the idea filled my mind, that all I </p><p>possessed lay cradled in those idolized, but mortal lineaments before me. </p><p>Yet, even then, I have checked thick-coming fears with one thought; I would </p><p>not fear death, for the emotions that linked us must be immortal. </p><p>"And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased to close my eyes, </p><p>never more to open them again. And yet I fear it; even as I fear all </p><p>things; for in any state of being linked by the chain of memory with this, </p><p>happiness would not return--even in Paradise, I must feel that your love </p><p>was less enduring than the mortal beatings of my fragile heart, every pulse </p><p>of which knells audibly, </p><p> The funeral note</p><p> Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.</p><p> No--no--me miserable; for love extinct there is no resurrection!</p><p>"Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute all I possess to </p><p>your welfare. On account of a tattling world; for the sake of my--of our </p><p>child, I would remain by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake your </p><p>counsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor can I call myself a </p><p>friend to any; since, lost as I am, I have no thought to spare from my own</p><p>wretched, engrossing self. But it will please me to see you each day! to </p><p>listen to the public voice praising you; to keep up your paternal love for </p><p>our girl; to hear your voice; to know that I am near you, though you are no </p><p>longer mine. </p><p>"If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the word, and it </p><p>shall be done--I will take all the blame on myself, of harshness </p><p>or unkindness, in the world's eye. </p><p>"Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at least for the present, </p><p>to live under the same roof with you. When the fever of my young life is </p><p>spent; when placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me, friendship </p><p>may come, love and hope being dead. May this be true? Can my soul, </p><p>inextricably linked to this perishable frame, become lethargic and cold, </p><p>even as this sensitive mechanism shall lose its youthful elasticity? Then, </p><p>with lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs, and wrinkled brow, though now the words </p><p>sound hollow and meaningless, then, tottering on the grave's extreme edge, </p><p>I may be--your affectionate and true friend, </p><p>"PERDITA." </p><p>Raymond's answer was brief. What indeed could he reply to her complaints, </p><p>to her griefs which she jealously paled round, keeping out all thought of </p><p>remedy. "Notwithstanding your bitter letter," he wrote, "for bitter I must </p><p>call it, you are the chief person in my estimation, and it is your </p><p>happiness that I would principally consult. Do that which seems best to </p><p>you: and if you can receive gratification from one mode of life in </p><p>preference to another, do not let me be any obstacle. I foresee that the </p><p>plan which you mark out in your letter will not endure long; but you are </p><p>mistress of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to contribute as far as you </p><p>will permit me to your happiness." </p><p>"Raymond has prophesied well," said Perdita, "alas, that it should be so! </p><p>our present mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not be the first </p><p>to propose alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has injured even unto </p><p>death; and I derive no hope from his kindness; no change can possibly be </p><p>brought about even by his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra have </p><p>worn as an ornament the vinegar which contained her dissolved pearl, as I </p><p>be content with the love that Raymond can now offer me." </p><p>I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same eyes as Perdita. At </p><p>all events methought that the wound could be healed; and, if they remained </p><p>together, it would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and soften her </p><p>mind; and it was not until after many endeavours that I gave up the task as </p><p>impracticable. Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with some </p><p>asperity:--"Do you think that any of your arguments are new to me? or </p><p>that my own burning wishes and intense anguish have not suggested them all </p><p>a thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety than you can put </p><p>into them? Lionel, you cannot understand what woman's love is. In days of </p><p>happiness I have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart and </p><p>exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for me. I was a poor, </p><p>uneducated, unbefriended, mountain girl, raised from nothingness </p><p>by him. All that I possessed of the luxuries of life came </p><p>from him. He gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the world's </p><p>respect reflected from his own glory: all this joined to his own undying </p><p>love, inspired me with sensations towards him, akin to those with which we </p><p>regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I devoted myself to him: </p><p>imperfect creature that I was, I took myself to task, that I might become </p><p>worthy of him. I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my burning</p><p>impatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing thoughts, educating </p><p>myself to the best perfection I might attain, that the fruit of my </p><p>exertions might be his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He </p><p>deserved it all--all labour, all devotion, all sacrifice; I would have </p><p>toiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that would please him. I was </p><p>ready to quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to live only </p><p>with him, for him. I could not do otherwise, even if I had wished; for if </p><p>we are said to have two souls, he was my better soul, to which the other </p><p>was a perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even fidelity. I </p><p>earned that; I deserved it. Because I was mountain bred, unallied to the </p><p>noble and wealthy, shall he think to repay me by an empty name and station? </p><p>Let him take them back; without his love they are nothing to me. Their only </p><p>merit in my eyes was that they were his." </p><p>Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to the question of their </p><p>entire separation, she replied: "Be it so! One day the period will arrive; </p><p>I know it, and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect </p><p>companionship, and our masquerade of union, are strangely dear to me. It is </p><p>painful, I allow, destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual fever </p><p>in my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is instinct with poison. Yet </p><p>I must cling to it; perhaps it will kill me soon, and thus perform a </p><p>thankful office." </p><p>In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and Idris. He was </p><p>naturally frank; the continued absence of Perdita and myself became </p><p>remarkable; and Raymond soon found relief from the constraint of months, by </p><p>an unreserved confidence with his two friends. He related to them the </p><p>situation in which he had found Evadne. At first, from delicacy to Adrian </p><p>he concealed her name; but it was divulged in the course of his narrative, </p><p>and her former lover heard with the most acute agitation the history of her </p><p>sufferings. Idris had shared Perdita's ill opinion of the Greek; but </p><p>Raymond's account softened and interested her. Evadne's constancy, </p><p>fortitude, even her ill-fated and ill-regulated love, were matter of </p><p>admiration and pity; especially when, from the detail of the events of the </p><p>nineteenth of October, it was apparent that she preferred suffering and </p><p>death to any in her eyes degrading application for the pity and assistance </p><p>of her lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish this interest. At </p><p>first, relieved from famine and the grave, watched over by Raymond with the </p><p>tenderest assiduity, with that feeling of repose peculiar to convalescence, </p><p>Evadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love. But reflection </p><p>returned with health. She questioned him with regard to the motives which </p><p>had occasioned his critical absence. She framed her enquiries with Greek </p><p>subtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision and firmness </p><p>peculiar to her disposition. She could not divine, that the breach which </p><p>she had occasioned between Raymond and Perdita was already irreparable: but </p><p>she knew, that under the present system it would be widened each day, and </p><p>that its result must be to destroy her lover's happiness, and to implant </p><p>the fangs of remorse in his heart. From the moment that she perceived the </p><p>right line of conduct, she resolved to adopt it, and to part from Raymond </p><p>for ever. Conflicting passions, long-cherished love, and self-inflicted </p><p>disappointment, made her regard death alone as sufficient refuge for her </p><p>woe. But the same feelings and opinions which had before restrained her, </p><p>acted with redoubled force; for she knew that the reflection that he had </p><p>occasioned her death, would pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every </p><p>enjoyment, clouding every prospect. Besides, though the violence of her </p><p>anguish made life hateful, it had not yet produced that monotonous, </p><p>lethargic sense of changeless misery which for the most part produces </p><p>suicide. Her energy of character induced her still to combat with the ills </p><p>of life; even those attendant on hopeless love presented themselves, rather</p><p>in the shape of an adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she </p><p>must submit. Besides, she had memories of past tenderness to cherish, </p><p>smiles, words, and even tears, to con over, which, though remembered in </p><p>desertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of the </p><p>grave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her letter to </p><p>Raymond gave no clue for discovery; it assured him, that she was in no </p><p>danger of wanting the means of life; she promised in it to preserve </p><p>herself, and some future day perhaps to present herself to him in a station </p><p>not unworthy of her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of despair and </p><p>of unalterable love, a last farewell. </p><p>All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and Idris. Raymond then </p><p>lamented the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita. He declared, </p><p>notwithstanding her harshness, he even called it coldness, that he loved </p><p>her. He had been ready once with the humility of a penitent, and the duty </p><p>of a vassal, to surrender himself to her; giving up his very soul to her </p><p>tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her bondsman. She had rejected </p><p>these advances; and the time for such exuberant submission, which must be </p><p>founded on love and nourished by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes </p><p>and endeavours were directed towards her peace, and his chief discomfort </p><p>arose from the perception that he exerted himself in vain. If she were to </p><p>continue inflexible in the line of conduct she now pursued, they must part. </p><p>The combinations and occurrences of this senseless mode of intercourse were </p><p>maddening to him. Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted </p><p>by the fear of causing the death of one or other of the beings implicated </p><p>in these events; and he could not persuade himself to undertake to direct </p><p>the course of events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he should </p><p>lead those attached to the car into irremediable ruin. </p><p>After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for several hours, he took </p><p>leave of his friends, and returned to town, unwilling to meet Perdita </p><p>before us, conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts uppermost in the </p><p>minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him with her child. Idris </p><p>endeavoured to persuade her to remain. My poor sister looked at the </p><p>counsellor with affright. She knew that Raymond had conversed with her; had </p><p>he instigated this request?--was this to be the prelude to their eternal </p><p>separation?--I have said, that the defects of her character awoke and </p><p>acquired vigour from her unnatural position. She regarded with suspicion </p><p>the invitation of Idris; she embraced me, as if she were about to be </p><p>deprived of my affection also: calling me her more than brother, her only </p><p>friend, her last hope, she pathetically conjured me not to cease to love </p><p>her; and with encreased anxiety she departed for London, the scene and </p><p>cause of all her misery. </p><p>The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had not yet fathomed the </p><p>obscure gulph into which she had plunged. Her unhappiness assumed every day </p><p>a new shape; every day some unexpected event seemed to close, while in fact </p><p>it led onward, the train of calamities which now befell her. </p><p>The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was ambition. Readiness of </p><p>talent, a capacity of entering into, and leading the dispositions of men; </p><p>earnest desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of his </p><p>ambition. But other ingredients mingled with these, and prevented him from </p><p>becoming the calculating, determined character, which alone forms a </p><p>successful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his first </p><p>movements; harsh and reckless when provoked. Above all, he was remorseless </p><p>and unyielding in the pursuit of any object of desire, however lawless. </p><p>Love of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our nature, made a </p><p>prominent part of his character, conquering the conqueror; holding him in</p><p>at the moment of acquisition; sweeping away ambition's web; making him </p><p>forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of one moment's indulgence of the </p><p>new and actual object of his wishes. Obeying these impulses, he had become </p><p>the husband of Perdita: egged on by them, he found himself the lover of </p><p>Evadne. He had now lost both. He had neither the ennobling </p><p>self-gratulation, which constancy inspires, to console him, nor the </p><p>voluptuous sense of abandonment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion. </p><p>His heart was exhausted by the recent events; his enjoyment of life was </p><p>destroyed by the resentment of Perdita, and the flight of Evadne; and the </p><p>inflexibility of the former, set the last seal upon the annihilation of his </p><p>hopes. As long as their disunion remained a secret, he cherished an </p><p>expectation of re-awakening past tenderness in her bosom; now that we were </p><p>all made acquainted with these occurrences, and that Perdita, by declaring </p><p>her resolves to others, in a manner pledged herself to their </p><p>accomplishment, he gave up the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only, </p><p>since he was unable to influence her to change, to reconcile himself to the </p><p>present state of things. He made a vow against love and its train of </p><p>struggles, disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual </p><p>enjoyment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of passion. </p><p>Debasement of character is the certain follower of such pursuits. Yet this </p><p>consequence would not have been immediately remarkable, if Raymond had </p><p>continued to apply himself to the execution of his plans for the public </p><p>benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as Protector. But, extreme in all </p><p>things, given up to immediate impressions, he entered with ardour into this </p><p>new pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the incongruous intimacies </p><p>occasioned by it without reflection or foresight. The council-chamber was </p><p>deserted; the crowds which attended on him as agents to his various </p><p>projects were neglected. Festivity, and even libertinism, became the order </p><p>of the day. </p><p>Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder. For a moment she </p><p>thought that she could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could be induced </p><p>to hear reason from her.--Vain hope! The moment of her influence was </p><p>passed. He listened with haughtiness, replied disdainfully; and, if in </p><p>truth, she succeeded in awakening his conscience, the sole effect was that </p><p>he sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the energy natural </p><p>to her, Perdita then endeavoured to supply his place. Their still apparent </p><p>union permitted her to do much; but no woman could, in the end, present a </p><p>remedy to the encreasing negligence of the Protector; who, as if seized </p><p>with a paroxysm of insanity, trampled on all ceremony, all order, all duty, </p><p>and gave himself up to license. </p><p>Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we were undecided what </p><p>method to adopt to restore our friend to himself and his country, when </p><p>Perdita suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress of the </p><p>mournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself to go up to London, and </p><p>endeavour to remedy the encreasing evil:--"Tell him," she cried, "tell </p><p>Lord Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him. That he need not </p><p>plunge into this destructive dissipation for the sake of disgusting me, and </p><p>causing me to fly. This purpose is now accomplished; he will never see me </p><p>more. But let me, it is my last entreaty, let me in the praises of his </p><p>countrymen and the prosperity of England, find the choice of my youth </p><p>justified." </p><p>During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon </p><p>Raymond's conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent </p><p>excellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to entertain. My </p><p>friend and I had both been educated in one school, or rather I was his</p><p>pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to principle was the only road </p><p>to honour; a ceaseless observance of the laws of general utility, the only </p><p>conscientious aim of human ambition. But though we both entertained these </p><p>ideas, we differed in their application. Resentment added also a sting to </p><p>my censure; and I reprobated Raymond's conduct in severe terms. Adrian was </p><p>more benign, more considerate. He admitted that the principles that I laid </p><p>down were the best; but he denied that they were the only ones. Quoting the </p><p>text, there are many mansions in my father's house, he insisted that the </p><p>modes of becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of men, </p><p>of whom it might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there were no two </p><p>alike. </p><p>We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We conjectured, </p><p>notwithstanding what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St. </p><p>Stephen's: thither we sped. The chamber was full--but there was no </p><p>Protector; and there was an austere discontent manifest on the countenances </p><p>of the leaders, and a whispering and busy tattle among the underlings, not </p><p>less ominous. We hastened to the palace of the Protectorate. We found </p><p>Raymond in his dining room with six others: the bottle was being pushed </p><p>about merrily, and had made considerable inroads on the understanding of </p><p>one or two. He who sat near Raymond was telling a story, which convulsed </p><p>the rest with laughter. </p><p>Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the </p><p>hour, his natural dignity never forsook him. He was gay, playful, </p><p>fascinating--but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the </p><p>respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that considering </p><p>the task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of England, and </p><p>the cares to which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly provoked to </p><p>observe the worthless fellows on whom his time was wasted, and the jovial </p><p>if not drunken spirit which seemed on the point of robbing him of his </p><p>better self. I stood watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a shadow </p><p>in among them, and, by a word and look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore </p><p>order in the assembly. Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him, </p><p>declaring that he should make one in the festivity of the night. </p><p>This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that he should sit at </p><p>the same table with the companions of Raymond--men of abandoned </p><p>characters, or rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the </p><p>disgrace of their country. "Let me entreat Adrian," I cried, "not to </p><p>comply: rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond from </p><p>this scene, and restore him to other society." </p><p>"My good fellow," said Raymond, "this is neither the time nor place for the </p><p>delivery of a moral lecture: take my word for it that my amusements and </p><p>society are not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or fools </p><p>--for the rest, 'Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be </p><p>no more cakes and ale?'" </p><p>I turned angrily away: "Verney," said Adrian, "you are very cynical: sit </p><p>down; or if you will not, perhaps, as you are not a frequent visitor, Lord </p><p>Raymond will humour you, and accompany us, as we had previously agreed </p><p>upon, to parliament." </p><p>Raymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity only in his gentle </p><p>lineaments; he turned to me, observing with scorn my moody and stern </p><p>demeanour. "Come," said Adrian, "I have promised for you, enable me to keep </p><p>my engagement. Come with us."--Raymond made an uneasy movement, and </p><p>laconically replied--"I won't!"</p><p>The party in the mean time had broken up. They looked at the pictures, </p><p>strolled into the other apartments, talked of billiards, and one by one </p><p>vanished. Raymond strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to </p><p>receive and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned against the wall. "This </p><p>is infinitely ridiculous," he cried, "if you were school-boys, you could </p><p>not conduct yourselves more unreasonably." </p><p>"You do not understand," said Raymond. "This is only part of a system:--a </p><p>scheme of tyranny to which I will never submit. Because I am Protector of </p><p>England, am I to be the only slave in its empire? My privacy invaded, my </p><p>actions censured, my friends insulted? But I will get rid of the whole </p><p>together.--Be you witnesses," and he took the star, insignia of office, </p><p>from his breast, and threw it on the table. "I renounce my office, I </p><p>abdicate my power--assume it who will!"--- </p><p>"Let him assume it," exclaimed Adrian, "who can pronounce himself, or whom </p><p>the world will pronounce to be your superior. There does not exist the man </p><p>in England with adequate presumption. Know yourself, Raymond, and your </p><p>indignation will cease; your complacency return. A few months ago, whenever </p><p>we prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own, we at the same </p><p>time prayed for the life and welfare of the Protector, as indissolubly </p><p>linked to it. Your hours were devoted to our benefit, your ambition was to </p><p>obtain our commendation. You decorated our towns with edifices, you </p><p>bestowed on us useful establishments, you gifted the soil with abundant </p><p>fertility. The powerful and unjust cowered at the steps of your </p><p>judgment-seat, and the poor and oppressed arose like morn-awakened flowers </p><p>under the sunshine of your protection. </p><p>"Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when this appears </p><p>changed? But, come, this splenetic fit is already passed; resume your </p><p>functions; your partizans will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our </p><p>love, honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you. Master </p><p>yourself, Raymond, and the world is subject to you." </p><p>"All this would be very good sense, if addressed to another," replied </p><p>Raymond, moodily, "con the lesson yourself, and you, the first peer of the </p><p>land, may become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just, may rule </p><p>all hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my own happiness, too late for </p><p>England's good, that I undertook a task to which I am unequal. I cannot </p><p>rule myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse my tyrant. Do </p><p>you think that I renounced the Protectorate (and I have renounced it) in a </p><p>fit of spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never to take up that bauble </p><p>again; never again to burthen myself with the weight of care and misery, of </p><p>which that is the visible sign. </p><p>"Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of youth, in the pride </p><p>of boyish folly. I knew myself when I renounced it. I renounced it to gain </p><p>--no matter what--for that also I have lost. For many months I have </p><p>submitted to this mock majesty--this solemn jest. I am its dupe no </p><p>longer. I will be free. </p><p>"I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life; that which linked me </p><p>to other men. Again I am a solitary man; and I will become again, as in my </p><p>early years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My friends, for Verney, I </p><p>feel that you are my friend, do not endeavour to shake my resolve. Perdita, </p><p>wedded to an imagination, careless of what is behind the veil, whose </p><p>charactery is in truth faulty and vile, Perdita has renounced me. With her </p><p>it was pretty enough to play a sovereign's part; and, as in the recesses of</p><p>your beloved forest we acted masques, and imagined ourselves Arcadian </p><p>shepherds, to please the fancy of the moment--so was I content, more for </p><p>Perdita's sake than my own, to take on me the character of one of the great </p><p>ones of the earth; to lead her behind the scenes of grandeur, to vary her </p><p>life with a short act of magnificence and power. This was to be the colour; </p><p>love and confidence the substance of our existence. But we must live, and </p><p>not act our lives; pursuing the shadow, I lost the reality--now I </p><p>renounce both. </p><p>"Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become again a soldier, perhaps </p><p>a conqueror. Will you accompany me? You will behold new scenes; see a new </p><p>people; witness the mighty struggle there going forward between </p><p>civilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps direct the efforts of a </p><p>young and vigorous population, for liberty and order. Come with me. I have </p><p>expected you. I waited for this moment; all is prepared;--will you </p><p>accompany me?" </p><p>"I will," replied Adrian. "Immediately?" </p><p>"To-morrow if you will." </p><p>"Reflect!" I cried. </p><p>"Wherefore?" asked Raymond--"My dear fellow, I have done nothing else </p><p>than reflect on this step the live-long summer; and be assured that Adrian </p><p>has condensed an age of reflection into this little moment. Do not talk of </p><p>reflection; from this moment I abjure it; this is my only happy moment </p><p>during a long interval of time. I must go, Lionel--the Gods will it; and </p><p>I must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion, the out-cast's </p><p>friend. </p><p>"One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a time, I thought </p><p>that, by watching a complying moment, fostering the still warm ashes, I </p><p>might relume in her the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than a </p><p>fire left by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers crowned by a pyramid </p><p>of snow. Then, in endeavouring to do violence to my own disposition, I made </p><p>all worse than before. Still I think, that time, and even absence, may </p><p>restore her to me. Remember, that I love her still, that my dearest hope is </p><p>that she will again be mine. I know, though she does not, how false the </p><p>veil is which she has spread over the reality--do not endeavour to rend </p><p>this deceptive covering, but by degrees withdraw it. Present her with a </p><p>mirror, in which she may know herself; and, when she is an adept in that </p><p>necessary but difficult science, she will wonder at her present mistake, </p><p>and hasten to restore to me, what is by right mine, her forgiveness, her </p><p>kind thoughts, her love." </p><p>CHAPTER X. </p><p>AFTER these events, it was long before we were able to attain any degree of </p><p>composure. A moral tempest had wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we, </p><p>remnants of the diminished crew, were aghast at the losses and changes </p><p>which we had undergone. Idris passionately loved her brother, and could ill </p><p>brook an absence whose duration was uncertain; his society was dear and </p><p>necessary to me--I had followed up my chosen literary occupations with </p><p>delight under his tutorship and assistance; his mild philosophy, unerring</p><p>reason, and enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the exalted </p><p>spirit of our circle; even the children bitterly regretted the loss of </p><p>their kind playfellow. Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of </p><p>resentment, by day and night she figured to herself the toils and dangers </p><p>of the wanderers. Raymond absent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the </p><p>power and rank of the Protectorate, exposed to the perils of war, became an </p><p>object of anxious interest; not that she felt any inclination to recall </p><p>him, if recall must imply a return to their former union. Such return she </p><p>felt to be impossible; and while she believed it to be thus, and with </p><p>anguish regretted that so it should be, she continued angry and impatient </p><p>with him, who occasioned her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused </p><p>her to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce her in person and </p><p>in mind to the shadow of what she had been. She sought solitude, and </p><p>avoided us when in gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a family </p><p>circle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and solemn music were her </p><p>only pastimes. She neglected even her child; shutting her heart against all </p><p>tenderness, she grew reserved towards me, her first and fast friend. </p><p>I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself to remedy the evil </p><p>--remediless I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to reconcile </p><p>herself to Raymond. Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion </p><p>to induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one with a gush of </p><p>tears--telling me that to be persuaded--life and the goods of life were </p><p>a cheap exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the capacity; again </p><p>and again she declared, it were as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on </p><p>the wind's viewless courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit </p><p>for honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding love. She answered </p><p>my reasonings more briefly, declaring with disdain, that the reason was </p><p>hers; and, until I could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that </p><p>maturity could go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as </p><p>though it had never been, it was useless to assure her that no real change </p><p>had taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered him to </p><p>go, though her very heart-strings cracked at the fulfilling of the act, </p><p>which rent from her all that made life valuable. </p><p>To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by the </p><p>cloud that had come over us, I persuaded my two remaining companions that </p><p>it were better that we should absent ourselves for a time from Windsor. We </p><p>visited the north of England, my native Ulswater, and lingered in scenes </p><p>dear from a thousand associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland, </p><p>that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence we crossed to </p><p>Ireland, and passed several weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney. The </p><p>change of scene operated to a great degree as I expected; after a year's </p><p>absence, Perdita returned in gentler and more docile mood to Windsor. The </p><p>first sight of this place for a time unhinged her. Here every spot was </p><p>distinct with associations now grown bitter. The forest glades, the ferny </p><p>dells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread around </p><p>the silver pathway of ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one </p><p>choral voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plaintive regret. </p><p>But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of her own situation, did </p><p>not end here. Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated. When first </p><p>she left her peasant life, and resided with the elegant and cultivated </p><p>Evadne, the only accomplishment she brought to any perfection was that of </p><p>painting, for which she had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had </p><p>occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted her Greek friend's </p><p>protection. Her pallet and easel were now thrown aside; did she try to </p><p>paint, thronging recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with </p><p>tears. With this occupation she gave up almost every other; and her mind</p><p>preyed upon itself almost to madness. </p><p>For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me from my selvatic </p><p>wilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded to </p><p>literature. I felt convinced that however it might have been in former </p><p>times, in the present stage of the world, no man's faculties could be </p><p>developed, no man's moral principle be enlarged and liberal, without an </p><p>extensive acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place of an </p><p>active career, of ambition, and those palpable excitements necessary to the </p><p>multitude. The collation of philosophical opinions, the study of historical </p><p>facts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my recreation, and the </p><p>serious aim of my life. I turned author myself. My productions however were </p><p>sufficiently unpretending; they were confined to the biography of favourite </p><p>historical characters, especially those whom I believed to have been </p><p>traduced, or about whom clung obscurity and doubt. </p><p>As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I </p><p>found another and a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my </p><p>point of sight was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of all </p><p>human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings have been called the </p><p>fathers of their people. Suddenly I became as it were the father of all </p><p>mankind. Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to enrich the </p><p>treasure house of man's intellectual possessions; each sentiment was a </p><p>precious gift I bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be attributed </p><p>to vanity. They were not expressed in words, nor even reduced to form in my </p><p>own mind; but they filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of </p><p>enthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which I before walked, </p><p>into the bright noon-enlightened highway of mankind, making me, citizen of </p><p>the world, a candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the praise </p><p>and sympathy of my fellow men. </p><p>No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of composition more intensely </p><p>than I. If I left the woods, the solemn music of the waving branches, and </p><p>the majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of the Castle, and </p><p>looked over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our regal mount, and </p><p>listened the while to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn </p><p>harmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my lagging thoughts, </p><p>permitting them, methought, to penetrate the last veil of nature and her </p><p>God, and to display the highest beauty in visible expression to the </p><p>understandings of men. As the music went on, my ideas seemed to quit their </p><p>mortal dwelling house; they shook their pinions and began a flight, sailing </p><p>on the placid current of thought, filling the creation with new glory, and </p><p>rousing sublime imagery that else had slept voiceless. Then I would hasten </p><p>to my desk, weave the new-found web of mind in firm texture and brilliant </p><p>colours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a calmer moment. </p><p>But this account, which might as properly belong to a former period of my </p><p>life as to the present moment, leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I </p><p>took in literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from it, that made </p><p>me eager to lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I began with light hand and </p><p>gentle allurement; first exciting her curiosity, and then satisfying it in </p><p>such a way as might occasion her, at the same time that she half forgot her </p><p>sorrows in occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a reaction of </p><p>benevolence and toleration. </p><p>Intellectual activity, though not directed towards books, had always been </p><p>my sister's characteristic. It had been displayed early in life, leading </p><p>her out to solitary musing among her native mountains, causing her to form </p><p>innumerous combinations from common objects, giving strength to her</p><p>perceptions, and swiftness to their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod </p><p>of the master-prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity. Love had </p><p>doubled all her excellencies, and placed a diadem on her genius. Was she to </p><p>cease to love? Take the colours and odour from the rose, change the sweet </p><p>nutriment of mother's milk to gall and poison; as easily might you wean </p><p>Perdita from love. She grieved for the loss of Raymond with an anguish, </p><p>that exiled all smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her brow of </p><p>beauty. But each day seemed to change the nature of her suffering, and </p><p>every succeeding hour forced her to alter (if so I may style it) the </p><p>fashion of her soul's mourning garb. For a time music was able to satisfy </p><p>the cravings of her mental hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed </p><p>themselves in each change of key, and varied with every alteration in the </p><p>strain. My schooling first impelled her towards books; and, if music had </p><p>been the food of sorrow, the productions of the wise became its </p><p>medicine. The acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an </p><p>occupation, for one who referred every expression to the universe within, </p><p>and read not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling up time; but who was </p><p>still questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea in a thousand </p><p>ways, ardently desirous for the discovery of truth in every sentence. She </p><p>sought to improve her understanding; mechanically her heart and </p><p>dispositions became soft and gentle under this benign discipline. After </p><p>awhile she discovered, that amidst all her newly acquired knowledge, her </p><p>own character, which formerly she fancied that she thoroughly understood, </p><p>became the first in rank among the terrae incognitae, the pathless wilds of </p><p>a country that had no chart. Erringly and strangely she began the task of </p><p>self-examination with self-condemnation. And then again she became aware of </p><p>her own excellencies, and began to balance with juster scales the shades of </p><p>good and evil. I, who longed beyond words, to restore her to the happiness </p><p>it was still in her power to enjoy, watched with anxiety the result of </p><p>these internal proceedings. </p><p>But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his forces like that of </p><p>an engine; and, though an impulse draw with a forty-horse power at what </p><p>appears willing to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the </p><p>movement is not effected. Neither grief, philosophy, nor love could make </p><p>Perdita think with mildness of the dereliction of Raymond. She now took </p><p>pleasure in my society; towards Idris she felt and displayed a full and </p><p>affectionate sense of her worth--she restored to her child in abundant </p><p>measure her tenderness and care. But I could discover, amidst all her </p><p>repinings, deep resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense of </p><p>injury, that plucked from me my hope, when I appeared nearest to its </p><p>fulfilment. Among other painful restrictions, she has occasioned it to </p><p>become a law among us, never to mention Raymond's name before her. She </p><p>refused to read any communications from Greece, desiring me only to mention </p><p>when any arrived, and whether the wanderers were well. It was curious that </p><p>even little Clara observed this law towards her mother. This lovely child </p><p>was nearly eight years of age. Formerly she had been a light-hearted </p><p>infant, fanciful, but gay and childish. After the departure of her father, </p><p>thought became impressed on her young brow. Children, unadepts in language, </p><p>seldom find words to express their thoughts, nor could we tell in what </p><p>manner the late events had impressed themselves on her mind. But certainly </p><p>she had made deep observations while she noted in silence the changes that </p><p>passed around her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita, she appeared </p><p>half afraid when she spoke of him to me, and though I tried to draw her out </p><p>on the subject, and to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas </p><p>concerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she watched </p><p>for the arrival of letters--knew the post mark, and watched me as I read. </p><p>I found her often poring over the article of Greek intelligence in the </p><p>newspaper.</p><p>There is no more painful sight than that of untimely care in children, and </p><p>it was particularly observable in one whose disposition had heretofore been </p><p>mirthful. Yet there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara, that </p><p>your admiration was excited; and if the moods of mind are calculated to </p><p>paint the cheek with beauty, and endow motions with grace, surely her </p><p>contemplations must have been celestial; since every lineament was moulded </p><p>into loveliness, and her motions were more harmonious than the elegant </p><p>boundings of the fawns of her native forest. I sometimes expostulated with </p><p>Perdita on the subject of her reserve; but she rejected my counsels, while </p><p>her daughter's sensibility excited in her a tenderness still more </p><p>passionate. </p><p>After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned from Greece. </p><p>When our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in existence between the </p><p>Turks and Greeks; a truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal of </p><p>renewed activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia, with all of </p><p>warlike stores, ships, and military engines, that wealth and power could </p><p>command, the Turks at once resolved to crush an enemy, which creeping on by </p><p>degrees, had from their stronghold in the Morea, acquired Thrace and </p><p>Macedonia, and had led their armies even to the gates of Constantinople, </p><p>while their extensive commercial relations gave every European nation an </p><p>interest in their success. Greece prepared for a vigorous resistance; it </p><p>rose to a man; and the women, sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred </p><p>their sons for the war, and bade them conquer or die with the spirit of the </p><p>Spartan mother. The talents and courage of Raymond were highly esteemed </p><p>among the Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her own, and by </p><p>giving him the command of her peculiar division in the army, the </p><p>commander-in-chief only possessed superior power. He was numbered among her </p><p>citizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian heroes. His judgment, </p><p>activity, and consummate bravery, justified their choice. The Earl of </p><p>Windsor became a volunteer under his friend. </p><p>"It is well," said Adrian, "to prate of war in these pleasant shades, and </p><p>with much ill-spent oil make a show of joy, because many thousand of our </p><p>fellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and natal earth. I shall </p><p>not be suspected of being averse to the Greek cause; I know and feel its </p><p>necessity; it is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it with </p><p>my sword, and was willing that my spirit should be breathed out in its </p><p>defence; freedom is of more worth than life, and the Greeks do well to </p><p>defend their privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves. The </p><p>Turks are men; each fibre, each limb is as feeling as our own, and every </p><p>spasm, be it mental or bodily, is as truly felt in a Turk's heart or brain, </p><p>as in a Greek's. The last action at which I was present was the taking of </p><p>----. The Turks resisted to the last, the garrison perished on the </p><p>ramparts, and we entered by assault. Every breathing creature within the </p><p>walls was massacred. Think you, amidst the shrieks of violated innocence </p><p>and helpless infancy, I did not feel in every nerve the cry of a fellow </p><p>being? They were men and women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans, </p><p>and when they rise turbanless from the grave, in what except their good or </p><p>evil actions will they be the better or worse than we? Two soldiers </p><p>contended for a girl, whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the </p><p>brutal appetites of these wretches, who, perhaps good men among their </p><p>families, were changed by the fury of the moment into incarnated evils. An </p><p>old man, with a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be her </p><p>grandfather, interposed to save her; the battle axe of one of them clove </p><p>his skull. I rushed to her defence, but rage made them blind and deaf; they </p><p>did not distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words--words were blunt</p><p>weapons then, for while war cried "havoc," and murder gave fit echo, how </p><p>could I-- </p><p> Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong</p><p> With mild accost of soothing eloquence?</p><p>One of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck me with his bayonet </p><p>in the side, and I fell senseless. </p><p>"This wound will probably shorten my life, having shattered a frame, weak </p><p>of itself. But I am content to die. I have learnt in Greece that one man, </p><p>more or less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to fill up the </p><p>thinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the identity of an individual may </p><p>be overlooked, so that the muster roll contain its full numbers. All this </p><p>has a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to contemplate the ideal of </p><p>war, while I am sensible only to its realities. He is a soldier, a general. </p><p>He can influence the blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their </p><p>propensities vainly. The cause is simple. Burke has said that, 'in all </p><p>bodies those who would lead, must also, in a considerable degree, follow.' </p><p>--I cannot follow; for I do not sympathize in their dreams of massacre and </p><p>glory--to follow and to lead in such a career, is the natural bent of </p><p>Raymond's mind. He is always successful, and bids fair, at the same time </p><p>that he acquires high name and station for himself, to secure liberty, </p><p>probably extended empire, to the Greeks." </p><p>Perdita's mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can be </p><p>great and happy without me. Would that I also had a career! Would that I </p><p>could freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and desires, </p><p>and launch it forth into the ocean of life--bound for some attainable </p><p>point, with ambition or pleasure at the helm! But adverse winds detain me </p><p>on shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water's edge and weep. But my </p><p>nerveless hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the planks. Under </p><p>the influence of these melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in </p><p>love with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presence did some good; he at once broke </p><p>through the law of silence observed concerning Raymond. At first she </p><p>started from the unaccustomed sound; soon she got used to it and to love </p><p>it, and she listened with avidity to the account of his achievements. Clara </p><p>got rid also of her restraint; Adrian and she had been old playfellows; and </p><p>now, as they walked or rode together, he yielded to her earnest entreaty, </p><p>and repeated, for the hundredth time, some tale of her father's bravery, </p><p>munificence, or justice. </p><p>Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating tidings from Greece. The </p><p>presence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into the </p><p>details with enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from Raymond told </p><p>us how he was engrossed by the interests of his adopted country. The Greeks </p><p>were strongly attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have been </p><p>satisfied with their present acquisitions, had not the Turks roused them by </p><p>invasion. The patriots were victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; </p><p>and already they looked on Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose </p><p>perpetually in their estimation; but one man held a superior command to him </p><p>in their armies. He was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position </p><p>in a battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the Hebrus, </p><p>which was to decide the fate of Islam. The Mahometans were defeated, and </p><p>driven entirely from the country west of this river. The battle was </p><p>sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently irreparable; the Greeks, in </p><p>losing one man, forgot the nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody field, </p><p>and they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost them-- </p><p>Raymond.</p><p>At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued the </p><p>fugitives even to the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse was found </p><p>grazing by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question whether </p><p>he had fallen among the unrecognized; but no broken ornament or stained </p><p>trapping betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks, finding </p><p>themselves possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to satisfy their </p><p>cruelty rather than their avarice, and fearful of the interference of </p><p>England, had come to the determination of concealing for ever the </p><p>cold-blooded murder of the soldier they most hated and feared in the </p><p>squadrons of their enemy. </p><p>Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the Protectorate </p><p>had caused an unexampled sensation; and, when his magnificent and manly </p><p>system was contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding politicians, the </p><p>period of his elevation was referred to with sorrow. The perpetual </p><p>recurrence of his name, joined to most honourable testimonials, in the </p><p>Greek gazettes, kept up the interest he had excited. He seemed the </p><p>favourite child of fortune, and his untimely loss eclipsed the world, and </p><p>shewed forth the remnant of mankind with diminished lustre. They clung with </p><p>eagerness to the hope held out that he might yet be alive. Their minister </p><p>at Constantinople was urged to make the necessary perquisitions, and should </p><p>his existence be ascertained, to demand his release. It was to be hoped </p><p>that their efforts would succeed, and that though now a prisoner, the sport </p><p>of cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and </p><p>restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he deserved. </p><p>The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never for </p><p>a moment credited the story of his death; she resolved instantly to go to </p><p>Greece. Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she would </p><p>endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth, that, if </p><p>argument or entreaty can turn any one from a desperate purpose, whose </p><p>motive and end depends on the strength of the affections only, then it is </p><p>right so to turn them, since their docility shews, that neither the motive </p><p>nor the end were of sufficient force to bear them through the obstacles </p><p>attendant on their undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof against </p><p>expostulation, this very steadiness is an omen of success; and it becomes </p><p>the duty of those who love them, to assist in smoothing the obstructions in </p><p>their path. Such sentiments actuated our little circle. Finding Perdita </p><p>immoveable, we consulted as to the best means of furthering her purpose. </p><p>She could not go alone to a country where she had no friends, where she </p><p>might arrive only to hear the dreadful news, which must overwhelm her with </p><p>grief and remorse. Adrian, whose health had always been weak, now suffered </p><p>considerable aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris </p><p>could not endure to leave him in this state; nor was it right either to </p><p>quit or take with us a young family for a journey of this description. I </p><p>resolved at length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my Idris was </p><p>painful--but necessity reconciled us to it in some degree: necessity and </p><p>the hope of saving Raymond, and restoring him again to happiness and </p><p>Perdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our </p><p>determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked. The season was May, </p><p>the weather stormless; we were promised a prosperous voyage. Cherishing the </p><p>most fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw with delight the </p><p>receding shore of Britain, and on the wings of desire outspeeded our well </p><p>filled sails towards the South. The light curling waves bore us onward, and </p><p>old ocean smiled at the freight of love and hope committed to his charge; </p><p>it stroked gently its tempestuous plains, and the path was smoothed for us. </p><p>Day and night the wind right aft, gave steady impulse to our keel--nor </p><p>did rough gale, or treacherous sand, or destructive rock interpose an</p><p>obstacle between my sister and the land which was to restore her to her </p><p>first beloved, </p><p> Her dear heart's confessor--a heart within that heart.</p><p>VOL. II. </p><p>CHAPTER I. </p><p>DURING this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed on deck, watching </p><p>the glancing of the waves and the changeful appearances of the sky, I </p><p>discovered the total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had wrought </p><p>in the mind of my sister. Were they the same waters of love, which, lately </p><p>cold and cutting as ice, repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen </p><p>chains, flowed through the regions of her soul in gushing and grateful </p><p>exuberance? She did not believe that he was dead, but she knew that he was </p><p>in danger, and the hope of assisting in his liberation, and the idea of </p><p>soothing by tenderness the ills that he might have undergone, elevated and </p><p>harmonized the late jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as </p><p>she as to the result of our voyage. She was not sanguine, but secure; and </p><p>the expectation of seeing the lover she had banished, the husband, friend, </p><p>heart's companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt her senses </p><p>in delight, her mind in placidity. It was beginning life again; it was </p><p>leaving barren sands for an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after </p><p>a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy waking from a terrible </p><p>dream. </p><p>Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not well understand what </p><p>was going forward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, that she would </p><p>see her father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of him to her </p><p>mother. </p><p>On landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease upon us: nor could the </p><p>storied earth or balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure, </p><p>while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had ever excited so </p><p>strong an interest in the public mind; this was apparent even among the </p><p>phlegmatic English, from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had </p><p>expected their hero to return in triumph; the women had taught their </p><p>children to lisp his name joined to thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his </p><p>courage, his devotion to their cause, made him appear in their eyes almost </p><p>as one of the ancient deities of the soil descended from their native </p><p>Olympus to defend them. When they spoke of his probable death and certain </p><p>captivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even as the women of Syria </p><p>sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece lament our English </p><p>Raymond--Athens was a city of mourning. </p><p>All these shews of despair struck Perdita with affright. With that sanguine </p><p>but confused expectation, which desire engendered while she was at a </p><p>distance from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of instantaneous </p><p>change, when she should set her foot on Grecian shores. She fancied that </p><p>Raymond would already be free, and that her tender attentions would come to </p><p>entirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance. But his fate was</p><p>still uncertain; she began to fear the worst, and to feel that her soul's </p><p>hope was cast on a chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely </p><p>child of Lord Raymond became objects of intense interest in Athens. The </p><p>gates of their abode were besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his </p><p>restoration; all these circumstances added to the dismay and fears of </p><p>Perdita. </p><p>My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left Athens, and joined the </p><p>army stationed at Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon </p><p>discovered the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner, suffering the </p><p>most rigorous confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in movement every </p><p>impulse of policy and money to redeem him from their hands. </p><p>The impatience of my sister's disposition now returned on her, awakened by </p><p>repentance, sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the Grecian climate, </p><p>during the season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The </p><p>unexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth--the genial sunshine and </p><p>grateful shade--the melody of the birds--the majesty of the woods-- </p><p>the splendour of the marble ruins--the clear effulgence of the stars by </p><p>night--the combination of all that was exciting and voluptuous in this </p><p>transcending land, by inspiring a quicker spirit of life and an added </p><p>sensitiveness to every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the </p><p>poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and "He suffers" was </p><p>the burthen of all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay on the </p><p>bare earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments, endeavoured to </p><p>hold communion with his distant pain. I remembered in one of her harshest </p><p>moments a quotation of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. "Perdita," </p><p>I had said, "some day you will discover that you have done wrong in again </p><p>casting Raymond on the thorns of life. When disappointment has sullied his </p><p>beauty, when a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and loneliness </p><p>made even triumph bitter to him, then you will repent; and regret for the </p><p>irreparable change </p><p> "will move</p><p> In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."[1]</p><p>The stinging "remorse of love" now pierced her heart. She accused herself </p><p>of his journey to Greece--his dangers--his imprisonment. She pictured </p><p>to herself the anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager </p><p>delight he had in former days made her the partner of his joyful hopes-- </p><p>with what grateful affection he received her sympathy in his cares. She </p><p>called to mind how often he had declared that solitude was to him the </p><p>greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him more full of fear </p><p>and pain when he pictured to himself a lonely grave. "My best girl," he had </p><p>said, "relieves me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in her </p><p>dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of finding myself alone. </p><p>Even if I die before you, my Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may </p><p>mingle with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not a </p><p>materialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I may feel that my </p><p>inanimate dust mingles with yours, and thus have a companion in decay." In </p><p>her resentful mood, these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and </p><p>disdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes, </p><p>all hope of rest from her uneasy mind. </p><p>Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a promise of Raymond's </p><p>release. Confinement and hardship had undermined his health; the Turks </p><p>feared an accomplishment of the threats of the English government, if he </p><p>died under their hands; they looked upon his recovery as impossible; they </p><p>delivered him up as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites of</p><p>burial. </p><p>He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind, favourable to him, </p><p>blew so strongly in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first </p><p>intended, to meet him on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was </p><p>besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out for; till on the first </p><p>of May the gallant frigate bore in sight, freighted with treasure more </p><p>invaluable than the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed Pacific </p><p>swallowed, or that was conveyed over its tranquil bosom to enrich the crown </p><p>of Spain. At early dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore; it was </p><p>conjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles from land. The news </p><p>spread through Athens, and the whole city poured out at the gate of the </p><p>Piraeus, down the roads, through the vineyards, the olive woods and </p><p>plantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The noisy joy of the </p><p>populace, the gaudy colours of their dress, the tumult of carriages and </p><p>horses, the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound </p><p>of martial music added to the high excitement of the scene; while round us </p><p>reposed in solemn majesty the relics of antient time. To our right the </p><p>Acropolis rose high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient glory, </p><p>Turkish slavery, and the restoration of dear-bought liberty; tombs and </p><p>cenotaphs were strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation; </p><p>the mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm </p><p>and congregated numbers a renewal of the scenes in which they had been the </p><p>actors. Perdita and Clara rode in a close carriage; I attended them on </p><p>horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was agitated by the </p><p>outward swell of the sea; the beach, as far could be discerned, was covered </p><p>by a moving multitude, which, urged by those behind toward the sea, again </p><p>rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close to them. I </p><p>applied my glass, and could discern that the frigate had already cast </p><p>anchor, fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee shore: a boat </p><p>was lowered; with a pang I saw that Raymond was unable to descend the </p><p>vessel's side; he was let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the </p><p>bottom of the boat. </p><p>I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were rowing about the harbour </p><p>to pull up, and take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same moment </p><p>alighted from her carriage--she seized my arm--"Take me with you," she </p><p>cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to her--"You must not," I </p><p>said, "the sea is rough--he will soon be here--do you not see his </p><p>boat?" The little bark to which I had beckoned had now pulled up; before I </p><p>could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in it--Clara </p><p>followed her mother--a loud shout echoed from the crowd as we pulled out </p><p>of the inner harbour; while my sister at the prow, had caught hold of one </p><p>of the men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions, careless of </p><p>the spray that broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except the little </p><p>speck that, just visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We </p><p>approached with all the speed six rowers could give; the orderly and </p><p>picturesque dress of the soldiers on the beach, the sounds of exulting </p><p>music, the stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of </p><p>the eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were purely eastern; the </p><p>sight of temple-crowned rock, the white marble of the buildings glittering </p><p>in the sun, and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty </p><p>mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the splash of oars, and dash of </p><p>spray, all steeped my soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common </p><p>course of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to look through </p><p>the glass with which I had watched the motion of the crew, when the </p><p>frigate's boat had first been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at </p><p>length the number and forms of those within could be discerned; its dark </p><p>sides grew big, and the splash of its oars became audible: I could</p><p>distinguish the languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at our </p><p>approach. </p><p>Perdita's questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm, panting with emotions </p><p>too acute for tears--our men pulled alongside the other boat. As a last </p><p>effort, my sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped from one </p><p>boat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards Raymond, knelt </p><p>at his side, and glueing her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded </p><p>by her long hair, gave herself up to tears. </p><p>Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach, but it was with </p><p>difficulty that he exerted himself even thus much. With sunken cheek and </p><p>hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita? </p><p>I continued awe-struck and mute--he looked smilingly on the poor girl; </p><p>the smile was his. A day of sun-shine falling on a dark valley, displays </p><p>its before hidden characteristics; and now this smile, the same with which </p><p>he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had welcomed the </p><p>protectorate, playing on his altered countenance, made me in my heart's </p><p>core feel that this was Raymond. </p><p>He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the trace of manacles on </p><p>his bared wrist. I heard my sister's sobs, and thought, happy are women who </p><p>can weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the oppression of their </p><p>feelings; shame and habitual restraint hold back a man. I would have given </p><p>worlds to have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my breast, </p><p>pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over him; my swelling heart choked </p><p>me; the natural current would not be checked; the big rebellious tears </p><p>gathered in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the sea--they </p><p>came fast and faster;--yet I could hardly be ashamed, for I saw that the </p><p>rough sailors were not unmoved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from </p><p>among our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which convalescence always </p><p>induces, enjoying in secure tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her </p><p>whom he adored. Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion, and rose, </p><p>--she looked round for Clara; the child frightened, not recognizing her </p><p>father, and neglected by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she </p><p>came at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to Raymond; her first </p><p>words were: "Beloved, embrace our child!" </p><p>"Come hither, sweet one," said her father, "do you not know me?" she </p><p>knew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful but </p><p>uncontrollable emotion. </p><p>Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences from </p><p>the pressure of the crowd on his landing. But they were awed as I had been, </p><p>at the change of his appearance. The music died away, the shouts abruptly </p><p>ended; the soldiers had cleared a space in which a carriage was drawn up. </p><p>He was placed in it; Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort </p><p>closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring of the near waves, </p><p>went through the multitude; they fell back as the carriage advanced, and </p><p>fearful of injuring him they had come to welcome, by loud testimonies of </p><p>joy, they satisfied themselves with bending in a low salaam as the carriage </p><p>passed; it went slowly along the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique </p><p>temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the citadel. The sound </p><p>of the waves was left behind; that of the multitude continued at intervals, </p><p>supressed and hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches, and </p><p>public buildings were decorated with tapestry and banners--though the </p><p>soldiery lined the streets, and the inhabitants in thousands were assembled </p><p>to give him hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery presented </p><p>arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand waved a streamer, and vainly</p><p>sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which, closed and encompassed by </p><p>the city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his abode. </p><p>Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he perceived to be excited </p><p>on his account, filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with </p><p>kindness. It is true, the populace retained themselves; but there arose a </p><p>perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round the palace, which added to </p><p>the noise of fireworks, the frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and </p><p>fro of horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was the focus, </p><p>retarded his recovery. So we retired awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and </p><p>tender care added each day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous </p><p>attention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the causes which induced his </p><p>rapid recovery; but the second was surely the delight he felt in the </p><p>affection and good will of the Greeks. We are said to love much those whom </p><p>we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and conquered for the Athenians; he </p><p>had suffered, on their account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their </p><p>gratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever </p><p>to that of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him. </p><p>Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked feature in my disposition. </p><p>In early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul </p><p>into its vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I </p><p>enjoyed; but there was something besides this. I was inquisitive as to the </p><p>internal principles of action of those around me: anxious to read their </p><p>thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining their inmost mind. All </p><p>events, at the same time that they deeply interested me, arranged </p><p>themselves in pictures before me. I gave the right place to every personage </p><p>in the groupe, the just balance to every sentiment. This undercurrent of </p><p>thought, often soothed me amidst distress, and even agony. It gave ideality </p><p>to that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul would have revolted: it </p><p>bestowed pictorial colours on misery and disease, and not unfrequently </p><p>relieved me from despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or instinct, </p><p>was now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened devotion of my sister; Clara's </p><p>timid, but concentrated admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite </p><p>for renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affection of the </p><p>Athenians. Attentively perusing this animated volume, I was the less </p><p>surprised at the tale I read on the new-turned page. </p><p>The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto; and the Greeks, </p><p>hastening their preparations, and sending each day reinforcements, were on </p><p>the eve of forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the coming </p><p>struggle as that which would be to a great degree decisive; as, in case of </p><p>victory, the next step would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. </p><p>Raymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to re-assume his command in the </p><p>army. </p><p>Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination. She only stipulated to </p><p>be permitted to accompany him. She had set down no rule of conduct for </p><p>herself; but for her life she could not have opposed his slightest wish, or </p><p>do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects. One word, in truth, </p><p>had alarmed her more than battles or sieges, during which she trusted </p><p>Raymond's high command would exempt him from danger. That word, as yet it </p><p>was not more to her, was PLAGUE. This enemy to the human race had begun </p><p>early in June to raise its serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of </p><p>Asia, not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was in </p><p>Constantinople; but as each year that city experienced a like visitation, </p><p>small attention was paid to those accounts which declared more people to </p><p>have died there already, than usually made up the accustomed prey of the </p><p>whole of the hotter months. However it might be, neither plague nor war</p><p>could prevent Perdita from following her lord, or induce her to utter one </p><p>objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near him, to be loved by </p><p>him, to feel him again her own, was the limit of her desires. The object of </p><p>her life was to do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a </p><p>difference. In past times, without thought or foresight she had made him </p><p>happy, being so herself, and in any question of choice, consulted her own </p><p>wishes, as being one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the </p><p>question, sacrificing even her anxiety for his health and welfare to her </p><p>resolve not to oppose any of his desires. Love of the Greek people, </p><p>appetite for glory, and hatred of the barbarian government under which he </p><p>had suffered even to the approach of death, stimulated him. He wished to </p><p>repay the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive the splendid </p><p>associations connected with his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power </p><p>which, while every other nation advanced in civilization, stood still, a </p><p>monument of antique barbarism. Having effected the reunion of Raymond and </p><p>Perdita, I was eager to return to England; but his earnest request, added </p><p>to awakening curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold the </p><p>catastrophe, now apparently at hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian </p><p>and Turkish warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the autumn, the </p><p>period of my residence in Greece. </p><p>As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently re-established, he </p><p>prepared to join the Grecian camp, hear Kishan, a town of some importance, </p><p>situated to the east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to </p><p>remain until the event of the expected battle. We quitted Athens on the 2nd </p><p>of June. Raymond had recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If </p><p>I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured countenance, if care </p><p>had besieged his brow, "And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field," 2 if </p><p>his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look, considerate even in its </p><p>eagerness, gave signs of added years and past sufferings, yet there was </p><p>something irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately snatched from </p><p>the grave, renewing his career, untamed by sickness or disaster. The </p><p>Athenians saw in him, not as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man, </p><p>who was ready to die for them; but the prudent commander, who for their </p><p>sakes was careful of his life, and could make his own warrior-propensities </p><p>second to the scheme of conduct policy might point out. </p><p>All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he had landed a month </p><p>ago, the noisy populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a </p><p>festival day to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their picturesque </p><p>costume, and the gay colours of which it was composed, flaunted in the </p><p>sunshine; their eager gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild </p><p>appearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the hope of each wife, </p><p>mother or betrothed bride, whose husband, child, or lover, making a part of </p><p>the Greek army, were to be conducted to victory by him. </p><p>Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it was full of </p><p>romantic interest, as we passed through the vallies, and over the hills, of </p><p>this divine country. Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of </p><p>recovered health; he felt that in being general of the Athenians, he filled </p><p>a post worthy of his ambition; and, in his hope of the conquest of </p><p>Constantinople, he counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the </p><p>waste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals of man; when a city of </p><p>grand historic association, the beauty of whose site was the wonder of the </p><p>world, which for many hundred years had been the strong hold of the </p><p>Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism, and restored to a </p><p>people illustrious for genius, civilization, and a spirit of liberty. </p><p>Perdita rested on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and fame, </p><p>even as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every thought was transport, each</p><p>emotion bathed as it were in a congenial and balmy element. </p><p>We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather during our journey had </p><p>been serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our night's encampment, and </p><p>watched the shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the golden </p><p>splendour of the sun's approach. The accompanying soldiers received, with </p><p>national vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful </p><p>nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by triumphant strains, </p><p>while the birds, heard by snatches, filled up the intervals of the music. </p><p>At noon, we pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering wood </p><p>among the mountains, while a stream prattling over pebbles induced grateful </p><p>sleep. Our evening march, more calm, was yet more delightful than the </p><p>morning restlessness of spirit. If the band played, involuntarily they </p><p>chose airs of moderated passion; the farewell of love, or lament at </p><p>absence, was followed and closed by some solemn hymn, which harmonized with </p><p>the tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the soul to grand and </p><p>religious thought. Often all sounds were suspended, that we might listen to </p><p>the nightingale, while the fire-flies danced in bright measure, and the </p><p>soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of fair weather to the travellers. Did we </p><p>pass a valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with beauteous </p><p>hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a living map, was spread beneath, </p><p>her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether; her rivers threading in silver </p><p>line the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English travellers </p><p>surveyed with extasy this splendid landscape, so different from the sober </p><p>hues and melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we quitted </p><p>Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace afforded fewer beauties; </p><p>yet our journey continued to be interesting. An advanced guard gave </p><p>information of our approach, and the country people were quickly in motion </p><p>to do honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were decorated by triumphal </p><p>arches of greenery by day, and lamps by night; tapestry waved from the </p><p>windows, the ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of Raymond, </p><p>joined to that of Greece, was echoed in the Evive of the peasant crowd. </p><p>When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing of the advance of </p><p>Lord Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had retreated from </p><p>Rodosto; but meeting with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In </p><p>the meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief, had advanced, so as </p><p>to be between the Turks and Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable. </p><p>Perdita and her child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked me, if I </p><p>would not continue with them. "Now by the fells of Cumberland," I cried, </p><p>"by all of the vagabond and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at </p><p>your side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed as a victor </p><p>along with you!" </p><p>All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of sixteen leagues, was </p><p>alive with troops, or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the </p><p>approach of a battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various towns </p><p>and fortresses, and went to swell the main army. We met baggage waggons, </p><p>and many females of high and low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there </p><p>to wait the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at Rodosto, we found </p><p>that the field had been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged. The </p><p>sound of firing, early on the following morning, informed us that advanced </p><p>posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment after regiment advanced, their </p><p>colours flying and bands playing. They planted the cannon on the tumuli, </p><p>sole elevations in this level country, and formed themselves into column </p><p>and hollow square; while the pioneers threw up small mounds for their </p><p>protection. </p><p>These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the battle itself; far</p><p>different from any thing the imagination had pictured. We read of centre </p><p>and wing in Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a table, and </p><p>soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth, so that the most ignorant of </p><p>the game can discover science and order in the disposition of the forces. </p><p>When I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off to the left far out </p><p>of sight, fields intervening between the battalions, but a few troops </p><p>sufficiently near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of </p><p>understanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching myself to Raymond </p><p>attended with intense interest to his actions. He shewed himself collected, </p><p>gallant and imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of the events </p><p>of the day to me miraculous. In the mean time the cannon roared; the music </p><p>lifted up its enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of the </p><p>mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the fallen sheaves which death </p><p>gathered into his storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in smoke, now </p><p>banners and staves peering above the cloud, while shout and clamour drowned </p><p>every sound. </p><p>Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously, and Raymond assumed </p><p>the command of the whole army. He made few remarks, till, on observing </p><p>through his glass the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded </p><p>for awhile with doubt, became radiant. "The day is ours," he cried, "the </p><p>Turks fly from the bayonet." And then swiftly he dispatched his </p><p>aides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat </p><p>became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry rallied, and horse </p><p>pursued the flying Turks along the dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was </p><p>dispersed in various directions, to make observations, and bear commands. </p><p>Even I was dispatched to a distant part of the field. </p><p>The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level plain--so level, </p><p>that from the tumuli you saw the waving line of mountains on the </p><p>wide-stretched horizon; yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least </p><p>irregularity, save such undulations as resembled the waves of the sea. The </p><p>whole of this part of Thrace had been so long a scene of contest, that it </p><p>had remained uncultivated, and presented a dreary, barren appearance. The </p><p>order I had received, was to make an observation of the direction which a </p><p>detachment of the enemy might have taken, from a northern tumulus; the </p><p>whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had poured eastward; none but </p><p>the dead remained in the direction of my side. From the top of the mound, I </p><p>looked far round--all was silent and deserted. </p><p>The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from behind the far summit </p><p>of Mount Athos; the sea of Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while </p><p>the Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a </p><p>casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen from unnerved arms, reflected the </p><p>departing ray; they lay scattered far and near. From the east, a band of </p><p>ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came sailing along </p><p>towards their harvest; the sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet </p><p>sweet, has always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally led to </p><p>commune with higher powers; our mortal sternness departs, and gentle </p><p>complacency invests the soul. But now, in the midst of the dying and the </p><p>dead, how could a thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity possess </p><p>one of the murderers? During the busy day, my mind had yielded itself a </p><p>willing slave to the state of things presented to it by its fellow-beings; </p><p>historical association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm had held </p><p>dominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening star, as softly and calmly </p><p>it hung pendulous in the orange hues of sunset. I turned to the </p><p>corse-strewn earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were the </p><p>placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this </p><p>change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south;</p><p>heavy masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red and turbid </p><p>lightning shot from their dark edges; the rushing wind disturbed the </p><p>garments of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. </p><p>Darkness gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct, I </p><p>descended from my station, and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to </p><p>avoid the slain. </p><p>Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to rise from the earth; </p><p>it flew swiftly towards me, sinking to the ground again as it drew near. </p><p>All this passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my horse, so </p><p>that it should not trample on the prostrate being. The dress of this person </p><p>was that of a soldier, but the bared neck and arms, and the continued </p><p>shrieks discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her aid, while </p><p>she, with heavy groans, and her hand placed on her side, resisted my </p><p>attempt to lead her on. In the hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in </p><p>Greece, and in my native accents endeavoured to soothe the sufferer. With </p><p>wild and terrific exclamations did the lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) </p><p>recognize the language of her lover; pain and fever from her wound had </p><p>deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries and feeble efforts to </p><p>escape, penetrated me with compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the </p><p>name of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from her, while the </p><p>Turks with fearful instruments of torture were about to take his life. Then </p><p>again she sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a woman's heart </p><p>and sensibility, should be driven by hopeless love and vacant hopes to take </p><p>up the trade of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man privation, </p><p>labour, and pain--the while her dry, hot hand pressed mine, and her brow </p><p>and lips burned with consuming fire. </p><p>As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the ground; her emaciated form </p><p>hung over my arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral </p><p>voice she murmured:--"This is the end of love!--Yet not the end!"-- </p><p>and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up to heaven: "there is </p><p>the end! there we meet again. Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O </p><p>Raymond, and now I expire, thy victim!--By my death I purchase thee-- </p><p>lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are my servitors. I dared, I </p><p>conquered them all, till now! I have sold myself to death, with the sole </p><p>condition that thou shouldst follow me--Fire, and war, and plague, unite </p><p>for thy destruction--O my Raymond, there is no safety for thee!" </p><p>With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her delirium; I made her a </p><p>bed of cloaks; her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as </p><p>the paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I placed her on </p><p>the cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy meeting with her beloved in </p><p>the grave, of his death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared that </p><p>he was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew </p><p>feebler, her speech interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her </p><p>muscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more to be sustained, one deep sigh, </p><p>and life was gone. </p><p>I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead; wrapt in cloaks, I </p><p>placed her beneath a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face; the last </p><p>time I saw her she was eighteen; beautiful as poet's vision, splendid as a </p><p>Sultana of the East--Twelve years had past; twelve years of change, </p><p>sorrow and hardship; her brilliant complexion had become worn and dark, her </p><p>limbs had lost the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk </p><p>deep, </p><p> Crushed and o'erworn,</p><p> The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow</p><p> With lines and wrinkles.</p><p>With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human passion and human </p><p>misery; I heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutrements I could </p><p>find, to guard her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow on </p><p>her a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my course from among the </p><p>heaps of slain, and, guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at length </p><p>reached Rodosto. </p><p>[1] Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde. </p><p>[2] Shakspeare's Sonnets. </p><p>CHAPTER II. </p><p>ON my arrival, I found that an order had already gone forth for the army to </p><p>proceed immediately towards Constantinople; and the troops which had </p><p>suffered least in the battle were already on their way. The town was full </p><p>of tumult. The wound, and consequent inability of Argyropylo, caused </p><p>Raymond to be the first in command. He rode through the town, visiting the </p><p>wounded, and giving such orders as were necessary for the siege he </p><p>meditated. Early in the morning the whole army was in motion. In the hurry </p><p>I could hardly find an opportunity to bestow the last offices on Evadne. </p><p>Attended only by my servant, I dug a deep grave for her at the foot of the </p><p>tree, and without disturbing her warrior shroud, I placed her in it, </p><p>heaping stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and glare of daylight, </p><p>deprived the scene of solemnity; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Raymond </p><p>and his staff, now on their way to the Golden City. </p><p>Constantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances made. The whole </p><p>Greek fleet blockaded it by sea; on land from the river Kyat Kbanah, near </p><p>the Sweet Waters, to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Propontis, </p><p>along the whole line of the ancient walls, the trenches of the siege were </p><p>drawn. We already possessed Pera; the Golden Horn itself, the city, </p><p>bastioned by the sea, and the ivy-mantled walls of the Greek emperors was </p><p>all of Europe that the Mahometans could call theirs. Our army looked on her </p><p>as certain prey. They counted the garrison; it was impossible that it </p><p>should be relieved; each sally was a victory; for, even when the Turks were </p><p>triumphant, the loss of men they sustained was an irreparable injury. I rode </p><p>one morning with Raymond to the lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou, </p><p>(Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud planted his standard, and first saw the </p><p>city. Still the same lofty domes and minarets towered above the verdurous </p><p>walls, where Constantine had died, and the Turk had entered the city. The </p><p>plain around was interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and Armenian, </p><p>with their growth of cypress trees; and other woods of more cheerful </p><p>aspect, diversified the scene. Among them the Greek army was encamped, and </p><p>their squadrons moved to and fro--now in regular march, now in swift </p><p>career. </p><p>Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. "I have counted the hours of her </p><p>life," said he; "one month, and she falls. Remain with me till then; wait </p><p>till you see the cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your peaceful </p><p>glades." </p><p>"You then," I asked, "still remain in Greece?" </p><p>"Assuredly," replied Raymond. "Yet Lionel, when I say this, </p><p>believe me I look back with regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. </p><p>I am but half a soldier; I love the renown, but not the trade of war. </p><p>Before the battle of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to </p><p>conquer there, and afterwards to take Constantinople, was the </p><p>hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my ambition. This enthusiasm is now </p><p>spent, I know not why; I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulph; </p><p>the ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture of triumph </p><p>null." </p><p>He paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien recalled, by some </p><p>association, the half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized this </p><p>opportunity to make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I asked </p><p>him, if he had ever seen among the troops any one resembling her; if since </p><p>he had returned to Greece he had heard of her? </p><p>He started at her name,--he looked uneasily on me. "Even so," he cried, </p><p>"I knew you would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten her. Since our </p><p>encampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am addressed, </p><p>her name is the sound I expect: in every communication, I imagine that she </p><p>will form a part. At length you have broken the spell; tell me what you </p><p>know of her." </p><p>I related my meeting with her; the story of her death was told and re-told. </p><p>With painful earnestness he questioned me concerning her prophecies with </p><p>regard to him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. "No, no," he </p><p>said, "do not deceive yourself,--me you cannot. She has said nothing but </p><p>what I knew before--though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and </p><p>plague! They may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may they </p><p>fall!" </p><p>From this day Raymond's melancholy increased. He secluded himself as much </p><p>as the duties of his station permitted. When in company, sadness would in </p><p>spite of every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent and mute </p><p>among the busy crowd that thronged about him. Perdita rejoined him, and </p><p>before her he forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror, </p><p>changed as he changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she solicitously </p><p>inquired concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause of his </p><p>seriousness. She resided at the palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio </p><p>of the Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding scenery, undefiled by war, and </p><p>the freshness of the river, made this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt </p><p>no relief, received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth. He often </p><p>left Perdita, to wander in the grounds alone; or in a light shallop he </p><p>floated idly on the pure waters, musing deeply. Sometimes I joined him; at </p><p>such times his countenance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He </p><p>seemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk with some degree of interest </p><p>on the affairs of the day. There was evidently something behind all this; </p><p>yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest his heart, </p><p>he would abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour to deliver the </p><p>painful idea to the winds. </p><p>It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Perdita's </p><p>drawing-room, Clara came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, said, "Papa </p><p>is gone; shall we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see you." And, </p><p>as accident permitted, I complied with or refused her request. One evening </p><p>a numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were gathered together in the </p><p>palace. The intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike </p><p>Ypsilanti, were among the principal. They talked of the events of the day; </p><p>the skirmish at noon; the diminished numbers of the Infidels; their defeat</p><p>and flight: they contemplated, after a short interval of time, the capture </p><p>of the Golden City. They endeavoured to picture forth what would then </p><p>happen, and spoke in lofty terms of the prosperity of Greece, when </p><p>Constantinople should become its capital. The conversation then reverted to </p><p>Asiatic intelligence, and the ravages the plague made in its chief cities; </p><p>conjectures were hazarded as to the progress that disease might have made </p><p>in the besieged city. </p><p>Raymond had joined in the former part of the discussion. In lively terms he </p><p>demonstrated the extremities to which Constantinople was reduced; the </p><p>wasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the troops; famine and </p><p>pestilence was at work for them, he observed, and the infidels would soon </p><p>be obliged to take refuge in their only hope--submission. Suddenly in the </p><p>midst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung by some painful thought; he </p><p>rose uneasily, and I perceived him at length quit the hall, and through the </p><p>long corridor seek the open air. He did not return; and soon Clara crept </p><p>round to me, making the accustomed invitation. I consented to her request, </p><p>and taking her little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about to </p><p>embark in his boat, and he readily agreed to receive us as companions. </p><p>After the heats of the day, the cooling land-breeze ruffled the river, and </p><p>filled our little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while numerous </p><p>lights along the near shores, and the beautiful aspect of the banks </p><p>reposing in placid night, the waters keenly reflecting the heavenly lights, </p><p>gave to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might have </p><p>characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our single boatman attended to the </p><p>sail; Raymond steered; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her </p><p>arms, and laying her head on them. Raymond began the conversation somewhat </p><p>abruptly. </p><p>"This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall have an opportunity of </p><p>conversing freely; my plans are now in full operation, and my time will </p><p>become more and more occupied. Besides, I wish at once to tell you my </p><p>wishes and expectations, and then never again to revert to so painful a </p><p>subject. First, I must thank you, Lionel, for having remained here at my </p><p>request. Vanity first prompted me to ask you: vanity, I call it; yet even </p><p>in this I see the hand of fate--your presence will soon be necessary; you </p><p>will become the last resource of Perdita, her protector and consoler. You </p><p>will take her back to Windsor."-- </p><p>"Not without you," I said. "You do not mean to separate again?" </p><p>"Do not deceive yourself," replied Raymond, "the separation at hand is one </p><p>over which I have no control; most near at hand is it; the days are already </p><p>counted. May I trust you? For many days I have longed to disclose the </p><p>mysterious presentiments that weigh on me, although I fear that you will </p><p>ridicule them. Yet do not, my gentle friend; for, all childish and unwise </p><p>as they are, they have become a part of me, and I dare not expect to shake </p><p>them off. </p><p>"Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You are of this world; I </p><p>am not. You hold forth your hand; it is even as a part of yourself; and you </p><p>do not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form that shapes </p><p>forth Lionel. How then can you understand me? Earth is to me a tomb, the </p><p>firmament a vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have </p><p>stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I meet appears a corse, </p><p>which will soon be deserted of its animating spark, on the eve of decay and </p><p>corruption. </p><p> Cada piedra un piramide levanta,</p><p> y cada flor costruye un monumento,</p><p> cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,</p><p> cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."[1]</p><p>His accent was mournful,--he sighed deeply. "A few months ago," he </p><p>continued, "I was thought to be dying; but life was strong within me. My </p><p>affections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life. Now-- </p><p>they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel faith are about </p><p>to be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of </p><p>title, power, and wealth--all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let them raise </p><p>a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome of St. </p><p>Sophia has fallen. </p><p>"Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when first I </p><p>saw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one, departed. </p><p>The last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my death. Yet I </p><p>do not pretend to account for my mood by any particular event. All I can </p><p>say is, that it is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps I </p><p>have imbibed its effluvia--perhaps disease is the real cause of my </p><p>prognostications. It matters little why or wherefore I am affected, no </p><p>power can avert the stroke, and the shadow of Fate's uplifted hand already </p><p>darkens me. </p><p>"To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child. Never mention to her </p><p>the fatal name of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the strange link </p><p>that enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice, following </p><p>her, as it is about to do, to the unknown country." </p><p>I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad demeanour and solemn </p><p>utterance assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I should </p><p>with light derision have attempted to dissipate his fears. Whatever I was </p><p>about to reply, was interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond </p><p>had spoken, thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard with </p><p>terror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her father was moved by her </p><p>violent grief; he took her in his arms and soothed her, but his very </p><p>soothings were solemn and fearful. "Weep not, sweet child," said he, "the </p><p>coming death of one you have hardly known. I may die, but in death I can </p><p>never forget or desert my own Clara. In after sorrow or joy, believe that </p><p>you father's spirit is near, to save or sympathize with you. Be proud of </p><p>me, and cherish your infant remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not </p><p>appear to die. One thing you must promise,--not to speak to any one but </p><p>your uncle, of the conversation you have just overheard. When I am gone, </p><p>you will console your mother, and tell her that death was only bitter </p><p>because it divided me from her; that my last thoughts will be spent on her. </p><p>But while I live, promise not to betray me; promise, my child." </p><p>With faltering accents Clara promised, while she still clung to her father </p><p>in a transport of sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I endeavoured to </p><p>obviate the impression made on the child's mind, by treating Raymond's </p><p>fears lightly. We heard no more of them; for, as he had said, the siege, </p><p>now drawing to a conclusion, became paramount in interest, engaging all his </p><p>time and attention. </p><p>The empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its close. The Greek fleet </p><p>blockading every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of succour from </p><p>Asia; all egress on the side towards land had become impracticable, except </p><p>to such desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers of the enemy without </p><p>making any impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much </p><p>diminished, that it was evident that the city could easily have been</p><p>carried by storm; but both humanity and policy dictated a slower mode of </p><p>proceeding. We could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the utmost, its </p><p>palaces, its temples and store of wealth would be destroyed in the fury of </p><p>contending triumph and defeat. Already the defenceless citizens had </p><p>suffered through the barbarity of the Janisaries; and, in time of storm, </p><p>tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decrepitude, would have alike been </p><p>sacrificed to the brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were </p><p>certain means of conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of victory. </p><p>Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our advanced posts, and </p><p>impeded the accomplishment of our works. Fire-boats were launched from the </p><p>various ports, while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted courage </p><p>of men who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives dearly. These </p><p>contests were aggravated by the season: they took place during summer, when </p><p>the southern Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat, when the </p><p>streams were dried up in their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea </p><p>appeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did </p><p>night refresh the earth. Dew was denied; herbage and flowers there were </p><p>none; the very trees drooped; and summer assumed the blighted appearance of </p><p>winter, as it went forth in silence and flame to abridge the means of </p><p>sustenance to man. In vain did the eye strive to find the wreck of some </p><p>northern cloud in the stainless empyrean, which might bring hope of change </p><p>and moisture to the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was serene, </p><p>burning, annihilating. We the besiegers were in the comparison little </p><p>affected by these evils. The woods around afforded us shade,--the river </p><p>secured to us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were employed in </p><p>furnishing the army with ice, which had been laid up on Haemus, and Athos, </p><p>and the mountains of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and wholesome food </p><p>renovated the strength of the labourers, and made us bear with less </p><p>impatience the weight of the unrefreshing air. But in the city things wore </p><p>a different face. The sun's rays were refracted from the pavement and </p><p>buildings--the stoppage of the public fountains--the bad quality of the </p><p>food, and scarcity even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was </p><p>aggravated by the scourge of disease; while the garrison arrogated every </p><p>superfluity to themselves, adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils </p><p>of the time. Still they would not capitulate. </p><p>Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. We experienced no more </p><p>assaults; and by night and day we continued our labours unimpeded. Stranger </p><p>still, when the troops advanced near the city, the walls were vacant, and </p><p>no cannon was pointed against the intruders. When these circumstances were </p><p>reported to Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to what </p><p>was doing within the walls, and when his scouts returned, reporting only </p><p>the continued silence and desolation of the city, he commanded the army to </p><p>be drawn out before the gates. No one appeared on the walls; the very </p><p>portals, though locked and barred, seemed unguarded; above, the many domes </p><p>and glittering crescents pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of </p><p>ages, with ivy-crowned tower and weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in </p><p>an uninhabited waste. From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor aught </p><p>except the casual howling of a dog, broke the noon-day stillness. Even our </p><p>soldiers were awed to silence; the music paused; the clang of arms was </p><p>hushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers, the meaning of this sudden </p><p>peace; while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by means of glasses, to </p><p>discover and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form could be discerned </p><p>on the terraces of the houses; in the higher parts of the town no moving </p><p>shadow bespoke the presence of any living being: the very trees waved not, </p><p>and mocked the stability of architecture with like immovability. </p><p>The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence, was at length</p><p>discerned. It was a troop sent by Karazza, the Admiral; they bore </p><p>dispatches to the Lord General. The contents of these papers were </p><p>important. The night before, the watch, on board one of the smaller vessels </p><p>anchored near the seraglio wall, was roused by a slight splashing as of </p><p>muffled oars; the alarm was given: twelve small boats, each containing </p><p>three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to make their way through the </p><p>fleet to the opposite shore of Scutari. When they found themselves </p><p>discovered they discharged their muskets, and some came to the front to </p><p>cover the others, whose crews, exerting all their strength, endeavoured to </p><p>escape with their light barks from among the dark hulls that environed </p><p>them. They were in the end all sunk, and, with the exception of two or </p><p>three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could be got from the survivors; </p><p>but their cautious answers caused it to be surmised that several </p><p>expeditions had preceded this last, and that several Turks of rank and </p><p>importance had been conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled the </p><p>idea of having deserted the defence of their city; and one, the youngest </p><p>among them, in answer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed, "Take it, </p><p>Christian dogs! take the palaces, the gardens, the mosques, the abode of </p><p>our fathers--take plague with them; pestilence is the enemy we fly; if </p><p>she be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The curse of Allah is on </p><p>Stamboul, share ye her fate." </p><p>Such was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond: but a tale full of </p><p>monstrous exaggerations, though founded on this, was spread by the </p><p>accompanying troop among our soldiers. A murmur arose, the city was the </p><p>prey of pestilence; already had a mighty power subjugated the inhabitants; </p><p>Death had become lord of Constantinople. </p><p>I have heard a picture described, wherein all the inhabitants of earth were </p><p>drawn out in fear to stand the encounter of Death. The feeble and decrepid </p><p>fled; the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in flight. Wolves </p><p>and lions, and various monsters of the desert roared against him; while the </p><p>grim Unreality hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but invincible </p><p>assailant. Even so was it with the army of Greece. I am convinced, that had </p><p>the myriad troops of Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders </p><p>of the Golden City, each and every Greek would have marched against the </p><p>overwhelming numbers, and have devoted himself with patriotic fury for his </p><p>country. But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no death-dealing </p><p>artillery, no formidable array of brave soldiers--the unguarded walls </p><p>afforded easy entrance--the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but above </p><p>the dome of St. Sophia the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and shrunk </p><p>in trepidation from her influence. </p><p>Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. He descended the hill with a </p><p>face beaming with triumph, and pointing with his sword to the gates, </p><p>commanded his troops to--down with those barricades--the only obstacles </p><p>now to completest victory. The soldiers answered his cheerful words with </p><p>aghast and awe-struck looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode </p><p>in the front of the lines:--"By my sword I swear," he cried, "that no </p><p>ambush or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is already vanquished; the </p><p>pleasant places, the noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already </p><p>yours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats of your ancestors, your </p><p>own inheritance!" </p><p>An universal shudder and fearful whispering passed through the lines; not a </p><p>soldier moved. "Cowards!" exclaimed their general, exasperated, "give me an </p><p>hatchet! I alone will enter! I will plant your standard; and when you see </p><p>it wave from yon highest minaret, you may gain courage, and rally round </p><p>it!"</p><p>One of the officers now came forward: "General," he said, "we neither fear </p><p>the courage, nor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush of the Moslems. </p><p>We are ready to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times before, to </p><p>the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and to fall gloriously for Greece. </p><p>But we will not die in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the </p><p>pestilential air of that city--we dare not go against the Plague!" </p><p>A multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a voice, a leader; give </p><p>them that, and they regain the strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts </p><p>from a thousand voices now rent the air--the cry of applause became </p><p>universal. Raymond saw the danger; he was willing to save his troops from </p><p>the crime of disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun between </p><p>the commander and his army, each act and word added to the weakness of the </p><p>former, and bestowed power on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to </p><p>be sounded, and the regiments repaired in good order to the camp. </p><p>I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange proceedings to </p><p>Perdita; and we were soon joined by Raymond. He looked gloomy and </p><p>perturbed. My sister was struck by my narrative: "How beyond the </p><p>imagination of man," she exclaimed, "are the decrees of heaven, wondrous </p><p>and inexplicable!" </p><p>"Foolish girl," cried Raymond angrily, "are you like my valiant soldiers, </p><p>panic-struck? What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so very natural </p><p>an occurrence? Does not the plague rage each year in Stamboul? What wonder, </p><p>that this year, when as we are told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia, </p><p>that it should have occasioned double havoc in that city? What wonder then, </p><p>in time of siege, want, extreme heat, and drought, that it should make </p><p>unaccustomed ravages? Less wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing </p><p>of being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of the negligence </p><p>of our fleet to escape at once from siege and capture. It is not pestilence </p><p>--by the God that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger that </p><p>makes us, like birds in harvest-time, terrified by a scarecrow, abstain </p><p>from the ready prey--it is base superstition--And thus the aim of the </p><p>valiant is made the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the </p><p>high-souled, the plaything of these tamed hares! But yet Stamboul shall be </p><p>ours! By my past labours, by torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by </p><p>my victories, by my sword, I swear--by my hopes of fame, by my former </p><p>deserts now awaiting their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands to plant </p><p>the cross on yonder mosque!" </p><p>"Dearest Raymond!" interrupted Perdita, in a supplicating accent. </p><p>He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of the seraglio; his very </p><p>lips were pale with rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry words-- </p><p>his eyes shot fire--his gestures seemed restrained by their very </p><p>vehemence. "Perdita," he continued, impatiently, "I know what you would </p><p>say; I know that you love me, that you are good and gentle; but this is no </p><p>woman's work--nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane which tears </p><p>me!" </p><p>He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall: a </p><p>look from Perdita shewed me her distress, and I followed him. He was pacing </p><p>the garden: his passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence. "Am I </p><p>for ever," he cried, "to be the sport of fortune! Must man, the </p><p>heaven-climber, be for ever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his </p><p>species! Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life, to a </p><p>succession of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments and</p><p>fresh-springing hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General's staff, seek </p><p>repose in the glades of Windsor. But I am about to die!--nay, interrupt </p><p>me not--soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth, from the </p><p>sympathies of man, from the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of </p><p>my friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita, I am about to be </p><p>removed. Such is the will of fate! Such the decree of the High Ruler from </p><p>whom there is no appeal: to whom I submit. But to lose all--to lose with </p><p>life and love, glory also! It shall not be! </p><p>"I, and in a few brief years, all you,--this panic-struck army, and all </p><p>the population of fair Greece, will no longer be. But other generations </p><p>will arise, and ever and for ever will continue, to be made happier by our </p><p>present acts, to be glorified by our valour. The prayer of my youth was to </p><p>be one among those who render the pages of earth's history splendid; who </p><p>exalt the race of man, and make this little globe a dwelling of the mighty. </p><p>Alas, for Raymond! the prayer of his youth is wasted--the hopes of his </p><p>manhood are null! </p><p>"From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, soon I will be thy lord! When </p><p>Evadne pronounced my death, I thought that the title of Victor of </p><p>Constantinople would be written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. </p><p>I stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call myself a conqueror. </p><p>So shall it not be! Did not Alexander leap from the walls of the city of </p><p>the Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the way to victory, encountering </p><p>alone the swords of its defenders? Even so will I brave the plague--and </p><p>though no man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard on the height of </p><p>St. Sophia." </p><p>Reason came unavailing to such high-wrought feelings. In vain I shewed him, </p><p>that when winter came, the cold would dissipate the pestilential air, and </p><p>restore courage to the Greeks. "Talk not of other season than this!" he </p><p>cried. "I have lived my last winter, and the date of this year, 2092, will </p><p>be carved upon my tomb. Already do I see," he continued, looking up </p><p>mournfully, "the bourne and precipitate edge of my existence, over which I </p><p>plunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to come. I am prepared, so that </p><p>I leave behind a trail of light so radiant, that my worst enemies cannot </p><p>cloud it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita, and to </p><p>myself, the victim of ambition." </p><p>We were interrupted by an attendant, who announced, that the staff of </p><p>Raymond was assembled in the council-chamber. He requested me in the </p><p>meantime to ride through the camp, and to observe and report to him the </p><p>dispositions of the soldiers; he then left me. I had been excited to the </p><p>utmost by the proceedings of the day, and now more than ever by the </p><p>passionate language of Raymond. Alas! for human reason! He accused the </p><p>Greeks of superstition: what name did he give to the faith he lent to the </p><p>predictions of Evadne? I passed from the palace of Sweet Waters to the </p><p>plain on which the encampment lay, and found its inhabitants in commotion. </p><p>The arrival of several with fresh stories of marvels, from the fleet; the </p><p>exaggerations bestowed on what was already known; tales of old prophecies, </p><p>of fearful histories of whole regions which had been laid waste during the </p><p>present year by pestilence, alarmed and occupied the troops. Discipline was </p><p>lost; the army disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part of a great </p><p>whole moving only in unison with others, now became resolved into the unit </p><p>nature had made him, and thought of himself only. They stole off at first </p><p>by ones and twos, then in larger companies, until, unimpeded by the </p><p>officers, whole battalions sought the road that led to Macedonia. </p><p>About midnight I returned to the palace and sought Raymond; he was alone,</p><p>and apparently composed; such composure, at least, was his as is inspired </p><p>by a resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He heard my account of </p><p>the self-dissolution of the army with calmness, and then said, "You know, </p><p>Verney, my fixed determination not to quit this place, until in the light </p><p>of day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If the men I have about me shrink from </p><p>following me, others, more courageous, are to be found. Go you before break </p><p>of day, bear these dispatches to Karazza, add to them your own entreaties </p><p>that he send me his marines and naval force; if I can get but one regiment </p><p>to second me, the rest would follow of course. Let him send me this </p><p>regiment. I shall expect your return by to-morrow noon." </p><p>Methought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured him of my obedience </p><p>and zeal. I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With the breaking of </p><p>morning I was accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking </p><p>leave of Perdita, and from my window observed the approach of the sun. The </p><p>golden splendour arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer yet another day of </p><p>heat and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet </p><p>the dawn; the dry grass had withered on the plains; the burning fields of </p><p>air were vacant of birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun, began </p><p>their shrill and deafening song among the cypresses and olives. I saw </p><p>Raymond's coal-black charger brought to the palace gate; a small company of </p><p>officers arrived soon after; care and fear was painted on each cheek, and </p><p>in each eye, unrefreshed by sleep. I found Raymond and Perdita together. He </p><p>was watching the rising sun, while with one arm he encircled his beloved's </p><p>waist; she looked on him, the sun of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled </p><p>anxiety and tenderness. Raymond started angrily when he saw me. "Here </p><p>still?" he cried. "Is this your promised zeal?" </p><p>"Pardon me," I said, "but even as you speak, I am gone." </p><p>"Nay, pardon me," he replied; "I have no right to command or reproach; but </p><p>my life hangs on your departure and speedy return. Farewell!" </p><p>His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark cloud still hung on his </p><p>features. I would have delayed; I wished to recommend watchfulness to </p><p>Perdita, but his presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my </p><p>hesitation; and on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his outstretched </p><p>hand; it was cold and clammy. "Take care of yourself, my dear Lord," I </p><p>said. </p><p>"Nay," said Perdita, "that task shall be mine. Return speedily, </p><p>Lionel." With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn locks, while </p><p>she leaned on him; twice I turned back, only to look again on this </p><p>matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the </p><p>hall, and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew towards me; </p><p>clasping my knee she cried, "Make haste back, uncle! Dear uncle, I have </p><p>such fearful dreams; I dare not tell my mother. Do not be long away!" I </p><p>assured her of my impatience to return, and then, with a small escort rode </p><p>along the plain towards the tower of Marmora. </p><p>I fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was somewhat surprised; he </p><p>would see, he said, what could be done; but it required time; and Raymond </p><p>had ordered me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect any thing in </p><p>so short a time. I must stay till the next day; or come back, after having </p><p>reported the present state of things to the general. My choice was easily </p><p>made. A restlessness, a fear of what was about to betide, a doubt as to </p><p>Raymond's purposes, urged me to return without delay to his quarters. </p><p>Quitting the Seven Towers, I rode eastward towards the Sweet Waters. I took </p><p>a circuitous path, principally for the sake of going to the top of the</p><p>mount before mentioned, which commanded a view of the city. I had my glass </p><p>with me. The city basked under the noon-day sun, and the venerable walls </p><p>formed its picturesque boundary. Immediately before me was the Top Kapou, </p><p>the gate near which Mahomet had made the breach by which he entered the </p><p>city. Trees gigantic and aged grew near; before the gate I discerned a </p><p>crowd of moving human figures--with intense curiosity I lifted my glass </p><p>to my eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger; a small company of officers </p><p>had gathered about him; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of soldiers </p><p>and subalterns, their discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no music </p><p>sounded, no banners streamed. The only flag among them was one which </p><p>Raymond carried; he pointed with it to the gate of the city. The circle </p><p>round him fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and </p><p>seizing a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went with the apparent </p><p>intention of battering down the opposing gate. A few men came to aid him; </p><p>their numbers increased; under their united blows the obstacle was </p><p>vanquished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demolished; and the wide </p><p>sun-lit way, leading to the heart of the city, now lay open before them. </p><p>The men shrank back; they seemed afraid of what they had already done, and </p><p>stood as if they expected some Mighty Phantom to stalk in offended majesty </p><p>from the opening. Raymond sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the </p><p>standard, and with words which I could not hear (but his gestures, being </p><p>their fit accompaniment, were marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to </p><p>adjure their assistance and companionship; even as he spoke, the crowd </p><p>receded from him. Indignation now transported him; his words I guessed were </p><p>fraught with disdain--then turning from his coward followers, he </p><p>addressed himself to enter the city alone. His very horse seemed to back </p><p>from the fatal entrance; his dog, his faithful dog, lay moaning and </p><p>supplicating in his path--in a moment more, he had plunged the rowels </p><p>into the sides of the stung animal, who bounded forward, and he, the </p><p>gateway passed, was galloping up the broad and desart street. </p><p>Until this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I had gazed with </p><p>wonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling now </p><p>predominated. I forgot the distance between us: "I will go with thee, </p><p>Raymond!" I cried; but, my eye removed from the glass, I could scarce </p><p>discern the pigmy forms of the crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded </p><p>the gate; the form of Raymond was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my </p><p>horse with force of spur and loosened reins down the acclivity, that, </p><p>before danger could arrive, I might be at the side of my noble, godlike </p><p>friend. A number of buildings and trees intervened, when I had reached the </p><p>plain, hiding the city from my view. But at that moment a crash was heard. </p><p>Thunderlike it reverberated through the sky, while the air was darkened. A </p><p>moment more and the old walls again met my sight, while over them hovered a </p><p>murky cloud; fragments of buildings whirled above, half seen in smoke, </p><p>while flames burst out beneath, and continued explosions filled the air </p><p>with terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin which leapt </p><p>over the high walls, and shook the ivy towers, a crowd of soldiers made for </p><p>the road by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable to </p><p>get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I stretched out my hands to </p><p>the men; I conjured them to turn back and save their General, the conqueror </p><p>of Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye tears, in warm flow gushed </p><p>from my eyes--I would not believe in his destruction; yet every mass that </p><p>darkened the air seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred Raymond. </p><p>Horrible sights were shaped to me in the turbid cloud that hovered over the </p><p>city; and my only relief was derived from the struggles I made to approach </p><p>the gate. Yet when I effected my purpose, all I could discern within the </p><p>precincts of the massive walls was a city of fire: the open way through </p><p>which Raymond had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame. After an </p><p>interval the explosions ceased, but the flames still shot up from various</p><p>quarters; the dome of St. Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the </p><p>result perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the blowing up of the </p><p>city) huge, white thunder clouds lifted themselves up from the southern </p><p>horizon, and gathered over-head; they were the first blots on the blue </p><p>expanse that I had seen for months, and amidst this havoc and despair they </p><p>inspired pleasure. The vault above became obscured, lightning flashed from </p><p>the heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing thunder; then the </p><p>big rain fell. The flames of the city bent beneath it; and the smoke and </p><p>dust arising from the ruins was dissipated. </p><p>I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than, hurried on by an </p><p>irresistible impulse, I endeavoured to penetrate the town. I could only do </p><p>this on foot, as the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had </p><p>never entered the city before, and its ways were unknown to me. The streets </p><p>were blocked up, the ruins smoking; I climbed up one heap, only to view </p><p>others in succession; and nothing told me where the centre of the town </p><p>might be, or towards what point Raymond might have directed his course. The </p><p>rain ceased; the clouds sunk behind the horizon; it was now evening, and </p><p>the sun descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled on, until I came to </p><p>a street, whose wooden houses, half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, and </p><p>were fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up this I hurried--until now </p><p>I had not seen a vestige of man. Yet none of the defaced human forms which </p><p>I distinguished, could be Raymond; so I turned my eyes away, while my heart </p><p>sickened within me. I came to an open space--a mountain of ruin in the </p><p>midst, announced that some large mosque had occupied the space--and here, </p><p>scattered about, I saw various articles of luxury and wealth, singed, </p><p>destroyed--but shewing what they had been in their ruin--jewels, </p><p>strings of pearls, embroidered robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and </p><p>oriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected here in a pile destined </p><p>for destruction; but the rain had stopped the havoc midway. </p><p>Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond. </p><p>Insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed themselves; the still burning fires </p><p>scorched me. The sun set; the atmosphere grew dim--and the evening star </p><p>no longer shone companionless. The glare of flames attested the progress of </p><p>destruction, while, during mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me </p><p>took gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I could yield to </p><p>the creative power of the imagination, and for a moment was soothed by the </p><p>sublime fictions it presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me </p><p>back to blank reality. Where, in this wilderness of death, art thou, O </p><p>Raymond--ornament of England, deliverer of Greece, "hero of unwritten </p><p>story," where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I called </p><p>aloud for him--through the darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of </p><p>fallen Constantinople, his name was heard; no voice replied--echo even </p><p>was mute. </p><p>I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my spirits. The sultry </p><p>air impregnated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning palaces, palsied </p><p>my limbs. Hunger suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had </p><p>hitherto sustained me was lost; as a building, whose props are loosened, </p><p>and whose foundations rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and hope </p><p>deserted me, did my strength fail. I sat on the sole remaining step of an </p><p>edifice, which even in its downfall, was huge and magnificent; a few broken </p><p>walls, not dislodged by gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame </p><p>glimmered at intervals on the summit of the pile. For a time hunger and </p><p>sleep contended, till the constellations reeled before my eyes and then </p><p>were lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids closed, my limbs </p><p>over-wearied, claimed repose--I rested my head on the stone, I yielded to </p><p>the grateful sensation of utter forgetfulness; and in that scene of</p><p>desolation, on that night of despair--I slept. </p><p>[1] Calderon de la Barca. </p><p>CHAPTER III. </p><p>THE stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus high in the </p><p>southern heaven shewed that it was midnight. I awoke from disturbed dreams. </p><p>Methought I had been invited to Timon's last feast; I came with keen </p><p>appetite, the covers were removed, the hot water sent up its unsatisfying </p><p>steams, while I fled before the anger of the host, who assumed the form of </p><p>Raymond; while to my diseased fancy, the vessels hurled by him after me, </p><p>were surcharged with fetid vapour, and my friend's shape, altered by a </p><p>thousand distortions, expanded into a gigantic phantom, bearing on its brow </p><p>the sign of pestilence. The growing shadow rose and rose, filling, and then </p><p>seeming to endeavour to burst beyond, the adamantine vault that bent over, </p><p>sustaining and enclosing the world. The night-mare became torture; with a </p><p>strong effort I threw off sleep, and recalled reason to her wonted </p><p>functions. My first thought was Perdita; to her I must return; her I must </p><p>support, drawing such food from despair as might best sustain her wounded </p><p>heart; recalling her from the wild excesses of grief, by the austere laws </p><p>of duty, and the soft tenderness of regret. </p><p>The position of the stars was my only guide. I turned from the awful ruin </p><p>of the Golden City, and, after great exertion, succeeded in extricating </p><p>myself from its enclosure. I met a company of soldiers outside the walls; I </p><p>borrowed a horse from one of them, and hastened to my sister. The </p><p>appearance of the plain was changed during this short interval; the </p><p>encampment was broken up; the relics of the disbanded army met in small </p><p>companies here and there; each face was clouded; every gesture spoke </p><p>astonishment and dismay. </p><p>With an heavy heart I entered the palace, and stood fearful to advance, to </p><p>speak, to look. In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat on the marble </p><p>pavement, her head fallen on her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her fingers </p><p>twined busily one within the other; she was pale as marble, and every </p><p>feature was contracted by agony. She perceived me, and looked up </p><p>enquiringly; her half glance of hope was misery; the words died before I </p><p>could articulate them; I felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She </p><p>understood my gesture; again her head fell; again her fingers worked </p><p>restlessly. At last I recovered speech, but my voice terrified her; the </p><p>hapless girl had understood my look, and for worlds she would not that the </p><p>tale of her heavy misery should have been shaped out and confirmed by hard, </p><p>irrevocable words. Nay, she seemed to wish to distract my thoughts from the </p><p>subject: she rose from the floor: "Hush!" she said, whisperingly; "after </p><p>much weeping, Clara sleeps; we must not disturb her." She seated herself </p><p>then on the same ottoman where I had left her in the morning resting on the </p><p>beating heart of her Raymond; I dared not approach her, but sat at a </p><p>distant corner, watching her starting and nervous gestures. At length, in </p><p>an abrupt manner she asked, "Where is he?" </p><p>"O, fear not," she continued, "fear not that I should entertain hope! Yet </p><p>tell me, have you found him? To have him once more in my arms, to see him, </p><p>however changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be heaped above him </p><p>as a tomb, yet I must find him--then cover us with the city's weight,</p><p>with a mountain piled above--I care not, so that one grave hold Raymond </p><p>and his Perdita." Then weeping, she clung to me: "Take me to him," she </p><p>cried, "unkind Lionel, why do you keep me here? Of myself I cannot find him </p><p>--but you know where he lies--lead me thither." </p><p>At first these agonizing plaints filled me with intolerable compassion. But </p><p>soon I endeavoured to extract patience for her from the ideas she </p><p>suggested. I related my adventures of the night, my endeavours to find our </p><p>lost one, and my disappointment. Turning her thoughts this way, I gave them </p><p>an object which rescued them from insanity. With apparent calmness she </p><p>discussed with me the probable spot where he might be found, and planned </p><p>the means we should use for that purpose. Then hearing of my fatigue and </p><p>abstinence, she herself brought me food. I seized the favourable moment, </p><p>and endeavoured to awaken in her something beyond the killing torpor of </p><p>grief. As I spoke, my subject carried me away; deep admiration; grief, the </p><p>offspring of truest affection, the overflowing of a heart bursting with </p><p>sympathy for all that had been great and sublime in the career of my </p><p>friend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises of Raymond. </p><p>"Alas, for us," I cried, "who have lost this latest honour of the world! </p><p>Beloved Raymond! He is gone to the nations of the dead; he has become one </p><p>of those, who render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious by </p><p>dwelling there. He has journied on the road that leads to it, and joined </p><p>the mighty of soul who went before him. When the world was in its infancy </p><p>death must have been terrible, and man left his friends and kindred to </p><p>dwell, a solitary stranger, in an unknown country. But now, he who dies </p><p>finds many companions gone before to prepare for his reception. The great </p><p>of past ages people it, the exalted hero of our own days is counted among </p><p>its inhabitants, while life becomes doubly 'the desart and the solitude.' </p><p>"What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the men of our time. By </p><p>the grandeur of his conceptions, the graceful daring of his actions, by his </p><p>wit and beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only fault he </p><p>might have been accused; but his death has cancelled that. I have heard him </p><p>called inconstant of purpose--when he deserted, for the sake of love, the </p><p>hope of sovereignty, and when he abdicated the protectorship of England, </p><p>men blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death has crowned his life, </p><p>and to the end of time it will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a </p><p>willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such was his choice: he expected to </p><p>die. He foresaw that he should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome </p><p>sky, and thy love, Perdita; yet he neither hesitated or turned back, going </p><p>right onward to his mark of fame. While the earth lasts, his actions will </p><p>be recorded with praise. Grecian maidens will in devotion strew flowers on </p><p>his tomb, and make the air around it resonant with patriotic hymns, in </p><p>which his name will find high record." </p><p>I saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of grief yielded to </p><p>tenderness--I continued:--"Thus to honour him, is the sacred duty of </p><p>his survivors. To make his name even as an holy spot of ground, enclosing </p><p>it from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the blossoms of </p><p>love and regret, guarding it from decay, and bequeathing it untainted to </p><p>posterity. Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs to you, </p><p>Perdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in her infancy, with what </p><p>transport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her the united being of yourself </p><p>and Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a manifestation of your </p><p>eternal loves. Even such is she still. You say that you have lost Raymond. </p><p>O, no!--yet he lives with you and in you there. From him she sprung, </p><p>flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone--and not, as heretofore, are you </p><p>content to trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to</p><p>Raymond, but in her enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities of her </p><p>mind, you may still find him living, the good, the great, the beloved. Be </p><p>it your care to foster this similarity--be it your care to render her </p><p>worthy of him, so that, when she glory in her origin, she take not shame </p><p>for what she is." </p><p>I could perceive that, when I recalled my sister's thoughts to her duties </p><p>in life, she did not listen with the same patience as before. She appeared </p><p>to suspect a plan of consolation on my part, from which she, cherishing her </p><p>new-born grief, revolted. "You talk of the future," she said, "while the </p><p>present is all to me. Let me find the earthly dwelling of my beloved; let </p><p>us rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come men may point to </p><p>the sacred tomb, and name it his--then to other thoughts, and a new </p><p>course of life, or what else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked </p><p>out for me." </p><p>After a short repose I prepared to leave her, that I might endeavour to </p><p>accomplish her wish. In the mean time we were joined by Clara, whose pallid </p><p>cheek and scared look shewed the deep impression grief had made on her </p><p>young mind. She seemed to be full of something to which she could not give </p><p>words; but, seizing an opportunity afforded by Perdita's absence, she </p><p>preferred to me an earnest prayer, that I would take her within view of the </p><p>gate at which her father had entered Constantinople. She promised to commit </p><p>no extravagance, to be docile, and immediately to return. I could not </p><p>refuse; for Clara was not an ordinary child; her sensibility and </p><p>intelligence seemed already to have endowed her with the rights of </p><p>womanhood. With her therefore, before me on my horse, attended only by the </p><p>servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode to the Top Kapou. We found a </p><p>party of soldiers gathered round it. They were listening. "They are human </p><p>cries," said one: "More like the howling of a dog," replied another; and </p><p>again they bent to catch the sound of regular distant moans, which issued </p><p>from the precincts of the ruined city. "That, Clara," I said, "is the gate, </p><p>that the street which yestermorn your father rode up." Whatever Clara's </p><p>intention had been in asking to be brought hither, it was balked by the </p><p>presence of the soldiers. With earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth of </p><p>smoking piles which had been a city, and then expressed her readiness to </p><p>return home. At this moment a melancholy howl struck on our ears; it was </p><p>repeated; "Hark!" cried Clara, "he is there; that is Florio, my father's </p><p>dog." It seemed to me impossible that she could recognise the sound, but </p><p>she persisted in her assertion till she gained credit with the crowd about. </p><p>At least it would be a benevolent action to rescue the sufferer, whether </p><p>human or brute, from the desolation of the town; so, sending Clara back to </p><p>her home, I again entered Constantinople. Encouraged by the impunity </p><p>attendant on my former visit, several soldiers who had made a part of </p><p>Raymond's body guard, who had loved him, and sincerely mourned his loss, </p><p>accompanied me. </p><p>It is impossible to conjecture the strange enchainment of events which </p><p>restored the lifeless form of my friend to our hands. In that part of the </p><p>town where the fire had most raged the night before, and which now lay </p><p>quenched, black and cold, the dying dog of Raymond crouched beside the </p><p>mutilated form of its lord. At such a time sorrow has no voice; affliction, </p><p>tamed by it is very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal recognised me, </p><p>licked my hand, crept close to its lord, and died. He had been evidently </p><p>thrown from his horse by some falling ruin, which had crushed his head, and </p><p>defaced his whole person. I bent over the body, and took in my hand the </p><p>edge of his cloak, less altered in appearance than the human frame it </p><p>clothed. I pressed it to my lips, while the rough soldiers gathered around, </p><p>mourning over this worthiest prey of death, as if regret and endless</p><p>lamentation could re-illumine the extinguished spark, or call to its </p><p>shattered prison-house of flesh the liberated spirit. Yesterday those limbs </p><p>were worth an universe; they then enshrined a transcendant power, whose </p><p>intents, words, and actions were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold; </p><p>now the superstition of affection alone could give value to the shattered </p><p>mechanism, which, incapable and clod-like, no more resembled Raymond, than </p><p>the fallen rain is like the former mansion of cloud in which it climbed the </p><p>highest skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all eyes, and satiated the </p><p>sense by its excess of beauty. </p><p>Such as he had now become, such as was his terrene vesture, defaced and </p><p>spoiled, we wrapt it in our cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our arms, </p><p>bore it from this city of the dead. The question arose as to where we </p><p>should deposit him. In our road to the palace, we passed through the Greek </p><p>cemetery; here on a tablet of black marble I caused him to be laid; the </p><p>cypresses waved high above, their death-like gloom accorded with his state </p><p>of nothingness. We cut branches of the funereal trees and placed them over </p><p>him, and on these again his sword. I left a guard to protect this treasure </p><p>of dust; and ordered perpetual torches to be burned around. </p><p>When I returned to Perdita, I found that she had already been informed of </p><p>the success of my undertaking. He, her beloved, the sole and eternal object </p><p>of her passionate tenderness, was restored her. Such was the maniac </p><p>language of her enthusiasm. What though those limbs moved not, and those </p><p>lips could no more frame modulated accents of wisdom and love! What though </p><p>like a weed flung from the fruitless sea, he lay the prey of corruption-- </p><p>still that was the form she had caressed, those the lips that meeting hers, </p><p>had drank the spirit of love from the commingling breath; that was the </p><p>earthly mechanism of dissoluble clay she had called her own. True, she </p><p>looked forward to another life; true, the burning spirit of love seemed to </p><p>her unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet at this time, with human </p><p>fondness, she clung to all that her human senses permitted her to see and </p><p>feel to be a part of Raymond. </p><p>Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that, she heard my tale, and enquired </p><p>concerning the spot where he had been deposited. Her features had lost the </p><p>distortion of grief; her eyes were brightened, her very person seemed </p><p>dilated; while the excessive whiteness and even transparency of her skin, </p><p>and something hollow in her voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but </p><p>excess of excitement, occasioned the treacherous calm that settled on her </p><p>countenance. I asked her where he should be buried. She replied, "At </p><p>Athens; even at the Athens which he loved. Without the town, on the </p><p>acclivity of Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he pointed out to me </p><p>as the spot where he would wish to repose." </p><p>My own desire certainly was that he should not be removed from the spot </p><p>where he now lay. But her wish was of course to be complied with; and I </p><p>entreated her to prepare without delay for our departure. </p><p>Behold now the melancholy train cross the flats of Thrace, and wind through </p><p>the defiles, and over the mountains of Macedonia, coast the clear waves of </p><p>the Peneus, cross the Larissean plain, pass the straits of Thermopylae, and </p><p>ascending in succession Oeta and Parnassus, descend to the fertile plain of </p><p>Athens. Women bear with resignation these long drawn ills, but to a man's </p><p>impatient spirit, the slow motion of our cavalcade, the melancholy repose </p><p>we took at noon, the perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous though it </p><p>was, that wrapt the rifled casket which had contained Raymond, the </p><p>monotonous recurrence of day and night, unvaried by hope or change, all the </p><p>circumstances of our march were intolerable. Perdita, shut up in herself,</p><p>spoke little. Her carriage was closed; and, when we rested, she sat leaning </p><p>her pale cheek on her white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground, </p><p>indulging thoughts which refused communication or sympathy. </p><p>We descended from Parnassus, emerging from its many folds, and passed </p><p>through Livadia on our road to Attica. Perdita would not enter Athens; but </p><p>reposing at Marathon on the night of our arrival, conducted me on the </p><p>following day, to the spot selected by her as the treasure house of </p><p>Raymond's dear remains. It was in a recess near the head of the ravine to </p><p>the south of Hymettus. The chasm, deep, black, and hoary, swept from the </p><p>summit to the base; in the fissures of the rock myrtle underwood grew and </p><p>wild thyme, the food of many nations of bees; enormous crags protruded into </p><p>the cleft, some beetling over, others rising perpendicularly from it. At </p><p>the foot of this sublime chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached from sea </p><p>to sea, and beyond was spread the blue Aegean, sprinkled with islands, the </p><p>light waves glancing beneath the sun. Close to the spot on which we stood, </p><p>was a solitary rock, high and conical, which, divided on every side from </p><p>the mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid; with little labour this block </p><p>was reduced to a perfect shape; the narrow cell was scooped out beneath in </p><p>which Raymond was placed, and a short inscription, carved in the living </p><p>stone, recorded the name of its tenant, the cause and aera of his death. </p><p>Every thing was accomplished with speed under my directions. I agreed to </p><p>leave the finishing and guardianship of the tomb to the head of the </p><p>religious establishment at Athens, and by the end of October prepared for </p><p>my return to England. I mentioned this to Perdita. It was painful to appear </p><p>to drag her from the last scene that spoke of her lost one; but to linger </p><p>here was vain, and my very soul was sick with its yearning to rejoin my </p><p>Idris and her babes. In reply, my sister requested me to accompany her the </p><p>following evening to the tomb of Raymond. Some days had passed since I had </p><p>visited the spot. The path to it had been enlarged, and steps hewn in the </p><p>rock led us less circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the platform </p><p>on which the pyramid stood was enlarged, and looking towards the south, in </p><p>a recess overshadowed by the straggling branches of a wild fig-tree, I saw </p><p>foundations dug, and props and rafters fixed, evidently the commencement of </p><p>a cottage; standing on its unfinished threshold, the tomb was at our </p><p>right-hand, the whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea immediately before </p><p>us; the dark rocks received a glow from the descending sun, which glanced </p><p>along the cultivated valley, and dyed in purple and orange the placid </p><p>waves; we sat on a rocky elevation, and I gazed with rapture on the </p><p>beauteous panorama of living and changeful colours, which varied and </p><p>enhanced the graces of earth and ocean. </p><p>"Did I not do right," said Perdita, "in having my loved one conveyed </p><p>hither? Hereafter this will be the cynosure of Greece. In such a spot death </p><p>loses half its terrors, and even the inanimate dust appears to partake of </p><p>the spirit of beauty which hallows this region. Lionel, he sleeps there; </p><p>that is the grave of Raymond, he whom in my youth I first loved; whom my </p><p>heart accompanied in days of separation and anger; to whom I am now joined </p><p>for ever. Never--mark me--never will I leave this spot. Methinks his </p><p>spirit remains here as well as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it </p><p>be, is more precious in its nothingness than aught else widowed earth </p><p>clasps to her sorrowing bosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the little </p><p>cyclamen, which peep from the fissures of the rock, all the produce of the </p><p>place, bear affinity to him; the light that invests the hills participates </p><p>in his essence, and sky and mountains, sea and valley, are imbued by the </p><p>presence of his spirit. I will live and die here! </p><p>"Go you to England, Lionel; return to sweet Idris and dearest Adrian;</p><p>return, and let my orphan girl be as a child of your own in your house. </p><p>Look on me as dead; and truly if death be a mere change of state, I am </p><p>dead. This is another world, from that which late I inhabited, from that </p><p>which is now your home. Here I hold communion only with the has been, and </p><p>to come. Go you to England, and leave me where alone I can consent to drag </p><p>out the miserable days which I must still live." </p><p>A shower of tears terminated her sad harangue. I had expected some </p><p>extravagant proposition, and remained silent awhile, collecting my thoughts </p><p>that I might the better combat her fanciful scheme. "You cherish dreary </p><p>thoughts, my dear Perdita," I said, "nor do I wonder that for a time your </p><p>better reason should be influenced by passionate grief and a disturbed </p><p>imagination. Even I am in love with this last home of Raymond's; </p><p>nevertheless we must quit it." </p><p>"I expected this," cried Perdita; "I supposed that you would treat me as a </p><p>mad, foolish girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage is built by my </p><p>order; and here I shall remain, until the hour arrives when I may share his </p><p>happier dwelling." </p><p>"My dearest girl!" </p><p>"And what is there so strange in my design? I might have deceived you; I </p><p>might have talked of remaining here only a few months; in your anxiety to </p><p>reach Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or contention, I </p><p>might have pursued my plan. But I disdained the artifice; or rather in my </p><p>wretchedness it was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my </p><p>brother, my only friend. You will not dispute with me? You know how wilful </p><p>your poor, misery-stricken sister is. Take my girl with you; wean her from </p><p>sights and thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her heart, </p><p>and animate her eyes; so could it never be, were she near me; it is far </p><p>better for all of you that you should never see me again. For myself, I </p><p>will not voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while I can command </p><p>myself; and I can here. But drag me from this country; and my power of self </p><p>control vanishes, nor can I answer for the violence my agony of grief may </p><p>lead me to commit." </p><p>"You clothe your meaning, Perdita," I replied, "in powerful words, yet that </p><p>meaning is selfish and unworthy of you. You have often agreed with me that </p><p>there is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve </p><p>ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others: and now, in the very </p><p>prime of life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up in useless </p><p>solitude. Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor, the scene of your </p><p>early happiness? Will you commune less with his departed spirit, while you </p><p>watch over and cultivate the rare excellence of his child? You have been </p><p>sadly visited; nor do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should drive </p><p>you to bitter and unreasonable imaginings. But a home of love awaits you in </p><p>your native England. My tenderness and affection must soothe you; the </p><p>society of Raymond's friends will be of more solace than these dreary </p><p>speculations. We will all make it our first care, our dearest task, to </p><p>contribute to your happiness." </p><p>Perdita shook her head; "If it could be so," she replied, "I were much in </p><p>the wrong to disdain your offers. But it is not a matter of choice; I can </p><p>live here only. I am a part of this scene; each and all its properties are </p><p>a part of me. This is no sudden fancy; I live by it. The knowledge that I </p><p>am here, rises with me in the morning, and enables me to endure the light; </p><p>it is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it walks, it sleeps </p><p>with me, for ever it accompanies me. Here I may even cease to repine, and</p><p>may add my tardy consent to the decree which has taken him from me. He </p><p>would rather have died such a death, which will be recorded in history to </p><p>endless time, than have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured. Nor can I </p><p>desire better, than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart, here, </p><p>in youth's prime, before added years can tarnish the best feelings of my </p><p>nature, to watch his tomb, and speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose. </p><p>"So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, wishing to persuade you that I do </p><p>right. If you are unconvinced, I can add nothing further by way of </p><p>argument, and I can only declare my fixed resolve. I stay here; force only </p><p>can remove me. Be it so; drag me away--I return; confine me, imprison me, </p><p>still I escape, and come here. Or would my brother rather devote the </p><p>heart-broken Perdita to the straw and chains of a maniac, than suffer her </p><p>to rest in peace beneath the shadow of His society, in this my own selected </p><p>and beloved recess?"-- </p><p>All this appeared to me, I own, methodized madness. I imagined, that it was </p><p>my imperative duty to take her from scenes that thus forcibly reminded her </p><p>of her loss. Nor did I doubt, that in the tranquillity of our family circle </p><p>at Windsor, she would recover some degree of composure, and in the end, of </p><p>happiness. My affection for Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams </p><p>of cherished grief; her sensibility had already been too much excited; her </p><p>infant heedlessness too soon exchanged for deep and anxious thought. The </p><p>strange and romantic scheme of her mother, might confirm and perpetuate the </p><p>painful view of life, which had intruded itself thus early on her </p><p>contemplation. </p><p>On returning home, the captain of the steam packet with whom I had agreed </p><p>to sail, came to tell me, that accidental circumstances hastened his </p><p>departure, and that, if I went with him, I must come on board at five on </p><p>the following morning. I hastily gave my consent to this arrangement, and </p><p>as hastily formed a plan through which Perdita should be forced to become </p><p>my companion. I believe that most people in my situation would have acted </p><p>in the same manner. Yet this consideration does not, or rather did not in </p><p>after time, diminish the reproaches of my conscience. At the moment, I felt </p><p>convinced that I was acting for the best, and that all I did was right and </p><p>even necessary. </p><p>I sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my seeming assent to her wild </p><p>scheme. She received my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand times </p><p>over thanked her deceiving, deceitful brother. As night came on, her </p><p>spirits, enlivened by my unexpected concession, regained an almost </p><p>forgotten vivacity. I pretended to be alarmed by the feverish glow in her </p><p>cheek; I entreated her to take a composing draught; I poured out the </p><p>medicine, which she took docilely from me. I watched her as she drank it. </p><p>Falsehood and artifice are in themselves so hateful, that, though I still </p><p>thought I did right, a feeling of shame and guilt came painfully upon me. I </p><p>left her, and soon heard that she slept soundly under the influence of the </p><p>opiate I had administered. She was carried thus unconscious on board; the </p><p>anchor weighed, and the wind being favourable, we stood far out to sea; </p><p>with all the canvas spread, and the power of the engine to assist, we </p><p>scudded swiftly and steadily through the chafed element. </p><p>It was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a longer time elapsed </p><p>before recovering from the torpor occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived </p><p>her change of situation. She started wildly from her couch, and flew to the </p><p>cabin window. The blue and troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was </p><p>spread shoreless around: the sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift </p><p>motion shewed how speedily she was borne away. The creaking of the masts,</p><p>the clang of the wheels, the tramp above, all persuaded her that she was </p><p>already far from the shores of Greece.--"Where are we?" she cried, "where </p><p>are we going?"-- </p><p>The attendant whom I had stationed to watch her, replied, "to England."-- </p><p>"And my brother?"-- </p><p>"Is on deck, Madam." </p><p>"Unkind! unkind!" exclaimed the poor victim, as with a deep sigh she looked </p><p>on the waste of waters. Then without further remark, she threw herself on </p><p>her couch, and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but for the </p><p>deep sighs that burst from her, it would have seemed that she slept. </p><p>As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to her, that the sight </p><p>of the lovely innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts. But </p><p>neither the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could </p><p>rouse my sister. She looked on Clara with a countenance of woful meaning, </p><p>but she did not speak. When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my </p><p>enquiries, only said, "You know not what you have done!"--I trusted that </p><p>this sullenness betokened merely the struggle between disappointment and </p><p>natural affection, and that in a few days she would be reconciled to her </p><p>fate. </p><p>When night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep in a separate cabin. </p><p>Her servant, however, remained with her. About midnight she spoke to the </p><p>latter, saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to her </p><p>daughter, and bring word whether she rested quietly. The woman obeyed. </p><p>The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose again. I was on deck, </p><p>enjoying our swift progress. The quiet was disturbed only by the rush of </p><p>waters as they divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless </p><p>and full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds, and the regular motion </p><p>of the engine. The sea was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and </p><p>now resuming an uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared; and dark ether </p><p>clipt the broad ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought their </p><p>accustomed mirror. Our rate could not have been less than eight knots. </p><p>Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The sailors on watch rushed to the </p><p>side of the vessel, with the cry--some one gone overboard. "It is not </p><p>from deck," said the man at the helm, "something has been thrown from the </p><p>aft cabin." A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed from the deck. I </p><p>rushed into my sister's cabin; it was empty. </p><p>With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel remained unwillingly </p><p>stationary, until, after an hour's search, my poor Perdita was brought on </p><p>board. But no care could re-animate her, no medicine cause her dear eyes to </p><p>open, and the blood to flow again from her pulseless heart. One clenched </p><p>hand contained a slip of paper, on which was written, "To Athens." To </p><p>ensure her removal thither, and prevent the irrecoverable loss of her body </p><p>in the wide sea, she had had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round </p><p>her waist, and again to the staunchions of the cabin window. She had </p><p>drifted somewhat under the keel of the vessel, and her being out of sight </p><p>occasioned the delay in finding her. And thus the ill-starred girl died a </p><p>victim to my senseless rashness. Thus, in early day, she left us for the </p><p>company of the dead, and preferred to share the rocky grave of Raymond, </p><p>before the animated scene this cheerful earth afforded, and the society of</p><p>loving friends. Thus in her twenty-ninth year she died; having enjoyed some </p><p>few years of the happiness of paradise, and sustaining a reverse to which </p><p>her impatient spirit and affectionate disposition were unable to submit. As </p><p>I marked the placid expression that had settled on her countenance in </p><p>death, I felt, in spite of the pangs of remorse, in spite of heart-rending </p><p>regret, that it was better to die so, than to drag on long, miserable years </p><p>of repining and inconsolable grief. Stress of weather drove us up the </p><p>Adriatic Gulph; and, our vessel being hardly fitted to weather a storm, we </p><p>took refuge in the port of Ancona. Here I met Georgio Palli, the </p><p>vice-admiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and warm partizan of </p><p>Raymond. I committed the remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the </p><p>purpose of having them transported to Hymettus, and placed in the cell her </p><p>Raymond already occupied beneath the pyramid. This was all accomplished </p><p>even as I wished. She reposed beside her beloved, and the tomb above was </p><p>inscribed with the united names of Raymond and Perdita. </p><p>I then came to a resolution of pursuing our journey to England overland. My </p><p>own heart was racked by regrets and remorse. The apprehension, that Raymond </p><p>had departed for ever, that his name, blended eternally with the past, must </p><p>be erased from every anticipation of the future, had come slowly upon me. I </p><p>had always admired his talents; his noble aspirations; his grand </p><p>conceptions of the glory and majesty of his ambition: his utter want of </p><p>mean passions; his fortitude and daring. In Greece I had learnt to love </p><p>him; his very waywardness, and self-abandonment to the impulses of </p><p>superstition, attached me to him doubly; it might be weakness, but it was </p><p>the antipodes of all that was grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were </p><p>added the loss of Perdita, lost through my own accursed self-will and </p><p>conceit. This dear one, my sole relation; whose progress I had marked from </p><p>tender childhood through the varied path of life, and seen her throughout </p><p>conspicuous for integrity, devotion, and true affection; for all that </p><p>constitutes the peculiar graces of the female character, and beheld her at </p><p>last the victim of too much loving, too constant an attachment to the </p><p>perishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty and life, had thrown aside </p><p>the pleasant perception of the apparent world for the unreality of the </p><p>grave, and had left poor Clara quite an orphan. I concealed from this </p><p>beloved child that her mother's death was voluntary, and tried every means </p><p>to awaken cheerfulness in her sorrow-stricken spirit. </p><p>One of my first acts for the recovery even of my own composure, was to bid </p><p>farewell to the sea. Its hateful splash renewed again and again to my sense </p><p>the death of my sister; its roar was a dirge; in every dark hull that was </p><p>tossed on its inconstant bosom, I imaged a bier, that would convey to death </p><p>all who trusted to its treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea! Come, my </p><p>Clara, sit beside me in this aerial bark; quickly and gently it cleaves the </p><p>azure serene, and with soft undulation glides upon the current of the air; </p><p>or, if storm shake its fragile mechanism, the green earth is below; we can </p><p>descend, and take shelter on the stable continent. Here aloft, the </p><p>companions of the swift-winged birds, we skim through the unresisting </p><p>element, fleetly and fearlessly. The light boat heaves not, nor is opposed </p><p>by death-bearing waves; the ether opens before the prow, and the shadow of </p><p>the globe that upholds it, shelters us from the noon-day sun. Beneath are </p><p>the plains of Italy, or the vast undulations of the wave-like Apennines: </p><p>fertility reposes in their many folds, and woods crown the summits. The </p><p>free and happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, bears the double </p><p>harvest to the garner; and the refined citizens rear without dread the long </p><p>blighted tree of knowledge in this garden of the world. We were lifted </p><p>above the Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines entered </p><p>the plain of fair France, and after an airy journey of six days, we landed </p><p>at Dieppe, furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our</p><p>little pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of travelling now incommodious; </p><p>so we embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at </p><p>Portsmouth. </p><p>A strange story was rife here. A few days before, a tempest-struck vessel </p><p>had appeared off the town: the hull was parched-looking and cracked, the </p><p>sails rent, and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the shrouds </p><p>tangled and broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and was stranded on </p><p>the sands at the entrance. In the morning the custom-house officers, </p><p>together with a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only of the crew appeared </p><p>to have arrived with her. He had got to shore, and had walked a few paces </p><p>towards the town, and then, vanquished by malady and approaching death, had </p><p>fallen on the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his hands clenched, </p><p>and pressed against his breast. His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and </p><p>bristly beard, were signs of a long protracted misery. It was whispered </p><p>that he had died of the plague. No one ventured on board the vessel, and </p><p>strange sights were averred to be seen at night, walking the deck, and </p><p>hanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces; I was shewn </p><p>where she had been, and saw her disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The </p><p>body of the man who had landed, had been buried deep in the sands; and none </p><p>could tell more, than that the vessel was American built, and that several </p><p>months before the Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no </p><p>tidings were afterwards received. </p><p>CHAPTER IV. </p><p>I RETURNED to my family estate in the autumn of the year 2092. My heart had </p><p>long been with them; and I felt sick with the hope and delight of seeing </p><p>them again. The district which contained them appeared the abode of every </p><p>kindly spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked the forest paths, and </p><p>tempered the atmosphere. After all the agitation and sorrow I had endured </p><p>in Greece, I sought Windsor, as the storm-driven bird does the nest in </p><p>which it may fold its wings in tranquillity. </p><p>How unwise had the wanderers been, who had deserted its shelter, entangled </p><p>themselves in the web of society, and entered on what men of the world call </p><p>"life,"--that labyrinth of evil, that scheme of mutual torture. To live, </p><p>according to this sense of the word, we must not only observe and learn, we </p><p>must also feel; we must not be mere spectators of action, we must act; we </p><p>must not describe, but be subjects of description. Deep sorrow must have </p><p>been the inmate of our bosoms; fraud must have lain in wait for us; the </p><p>artful must have deceived us; sickening doubt and false hope must have </p><p>chequered our days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in ecstasy, must at </p><p>times have possessed us. Who that knows what "life" is, would pine for this </p><p>feverish species of existence? I have lived. I have spent days and nights </p><p>of festivity; I have joined in ambitious hopes, and exulted in victory: </p><p>now,--shut the door on the world, and build high the wall that is to </p><p>separate me from the troubled scene enacted within its precincts. Let us </p><p>live for each other and for happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home, </p><p>near the inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of trees, the </p><p>beauteous vesture of earth, and sublime pageantry of the skies. Let us </p><p>leave "life," that we may live. </p><p>Idris was well content with this resolve of mine. Her native sprightliness </p><p>needed no undue excitement, and her placid heart reposed contented on my</p><p>love, the well-being of her children, and the beauty of surrounding nature. </p><p>Her pride and blameless ambition was to create smiles in all around her, </p><p>and to shed repose on the fragile existence of her brother. In spite of her </p><p>tender nursing, the health of Adrian perceptibly declined. Walking, riding, </p><p>the common occupations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain, but seemed </p><p>to tremble for ever on the verge of annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on </p><p>for months nearly in the same state, he did not inspire us with any </p><p>immediate fear; and, though he talked of death as an event most familiar to </p><p>his thoughts, he did not cease to exert himself to render others happy, or </p><p>to cultivate his own astonishing powers of mind. Winter passed away; and </p><p>spring, led by the months, awakened life in all nature. The forest was </p><p>dressed in green; the young calves frisked on the new-sprung grass; the </p><p>wind-winged shadows of light clouds sped over the green cornfields; the </p><p>hermit cuckoo repeated his monotonous all-hail to the season; the </p><p>nightingale, bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled the woods </p><p>with song; while Venus lingered in the warm sunset, and the young green of </p><p>the trees lay in gentle relief along the clear horizon. </p><p>Delight awoke in every heart, delight and exultation; for there was peace </p><p>through all the world; the temple of Universal Janus was shut, and man died </p><p>not that year by the hand of man. </p><p>"Let this last but twelve months," said Adrian; "and earth will become a </p><p>Paradise. The energies of man were before directed to the destruction of </p><p>his species: they now aim at its liberation and preservation. Man cannot </p><p>repose, and his restless aspirations will now bring forth good instead of </p><p>evil. The favoured countries of the south will throw off the iron yoke of </p><p>servitude; poverty will quit us, and with that, sickness. What may not the </p><p>forces, never before united, of liberty and peace achieve in this dwelling </p><p>of man?" </p><p>"Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor!" said Ryland, the old adversary of </p><p>Raymond, and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing election. "Be </p><p>assured that earth is not, nor ever can be heaven, while the seeds of hell </p><p>are natives of her soil. When the seasons have become equal, when the air </p><p>breeds no disorders, when its surface is no longer liable to blights and </p><p>droughts, then sickness will cease; when men's passions are dead, poverty </p><p>will depart. When love is no longer akin to hate, then brotherhood will </p><p>exist: we are very far from that state at present." </p><p>"Not so far as you may suppose," observed a little old astronomer, by name </p><p>Merrival, "the poles precede slowly, but securely; in an hundred thousand </p><p>years--" </p><p>"We shall all be underground," said Ryland. </p><p>"The pole of the earth will coincide with the pole of the ecliptic," </p><p>continued the astronomer, "an universal spring will be produced, and earth </p><p>become a paradise." </p><p>"And we shall of course enjoy the benefit of the change," said Ryland, </p><p>contemptuously. </p><p>"We have strange news here," I observed. I had the newspaper in my hand, </p><p>and, as usual, had turned to the intelligence from Greece. "It seems that </p><p>the total destruction of Constantinople, and the supposition that winter </p><p>had purified the air of the fallen city, gave the Greeks courage to visit </p><p>its site, and begin to rebuild it. But they tell us that the curse of God </p><p>is on the place, for every one who has ventured within the walls has been</p><p>tainted by the plague; that this disease has spread in Thrace and </p><p>Macedonia; and now, fearing the virulence of infection during the coming </p><p>heats, a cordon has been drawn on the frontiers of Thessaly, and a strict </p><p>quarantine exacted." This intelligence brought us back from the prospect of </p><p>paradise, held out after the lapse of an hundred thousand years, to the </p><p>pain and misery at present existent upon earth. We talked of the ravages </p><p>made last year by pestilence in every quarter of the world; and of the </p><p>dreadful consequences of a second visitation. We discussed the best means </p><p>of preventing infection, and of preserving health and activity in a large </p><p>city thus afflicted--London, for instance. Merrival did not join in this </p><p>conversation; drawing near Idris, he proceeded to assure her that the </p><p>joyful prospect of an earthly paradise after an hundred thousand years, was </p><p>clouded to him by the knowledge that in a certain period of time after, an </p><p>earthly hell or purgatory, would occur, when the ecliptic and equator would </p><p>be at right angles.[1] Our party at length broke up; "We are all dreaming </p><p>this morning," said Ryland, "it is as wise to discuss the probability of a </p><p>visitation of the plague in our well-governed metropolis, as to calculate </p><p>the centuries which must escape before we can grow pine-apples here in the </p><p>open air." </p><p>But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon the arrival of the plague in </p><p>London, I could not reflect without extreme pain on the desolation this </p><p>evil would cause in Greece. The English for the most part talked of Thrace </p><p>and Macedonia, as they would of a lunar territory, which, unknown to them, </p><p>presented no distinct idea or interest to the minds. I had trod the soil. </p><p>The faces of many of the inhabitants were familiar to me; in the towns, </p><p>plains, hills, and defiles of these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable </p><p>delight, as I journied through them the year before. Some romantic village, </p><p>some cottage, or elegant abode there situated, inhabited by the lovely and </p><p>the good, rose before my mental sight, and the question haunted me, is the </p><p>plague there also?--That same invincible monster, which hovered over and </p><p>devoured Constantinople--that fiend more cruel than tempest, less tame </p><p>than fire, is, alas, unchained in that beautiful country--these </p><p>reflections would not allow me to rest. </p><p>The political state of England became agitated as the time drew near when </p><p>the new Protector was to be elected. This event excited the more interest, </p><p>since it was the current report, that if the popular candidate (Ryland) </p><p>should be chosen, the question of the abolition of hereditary rank, and </p><p>other feudal relics, would come under the consideration of parliament. Not </p><p>a word had been spoken during the present session on any of these topics. </p><p>Every thing would depend upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections </p><p>of the ensuing year. Yet this very silence was awful, shewing the deep </p><p>weight attributed to the question; the fear of either party to hazard an </p><p>ill-timed attack, and the expectation of a furious contention when it </p><p>should begin. </p><p>But although St. Stephen's did not echo with the voice which filled each </p><p>heart, the newspapers teemed with nothing else; and in private companies </p><p>the conversation however remotely begun, soon verged towards this central </p><p>point, while voices were lowered and chairs drawn closer. The nobles did </p><p>not hesitate to express their fear; the other party endeavoured to treat </p><p>the matter lightly. "Shame on the country," said Ryland, "to lay so much </p><p>stress upon words and frippery; it is a question of nothing; of the new </p><p>painting of carriage-pannels and the embroidery of footmen's coats." </p><p>Yet could England indeed doff her lordly trappings, and be content with the </p><p>democratic style of America? Were the pride of ancestry, the patrician </p><p>spirit, the gentle courtesies and refined pursuits, splendid attributes of</p><p>rank, to be erased among us? We were told that this would not be the case; </p><p>that we were by nature a poetical people, a nation easily duped by words, </p><p>ready to array clouds in splendour, and bestow honour on the dust. This </p><p>spirit we could never lose; and it was to diffuse this concentrated spirit </p><p>of birth, that the new law was to be brought forward. We were assured that, </p><p>when the name and title of Englishman was the sole patent of nobility, we </p><p>should all be noble; that when no man born under English sway, felt another </p><p>his superior in rank, courtesy and refinement would become the birth-right </p><p>of all our countrymen. Let not England be so far disgraced, as to have it </p><p>imagined that it can be without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear </p><p>their patent in their mien, who are from their cradle elevated above the </p><p>rest of their species, because they are better than the rest. Among a race </p><p>of independent, and generous, and well educated men, in a country where the </p><p>imagination is empress of men's minds, there needs be no fear that we </p><p>should want a perpetual succession of the high-born and lordly. That party, </p><p>however, could hardly yet be considered a minority in the kingdom, who </p><p>extolled the ornament of the column, "the Corinthian capital of polished </p><p>society;" they appealed to prejudices without number, to old attachments </p><p>and young hopes; to the expectation of thousands who might one day become </p><p>peers; they set up as a scarecrow, the spectre of all that was sordid, </p><p>mechanic and base in the commercial republics. </p><p>The plague had come to Athens. Hundreds of English residents returned to </p><p>their own country. Raymond's beloved Athenians, the free, the noble people </p><p>of the divinest town in Greece, fell like ripe corn before the merciless </p><p>sickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places were deserted; its temples and </p><p>palaces were converted into tombs; its energies, bent before towards the </p><p>highest objects of human ambition, were now forced to converge to one </p><p>point, the guarding against the innumerous arrows of the plague. </p><p>At any other time this disaster would have excited extreme compassion among </p><p>us; but it was now passed over, while each mind was engaged by the coming </p><p>controversy. It was not so with me; and the question of rank and right </p><p>dwindled to insignificance in my eyes, when I pictured the scene of </p><p>suffering Athens. I heard of the death of only sons; of wives and husbands </p><p>most devoted; of the rending of ties twisted with the heart's fibres, of </p><p>friend losing friend, and young mothers mourning for their first born; and </p><p>these moving incidents were grouped and painted in my mind by the knowledge </p><p>of the persons, by my esteem and affection for the sufferers. It was the </p><p>admirers, friends, fellow soldiers of Raymond, families that had welcomed </p><p>Perdita to Greece, and lamented with her the loss of her lord, that were </p><p>swept away, and went to dwell with them in the undistinguishing tomb. </p><p>The plague at Athens had been preceded and caused by the contagion from the </p><p>East; and the scene of havoc and death continued to be acted there, on a </p><p>scale of fearful magnitude. A hope that the visitation of the present year </p><p>would prove the last, kept up the spirits of the merchants connected with </p><p>these countries; but the inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a </p><p>resignation which, arising from fanaticism, assumed the same dark hue. </p><p>America had also received the taint; and, were it yellow fever or plague, </p><p>the epidemic was gifted with a virulence before unfelt. The devastation was </p><p>not confined to the towns, but spread throughout the country; the hunter </p><p>died in the woods, the peasant in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his </p><p>native waters. </p><p>A strange story was brought to us from the East, to which little credit </p><p>would have been given, had not the fact been attested by a multitude of </p><p>witnesses, in various parts of the world. On the twenty-first of June, it </p><p>was said that an hour before noon, a black sun arose: an orb, the size of</p><p>that luminary, but dark, defined, whose beams were shadows, ascended from </p><p>the west; in about an hour it had reached the meridian, and eclipsed the </p><p>bright parent of day. Night fell upon every country, night, sudden, </p><p>rayless, entire. The stars came out, shedding their ineffectual glimmerings </p><p>on the light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb passed from over the sun, </p><p>and lingered down the eastern heaven. As it descended, its dusky rays </p><p>crossed the brilliant ones of the sun, and deadened or distorted them. The </p><p>shadows of things assumed strange and ghastly shapes. The wild animals in </p><p>the woods took fright at the unknown shapes figured on the ground. They </p><p>fled they knew not whither; and the citizens were filled with greater </p><p>dread, at the convulsion which "shook lions into civil streets;"--birds, </p><p>strong-winged eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in the market-places, while </p><p>owls and bats shewed themselves welcoming the early night. Gradually the </p><p>object of fear sank beneath the horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy </p><p>beams into the otherwise radiant air. Such was the tale sent us from Asia, </p><p>from the eastern extremity of Europe, and from Africa as far west as the </p><p>Golden Coast. Whether this story were true or not, the effects were certain. </p><p>Through Asia, from the banks of the Nile to the shores of the Caspian, from </p><p>the Hellespont even to the sea of Oman, a sudden panic was driven. The men </p><p>filled the mosques; the women, veiled, hastened to the tombs, and carried </p><p>offerings to the dead, thus to preserve the living. The plague was </p><p>forgotten, in this new fear which the black sun had spread; and, though the </p><p>dead multiplied, and the streets of Ispahan, of Pekin, and of Delhi were </p><p>strewed with pestilence-struck corpses, men passed on, gazing on the </p><p>ominous sky, regardless of the death beneath their feet. The christians </p><p>sought their churches,--christian maidens, even at the feast of roses, </p><p>clad in white, with shining veils, sought, in long procession, the places </p><p>consecrated to their religion, filling the air with their hymns; while, </p><p>ever and anon, from the lips of some poor mourner in the crowd, a voice of </p><p>wailing burst, and the rest looked up, fancying they could discern the </p><p>sweeping wings of angels, who passed over the earth, lamenting the </p><p>disasters about to fall on man. </p><p>In the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded cities of China, amidst the </p><p>aromatic groves of Cashmere, and along the southern shores of the </p><p>Mediterranean, such scenes had place. Even in Greece the tale of the sun of </p><p>darkness encreased the fears and despair of the dying multitude. We, in our </p><p>cloudy isle, were far removed from danger, and the only circumstance that </p><p>brought these disasters at all home to us, was the daily arrival of vessels </p><p>from the east, crowded with emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems, </p><p>though the fear of death was spread keenly among them, still clung </p><p>together; that, if they were to die (and if they were, death would as </p><p>readily meet them on the homeless sea, or in far England, as in Persia,)-- </p><p>if they were to die, their bones might rest in earth made sacred by the </p><p>relics of true believers. Mecca had never before been so crowded with </p><p>pilgrims; yet the Arabs neglected to pillage the caravans, but, humble and </p><p>weaponless, they joined the procession, praying Mahomet to avert plague </p><p>from their tents and deserts. </p><p>I cannot describe the rapturous delight with which I turned from political </p><p>brawls at home, and the physical evils of distant countries, to my own dear </p><p>home, to the selected abode of goodness and love; to peace, and the </p><p>interchange of every sacred sympathy. Had I never quitted Windsor, these </p><p>emotions would not have been so intense; but I had in Greece been the prey </p><p>of fear and deplorable change; in Greece, after a period of anxiety and </p><p>sorrow, I had seen depart two, whose very names were the symbol of </p><p>greatness and virtue. But such miseries could never intrude upon the </p><p>domestic circle left to me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we </p><p>passed our lives in tranquillity. Some small change indeed the progress of</p><p>years brought here; and time, as it is wont, stamped the traces of </p><p>mortality on our pleasures and expectations. Idris, the most affectionate </p><p>wife, sister and friend, was a tender and loving mother. The feeling was </p><p>not with her as with many, a pastime; it was a passion. We had had three </p><p>children; one, the second in age, died while I was in Greece. This had </p><p>dashed the triumphant and rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and </p><p>fear. Before this event, the little beings, sprung from herself, the young </p><p>heirs of her transient life, seemed to have a sure lease of existence; now </p><p>she dreaded that the pitiless destroyer might snatch her remaining </p><p>darlings, as it had snatched their brother. The least illness caused throes </p><p>of terror; she was miserable if she were at all absent from them; her </p><p>treasure of happiness she had garnered in their fragile being, and kept </p><p>forever on the watch, lest the insidious thief should as before steal these </p><p>valued gems. She had fortunately small cause for fear. Alfred, now nine </p><p>years old, was an upright, manly little fellow, with radiant brow, soft </p><p>eyes, and gentle, though independent disposition. Our youngest was yet in </p><p>infancy; but his downy cheek was sprinkled with the roses of health, and </p><p>his unwearied vivacity filled our halls with innocent laughter. </p><p>Clara had passed the age which, from its mute ignorance, was the source of </p><p>the fears of Idris. Clara was dear to her, to all. There was so much </p><p>intelligence combined with innocence, sensibility with forbearance, and </p><p>seriousness with perfect good-humour, a beauty so transcendant, united to </p><p>such endearing simplicity, that she hung like a pearl in the shrine of our </p><p>possessions, a treasure of wonder and excellence. </p><p>At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now nine years of age, first went to </p><p>school at Eton. This appeared to him the primary step towards manhood, and </p><p>he was proportionably pleased. Community of study and amusement developed </p><p>the best parts of his character, his steady perseverance, generosity, and </p><p>well-governed firmness. What deep and sacred emotions are excited in a </p><p>father's bosom, when he first becomes convinced that his love for his child </p><p>is not a mere instinct, but worthily bestowed, and that others, less akin, </p><p>participate his approbation! It was supreme happiness to Idris and myself, </p><p>to find that the frankness which Alfred's open brow indicated, the </p><p>intelligence of his eyes, the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not </p><p>delusions, but indications of talents and virtues, which would "grow with </p><p>his growth, and strengthen with his strength." At this period, the </p><p>termination of an animal's love for its offspring,--the true affection of </p><p>the human parent commences. We no longer look on this dearest part of </p><p>ourselves, as a tender plant which we must cherish, or a plaything for an </p><p>idle hour. We build now on his intellectual faculties, we establish our </p><p>hopes on his moral propensities. His weakness still imparts anxiety to this </p><p>feeling, his ignorance prevents entire intimacy; but we begin to respect </p><p>the future man, and to endeavour to secure his esteem, even as if he were </p><p>our equal. What can a parent have more at heart than the good opinion of </p><p>his child? In all our transactions with him our honour must be inviolate, </p><p>the integrity of our relations untainted: fate and circumstance may, when </p><p>he arrives at maturity, separate us for ever--but, as his aegis in </p><p>danger, his consolation in hardship, let the ardent youth for ever bear </p><p>with him through the rough path of life, love and honour for his parents. </p><p>We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, that its population of young </p><p>folks was well known to us. Many of them had been Alfred's playmates, </p><p>before they became his school-fellows. We now watched this youthful </p><p>congregation with redoubled interest. We marked the difference of character </p><p>among the boys, and endeavoured to read the future man in the stripling. </p><p>There is nothing more lovely, to which the heart more yearns than a </p><p>free-spirited boy, gentle, brave, and generous. Several of the Etonians had</p><p>these characteristics; all were distinguished by a sense of honour, and </p><p>spirit of enterprize; in some, as they verged towards manhood, this </p><p>degenerated into presumption; but the younger ones, lads a little older </p><p>than our own, were conspicuous for their gallant and sweet dispositions. </p><p>Here were the future governors of England; the men, who, when our ardour </p><p>was cold, and our projects completed or destroyed for ever, when, our drama </p><p>acted, we doffed the garb of the hour, and assumed the uniform of age, or </p><p>of more equalizing death; here were the beings who were to carry on the </p><p>vast machine of society; here were the lovers, husbands, fathers; here the </p><p>landlord, the politician, the soldier; some fancied that they were even now </p><p>ready to appear on the stage, eager to make one among the dramatis personae </p><p>of active life. It was not long since I was like one of these beardless </p><p>aspirants; when my boy shall have obtained the place I now hold, I shall </p><p>have tottered into a grey-headed, wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle </p><p>of the Sphynx, most awe-striking! that thus man remains, while we the </p><p>individuals pass away. Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent and </p><p>philosophic writer, "the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body </p><p>composed of transitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a stupendous </p><p>wisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human </p><p>race, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, or young, but, </p><p>in a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied </p><p>tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression."[2] </p><p>Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred! advance, offspring of </p><p>tender love, child of our hopes; advance a soldier on the road to which I </p><p>have been the pioneer! I will make way for thee. I have already put off the </p><p>carelessness of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy gait of early </p><p>years, that they may adorn thee. Advance; and I will despoil myself still </p><p>further for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the graces of maturity, </p><p>shall take the fire from my eyes, and agility from my limbs, shall steal </p><p>the better part of life, eager expectation and passionate love, and shower </p><p>them in double portion on thy dear head. Advance! avail thyself of the </p><p>gift, thou and thy comrades; and in the drama you are about to act, do not </p><p>disgrace those who taught you to enter on the stage, and to pronounce </p><p>becomingly the parts assigned to you! May your progress be uninterrupted </p><p>and secure; born during the spring-tide of the hopes of man, may you lead </p><p>up the summer to which no winter may succeed! </p><p>[1] See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The Mythological Astronomy of the </p><p>Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822. </p><p>[2] Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution. </p><p>CHAPTER V. </p><p>SOME disorder had surely crept into the course of the elements, destroying </p><p>their benignant influence. The wind, prince of air, raged through his </p><p>kingdom, lashing the sea into fury, and subduing the rebel earth into some </p><p>sort of obedience. </p><p> The God sends down his angry plagues from high,</p><p> Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.</p><p> Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls</p><p> On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls;</p><p> Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain,</p><p> And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.</p><p>Their deadly power shook the flourishing countries of the south, and </p><p>during winter, even, we, in our northern retreat, began to quake under </p><p>their ill effects. </p><p>That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority to the sun over the wind. </p><p>Who has not seen the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and basking </p><p>nature become dark, cold and ungenial, when the sleeping wind has awoke in </p><p>the east? Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky, while exhaustless </p><p>stores of rain are poured down, until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe </p><p>the superabundant moisture, it lies in pools on the surface; when the torch </p><p>of day seems like a meteor, to be quenched; who has not seen the </p><p>cloud-stirring north arise, the streaked blue appear, and soon an opening </p><p>made in the vapours in the eye of the wind, through which the bright azure </p><p>shines? The clouds become thin; an arch is formed for ever rising upwards, </p><p>till, the universal cope being unveiled, the sun pours forth its rays, </p><p>re-animated and fed by the breeze. </p><p>Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned above all other vicegerents of </p><p>nature's power; whether thou comest destroying from the east, or pregnant </p><p>with elementary life from the west; thee the clouds obey; the sun is </p><p>subservient to thee; the shoreless ocean is thy slave! Thou sweepest over </p><p>the earth, and oaks, the growth of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe; </p><p>the snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the Alps, the avalanche </p><p>thunders down their vallies. Thou holdest the keys of the frost, and canst </p><p>first chain and then set free the streams; under thy gentle governance the </p><p>buds and leaves are born, they flourish nursed by thee. </p><p>Why dost thou howl thus, O wind? By day and by night for four long months </p><p>thy roarings have not ceased--the shores of the sea are strewn with </p><p>wrecks, its keel-welcoming surface has become impassable, the earth has </p><p>shed her beauty in obedience to thy command; the frail balloon dares no </p><p>longer sail on the agitated air; thy ministers, the clouds, deluge the land </p><p>with rain; rivers forsake their banks; the wild torrent tears up the </p><p>mountain path; plain and wood, and verdant dell are despoiled of their </p><p>loveliness; our very cities are wasted by thee. Alas, what will become of </p><p>us? It seems as if the giant waves of ocean, and vast arms of the sea, were </p><p>about to wrench the deep-rooted island from its centre; and cast it, a ruin </p><p>and a wreck, upon the fields of the Atlantic. </p><p>What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least among the many that </p><p>people infinite space? Our minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of </p><p>our being is subject to merest accident. Day by day we are forced to </p><p>believe this. He whom a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears from </p><p>apparent life under the influence of the hostile agency at work around us, </p><p>had the same powers as I--I also am subject to the same laws. In the face </p><p>of all this we call ourselves lords of the creation, wielders of the </p><p>elements, masters of life and death, and we allege in excuse of this </p><p>arrogance, that though the individual is destroyed, man continues for </p><p>ever. </p><p>Thus, losing our identity, that of which we are chiefly conscious, we glory </p><p>in the continuity of our species, and learn to regard death without terror. </p><p>But when any whole nation becomes the victim of the destructive powers of </p><p>exterior agents, then indeed man shrinks into insignificance, he feels his </p><p>tenure of life insecure, his inheritance on earth cut off. </p><p>I remember, after having witnessed the destructive effects of a fire, I</p><p>could not even behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation of fear. </p><p>The mounting flames had curled round the building, as it fell, and was </p><p>destroyed. They insinuated themselves into the substances about them, and </p><p>the impediments to their progress yielded at their touch. Could we take </p><p>integral parts of this power, and not be subject to its operation? Could we </p><p>domesticate a cub of this wild beast, and not fear its growth and </p><p>maturity? </p><p>Thus we began to feel, with regard to many-visaged death let loose on the </p><p>chosen districts of our fair habitation, and above all, with regard to the </p><p>plague. We feared the coming summer. Nations, bordering on the already </p><p>infected countries, began to enter upon serious plans for the better </p><p>keeping out of the enemy. We, a commercial people, were obliged to bring </p><p>such schemes under consideration; and the question of contagion became </p><p>matter of earnest disquisition. </p><p>That the plague was not what is commonly called contagious, like the </p><p>scarlet fever, or extinct small-pox, was proved. It was called an epidemic. </p><p>But the grand question was still unsettled of how this epidemic was </p><p>generated and increased. If infection depended upon the air, the air was </p><p>subject to infection. As for instance, a typhus fever has been brought by </p><p>ships to one sea-port town; yet the very people who brought it there, were </p><p>incapable of communicating it in a town more fortunately situated. But how </p><p>are we to judge of airs, and pronounce--in such a city plague will die </p><p>unproductive; in such another, nature has provided for it a plentiful </p><p>harvest? In the same way, individuals may escape ninety-nine times, and </p><p>receive the death-blow at the hundredth; because bodies are sometimes in a </p><p>state to reject the infection of malady, and at others, thirsty to imbibe </p><p>it. These reflections made our legislators pause, before they could decide </p><p>on the laws to be put in force. The evil was so wide-spreading, so violent </p><p>and immedicable, that no care, no prevention could be judged superfluous, </p><p>which even added a chance to our escape. </p><p>These were questions of prudence; there was no immediate necessity for an </p><p>earnest caution. England was still secure. France, Germany, Italy and </p><p>Spain, were interposed, walls yet without a breach, between us and the </p><p>plague. Our vessels truly were the sport of winds and waves, even as </p><p>Gulliver was the toy of the Brobdignagians; but we on our stable abode </p><p>could not be hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature. We could </p><p>not fear--we did not. Yet a feeling of awe, a breathless sentiment of </p><p>wonder, a painful sense of the degradation of humanity, was introduced into </p><p>every heart. Nature, our mother, and our friend, had turned on us a brow of </p><p>menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she permitted us to assign her </p><p>laws and subdue her apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a finger, we </p><p>must quake. She could take our globe, fringed with mountains, girded by the </p><p>atmosphere, containing the condition of our being, and all that man's mind </p><p>could invent or his force achieve; she could take the ball in her hand, and </p><p>cast it into space, where life would be drunk up, and man and all his </p><p>efforts for ever annihilated. </p><p>These speculations were rife among us; yet not the less we proceeded in our </p><p>daily occupations, and our plans, whose accomplishment demanded the lapse </p><p>of many years. No voice was heard telling us to hold! When foreign </p><p>distresses came to be felt by us through the channels of commerce, we set </p><p>ourselves to apply remedies. Subscriptions were made for the emigrants, and </p><p>merchants bankrupt by the failure of trade. The English spirit awoke to its </p><p>full activity, and, as it had ever done, set itself to resist the evil, and </p><p>to stand in the breach which diseased nature had suffered chaos and death </p><p>to make in the bounds and banks which had hitherto kept them out.</p><p>At the commencement of summer, we began to feel, that the mischief which </p><p>had taken place in distant countries was greater than we had at first </p><p>suspected. Quito was destroyed by an earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the </p><p>united effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds of emigrants </p><p>inundated the west of Europe; and our island had become the refuge of </p><p>thousands. In the mean time Ryland had been chosen Protector. He had sought </p><p>this office with eagerness, under the idea of turning his whole forces to </p><p>the suppression of the privileged orders of our community. His measures </p><p>were thwarted, and his schemes interrupted by this new state of things. </p><p>Many of the foreigners were utterly destitute; and their increasing numbers </p><p>at length forbade a recourse to the usual modes of relief. Trade was </p><p>stopped by the failure of the interchange of cargoes usual between us, and </p><p>America, India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden break was made in the routine of </p><p>our lives. In vain our Protector and his partizans sought to conceal this </p><p>truth; in vain, day after day, he appointed a period for the discussion of </p><p>the new laws concerning hereditary rank and privilege; in vain he </p><p>endeavoured to represent the evil as partial and temporary. These disasters </p><p>came home to so many bosoms, and, through the various channels of commerce, </p><p>were carried so entirely into every class and division of the community, </p><p>that of necessity they became the first question in the state, the chief </p><p>subjects to which we must turn our attention. </p><p>Can it be true, each asked the other with wonder and dismay, that whole </p><p>countries are laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these disorders in </p><p>nature? The vast cities of America, the fertile plains of Hindostan, the </p><p>crowded abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter ruin. Where late the </p><p>busy multitudes assembled for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of </p><p>wailing and misery is heard. The air is empoisoned, and each human being </p><p>inhales death, even while in youth and health, their hopes are in the </p><p>flower. We called to mind the plague of 1348, when it was calculated that a </p><p>third of mankind had been destroyed. As yet western Europe was uninfected; </p><p>would it always be so? </p><p>O, yes, it would--Countrymen, fear not! In the still uncultivated wilds </p><p>of America, what wonder that among its other giant destroyers, Plague </p><p>should be numbered! It is of old a native of the East, sister of the </p><p>tornado, the earthquake, and the simoon. Child of the sun, and nursling of </p><p>the tropics, it would expire in these climes. It drinks the dark blood of </p><p>the inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts on the pale-faced Celt. If </p><p>perchance some stricken Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him, </p><p>uncommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep for our brethren, though we can </p><p>never experience their reverse. Let us lament over and assist the children </p><p>of the garden of the earth. Late we envied their abodes, their spicy </p><p>groves, fertile plains, and abundant loveliness. But in this mortal life </p><p>extremes are always matched; the thorn grows with the rose, the poison tree </p><p>and the cinnamon mingle their boughs. Persia, with its cloth of gold, </p><p>marble halls, and infinite wealth, is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is </p><p>fallen in the sands, and his horse spurns the ground unbridled and </p><p>unsaddled. The voice of lamentation fills the valley of Cashmere; its dells </p><p>and woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses, are polluted by the </p><p>dead; in Circassia and Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin of </p><p>its favourite temple--the form of woman. </p><p>Our own distresses, though they were occasioned by the fictitious </p><p>reciprocity of commerce, encreased in due proportion. Bankers, merchants, </p><p>and manufacturers, whose trade depended on exports and interchange of </p><p>wealth, became bankrupt. Such things, when they happen singly, affect only </p><p>the immediate parties; but the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by</p><p>frequent and extensive losses. Families, bred in opulence and luxury, were </p><p>reduced to beggary. The very state of peace in which we gloried was </p><p>injurious; there were no means of employing the idle, or of sending any </p><p>overplus of population out of the country. Even the source of colonies was </p><p>dried up, for in New Holland, Van Diemen's Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, </p><p>plague raged. O, for some medicinal vial to purge unwholesome nature, and </p><p>bring back the earth to its accustomed health! </p><p>Ryland was a man of strong intellects and quick and sound decision in the </p><p>usual course of things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of evils that </p><p>gathered round us. Must he tax the landed interest to assist our commercial </p><p>population? To do this, he must gain the favour of the chief land-holders, </p><p>the nobility of the country; and these were his vowed enemies--he must </p><p>conciliate them by abandoning his favourite scheme of equalization; he must </p><p>confirm them in their manorial rights; he must sell his cherished plans for </p><p>the permanent good of his country, for temporary relief. He must aim no </p><p>more at the dear object of his ambition; throwing his arms aside, he must </p><p>for present ends give up the ultimate object of his endeavours. He came to </p><p>Windsor to consult with us. Every day added to his difficulties; the </p><p>arrival of fresh vessels with emigrants, the total cessation of commerce, </p><p>the starving multitude that thronged around the palace of the Protectorate, </p><p>were circumstances not to be tampered with. The blow was struck; the </p><p>aristocracy obtained all they wished, and they subscribed to a </p><p>twelvemonths' bill, which levied twenty per cent on all the rent-rolls of </p><p>the country. Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and to the populous </p><p>cities, before driven to desperation; and we returned to the consideration </p><p>of distant calamities, wondering if the future would bring any alleviation </p><p>to their excess. It was August; so there could be small hope of relief </p><p>during the heats. On the contrary, the disease gained virulence, while </p><p>starvation did its accustomed work. Thousands died unlamented; for beside </p><p>the yet warm corpse the mourner was stretched, made mute by death. </p><p>On the eighteenth of this month news arrived in London that the plague was </p><p>in France and Italy. These tidings were at first whispered about town; but </p><p>no one dared express aloud the soul-quailing intelligence. When any one met </p><p>a friend in the street, he only cried as he hurried on, "You know!"-- </p><p>while the other, with an ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer,-- </p><p>"What will become of us?" At length it was mentioned in the newspapers. The </p><p>paragraph was inserted in an obscure part: "We regret to state that there </p><p>can be no longer a doubt of the plague having been introduced at Leghorn, </p><p>Genoa, and Marseilles." No word of comment followed; each reader made his </p><p>own fearful one. We were as a man who hears that his house is burning, and </p><p>yet hurries through the streets, borne along by a lurking hope of a </p><p>mistake, till he turns the corner, and sees his sheltering roof enveloped </p><p>in a flame. Before it had been a rumour; but now in words uneraseable, in </p><p>definite and undeniable print, the knowledge went forth. Its obscurity of </p><p>situation rendered it the more conspicuous: the diminutive letters grew </p><p>gigantic to the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed graven with a pen of </p><p>iron, impressed by fire, woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front of </p><p>the universe. </p><p>The English, whether travellers or residents, came pouring in one great </p><p>revulsive stream, back on their own country; and with them crowds of </p><p>Italians and Spaniards. Our little island was filled even to bursting. At </p><p>first an unusual quantity of specie made its appearance with the emigrants; </p><p>but these people had no means of receiving back into their hands what they </p><p>spent among us. With the advance of summer, and the increase of the </p><p>distemper, rents were unpaid, and their remittances failed them. It was </p><p>impossible to see these crowds of wretched, perishing creatures, late</p><p>nurslings of luxury, and not stretch out a hand to save them. As at the </p><p>conclusion of the eighteenth century, the English unlocked their hospitable </p><p>store, for the relief of those driven from their homes by political </p><p>revolution; so now they were not backward in affording aid to the victims </p><p>of a more wide-spreading calamity. We had many foreign friends whom we </p><p>eagerly sought out, and relieved from dreadful penury. Our Castle became an </p><p>asylum for the unhappy. A little population occupied its halls. The revenue </p><p>of its possessor, which had always found a mode of expenditure congenial to </p><p>his generous nature, was now attended to more parsimoniously, that it might </p><p>embrace a wider portion of utility. It was not however money, except </p><p>partially, but the necessaries of life, that became scarce. It was </p><p>difficult to find an immediate remedy. The usual one of imports was </p><p>entirely cut off. In this emergency, to feed the very people to whom we had </p><p>given refuge, we were obliged to yield to the plough and the mattock our </p><p>pleasure-grounds and parks. Live stock diminished sensibly in the country, </p><p>from the effects of the great demand in the market. Even the poor deer, our </p><p>antlered proteges, were obliged to fall for the sake of worthier </p><p>pensioners. The labour necessary to bring the lands to this sort of </p><p>culture, employed and fed the offcasts of the diminished manufactories. </p><p>Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he could make with regard to </p><p>his own possessions. He addressed himself to the wealthy of the land; he </p><p>made proposals in parliament little adapted to please the rich; but his </p><p>earnest pleadings and benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give up </p><p>their pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist, to diminish sensibly the </p><p>number of horses kept for the purposes of luxury throughout the country, </p><p>were means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet, to the honour of the English be it </p><p>recorded, that, although natural disinclination made them delay awhile, yet </p><p>when the misery of their fellow-creatures became glaring, an enthusiastic </p><p>generosity inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were often the first </p><p>to part with their indulgencies. As is common in communities, a fashion was </p><p>set. The high-born ladies of the country would have deemed themselves </p><p>disgraced if they had now enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the </p><p>ease of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden time, and Indian palanquins were </p><p>introduced for the infirm; but else it was nothing singular to see females </p><p>of rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort. It was more common, </p><p>for all who possessed landed property to secede to their estates, attended </p><p>by whole troops of the indigent, to cut down their woods to erect temporary </p><p>dwellings, and to portion out their parks, parterres and flower-gardens, to </p><p>necessitous families. Many of these, of high rank in their own countries, </p><p>now, with hoe in hand, turned up the soil. It was found necessary at last </p><p>to check the spirit of sacrifice, and to remind those whose generosity </p><p>proceeded to lavish waste, that, until the present state of things became </p><p>permanent, of which there was no likelihood, it was wrong to carry change </p><p>so far as to make a reaction difficult. Experience demonstrated that in a </p><p>year or two pestilence would cease; it were well that in the mean time we </p><p>should not have destroyed our fine breeds of horses, or have utterly </p><p>changed the face of the ornamented portion of the country. </p><p>It may be imagined that things were in a bad state indeed, before this </p><p>spirit of benevolence could have struck such deep roots. The infection had </p><p>now spread in the southern provinces of France. But that country had so </p><p>many resources in the way of agriculture, that the rush of population from </p><p>one part of it to another, and its increase through foreign emigration, was </p><p>less felt than with us. The panic struck appeared of more injury, than </p><p>disease and its natural concomitants. </p><p>Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing physician. The embrowning </p><p>woods, and swollen rivers, the evening mists, and morning frosts, were</p><p>welcomed with gratitude. The effects of purifying cold were immediately </p><p>felt; and the lists of mortality abroad were curtailed each week. Many of </p><p>our visitors left us: those whose homes were far in the south, fled </p><p>delightedly from our northern winter, and sought their native land, secure </p><p>of plenty even after their fearful visitation. We breathed again. What the </p><p>coming summer would bring, we knew not; but the present months were our </p><p>own, and our hopes of a cessation of pestilence were high. </p><p>[1] Elton's translation of Hesiod's Works. </p><p>CHAPTER VI. </p><p>I HAVE lingered thus long on the extreme bank, the wasting shoal that </p><p>stretched into the stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death. Thus </p><p>long, I have cradled my heart in retrospection of past happiness, when hope </p><p>was. Why not for ever thus? I am not immortal; and the thread of my history </p><p>might be spun out to the limits of my existence. But the same sentiment </p><p>that first led me to pourtray scenes replete with tender recollections, now </p><p>bids me hurry on. The same yearning of this warm, panting heart, that has </p><p>made me in written words record my vagabond youth, my serene manhood, and </p><p>the passions of my soul, makes me now recoil from further delay. I must </p><p>complete my work. </p><p>Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet waters of the flowing years, </p><p>and now away! Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying by dark </p><p>impending crags, adown steep rapids, even to the sea of desolation I have </p><p>reached. Yet one moment, one brief interval before I put from shore-- </p><p>once, once again let me fancy myself as I was in 2094 in my abode at </p><p>Windsor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that the immeasurable boughs of </p><p>its oaks still shadow me, its castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray the </p><p>joyous scene of the twentieth of June, such as even now my aching heart </p><p>recalls it. </p><p>Circumstances had called me to London; here I heard talk that symptoms </p><p>of the plague had occurred in hospitals of that city. I returned to </p><p>Windsor; my brow was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little </p><p>Park, as was my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to the </p><p>Castle. A great part of these grounds had been given to cultivation, </p><p>and strips of potatoe-land and corn were scattered here and there. </p><p>The rooks cawed loudly in the trees above; mixed with their hoarse </p><p>cries I heard a lively strain of music. It was Alfred's birthday. </p><p>The young people, the Etonians, and children of the neighbouring gentry, </p><p>held a mock fair, to which all the country people were invited. The </p><p>park was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy flags, waving </p><p>in the sunshine, added to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform erected </p><p>beneath the terrace, a number of the younger part of the assembly were </p><p>dancing. I leaned against a tree to observe them. The band played the wild </p><p>eastern air of Weber introduced in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave </p><p>wings to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on unconsciously beat </p><p>time. At first the tripping measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a </p><p>moment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the dance. The revulsion of </p><p>thought passed like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, I </p><p>thought; already your tomb is built up around you. Awhile, because you are </p><p>gifted with agility and strength, you fancy that you live: but frail is the </p><p>"bower of flesh" that encaskets life; dissoluble the silver cord than binds</p><p>you to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure to pleasure by the </p><p>graceful mechanism of well-formed limbs, will suddenly feel the axle-tree </p><p>give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust. Not one of you, O! fated </p><p>crowd, can escape--not one! not my own ones! not my Idris and her babes! </p><p>Horror and misery! Already the gay dance vanished, the green sward was </p><p>strewn with corpses, the blue air above became fetid with deathly </p><p>exhalations. Shriek, ye clarions! ye loud trumpets, howl! Pile dirge on </p><p>dirge; rouse the funereal chords; let the air ring with dire wailing; let </p><p>wild discord rush on the wings of the wind! Already I hear it, while </p><p>guardian angels, attendant on humanity, their task achieved, hasten away, </p><p>and their departure is announced by melancholy strains; faces all unseemly </p><p>with weeping, forced open my lids; faster and faster many groups of these </p><p>woe-begone countenances thronged around, exhibiting every variety of </p><p>wretchedness--well known faces mingled with the distorted creations of </p><p>fancy. Ashy pale, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking on with sad </p><p>smiles. Adrian's countenance flitted across, tainted by death--Idris, </p><p>with eyes languidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide into the wide </p><p>grave. The confusion grew--their looks of sorrow changed to mockery; they </p><p>nodded their heads in time to the music, whose clang became maddening. </p><p>I felt that this was insanity--I sprang forward to throw it off; I rushed </p><p>into the midst of the crowd. Idris saw me: with light step she advanced; as </p><p>I folded her in my arms, feeling, as I did, that I thus enclosed what was </p><p>to me a world, yet frail as the waterdrop which the noon-day sun will drink </p><p>from the water lily's cup; tears filled my eyes, unwont to be thus </p><p>moistened. The joyful welcome of my boys, the soft gratulation of Clara, </p><p>the pressure of Adrian's hand, contributed to unman me. I felt that they </p><p>were near, that they were safe, yet methought this was all deceit;--the </p><p>earth reeled, the firm-enrooted trees moved--dizziness came over me--I </p><p>sank to the ground. </p><p>My beloved friends were alarmed--nay, they expressed their alarm so </p><p>anxiously, that I dared not pronounce the word plague, that hovered on my </p><p>lips, lest they should construe my perturbed looks into a symptom, and see </p><p>infection in my languor. I had scarcely recovered, and with feigned </p><p>hilarity had brought back smiles into my little circle, when we saw Ryland </p><p>approach. </p><p>Ryland had something the appearance of a farmer; of a man whose muscles and </p><p>full grown stature had been developed under the influence of vigorous </p><p>exercise and exposure to the elements. This was to a great degree the case: </p><p>for, though a large landed proprietor, yet, being a projector, and of an </p><p>ardent and industrious disposition, he had on his own estate given himself </p><p>up to agricultural labours. When he went as ambassador to the Northern </p><p>States of America, he, for some time, planned his entire migration; and </p><p>went so far as to make several journies far westward on that immense </p><p>continent, for the purpose of choosing the site of his new abode. Ambition </p><p>turned his thoughts from these designs--ambition, which labouring through </p><p>various lets and hindrances, had now led him to the summit of his hopes, in </p><p>making him Lord Protector of England. </p><p>His countenance was rough but intelligent--his ample brow and quick grey </p><p>eyes seemed to look out, over his own plans, and the opposition of his </p><p>enemies. His voice was stentorian: his hand stretched out in debate, seemed </p><p>by its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his hearers that words were not </p><p>his only weapons. Few people had discovered some cowardice and much </p><p>infirmity of purpose under this imposing exterior. No man could crush a </p><p>"butterfly on the wheel" with better effect; no man better cover a speedy </p><p>retreat from a powerful adversary. This had been the secret of his</p><p>secession at the time of Lord Raymond's election. In the unsteady glance of </p><p>his eye, in his extreme desire to learn the opinions of all, in the </p><p>feebleness of his hand-writing, these qualities might be obscurely traced, </p><p>but they were not generally known. He was now our Lord Protector. He had </p><p>canvassed eagerly for this post. His protectorate was to be distinguished </p><p>by every kind of innovation on the aristocracy. This his selected task was </p><p>exchanged for the far different one of encountering the ruin caused by the </p><p>convulsions of physical nature. He was incapable of meeting these evils by </p><p>any comprehensive system; he had resorted to expedient after expedient, and </p><p>could never be induced to put a remedy in force, till it came too late to </p><p>be of use. </p><p>Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards us now, bore small resemblance </p><p>to the powerful, ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for the first rank </p><p>among Englishmen. Our native oak, as his partisans called him, was visited </p><p>truly by a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared half his usual height; his </p><p>joints were unknit, his limbs would not support him; his face was </p><p>contracted, his eye wandering; debility of purpose and dastard fear were </p><p>expressed in every gesture. </p><p>In answer to our eager questions, one word alone fell, as it were </p><p>involuntarily, from his convulsed lips: The Plague.--"Where?"--"Every </p><p>where--we must fly--all fly--but whither? No man can tell--there is </p><p>no refuge on earth, it comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves--we </p><p>must all fly--where shall you go? Where can any of us go?" </p><p>These words were syllabled trembling by the iron man. Adrian replied, </p><p>"Whither indeed would you fly? We must all remain; and do our best to help </p><p>our suffering fellow-creatures." </p><p>"Help!" said Ryland, "there is no help!--great God, who talks of help! </p><p>All the world has the plague!" </p><p>"Then to avoid it, we must quit the world," observed Adrian, with a </p><p>gentle smile. </p><p>Ryland groaned; cold drops stood on his brow. It was useless to oppose his </p><p>paroxysm of terror: but we soothed and encouraged him, so that after an </p><p>interval he was better able to explain to us the ground of his alarm. It </p><p>had come sufficiently home to him. One of his servants, while waiting on </p><p>him, had suddenly fallen down dead. The physician declared that he died of </p><p>the plague. We endeavoured to calm him--but our own hearts were not calm. </p><p>I saw the eye of Idris wander from me to her children, with an anxious </p><p>appeal to my judgment. Adrian was absorbed in meditation. For myself, I own </p><p>that Ryland's words rang in my ears; all the world was infected;--in what </p><p>uncontaminated seclusion could I save my beloved treasures, until the </p><p>shadow of death had passed from over the earth? We sunk into silence: a </p><p>silence that drank in the doleful accounts and prognostications of our </p><p>guest. We had receded from the crowd; and ascending the steps of the </p><p>terrace, sought the Castle. Our change of cheer struck those nearest to us; </p><p>and, by means of Ryland's servants, the report soon spread that he had fled </p><p>from the plague in London. The sprightly parties broke up--they assembled </p><p>in whispering groups. The spirit of gaiety was eclipsed; the music ceased; </p><p>the young people left their occupations and gathered together. The </p><p>lightness of heart which had dressed them in masquerade habits, had </p><p>decorated their tents, and assembled them in fantastic groups, appeared a </p><p>sin against, and a provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid its </p><p>palsying hand upon hope and life. The merriment of the hour was an unholy </p><p>mockery of the sorrows of man. The foreigners whom we had among us, who had</p><p>fled from the plague in their own country, now saw their last asylum </p><p>invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they described to eager listeners </p><p>the miseries they had beheld in cities visited by the calamity, and gave </p><p>fearful accounts of the insidious and irremediable nature of the disease. </p><p>We had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a window that over-looked the </p><p>park; her maternal eyes sought her own children among the young crowd. An </p><p>Italian lad had got an audience about him, and with animated gestures was </p><p>describing some scene of horror. Alfred stood immoveable before him, his </p><p>whole attention absorbed. Little Evelyn had endeavoured to draw Clara away </p><p>to play with him; but the Italian's tale arrested her, she crept near, her </p><p>lustrous eyes fixed on the speaker. Either watching the crowd in the park, </p><p>or occupied by painful reflection, we were all silent; Ryland stood by </p><p>himself in an embrasure of the window; Adrian paced the hall, revolving </p><p>some new and overpowering idea--suddenly he stopped and said: "I have </p><p>long expected this; could we in reason expect that this island should be </p><p>exempt from the universal visitation? The evil is come home to us, and we </p><p>must not shrink from our fate. What are your plans, my Lord Protector, for </p><p>the benefit of our country?" </p><p>"For heaven's love! Windsor," cried Ryland, "do not mock me with that </p><p>title. Death and disease level all men. I neither pretend to protect nor </p><p>govern an hospital--such will England quickly become." </p><p>"Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to recede from your duties?" </p><p>"Duties! speak rationally, my Lord!--when I am a plague-spotted corpse, </p><p>where will my duties be? Every man for himself! the devil take the </p><p>protectorship, say I, if it expose me to danger!" </p><p>"Faint-hearted man!" cried Adrian indignantly--"Your countrymen put their </p><p>trust in you, and you betray them!" </p><p>"I betray them!" said Ryland, "the plague betrays me. Faint-hearted! It is </p><p>well, shut up in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself out of fear. </p><p>Take the Protectorship who will; before God I renounce it!" </p><p>"And before God," replied his opponent, fervently, "do I receive it! No one </p><p>will canvass for this honour now--none envy my danger or labours. Deposit </p><p>your powers in my hands. Long have I fought with death, and much" (he </p><p>stretched out his thin hand) "much have I suffered in the struggle. It is </p><p>not by flying, but by facing the enemy, that we can conquer. If my last </p><p>combat is now about to be fought, and I am to be worsted--so let it be!" </p><p>"But come, Ryland, recollect yourself! Men have hitherto thought you </p><p>magnanimous and wise, will you cast aside these titles? Consider the panic </p><p>your departure will occasion. Return to London. I will go with you. </p><p>Encourage the people by your presence. I will incur all the danger. Shame! </p><p>shame! if the first magistrate of England be foremost to renounce his </p><p>duties." </p><p>Meanwhile among our guests in the park, all thoughts of festivity had </p><p>faded. As summer-flies are scattered by rain, so did this congregation, </p><p>late noisy and happy, in sadness and melancholy murmurs break up, dwindling </p><p>away apace. With the set sun and the deepening twilight the park became </p><p>nearly empty. Adrian and Ryland were still in earnest discussion. We had </p><p>prepared a banquet for our guests in the lower hall of the castle; and </p><p>thither Idris and I repaired to receive and entertain the few that </p><p>remained. There is nothing more melancholy than a merry-meeting thus turned</p><p>to sorrow: the gala dresses--the decorations, gay as they might otherwise </p><p>be, receive a solemn and funereal appearance. If such change be painful </p><p>from lighter causes, it weighed with intolerable heaviness from the </p><p>knowledge that the earth's desolator had at last, even as an arch-fiend, </p><p>lightly over-leaped the boundaries our precautions raised, and at once </p><p>enthroned himself in the full and beating heart of our country. Idris sat </p><p>at the top of the half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she almost forgot her </p><p>duties as hostess; her eyes were fixed on her children. Alfred's serious </p><p>air shewed that he still revolved the tragic story related by the Italian </p><p>boy. Evelyn was the only mirthful creature present: he sat on Clara's lap; </p><p>and, making matter of glee from his own fancies, laughed aloud. The vaulted </p><p>roof echoed again his infant tone. The poor mother who had brooded long </p><p>over, and suppressed the expression of her anguish, now burst into tears, </p><p>and folding her babe in her arms, hurried from the hall. Clara and Alfred </p><p>followed. While the rest of the company, in confused murmur, which grew </p><p>louder and louder, gave voice to their many fears. </p><p>The younger part gathered round me to ask my advice; and those who had </p><p>friends in London were anxious beyond the rest, to ascertain the present </p><p>extent of disease in the metropolis. I encouraged them with such thoughts </p><p>of cheer as presented themselves. I told them exceedingly few deaths had </p><p>yet been occasioned by pestilence, and gave them hopes, as we were the last </p><p>visited, so the calamity might have lost its most venomous power before it </p><p>had reached us. The cleanliness, habits of order, and the manner in which </p><p>our cities were built, were all in our favour. As it was an epidemic, its </p><p>chief force was derived from pernicious qualities in the air, and it would </p><p>probably do little harm where this was naturally salubrious. At first, I </p><p>had spoken only to those nearest me; but the whole assembly gathered about </p><p>me, and I found that I was listened to by all. "My friends," I said, "our </p><p>risk is common; our precautions and exertions shall be common also. If </p><p>manly courage and resistance can save us, we will be saved. We will fight </p><p>the enemy to the last. Plague shall not find us a ready prey; we will </p><p>dispute every inch of ground; and, by methodical and inflexible laws, pile </p><p>invincible barriers to the progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part of the </p><p>world has she met with so systematic and determined an opposition. Perhaps </p><p>no country is naturally so well protected against our invader; nor has </p><p>nature anywhere been so well assisted by the hand of man. We will not </p><p>despair. We are neither cowards nor fatalists; but, believing that God has </p><p>placed the means for our preservation in our own hands, we will use those </p><p>means to our utmost. Remember that cleanliness, sobriety, and even </p><p>good-humour and benevolence, are our best medicines." </p><p>There was little I could add to this general exhortation; for the plague, </p><p>though in London, was not among us. I dismissed the guests therefore; and </p><p>they went thoughtful, more than sad, to await the events in store for </p><p>them. </p><p>I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the result of his discussion with </p><p>Ryland. He had in part prevailed; the Lord Protector consented to return to </p><p>London for a few weeks; during which time things should be so arranged, as </p><p>to occasion less consternation at his departure. Adrian and Idris were </p><p>together. The sadness with which the former had first heard that the plague </p><p>was in London had vanished; the energy of his purpose informed his body </p><p>with strength, the solemn joy of enthusiasm and self-devotion illuminated </p><p>his countenance; and the weakness of his physical nature seemed to pass </p><p>from him, as the cloud of humanity did, in the ancient fable, from the </p><p>divine lover of Semele. He was endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to </p><p>bring her to look on his intent in a less tragic light than she was </p><p>prepared to do; and with passionate eloquence he unfolded his designs to</p><p>her. </p><p>"Let me, at the first word," he said, "relieve your mind from all fear on </p><p>my account. I will not task myself beyond my powers, nor will I needlessly </p><p>seek danger. I feel that I know what ought to be done, and as my presence </p><p>is necessary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will take especial care </p><p>to preserve my life. </p><p>"I am now going to undertake an office fitted for me. I cannot intrigue, or </p><p>work a tortuous path through the labyrinth of men's vices and passions; but </p><p>I can bring patience, and sympathy, and such aid as art affords, to the bed </p><p>of disease; I can raise from earth the miserable orphan, and awaken to new </p><p>hopes the shut heart of the mourner. I can enchain the plague in limits, </p><p>and set a term to the misery it would occasion; courage, forbearance, and </p><p>watchfulness, are the forces I bring towards this great work. </p><p>"O, I shall be something now! From my birth I have aspired like the eagle </p><p>--but, unlike the eagle, my wings have failed, and my vision has been </p><p>blinded. Disappointment and sickness have hitherto held dominion over me; </p><p>twin born with me, my would, was for ever enchained by the shall not, of </p><p>these my tyrants. A shepherd-boy that tends a silly flock on the mountains, </p><p>was more in the scale of society than I. Congratulate me then that I have </p><p>found fitting scope for my powers. I have often thought of offering my </p><p>services to the pestilence-stricken towns of France and Italy; but fear of </p><p>paining you, and expectation of this catastrophe, withheld me. To England </p><p>and to Englishmen I dedicate myself. If I can save one of her mighty </p><p>spirits from the deadly shaft; if I can ward disease from one of her </p><p>smiling cottages, I shall not have lived in vain." </p><p>Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian. He appeared given up to </p><p>contemplation, averse to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions-- </p><p>but afford him worthy theme, and-- </p><p> Like to the lark at break of day arising,</p><p> From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.[1]</p><p>so did he spring up from listlessness and unproductive thought, to the </p><p>highest pitch of virtuous action. </p><p>With him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought resolve, the eye that without </p><p>blenching could look at death. With us remained sorrow, anxiety, and </p><p>unendurable expectation of evil. The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife </p><p>and children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain was all philosophical </p><p>reasoning--vain all fortitude--vain, vain, a reliance on probable good. </p><p>I might heap high the scale with logic, courage, and resignation--but let </p><p>one fear for Idris and our children enter the opposite one, and, </p><p>over-weighed, it kicked the beam. </p><p>The plague was in London! Fools that we were not long ago to have foreseen </p><p>this. We wept over the ruin of the boundless continents of the east, and </p><p>the desolation of the western world; while we fancied that the little </p><p>channel between our island and the rest of the earth was to preserve us </p><p>alive among the dead. It were no mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover. </p><p>The eye easily discerns the sister land; they were united once; and the </p><p>little path that runs between looks in a map but as a trodden footway </p><p>through high grass. Yet this small interval was to save us: the sea was to </p><p>rise a wall of adamant--without, disease and misery--within, a shelter </p><p>from evil, a nook of the garden of paradise--a particle of celestial </p><p>soil, which no evil could invade--truly we were wise in our generation,</p><p>to imagine all these things! </p><p>But we are awake now. The plague is in London; the air of England is </p><p>tainted, and her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome earth. And now, </p><p>the sea, late our defence, seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its gulphs, </p><p>we shall die like the famished inhabitants of a besieged town. Other </p><p>nations have a fellowship in death; but we, shut out from all </p><p>neighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and little England become a wide, </p><p>wide tomb. </p><p>This feeling of universal misery assumed concentration and shape, when I </p><p>looked on my wife and children; and the thought of danger to them possessed </p><p>my whole being with fear. How could I save them? I revolved a thousand and </p><p>a thousand plans. They should not die--first I would be gathered to </p><p>nothingness, ere infection should come anear these idols of my soul. I </p><p>would walk barefoot through the world, to find an uninfected spot; I would </p><p>build my home on some wave-tossed plank, drifted about on the barren, </p><p>shoreless ocean. I would betake me with them to some wild beast's den, </p><p>where a tyger's cubs, which I would slay, had been reared in health. I </p><p>would seek the mountain eagle's eirie, and live years suspended in some </p><p>inaccessible recess of a sea-bounding cliff--no labour too great, no </p><p>scheme too wild, if it promised life to them. O! ye heart-strings of mine, </p><p>could ye be torn asunder, and my soul not spend itself in tears of blood </p><p>for sorrow! </p><p>Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion of fortitude. She </p><p>studiously shut out all prospect of the future, and cradled her heart in </p><p>present blessings. She never for a moment lost sight of her children. But </p><p>while they in health sported about her, she could cherish contentment and </p><p>hope. A strange and wild restlessness came over me--the more intolerable, </p><p>because I was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian were ceaseless; </p><p>August had come; and the symptoms of plague encreased rapidly in London. It </p><p>was deserted by all who possessed the power of removing; and he, the </p><p>brother of my soul, was exposed to the perils from which all but slaves </p><p>enchained by circumstance fled. He remained to combat the fiend--his side </p><p>unguarded, his toils unshared--infection might even reach him, and he die </p><p>unattended and alone. By day and night these thoughts pursued me. I </p><p>resolved to visit London, to see him; to quiet these agonizing throes by </p><p>the sweet medicine of hope, or the opiate of despair. </p><p>It was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I perceived much change in </p><p>the face of the country. The better sort of houses were shut up; the busy </p><p>trade of the town palsied; there was an air of anxiety among the few </p><p>passengers I met, and they looked wonderingly at my carriage--the first </p><p>they had seen pass towards London, since pestilence sat on its high places, </p><p>and possessed its busy streets. I met several funerals; they were slenderly </p><p>attended by mourners, and were regarded by the spectators as omens of </p><p>direst import. Some gazed on these processions with wild eagerness-- </p><p>others fled timidly--some wept aloud. </p><p>Adrian's chief endeavour, after the immediate succour of the sick, had been </p><p>to disguise the symptoms and progress of the plague from the inhabitants of </p><p>London. He knew that fear and melancholy forebodings were powerful </p><p>assistants to disease; that desponding and brooding care rendered the </p><p>physical nature of man peculiarly susceptible of infection. No unseemly </p><p>sights were therefore discernible: the shops were in general open, the </p><p>concourse of passengers in some degree kept up. But although the appearance </p><p>of an infected town was avoided, to me, who had not beheld it since the </p><p>commencement of the visitation, London appeared sufficiently changed. There</p><p>were no carriages, and grass had sprung high in the streets; the houses had </p><p>a desolate look; most of the shutters were closed; and there was a ghast </p><p>and frightened stare in the persons I met, very different from the usual </p><p>business-like demeanour of the Londoners. My solitary carriage attracted </p><p>notice, as it rattled along towards the Protectoral Palace--and the </p><p>fashionable streets leading to it wore a still more dreary and deserted </p><p>appearance. I found Adrian's anti-chamber crowded--it was his hour for </p><p>giving audience. I was unwilling to disturb his labours, and waited, </p><p>watching the ingress and egress of the petitioners. They consisted of </p><p>people of the middling and lower classes of society, whose means of </p><p>subsistence failed with the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of </p><p>money-making in all its branches, peculiar to our country. There was an air </p><p>of anxiety, sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly contrasted with </p><p>the resigned and even satisfied mien of those who had had audience. I could </p><p>read the influence of my friend in their quickened motions and cheerful </p><p>faces. Two o'clock struck, after which none were admitted; those who had </p><p>been disappointed went sullenly or sorrowfully away, while I entered the </p><p>audience-chamber. </p><p>I was struck by the improvement that appeared in the health of Adrian. He </p><p>was no longer bent to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of spring, </p><p>that, shooting up beyond its strength, is weighed down even by its own </p><p>coronal of blossoms. His eyes were bright, his countenance composed, an air </p><p>of concentrated energy was diffused over his whole person, much unlike its </p><p>former languor. He sat at a table with several secretaries, who were </p><p>arranging petitions, or registering the notes made during that day's </p><p>audience. Two or three petitioners were still in attendance. I admired his </p><p>justice and patience. Those who possessed a power of living out of London, </p><p>he advised immediately to quit it, affording them the means of so doing. </p><p>Others, whose trade was beneficial to the city, or who possessed no other </p><p>refuge, he provided with advice for better avoiding the epidemic; relieving </p><p>overloaded families, supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order, </p><p>comfort, and even health, rose under his influence, as from the touch of a </p><p>magician's wand. </p><p>"I am glad you are come," he said to me, when we were at last alone; "I can </p><p>only spare a few minutes, and must tell you much in that time. The plague </p><p>is now in progress--it is useless closing one's eyes to the fact--the </p><p>deaths encrease each week. What will come I cannot guess. As yet, thank </p><p>God, I am equal to the government of the town; and I look only to the </p><p>present. Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has stipulated that I shall </p><p>suffer him to depart before the end of this month. The deputy appointed by </p><p>parliament is dead; another therefore must be named; I have advanced my </p><p>claim, and I believe that I shall have no competitor. To-night the question </p><p>is to be decided, as there is a call of the house for the purpose. You must </p><p>nominate me, Lionel; Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my </p><p>friend, will do me this service? </p><p>How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally sprung, bred in </p><p>luxury, by nature averse to the usual struggles of a public life, </p><p>and now, in time of danger, at a period when to live was the </p><p>utmost scope of the ambitious, he, the beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in </p><p>sweet simplicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the public good. The </p><p>very idea was generous and noble,--but, beyond this, his unpretending </p><p>manner, his entire want of the assumption of a virtue, rendered his act ten </p><p>times more touching. I would have withstood his request; but I had seen the </p><p>good he diffused; I felt that his resolves were not to be shaken, so, with </p><p>an heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my hand </p><p>affectionately:--"Thank you," he said, "you have relieved me from a</p><p>painful dilemma, and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends. </p><p>Farewell--I must now leave you for a few hours. Go you and converse with </p><p>Ryland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may be of the greatest </p><p>service in the north of England, by receiving and assisting travellers, and </p><p>contributing to supply the metropolis with food. Awaken him, I entreat you, </p><p>to some sense of duty." </p><p>Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily task of visiting the </p><p>hospitals, and inspecting the crowded parts of London. I found Ryland much </p><p>altered, even from what he had been when he visited Windsor. Perpetual fear </p><p>had jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled his whole person. I told him </p><p>of the business of the evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted muscles. </p><p>He desired to go; each day he expected to be infected by pestilence, each </p><p>day he was unable to resist the gentle violence of Adrian's detention. The </p><p>moment Adrian should be legally elected his deputy, he would escape to </p><p>safety. Under this impression he listened to all I said; and, elevated </p><p>almost to joy by the near prospect of his departure, he entered into a </p><p>discussion concerning the plans he should adopt in his own county, </p><p>forgetting, for the moment, his cherished resolution of shutting himself up </p><p>from all communication in the mansion and grounds of his estate. </p><p>In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster. As we went he </p><p>reminded me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered the </p><p>chamber without having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian remained in the </p><p>coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire, took my seat in St. </p><p>Stephen's. There reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I had not visited </p><p>it since Raymond's protectorate; a period conspicuous for a numerous </p><p>attendance of members, for the eloquence of the speakers, and the warmth of </p><p>the debate. The benches were very empty, those by custom occupied by the </p><p>hereditary members were vacant; the city members were there--the members </p><p>for the commercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not many of those who </p><p>entered parliament for the sake of a career. The first subject that </p><p>occupied the attention of the house was an address from the Lord Protector, </p><p>praying them to appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part. </p><p>A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered that </p><p>the Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his election, in </p><p>the absence of the person who had been first chosen for this office. Now </p><p>for the first time I saw the full extent of my task, and I was overwhelmed </p><p>by what I had brought on myself. Ryland had deserted his post through fear </p><p>of the plague: from the same fear Adrian had no competitor. And I, the </p><p>nearest kinsman of the Earl of Windsor, was to propose his election. I was </p><p>to thrust this selected and matchless friend into the post of danger-- </p><p>impossible! the die was cast--I would offer myself as candidate. </p><p>The few members who were present, had come more for the sake of terminating </p><p>the business by securing a legal attendance, than under the idea of a </p><p>debate. I had risen mechanically--my knees trembled; irresolution hung on </p><p>my voice, as I uttered a few words on the necessity of choosing a person </p><p>adequate to the dangerous task in hand. But, when the idea of presenting </p><p>myself in the room of my friend intruded, the load of doubt and pain was </p><p>taken from off me. My words flowed spontaneously--my utterance was firm </p><p>and quick. I adverted to what Adrian had already done--I promised the </p><p>same vigilance in furthering all his views. I drew a touching picture of </p><p>his vacillating health; I boasted of my own strength. I prayed them to save </p><p>even from himself this scion of the noblest family in England. My alliance </p><p>with him was the pledge of my sincerity, my union with his sister, my </p><p>children, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth. </p><p>This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian. He </p><p>hurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned harangue. I did </p><p>not see him: my soul was in my words,--my eyes could not perceive that </p><p>which was; while a vision of Adrian's form, tainted by pestilence, and </p><p>sinking in death, floated before them. He seized my hand, as I concluded-- </p><p>"Unkind!" he cried, "you have betrayed me!" then, springing forwards, with </p><p>the air of one who had a right to command, he claimed the place of deputy </p><p>as his own. He had bought it, he said, with danger, and paid for it with </p><p>toil. His ambition rested there; and, after an interval devoted to the </p><p>interests of his country, was I to step in, and reap the profit? Let them </p><p>remember what London had been when he arrived: the panic that prevailed </p><p>brought famine, while every moral and legal tie was loosened. He had </p><p>restored order--this had been a work which required perseverance, </p><p>patience, and energy; and he had neither slept nor waked but for the good </p><p>of his country.--Would they dare wrong him thus? Would they wrest his </p><p>hard-earned reward from him, to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled </p><p>in public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in which he was an adept. </p><p>He demanded the place of deputy as his right. Ryland had shewn that he </p><p>preferred him. Never before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of </p><p>the throne of England, never had he asked favour or honour from those now </p><p>his equals, but who might have been his subjects. Would they refuse him? </p><p>Could they thrust back from the path of distinction and laudable ambition, </p><p>the heir of their ancient kings, and heap another disappointment on a </p><p>fallen house. </p><p>No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the rights of his ancestors. </p><p>None had ever before suspected, that power, or the suffrage of the many, </p><p>could in any manner become dear to him. He had begun his speech with </p><p>vehemence; he ended with unassuming gentleness, making his appeal with the </p><p>same humility, as if he had asked to be the first in wealth, honour, and </p><p>power among Englishmen, and not, as was the truth, to be the foremost in </p><p>the ranks of loathsome toils and inevitable death. A murmur of approbation </p><p>rose after his speech. "Oh, do not listen to him," I cried, "he speaks </p><p>false--false to himself,"--I was interrupted: and, silence being restored, </p><p>we were ordered, as was the custom, to retire during the decision of the </p><p>house. I fancied that they hesitated, and that there was some hope for </p><p>me--I was mistaken--hardly had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was </p><p>recalled, and installed in his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector. </p><p>We returned together to the palace. "Why, Lionel," said Adrian, "what did </p><p>you intend? you could not hope to conquer, and yet you gave me the pain of </p><p>a triumph over my dearest friend." </p><p>"This is mockery," I replied, "you devote yourself,--you, the adored </p><p>brother of Idris, the being, of all the world contains, dearest to our </p><p>hearts--you devote yourself to an early death. I would have prevented </p><p>this; my death would be a small evil--or rather I should not die; while </p><p>you cannot hope to escape." </p><p>"As to the likelihood of escaping," said Adrian, "ten years hence the </p><p>cold stars may shine on the graves of all of us; but as to my peculiar </p><p>liability to infection, I could easily prove, both logically and </p><p>physically, that in the midst of contagion I have a better chance </p><p>of life than you. </p><p>"This is my post: I was born for this--to rule England in anarchy, to </p><p>save her in danger--to devote myself for her. The blood of my forefathers </p><p>cries aloud in my veins, and bids me be first among my countrymen. Or, if </p><p>this mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my mother, the proud</p><p>queen, instilled early into me a love of distinction, and all that, if the </p><p>weakness of my physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not prevented </p><p>such a design, might have made me long since struggle for the lost </p><p>inheritance of my race. But now my mother, or, if you will, my mother's </p><p>lessons, awaken within me. I cannot lead on to battle; I cannot, through </p><p>intrigue and faithlessness rear again the throne upon the wreck of English </p><p>public spirit. But I can be the first to support and guard my country, now </p><p>that terrific disasters and ruin have laid strong hands upon her. </p><p>"That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I will protect the </p><p>first--the latter I commit to your charge. If I survive, and she be lost, </p><p>I were far better dead. Preserve her--for her own sake I know that you </p><p>will--if you require any other spur, think that, in preserving her, you </p><p>preserve me. Her faultless nature, one sum of perfections, is wrapt up in </p><p>her affections--if they were hurt, she would droop like an unwatered </p><p>floweret, and the slightest injury they receive is a nipping frost to her. </p><p>Already she fears for us. She fears for the children she adores, and for </p><p>you, the father of these, her lover, husband, protector; and you must be </p><p>near her to support and encourage her. Return to Windsor then, my brother; </p><p>for such you are by every tie--fill the double place my absence imposes </p><p>on you, and let me, in all my sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that </p><p>dear seclusion, and say--There is peace." </p><p>[1] Shakespeare's Sonnets. </p><p>CHAPTER VII. </p><p>I DID proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining there. I </p><p>went but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return and take my </p><p>station beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours, and save him, if </p><p>so it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded to witness the </p><p>anguish which my resolve might excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart </p><p>never to shadow her countenance even with transient grief, and should I </p><p>prove recreant at the hour of greatest need? I had begun my journey with </p><p>anxious haste; now I desired to draw it out through the course of days and </p><p>months. I longed to avoid the necessity of action; I strove to escape from </p><p>thought--vainly--futurity, like a dark image in a phantasmagoria, came </p><p>nearer and more near, till it clasped the whole earth in its shadow. </p><p>A slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual route, and to return </p><p>home by Egham and Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita's ancient abode, her </p><p>cottage; and, sending forward the carriage, determined to walk across the </p><p>park to the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest recollections, the </p><p>deserted house and neglected garden were well adapted to nurse my </p><p>melancholy. In our happiest days, Perdita had adorned her cottage with </p><p>every aid art might bring, to that which nature had selected to favour. In </p><p>the same spirit of exaggeration she had, on the event of her separation </p><p>from Raymond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It was now in ruin: the </p><p>deer had climbed the broken palings, and reposed among the flowers; grass </p><p>grew on the threshold, and the swinging lattice creaking to the wind, gave </p><p>signal of utter desertion. The sky was blue above, and the air impregnated </p><p>with fragrance by the rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees </p><p>moved overhead, awakening nature's favourite melody--but the melancholy </p><p>appearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed even </p><p>this gay summer scene. The time when in proud and happy security we</p><p>assembled at this cottage, was gone--soon the present hours would join </p><p>those past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing from the womb </p><p>of time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my life I </p><p>envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one's bed under </p><p>the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through the gap of </p><p>the broken paling--I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears--I </p><p>rushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change, rulers of our </p><p>life, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was there in our </p><p>tranquillity, that excited your envy--in our happiness, that ye should </p><p>destroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn of Amalthea </p><p>contained no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas! </p><p> la fortuna</p><p> deidad barbara importuna,</p><p> oy cadaver y ayer flor,</p><p> no permanece jamas![1]</p><p>As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me. </p><p>They seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their conversation </p><p>that reached me, induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A party </p><p>of people flying from London, as was frequent in those days, had come up </p><p>the Thames in a boat. No one at Windsor would afford them shelter; so, </p><p>going a little further up, they remained all night in a deserted hut near </p><p>Bolter's lock. They pursued their way the following morning, leaving one of </p><p>their company behind them, sick of the plague. This circumstance once </p><p>spread abroad, none dared approach within half a mile of the infected </p><p>neighbourhood, and the deserted wretch was left to fight with disease and </p><p>death in solitude, as he best might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to </p><p>the hut, for the purpose of ascertaining his situation, and administering </p><p>to his wants. </p><p>As I advanced I met knots of country-people talking earnestly of this </p><p>event: distant as they were from the apprehended contagion, fear was </p><p>impressed on every countenance. I passed by a group of these terrorists, in </p><p>a lane in the direct road to the hut. One of them stopped me, and, </p><p>conjecturing that I was ignorant of the circumstance, told me not to go on, </p><p>for that an infected person lay but at a short distance. </p><p>"I know it," I replied, "and I am going to see in what condition the poor </p><p>fellow is." </p><p>A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the assembly. I continued:-- </p><p>"This poor wretch is deserted, dying, succourless; in these unhappy times, </p><p>God knows how soon any or all of us may be in like want. I am going to do, </p><p>as I would be done by." </p><p>"But you will never be able to return to the Castle--Lady Idris--his </p><p>children--" in confused speech were the words that struck my ear. </p><p>"Do you not know, my friends," I said, "that the Earl himself, now Lord </p><p>Protector, visits daily, not only those probably infected by this disease, </p><p>but the hospitals and pest houses, going near, and even touching the sick? </p><p>yet he was never in better health. You labour under an entire mistake as to </p><p>the nature of the plague; but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to </p><p>accompany me, nor to believe me, until I return safe and sound from my </p><p>patient." </p><p>So I left them, and hurried on. I soon arrived at the hut: the door was </p><p>ajar. I entered, and one glance assured me that its former inhabitant was</p><p>no more--he lay on a heap of straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious </p><p>effluvia filled the room, and various stains and marks served to shew the </p><p>virulence of the disorder. </p><p>I had never before beheld one killed by pestilence. While every mind was </p><p>full of dismay at its effects, a craving for excitement had led us to </p><p>peruse De Foe's account, and the masterly delineations of the author of </p><p>Arthur Mervyn. The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid, that we </p><p>seemed to have experienced the results depicted by them. But cold were the </p><p>sensations excited by words, burning though they were, and describing the </p><p>death and misery of thousands, compared to what I felt in looking on the </p><p>corpse of this unhappy stranger. This indeed was the plague. I raised his </p><p>rigid limbs, I marked the distortion of his face, and the stony eyes lost </p><p>to perception. As I was thus occupied, chill horror congealed my blood, </p><p>making my flesh quiver and my hair to stand on end. Half insanely I spoke </p><p>to the dead. So the plague killed you, I muttered. How came this? Was the </p><p>coming painful? You look as if the enemy had tortured, before he murdered </p><p>you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and escaped from the hut, before </p><p>nature could revoke her laws, and inorganic words be breathed in answer </p><p>from the lips of the departed. </p><p>On returning through the lane, I saw at a distance the same assemblage of </p><p>persons which I had left. They hurried away, as soon as they saw me; my </p><p>agitated mien added to their fear of coming near one who had entered within </p><p>the verge of contagion. </p><p>At a distance from facts one draws conclusions which appear infallible, </p><p>which yet when put to the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams. I had </p><p>ridiculed the fears of my countrymen, when they related to others; now that </p><p>they came home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I felt, was passed; and it </p><p>behoved me well to reflect what I should do on this hither side of disease </p><p>and danger. According to the vulgar superstition, my dress, my person, the </p><p>air I breathed, bore in it mortal danger to myself and others. Should I </p><p>return to the Castle, to my wife and children, with this taint upon me? Not </p><p>surely if I were infected; but I felt certain that I was not--a few hours </p><p>would determine the question--I would spend these in the forest, in </p><p>reflection on what was to come, and what my future actions were to be. In </p><p>the feeling communicated to me by the sight of one struck by the plague, I </p><p>forgot the events that had excited me so strongly in London; new and more </p><p>painful prospects, by degrees were cleared of the mist which had hitherto </p><p>veiled them. The question was no longer whether I should share Adrian's </p><p>toils and danger; but in what manner I could, in Windsor and the </p><p>neighbourhood, imitate the prudence and zeal which, under his government, </p><p>produced order and plenty in London, and how, now pestilence had spread </p><p>more widely, I could secure the health of my own family. </p><p>I spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no one spot of its </p><p>surface could I put my finger and say, here is safety. In the south, the </p><p>disease, virulent and immedicable, had nearly annihilated the race of man; </p><p>storm and inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled up the measure of </p><p>suffering. In the north it was worse--the lesser population gradually </p><p>declined, and famine and plague kept watch on the survivors, who, helpless </p><p>and feeble, were ready to fall an easy prey into their hands. </p><p>I contracted my view to England. The overgrown metropolis, the great heart </p><p>of mighty Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased. All resort for </p><p>ambition or pleasure was cut off--the streets were grass-grown--the </p><p>houses empty--the few, that from necessity remained, seemed already </p><p>branded with the taint of inevitable pestilence. In the larger</p><p>manufacturing towns the same tragedy was acted on a smaller, yet more </p><p>disastrous scale. There was no Adrian to superintend and direct, while </p><p>whole flocks of the poor were struck and killed. Yet we were not all to die. </p><p>No truly, though thinned, the race of man would continue, and the great </p><p>plague would, in after years, become matter of history and wonder. </p><p>Doubtless this visitation was for extent unexampled--more need that we </p><p>should work hard to dispute its progress; ere this men have gone out in </p><p>sport, and slain their thousands and tens of thousands; but now man had </p><p>become a creature of price; the life of one of them was of more worth than </p><p>the so called treasures of kings. Look at his thought-endued countenance, </p><p>his graceful limbs, his majestic brow, his wondrous mechanism--the type </p><p>and model of this best work of God is not to be cast aside as a broken </p><p>vessel--he shall be preserved, and his children and his children's </p><p>children carry down the name and form of man to latest time. </p><p>Above all I must guard those entrusted by nature and fate to my especial </p><p>care. And surely, if among all my fellow-creatures I were to select those </p><p>who might stand forth examples of the greatness and goodness of man, I </p><p>could choose no other than those allied to me by the most sacred ties. Some </p><p>from among the family of man must survive, and these should be among the </p><p>survivors; that should be my task--to accomplish it my own life were a </p><p>small sacrifice. There then in that castle--in Windsor Castle, </p><p>birth-place of Idris and my babes, should be the haven and retreat for the </p><p>wrecked bark of human society. Its forest should be our world--its garden </p><p>afford us food; within its walls I would establish the shaken throne of </p><p>health. I was an outcast and a vagabond, when Adrian gently threw over me </p><p>the silver net of love and civilization, and linked me inextricably to </p><p>human charities and human excellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant </p><p>after good, and an ardent lover of wisdom, was yet unenrolled in any list </p><p>of worth, when Idris, the princely born, who was herself the </p><p>personification of all that was divine in woman, she who walked the earth </p><p>like a poet's dream, as a carved goddess endued with sense, or pictured </p><p>saint stepping from the canvas--she, the most worthy, chose me, and gave </p><p>me herself--a priceless gift. </p><p>During several hours I continued thus to meditate, till hunger and fatigue </p><p>brought me back to the passing hour, then marked by long shadows cast from </p><p>the descending sun. I had wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west of </p><p>Windsor. The feeling of perfect health which I enjoyed, assured me that I </p><p>was free from contagion. I remembered that Idris had been kept in ignorance </p><p>of my proceedings. She might have heard of my return from London, and my </p><p>visit to Bolter's Lock, which, connected with my continued absence, might </p><p>tend greatly to alarm her. I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and </p><p>passing through the town towards the Castle, I found it in a state of </p><p>agitation and disturbance. </p><p>"It is too late to be ambitious," says Sir Thomas Browne. "We cannot hope </p><p>to live so long in our names as some have done in their persons; one face </p><p>of Janus holds no proportion to the other." Upon this text many fanatics </p><p>arose, who prophesied that the end of time was come. The spirit of </p><p>superstition had birth, from the wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and </p><p>dangerous were played on the great theatre, while the remaining particle of </p><p>futurity dwindled into a point in the eyes of the prognosticators. </p><p>Weak-spirited women died of fear as they listened to their denunciations; </p><p>men of robust form and seeming strength fell into idiotcy and madness, </p><p>racked by the dread of coming eternity. A man of this kind was now pouring </p><p>forth his eloquent despair among the inhabitants of Windsor. The scene of </p><p>the morning, and my visit to the dead, which had been spread abroad, had </p><p>alarmed the country-people, so they had become fit instruments to be played</p><p>upon by a maniac. </p><p>The poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely infant by the plague. He </p><p>was a mechanic; and, rendered unable to attend to the occupation which </p><p>supplied his necessities, famine was added to his other miseries. He left </p><p>the chamber which contained his wife and child--wife and child no more, </p><p>but "dead earth upon the earth"--wild with hunger, watching and grief, </p><p>his diseased fancy made him believe himself sent by heaven to preach the </p><p>end of time to the world. He entered the churches, and foretold to the </p><p>congregations their speedy removal to the vaults below. He appeared like </p><p>the forgotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade the spectators </p><p>go home and die. He had been seized and confined; he had escaped and </p><p>wandered from London among the neighbouring towns, and, with frantic </p><p>gestures and thrilling words, he unveiled to each their hidden fears, and </p><p>gave voice to the soundless thought they dared not syllable. He stood under </p><p>the arcade of the town-hall of Windsor, and from this elevation harangued a </p><p>trembling crowd. </p><p>"Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth," he cried, "hear thou, all seeing, </p><p>but most pitiless Heaven! hear thou too, O tempest-tossed heart, which </p><p>breathes out these words, yet faints beneath their meaning! Death is among </p><p>us! The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our grave! The </p><p>clouds of heaven weep for us--the pageantry of the stars is but our </p><p>funeral torchlight. Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a few years in your </p><p>long-known abode--but the lease is up, you must remove--children, ye </p><p>will never reach maturity, even now the small grave is dug for ye-- </p><p>mothers, clasp them in your arms, one death embraces you!" </p><p>Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast up, seemed bursting </p><p>from their sockets, while he appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible, in </p><p>the yielding air--"There they are," he cried, "the dead! They rise in </p><p>their shrouds, and pass in silent procession towards the far land of their </p><p>doom--their bloodless lips move not--their shadowy limbs are void of </p><p>motion, while still they glide onwards. We come," he exclaimed, springing </p><p>forwards, "for what should we wait? Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves </p><p>in the court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you to his presence. Why </p><p>thus long? they, the good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone before. </p><p>Mothers, kiss you last--husbands, protectors no more, lead on the </p><p>partners of your death! Come, O come! while the dear ones are yet in sight, </p><p>for soon they will pass away, and we never never shall join them more." </p><p>From such ravings as these, he would suddenly become collected, and with </p><p>unexaggerated but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time; describe </p><p>with minute detail, the effects of the plague on the human frame, and tell </p><p>heart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities--the gasping </p><p>horror of despair over the death-bed of the last beloved--so that groans </p><p>and even shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in particular stood in </p><p>front, his eyes fixt on the prophet, his mouth open, his limbs rigid, while </p><p>his face changed to various colours, yellow, blue, and green, through </p><p>intense fear. The maniac caught his glance, and turned his eye on him-- </p><p>one has heard of the gaze of the rattle-snake, which allures the trembling </p><p>victim till he falls within his jaws. The maniac became composed; his </p><p>person rose higher; authority beamed from his countenance. He looked on the </p><p>peasant, who began to tremble, while he still gazed; his knees knocked </p><p>together; his teeth chattered. He at last fell down in convulsions. "That </p><p>man has the plague," said the maniac calmly. A shriek burst from the lips </p><p>of the poor wretch; and then sudden motionlessness came over him; it was </p><p>manifest to all that he was dead. </p><p>Cries of horror filled the place--every one endeavoured to effect his </p><p>escape--in a few minutes the market place was cleared--the corpse lay </p><p>on the ground; and the maniac, subdued and exhausted, sat beside it, </p><p>leaning his gaunt cheek upon his thin hand. Soon some people, deputed by </p><p>the magistrates, came to remove the body; the unfortunate being saw a </p><p>jailor in each--he fled precipitately, while I passed onwards to the </p><p>Castle. </p><p>Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these beloved walls. An old </p><p>servant, who had nursed Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on the </p><p>footing of a revered relative than a domestic, had gone a few days before </p><p>to visit a daughter, married, and settled in the neighbourhood of London. </p><p>On the night of her return she sickened of the plague. From the haughty and </p><p>unbending nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris had few tender filial </p><p>associations with her. This good woman had stood in the place of a mother, </p><p>and her very deficiencies of education and knowledge, by rendering her </p><p>humble and defenceless, endeared her to us--she was the especial </p><p>favourite of the children. I found my poor girl, there is no exaggeration </p><p>in the expression, wild with grief and dread. She hung over the patient in </p><p>agony, which was not mitigated when her thoughts wandered towards her </p><p>babes, for whom she feared infection. My arrival was like the newly </p><p>discovered lamp of a lighthouse to sailors, who are weathering some </p><p>dangerous point. She deposited her appalling doubts in my hands; she relied </p><p>on my judgment, and was comforted by my participation in her sorrow. Soon </p><p>our poor nurse expired; and the anguish of suspense was changed to deep </p><p>regret, which though at first more painful, yet yielded with greater </p><p>readiness to my consolations. Sleep, the sovereign balm, at length steeped </p><p>her tearful eyes in forgetfulness. </p><p>She slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle, whose inhabitants were hushed </p><p>to repose. I was awake, and during the long hours of dead night, my busy </p><p>thoughts worked in my brain, like ten thousand mill-wheels, rapid, acute, </p><p>untameable. All slept--all England slept; and from my window, commanding </p><p>a wide prospect of the star-illumined country, I saw the land stretched out </p><p>in placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the brother of death possessed my </p><p>race. What, if the more potent of these fraternal deities should obtain </p><p>dominion over it? The silence of midnight, to speak truly, though </p><p>apparently a paradox, rung in my ears. The solitude became intolerable--I </p><p>placed my hand on the beating heart of Idris, I bent my head to catch the </p><p>sound of her breath, to assure myself that she still existed--for a </p><p>moment I doubted whether I should not awake her; so effeminate an horror </p><p>ran through my frame.--Great God! would it one day be thus? One day all </p><p>extinct, save myself, should I walk the earth alone? Were these warning </p><p>voices, whose inarticulate and oracular sense forced belief upon me? </p><p> Yet I would not call them</p><p> Voices of warning, that announce to us</p><p> Only the inevitable. As the sun,</p><p> Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image</p><p> In the atmosphere--so often do the spirits</p><p> Of great events stride on before the events,</p><p> And in to-day already walks to-morrow.[2]</p><p>[1] Calderon de la Barca. </p><p>[2] Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein. </p><p>CHAPTER VIII. </p><p>AFTER a long interval, I am again impelled by the restless spirit within me </p><p>to continue my narration; but I must alter the mode which I have hitherto </p><p>adopted. The details contained in the foregoing pages, apparently trivial, </p><p>yet each slightest one weighing like lead in the depressed scale of human </p><p>afflictions; this tedious dwelling on the sorrows of others, while my own </p><p>were only in apprehension; this slowly laying bare of my soul's wounds: </p><p>this journal of death; this long drawn and tortuous path, leading to the </p><p>ocean of countless tears, awakens me again to keen grief. I had used this </p><p>history as an opiate; while it described my beloved friends, fresh with </p><p>life and glowing with hope, active assistants on the scene, I was soothed; </p><p>there will be a more melancholy pleasure in painting the end of all. But </p><p>the intermediate steps, the climbing the wall, raised up between what was </p><p>and is, while I still looked back nor saw the concealed desert beyond, is a </p><p>labour past my strength. Time and experience have placed me on an height </p><p>from which I can comprehend the past as a whole; and in this way I must </p><p>describe it, bringing forward the leading incidents, and disposing light </p><p>and shade so as to form a picture in whose very darkness there will be </p><p>harmony. </p><p>It would be needless to narrate those disastrous occurrences, for which a </p><p>parallel might be found in any slighter visitation of our gigantic </p><p>calamity. Does the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses, where death is </p><p>the comforter--of the mournful passage of the death-cart--of the </p><p>insensibility of the worthless, and the anguish of the loving heart--of </p><p>harrowing shrieks and silence dire--of the variety of disease, desertion, </p><p>famine, despair, and death? There are many books which can feed the </p><p>appetite craving for these things; let them turn to the accounts of </p><p>Boccaccio, De Foe, and Browne. The vast annihilation that has swallowed all </p><p>things--the voiceless solitude of the once busy earth--the lonely state </p><p>of singleness which hems me in, has deprived even such details of their </p><p>stinging reality, and mellowing the lurid tints of past anguish with poetic </p><p>hues, I am able to escape from the mosaic of circumstance, by perceiving </p><p>and reflecting back the grouping and combined colouring of the past. </p><p>I had returned from London possessed by the idea, with the intimate feeling </p><p>that it was my first duty to secure, as well as I was able, the well-being </p><p>of my family, and then to return and take my post beside Adrian. The events </p><p>that immediately followed on my arrival at Windsor changed this view of </p><p>things. The plague was not in London alone, it was every where--it came </p><p>on us, as Ryland had said, like a thousand packs of wolves, howling through </p><p>the winter night, gaunt and fierce. When once disease was introduced into </p><p>the rural districts, its effects appeared more horrible, more exigent, and </p><p>more difficult to cure, than in towns. There was a companionship in </p><p>suffering there, and, the neighbours keeping constant watch on each other, </p><p>and inspired by the active benevolence of Adrian, succour was afforded, and </p><p>the path of destruction smoothed. But in the country, among the scattered </p><p>farm-houses, in lone cottages, in fields, and barns, tragedies were acted </p><p>harrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Medical aid was less </p><p>easily procured, food was more difficult to obtain, and human beings, </p><p>unwithheld by shame, for they were unbeheld of their fellows, ventured on </p><p>deeds of greater wickedness, or gave way more readily to their abject </p><p>fears. </p><p>Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose very mention swells the heart and </p><p>brings tears into the eyes. Such is human nature, that beauty and deformity </p><p>are often closely linked. In reading history we are chiefly struck by the</p><p>generosity and self-devotion that follow close on the heels of crime, </p><p>veiling with supernal flowers the stain of blood. Such acts were not </p><p>wanting to adorn the grim train that waited on the progress of the plague. </p><p>The inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had been long aware that the plague </p><p>was in London, in Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, York, in short, in all </p><p>the more populous towns of England. They were not however the less </p><p>astonished and dismayed when it appeared among themselves. They were </p><p>impatient and angry in the midst of terror. They would do something to </p><p>throw off the clinging evil, and, while in action, they fancied that a </p><p>remedy was applied. The inhabitants of the smaller towns left their houses, </p><p>pitched tents in the fields, wandering separate from each other careless of </p><p>hunger or the sky's inclemency, while they imagined that they avoided the </p><p>death-dealing disease. The farmers and cottagers, on the contrary, struck </p><p>with the fear of solitude, and madly desirous of medical assistance, </p><p>flocked into the towns. </p><p>But winter was coming, and with winter, hope. In August, the plague had </p><p>appeared in the country of England, and during September it made its </p><p>ravages. Towards the end of October it dwindled away, and was in some </p><p>degree replaced by a typhus, of hardly less virulence. The autumn was warm </p><p>and rainy: the infirm and sickly died off--happier they: many young </p><p>people flushed with health and prosperity, made pale by wasting malady, </p><p>became the inhabitants of the grave. The crop had failed, the bad corn, and </p><p>want of foreign wines, added vigour to disease. Before Christmas half </p><p>England was under water. The storms of the last winter were renewed; but </p><p>the diminished shipping of this year caused us to feel less the tempests of </p><p>the sea. The flood and storms did more harm to continental Europe than to </p><p>us--giving, as it were, the last blow to the calamities which destroyed </p><p>it. In Italy the rivers were unwatched by the diminished peasantry; and, </p><p>like wild beasts from their lair when the hunters and dogs are afar, did </p><p>Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and destroy the fertility of the plains. </p><p>Whole villages were carried away. Rome, and Florence, and Pisa were </p><p>overflowed, and their marble palaces, late mirrored in tranquil streams, </p><p>had their foundations shaken by their winter-gifted power. In Germany and </p><p>Russia the injury was still more momentous. </p><p>But frost would come at last, and with it a renewal of our lease of earth. </p><p>Frost would blunt the arrows of pestilence, and enchain the furious </p><p>elements; and the land would in spring throw off her garment of snow, </p><p>released from her menace of destruction. It was not until February that the </p><p>desired signs of winter appeared. For three days the snow fell, ice stopped </p><p>the current of the rivers, and the birds flew out from crackling branches </p><p>of the frost-whitened trees. On the fourth morning all vanished. A </p><p>south-west wind brought up rain--the sun came out, and mocking the usual </p><p>laws of nature, seemed even at this early season to burn with solsticial </p><p>force. It was no consolation, that with the first winds of March the lanes </p><p>were filled with violets, the fruit trees covered with blossoms, that the </p><p>corn sprung up, and the leaves came out, forced by the unseasonable heat. </p><p>We feared the balmy air--we feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered </p><p>earth, and delightful woods, for we looked on the fabric of the universe no </p><p>longer as our dwelling, but our tomb, and the fragrant land smelled to the </p><p>apprehension of fear like a wide church-yard. </p><p> Pisando la tierra dura</p><p> de continuo el hombre esta</p><p> y cada passo que da</p><p> es sobre su sepultura.[1]</p><p>Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages winter was breathing time; and we </p><p>exerted ourselves to make the best of it. Plague might not revive with the </p><p>summer; but if it did, it should find us prepared. It is a part of man's </p><p>nature to adapt itself through habit even to pain and sorrow. Pestilence </p><p>had become a part of our future, our existence; it was to be guarded </p><p>against, like the flooding of rivers, the encroachments of ocean, or the </p><p>inclemency of the sky. After long suffering and bitter experience, some </p><p>panacea might be discovered; as it was, all that received infection died-- </p><p>all however were not infected; and it became our part to fix deep the </p><p>foundations, and raise high the barrier between contagion and the sane; to </p><p>introduce such order as would conduce to the well-being of the survivors, </p><p>and as would preserve hope and some portion of happiness to those who were </p><p>spectators of the still renewed tragedy. Adrian had introduced systematic </p><p>modes of proceeding in the metropolis, which, while they were unable to </p><p>stop the progress of death, yet prevented other evils, vice and folly, from </p><p>rendering the awful fate of the hour still more tremendous. I wished to </p><p>imitate his example, but men are used to </p><p> --move all together, if they move at all,[2]</p><p>and I could find no means of leading the inhabitants of scattered </p><p>towns and villages, who forgot my words as soon as they heard them </p><p>not, and veered with every baffling wind, that might arise from an </p><p>apparent change of circumstance. </p><p>I adopted another plan. Those writers who have imagined a reign of peace </p><p>and happiness on earth, have generally described a rural country, where </p><p>each small township was directed by the elders and wise men. This was the </p><p>key of my design. Each village, however small, usually contains a leader, </p><p>one among themselves whom they venerate, whose advice they seek in </p><p>difficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly value. I was immediately </p><p>drawn to make this observation by occurrences that presented themselves to </p><p>my personal experience. </p><p>In the village of Little Marlow an old woman ruled the community. She had </p><p>lived for some years in an alms-house, and on fine Sundays her threshold </p><p>was constantly beset by a crowd, seeking her advice and listening to her </p><p>admonitions. She had been a soldier's wife, and had seen the world; </p><p>infirmity, induced by fevers caught in unwholesome quarters, had come on </p><p>her before its time, and she seldom moved from her little cot. The plague </p><p>entered the village; and, while fright and grief deprived the inhabitants </p><p>of the little wisdom they possessed, old Martha stepped forward and said-- </p><p>"Before now I have been in a town where there was the plague."--"And you </p><p>escaped?"--"No, but I recovered."--After this Martha was seated more </p><p>firmly than ever on the regal seat, elevated by reverence and love. She </p><p>entered the cottages of the sick; she relieved their wants with her own </p><p>hand; she betrayed no fear, and inspired all who saw her with some portion </p><p>of her own native courage. She attended the markets--she insisted upon </p><p>being supplied with food for those who were too poor to purchase it. She </p><p>shewed them how the well-being of each included the prosperity of all. She </p><p>would not permit the gardens to be neglected, nor the very flowers in the </p><p>cottage lattices to droop from want of care. Hope, she said, was better </p><p>than a doctor's prescription, and every thing that could sustain and </p><p>enliven the spirits, of more worth than drugs and mixtures. </p><p>It was the sight of Little Marlow, and my conversations with Martha, that </p><p>led me to the plan I formed. I had before visited the manor houses and </p><p>gentlemen's seats, and often found the inhabitants actuated by the purest </p><p>benevolence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the welfare of their</p><p>tenants. But this was not enough. The intimate sympathy generated by </p><p>similar hopes and fears, similar experience and pursuits, was wanting here. </p><p>The poor perceived that the rich possessed other means of preservation than </p><p>those which could be partaken of by themselves, seclusion, and, as far as </p><p>circumstances permitted, freedom from care. They could not place reliance </p><p>on them, but turned with tenfold dependence to the succour and advice of </p><p>their equals. I resolved therefore to go from village to village, seeking </p><p>out the rustic archon of the place, and by systematizing their exertions, </p><p>and enlightening their views, encrease both their power and their use among </p><p>their fellow-cottagers. Many changes also now occurred in these spontaneous </p><p>regal elections: depositions and abdications were frequent, while, in the </p><p>place of the old and prudent, the ardent youth would step forward, eager </p><p>for action, regardless of danger. Often too, the voice to which all </p><p>listened was suddenly silenced, the helping hand cold, the sympathetic eye </p><p>closed, and the villagers feared still more the death that had selected a </p><p>choice victim, shivering in dust the heart that had beat for them, reducing </p><p>to incommunicable annihilation the mind for ever occupied with projects for </p><p>their welfare. </p><p>Whoever labours for man must often find ingratitude, watered by vice and </p><p>folly, spring from the grain which he has sown. Death, which had in our </p><p>younger days walked the earth like "a thief that comes in the night," now, </p><p>rising from his subterranean vault, girt with power, with dark banner </p><p>floating, came a conqueror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal throne, a </p><p>supreme Providence, who directed his shafts, and guided his progress, and </p><p>they bowed their heads in resignation, or at least in obedience. Others </p><p>perceived only a passing casualty; they endeavoured to exchange terror for </p><p>heedlessness, and plunged into licentiousness, to avoid the agonizing </p><p>throes of worst apprehension. Thus, while the wise, the good, and the </p><p>prudent were occupied by the labours of benevolence, the truce of winter </p><p>produced other effects among the young, the thoughtless, and the vicious. </p><p>During the colder months there was a general rush to London in search of </p><p>amusement--the ties of public opinion were loosened; many were rich, </p><p>heretofore poor--many had lost father and mother, the guardians of their </p><p>morals, their mentors and restraints. It would have been useless to have </p><p>opposed these impulses by barriers, which would only have driven those </p><p>actuated by them to more pernicious indulgencies. The theatres were open </p><p>and thronged; dance and midnight festival were frequented--in many of </p><p>these decorum was violated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an </p><p>advanced state of civilization, were doubled. The student left his books, </p><p>the artist his study: the occupations of life were gone, but the amusements </p><p>remained; enjoyment might be protracted to the verge of the grave. All </p><p>factitious colouring disappeared--death rose like night, and, protected </p><p>by its murky shadows the blush of modesty, the reserve of pride, the </p><p>decorum of prudery were frequently thrown aside as useless veils. This was </p><p>not universal. Among better natures, anguish and dread, the fear of eternal </p><p>separation, and the awful wonder produced by unprecedented calamity, drew </p><p>closer the ties of kindred and friendship. Philosophers opposed their </p><p>principles, as barriers to the inundation of profligacy or despair, and the </p><p>only ramparts to protect the invaded territory of human life; the </p><p>religious, hoping now for their reward, clung fast to their creeds, as the </p><p>rafts and planks which over the tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would bear </p><p>them in safety to the harbour of the Unknown Continent. The loving heart, </p><p>obliged to contract its view, bestowed its overflow of affection in triple </p><p>portion on the few that remained. Yet, even among these, the present, as an </p><p>unalienable possession, became all of time to which they dared commit the </p><p>precious freight of their hopes. </p><p>The experience of immemorial time had taught us formerly to count our</p><p>enjoyments by years, and extend our prospect of life through a lengthened </p><p>period of progression and decay; the long road threaded a vast labyrinth, </p><p>and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it terminated, was hid by </p><p>intervening objects. But an earthquake had changed the scene--under our </p><p>very feet the earth yawned--deep and precipitous the gulph below opened </p><p>to receive us, while the hours charioted us towards the chasm. But it was </p><p>winter now, and months must elapse before we are hurled from our security. </p><p>We became ephemera, to whom the interval between the rising and setting sun </p><p>was as a long drawn year of common time. We should never see our children </p><p>ripen into maturity, nor behold their downy cheeks roughen, their blithe </p><p>hearts subdued by passion or care; but we had them now--they lived, and </p><p>we lived--what more could we desire? With such schooling did my poor </p><p>Idris try to hush thronging fears, and in some measure succeeded. It was </p><p>not as in summer-time, when each hour might bring the dreaded fate--until </p><p>summer, we felt sure; and this certainty, short lived as it must be, yet </p><p>for awhile satisfied her maternal tenderness. I know not how to express or </p><p>communicate the sense of concentrated, intense, though evanescent </p><p>transport, that imparadized us in the present hour. Our joys were dearer </p><p>because we saw their end; they were keener because we felt, to its fullest </p><p>extent, their value; they were purer because their essence was sympathy-- </p><p>as a meteor is brighter than a star, did the felicity of this winter </p><p>contain in itself the extracted delights of a long, long life. </p><p>How lovely is spring! As we looked from Windsor Terrace on the sixteen </p><p>fertile counties spread beneath, speckled by happy cottages and wealthier </p><p>towns, all looked as in former years, heart-cheering and fair. The land was </p><p>ploughed, the slender blades of wheat broke through the dark soil, the </p><p>fruit trees were covered with buds, the husbandman was abroad in the </p><p>fields, the milk-maid tripped home with well-filled pails, the swallows and </p><p>martins struck the sunny pools with their long, pointed wings, the new </p><p>dropped lambs reposed on the young grass, the tender growth of leaves-- </p><p> Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds</p><p> A silent space with ever sprouting green.[3]</p><p>Man himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the frost of winter yield to </p><p>an elastic and warm renewal of life--reason told us that care and sorrow </p><p>would grow with the opening year--but how to believe the ominous voice </p><p>breathed up with pestiferous vapours from fear's dim cavern, while nature, </p><p>laughing and scattering from her green lap flowers, and fruits, and </p><p>sparkling waters, invited us to join the gay masque of young life she </p><p>led upon the scene? </p><p>Where was the plague? "Here--every where!" one voice of horror and dismay </p><p>exclaimed, when in the pleasant days of a sunny May the Destroyer of man </p><p>brooded again over the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic </p><p>chrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life. With one mighty sweep of its </p><p>potent weapon, all caution, all care, all prudence were levelled low: death </p><p>sat at the tables of the great, stretched itself on the cottager's pallet, </p><p>seized the dastard who fled, quelled the brave man who resisted: </p><p>despondency entered every heart, sorrow dimmed every eye. </p><p>Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and were I to tell all of anguish </p><p>and pain that I witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and the more </p><p>terrible smiles of infancy in the bosom of horror, my reader, his limbs </p><p>quivering and his hair on end, would wonder how I did not, seized with </p><p>sudden frenzy, dash myself from some precipice, and so close my eyes for </p><p>ever on the sad end of the world. But the powers of love, poetry, and </p><p>creative fancy will dwell even beside the sick of the plague, with the</p><p>squalid, and with the dying. A feeling of devotion, of duty, of a high and </p><p>steady purpose, elevated me; a strange joy filled my heart. In the midst of </p><p>saddest grief I seemed to tread air, while the spirit of good shed round me </p><p>an ambrosial atmosphere, which blunted the sting of sympathy, and purified </p><p>the air of sighs. If my wearied soul flagged in its career, I thought of my </p><p>loved home, of the casket that contained my treasures, of the kiss of love </p><p>and the filial caress, while my eyes were moistened by purest dew, and my </p><p>heart was at once softened and refreshed by thrilling tenderness. </p><p>Maternal affection had not rendered Idris selfish; at the beginning of our </p><p>calamity she had, with thoughtless enthusiasm, devoted herself to the care </p><p>of the sick and helpless. I checked her; and she submitted to my rule. I </p><p>told her how the fear of her danger palsied my exertions, how the knowledge </p><p>of her safety strung my nerves to endurance. I shewed her the dangers which </p><p>her children incurred during her absence; and she at length agreed not to </p><p>go beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed, within the walls of the </p><p>Castle we had a colony of the unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and in </p><p>themselves helpless, sufficient to occupy her time and attention, while </p><p>ceaseless anxiety for my welfare and the health of her children, however </p><p>she strove to curb or conceal it, absorbed all her thoughts, and undermined </p><p>the vital principle. After watching over and providing for their safety, </p><p>her second care was to hide from me her anguish and tears. Each night I </p><p>returned to the Castle, and found there repose and love awaiting me. Often </p><p>I waited beside the bed of death till midnight, and through the obscurity </p><p>of rainy, cloudy nights rode many miles, sustained by one circumstance </p><p>only, the safety and sheltered repose of those I loved. If some scene of </p><p>tremendous agony shook my frame and fevered my brow, I would lay my head on </p><p>the lap of Idris, and the tumultuous pulses subsided into a temperate flow </p><p>--her smile could raise me from hopelessness, her embrace bathe my </p><p>sorrowing heart in calm peace. Summer advanced, and, crowned with the sun's </p><p>potent rays, plague shot her unerring shafts over the earth. The nations </p><p>beneath their influence bowed their heads, and died. The corn that sprung </p><p>up in plenty, lay in autumn rotting on the ground, while the melancholy </p><p>wretch who had gone out to gather bread for his children, lay stiff and </p><p>plague-struck in the furrow. The green woods waved their boughs </p><p>majestically, while the dying were spread beneath their shade, answering </p><p>the solemn melody with inharmonious cries. The painted birds flitted </p><p>through the shades; the careless deer reposed unhurt upon the fern--the </p><p>oxen and the horses strayed from their unguarded stables, and grazed among </p><p>the wheat, for death fell on man alone. </p><p>With summer and mortality grew our fears. My poor love and I looked at each </p><p>other, and our babes.--"We will save them, Idris," I said, "I will save </p><p>them. Years hence we shall recount to them our fears, then passed away with </p><p>their occasion. Though they only should remain on the earth, still they </p><p>shall live, nor shall their cheeks become pale nor their sweet voices </p><p>languish." Our eldest in some degree understood the scenes passing around, </p><p>and at times, he with serious looks questioned me concerning the reason of </p><p>so vast a desolation. But he was only ten years old; and the hilarity of </p><p>youth soon chased unreasonable care from his brow. Evelyn, a laughing </p><p>cherub, a gamesome infant, without idea of pain or sorrow, would, shaking </p><p>back his light curls from his eyes, make the halls re-echo with his </p><p>merriment, and in a thousand artless ways attract our attention to his </p><p>play. Clara, our lovely gentle Clara, was our stay, our solace, our </p><p>delight. She made it her task to attend the sick, comfort the sorrowing, </p><p>assist the aged, and partake the sports and awaken the gaiety of the young. </p><p>She flitted through the rooms, like a good spirit, dispatched from the </p><p>celestial kingdom, to illumine our dark hour with alien splendour. </p><p>Gratitude and praise marked where her footsteps had been. Yet, when she</p><p>stood in unassuming simplicity before us, playing with our children, or </p><p>with girlish assiduity performing little kind offices for Idris, one </p><p>wondered in what fair lineament of her pure loveliness, in what soft tone </p><p>of her thrilling voice, so much of heroism, sagacity and active goodness </p><p>resided. </p><p>The summer passed tediously, for we trusted that winter would at least </p><p>check the disease. That it would vanish altogether was an hope too dear-- </p><p>too heartfelt, to be expressed. When such a thought was heedlessly uttered, </p><p>the hearers, with a gush of tears and passionate sobs, bore witness how </p><p>deep their fears were, how small their hopes. For my own part, my exertions </p><p>for the public good permitted me to observe more closely than most others, </p><p>the virulence and extensive ravages of our sightless enemy. A short month </p><p>has destroyed a village, and where in May the first person sickened, in </p><p>June the paths were deformed by unburied corpses--the houses tenantless, </p><p>no smoke arising from the chimneys; and the housewife's clock marked only </p><p>the hour when death had been triumphant. From such scenes I have sometimes </p><p>saved a deserted infant--sometimes led a young and grieving mother from </p><p>the lifeless image of her first born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from </p><p>childish weeping over his extinct family. </p><p>July is gone. August must pass, and by the middle of September we may hope. </p><p>Each day was eagerly counted; and the inhabitants of towns, desirous to </p><p>leap this dangerous interval, plunged into dissipation, and strove, by </p><p>riot, and what they wished to imagine to be pleasure, to banish thought and </p><p>opiate despair. None but Adrian could have tamed the motley population of </p><p>London, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds rushing to their pastures, </p><p>had thrown aside all minor fears, through the operation of the fear </p><p>paramount. Even Adrian was obliged in part to yield, that he might be able, </p><p>if not to guide, at least to set bounds to the license of the times. The </p><p>theatres were kept open; every place of public resort was frequented; </p><p>though he endeavoured so to modify them, as might best quiet the agitation </p><p>of the spectators, and at the same time prevent a reaction of misery when </p><p>the excitement was over. Tragedies deep and dire were the chief favourites. </p><p>Comedy brought with it too great a contrast to the inner despair: when such </p><p>were attempted, it was not unfrequent for a comedian, in the midst of the </p><p>laughter occasioned by his disporportioned buffoonery, to find a word or </p><p>thought in his part that jarred with his own sense of wretchedness, and </p><p>burst from mimic merriment into sobs and tears, while the spectators, </p><p>seized with irresistible sympathy, wept, and the pantomimic revelry was </p><p>changed to a real exhibition of tragic passion. </p><p>It was not in my nature to derive consolation from such scenes; from </p><p>theatres, whose buffoon laughter and discordant mirth awakened distempered </p><p>sympathy, or where fictitious tears and wailings mocked the heart-felt </p><p>grief within; from festival or crowded meeting, where hilarity sprung from </p><p>the worst feelings of our nature, or such enthralment of the better ones, </p><p>as impressed it with garish and false varnish; from assemblies of mourners </p><p>in the guise of revellers. Once however I witnessed a scene of singular </p><p>interest at one of the theatres, where nature overpowered art, as an </p><p>overflowing cataract will tear away the puny manufacture of a mock cascade, </p><p>which had before been fed by a small portion of its waters. </p><p>I had come to London to see Adrian. He was not at the palace; and, though </p><p>the attendants did not know whither he had gone, they did not expect him </p><p>till late at night. It was between six and seven o'clock, a fine summer </p><p>afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a ramble through the empty </p><p>streets of London; now turning to avoid an approaching funeral, now urged </p><p>by curiosity to observe the state of a particular spot; my wanderings were</p><p>instinct with pain, for silence and desertion characterized every place I </p><p>visited, and the few beings I met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked </p><p>with care and depressed by fear, that weary of encountering only signs of </p><p>misery, I began to retread my steps towards home. </p><p>I was now in Holborn, and passed by a public house filled with uproarious </p><p>companions, whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more sorrowful than the </p><p>pale looks and silence of the mourner. Such an one was near, hovering round </p><p>this house. The sorry plight of her dress displayed her poverty, she was </p><p>ghastly pale, and continued approaching, first the window and then the door </p><p>of the house, as if fearful, yet longing to enter. A sudden burst of song </p><p>and merriment seemed to sting her to the heart; she murmured, "Can he have </p><p>the heart?" and then mustering her courage, she stepped within the </p><p>threshold. The landlady met her in the passage; the poor creature asked, </p><p>"Is my husband here? Can I see George?" </p><p>"See him," cried the woman, "yes, if you go to him; last night he was taken </p><p>with the plague, and we sent him to the hospital." </p><p>The unfortunate inquirer staggered against a wall, a faint cry escaped her </p><p>--"O! were you cruel enough," she exclaimed, "to send him there?" </p><p>The landlady meanwhile hurried away; but a more compassionate bar-maid gave </p><p>her a detailed account, the sum of which was, that her husband had been </p><p>taken ill, after a night of riot, and sent by his boon companions with all </p><p>expedition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had watched this scene, for </p><p>there was a gentleness about the poor woman that interested me; she now </p><p>tottered away from the door, walking as well as she could down Holborn </p><p>Hill; but her strength soon failed her; she leaned against a wall, and her </p><p>head sunk on her bosom, while her pallid cheek became still more white. I </p><p>went up to her and offered my services. She hardly looked up--"You can do </p><p>me no good," she replied; "I must go to the hospital; if I do not die </p><p>before I get there." </p><p>There were still a few hackney-coaches accustomed to stand about the </p><p>streets, more truly from habit than for use. I put her in one of these, and </p><p>entered with her that I might secure her entrance into the hospital. Our </p><p>way was short, and she said little; except interrupted ejaculations of </p><p>reproach that he had left her, exclamations on the unkindness of some of </p><p>his friends, and hope that she would find him alive. There was a simple, </p><p>natural earnestness about her that interested me in her fate, especially </p><p>when she assured me that her husband was the best of men,--had been so, </p><p>till want of business during these unhappy times had thrown him into bad </p><p>company. "He could not bear to come home," she said, "only to see our </p><p>children die. A man cannot have the patience a mother has, with her own </p><p>flesh and blood." </p><p>We were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and entered the wretched precincts </p><p>of the house of disease. The poor creature clung closer to me, as she saw </p><p>with what heartless haste they bore the dead from the wards, and took them </p><p>into a room, whose half-opened door displayed a number of corpses, horrible </p><p>to behold by one unaccustomed to such scenes. We were directed to the ward </p><p>where her husband had been first taken, and still was, the nurse said, if </p><p>alive. My companion looked eagerly from one bed to the other, till at the </p><p>end of the ward she espied, on a wretched bed, a squalid, haggard creature, </p><p>writhing under the torture of disease. She rushed towards him, she embraced </p><p>him, blessing God for his preservation. </p><p>The enthusiasm that inspired her with this strange joy, blinded her to the</p><p>horrors about her; but they were intolerably agonizing to me. The ward was </p><p>filled with an effluvia that caused my heart to heave with painful qualms. </p><p>The dead were carried out, and the sick brought in, with like indifference; </p><p>some were screaming with pain, others laughing from the influence of more </p><p>terrible delirium; some were attended by weeping, despairing relations, </p><p>others called aloud with thrilling tenderness or reproach on the friends </p><p>who had deserted them, while the nurses went from bed to bed, incarnate </p><p>images of despair, neglect, and death. I gave gold to my luckless </p><p>companion; I recommended her to the care of the attendants; I then hastened </p><p>away; while the tormentor, the imagination, busied itself in picturing my </p><p>own loved ones, stretched on such beds, attended thus. The country afforded </p><p>no such mass of horrors; solitary wretches died in the open fields; and I </p><p>have found a survivor in a vacant village, contending at once with famine </p><p>and disease; but the assembly of pestilence, the banqueting hall of death, </p><p>was spread only in London. </p><p>I rambled on, oppressed, distracted by painful emotions--suddenly I found </p><p>myself before Drury Lane Theatre. The play was Macbeth--the first actor </p><p>of the age was there to exert his powers to drug with irreflection the </p><p>auditors; such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered. The theatre was </p><p>tolerably well filled. Shakspeare, whose popularity was established by the </p><p>approval of four centuries, had not lost his influence even at this dread </p><p>period; but was still "Ut magus," the wizard to rule our hearts and govern </p><p>our imaginations. I came in during the interval between the third and </p><p>fourth act. I looked round on the audience; the females were mostly of the </p><p>lower classes, but the men were of all ranks, come hither to forget awhile </p><p>the protracted scenes of wretchedness, which awaited them at their </p><p>miserable homes. The curtain drew up, and the stage presented the scene of </p><p>the witches' cave. The wildness and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was </p><p>a pledge that it could contain little directly connected with our present </p><p>circumstances. Great pains had been taken in the scenery to give the </p><p>semblance of reality to the impossible. The extreme darkness of the stage, </p><p>whose only light was received from the fire under the cauldron, joined to a </p><p>kind of mist that floated about it, rendered the unearthly shapes of the </p><p>witches obscure and shadowy. It was not three decrepid old hags that bent </p><p>over their pot throwing in the grim ingredients of the magic charm, but </p><p>forms frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance of Hecate, and the wild </p><p>music that followed, took us out of this world. The cavern shape the stage </p><p>assumed, the beetling rocks, the glare of the fire, the misty shades that </p><p>crossed the scene at times, the music in harmony with all witch-like </p><p>fancies, permitted the imagination to revel, without fear of contradiction, </p><p>or reproof from reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth did not </p><p>destroy the illusion, for he was actuated by the same feelings that </p><p>inspired us, and while the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in his </p><p>wonder and his daring, and gave ourselves up with our whole souls to the </p><p>influence of scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of such </p><p>excitement, in a renewal of those pleasing flights of fancy to which I had </p><p>long been a stranger. The effect of this scene of incantation communicated </p><p>a portion of its power to that which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and </p><p>Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon by such simple passions as </p><p>warmed our own breasts. By slow degrees however we were drawn to the real </p><p>interest of the scene. A shudder like the swift passing of an electric </p><p>shock ran through the house, when Rosse exclaimed, in answer to "Stands </p><p>Scotland where it did?" </p><p> Alas, poor country;</p><p> Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot</p><p> Be called our mother, but our grave: where nothing,</p><p> But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;</p><p> Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,</p><p> Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems</p><p> A modern extasy: the dead man's knell</p><p> Is there scarce asked, for who; and good men's lives</p><p> Expire before the flowers in their caps,</p><p> Dying, or ere they sicken.</p><p>Each word struck the sense, as our life's passing bell; we feared to look </p><p>at each other, but bent our gaze on the stage, as if our eyes could fall </p><p>innocuous on that alone. The person who played the part of Rosse, suddenly </p><p>became aware of the dangerous ground he trod. He was an inferior actor, but </p><p>truth now made him excellent; as he went on to announce to Macduff the </p><p>slaughter of his family, he was afraid to speak, trembling from </p><p>apprehension of a burst of grief from the audience, not from his </p><p>fellow-mime. Each word was drawn out with difficulty; real anguish painted </p><p>his features; his eyes were now lifted in sudden horror, now fixed in dread </p><p>upon the ground. This shew of terror encreased ours, we gasped with him, </p><p>each neck was stretched out, each face changed with the actor's changes-- </p><p>at length while Macduff, who, attending to his part, was unobservant of the </p><p>high wrought sympathy of the house, cried with well acted passion: </p><p> All my pretty ones?</p><p> Did you say all?--O hell kite! All?</p><p> What! all my pretty chickens, and their dam,</p><p> At one fell swoop!</p><p>A pang of tameless grief wrenched every heart, a burst of despair was </p><p>echoed from every lip.--I had entered into the universal feeling--I </p><p>had been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse--I re-echoed the cry of Macduff, </p><p>and then rushed out as from an hell of torture, to find calm in the free </p><p>air and silent street. </p><p>Free the air was not, or the street silent. Oh, how I longed then for the </p><p>dear soothings of maternal Nature, as my wounded heart was still further </p><p>stung by the roar of heartless merriment from the public-house, by the </p><p>sight of the drunkard reeling home, having lost the memory of what he would </p><p>find there in oblivious debauch, and by the more appalling salutations of </p><p>those melancholy beings to whom the name of home was a mockery. I ran on at </p><p>my utmost speed until I found myself I knew not how, close to Westminster </p><p>Abbey, and was attracted by the deep and swelling tone of the organ. I </p><p>entered with soothing awe the lighted chancel, and listened to the solemn </p><p>religious chaunt, which spoke peace and hope to the unhappy. The notes, </p><p>freighted with man's dearest prayers, re-echoed through the dim aisles, and </p><p>the bleeding of the soul's wounds was staunched by heavenly balm. In spite </p><p>of the misery I deprecated, and could not understand; in spite of the cold </p><p>hearths of wide London, and the corpse-strewn fields of my native land; in </p><p>spite of all the variety of agonizing emotions I had that evening </p><p>experienced, I thought that in reply to our melodious adjurations, the </p><p>Creator looked down in compassion and promise of relief; the awful peal of </p><p>the heaven-winged music seemed fitting voice wherewith to commune with the </p><p>Supreme; calm was produced by its sound, and by the sight of many other </p><p>human creatures offering up prayers and submission with me. A sentiment </p><p>approaching happiness followed the total resignation of one's being to the </p><p>guardianship of the world's ruler. Alas! with the failing of this solemn </p><p>strain, the elevated spirit sank again to earth. Suddenly one of the </p><p>choristers died--he was lifted from his desk, the vaults below were </p><p>hastily opened--he was consigned with a few muttered prayers to the </p><p>darksome cavern, abode of thousands who had gone before--now wide yawning </p><p>to receive even all who fulfilled the funeral rites. In vain I would then</p><p>have turned from this scene, to darkened aisle or lofty dome, echoing with </p><p>melodious praise. In the open air alone I found relief; among nature's </p><p>beauteous works, her God reassumed his attribute of benevolence, and again </p><p>I could trust that he who built up the mountains, planted the forests, and </p><p>poured out the rivers, would erect another state for lost humanity, where </p><p>we might awaken again to our affections, our happiness, and our faith. </p><p>Fortunately for me those circumstances were of rare occurrence that obliged </p><p>me to visit London, and my duties were confined to the rural district which </p><p>our lofty castle overlooked; and here labour stood in the place of pastime, </p><p>to occupy such of the country people as were sufficiently exempt from </p><p>sorrow or disease. My endeavours were directed towards urging them to their </p><p>usual attention to their crops, and to the acting as if pestilence did not </p><p>exist. The mower's scythe was at times heard; yet the joyless haymakers </p><p>after they had listlessly turned the grass, forgot to cart it; the </p><p>shepherd, when he had sheared his sheep, would let the wool lie to be </p><p>scattered by the winds, deeming it useless to provide clothing for another </p><p>winter. At times however the spirit of life was awakened by these </p><p>employments; the sun, the refreshing breeze, the sweet smell of the hay, </p><p>the rustling leaves and prattling rivulets brought repose to the agitated </p><p>bosom, and bestowed a feeling akin to happiness on the apprehensive. Nor, </p><p>strange to say, was the time without its pleasures. Young couples, who had </p><p>loved long and hopelessly, suddenly found every impediment removed, and </p><p>wealth pour in from the death of relatives. The very danger drew them </p><p>closer. The immediate peril urged them to seize the immediate opportunity; </p><p>wildly and passionately they sought to know what delights existence </p><p>afforded, before they yielded to death, and </p><p> Snatching their pleasures with rough strife</p><p> Thorough the iron gates of life,[4]</p><p>they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy what had been, or to </p><p>erase even from their death-bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness </p><p>which had been theirs. </p><p>One instance of this kind came immediately under our notice, where a </p><p>high-born girl had in early youth given her heart to one of meaner </p><p>extraction. He was a schoolfellow and friend of her brother's, and usually </p><p>spent a part of the holidays at the mansion of the duke her father. They </p><p>had played together as children, been the confidants of each other's little </p><p>secrets, mutual aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow. Love had crept </p><p>in, noiseless, terrorless at first, till each felt their life bound up in </p><p>the other, and at the same time knew that they must part. Their extreme </p><p>youth, and the purity of their attachment, made them yield with less </p><p>resistance to the tyranny of circumstances. The father of the fair Juliet </p><p>separated them; but not until the young lover had promised to remain absent </p><p>only till he had rendered himself worthy of her, and she had vowed to </p><p>preserve her virgin heart, his treasure, till he returned to claim and </p><p>possess it. </p><p>Plague came, threatening to destroy at once the aim of the ambitious and </p><p>the hopes of love. Long the Duke of L----derided the idea that there </p><p>could be danger while he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion; and he so </p><p>far succeeded, that it was not till this second summer, that the destroyer, </p><p>at one fell stroke, overthrew his precautions, his security, and his life. </p><p>Poor Juliet saw one by one, father, mother, brothers, and sisters, sicken </p><p>and die. Most of the servants fled on the first appearance of disease, </p><p>those who remained were infected mortally; no neighbour or rustic ventured </p><p>within the verge of contagion. By a strange fatality Juliet alone escaped,</p><p>and she to the last waited on her relatives, and smoothed the pillow of </p><p>death. The moment at length came, when the last blow was given to the last </p><p>of the house: the youthful survivor of her race sat alone among the dead. </p><p>There was no living being near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this </p><p>hideous company. With the declining heat of a September night, a whirlwind </p><p>of storm, thunder, and hail, rattled round the house, and with ghastly </p><p>harmony sung the dirge of her family. She sat upon the ground absorbed in </p><p>wordless despair, when through the gusty wind and bickering rain she </p><p>thought she heard her name called. Whose could that familiar voice be? Not </p><p>one of her relations, for they lay glaring on her with stony eyes. Again </p><p>her name was syllabled, and she shuddered as she asked herself, am I </p><p>becoming mad, or am I dying, that I hear the voices of the departed? A </p><p>second thought passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain; she rushed to the </p><p>window; and a flash of lightning shewed to her the expected vision, her </p><p>lover in the shrubbery beneath; joy lent her strength to descend the </p><p>stairs, to open the door, and then she fainted in his supporting arms. </p><p>A thousand times she reproached herself, as with a crime, that she should </p><p>revive to happiness with him. The natural clinging of the human mind to </p><p>life and joy was in its full energy in her young heart; she gave herself </p><p>impetuously up to the enchantment: they were married; and in their radiant </p><p>features I saw incarnate, for the last time, the spirit of love, of </p><p>rapturous sympathy, which once had been the life of the world. </p><p>I envied them, but felt how impossible it was to imbibe the same feeling, </p><p>now that years had multiplied my ties in the world. Above all, the anxious </p><p>mother, my own beloved and drooping Idris, claimed my earnest care; I could </p><p>not reproach the anxiety that never for a moment slept in her heart, but I </p><p>exerted myself to distract her attention from too keen an observation of </p><p>the truth of things, of the near and nearer approaches of disease, misery, </p><p>and death, of the wild look of our attendants as intelligence of another </p><p>and yet another death reached us; for to the last something new occurred </p><p>that seemed to transcend in horror all that had gone before. Wretched </p><p>beings crawled to die under our succouring roof; the inhabitants of the </p><p>Castle decreased daily, while the survivors huddled together in fear, and, </p><p>as in a famine-struck boat, the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each </p><p>looked in the other's face, to guess on whom the death-lot would next fall. </p><p>All this I endeavoured to veil, so that it might least impress my Idris; </p><p>yet, as I have said, my courage survived even despair: I might be </p><p>vanquished, but I would not yield. </p><p>One day, it was the ninth of September, seemed devoted to every disaster, </p><p>to every harrowing incident. Early in the day, I heard of the arrival of </p><p>the aged grandmother of one of our servants at the Castle. This old woman </p><p>had reached her hundredth year; her skin was shrivelled, her form was bent </p><p>and lost in extreme decrepitude; but as still from year to year she </p><p>continued in existence, out-living many younger and stronger, she began to </p><p>feel as if she were to live for ever. The plague came, and the inhabitants </p><p>of her village died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the aged, to the </p><p>remnant of her spent life, she had, on hearing that the pestilence had come </p><p>into her neighbourhood, barred her door, and closed her casement, refusing </p><p>to communicate with any. She would wander out at night to get food, and </p><p>returned home, pleased that she had met no one, that she was in no danger </p><p>from the plague. As the earth became more desolate, her difficulty in </p><p>acquiring sustenance increased; at first, her son, who lived near, had </p><p>humoured her by placing articles of food in her way: at last he died. But, </p><p>even though threatened by famine, her fear of the plague was paramount; and </p><p>her greatest care was to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew weaker each </p><p>day, and each day she had further to go. The night before, she had reached</p><p>Datchet; and, prowling about, had found a baker's shop open and deserted. </p><p>Laden with spoil, she hastened to return, and lost her way. The night was </p><p>windless, hot, and cloudy; her load became too heavy for her; and one by </p><p>one she threw away her loaves, still endeavouring to get along, though her </p><p>hobbling fell into lameness, and her weakness at last into inability to </p><p>move. </p><p>She lay down among the tall corn, and fell asleep. Deep in midnight, she </p><p>was awaked by a rustling near her; she would have started up, but her stiff </p><p>joints refused to obey her will. A low moan close to her ear followed, and </p><p>the rustling increased; she heard a smothered voice breathe out, Water, </p><p>Water! several times; and then again a sigh heaved from the heart of the </p><p>sufferer. The old woman shuddered, she contrived at length to sit upright; </p><p>but her teeth chattered, and her knees knocked together--close, very </p><p>close, lay a half-naked figure, just discernible in the gloom, and the cry </p><p>for water and the stifled moan were again uttered. Her motions at length </p><p>attracted the attention of her unknown companion; her hand was seized with </p><p>a convulsive violence that made the grasp feel like iron, the fingers like </p><p>the keen teeth of a trap.--"At last you are come!" were the words given </p><p>forth--but this exertion was the last effort of the dying--the joints </p><p>relaxed, the figure fell prostrate, one low moan, the last, marked the </p><p>moment of death. Morning broke; and the old woman saw the corpse, marked </p><p>with the fatal disease, close to her; her wrist was livid with the hold </p><p>loosened by death. She felt struck by the plague; her aged frame was unable </p><p>to bear her away with sufficient speed; and now, believing herself </p><p>infected, she no longer dreaded the association of others; but, as swiftly </p><p>as she might, came to her grand-daughter, at Windsor Castle, there to </p><p>lament and die. The sight was horrible; still she clung to life, and </p><p>lamented her mischance with cries and hideous groans; while the swift </p><p>advance of the disease shewed, what proved to be the fact, that she could </p><p>not survive many hours. </p><p>While I was directing that the necessary care should be taken of her, Clara </p><p>came in; she was trembling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked her the </p><p>cause of her agitation, she threw herself into my arms weeping and </p><p>exclaiming--"Uncle, dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever! I must tell </p><p>you, for you must know, that Evelyn, poor little Evelyn"--her voice was </p><p>choked by sobs. The fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of our adored </p><p>infant made the current of my blood pause with chilly horror; but the </p><p>remembrance of the mother restored my presence of mind. I sought the little </p><p>bed of my darling; he was oppressed by fever; but I trusted, I fondly and </p><p>fearfully trusted, that there were no symptoms of the plague. He was not </p><p>three years old, and his illness appeared only one of those attacks </p><p>incident to infancy. I watched him long--his heavy half-closed lids, his </p><p>burning cheeks and restless twining of his small fingers--the fever was </p><p>violent, the torpor complete--enough, without the greater fear of </p><p>pestilence, to awaken alarm. Idris must not see him in this state. Clara, </p><p>though only twelve years old, was rendered, through extreme sensibility, so </p><p>prudent and careful, that I felt secure in entrusting the charge of him to </p><p>her, and it was my task to prevent Idris from observing their absence. I </p><p>administered the fitting remedies, and left my sweet niece to watch beside </p><p>him, and bring me notice of any change she should observe. </p><p>I then went to Idris, contriving in my way, plausible excuses for remaining </p><p>all day in the Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the traces of care from </p><p>my brow. Fortunately she was not alone. I found Merrival, the astronomer, </p><p>with her. He was far too long sighted in his view of humanity to heed the </p><p>casualties of the day, and lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of </p><p>its existence. This poor man, learned as La Place, guileless and</p><p>unforeseeing as a child, had often been on the point of starvation, he, his </p><p>pale wife and numerous offspring, while he neither felt hunger, nor </p><p>observed distress. His astronomical theories absorbed him; calculations </p><p>were scrawled with coal on the bare walls of his garret: a hard-earned </p><p>guinea, or an article of dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse; </p><p>he neither heard his children cry, nor observed his companion's emaciated </p><p>form, and the excess of calamity was merely to him as the occurrence of a </p><p>cloudy night, when he would have given his right hand to observe a </p><p>celestial phenomenon. His wife was one of those wondrous beings, to be </p><p>found only among women, with affections not to be diminished by misfortune. </p><p>Her mind was divided between boundless admiration for her husband, and </p><p>tender anxiety for her children--she waited on him, worked for them, and </p><p>never complained, though care rendered her life one long-drawn, melancholy </p><p>dream. </p><p>He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a request he made to observe some </p><p>planetary motions from his glass. His poverty was easily detected and </p><p>relieved. He often thanked us for the books we lent him, and for the use of </p><p>our instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode or change of </p><p>circumstances. His wife assured us, that he had not observed any </p><p>difference, except in the absence of the children from his study, and to </p><p>her infinite surprise he complained of this unaccustomed quiet. </p><p>He came now to announce to us the completion of his Essay on the </p><p>Pericyclical Motions of the Earth's Axis, and the precession of the </p><p>equinoctial points. If an old Roman of the period of the Republic had </p><p>returned to life, and talked of the impending election of some </p><p>laurel-crowned consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates, his ideas </p><p>would not have been more alien to the times, than the conversation of </p><p>Merrival. Man, no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed his </p><p>thoughts in visible signs; nor were there any readers left: while each one, </p><p>having thrown away his sword with opposing shield alone, awaited the </p><p>plague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind six thousand years hence. </p><p>He might with equal interest to us, have added a commentary, to describe </p><p>the unknown and unimaginable lineaments of the creatures, who would then </p><p>occupy the vacated dwelling of mankind. We had not the heart to undeceive </p><p>the poor old man; and at the moment I came in, he was reading parts of his </p><p>book to Idris, asking what answer could be given to this or that position. </p><p>Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she listened; she had already </p><p>gathered from him that his family was alive and in health; though not apt </p><p>to forget the precipice of time on which she stood, yet I could perceive </p><p>that she was amused for a moment, by the contrast between the contracted </p><p>view we had so long taken of human life, and the seven league strides with </p><p>which Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was glad to see her smile, </p><p>because it assured me of her total ignorance of her infant's danger: but I </p><p>shuddered to think of the revulsion that would be occasioned by a discovery </p><p>of the truth. While Merrival was talking, Clara softly opened a door behind </p><p>Idris, and beckoned me to come with a gesture and look of grief. A mirror </p><p>betrayed the sign to Idris--she started up. To suspect evil, to perceive </p><p>that, Alfred being with us, the danger must regard her youngest darling, to </p><p>fly across the long chambers into his apartment, was the work but of a </p><p>moment. There she beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken and motionless. I </p><p>followed her, and strove to inspire more hope than I could myself </p><p>entertain; but she shook her head mournfully. Anguish deprived her of </p><p>presence of mind; she gave up to me and Clara the physician's and nurse's </p><p>parts; she sat by the bed, holding one little burning hand, and, with </p><p>glazed eyes fixed on her babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony. </p><p>It was not the plague that visited our little boy so roughly; but she could</p><p>not listen to my assurances; apprehension deprived her of judgment and </p><p>reflection; every slight convulsion of her child's features shook her frame </p><p>--if he moved, she dreaded the instant crisis; if he remained still, she </p><p>saw death in his torpor, and the cloud on her brow darkened. </p><p>The poor little thing's fever encreased towards night. The sensation is </p><p>most dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks forward to </p><p>passing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, especially if the </p><p>patient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose flickering </p><p>life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light, </p><p> Whose narrow fire</p><p> Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge</p><p> Devouring darkness hovers.[5]</p><p>With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience </p><p>one marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that </p><p>sound of glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable--the creaking </p><p>of rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the </p><p>signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated </p><p>herself at the foot of her cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts </p><p>slumber weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she shook it off; but at </p><p>length she was conquered and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding </p><p>Evelyn's hand; we were afraid to speak to each other; I watched the stars </p><p>--I hung over my child--I felt his little pulse--I drew near the </p><p>mother--again I receded. At the turn of morning a gentle sigh from the </p><p>patient attracted me, the burning spot on his cheek faded--his pulse beat </p><p>softly and regularly--torpor yielded to sleep. For a long time I dared </p><p>not hope; but when his unobstructed breathing and the moisture that </p><p>suffused his forehead, were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the </p><p>departure of mortal malady, I ventured to whisper the news of the change to </p><p>Idris, and at length succeeded in persuading her that I spoke truth. </p><p>But neither this assurance, nor the speedy convalescence of our child could </p><p>restore her, even to the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her fear had </p><p>been too deep, too absorbing, too entire, to be changed to security. She </p><p>felt as if during her past calm she had dreamed, but was now awake; she </p><p>was </p><p> As one</p><p> In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened</p><p> From soothing visions of the home he loves,</p><p> Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;[6]</p><p>as one who has been cradled by a storm, and awakes to find the </p><p>vessel sinking. Before, she had been visited by pangs of fear--now, she </p><p>never enjoyed an interval of hope. No smile of the heart ever irradiated </p><p>her fair countenance; sometimes she forced one, and then gushing tears </p><p>would flow, and the sea of grief close above these wrecks of past </p><p>happiness. Still while I was near her, she could not be in utter despair-- </p><p>she fully confided herself to me--she did not seem to fear my death, or </p><p>revert to its possibility; to my guardianship she consigned the full </p><p>freight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as a wind-nipped fawn by the </p><p>side of a doe, as a wounded nestling under its mother's wing, as a tiny, </p><p>shattered boat, quivering still, beneath some protecting willow-tree. While </p><p>I, not proudly as in days of joy, yet tenderly, and with glad consciousness </p><p>of the comfort I afforded, drew my trembling girl close to my heart, and </p><p>tried to ward every painful thought or rough circumstance from her </p><p>sensitive nature.</p><p>One other incident occurred at the end of this summer. The Countess of </p><p>Windsor, Ex-Queen of England, returned from Germany. She had at the </p><p>beginning of the season quitted the vacant city of Vienna; and, unable to </p><p>tame her haughty mind to anything like submission, she had delayed at </p><p>Hamburgh, and, when at last she came to London, many weeks elapsed before </p><p>she gave Adrian notice of her arrival. In spite of her coldness and long </p><p>absence, he welcomed her with sensibility, displaying such affection as </p><p>sought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow, and was repulsed only by her </p><p>total apparent want of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother's return with </p><p>pleasure. Her own maternal feelings were so ardent, that she imagined her </p><p>parent must now, in this waste world, have lost pride and harshness, and </p><p>would receive with delight her filial attentions. The first check to her </p><p>duteous demonstrations was a formal intimation from the fallen majesty of </p><p>England, that I was in no manner to be intruded upon her. She consented, </p><p>she said, to forgive her daughter, and acknowledge her grandchildren; </p><p>larger concessions must not be expected. </p><p>To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a term may be permitted) </p><p>extremely whimsical. Now that the race of man had lost in fact all </p><p>distinction of rank, this pride was doubly fatuitous; now that we felt a </p><p>kindred, fraternal nature with all who bore the stamp of humanity, this </p><p>angry reminiscence of times for ever gone, was worse than foolish. Idris </p><p>was too much taken up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry, hardly </p><p>grieved; for she judged that insensibility must be the source of this </p><p>continued rancour. This was not altogether the fact: but predominant </p><p>self-will assumed the arms and masque of callous feeling; and the haughty </p><p>lady disdained to exhibit any token of the struggle she endured; while the </p><p>slave of pride, she fancied that she sacrificed her happiness to immutable </p><p>principle. </p><p>False was all this--false all but the affections of our nature, and the </p><p>links of sympathy with pleasure or pain. There was but one good and one </p><p>evil in the world--life and death. The pomp of rank, the assumption of </p><p>power, the possessions of wealth vanished like morning mist. One living </p><p>beggar had become of more worth than a national peerage of dead lords-- </p><p>alas the day!--than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of genius. There was </p><p>much of degradation in this: for even vice and virtue had lost their </p><p>attributes--life--life--the continuation of our animal mechanism-- </p><p>was the Alpha and Omega of the desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition </p><p>of human race. </p><p>[1] Calderon de la Barca. </p><p>[2] Wordsworth. </p><p>[3] Keats. </p><p>[4] Andrew Marvell. </p><p>[5] The Cenci </p><p>[6] The Brides' Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq. </p><p>CHAPTER IX. </p><p>HALF England was desolate, when October came, and the equinoctial winds </p><p>swept over the earth, chilling the ardours of the unhealthy season. The </p><p>summer, which was uncommonly hot, had been protracted into the beginning of </p><p>this month, when on the eighteenth a sudden change was brought about from</p><p>summer temperature to winter frost. Pestilence then made a pause in her </p><p>death-dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name our hopes, yet full even </p><p>to the brim with intense expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor </p><p>stands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, watching a distant vessel, </p><p>fancying that now it nears, and then again that it is bearing from sight. </p><p>This promise of a renewed lease of life turned rugged natures to melting </p><p>tenderness, and by contrast filled the soft with harsh and unnatural </p><p>sentiments. When it seemed destined that all were to die, we were reckless </p><p>of the how and when--now that the virulence of the disease was mitigated, </p><p>and it appeared willing to spare some, each was eager to be among the </p><p>elect, and clung to life with dastard tenacity. Instances of desertion </p><p>became more frequent; and even murders, which made the hearer sick with </p><p>horror, where the fear of contagion had armed those nearest in blood </p><p>against each other. But these smaller and separate tragedies were about to </p><p>yield to a mightier interest--and, while we were promised calm from </p><p>infectious influences, a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest </p><p>bred by the passions of man, nourished by his most violent impulses, </p><p>unexampled and dire. </p><p>A number of people from North America, the relics of that populous </p><p>continent, had set sail for the East with mad desire of change, leaving </p><p>their native plains for lands not less afflicted than their own. Several </p><p>hundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of November, and took </p><p>possession of such vacant habitations as they could find; seizing upon the </p><p>superabundant food, and the stray cattle. As they exhausted the produce of </p><p>one spot, they went on to another. At length they began to interfere with </p><p>the inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated numbers, ejected the </p><p>natives from their dwellings, and robbed them of their winter store. A few </p><p>events of this kind roused the fiery nature of the Irish; and they attacked </p><p>the invaders. Some were destroyed; the major part escaped by quick and well </p><p>ordered movements; and danger made them careful. Their numbers ably </p><p>arranged; the very deaths among them concealed; moving on in good order, </p><p>and apparently given up to enjoyment, they excited the envy of the Irish. </p><p>The Americans permitted a few to join their band, and presently the </p><p>recruits outnumbered the strangers--nor did they join with them, nor </p><p>imitate the admirable order which, preserved by the Trans-Atlantic chiefs, </p><p>rendered them at once secure and formidable. The Irish followed their track </p><p>in disorganized multitudes; each day encreasing; each day becoming more </p><p>lawless. The Americans were eager to escape from the spirit they had </p><p>roused, and, reaching the eastern shores of the island, embarked for </p><p>England. Their incursion would hardly have been felt had they come alone; </p><p>but the Irish, collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel the inroads of </p><p>famine, and they followed in the wake of the Americans for England also. </p><p>The crossing of the sea could not arrest their progress. The harbours of </p><p>the desolate sea-ports of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels of </p><p>all sizes, from the man of war to the small fishers' boat, which lay </p><p>sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The emigrants embarked by </p><p>hundreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, made strange havoc of </p><p>buoy and cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves to the smaller </p><p>craft, for the most part achieved their watery journey in safety. Some, in </p><p>the true spirit of reckless enterprise, went on board a ship of an hundred </p><p>and twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with the tide out of the bay, and </p><p>after many hours its crew of landsmen contrived to spread a great part of </p><p>her enormous canvass--the wind took it, and while a thousand mistakes of </p><p>the helmsman made her present her head now to one point, and now to </p><p>another, the vast fields of canvass that formed her sails flapped with a </p><p>sound like that of a huge cataract; or such as a sea-like forest may give </p><p>forth when buffeted by an equinoctial north-wind. The port-holes were open, </p><p>and with every sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they received</p><p>whole tons of water. The difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze </p><p>which began to blow, whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this </p><p>way and that, and rending them with horrid split, and such whir as may have </p><p>visited the dreams of Milton, when he imagined the winnowing of the </p><p>arch-fiend's van-like wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos. </p><p>These sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the splash of the </p><p>chafed billows round the vessel's sides, and the gurgling up of the water </p><p>in the hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen the sea before, felt </p><p>indeed as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as the vessel dipped </p><p>her bows in the waves, or rose high upon them. Their yells were drowned in </p><p>the clamour of elements, and the thunder rivings of their unwieldy </p><p>habitation--they discovered at last that the water gained on them, and </p><p>they betook themselves to their pumps; they might as well have laboured to </p><p>empty the ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went down, the gale encreased; </p><p>the ship seemed to feel her danger, she was now completely water-logged, </p><p>and presented other indications of settling before she went down. The bay </p><p>was crowded with vessels, whose crews, for the most part, were observing </p><p>the uncouth sportings of this huge unwieldy machine--they saw her </p><p>gradually sink; the waters now rising above her lower decks--they could </p><p>hardly wink before she had utterly disappeared, nor could the place where </p><p>the sea had closed over her be at all discerned. Some few of her crew were </p><p>saved, but the greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went down </p><p>with her, to rise only when death loosened their hold. </p><p>This event caused many of those who were about to sail, to put foot again </p><p>on firm land, ready to encounter any evil rather than to rush into the </p><p>yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But these were few, in comparison to </p><p>the numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high as Belfast to ensure </p><p>a shorter passage, and then journeying south through Scotland, they were </p><p>joined by the poorer natives of that country, and all poured with one </p><p>consent into England. </p><p>Such incursions struck the English with affright, in all those towns where </p><p>there was still sufficient population to feel the change. There was room </p><p>enough indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of invaders; but </p><p>their lawless spirit instigated them to violence; they took a delight in </p><p>thrusting the possessors from their houses; in seizing on some mansion of </p><p>luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded themselves in fear of the plague; </p><p>in forcing these of either sex to become their servants and purveyors; </p><p>till, the ruin complete in one place, they removed their locust visitation </p><p>to another. When unopposed they spread their ravages wide; in cases of </p><p>danger they clustered, and by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and </p><p>despairing foes. They came from the east and the north, and directed their </p><p>course without apparent motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy </p><p>metropolis. </p><p>Communication had been to a great degree cut off through the paralyzing </p><p>effects of pestilence, so that the van of our invaders had proceeded as far </p><p>as Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of their arrival. They </p><p>swept the country like a conquering army, burning--laying waste-- </p><p>murdering. The lower and vagabond English joined with them. Some few of the </p><p>Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavoured to collect the militia--but </p><p>the ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the opposition that was </p><p>made only served to increase the audacity and cruelty of the enemy. They </p><p>talked of taking London, conquering England--calling to mind the long </p><p>detail of injuries which had for many years been forgotten. Such vaunts </p><p>displayed their weakness, rather than their strength--yet still they </p><p>might do extreme mischief, which, ending in their destruction, would render </p><p>them at last objects of compassion and remorse.</p><p>We were now taught how, in the beginning of the world, mankind clothed </p><p>their enemies in impossible attributes--and how details proceeding from </p><p>mouth to mouth, might, like Virgil's ever-growing Rumour, reach the heavens </p><p>with her brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her outstretched hands. </p><p>Gorgon and Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion, vast sea-monster and </p><p>gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and appalling accounts </p><p>brought to London concerning our invaders. Their landing was long unknown, </p><p>but having now advanced within an hundred miles of London, the country </p><p>people flying before them arrived in successive troops, each exaggerating </p><p>the numbers, fury, and cruelty of the assailants. Tumult filled the before </p><p>quiet streets--women and children deserted their homes, escaping they </p><p>knew not whither--fathers, husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not for </p><p>themselves, but for their loved and defenceless relations. As the country </p><p>people poured into London, the citizens fled southwards--they climbed the </p><p>higher edifices of the town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and </p><p>flames the enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to a great degree, in </p><p>the line of march from the west, I removed my family to London, assigning </p><p>the Tower for their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his Lieutenant in </p><p>the coming struggle. </p><p>We employed only two days in our preparations, and made good use of them. </p><p>Artillery and arms were collected; the remnants of such regiments, as could </p><p>be brought through many losses into any show of muster, were put under </p><p>arms, with that appearance of military discipline which might encourage our </p><p>own party, and seem most formidable to the disorganized multitude of our </p><p>enemies. Even music was not wanting: banners floated in the air, and the </p><p>shrill fife and loud trumpet breathed forth sounds of encouragement and </p><p>victory. A practised ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the </p><p>soldiers; but this was not occasioned so much by fear of the adversary, as </p><p>by disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostications, which often weighed </p><p>most potently on the brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject </p><p>subjection. </p><p>Adrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was small relief to him that </p><p>our discipline should gain us success in such a conflict; while plague </p><p>still hovered to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it was not </p><p>victory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced, we were met </p><p>by bands of peasantry, whose almost naked condition, whose despair and </p><p>horror, told at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy. The senseless </p><p>spirit of conquest and thirst of spoil blinded them, while with insane fury </p><p>they deluged the country in ruin. The sight of the military restored hope </p><p>to those who fled, and revenge took place of fear. They inspired the </p><p>soldiers with the same sentiment. Languor was changed to ardour, the slow </p><p>step converted to a speedy pace, while the hollow murmur of the multitude, </p><p>inspired by one feeling, and that deadly, filled the air, drowning the </p><p>clang of arms and sound of music. Adrian perceived the change, and feared </p><p>that it would be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their utmost fury </p><p>on the Irish. He rode through the lines, charging the officers to restrain </p><p>the troops, exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some </p><p>degree the violent agitation that swelled every bosom. </p><p>We first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St. Albans. They </p><p>retreated, and, joining others of their companions, still fell back, till </p><p>they reached the main body. Tidings of an armed and regular opposition </p><p>recalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham their head-quarters, </p><p>and scouts were sent out to ascertain our situation. We remained for the </p><p>night at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement caused us each to </p><p>advance. It was early dawn, and the air, impregnated with freshest odour,</p><p>seemed in idle mockery to play with our banners, and bore onwards towards </p><p>the enemy the music of the bands, the neighings of the horses, and regular </p><p>step of the infantry. The first sound of martial instruments that came upon </p><p>our undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not unmingled with dread. It </p><p>spoke of other days, of days of concord and order; it was associated with </p><p>times when plague was not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent </p><p>fate. The pause was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly clamour, the </p><p>barbarian shouts, the untimed step of thousands coming on in disarray. </p><p>Their troops now came pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes; </p><p>a large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we advanced to the </p><p>middle of this, and then made a halt: being somewhat on superior ground, we </p><p>could discern the space they covered. When their leaders perceived us drawn </p><p>out in opposition, they also gave the word to halt, and endeavoured to form </p><p>their men into some imitation of military discipline. The first ranks had </p><p>muskets; some were mounted, but their arms were such as they had seized </p><p>during their advance, their horses those they had taken from the peasantry; </p><p>there was no uniformity, and little obedience, but their shouts and wild </p><p>gestures showed the untamed spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers </p><p>received the word, and advanced to quickest time, but in perfect order: </p><p>their uniform dresses, the gleam of their polished arms, their silence, and </p><p>looks of sullen hate, were more appalling than the savage clamour of our </p><p>innumerous foe. Thus coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and </p><p>shouts of the Irish increased; the English proceeded in obedience to their </p><p>officers, until they came near enough to distinguish the faces of their </p><p>enemies; the sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent heaven </p><p>and was re-echoed by the furthest lines, they rushed on; they disdained the </p><p>use of the bullet, but with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe, </p><p>while the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted the cannon, </p><p>whose deafening roar and blinding smoke filled up the horror of the scene. I </p><p>was beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given the word to halt, and </p><p>had remained a few yards distant from us in deep meditation: he was forming </p><p>swiftly his plan of action, to prevent the effusion of blood; the noise of </p><p>cannon, the sudden rush of the troops, and yell of the foe, startled him: </p><p>with flashing eyes he exclaimed, "Not one of these must perish!" and </p><p>plunging the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed between the </p><p>conflicting bands. We, his staff, followed him to surround and protect him; </p><p>obeying his signal, however, we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving </p><p>him, paused in their onset; he did not swerve from the bullets that passed </p><p>near him, but rode immediately between the opposing lines. Silence </p><p>succeeded to clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead. </p><p>Adrian raised his sword in act to speak: "By whose command," he cried, </p><p>addressing his own troops, "do you advance? Who ordered your attack? Fall </p><p>back; these misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I am your </p><p>general. Sheath your weapons; these are your brothers, commit not </p><p>fratricide; soon the plague will not leave one for you to glut your revenge </p><p>upon: will you be more pitiless than pestilence? As you honour me--as you </p><p>worship God, in whose image those also are created--as your children and </p><p>friends are dear to you,--shed not a drop of precious human blood." </p><p>He spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and then turning to our </p><p>invaders, with a severe brow, he commanded them to lay down their arms: "Do </p><p>you think," he said, "that because we are wasted by plague, you can </p><p>overcome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye are vanquished by </p><p>famine and disease, the ghosts of those you have murdered will arise to bid </p><p>you not hope in death. Lay down your arms, barbarous and cruel men--men </p><p>whose hands are stained with the blood of the innocent, whose souls are </p><p>weighed down by the orphan's cry! We shall conquer, for the right is on our </p><p>side; already your cheeks are pale--the weapons fall from your nerveless </p><p>grasp. Lay down your arms, fellow men! brethren! Pardon, succour, and</p><p>brotherly love await your repentance. You are dear to us, because you wear </p><p>the frail shape of humanity; each one among you will find a friend and </p><p>host among these forces. Shall man be the enemy of man, while plague, the </p><p>foe to all, even now is above us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel </p><p>than her own?" </p><p>Each army paused. On our side the soldiers grasped their arms firmly, and </p><p>looked with stern glances on the foe. These had not thrown down their </p><p>weapons, more from fear than the spirit of contest; they looked at each </p><p>other, each wishing to follow some example given him,--but they had no </p><p>leader. Adrian threw himself from his horse, and approaching one of those </p><p>just slain: "He was a man," he cried, "and he is dead. O quickly bind up </p><p>the wounds of the fallen--let not one die; let not one more soul escape </p><p>through your merciless gashes, to relate before the throne of God the tale </p><p>of fratricide; bind up their wounds--restore them to their friends. Cast </p><p>away the hearts of tigers that burn in your breasts; throw down those tools </p><p>of cruelty and hate; in this pause of exterminating destiny, let each man </p><p>be brother, guardian, and stay to the other. Away with those blood-stained </p><p>arms, and hasten some of you to bind up these wounds." </p><p>As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and raised in his arms a man from </p><p>whose side the warm tide of life gushed--the poor wretch gasped--so </p><p>still had either host become, that his moans were distinctly heard, and </p><p>every heart, late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now beat anxiously </p><p>in hope and fear for the fate of this one man. Adrian tore off his military </p><p>scarf and bound it round the sufferer--it was too late--the man heaved </p><p>a deep sigh, his head fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining power.-- </p><p>"He is dead!" said Adrian, as the corpse fell from his arms on the ground, </p><p>and he bowed his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the world seemed bound </p><p>up in the death of this single man. On either side the bands threw down </p><p>their arms, even the veterans wept, and our party held out their hands to </p><p>their foes, while a gush of love and deepest amity filled every heart. The </p><p>two forces mingling, unarmed and hand in hand, talking only how each might </p><p>assist the other, the adversaries conjoined; each repenting, the one side </p><p>their former cruelties, the other their late violence, they obeyed the </p><p>orders of the General to proceed towards London. </p><p>Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost prudence, first to allay the </p><p>discord, and then to provide for the multitude of the invaders. They were </p><p>marched to various parts of the southern counties, quartered in deserted </p><p>villages,--a part were sent back to their own island, while the season of </p><p>winter so far revived our energy, that the passes of the country were </p><p>defended, and any increase of numbers prohibited. </p><p>On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after a separation of nearly a year. </p><p>Adrian had been occupied in fulfilling a laborious and painful task. He had </p><p>been familiar with every species of human misery, and had for ever found </p><p>his powers inadequate, his aid of small avail. Yet the purpose of his soul, </p><p>his energy and ardent resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow. He </p><p>seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent than Medean alchemy, endued him </p><p>with health and strength. Idris hardly recognized the fragile being, whose </p><p>form had seemed to bend even to the summer breeze, in the energetic man, </p><p>whose very excess of sensibility rendered him more capable of fulfilling </p><p>his station of pilot in storm-tossed England. </p><p>It was not thus with Idris. She was uncomplaining; but the very soul of </p><p>fear had taken its seat in her heart. She had grown thin and pale, her eyes </p><p>filled with involuntary tears, her voice was broken and low. She tried to </p><p>throw a veil over the change which she knew her brother must observe in</p><p>her, but the effort was ineffectual; and when alone with him, with a burst </p><p>of irrepressible grief she gave vent to her apprehensions and sorrow. She </p><p>described in vivid terms the ceaseless care that with still renewing hunger </p><p>ate into her soul; she compared this gnawing of sleepless expectation of </p><p>evil, to the vulture that fed on the heart of Prometheus; under the </p><p>influence of this eternal excitement, and of the interminable struggles she </p><p>endured to combat and conceal it, she felt, she said, as if all the wheels </p><p>and springs of the animal machine worked at double rate, and were fast </p><p>consuming themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking thoughts, bridled </p><p>by some remains of reason, and by the sight of her children happy and in </p><p>health, were then transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were </p><p>realized, all her fears received their dread fulfilment. To this state </p><p>there was no hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should quickly receive </p><p>its destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before she experienced a </p><p>thousand living deaths in the loss of those she loved. Fearing to give me </p><p>pain, she hid as best she could the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting </p><p>thus her brother after a long absence, she could not restrain the </p><p>expression of her woe, but with all the vividness of imagination with which </p><p>misery is always replete, she poured out the emotions of her heart to her </p><p>beloved and sympathizing Adrian. </p><p>Her present visit to London tended to augment her state of inquietude, by </p><p>shewing in its utmost extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence. It </p><p>hardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung up thick </p><p>in the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the houses were shut up, while </p><p>silence and loneliness characterized the busiest parts of the town. Yet in </p><p>the midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order; and each one continued </p><p>to live according to law and custom--human institutions thus surviving as </p><p>it were divine ones, and while the decree of population was abrogated, </p><p>property continued sacred. It was a melancholy reflection; and in spite of </p><p>the diminution of evil produced, it struck on the heart as a wretched </p><p>mockery. All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and festivals had </p><p>passed away. "Next summer," said Adrian as we parted on our return to </p><p>Windsor, "will decide the fate of the human race. I shall not pause in </p><p>my exertions until that time; but, if plague revives with the coming year, </p><p>all contest with her must cease, and our only occupation be the choice of </p><p>a grave." </p><p>I must not forget one incident that occurred during this visit to London. </p><p>The visits of Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had suddenly ceased. At </p><p>this time where but a hair's line separated the living from the dead, I </p><p>feared that our friend had become a victim to the all-embracing evil. On </p><p>this occasion I went, dreading the worst, to his dwelling, to see if I </p><p>could be of any service to those of his family who might have survived. The </p><p>house was deserted, and had been one of those assigned to the invading </p><p>strangers quartered in London. I saw his astronomical instruments put to </p><p>strange uses, his globes defaced, his papers covered with abstruse </p><p>calculations destroyed. The neighbours could tell me little, till I lighted </p><p>on a poor woman who acted as nurse in these perilous times. She told me </p><p>that all the family were dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone mad-- </p><p>mad, she called it, yet on questioning her further, it appeared that he was </p><p>possessed only by the delirium of excessive grief. This old man, tottering </p><p>on the edge of the grave, and prolonging his prospect through millions of </p><p>calculated years,--this visionary who had not seen starvation in the </p><p>wasted forms of his wife and children, or plague in the horrible sights and </p><p>sounds that surrounded him--this astronomer, apparently dead on earth, </p><p>and living only in the motion of the spheres--loved his family with </p><p>unapparent but intense affection. Through long habit they had become a part </p><p>of himself; his want of worldly knowledge, his absence of mind and infant</p><p>guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on them. It was not till one of </p><p>them died that he perceived their danger; one by one they were carried off </p><p>by pestilence; and his wife, his helpmate and supporter, more necessary to </p><p>him than his own limbs and frame, which had hardly been taught the lesson </p><p>of self-preservation, the kind companion whose voice always spoke peace to </p><p>him, closed her eyes in death. The old man felt the system of universal </p><p>nature which he had so long studied and adored, slide from under him, and </p><p>he stood among the dead, and lifted his voice in curses.--No wonder that </p><p>the attendant should interpret as phrensy the harrowing maledictions of the </p><p>grief-struck old man. </p><p>I had commenced my search late in the day, a November day, that closed in </p><p>early with pattering rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from the door, I </p><p>saw Merrival, or rather the shadow of Merrival, attenuated and wild, pass </p><p>me, and sit on the steps of his home. The breeze scattered the grey locks </p><p>on his temples, the rain drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his </p><p>face in his withered hands. I pressed his shoulder to awaken his attention, </p><p>but he did not alter his position. "Merrival," I said, "it is long since we </p><p>have seen you--you must return to Windsor with me--Lady Idris desires </p><p>to see you, you will not refuse her request--come home with me." </p><p>He replied in a hollow voice, "Why deceive a helpless old man, why talk </p><p>hypocritically to one half crazed? Windsor is not my home; my true home I </p><p>have found; the home that the Creator has prepared for me." </p><p>His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me--"Do not tempt me to speak," he </p><p>continued, "my words would scare you--in an universe of cowards I dare </p><p>think--among the church-yard tombs--among the victims of His merciless </p><p>tyranny I dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he punish me? Let him </p><p>bare his arm and transfix me with lightning--this is also one of his </p><p>attributes"--and the old man laughed. </p><p>He rose, and I followed him through the rain to a neighbouring church-yard </p><p>--he threw himself on the wet earth. "Here they are," he cried, "beautiful </p><p>creatures--breathing, speaking, loving creatures. She who by day and </p><p>night cherished the age-worn lover of her youth--they, parts of my flesh, </p><p>my children--here they are: call them, scream their names through the </p><p>night; they will not answer!" He clung to the little heaps that marked the </p><p>graves. "I ask but one thing; I do not fear His hell, for I have it here; I </p><p>do not desire His heaven, let me but die and be laid beside them; let me </p><p>but, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it moulders, mingle with theirs. </p><p>Promise," and he raised himself painfully, and seized my arm, "promise to </p><p>bury me with them." </p><p>"So God help me and mine as I promise," I replied, "on one condition: </p><p>return with me to Windsor." </p><p>"To Windsor!" he cried with a shriek, "Never!--from this place I never go </p><p>--my bones, my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and what you see </p><p>of me is corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling here, till </p><p>rain, and hail, and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make me one in </p><p>substance with them below." </p><p>In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was obliged to leave London, </p><p>and Adrian undertook to watch over him; the task was soon fulfilled; age, </p><p>grief, and inclement weather, all united to hush his sorrows, and bring </p><p>repose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He died embracing the sod, </p><p>which was piled above his breast, when he was placed beside the beings whom </p><p>he regretted with such wild despair.</p><p>I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed to think that there </p><p>was greater safety for her children at that spot; and because, once having </p><p>taken on me the guardianship of the district, I would not desert it while </p><p>an inhabitant survived. I went also to act in conformity with Adrian's </p><p>plans, which was to congregate in masses what remained of the population; </p><p>for he possessed the conviction that it was only through the benevolent and </p><p>social virtues that any safety was to be hoped for the remnant of mankind. </p><p>It was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so dear to us, as the </p><p>scene of a happiness rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction of </p><p>our species, and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease over the </p><p>fertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the country had so far changed, </p><p>that it had been impossible to enter on the task of sowing seed, and other </p><p>autumnal labours. That season was now gone; and winter had set in with </p><p>sudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws succeeding to </p><p>floods, rendered the country impassable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic </p><p>appearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses peeped from the white </p><p>mass; the lowly cot and stately mansion, alike deserted, were blocked up, </p><p>their thresholds uncleared; the windows were broken by the hail, while the </p><p>prevalence of a north-east wind rendered out-door exertions extremely </p><p>painful. The altered state of society made these accidents of nature, </p><p>sources of real misery. The luxury of command and the attentions of </p><p>servitude were lost. It is true that the necessaries of life were assembled </p><p>in such quantities, as to supply to superfluity the wants of the diminished </p><p>population; but still much labour was required to arrange these, as it </p><p>were, raw materials; and depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future, </p><p>we had not energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any system. </p><p>I can speak for myself--want of energy was not my failing. The intense </p><p>life that quickened my pulses, and animated my frame, had the effect, not </p><p>of drawing me into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my lowliness, </p><p>and of bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant objects--I could </p><p>have lived the life of a peasant in the same way--my trifling occupations </p><p>were swelled into important pursuits; my affections were impetuous and </p><p>engrossing passions, and nature with all her changes was invested in divine </p><p>attributes. The very spirit of the Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I </p><p>deified the uplands, glades, and streams, I </p><p> Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;</p><p> And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[1]</p><p>Strange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous course, I dwelt with </p><p>ever-renewing wonder on her antique laws, and now that with excentric wheel </p><p>she rushed into an untried path, I should feel this spirit fade; I </p><p>struggled with despondency and weariness, but like a fog, they choked me. </p><p>Perhaps, after the labours and stupendous excitement of the past summer, </p><p>the calm of winter and the almost menial toils it brought with it, were by </p><p>natural re-action doubly irksome. It was not the grasping passion of the </p><p>preceding year, which gave life and individuality to each moment--it was </p><p>not the aching pangs induced by the distresses of the times. The utter </p><p>inutility that had attended all my exertions took from them their usual </p><p>effects of exhilaration, and despair rendered abortive the balm of self </p><p>applause--I longed to return to my old occupations, but of what use were </p><p>they? To read were futile--to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide </p><p>circus for the display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for a </p><p>magnificent drama, now presented a vacant space, an empty stage--for </p><p>actor or spectator there was no longer aught to say or hear. </p><p>Our little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from the neighbouring </p><p>counties were chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect. Its streets were </p><p>blocked up with snow--the few passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by </p><p>the ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these evils was the aim and </p><p>scope of all our exertions. Families late devoted to exalting and refined </p><p>pursuits, rich, blooming, and young, with diminished numbers and </p><p>care-fraught hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish and grovelling </p><p>through suffering. Without the aid of servants, it was necessary to </p><p>discharge all household duties; hands unused to such labour must knead the </p><p>bread, or in the absence of flour, the statesmen or perfumed courtier must </p><p>undertake the butcher's office. Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the </p><p>poor were the superior, since they entered on such tasks with alacrity and </p><p>experience; while ignorance, inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered </p><p>them fatiguing to the luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all </p><p>whose minds, bent on intellectual improvement, held it their dearest </p><p>privilege to be exempt from attending to mere animal wants. </p><p>But in every change goodness and affection can find field for exertion and </p><p>display. Among some these changes produced a devotion and sacrifice of self </p><p>at once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers of the human </p><p>race to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient times, the patriarchal modes in </p><p>which the variety of kindred and friendship fulfilled their duteous and </p><p>kindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land, performed for the sake of </p><p>mother or sister, the services of menials with amiable cheerfulness. They </p><p>went to the river to break the ice, and draw water: they assembled on </p><p>foraging expeditions, or axe in hand felled the trees for fuel. The females </p><p>received them on their return with the simple and affectionate welcome </p><p>known before only to the lowly cottage--a clean hearth and bright fire; </p><p>the supper ready cooked by beloved hands; gratitude for the provision for </p><p>to-morrow's meal: strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they </p><p>were now their sole, hard earned, and dearly prized luxuries. </p><p>None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission to circumstances, </p><p>noble humility, and ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with romantic </p><p>colouring, than our own Clara. She saw my despondency, and the aching cares </p><p>of Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us from labour and to spread </p><p>ease and even elegance over our altered mode of life. We still had some </p><p>attendants spared by disease, and warmly attached to us. But Clara was </p><p>jealous of their services; she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole </p><p>minister to the wants of her little cousins; nothing gave her so much </p><p>pleasure as our employing her in this way; she went beyond our desires, </p><p>earnest, diligent, and unwearied,-- </p><p> Abra was ready ere we called her name,</p><p> And though we called another, Abra came.[2]</p><p>It was my task each day to visit the various families assembled in our </p><p>town, and when the weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my ride, and to </p><p>muse in solitude over every changeful appearance of our destiny, </p><p>endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the experience of the </p><p>past. The impatience with which, while in society, the ills that afflicted </p><p>my species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when individual </p><p>suffering was merged in the general calamity, strange to say, less </p><p>afflicting to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with difficulty </p><p>through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the bridge and passed </p><p>through Eton. No youthful congregation of gallant-hearted boys thronged the </p><p>portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy school-room and noisy </p><p>playground. I extended my ride towards Salt Hill, on every side impeded by </p><p>the snow. Were those the fertile fields I loved--was that the interchange</p><p>of gentle upland and cultivated dale, once covered with waving corn, </p><p>diversified by stately trees, watered by the meandering Thames? One sheet </p><p>of white covered it, while bitter recollection told me that cold as the </p><p>winter-clothed earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants. I met troops of </p><p>horses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing </p><p>down a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them </p><p>shelter and food--there having taken possession of a vacant cottage. Once </p><p>on a frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a </p><p>favourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A bubbling </p><p>spring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a few elms and </p><p>beeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. This spot had </p><p>for me peculiar charms. It had been a favourite resort of Adrian; it was </p><p>secluded; and he often said that in boyhood, his happiest hours were spent </p><p>here; having escaped the stately bondage of his mother, he sat on the rough </p><p>hewn steps that led to the spring, now reading a favourite book, now </p><p>musing, with speculation beyond his years, on the still unravelled skein of </p><p>morals or metaphysics. A melancholy foreboding assured me that I should </p><p>never see this place more; so with careful thought, I noted each tree, </p><p>every winding of the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I might </p><p>better call up its idea in absence. A robin red-breast dropt from the </p><p>frosty branches of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet; its panting </p><p>breast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk appeared in </p><p>the air; sudden fear seized the little creature; it exerted its last </p><p>strength, throwing itself on its back, raising its talons in impotent </p><p>defence against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it in my </p><p>breast. I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived; </p><p>its warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this </p><p>trifling incident--but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad fields </p><p>seen through the silvered trunks of the beeches,--the brook, in days of </p><p>happiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice--the leafless </p><p>trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost--the shapes of summer leaves </p><p>imaged by winter's frozen hand on the hard ground--the dusky sky, drear </p><p>cold, and unbroken silence--while close in my bosom, my feathered </p><p>nursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp-- </p><p>painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild commotion--cold </p><p>and death-like as the snowy fields was all earth--misery-stricken the </p><p>life-tide of the inhabitants--why should I oppose the cataract of </p><p>destruction that swept us away?--why string my nerves and renew my </p><p>wearied efforts--ah, why? But that my firm courage and cheerful exertions </p><p>might shelter the dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my life; though </p><p>the throbbings of my heart be replete with pain, though my hopes for the </p><p>future are chill, still while your dear head, my gentlest love, can repose </p><p>in peace on that heart, and while you derive from its fostering care, </p><p>comfort, and hope, my struggles shall not cease,--I will not call myself </p><p>altogether vanquished. </p><p>One fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some of its genial power, </p><p>I walked in the forest with my family. It was one of those lovely </p><p>winter-days which assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty on </p><p>barrenness. The leafless trees spread their fibrous branches against the </p><p>pure sky; their intricate and pervious tracery resembled delicate sea-weed; </p><p>the deer were turning up the snow in search of the hidden grass; the white </p><p>was made intensely dazzling by the sun, and trunks of the trees, rendered </p><p>more conspicuous by the loss of preponderating foliage, gathered around </p><p>like the labyrinthine columns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to </p><p>receive pleasure from the sight of these things. Our children, freed from </p><p>the bondage of winter, bounded before us; pursuing the deer, or rousing the </p><p>pheasants and partridges from their coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her </p><p>sadness yielded to the present sense of pleasure. We met other families on</p><p>the Long Walk, enjoying like ourselves the return of the genial season. At </p><p>once, I seemed to awake; I cast off the clinging sloth of the past months; </p><p>earth assumed a new appearance, and my view of the future was suddenly made </p><p>clear. I exclaimed, "I have now found out the secret!" </p><p>"What secret?" </p><p>In answer to this question, I described our gloomy winter-life, our sordid </p><p>cares, our menial labours:--"This northern country," I said, "is no place </p><p>for our diminished race. When mankind were few, it was not here that they </p><p>battled with the powerful agents of nature, and were enabled to cover the </p><p>globe with offspring. We must seek some natural Paradise, some garden of </p><p>the earth, where our simple wants may be easily supplied, and the enjoyment </p><p>of a delicious climate compensate for the social pleasures we have lost. If </p><p>we survive this coming summer, I will not spend the ensuing winter in </p><p>England; neither I nor any of us." </p><p>I spoke without much heed, and the very conclusion of what I said brought </p><p>with it other thoughts. Should we, any of us, survive the coming summer? I </p><p>saw the brow of Idris clouded; I again felt, that we were enchained to the </p><p>car of fate, over whose coursers we had no control. We could no longer say, </p><p>This we will do, and this we will leave undone. A mightier power than the </p><p>human was at hand to destroy our plans or to achieve the work we avoided. </p><p>It were madness to calculate upon another winter. This was our last. The </p><p>coming summer was the extreme end of our vista; and, when we arrived there, </p><p>instead of a continuation of the long road, a gulph yawned, into which we </p><p>must of force be precipitated. The last blessing of humanity was wrested </p><p>from us; we might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his chains, </p><p>hope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when he lays his head on the </p><p>block, marks the double shadow of himself and the executioner, whose </p><p>uplifted arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner, who spent </p><p>with swimming, hears close behind the splashing waters divided by a shark </p><p>which pursues him through the Atlantic, hope? Such hope as theirs, we also </p><p>may entertain! </p><p>Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from the box of Pandora, </p><p>else crammed with evils; but these were unseen and null, while all admired </p><p>the inspiriting loveliness of young Hope; each man's heart became her home; </p><p>she was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and here-after; she was </p><p>deified and worshipped, declared incorruptible and everlasting. But like </p><p>all other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her life has attained </p><p>its last hour. We have watched over her; nursed her flickering existence; </p><p>now she has fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, from health to </p><p>immedicinable disease; even as we spend ourselves in struggles for her </p><p>recovery, she dies; to all nations the voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We </p><p>are but mourners in the funeral train, and what immortal essence or </p><p>perishable creation will refuse to make one in the sad procession that </p><p>attends to its grave the dead comforter of humanity? </p><p> Does not the sun call in his light? and day</p><p> Like a thin exhalation melt away--</p><p> Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be</p><p> Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.[3]</p><p>[1] Wordsworth. </p><p>[2] Prior's "Solomon." </p><p>[3] Cleveland's Poems. </p><p>VOL. III. </p><p>CHAPTER I. </p><p>HEAR YOU not the rushing sound of the coming tempest? Do you not behold the </p><p>clouds open, and destruction lurid and dire pour down on the blasted earth? </p><p>See you not the thunderbolt fall, and are deafened by the shout of heaven </p><p>that follows its descent? Feel you not the earth quake and open with </p><p>agonizing groans, while the air is pregnant with shrieks and wailings,-- </p><p>all announcing the last days of man? No! none of these things accompanied </p><p>our fall! The balmy air of spring, breathed from nature's ambrosial home, </p><p>invested the lovely earth, which wakened as a young mother about to lead </p><p>forth in pride her beauteous offspring to meet their sire who had been long </p><p>absent. The buds decked the trees, the flowers adorned the land: the dark </p><p>branches, swollen with seasonable juices, expanded into leaves, and the </p><p>variegated foliage of spring, bending and singing in the breeze, rejoiced </p><p>in the genial warmth of the unclouded empyrean: the brooks flowed </p><p>murmuring, the sea was waveless, and the promontories that over-hung it </p><p>were reflected in the placid waters; birds awoke in the woods, while </p><p>abundant food for man and beast sprung up from the dark ground. Where was </p><p>pain and evil? Not in the calm air or weltering ocean; not in the woods or </p><p>fertile fields, nor among the birds that made the woods resonant with song, </p><p>nor the animals that in the midst of plenty basked in the sunshine. Our </p><p>enemy, like the Calamity of Homer, trod our hearts, and no sound was echoed </p><p>from her steps-- </p><p> With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea,</p><p> Diseases haunt our frail humanity,</p><p> Through noon, through night, on casual wing they glide,</p><p> Silent,--a voice the power all-wise denied.[1]</p><p>Once man was a favourite of the Creator, as the royal psalmist sang, "God </p><p>had made him a little lower than the angels, and had crowned him with glory </p><p>and honour. God made him to have dominion over the works of his hands, and </p><p>put all things under his feet." Once it was so; now is man lord of the </p><p>creation? Look at him--ha! I see plague! She has invested his form, is </p><p>incarnate in his flesh, has entwined herself with his being, and blinds his </p><p>heaven-seeking eyes. Lie down, O man, on the flower-strown earth; give up </p><p>all claim to your inheritance, all you can ever possess of it is the small </p><p>cell which the dead require. Plague is the companion of spring, of sunshine, </p><p>and plenty. We no longer struggle with her. We have forgotten what we did </p><p>when she was not. Of old navies used to stem the giant ocean-waves betwixt </p><p>Indus and the Pole for slight articles of luxury. Men made perilous </p><p>journies to possess themselves of earth's splendid trifles, gems and gold. </p><p>Human labour was wasted--human life set at nought. Now life is all that </p><p>we covet; that this automaton of flesh should, with joints and springs in </p><p>order, perform its functions, that this dwelling of the soul should be </p><p>capable of containing its dweller. Our minds, late spread abroad through </p><p>countless spheres and endless combinations of thought, now retrenched </p><p>themselves behind this wall of flesh, eager to preserve its well-being </p><p>only. We were surely sufficiently degraded. </p><p>At first the increase of sickness in spring brought increase of toil to</p><p>such of us, who, as yet spared to life, bestowed our time and thoughts on </p><p>our fellow creatures. We nerved ourselves to the task: "in the midst of </p><p>despair we performed the tasks of hope." We went out with the resolution of </p><p>disputing with our foe. We aided the sick, and comforted the sorrowing; </p><p>turning from the multitudinous dead to the rare survivors, with an energy </p><p>of desire that bore the resemblance of power, we bade them--live. Plague </p><p>sat paramount the while, and laughed us to scorn. </p><p>Have any of you, my readers, observed the ruins of an anthill immediately </p><p>after its destruction? At first it appears entirely deserted of its former </p><p>inhabitants; in a little time you see an ant struggling through the </p><p>upturned mould; they reappear by twos and threes, running hither and </p><p>thither in search of their lost companions. Such were we upon earth, </p><p>wondering aghast at the effects of pestilence. Our empty habitations </p><p>remained, but the dwellers were gathered to the shades of the tomb. </p><p>As the rules of order and pressure of laws were lost, some began with </p><p>hesitation and wonder to transgress the accustomed uses of society. Palaces </p><p>were deserted, and the poor man dared at length, unreproved, intrude into </p><p>the splendid apartments, whose very furniture and decorations were an </p><p>unknown world to him. It was found, that, though at first the stop put to </p><p>to all circulation of property, had reduced those before supported by the </p><p>factitious wants of society to sudden and hideous poverty, yet when the </p><p>boundaries of private possession were thrown down, the products of human </p><p>labour at present existing were more, far more, than the thinned generation </p><p>could possibly consume. To some among the poor this was matter of </p><p>exultation. We were all equal now; magnificent dwellings, luxurious </p><p>carpets, and beds of down, were afforded to all. Carriages and horses, </p><p>gardens, pictures, statues, and princely libraries, there were enough of </p><p>these even to superfluity; and there was nothing to prevent each from </p><p>assuming possession of his share. We were all equal now; but near at hand </p><p>was an equality still more levelling, a state where beauty and strength, </p><p>and wisdom, would be as vain as riches and birth. The grave yawned beneath </p><p>us all, and its prospect prevented any of us from enjoying the ease and </p><p>plenty which in so awful a manner was presented to us. </p><p>Still the bloom did not fade on the cheeks of my babes; and Clara sprung up </p><p>in years and growth, unsullied by disease. We had no reason to think the </p><p>site of Windsor Castle peculiarly healthy, for many other families had </p><p>expired beneath its roof; we lived therefore without any particular </p><p>precaution; but we lived, it seemed, in safety. If Idris became thin and </p><p>pale, it was anxiety that occasioned the change; an anxiety I could in no </p><p>way alleviate. She never complained, but sleep and appetite fled from her, </p><p>a slow fever preyed on her veins, her colour was hectic, and she often wept </p><p>in secret; gloomy prognostications, care, and agonizing dread, ate up the </p><p>principle of life within her. I could not fail to perceive this change. I </p><p>often wished that I had permitted her to take her own course, and engage </p><p>herself in such labours for the welfare of others as might have distracted </p><p>her thoughts. But it was too late now. Besides that, with the nearly </p><p>extinct race of man, all our toils grew near a conclusion, she was too </p><p>weak; consumption, if so it might be called, or rather the over active life </p><p>within her, which, as with Adrian, spent the vital oil in the early morning </p><p>hours, deprived her limbs of strength. At night, when she could leave me </p><p>unperceived, she wandered through the house, or hung over the couches of </p><p>her children; and in the day time would sink into a perturbed sleep, while </p><p>her murmurs and starts betrayed the unquiet dreams that vexed her. As this </p><p>state of wretchedness became more confirmed, and, in spite of her </p><p>endeavours at concealment more apparent, I strove, though vainly, to awaken </p><p>in her courage and hope. I could not wonder at the vehemence of her care;</p><p>her very soul was tenderness; she trusted indeed that she should not </p><p>outlive me if I became the prey of the vast calamity, and this thought </p><p>sometimes relieved her. We had for many years trod the highway of life hand </p><p>in hand, and still thus linked, we might step within the shades of death; </p><p>but her children, her lovely, playful, animated children--beings sprung </p><p>from her own dear side--portions of her own being--depositories of our </p><p>loves--even if we died, it would be comfort to know that they ran man's </p><p>accustomed course. But it would not be so; young and blooming as they were, </p><p>they would die, and from the hopes of maturity, from the proud name of </p><p>attained manhood, they were cut off for ever. Often with maternal affection </p><p>she had figured their merits and talents exerted on life's wide stage. Alas </p><p>for these latter days! The world had grown old, and all its inmates partook </p><p>of the decrepitude. Why talk of infancy, manhood, and old age? We all stood </p><p>equal sharers of the last throes of time-worn nature. Arrived at the same </p><p>point of the world's age--there was no difference in us; the name of </p><p>parent and child had lost their meaning; young boys and girls were level </p><p>now with men. This was all true; but it was not less agonizing to take the </p><p>admonition home. </p><p>Where could we turn, and not find a desolation pregnant with the dire </p><p>lesson of example? The fields had been left uncultivated, weeds and gaudy </p><p>flowers sprung up,--or where a few wheat-fields shewed signs of the </p><p>living hopes of the husbandman, the work had been left halfway, the </p><p>ploughman had died beside the plough; the horses had deserted the furrow, </p><p>and no seedsman had approached the dead; the cattle unattended wandered </p><p>over the fields and through the lanes; the tame inhabitants of the poultry </p><p>yard, baulked of their daily food, had become wild--young lambs were </p><p>dropt in flower-gardens, and the cow stalled in the hall of pleasure. </p><p>Sickly and few, the country people neither went out to sow nor reap; but </p><p>sauntered about the meadows, or lay under the hedges, when the inclement </p><p>sky did not drive them to take shelter under the nearest roof. Many of </p><p>those who remained, secluded themselves; some had laid up stores which </p><p>should prevent the necessity of leaving their homes;--some deserted wife </p><p>and child, and imagined that they secured their safety in utter solitude. </p><p>Such had been Ryland's plan, and he was discovered dead and half-devoured </p><p>by insects, in a house many miles from any other, with piles of food laid </p><p>up in useless superfluity. Others made long journies to unite themselves to </p><p>those they loved, and arrived to find them dead. </p><p>London did not contain above a thousand inhabitants; and this number was </p><p>continually diminishing. Most of them were country people, come up for the </p><p>sake of change; the Londoners had sought the country. The busy eastern part </p><p>of the town was silent, or at most you saw only where, half from cupidity, </p><p>half from curiosity, the warehouses had been more ransacked than pillaged: </p><p>bales of rich India goods, shawls of price, jewels, and spices, unpacked, </p><p>strewed the floors. In some places the possessor had to the last kept watch </p><p>on his store, and died before the barred gates. The massy portals of the </p><p>churches swung creaking on their hinges; and some few lay dead on the </p><p>pavement. The wretched female, loveless victim of vulgar brutality, had </p><p>wandered to the toilet of high-born beauty, and, arraying herself in the </p><p>garb of splendour, had died before the mirror which reflected to herself </p><p>alone her altered appearance. Women whose delicate feet had seldom touched </p><p>the earth in their luxury, had fled in fright and horror from their homes, </p><p>till, losing themselves in the squalid streets of the metropolis, they had </p><p>died on the threshold of poverty. The heart sickened at the variety of </p><p>misery presented; and, when I saw a specimen of this gloomy change, my soul </p><p>ached with the fear of what might befall my beloved Idris and my babes. </p><p>Were they, surviving Adrian and myself, to find themselves protectorless in </p><p>the world? As yet the mind alone had suffered--could I for ever put off</p><p>the time, when the delicate frame and shrinking nerves of my child of </p><p>prosperity, the nursling of rank and wealth, who was my companion, should </p><p>be invaded by famine, hardship, and disease? Better die at once--better </p><p>plunge a poinard in her bosom, still untouched by drear adversity, and then </p><p>again sheathe it in my own! But, no; in times of misery we must fight </p><p>against our destinies, and strive not to be overcome by them. I would not </p><p>yield, but to the last gasp resolutely defended my dear ones against sorrow </p><p>and pain; and if I were vanquished at last, it should not be ingloriously. </p><p>I stood in the gap, resisting the enemy--the impalpable, invisible foe, </p><p>who had so long besieged us--as yet he had made no breach: it must be my </p><p>care that he should not, secretly undermining, burst up within the very </p><p>threshold of the temple of love, at whose altar I daily sacrificed. The </p><p>hunger of Death was now stung more sharply by the diminution of his food: </p><p>or was it that before, the survivors being many, the dead were less eagerly </p><p>counted? Now each life was a gem, each human breathing form of far, O! far </p><p>more worth than subtlest imagery of sculptured stone; and the daily, nay, </p><p>hourly decrease visible in our numbers, visited the heart with sickening </p><p>misery. This summer extinguished our hopes, the vessel of society was </p><p>wrecked, and the shattered raft, which carried the few survivors over the </p><p>sea of misery, was riven and tempest tost. Man existed by twos and threes; </p><p>man, the individual who might sleep, and wake, and perform the animal </p><p>functions; but man, in himself weak, yet more powerful in congregated </p><p>numbers than wind or ocean; man, the queller of the elements, the lord of </p><p>created nature, the peer of demi-gods, existed no longer. </p><p>Farewell to the patriotic scene, to the love of liberty and well earned </p><p>meed of virtuous aspiration!--farewell to crowded senate, vocal with the </p><p>councils of the wise, whose laws were keener than the sword blade tempered </p><p>at Damascus!--farewell to kingly pomp and warlike pageantry; the crowns </p><p>are in the dust, and the wearers are in their graves!--farewell to the </p><p>desire of rule, and the hope of victory; to high vaulting ambition, to the </p><p>appetite for praise, and the craving for the suffrage of their fellows! The </p><p>nations are no longer! No senate sits in council for the dead; no scion of </p><p>a time honoured dynasty pants to rule over the inhabitants of a charnel </p><p>house; the general's hand is cold, and the soldier has his untimely grave </p><p>dug in his native fields, unhonoured, though in youth. The market-place is </p><p>empty, the candidate for popular favour finds none whom he can represent. </p><p>To chambers of painted state farewell!--To midnight revelry, and the </p><p>panting emulation of beauty, to costly dress and birth-day shew, to title </p><p>and the gilded coronet, farewell! </p><p>Farewell to the giant powers of man,--to knowledge that could pilot the </p><p>deep-drawing bark through the opposing waters of shoreless ocean,--to </p><p>science that directed the silken balloon through the pathless air,--to </p><p>the power that could put a barrier to mighty waters, and set in motion </p><p>wheels, and beams, and vast machinery, that could divide rocks of granite </p><p>or marble, and make the mountains plain! </p><p>Farewell to the arts,--to eloquence, which is to the human mind as the </p><p>winds to the sea, stirring, and then allaying it;--farewell to poetry and </p><p>deep philosophy, for man's imagination is cold, and his enquiring mind can </p><p>no longer expatiate on the wonders of life, for "there is no work, nor </p><p>device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest!"--to </p><p>the graceful building, which in its perfect proportion transcended the rude </p><p>forms of nature, the fretted gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the </p><p>stupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted column with its capital, </p><p>Corinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and fair entablature, whose </p><p>harmony of form is to the eye as musical concord to the ear!--farewell to </p><p>sculpture, where the pure marble mocks human flesh, and in the plastic</p><p>expression of the culled excellencies of the human shape, shines forth the </p><p>god!--farewell to painting, the high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge </p><p>of the artists's mind in pictured canvas--to paradisaical scenes, where </p><p>trees are ever vernal, and the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:--to </p><p>the stamped form of tempest, and wildest uproar of universal nature encaged </p><p>in the narrow frame, O farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song; </p><p>to the marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft and harsh unites </p><p>in sweet harmony, and gives wings to the panting listeners, whereby to </p><p>climb heaven, and learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!--Farewell </p><p>to the well-trod stage; a truer tragedy is enacted on the world's ample </p><p>scene, that puts to shame mimic grief: to high-bred comedy, and the low </p><p>buffoon, farewell!--Man may laugh no more. Alas! to enumerate the </p><p>adornments of humanity, shews, by what we have lost, how supremely great </p><p>man was. It is all over now. He is solitary; like our first parents </p><p>expelled from Paradise, he looks back towards the scene he has quitted. The </p><p>high walls of the tomb, and the flaming sword of plague, lie between it and </p><p>him. Like to our first parents, the whole earth is before him, a wide </p><p>desart. Unsupported and weak, let him wander through fields where the </p><p>unreaped corn stands in barren plenty, through copses planted by his </p><p>fathers, through towns built for his use. Posterity is no more; fame, and </p><p>ambition, and love, are words void of meaning; even as the cattle that </p><p>grazes in the field, do thou, O deserted one, lie down at evening-tide, </p><p>unknowing of the past, careless of the future, for from such fond ignorance </p><p>alone canst thou hope for ease! </p><p>Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not </p><p>feel poverty--for delight is as a gold-tissued robe, and crowns them with </p><p>priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and mingles </p><p>intoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch with roses, </p><p>and makes labour ease. </p><p>Sorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down back; plants thorns in the </p><p>unyielding pillow; mingles gall with water; adds saltness to their bitter </p><p>bread; cloathing them in rags, and strewing ashes on their bare heads. To </p><p>our irremediable distress every small and pelting inconvenience came with </p><p>added force; we had strung our frames to endure the Atlean weight thrown on </p><p>us; we sank beneath the added feather chance threw on us, "the grasshopper </p><p>was a burthen." Many of the survivors had been bred in luxury--their </p><p>servants were gone, their powers of command vanished like unreal shadows: </p><p>the poor even suffered various privations; and the idea of another winter </p><p>like the last, brought affright to our minds. Was it not enough that we </p><p>must die, but toil must be added?--must we prepare our funeral repast </p><p>with labour, and with unseemly drudgery heap fuel on our deserted hearths </p><p>--must we with servile hands fabricate the garments, soon to be our </p><p>shroud? </p><p>Not so! We are presently to die, let us then enjoy to its full relish the </p><p>remnant of our lives. Sordid care, avaunt! menial labours, and pains, </p><p>slight in themselves, but too gigantic for our exhausted strength, shall </p><p>make no part of our ephemeral existences. In the beginning of time, when, </p><p>as now, man lived by families, and not by tribes or nations, they were </p><p>placed in a genial clime, where earth fed them untilled, and the balmy air </p><p>enwrapt their reposing limbs with warmth more pleasant than beds of down. </p><p>The south is the native place of the human race; the land of fruits, more </p><p>grateful to man than the hard-earned Ceres of the north,--of trees, whose </p><p>boughs are as a palace-roof, of couches of roses, and of the </p><p>thirst-appeasing grape. We need not there fear cold and hunger. </p><p>Look at England! the grass shoots up high in the meadows; but they are dank</p><p>and cold, unfit bed for us. Corn we have none, and the crude fruits cannot </p><p>support us. We must seek firing in the bowels of the earth, or the unkind </p><p>atmosphere will fill us with rheums and aches. The labour of hundreds of </p><p>thousands alone could make this inclement nook fit habitation for one man. </p><p>To the south then, to the sun!--where nature is kind, where Jove has </p><p>showered forth the contents of Amalthea's horn, and earth is garden. </p><p>England, late birth-place of excellence and school of the wise, thy </p><p>children are gone, thy glory faded! Thou, England, wert the triumph of man! </p><p>Small favour was shewn thee by thy Creator, thou Isle of the North; a </p><p>ragged canvas naturally, painted by man with alien colours; but the hues he </p><p>gave are faded, never more to be renewed. So we must leave thee, thou </p><p>marvel of the world; we must bid farewell to thy clouds, and cold, and </p><p>scarcity for ever! Thy manly hearts are still; thy tale of power and </p><p>liberty at its close! Bereft of man, O little isle! the ocean waves will </p><p>buffet thee, and the raven flap his wings over thee; thy soil will be </p><p>birth-place of weeds, thy sky will canopy barrenness. It was not for the </p><p>rose of Persia thou wert famous, nor the banana of the east; not for the </p><p>spicy gales of India, nor the sugar groves of America; not for thy vines </p><p>nor thy double harvests, nor for thy vernal airs, nor solstitial sun--but </p><p>for thy children, their unwearied industry and lofty aspiration. They are </p><p>gone, and thou goest with them the oft trodden path that leads to oblivion, </p><p>-- </p><p> Farewell, sad Isle, farewell, thy fatal glory</p><p> Is summed, cast up, and cancelled in this story.[2]</p><p>[1] Elton's translation of Hesiod. </p><p>[2] Cleveland's Poems. </p><p>CHAPTER II. </p><p>IN the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of emigration crept in among </p><p>the few survivors, who, congregating from various parts of England, met in </p><p>London. This spirit existed as a breath, a wish, a far off thought, until </p><p>communicated to Adrian, who imbibed it with ardour, and instantly engaged </p><p>himself in plans for its execution. The fear of immediate death vanished </p><p>with the heats of September. Another winter was before us, and we might </p><p>elect our mode of passing it to the best advantage. Perhaps in rational </p><p>philosophy none could be better chosen than this scheme of migration, which </p><p>would draw us from the immediate scene of our woe, and, leading us through </p><p>pleasant and picturesque countries, amuse for a time our despair. The idea </p><p>once broached, all were impatient to put it in execution. </p><p>We were still at Windsor; our renewed hopes medicined the anguish we had </p><p>suffered from the late tragedies. The death of many of our inmates had </p><p>weaned us from the fond idea, that Windsor Castle was a spot sacred from </p><p>the plague; but our lease of life was renewed for some months, and even </p><p>Idris lifted her head, as a lily after a storm, when a last sunbeam tinges </p><p>its silver cup. Just at this time Adrian came down to us; his eager looks </p><p>shewed us that he was full of some scheme. He hastened to take me aside, </p><p>and disclosed to me with rapidity his plan of emigration from England. </p><p>To leave England for ever! to turn from its polluted fields and groves, </p><p>and, placing the sea between us, to quit it, as a sailor quits the rock on</p><p>which he has been wrecked, when the saving ship rides by. Such was his </p><p>plan. </p><p>To leave the country of our fathers, made holy by their graves!--We could </p><p>not feel even as a voluntary exile of old, who might for pleasure or </p><p>convenience forsake his native soil; though thousands of miles might divide </p><p>him, England was still a part of him, as he of her. He heard of the passing </p><p>events of the day; he knew that, if he returned, and resumed his place in </p><p>society, the entrance was still open, and it required but the will, to </p><p>surround himself at once with the associations and habits of boyhood. Not </p><p>so with us, the remnant. We left none to represent us, none to repeople the </p><p>desart land, and the name of England died, when we left her, </p><p> In vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety.</p><p>Yet let us go! England is in her shroud,--we may not enchain ourselves to </p><p>a corpse. Let us go--the world is our country now, and we will choose for </p><p>our residence its most fertile spot. Shall we, in these desart halls, under </p><p>this wintry sky, sit with closed eyes and folded hands, expecting death? </p><p>Let us rather go out to meet it gallantly: or perhaps--for all this </p><p>pendulous orb, this fair gem in the sky's diadem, is not surely </p><p>plague-striken--perhaps, in some secluded nook, amidst eternal spring, </p><p>and waving trees, and purling streams, we may find Life. The world is vast, </p><p>and England, though her many fields and wide spread woods seem </p><p>interminable, is but a small part of her. At the close of a day's march </p><p>over high mountains and through snowy vallies, we may come upon health, and </p><p>committing our loved ones to its charge, replant the uprooted tree of </p><p>humanity, and send to late posterity the tale of the ante-pestilential </p><p>race, the heroes and sages of the lost state of things. </p><p>Hope beckons and sorrow urges us, the heart beats high with expectation, </p><p>and this eager desire of change must be an omen of success. O come! </p><p>Farewell to the dead! farewell to the tombs of those we loved!--farewell </p><p>to giant London and the placid Thames, to river and mountain or fair </p><p>district, birth-place of the wise and good, to Windsor Forest and its </p><p>antique castle, farewell! themes for story alone are they,--we must live </p><p>elsewhere. </p><p>Such were in part the arguments of Adrian, uttered with enthusiasm and </p><p>unanswerable rapidity. Something more was in his heart, to which he dared </p><p>not give words. He felt that the end of time was come; he knew that one by </p><p>one we should dwindle into nothingness. It was not adviseable to wait this </p><p>sad consummation in our native country; but travelling would give us our </p><p>object for each day, that would distract our thoughts from the </p><p>swift-approaching end of things. If we went to Italy, to sacred and eternal </p><p>Rome, we might with greater patience submit to the decree, which had laid </p><p>her mighty towers low. We might lose our selfish grief in the sublime </p><p>aspect of its desolation. All this was in the mind of Adrian; but he </p><p>thought of my children, and, instead of communicating to me these resources </p><p>of despair, he called up the image of health and life to be found, where we </p><p>knew not--when we knew not; but if never to be found, for ever and for </p><p>ever to be sought. He won me over to his party, heart and soul. </p><p>It devolved on me to disclose our plan to Idris. The images of health and </p><p>hope which I presented to her, made her with a smile consent. With a smile </p><p>she agreed to leave her country, from which she had never before been </p><p>absent, and the spot she had inhabited from infancy; the forest and its </p><p>mighty trees, the woodland paths and green recesses, where she had played </p><p>in childhood, and had lived so happily through youth; she would leave them</p><p>without regret, for she hoped to purchase thus the lives of her children. </p><p>They were her life; dearer than a spot consecrated to love, dearer than all </p><p>else the earth contained. The boys heard with childish glee of our removal: </p><p>Clara asked if we were to go to Athens. "It is possible," I replied; and </p><p>her countenance became radiant with pleasure. There she would behold the </p><p>tomb of her parents, and the territory filled with recollections of her </p><p>father's glory. In silence, but without respite, she had brooded over these </p><p>scenes. It was the recollection of them that had turned her infant gaiety </p><p>to seriousness, and had impressed her with high and restless thoughts. </p><p>There were many dear friends whom we must not leave behind, humble though </p><p>they were. There was the spirited and obedient steed which Lord Raymond had </p><p>given his daughter; there was Alfred's dog and a pet eagle, whose sight was </p><p>dimmed through age. But this catalogue of favourites to be taken with us, </p><p>could not be made without grief to think of our heavy losses, and a deep </p><p>sigh for the many things we must leave behind. The tears rushed into the </p><p>eyes of Idris, while Alfred and Evelyn brought now a favourite rose tree, </p><p>now a marble vase beautifully carved, insisting that these must go, and </p><p>exclaiming on the pity that we could not take the castle and the forest, </p><p>the deer and the birds, and all accustomed and cherished objects along with </p><p>us. "Fond and foolish ones," I said, "we have lost for ever treasures far </p><p>more precious than these; and we desert them, to preserve treasures to </p><p>which in comparison they are nothing. Let us not for a moment forget our </p><p>object and our hope; and they will form a resistless mound to stop the </p><p>overflowing of our regret for trifles." </p><p>The children were easily distracted, and again returned to their prospect </p><p>of future amusement. Idris had disappeared. She had gone to hide her </p><p>weakness; escaping from the castle, she had descended to the little park, </p><p>and sought solitude, that she might there indulge her tears; I found her </p><p>clinging round an old oak, pressing its rough trunk with her roseate lips, </p><p>as her tears fell plenteously, and her sobs and broken exclamations could </p><p>not be suppressed; with surpassing grief I beheld this loved one of my </p><p>heart thus lost in sorrow! I drew her towards me; and, as she felt my </p><p>kisses on her eyelids, as she felt my arms press her, she revived to the </p><p>knowledge of what remained to her. "You are very kind not to reproach me," </p><p>she said: "I weep, and a bitter pang of intolerable sorrow tears my heart. </p><p>And yet I am happy; mothers lament their children, wives lose their </p><p>husbands, while you and my children are left to me. Yes, I am happy, most </p><p>happy, that I can weep thus for imaginary sorrows, and that the slight loss </p><p>of my adored country is not dwindled and annihilated in mightier misery. </p><p>Take me where you will; where you and my children are, there shall be </p><p>Windsor, and every country will be England to me. Let these tears flow not </p><p>for myself, happy and ungrateful as I am, but for the dead world--for our </p><p>lost country--for all of love, and life, and joy, now choked in the dusty </p><p>chambers of death." </p><p>She spoke quickly, as if to convince herself; she turned her eyes from the </p><p>trees and forest-paths she loved; she hid her face in my bosom, and we-- </p><p>yes, my masculine firmness dissolved--we wept together consolatory tears, </p><p>and then calm--nay, almost cheerful, we returned to the castle. </p><p>The first cold weather of an English October, made us hasten our </p><p>preparations. I persuaded Idris to go up to London, where she might better </p><p>attend to necessary arrangements. I did not tell her, that to spare her the </p><p>pang of parting from inanimate objects, now the only things left, I had </p><p>resolved that we should none of us return to Windsor. For the last time we </p><p>looked on the wide extent of country visible from the terrace, and saw the </p><p>last rays of the sun tinge the dark masses of wood variegated by autumnal</p><p>tints; the uncultivated fields and smokeless cottages lay in shadow below; </p><p>the Thames wound through the wide plain, and the venerable pile of Eton </p><p>college, stood in dark relief, a prominent object; the cawing of the myriad </p><p>rooks which inhabited the trees of the little park, as in column or thick </p><p>wedge they speeded to their nests, disturbed the silence of evening. Nature </p><p>was the same, as when she was the kind mother of the human race; now, </p><p>childless and forlorn, her fertility was a mockery; her loveliness a mask </p><p>for deformity. Why should the breeze gently stir the trees, man felt not </p><p>its refreshment? Why did dark night adorn herself with stars--man saw </p><p>them not? Why are there fruits, or flowers, or streams, man is not here to </p><p>enjoy them? </p><p>Idris stood beside me, her dear hand locked in mine. Her face was radiant </p><p>with a smile.--"The sun is alone," she said, "but we are not. A strange </p><p>star, my Lionel, ruled our birth; sadly and with dismay we may look upon </p><p>the annihilation of man; but we remain for each other. Did I ever in the </p><p>wide world seek other than thee? And since in the wide world thou </p><p>remainest, why should I complain? Thou and nature are still true to me. </p><p>Beneath the shades of night, and through the day, whose garish light </p><p>displays our solitude, thou wilt still be at my side, and even Windsor will </p><p>not be regretted." </p><p>I had chosen night time for our journey to London, that the change and </p><p>desolation of the country might be the less observable. Our only surviving </p><p>servant drove us. We past down the steep hill, and entered the dusky avenue </p><p>of the Long Walk. At times like these, minute circumstances assume giant </p><p>and majestic proportions; the very swinging open of the white gate that </p><p>admitted us into the forest, arrested my thoughts as matter of interest; it </p><p>was an every day act, never to occur again! The setting crescent of the </p><p>moon glittered through the massy trees to our right, and when we entered </p><p>the park, we scared a troop of deer, that fled bounding away in the forest </p><p>shades. Our two boys quietly slept; once, before our road turned from the </p><p>view, I looked back on the castle. Its windows glistened in the moonshine, </p><p>and its heavy outline lay in a dark mass against the sky--the trees near </p><p>us waved a solemn dirge to the midnight breeze. Idris leaned back in the </p><p>carriage; her two hands pressed mine, her countenance was placid, she </p><p>seemed to lose the sense of what she now left, in the memory of what she </p><p>still possessed. </p><p>My thoughts were sad and solemn, yet not of unmingled pain. The very excess </p><p>of our misery carried a relief with it, giving sublimity and elevation to </p><p>sorrow. I felt that I carried with me those I best loved; I was pleased, </p><p>after a long separation to rejoin Adrian; never again to part. I felt that </p><p>I quitted what I loved, not what loved me. The castle walls, and long </p><p>familiar trees, did not hear the parting sound of our carriage-wheels with </p><p>regret. And, while I felt Idris to be near, and heard the regular breathing </p><p>of my children, I could not be unhappy. Clara was greatly moved; with </p><p>streaming eyes, suppressing her sobs, she leaned from the window, watching </p><p>the last glimpse of her native Windsor. </p><p>Adrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was all animation; you could no </p><p>longer trace in his look of health, the suffering valetudinarian; from his </p><p>smile and sprightly tones you could not guess that he was about to lead </p><p>forth from their native country, the numbered remnant of the English </p><p>nation, into the tenantless realms of the south, there to die, one by one, </p><p>till the LAST MAN should remain in a voiceless, empty world. </p><p>Adrian was impatient for our departure, and had advanced far in his </p><p>preparations. His wisdom guided all. His care was the soul, to move the</p><p>luckless crowd, who relied wholly on him. It was useless to provide many </p><p>things, for we should find abundant provision in every town. It was </p><p>Adrian's wish to prevent all labour; to bestow a festive appearance on this </p><p>funeral train. Our numbers amounted to not quite two thousand persons. </p><p>These were not all assembled in London, but each day witnessed the arrival </p><p>of fresh numbers, and those who resided in the neighbouring towns, had </p><p>received orders to assemble at one place, on the twentieth of November. </p><p>Carriages and horses were provided for all; captains and under officers </p><p>chosen, and the whole assemblage wisely organized. All obeyed the Lord </p><p>Protector of dying England; all looked up to him. His council was chosen, </p><p>it consisted of about fifty persons. Distinction and station were not the </p><p>qualifications of their election. We had no station among us, but that </p><p>which benevolence and prudence gave; no distinction save between the living </p><p>and the dead. Although we were anxious to leave England before the depth of </p><p>winter, yet we were detained. Small parties had been dispatched to various </p><p>parts of England, in search of stragglers; we would not go, until we had </p><p>assured ourselves that in all human probability we did not leave behind a </p><p>single human being. </p><p>On our arrival in London, we found that the aged Countess of Windsor was </p><p>residing with her son in the palace of the Protectorate; we repaired to our </p><p>accustomed abode near Hyde Park. Idris now for the first time for many </p><p>years saw her mother, anxious to assure herself that the childishness of </p><p>old age did not mingle with unforgotten pride, to make this high-born dame </p><p>still so inveterate against me. Age and care had furrowed her cheeks, and </p><p>bent her form; but her eye was still bright, her manners authoritative and </p><p>unchanged; she received her daughter coldly, but displayed more feeling as </p><p>she folded her grand-children in her arms. It is our nature to wish to </p><p>continue our systems and thoughts to posterity through our own offspring. </p><p>The Countess had failed in this design with regard to her children; perhaps </p><p>she hoped to find the next remove in birth more tractable. Once Idris named </p><p>me casually--a frown, a convulsive gesture of anger, shook her mother, </p><p>and, with voice trembling with hate, she said--"I am of little worth in </p><p>this world; the young are impatient to push the old off the scene; but, </p><p>Idris, if you do not wish to see your mother expire at your feet, never </p><p>again name that person to me; all else I can bear; and now I am resigned to </p><p>the destruction of my cherished hopes: but it is too much to require that I </p><p>should love the instrument that providence gifted with murderous properties </p><p>for my destruction." </p><p>This was a strange speech, now that, on the empty stage, each might play </p><p>his part without impediment from the other. But the haughty Ex-Queen </p><p>thought as Octavius Caesar and Mark Antony, </p><p> We could not stall together</p><p> In the whole world.</p><p>The period of our departure was fixed for the twenty-fifth of November. The </p><p>weather was temperate; soft rains fell at night, and by day the wintry sun </p><p>shone out. Our numbers were to move forward in separate parties, and to go </p><p>by different routes, all to unite at last at Paris. Adrian and his </p><p>division, consisting in all of five hundred persons, were to take the </p><p>direction of Dover and Calais. On the twentieth of November, Adrian and I </p><p>rode for the last time through the streets of London. They were grass-grown </p><p>and desert. The open doors of the empty mansions creaked upon their hinges; </p><p>rank herbage, and deforming dirt, had swiftly accumulated on the steps of </p><p>the houses; the voiceless steeples of the churches pierced the smokeless </p><p>air; the churches were open, but no prayer was offered at the altars; </p><p>mildew and damp had already defaced their ornaments; birds, and tame</p><p>animals, now homeless, had built nests, and made their lairs in consecrated </p><p>spots. We passed St. Paul's. London, which had extended so far in suburbs </p><p>in all direction, had been somewhat deserted in the midst, and much of what </p><p>had in former days obscured this vast building was removed. Its ponderous </p><p>mass, blackened stone, and high dome, made it look, not like a temple, but </p><p>a tomb. Methought above the portico was engraved the Hic jacet of England. </p><p>We passed on eastwards, engaged in such solemn talk as the times inspired. </p><p>No human step was heard, nor human form discerned. Troops of dogs, deserted </p><p>of their masters, passed us; and now and then a horse, unbridled and </p><p>unsaddled, trotted towards us, and tried to attract the attention of those </p><p>which we rode, as if to allure them to seek like liberty. An unwieldy ox, </p><p>who had fed in an abandoned granary, suddenly lowed, and shewed his </p><p>shapeless form in a narrow door-way; every thing was desert; but nothing </p><p>was in ruin. And this medley of undamaged buildings, and luxurious </p><p>accommodation, in trim and fresh youth, was contrasted with the lonely </p><p>silence of the unpeopled streets. </p><p>Night closed in, and it began to rain. We were about to return homewards, </p><p>when a voice, a human voice, strange now to hear, attracted our attention. </p><p>It was a child singing a merry, lightsome air; there was no other sound. We </p><p>had traversed London from Hyde Park even to where we now were in the </p><p>Minories, and had met no person, heard no voice nor footstep. The singing </p><p>was interrupted by laughing and talking; never was merry ditty so sadly </p><p>timed, never laughter more akin to tears. The door of the house from which </p><p>these sounds proceeded was open, the upper rooms were illuminated as for a </p><p>feast. It was a large magnificent house, in which doubtless some rich </p><p>merchant had lived. The singing again commenced, and rang through the </p><p>high-roofed rooms, while we silently ascended the stair-case. Lights now </p><p>appeared to guide us; and a long suite of splendid rooms illuminated, made </p><p>us still more wonder. Their only inhabitant, a little girl, was dancing, </p><p>waltzing, and singing about them, followed by a large Newfoundland dog, who </p><p>boisterously jumping on her, and interrupting her, made her now scold, now </p><p>laugh, now throw herself on the carpet to play with him. She was dressed </p><p>grotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit for a woman; she appeared </p><p>about ten years of age. We stood at the door looking on this strange scene, </p><p>till the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child turned and saw us: her </p><p>face, losing its gaiety, assumed a sullen expression: she slunk back, </p><p>apparently meditating an escape. I came up to her, and held her hand; she </p><p>did not resist, but with a stern brow, so strange in childhood, so </p><p>different from her former hilarity, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the </p><p>ground. "What do you do here?" I said gently; "Who are you?"--she was </p><p>silent, but trembled violently.--"My poor child," asked Adrian, "are you </p><p>alone?" There was a winning softness in his voice, that went to the heart </p><p>of the little girl; she looked at him, then snatching her hand from me, </p><p>threw herself into his arms, clinging round his neck, ejaculating--"Save </p><p>me! save me!" while her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears. </p><p>"I will save you," he replied, "of what are you afraid? you need not fear </p><p>my friend, he will do you no harm. Are you alone?" </p><p>"No, Lion is with me." </p><p>"And your father and mother?--" </p><p>"I never had any; I am a charity girl. Every body is gone, gone for a </p><p>great, great many days; but if they come back and find me out, they will </p><p>beat me so!" </p><p>Her unhappy story was told in these few words: an orphan, taken on</p><p>pretended charity, ill-treated and reviled, her oppressors had died: </p><p>unknowing of what had passed around her, she found herself alone; she had </p><p>not dared venture out, but by the continuance of her solitude her courage </p><p>revived, her childish vivacity caused her to play a thousand freaks, and </p><p>with her brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing nothing but the </p><p>return of the harsh voices and cruel usage of her protectors. She readily </p><p>consented to go with Adrian. </p><p>In the mean time, while we descanted on alien sorrows, and on a solitude </p><p>which struck our eyes and not our hearts, while we imagined all of change </p><p>and suffering that had intervened in these once thronged streets, before, </p><p>tenantless and abandoned, they became mere kennels for dogs, and stables </p><p>for cattle:--while we read the death of the world upon the dark fane, and </p><p>hugged ourselves in the remembrance that we possessed that which was all </p><p>the world to us--in the meanwhile--- </p><p>We had arrived from Windsor early in October, and had now been in London </p><p>about six weeks. Day by day, during that time, the health of my Idris </p><p>declined: her heart was broken; neither sleep nor appetite, the chosen </p><p>servants of health, waited on her wasted form. To watch her children hour </p><p>by hour, to sit by me, drinking deep the dear persuasion that I remained to </p><p>her, was all her pastime. Her vivacity, so long assumed, her affectionate </p><p>display of cheerfulness, her light-hearted tone and springy gait were gone. </p><p>I could not disguise to myself, nor could she conceal, her life-consuming </p><p>sorrow. Still change of scene, and reviving hopes might restore her; I </p><p>feared the plague only, and she was untouched by that. </p><p>I had left her this evening, reposing after the fatigues of her </p><p>preparations. Clara sat beside her, relating a story to the two boys. The </p><p>eyes of Idris were closed: but Clara perceived a sudden change in the </p><p>appearance of our eldest darling; his heavy lids veiled his eyes, an </p><p>unnatural colour burnt in his cheeks, his breath became short. Clara looked </p><p>at the mother; she slept, yet started at the pause the narrator made-- </p><p>Fear of awakening and alarming her, caused Clara to go on at the eager call </p><p>of Evelyn, who was unaware of what was passing. Her eyes turned alternately </p><p>from Alfred to Idris; with trembling accents she continued her tale, till </p><p>she saw the child about to fall: starting forward she caught him, and her </p><p>cry roused Idris. She looked on her son. She saw death stealing across his </p><p>features; she laid him on a bed, she held drink to his parched lips. </p><p>Yet he might be saved. If I were there, he might be saved; perhaps it was </p><p>not the plague. Without a counsellor, what could she do? stay and behold </p><p>him die! Why at that moment was I away? "Look to him, Clara," she </p><p>exclaimed, "I will return immediately." </p><p>She inquired among those who, selected as the companions of our journey, </p><p>had taken up their residence in our house; she heard from them merely that </p><p>I had gone out with Adrian. She entreated them to seek me: she returned to </p><p>her child, he was plunged in a frightful state of torpor; again she rushed </p><p>down stairs; all was dark, desert, and silent; she lost all </p><p>self-possession; she ran into the street; she called on my name. The </p><p>pattering rain and howling wind alone replied to her. Wild fear gave wings </p><p>to her feet; she darted forward to seek me, she knew not where; but, </p><p>putting all her thoughts, all her energy, all her being in speed only, most </p><p>misdirected speed, she neither felt, nor feared, nor paused, but ran right </p><p>on, till her strength suddenly deserted her so suddenly, that she had not </p><p>thought to save herself. Her knees failed her, and she fell heavily on the </p><p>pavement. She was stunned for a time; but at length rose, and though sorely </p><p>hurt, still walked on, shedding a fountain of tears, stumbling at times,</p><p>going she knew not whither, only now and then with feeble voice she called </p><p>my name, adding with heart-piercing exclamations, that I was cruel and </p><p>unkind. Human being there was none to reply; and the inclemency of the </p><p>night had driven the wandering animals to the habitations they had usurped. </p><p>Her thin dress was drenched with rain; her wet hair clung round her neck; </p><p>she tottered through the dark streets; till, striking her foot against an </p><p>unseen impediment, she again fell; she could not rise; she hardly strove; </p><p>but, gathering up her limbs, she resigned herself to the fury of the </p><p>elements, and the bitter grief of her own heart. She breathed an earnest </p><p>prayer to die speedily, for there was no relief but death. While hopeless </p><p>of safety for herself, she ceased to lament for her dying child, but shed </p><p>kindly, bitter tears for the grief I should experience in losing her. While </p><p>she lay, life almost suspended, she felt a warm, soft hand on her brow, and </p><p>a gentle female voice asked her, with expressions of tender compassion, if </p><p>she could not rise? That another human being, sympathetic and kind, should </p><p>exist near, roused her; half rising, with clasped hands, and fresh </p><p>springing tears, she entreated her companion to seek for me, to bid me </p><p>hasten to my dying child, to save him, for the love of heaven, to save </p><p>him! </p><p>The woman raised her; she led her under shelter, she entreated her to </p><p>return to her home, whither perhaps I had already returned. Idris easily </p><p>yielded to her persuasions, she leaned on the arm of her friend, she </p><p>endeavoured to walk on, but irresistible faintness made her pause again and </p><p>again. </p><p>Quickened by the encreasing storm, we had hastened our return, our little </p><p>charge was placed before Adrian on his horse. There was an assemblage of </p><p>persons under the portico of our house, in whose gestures I instinctively </p><p>read some heavy change, some new misfortune. With swift alarm, afraid to </p><p>ask a single question, I leapt from my horse; the spectators saw me, knew </p><p>me, and in awful silence divided to make way for me. I snatched a light, </p><p>and rushing up stairs, and hearing a groan, without reflection I threw open </p><p>the door of the first room that presented itself. It was quite dark; but, </p><p>as I stept within, a pernicious scent assailed my senses, producing </p><p>sickening qualms, which made their way to my very heart, while I felt my </p><p>leg clasped, and a groan repeated by the person that held me. I lowered my </p><p>lamp, and saw a negro half clad, writhing under the agony of disease, while </p><p>he held me with a convulsive grasp. With mixed horror and impatience I </p><p>strove to disengage myself, and fell on the sufferer; he wound his naked </p><p>festering arms round me, his face was close to mine, and his breath, </p><p>death-laden, entered my vitals. For a moment I was overcome, my head was </p><p>bowed by aching nausea; till, reflection returning, I sprung up, threw the </p><p>wretch from me, and darting up the staircase, entered the chamber usually </p><p>inhabited by my family. A dim light shewed me Alfred on a couch; Clara </p><p>trembling, and paler than whitest snow, had raised him on her arm, holding </p><p>a cup of water to his lips. I saw full well that no spark of life existed </p><p>in that ruined form, his features were rigid, his eyes glazed, his head had </p><p>fallen back. I took him from her, I laid him softly down, kissed his cold </p><p>little mouth, and turned to speak in a vain whisper, when loudest sound of </p><p>thunderlike cannon could not have reached him in his immaterial abode. </p><p>And where was Idris? That she had gone out to seek me, and had not </p><p>returned, were fearful tidings, while the rain and driving wind clattered </p><p>against the window, and roared round the house. Added to this, the </p><p>sickening sensation of disease gained upon me; no time was to be lost, if </p><p>ever I would see her again. I mounted my horse and rode out to seek her, </p><p>fancying that I heard her voice in every gust, oppressed by fever and </p><p>aching pain.</p><p>I rode in the dark and rain through the labyrinthine streets of unpeopled </p><p>London. My child lay dead at home; the seeds of mortal disease had taken </p><p>root in my bosom; I went to seek Idris, my adored, now wandering alone, </p><p>while the waters were rushing from heaven like a cataract to bathe her dear </p><p>head in chill damp, her fair limbs in numbing cold. A female stood on the </p><p>step of a door, and called to me as I gallopped past. It was not Idris; so </p><p>I rode swiftly on, until a kind of second sight, a reflection back again on </p><p>my senses of what I had seen but not marked, made me feel sure that another </p><p>figure, thin, graceful and tall, stood clinging to the foremost person who </p><p>supported her. In a minute I was beside the suppliant, in a minute I </p><p>received the sinking Idris in my arms. Lifting her up, I placed her on the </p><p>horse; she had not strength to support herself; so I mounted </p><p>behind her, and held her close to my bosom, wrapping my riding-cloak round </p><p>her, while her companion, whose well known, but changed countenance, (it </p><p>was Juliet, daughter of the Duke of L---) could at this moment of horror </p><p>obtain from me no more than a passing glance of compassion. She took the </p><p>abandoned rein, and conducted our obedient steed homewards. Dare I avouch </p><p>it? That was the last moment of my happiness; but I was happy. Idris must </p><p>die, for her heart was broken: I must die, for I had caught the plague; </p><p>earth was a scene of desolation; hope was madness; life had married death; </p><p>they were one; but, thus supporting my fainting love, thus feeling that I </p><p>must soon die, I revelled in the delight of possessing her once more; again </p><p>and again I kissed her, and pressed her to my heart. </p><p>We arrived at our home. I assisted her to dismount, I carried her up </p><p>stairs, and gave her into Clara's care, that her wet garments might be </p><p>changed. Briefly I assured Adrian of her safety, and requested that we </p><p>might be left to repose. As the miser, who with trembling caution visits </p><p>his treasure to count it again and again, so I numbered each moment, and </p><p>grudged every one that was not spent with Idris. I returned swiftly to the </p><p>chamber where the life of my life reposed; before I entered the room I </p><p>paused for a few seconds; for a few seconds I tried to examine my state; </p><p>sickness and shuddering ever and anon came over me; my head was heavy, my </p><p>chest oppressed, my legs bent under me; but I threw off resolutely the </p><p>swift growing symptoms of my disorder, and met Idris with placid and even </p><p>joyous looks. She was lying on a couch; carefully fastening the door to </p><p>prevent all intrusion; I sat by her, we embraced, and our lips met in a </p><p>kiss long drawn and breathless--would that moment had been my last! </p><p>Maternal feeling now awoke in my poor girl's bosom, and she asked: "And </p><p>Alfred?" </p><p>"Idris," I replied, "we are spared to each other, we are together; </p><p>do not let any other idea intrude. I am happy; even on this fatal night, I </p><p>declare myself happy, beyond all name, all thought--what would you more, </p><p>sweet one?" </p><p>Idris understood me: she bowed her head on my shoulder and wept. "Why," she </p><p>again asked, "do you tremble, Lionel, what shakes you thus?" </p><p>"Well may I be shaken," I replied, "happy as I am. Our child is dead, and </p><p>the present hour is dark and ominous. Well may I tremble! but, I am happy, </p><p>mine own Idris, most happy." </p><p>"I understand thee, my kind love," said Idris, "thus--pale as thou art </p><p>with sorrow at our loss; trembling and aghast, though wouldest assuage my </p><p>grief by thy dear assurances. I am not happy," (and the tears flashed and </p><p>fell from under her down-cast lids), "for we are inmates of a miserable</p><p>prison, and there is no joy for us; but the true love I bear you will </p><p>render this and every other loss endurable." </p><p>"We have been happy together, at least," I said; "no future misery can </p><p>deprive us of the past. We have been true to each other for years, ever </p><p>since my sweet princess-love came through the snow to the lowly cottage </p><p>of the poverty-striken heir of the ruined Verney. Even now, that eternity </p><p>is before us, we take hope only from the presence of each other. Idris, </p><p>do you think, that when we die, we shall be divided?" </p><p>"Die! when we die! what mean you? What secret lies hid from me in those </p><p>dreadful words?" </p><p>"Must we not all die, dearest?" I asked with a sad smile. </p><p>"Gracious God! are you ill, Lionel, that you speak of death? My only </p><p>friend, heart of my heart, speak!" </p><p>"I do not think," replied I, "that we have any of us long to live; and when </p><p>the curtain drops on this mortal scene, where, think you, we shall find </p><p>ourselves?" Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone and look; she </p><p>answered:--"You may easily believe that during this long progress of the </p><p>plague, I have thought much on death, and asked myself, now that all </p><p>mankind is dead to this life, to what other life they may have been borne. </p><p>Hour after hour, I have dwelt on these thoughts, and strove to form a </p><p>rational conclusion concerning the mystery of a future state. What a </p><p>scare-crow, indeed, would death be, if we were merely to cast aside the </p><p>shadow in which we now walk, and, stepping forth into the unclouded </p><p>sunshine of knowledge and love, revived with the same companions, the same </p><p>affections, and reached the fulfilment of our hopes, leaving our fears with </p><p>our earthly vesture in the grave. Alas! the same strong feeling which makes </p><p>me sure that I shall not wholly die, makes me refuse to believe that I </p><p>shall live wholly as I do now. Yet, Lionel, never, never, can I love any </p><p>but you; through eternity I must desire your society; and, as I am innocent </p><p>of harm to others, and as relying and confident as my mortal nature </p><p>permits, I trust that the Ruler of the world will never tear us asunder." </p><p>"Your remarks are like yourself, dear love," replied I, "gentle and good; </p><p>let us cherish such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our minds. But, </p><p>sweet, we are so formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our nature, to </p><p>yield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we must love life, and </p><p>cling to it; we must love the living smile, the sympathetic touch, and </p><p>thrilling voice, peculiar to our mortal mechanism. Let us not, through </p><p>security in hereafter, neglect the present. This present moment, short as </p><p>it is, is a part of eternity, and the dearest part, since it is our own </p><p>unalienably. Thou, the hope of my futurity, art my present joy. Let me then </p><p>look on thy dear eyes, and, reading love in them, drink intoxicating </p><p>pleasure." </p><p>Timidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris looked on me. My </p><p>eyes were bloodshot, starting from my head; every artery beat, methought, </p><p>audibly, every muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt. Her look of wild </p><p>affright told me, that I could no longer keep my secret:--"So it is, mine </p><p>own beloved," I said, "the last hour of many happy ones is arrived, nor can </p><p>we shun any longer the inevitable destiny. I cannot live long--but, again </p><p>and again, I say, this moment is ours!" </p><p>Paler than marble, with white lips and convulsed features, Idris became </p><p>aware of my situation. My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist. She felt the</p><p>palm burn with fever, even on the heart it pressed:--"One moment," she </p><p>murmured, scarce audibly, "only one moment."-- </p><p>She kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered a brief, but earnest </p><p>prayer, that she might fulfil her duty, and watch over me to the last. </p><p>While there was hope, the agony had been unendurable;--all was now </p><p>concluded; her feelings became solemn and calm. Even as Epicharis, </p><p>unperturbed and firm, submitted to the instruments of torture, did Idris, </p><p>suppressing every sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the endurance of </p><p>torments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint and metaphysical </p><p>symbols. </p><p>I was changed; the tight-drawn cord that sounded so harshly was loosened, </p><p>the moment that Idris participated in my knowledge of our real situation. </p><p>The perturbed and passion-tossed waves of thought subsided, leaving only </p><p>the heavy swell that kept right on without any outward manifestation of its </p><p>disturbance, till it should break on the remote shore towards which I </p><p>rapidly advanced:--"It is true that I am sick," I said, "and your </p><p>society, my Idris is my only medicine; come, and sit beside me." </p><p>She made me lie down on the couch, and, drawing a low ottoman near, sat </p><p>close to my pillow, pressing my burning hands in her cold palms. She </p><p>yielded to my feverish restlessness, and let me talk, and talked to me, on </p><p>subjects strange indeed to beings, who thus looked the last, and heard the </p><p>last, of what they loved alone in the world. We talked of times gone by; of </p><p>the happy period of our early love; of Raymond, Perdita, and Evadne. We </p><p>talked of what might arise on this desert earth, if, two or three being </p><p>saved, it were slowly re-peopled.--We talked of what was beyond the tomb; </p><p>and, man in his human shape being nearly extinct, we felt with certainty of </p><p>faith, that other spirits, other minds, other perceptive beings, sightless </p><p>to us, must people with thought and love this beauteous and imperishable </p><p>universe. </p><p>We talked--I know not how long--but, in the morning I awoke from a </p><p>painful heavy slumber; the pale cheek of Idris rested on my pillow; the </p><p>large orbs of her eyes half raised the lids, and shewed the deep blue </p><p>lights beneath; her lips were unclosed, and the slight murmurs they formed </p><p>told that, even while asleep, she suffered. "If she were dead," I thought, </p><p>"what difference? now that form is the temple of a residing deity; those </p><p>eyes are the windows of her soul; all grace, love, and intelligence are </p><p>throned on that lovely bosom--were she dead, where would this mind, the </p><p>dearer half of mine, be? For quickly the fair proportion of this edifice </p><p>would be more defaced, than are the sand-choked ruins of the desert temples </p><p>of Palmyra." </p><p>CHAPTER III. </p><p>IDRIS stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery. She saw the signs of </p><p>disease on my countenance, and wondered how she could permit the long night </p><p>to pass without her having sought, not cure, that was impossible, but </p><p>alleviation to my sufferings. She called Adrian; my couch was quickly </p><p>surrounded by friends and assistants, and such medicines as were judged </p><p>fitting were administered. It was the peculiar and dreadful distinction of </p><p>our visitation, that none who had been attacked by the pestilence had </p><p>recovered. The first symptom of the disease was the death-warrant, which in</p><p>no single instance had been followed by pardon or reprieve. No gleam of </p><p>hope therefore cheered my friends. </p><p>While fever producing torpor, heavy pains, sitting like lead on my limbs, </p><p>and making my breast heave, were upon me; I continued insensible to every </p><p>thing but pain, and at last even to that. I awoke on the fourth morning as </p><p>from a dreamless sleep. An irritating sense of thirst, and, when I strove </p><p>to speak or move, an entire dereliction of power, was all I felt. </p><p>For three days and nights Idris had not moved from my side. She </p><p>administered to all my wants, and never slept nor rested. She did not hope; </p><p>and therefore she neither endeavoured to read the physician's countenance, </p><p>nor to watch for symptoms of recovery. All her thought was to attend on me </p><p>to the last, and then to lie down and die beside me. On the third night </p><p>animation was suspended; to the eye and touch of all I was dead. With </p><p>earnest prayer, almost with force, Adrian tried to draw Idris from me. He </p><p>exhausted every adjuration, her child's welfare and his own. She shook her </p><p>head, and wiped a stealing tear from her sunk cheek, but would not yield; </p><p>she entreated to be allowed to watch me that one night only, with such </p><p>affliction and meek earnestness, that she gained her point, and sat silent </p><p>and motionless, except when, stung by intolerable remembrance, she kissed </p><p>my closed eyes and pallid lips, and pressed my stiffening hands to her </p><p>beating heart. </p><p>At dead of night, when, though it was mid winter, the cock crowed at three </p><p>o'clock, as herald of the morning change, while hanging over me, and </p><p>mourning in silent, bitter thought for the loss of all of love towards her </p><p>that had been enshrined in my heart; her dishevelled hair hung over her </p><p>face, and the long tresses fell on the bed; she saw one ringlet in motion, </p><p>and the scattered hair slightly stirred, as by a breath. It is not so, she </p><p>thought, for he will never breathe more. Several times the same thing </p><p>occurred, and she only marked it by the same reflection; till the whole </p><p>ringlet waved back, and she thought she saw my breast heave. Her first </p><p>emotion was deadly fear, cold dew stood on her brow; my eyes half opened; </p><p>and, re-assured, she would have exclaimed, "He lives!" but the words were </p><p>choked by a spasm, and she fell with a groan on the floor. </p><p>Adrian was in the chamber. After long watching, he had unwillingly fallen </p><p>into a sleep. He started up, and beheld his sister senseless on the earth, </p><p>weltering in a stream of blood that gushed from her mouth. Encreasing signs </p><p>of life in me in some degree explained her state; the surprise, the burst </p><p>of joy, the revulsion of every sentiment, had been too much for her frame, </p><p>worn by long months of care, late shattered by every species of woe and </p><p>toil. She was now in far greater danger than I, the wheels and springs of </p><p>my life, once again set in motion, acquired elasticity from their short </p><p>suspension. For a long time, no one believed that I should indeed continue </p><p>to live; during the reign of the plague upon earth, not one person, </p><p>attacked by the grim disease, had recovered. My restoration was looked on </p><p>as a deception; every moment it was expected that the evil symptoms would </p><p>recur with redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence, absence of </p><p>all fever or pain, and encreasing strength, brought slow conviction that I </p><p>had recovered from the plague. </p><p>The restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I had been attacked </p><p>by illness, her cheeks were sunk, her form emaciated; but now, the vessel, </p><p>which had broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did not entirely </p><p>heal, but was as a channel that drop by drop drew from her the ruddy stream </p><p>that vivified her heart. Her hollow eyes and worn countenance had a ghastly </p><p>appearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair brow, the projection of the</p><p>mouth, stood fearfully prominent; you might tell each bone in the thin </p><p>anatomy of her frame. Her hand hung powerless; each joint lay bare, so that </p><p>the light penetrated through and through. It was strange that life could </p><p>exist in what was wasted and worn into a very type of death. </p><p>To take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead her to forget the </p><p>world's desolation in the variety of objects presented by travelling, and </p><p>to nurse her failing strength in the mild climate towards which we had </p><p>resolved to journey, was my last hope for her preservation. The </p><p>preparations for our departure, which had been suspended during my illness, </p><p>were renewed. I did not revive to doubtful convalescence; health spent her </p><p>treasures upon me; as the tree in spring may feel from its wrinkled limbs </p><p>the fresh green break forth, and the living sap rise and circulate, so did </p><p>the renewed vigour of my frame, the cheerful current of my blood, the </p><p>new-born elasticity of my limbs, influence my mind to cheerful endurance </p><p>and pleasurable thoughts. My body, late the heavy weight that bound me to </p><p>the tomb, was exuberant with health; mere common exercises were </p><p>insufficient for my reviving strength; methought I could emulate the speed </p><p>of the race-horse, discern through the air objects at a blinding distance, </p><p>hear the operations of nature in her mute abodes; my senses had become so </p><p>refined and susceptible after my recovery from mortal disease. </p><p>Hope, among my other blessings, was not denied to me; and I did fondly </p><p>trust that my unwearied attentions would restore my adored girl. I was </p><p>therefore eager to forward our preparations. According to the plan first </p><p>laid down, we were to have quitted London on the twenty-fifth of November; </p><p>and, in pursuance of this scheme, two-thirds of our people--thepeople-- </p><p>all that remained of England, had gone forward, and had already been some </p><p>weeks in Paris. First my illness, and subsequently that of Idris, had </p><p>detained Adrian with his division, which consisted of three hundred </p><p>persons, so that we now departed on the first of January, 2098. It was my </p><p>wish to keep Idris as distant as possible from the hurry and clamour of the </p><p>crowd, and to hide from her those appearances that would remind her most </p><p>forcibly of our real situation. We separated ourselves to a great degree </p><p>from Adrian, who was obliged to give his whole time to public business. The </p><p>Countess of Windsor travelled with her son. Clara, Evelyn, and a female who </p><p>acted as our attendant, were the only persons with whom we had contact. We </p><p>occupied a commodious carriage, our servant officiated as coachman. A party </p><p>of about twenty persons preceded us at a small distance. They had it in </p><p>charge to prepare our halting places and our nightly abode. They had been </p><p>selected for this service out of a great number that offered, on account of </p><p>the superior sagacity of the man who had been appointed their leader. </p><p>Immediately on our departure, I was delighted to find a change in Idris, </p><p>which I fondly hoped prognosticated the happiest results. All the </p><p>cheerfulness and gentle gaiety natural to her revived. She was weak, and </p><p>this alteration was rather displayed in looks and voice than in acts; but </p><p>it was permanent and real. My recovery from the plague and confirmed health </p><p>instilled into her a firm belief that I was now secure from this dread </p><p>enemy. She told me that she was sure she should recover. That she had a </p><p>presentiment, that the tide of calamity which deluged our unhappy race had </p><p>now turned. That the remnant would be preserved, and among them the dear </p><p>objects of her tender affection; and that in some selected spot we should </p><p>wear out our lives together in pleasant society. "Do not let my state of </p><p>feebleness deceive you," she said; "I feel that I am better; there is a </p><p>quick life within me, and a spirit of anticipation that assures me, that I </p><p>shall continue long to make a part of this world. I shall throw off this </p><p>degrading weakness of body, which infects even my mind with debility, and I </p><p>shall enter again on the performance of my duties. I was sorry to leave</p><p>Windsor: but now I am weaned from this local attachment; I am content to </p><p>remove to a mild climate, which will complete my recovery. Trust me, </p><p>dearest, I shall neither leave you, nor my brother, nor these dear </p><p>children; my firm determination to remain with you to the last, and to </p><p>continue to contribute to your happiness and welfare, would keep me alive, </p><p>even if grim death were nearer at hand than he really is." </p><p>I was only half re-assured by these expressions; I could not believe that </p><p>the over-quick flow of her blood was a sign of health, or that her burning </p><p>cheeks denoted convalescence. But I had no fears of an immediate </p><p>catastrophe; nay, I persuaded myself that she would ultimately recover. And </p><p>thus cheerfulness reigned in our little society. Idris conversed with </p><p>animation on a thousand topics. Her chief desire was to lead our thoughts </p><p>from melancholy reflections; so she drew charming pictures of a tranquil </p><p>solitude, of a beauteous retreat, of the simple manners of our little </p><p>tribe, and of the patriarchal brotherhood of love, which would survive the </p><p>ruins of the populous nations which had lately existed. We shut out from </p><p>our thoughts the present, and withdrew our eyes from the dreary landscape </p><p>we traversed. Winter reigned in all its gloom. The leafless trees lay </p><p>without motion against the dun sky; the forms of frost, mimicking the </p><p>foliage of summer, strewed the ground; the paths were overgrown; the </p><p>unploughed cornfields were patched with grass and weeds; the sheep </p><p>congregated at the threshold of the cottage, the horned ox thrust his head </p><p>from the window. The wind was bleak, and frequent sleet or snow-storms, </p><p>added to the melancholy appearance wintry nature assumed. </p><p>We arrived at Rochester, and an accident caused us to be detained there a </p><p>day. During that time, a circumstance occurred that changed our plans, and </p><p>which, alas! in its result changed the eternal course of events, turning me </p><p>from the pleasant new sprung hope I enjoyed, to an obscure and gloomy </p><p>desert. But I must give some little explanation before I proceed with the </p><p>final cause of our temporary alteration of plan, and refer again to those </p><p>times when man walked the earth fearless, before Plague had become Queen of </p><p>the World. </p><p>There resided a family in the neighbourhood of Windsor, of very humble </p><p>pretensions, but which had been an object of interest to us on account of </p><p>one of the persons of whom it was composed. The family of the Claytons had </p><p>known better days; but, after a series of reverses, the father died a </p><p>bankrupt, and the mother heartbroken, and a confirmed invalid, retired with </p><p>her five children to a little cottage between Eton and Salt Hill. The </p><p>eldest of these children, who was thirteen years old, seemed at once from </p><p>the influence of adversity, to acquire the sagacity and principle belonging </p><p>to a more mature age. Her mother grew worse and worse in health, but Lucy </p><p>attended on her, and was as a tender parent to her younger brothers and </p><p>sisters, and in the meantime shewed herself so good-humoured, social, and </p><p>benevolent, that she was beloved as well as honoured, in her little </p><p>neighbourhood. </p><p>Lucy was besides extremely pretty; so when she grew to be sixteen, it was </p><p>to be supposed, notwithstanding her poverty, that she should have admirers. </p><p>One of these was the son of a country-curate; he was a generous, </p><p>frank-hearted youth, with an ardent love of knowledge, and no mean </p><p>acquirements. Though Lucy was untaught, her mother's conversation and </p><p>manners gave her a taste for refinements superior to her present situation. </p><p>She loved the youth even without knowing it, except that in any difficulty </p><p>she naturally turned to him for aid, and awoke with a lighter heart every </p><p>Sunday, because she knew that she would be met and accompanied by him in </p><p>her evening walk with her sisters. She had another admirer, one of the</p><p>head-waiters at the inn at Salt Hill. He also was not without pretensions </p><p>to urbane superiority, such as he learnt from gentlemen's servants and </p><p>waiting-maids, who initiating him in all the slang of high life below </p><p>stairs, rendered his arrogant temper ten times more intrusive. Lucy did not </p><p>disclaim him--she was incapable of that feeling; but she was sorry when </p><p>she saw him approach, and quietly resisted all his endeavours to establish </p><p>an intimacy. The fellow soon discovered that his rival was preferred to </p><p>him; and this changed what was at first a chance admiration into a passion, </p><p>whose main springs were envy, and a base desire to deprive his competitor </p><p>of the advantage he enjoyed over himself. </p><p>Poor Lucy's sad story was but a common one. Her lover's father died; and he </p><p>was left destitute. He accepted the offer of a gentleman to go to India </p><p>with him, feeling secure that he should soon acquire an independence, and </p><p>return to claim the hand of his beloved. He became involved in the war </p><p>carried on there, was taken prisoner, and years elapsed before tidings of </p><p>his existence were received in his native land. In the meantime disastrous </p><p>poverty came on Lucy. Her little cottage, which stood looking from its </p><p>trellice, covered with woodbine and jessamine, was burnt down; and the </p><p>whole of their little property was included in the destruction. Whither </p><p>betake them? By what exertion of industry could Lucy procure them another </p><p>abode? Her mother nearly bed-rid, could not survive any extreme of </p><p>famine-struck poverty. At this time her other admirer stept forward, and </p><p>renewed his offer of marriage. He had saved money, and was going to set up </p><p>a little inn at Datchet. There was nothing alluring to Lucy in this offer, </p><p>except the home it secured to her mother; and she felt more sure of this, </p><p>since she was struck by the apparent generosity which occasioned the </p><p>present offer. She accepted it; thus sacrificing herself for the comfort </p><p>and welfare of her parent. </p><p>It was some years after her marriage that we became acquainted with her. </p><p>The accident of a storm caused us to take refuge in the inn, where we </p><p>witnessed the brutal and quarrelsome behaviour of her husband, and her </p><p>patient endurance. Her lot was not a fortunate one. Her first lover had </p><p>returned with the hope of making her his own, and met her by accident, for </p><p>the first time, as the mistress of his country inn, and the wife of </p><p>another. He withdrew despairingly to foreign parts; nothing went well with </p><p>him; at last he enlisted, and came back again wounded and sick, and yet </p><p>Lucy was debarred from nursing him. Her husband's brutal disposition was </p><p>aggravated by his yielding to the many temptations held out by his </p><p>situation, and the consequent disarrangement of his affairs. Fortunately </p><p>she had no children; but her heart was bound up in her brothers and </p><p>sisters, and these his avarice and ill temper soon drove from the house; </p><p>they were dispersed about the country, earning their livelihood with toil </p><p>and care. He even shewed an inclination to get rid of her mother--but </p><p>Lucy was firm here--she had sacrificed herself for her; she lived for her </p><p>--she would not part with her--if the mother went, she would also go beg </p><p>bread for her, die with her, but never desert her. The presence of Lucy was </p><p>too necessary in keeping up the order of the house, and in preventing the </p><p>whole establishment from going to wreck, for him to permit her to leave </p><p>him. He yielded the point; but in all accesses of anger, or in his drunken </p><p>fits, he recurred to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy's heart by </p><p>opprobrious epithets bestowed on her parent. </p><p>A passion however, if it be wholly pure, entire, and reciprocal, brings </p><p>with it its own solace. Lucy was truly, and from the depth of heart, </p><p>devoted to her mother; the sole end she proposed to herself in life, was </p><p>the comfort and preservation of this parent. Though she grieved for the </p><p>result, yet she did not repent of her marriage, even when her lover</p><p>returned to bestow competence on her. Three years had intervened, and how, </p><p>in their pennyless state, could her mother have existed during this time? </p><p>This excellent woman was worthy of her child's devotion. A perfect </p><p>confidence and friendship existed between them; besides, she was by no </p><p>means illiterate; and Lucy, whose mind had been in some degree cultivated </p><p>by her former lover, now found in her the only person who could understand </p><p>and appreciate her. Thus, though suffering, she was by no means desolate, </p><p>and when, during fine summer days, she led her mother into the flowery and </p><p>shady lanes near their abode, a gleam of unmixed joy enlightened her </p><p>countenance; she saw that her parent was happy, and she knew that this </p><p>happiness was of her sole creating. </p><p>Meanwhile her husband's affairs grew more and more involved; ruin was near </p><p>at hand, and she was about to lose the fruit of all her labours, when </p><p>pestilence came to change the aspect of the world. Her husband reaped </p><p>benefit from the universal misery; but, as the disaster encreased, the </p><p>spirit of lawlessness seized him; he deserted his home to revel in the </p><p>luxuries promised him in London, and found there a grave. Her former lover </p><p>had been one of the first victims of the disease. But Lucy continued to </p><p>live for and in her mother. Her courage only failed when she dreaded peril </p><p>for her parent, or feared that death might prevent her from performing </p><p>those duties to which she was unalterably devoted. </p><p>When we had quitted Windsor for London, as the previous step to our final </p><p>emigration, we visited Lucy, and arranged with her the plan of her own and </p><p>her mother's removal. Lucy was sorry at the necessity which forced her to </p><p>quit her native lanes and village, and to drag an infirm parent from her </p><p>comforts at home, to the homeless waste of depopulate earth; but she was </p><p>too well disciplined by adversity, and of too sweet a temper, to indulge in </p><p>repinings at what was inevitable. </p><p>Subsequent circumstances, my illness and that of Idris, drove her from our </p><p>remembrance; and we called her to mind at last, only to conclude that she </p><p>made one of the few who came from Windsor to join the emigrants, and that </p><p>she was already in Paris. When we arrived at Rochester therefore, we were </p><p>surprised to receive, by a man just come from Slough, a letter from this </p><p>exemplary sufferer. His account was, that, journeying from his home, and </p><p>passing through Datchet, he was surprised to see smoke issue from the </p><p>chimney of the inn, and supposing that he should find comrades for his </p><p>journey assembled there, he knocked and was admitted. There was no one in </p><p>the house but Lucy, and her mother; the latter had been deprived of the use </p><p>of her limbs by an attack of rheumatism, and so, one by one, all the </p><p>remaining inhabitants of the country set forward, leaving them alone. Lucy </p><p>intreated the man to stay with her; in a week or two her mother would be </p><p>better, and they would then set out; but they must perish, if they were </p><p>left thus helpless and forlorn. The man said, that his wife and children </p><p>were already among the emigrants, and it was therefore, according to his </p><p>notion, impossible for him to remain. Lucy, as a last resource, gave him a </p><p>letter for Idris, to be delivered to her wherever he should meet us. This </p><p>commission at least he fulfilled, and Idris received with emotion the </p><p>following letter:-- </p><p>"HONOURED LADY, </p><p>"I am sure that you will remember and pity me, and I dare hope that you </p><p>will assist me; what other hope have I? Pardon my manner of writing, I am </p><p>so bewildered. A month ago my dear mother was deprived of the use of her </p><p>limbs. She is already better, and in another month would I am sure be able </p><p>to travel, in the way you were so kind as to say you would arrange for us.</p><p>But now everybody is gone--everybody--as they went away, each said, </p><p>that perhaps my mother would be better, before we were quite deserted. But </p><p>three days ago I went to Samuel Woods, who, on account of his new-born </p><p>child, remained to the last; and there being a large family of them, I </p><p>thought I could persuade them to wait a little longer for us; but I found </p><p>the house deserted. I have not seen a soul since, till this good man came. </p><p>--What will become of us? My mother does not know our state; she is so </p><p>ill, that I have hidden it from her. </p><p>"Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must perish miserably as we </p><p>are. If I were to try to move my mother now, she would die on the road; and </p><p>if, when she gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to find out the </p><p>roads, and get on so many many miles to the sea, you would all be in </p><p>France, and the great ocean would be between us, which is so terrible even </p><p>to sailors. What would it be to me, a woman, who never saw it? We should be </p><p>imprisoned by it in this country, all, all alone, with no help; better die </p><p>where we are. I can hardly write--I cannot stop my tears--it is not for </p><p>myself; I could put my trust in God; and let the worst come, I think I </p><p>could bear it, if I were alone. But my mother, my sick, my dear, dear </p><p>mother, who never, since I was born, spoke a harsh word to me, </p><p>who has been patient in many sufferings; pity her, dear Lady, </p><p>she must die a miserable death if you do not pity her. People speak </p><p>carelessly of her, because she is old and infirm, as if we must not all, if </p><p>we are spared, become so; and then, when the young are old themselves, they </p><p>will think that they ought to be taken care of. It is very silly of me to </p><p>write in this way to you; but, when I hear her trying not to groan, and see </p><p>her look smiling on me to comfort me, when I know she is in pain; and when </p><p>I think that she does not know the worst, but she soon must; and then she </p><p>will not complain; but I shall sit guessing at all that she is dwelling </p><p>upon, of famine and misery--I feel as if my heart must break, and I do </p><p>not know what I say or do; my mother--mother for whom I have borne much, </p><p>God preserve you from this fate! Preserve her, Lady, and He will bless you; </p><p>and I, poor miserable creature as I am, will thank you and pray for you </p><p>while I live. </p><p>"Your unhappy and dutiful servant, </p><p>"Dec. 30th, 2097. LUCY MARTIN." </p><p>This letter deeply affected Idris, and she instantly proposed, that we </p><p>should return to Datchet, to assist Lucy and her mother. I said that I </p><p>would without delay set out for that place, but entreated her to join her </p><p>brother, and there await my return with the children. But Idris was in high </p><p>spirits, and full of hope. She declared that she could not consent even to </p><p>a temporary separation from me, but that there was no need of this, the </p><p>motion of the carriage did her good, and the distance was too trifling to </p><p>be considered. We could dispatch messengers to Adrian, to inform him of our </p><p>deviation from the original plan. She spoke with vivacity, and drew a </p><p>picture after her own dear heart, of the pleasure we should bestow upon </p><p>Lucy, and declared, if I went, she must accompany me, and that she should </p><p>very much dislike to entrust the charge of rescuing them to others, who </p><p>might fulfil it with coldness or inhumanity. Lucy's life had been one act </p><p>of devotion and virtue; let her now reap the small reward of finding her </p><p>excellence appreciated, and her necessity assisted, by those whom she </p><p>respected and honoured. </p><p>These, and many other arguments, were urged with gentle pertinacity, and </p><p>the ardour of a wish to do all the good in her power, by her whose simple </p><p>expression of a desire and slightest request had ever been a law with me.</p><p>I, of course, consented, the moment that I saw that she had set her heart </p><p>upon this step. We sent half our attendant troop on to Adrian; and with the </p><p>other half our carriage took a retrograde course back to Windsor. </p><p>I wonder now how I could be so blind and senseless, as thus to risk the </p><p>safety of Idris; for, if I had eyes, surely I could see the sure, though </p><p>deceitful, advance of death in her burning cheek and encreasing weakness. </p><p>But she said she was better; and I believed her. Extinction could not be </p><p>near a being, whose vivacity and intelligence hourly encreased, and whose </p><p>frame was endowed with an intense, and I fondly thought, a strong and </p><p>permanent spirit of life. Who, after a great disaster, has not looked back </p><p>with wonder at his inconceivable obtuseness of understanding, that could </p><p>not perceive the many minute threads with which fate weaves the </p><p>inextricable net of our destinies, until he is inmeshed completely in it? </p><p>The cross roads which we now entered upon, were even in a worse state than </p><p>the long neglected high-ways; and the inconvenience seemed to menace the </p><p>perishing frame of Idris with destruction. Passing through Dartford, we </p><p>arrived at Hampton on the second day. Even in this short interval my </p><p>beloved companion grew sensibly worse in health, though her spirits were </p><p>still light, and she cheered my growing anxiety with gay sallies; sometimes </p><p>the thought pierced my brain--Is she dying?--as I saw her fair </p><p>fleshless hand rest on mine, or observed the feebleness with which she </p><p>performed the accustomed acts of life. I drove away the idea, as if it had </p><p>been suggested by insanity; but it occurred again and again, only to be </p><p>dispelled by the continued liveliness of her manner. </p><p>About mid-day, after quitting Hampton, our carriage broke down: the shock </p><p>caused Idris to faint, but on her reviving no other ill consequence ensued; </p><p>our party of attendants had as usual gone on before us, and our coachman </p><p>went in search of another vehicle, our former one being rendered by this </p><p>accident unfit for service. The only place near us was a poor village, in </p><p>which he found a kind of caravan, able to hold four people, but it was </p><p>clumsy and ill hung; besides this he found a very excellent cabriolet: our </p><p>plan was soon arranged; I would drive Idris in the latter; while the </p><p>children were conveyed by the servant in the former. But these arrangements </p><p>cost time; we had agreed to proceed that night to Windsor, and thither our </p><p>purveyors had gone: we should find considerable difficulty in getting </p><p>accommodation, before we reached this place; after all, the distance was </p><p>only ten miles; my horse was a good one; I would go forward at a good pace </p><p>with Idris, leaving the children to follow at a rate more consonant to the </p><p>uses of their cumberous machine. </p><p>Evening closed in quickly, far more quickly than I was prepared to expect. </p><p>At the going down of the sun it began to snow heavily. I attempted in vain </p><p>to defend my beloved companion from the storm; the wind drove the snow in </p><p>our faces; and it lay so high on the ground, that we made but small way; </p><p>while the night was so dark, that but for the white covering on the ground </p><p>we should not have been able to see a yard before us. We had left our </p><p>accompanying caravan far behind us; and now I perceived that the storm had </p><p>made me unconsciously deviate from my intended route. I had gone some miles </p><p>out of my way. My knowledge of the country enabled me to regain the right </p><p>road; but, instead of going, as at first agreed upon, by a cross road </p><p>through Stanwell to Datchet, I was obliged to take the way of Egham and </p><p>Bishopgate. It was certain therefore that I should not be rejoined by the </p><p>other vehicle, that I should not meet a single fellow-creature till we </p><p>arrived at Windsor. </p><p>The back of our carriage was drawn up, and I hung a pelisse before it, thus</p><p>to curtain the beloved sufferer from the pelting sleet. She leaned on my </p><p>shoulder, growing every moment more languid and feeble; at first she </p><p>replied to my words of cheer with affectionate thanks; but by degrees she </p><p>sunk into silence; her head lay heavily upon me; I only knew that she lived </p><p>by her irregular breathing and frequent sighs. For a moment I resolved to </p><p>stop, and, opposing the back of the cabriolet to the force of the tempest, </p><p>to expect morning as well as I might. But the wind was bleak and piercing, </p><p>while the occasional shudderings of my poor Idris, and the intense cold I </p><p>felt myself, demonstrated that this would be a dangerous experiment. At </p><p>length methought she slept--fatal sleep, induced by frost: at this moment </p><p>I saw the heavy outline of a cottage traced on the dark horizon close to </p><p>us: "Dearest love," I said, "support yourself but one moment, and we shall </p><p>have shelter; let us stop here, that I may open the door of this blessed </p><p>dwelling." </p><p>As I spoke, my heart was transported, and my senses swam with excessive </p><p>delight and thankfulness; I placed the head of Idris against the carriage, </p><p>and, leaping out, scrambled through the snow to the cottage, whose door was </p><p>open. I had apparatus about me for procuring light, and that shewed me a </p><p>comfortable room, with a pile of wood in one corner, and no appearance of </p><p>disorder, except that, the door having been left partly open, the snow, </p><p>drifting in, had blocked up the threshold. I returned to the carriage, and </p><p>the sudden change from light to darkness at first blinded me. When I </p><p>recovered my sight--eternal God of this lawless world! O supreme Death! I </p><p>will not disturb thy silent reign, or mar my tale with fruitless </p><p>exclamations of horror--I saw Idris, who had fallen from the seat to the </p><p>bottom of the carriage; her head, its long hair pendent, with one arm, hung </p><p>over the side.--Struck by a spasm of horror, I lifted her up; her heart </p><p>was pulseless, her faded lips unfanned by the slightest breath. </p><p>I carried her into the cottage; I placed her on the bed. Lighting a fire, I </p><p>chafed her stiffening limbs; for two long hours I sought to restore </p><p>departed life; and, when hope was as dead as my beloved, I closed with </p><p>trembling hands her glazed eyes. I did not doubt what I should now do. In </p><p>the confusion attendant on my illness, the task of interring our darling </p><p>Alfred had devolved on his grandmother, the Ex-Queen, and she, true to her </p><p>ruling passion, had caused him to be carried to Windsor, and buried in the </p><p>family vault, in St. George's Chapel. I must proceed to Windsor, to calm </p><p>the anxiety of Clara, who would wait anxiously for us--yet I would fain </p><p>spare her the heart-breaking spectacle of Idris, brought in by me lifeless </p><p>from the journey. So first I would place my beloved beside her child in the </p><p>vault, and then seek the poor children who would be expecting me. </p><p>I lighted the lamps of my carriage; I wrapt her in furs, and placed her </p><p>along the seat; then taking the reins, made the horses go forward. We </p><p>proceeded through the snow, which lay in masses impeding the way, while the </p><p>descending flakes, driving against me with redoubled fury, blinded me. The </p><p>pain occasioned by the angry elements, and the cold iron of the shafts of </p><p>frost which buffetted me, and entered my aching flesh, were a relief to me; </p><p>blunting my mental suffering. The horses staggered on, and the reins hung </p><p>loosely in my hands. I often thought I would lay my head close to the </p><p>sweet, cold face of my lost angel, and thus resign myself to conquering </p><p>torpor. Yet I must not leave her a prey to the fowls of the air; but, in </p><p>pursuance of my determination place her in the tomb of her forefathers, </p><p>where a merciful God might permit me to rest also. </p><p>The road we passed through Egham was familiar to me; but the wind and snow </p><p>caused the horses to drag their load slowly and heavily. Suddenly the wind </p><p>veered from south-west to west, and then again to north-west. As Sampson</p><p>with tug and strain stirred from their bases the columns that supported the </p><p>Philistine temple, so did the gale shake the dense vapours propped on the </p><p>horizon, while the massy dome of clouds fell to the south, disclosing </p><p>through the scattered web the clear empyrean, and the little stars, which </p><p>were set at an immeasurable distance in the crystalline fields, showered </p><p>their small rays on the glittering snow. Even the horses were cheered, and </p><p>moved on with renovated strength. We entered the forest at Bishopgate, and </p><p>at the end of the Long Walk I saw the Castle, "the proud Keep of Windsor, </p><p>rising in the majesty of proportion, girt with the double belt of its </p><p>kindred and coeval towers." I looked with reverence on a structure, ancient </p><p>almost as the rock on which it stood, abode of kings, theme of admiration </p><p>for the wise. With greater reverence and, tearful affection I beheld it as </p><p>the asylum of the long lease of love I had enjoyed there with the </p><p>perishable, unmatchable treasure of dust, which now lay cold beside me. Now </p><p>indeed, I could have yielded to all the softness of my nature, and wept; </p><p>and, womanlike, have uttered bitter plaints; while the familiar trees, the </p><p>herds of living deer, the sward oft prest by her fairy-feet, one by one </p><p>with sad association presented themselves. The white gate at the end of the </p><p>Long Walk was wide open, and I rode up the empty town through the first </p><p>gate of the feudal tower; and now St. George's Chapel, with its blackened </p><p>fretted sides, was right before me. I halted at its door, which was open; I </p><p>entered, and placed my lighted lamp on the altar; then I returned, and with </p><p>tender caution I bore Idris up the aisle into the chancel, and laid her </p><p>softly down on the carpet which covered the step leading to the communion </p><p>table. The banners of the knights of the garter, and their half drawn </p><p>swords, were hung in vain emblazonry above the stalls. The banner of her </p><p>family hung there, still surmounted by its regal crown. Farewell to the </p><p>glory and heraldry of England!--I turned from such vanity with a slight </p><p>feeling of wonder, at how mankind could have ever been interested in such </p><p>things. I bent over the lifeless corpse of my beloved; and, while looking </p><p>on her uncovered face, the features already contracted by the rigidity of </p><p>death, I felt as if all the visible universe had grown as soulless, inane, </p><p>and comfortless as the clay-cold image beneath me. I felt for a moment the </p><p>intolerable sense of struggle with, and detestation for, the laws which </p><p>govern the world; till the calm still visible on the face of my dead love </p><p>recalled me to a more soothing tone of mind, and I proceeded to fulfil the </p><p>last office that could now be paid her. For her I could not lament, so much </p><p>I envied her enjoyment of "the sad immunities of the grave." </p><p>The vault had been lately opened to place our Alfred therein. The ceremony </p><p>customary in these latter days had been cursorily performed, and the </p><p>pavement of the chapel, which was its entrance, having been removed, had </p><p>not been replaced. I descended the steps, and walked through the long </p><p>passage to the large vault which contained the kindred dust of my Idris. I </p><p>distinguished the small coffin of my babe. With hasty, trembling hands I </p><p>constructed a bier beside it, spreading it with the furs and Indian shawls, </p><p>which had wrapt Idris in her journey thither. I lighted the glimmering </p><p>lamp, which flickered in this damp abode of the dead; then I bore my lost </p><p>one to her last bed, decently composing her limbs, and covering them with a </p><p>mantle, veiling all except her face, which remained lovely and placid. She </p><p>appeared to rest like one over-wearied, her beauteous eyes steeped in sweet </p><p>slumber. Yet, so it was not--she was dead! How intensely I then longed to </p><p>lie down beside her, to gaze till death should gather me to the same </p><p>repose. </p><p>But death does not come at the bidding of the miserable. I had lately </p><p>recovered from mortal illness, and my blood had never flowed with such an </p><p>even current, nor had my limbs ever been so instinct with quick life, as </p><p>now. I felt that my death must be voluntary. Yet what more natural than</p><p>famine, as I watched in this chamber of mortality, placed in a world of the </p><p>dead, beside the lost hope of my life? Meanwhile as I looked on her, the </p><p>features, which bore a sisterly resemblance to Adrian, brought my thoughts </p><p>back again to the living, to this dear friend, to Clara, and to Evelyn, who </p><p>were probably now in Windsor, waiting anxiously for our arrival. </p><p>Methought I heard a noise, a step in the far chapel, which was re-echoed by </p><p>its vaulted roof, and borne to me through the hollow passages. Had Clara </p><p>seen my carriage pass up the town, and did she seek me here? I must save </p><p>her at least from the horrible scene the vault presented. I sprung up the </p><p>steps, and then saw a female figure, bent with age, and clad in long </p><p>mourning robes, advance through the dusky chapel, supported by a slender </p><p>cane, yet tottering even with this support. She heard me, and looked up; </p><p>the lamp I held illuminated my figure, and the moon-beams, struggling </p><p>through the painted glass, fell upon her face, wrinkled and gaunt, yet with </p><p>a piercing eye and commanding brow--I recognized the Countess of Windsor. </p><p>With a hollow voice she asked, "Where is the princess?" </p><p>I pointed to the torn up pavement: she walked to the spot, and looked down </p><p>into the palpable darkness; for the vault was too distant for the rays of </p><p>the small lamp I had left there to be discernible. </p><p>"Your light," she said. I gave it her; and she regarded the now visible, </p><p>but precipitous steps, as if calculating her capacity to descend. </p><p>Instinctively I made a silent offer of my assistance. She motioned me away </p><p>with a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as she pointed downwards, </p><p>"There at least I may have her undisturbed." </p><p>She walked deliberately down, while I, overcome, miserable beyond words, or </p><p>tears, or groans, threw myself on the pavement near--the stiffening form </p><p>of Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance hushed in eternal </p><p>repose beneath. That was to me the end of all! The day before, I had </p><p>figured to my self various adventures, and communion with my friends in </p><p>after time--now I had leapt the interval, and reached the utmost edge and </p><p>bourne of life. Thus wrapt in gloom, enclosed, walled up, vaulted over by </p><p>the omnipotent present, I was startled by the sound of feet on the steps of </p><p>the tomb, and I remembered her whom I had utterly forgotten, my angry </p><p>visitant; her tall form slowly rose upwards from the vault, a living </p><p>statue, instinct with hate, and human, passionate strife: she seemed to me </p><p>as having reached the pavement of the aisle; she stood motionless, seeking </p><p>with her eyes alone, some desired object--till, perceiving me close to </p><p>her, she placed her wrinkled hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous </p><p>accents, "Lionel Verney, my son!" This name, applied at such a moment by my </p><p>angel's mother, instilled into me more respect than I had ever before felt </p><p>for this disdainful lady. I bowed my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand, </p><p>and, remarking that she trembled violently, supported her to the end of the </p><p>chancel, where she sat on the steps that led to the regal stall. She </p><p>suffered herself to be led, and still holding my hand, she leaned her head </p><p>back against the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with various colours </p><p>by the painted glass, fell on her glistening eyes; aware of her weakness, </p><p>again calling to mind her long cherished dignity, she dashed the tears </p><p>away; yet they fell fast, as she said, for excuse, "She is so beautiful and </p><p>placid, even in death. No harsh feeling ever clouded her serene brow; how </p><p>did I treat her? wounding her gentle heart with savage coldness; I had no </p><p>compassion on her in past years, does she forgive me now? Little, little </p><p>does it boot to talk of repentance and forgiveness to the dead, had I </p><p>during her life once consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged </p><p>nature to do her pleasure, I should not feel thus." </p><p>Idris and her mother were unlike in person. The dark hair, deep-set black </p><p>eyes, and prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in entire contrast to the </p><p>golden tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines and contour of her </p><p>daughter's countenance. Yet, in latter days, illness had taken from my poor </p><p>girl the full outline of her face, and reduced it to the inflexible shape </p><p>of the bone beneath. In the form of her brow, in her oval chin, there was </p><p>to be found a resemblance to her mother; nay in some moods, their gestures </p><p>were not unlike; nor, having lived so long together, was this wonderful. </p><p>There is a magic power in resemblance. When one we love dies, we hope to </p><p>see them in another state, and half expect that the agency of mind will </p><p>inform its new garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture. But these </p><p>are ideas of the mind only. We know that the instrument is shivered, the </p><p>sensible image lies in miserable fragments, dissolved to dusty nothingness; </p><p>a look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs similar to the dead in a </p><p>living person, touches a thrilling chord, whose sacred harmony is felt in </p><p>the heart's dearest recess. Strangely moved, prostrate before this spectral </p><p>image, and enslaved by the force of blood manifested in likeness of look </p><p>and movement, I remained trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and </p><p>till now unloved mother of Idris. </p><p>Poor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she had cherished the </p><p>idea, that a word, a look of reconciliation from her, would be received </p><p>with joy, and repay long years of severity. Now that the time was gone for </p><p>the exercise of such power, she fell at once upon the thorny truth of </p><p>things, and felt that neither smile nor caress could penetrate to the </p><p>unconscious state, or influence the happiness of her who lay in the vault </p><p>beneath. This conviction, together with the remembrance of soft replies to </p><p>bitter speeches, of gentle looks repaying angry glances; the perception of </p><p>the falsehood, paltryness and futility of her cherished dreams of birth and </p><p>power; the overpowering knowledge, that love and life were the true </p><p>emperors of our mortal state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul </p><p>with stormy and bewildering confusion. It fell to my lot, to come as the </p><p>influential power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I </p><p>spoke to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how </p><p>her virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in her </p><p>past career. I praised her, the idol of my heart's dear worship, the </p><p>admired type of feminine perfection. With ardent and overflowing eloquence, </p><p>I relieved my heart from its burthen, and awoke to the sense of a new </p><p>pleasure in life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy. Then I referred to </p><p>Adrian, her loved brother, and to her surviving child. I declared, which I </p><p>had before almost forgotten, what my duties were with regard to these </p><p>valued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy repentant mother </p><p>reflect, how she could best expiate unkindness towards the dead, by </p><p>redoubled love of the survivors. Consoling her, my own sorrows were </p><p>assuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction. </p><p>She turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with a </p><p>mild expression of face, and said, "If our beloved angel sees us now, it </p><p>will delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were worthy </p><p>of her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from me. Pardon, </p><p>my son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter words and unkind </p><p>treatment--take me, and govern me as you will." </p><p>I seized this docile moment to propose our departure from the church. </p><p>"First," she said, "let us replace the pavement above the vault." </p><p>We drew near to it; "Shall we look on her again?" I asked. </p><p>"I cannot," she replied, "and, I pray you, neither do you. We need not </p><p>torture ourselves by gazing on the soulless body, while her living spirit </p><p>is buried quick in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is so deeply </p><p>carved there, that sleeping or waking she must ever be present to us." </p><p>For a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the open vault. I </p><p>consecrated my future life, to the embalming of her dear memory; I vowed to </p><p>serve her brother and her child till death. The convulsive sob of my </p><p>companion made me break off my internal orisons. I next dragged the stones </p><p>over the entrance of the tomb, and closed the gulph that contained the life </p><p>of my life. Then, supporting my decrepid fellow-mourner, we slowly left the </p><p>chapel. I felt, as I stepped into the open air, as if I had quitted an </p><p>happy nest of repose, for a dreary wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter, </p><p>joyless, hopeless pilgrimage. </p><p>CHAPTER IV. </p><p>OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night at the inn, </p><p>opposite the ascent to the Castle. We could not again visit the halls and </p><p>familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had already left for </p><p>ever the glades of Windsor, and all of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and </p><p>murmuring stream, which gave shape and intensity to the love of our </p><p>country, and the almost superstitious attachment with which we regarded </p><p>native England. It had been our intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling </p><p>in Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises of aid and protection </p><p>before we repaired to our quarters for the night. Now, as the Countess of </p><p>Windsor and I turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we saw </p><p>the children, who had just stopped in their caravan, at the inn-door. They </p><p>had passed through Datchet without halting. I dreaded to meet them, and to </p><p>be the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were still occupied in the </p><p>hurry of arrival, I suddenly left them, and through the snow and clear </p><p>moon-light air, hastened along the well known road to Datchet. </p><p>Well known indeed it was. Each cottage stood on its accustomed site, each </p><p>tree wore its familiar appearance. Habit had graven uneraseably on my </p><p>memory, every turn and change of object on the road. At a short distance </p><p>beyond the Little Park, was an elm half blown down by a storm, some ten </p><p>years ago; and still, with leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched </p><p>across the pathway, which wound through a meadow, beside a shallow brook, </p><p>whose brawling was silenced by frost--that stile, that white gate, that </p><p>hollow oak tree, which doubtless once belonged to the forest, and which now </p><p>shewed in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose fanciful appearance, </p><p>tricked out by the dusk into a resemblance of the human form, the children </p><p>had given the name of Falstaff;--all these objects were as well known to </p><p>me as the cold hearth of my deserted home, and every moss-grown wall and </p><p>plot of orchard ground, alike as twin lambs are to each other in a </p><p>stranger's eye, yet to my accustomed gaze bore differences, distinction, </p><p>and a name. England remained, though England was dead--it was the ghost </p><p>of merry England that I beheld, under those greenwood shade passing </p><p>generations had sported in security and ease. To this painful recognition </p><p>of familiar places, was added a feeling experienced by all, understood by </p><p>none--a feeling as if in some state, less visionary than a dream, in some </p><p>past real existence, I had seen all I saw, with precisely the same feelings </p><p>as I now beheld them--as if all my sensations were a duplex mirror of a </p><p>former revelation. To get rid of this oppressive sense I strove to imagine</p><p>change in this tranquil spot--this augmented my mood, by causing me to </p><p>bestow more attention on the objects which occasioned me pain. </p><p>I reached Datchet and Lucy's humble abode--once noisy with Saturday night </p><p>revellers, or trim and neat on Sunday morning it had borne testimony to the </p><p>labours and orderly habits of the housewife. The snow lay high about the </p><p>door, as if it had remained unclosed for many days. </p><p>"What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?" I muttered to myself as </p><p>I looked at the dark casements. At first I thought I saw a light in one of </p><p>them, but it proved to be merely the refraction of the moon-beams, while </p><p>the only sound was the crackling branches as the breeze whirred the snow </p><p>flakes from them--the moon sailed high and unclouded in the interminable </p><p>ether, while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the garden behind. I </p><p>entered this by the open wicket, and anxiously examined each window. At </p><p>length I detected a ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one </p><p>of the upper rooms--it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at any house </p><p>and say there dwells its usual inmate--the door of the house was merely </p><p>on the latch: so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The door of </p><p>the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw Lucy sitting as at work at </p><p>the table on which the light stood; the implements of needlework were about </p><p>her, but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed on the ground, </p><p>shewed by their vacancy that her thoughts wandered. Traces of care and </p><p>watching had diminished her former attractions--but her simple dress and </p><p>cap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle that cast its light </p><p>upon her, gave for a moment a picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful </p><p>reality recalled me from the thought--a figure lay stretched on the bed </p><p>covered by a sheet--her mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all the </p><p>world, deserted and alone, watched beside the corpse during the weary </p><p>night. I entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first drew a </p><p>scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation; but she recognised me, and </p><p>recovered herself, with the quick exercise of self-control habitual to her. </p><p>"Did you not expect me?" I asked, in that low voice which the presence of </p><p>the dead makes us as it were instinctively assume. </p><p>"You are very good," replied she, "to have come yourself; I can never thank </p><p>you sufficiently; but it is too late." </p><p>"Too late," cried I, "what do you mean? It is not too late to take you from </p><p>this deserted place, and conduct you to---" </p><p>My own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made me turn away, while </p><p>choking grief impeded my speech. I threw open the window, and looked on the </p><p>cold, waning, ghastly, misshaped circle on high, and the chill white earth </p><p>beneath--did the spirit of sweet Idris sail along the moon-frozen crystal </p><p>air?--No, no, a more genial atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely </p><p>hers! </p><p>I indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then again addressed the </p><p>mourner, who stood leaning against the bed with that expression of resigned </p><p>despair, of complete misery, and a patient sufferance of it, which is far </p><p>more touching than any of the insane ravings or wild gesticulation of </p><p>untamed sorrow. I desired to draw her from this spot; but she opposed my </p><p>wish. That class of persons whose imagination and sensibility have never </p><p>been taken out of the narrow circle immediately in view, if they possess </p><p>these qualities to any extent, are apt to pour their influence into the </p><p>very realities which appear to destroy them, and to cling to these with </p><p>double tenacity from not being able to comprehend any thing beyond. Thus </p><p>Lucy, in desert England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the usual</p><p>ceremonies of the dead, such as were customary to the English country </p><p>people, when death was a rare visitant, and gave us time to receive his </p><p>dreaded usurpation with pomp and circumstance--going forth in procession </p><p>to deliver the keys of the tomb into his conquering hand. She had already, </p><p>alone as she was, accomplished some of these, and the work on which I found </p><p>her employed, was her mother's shroud. My heart sickened at such detail of </p><p>woe, which a female can endure, but which is more painful to the masculine </p><p>spirit than deadliest struggle, or throes of unutterable but transient </p><p>agony. </p><p>This must not be, I told her; and then, as further inducement, I </p><p>communicated to her my recent loss, and gave her the idea that she must </p><p>come with me to take charge of the orphan children, whom the death of Idris </p><p>had deprived of a mother's care. Lucy never resisted the call of a duty, so </p><p>she yielded, and closing the casements and doors with care, she accompanied </p><p>me back to Windsor. As we went she communicated to me the occasion of her </p><p>mother's death. Either by some mischance she had got sight of Lucy's letter </p><p>to Idris, or she had overheard her conversation with the countryman who </p><p>bore it; however it might be, she obtained a knowledge of the appalling </p><p>situation of herself and her daughter, her aged frame could not sustain the </p><p>anxiety and horror this discovery instilled--she concealed her knowledge </p><p>from Lucy, but brooded over it through sleepless nights, till fever and </p><p>delirium, swift forerunners of death, disclosed the secret. Her life, which </p><p>had long been hovering on its extinction, now yielded at once to the united </p><p>effects of misery and sickness, and that same morning she had died. </p><p>After the tumultuous emotions of the day, I was glad to find on my arrival </p><p>at the inn that my companions had retired to rest. I gave Lucy in charge to </p><p>the Countess's attendant, and then sought repose from my various struggles </p><p>and impatient regrets. For a few moments the events of the day floated in </p><p>disastrous pageant through my brain, till sleep bathed it in forgetfulness; </p><p>when morning dawned and I awoke, it seemed as if my slumber had endured for </p><p>years. </p><p>My companions had not shared my oblivion. Clara's swollen eyes shewed that </p><p>she has passed the night in weeping. The Countess looked haggard and wan. </p><p>Her firm spirit had not found relief in tears, and she suffered the more </p><p>from all the painful retrospect and agonizing regret that now occupied her. </p><p>We departed from Windsor, as soon as the burial rites had been performed </p><p>for Lucy's mother, and, urged on by an impatient desire to change the </p><p>scene, went forward towards Dover with speed, our escort having gone before </p><p>to provide horses; finding them either in the warm stables they </p><p>instinctively sought during the cold weather, or standing shivering in the </p><p>bleak fields ready to surrender their liberty in exchange for offered </p><p>corn. </p><p>During our ride the Countess recounted to me the extraordinary </p><p>circumstances which had brought her so strangely to my side in the chancel </p><p>of St. George's chapel. When last she had taken leave of Idris, as she </p><p>looked anxiously on her faded person and pallid countenance, she had </p><p>suddenly been visited by a conviction that she saw her for the last time. </p><p>It was hard to part with her while under the dominion of this sentiment, </p><p>and for the last time she endeavoured to persuade her daughter to commit </p><p>herself to her nursing, permitting me to join Adrian. Idris mildly refused, </p><p>and thus they separated. The idea that they should never again meet grew on </p><p>the Countess's mind, and haunted her perpetually; a thousand times she had </p><p>resolved to turn back and join us, and was again and again restrained by </p><p>the pride and anger of which she was the slave. Proud of heart as she was, </p><p>she bathed her pillow with nightly tears, and through the day was subdued</p><p>by nervous agitation and expectation of the dreaded event, which she was </p><p>wholly incapable of curbing. She confessed that at this period her hatred </p><p>of me knew no bounds, since she considered me as the sole obstacle to the </p><p>fulfilment of her dearest wish, that of attending upon her daughter in her </p><p>last moments. She desired to express her fears to her son, and to seek </p><p>consolation from his sympathy with, or courage from his rejection of, her </p><p>auguries. </p><p>On the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked with him on the sea </p><p>beach, and with the timidity characteristic of passionate and exaggerated </p><p>feeling was by degrees bringing the conversation to the desired point, when </p><p>she could communicate her fears to him, when the messenger who bore my </p><p>letter announcing our temporary return to Windsor, came riding down to </p><p>them. He gave some oral account of how he had left us, and added, that </p><p>notwithstanding the cheerfulness and good courage of Lady Idris, he was </p><p>afraid that she would hardly reach Windsor alive. "True," said the Countess, </p><p>"your fears are just, she is about to expire!" </p><p>As she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow of the cliff, and </p><p>she saw, she averred the same to me with solemnity, Idris pacing slowly </p><p>towards this cave. She was turned from her, her head was bent down, her </p><p>white dress was such as she was accustomed to wear, except that a thin </p><p>crape-like veil covered her golden tresses, and concealed her as a dim </p><p>transparent mist. She looked dejected, as docilely yielding to a commanding </p><p>power; she submissively entered, and was lost in the dark recess. </p><p>"Were I subject to visionary moods," said the venerable lady, as she </p><p>continued her narrative, "I might doubt my eyes, and condemn my credulity; </p><p>but reality is the world I live in, and what I saw I doubt not had </p><p>existence beyond myself. From that moment I could not rest; it was worth my </p><p>existence to see her once again before she died; I knew that I should not </p><p>accomplish this, yet I must endeavour. I immediately departed for Windsor; </p><p>and, though I was assured that we travelled speedily, it seemed to me that </p><p>our progress was snail-like, and that delays were created solely for my </p><p>annoyance. Still I accused you, and heaped on your head the fiery ashes of </p><p>my burning impatience. It was no disappointment, though an agonizing pang, </p><p>when you pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express the </p><p>abhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the triumphant impediment to my </p><p>dearest wishes. I saw her, and anger, and hate, and injustice died at her </p><p>bier, giving place at their departure to a remorse (Great God, that I </p><p>should feel it!) which must last while memory and feeling endure." </p><p>To medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and new-born mildness </p><p>from producing the same bitter fruit that hate and harshness had done, I </p><p>devoted all my endeavours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our party was a </p><p>melancholy one; each was possessed by regret for what was remediless; for </p><p>the absence of his mother shadowed even the infant gaiety of Evelyn. Added </p><p>to this was the prospect of the uncertain future. Before the final </p><p>accomplishment of any great voluntary change the mind vacillates, now </p><p>soothing itself by fervent expectation, now recoiling from obstacles which </p><p>seem never to have presented themselves before with so frightful an aspect. </p><p>An involuntary tremor ran through me when I thought that in another day we </p><p>might have crossed the watery barrier, and have set forward on that </p><p>hopeless, interminable, sad wandering, which but a short time before I </p><p>regarded as the only relief to sorrow that our situation afforded. </p><p>Our approach to Dover was announced by the loud roarings of the wintry sea. </p><p>They were borne miles inland by the sound-laden blast, and by their </p><p>unaccustomed uproar, imparted a feeling of insecurity and peril to our</p><p>stable abode. At first we hardly permitted ourselves to think that any </p><p>unusual eruption of nature caused this tremendous war of air and water, but </p><p>rather fancied that we merely listened to what we had heard a thousand </p><p>times before, when we had watched the flocks of fleece-crowned waves, </p><p>driven by the winds, come to lament and die on the barren sands and pointed </p><p>rocks. But we found upon advancing farther, that Dover was overflowed-- </p><p>many of the houses were overthrown by the surges which filled the streets, </p><p>and with hideous brawlings sometimes retreated leaving the pavement of the </p><p>town bare, till again hurried forward by the influx of ocean, they returned </p><p>with thunder-sound to their usurped station. </p><p>Hardly less disturbed than the tempestuous world of waters was the assembly </p><p>of human beings, that from the cliff fearfully watched its ravings. On the </p><p>morning of the arrival of the emigrants under the conduct of Adrian, the </p><p>sea had been serene and glassy, the slight ripples refracted the sunbeams, </p><p>which shed their radiance through the clear blue frosty air. This placid </p><p>appearance of nature was hailed as a good augury for the voyage, and the </p><p>chief immediately repaired to the harbour to examine two steamboats which </p><p>were moored there. On the following midnight, when all were at rest, a </p><p>frightful storm of wind and clattering rain and hail first disturbed them, </p><p>and the voice of one shrieking in the streets, that the sleepers must awake </p><p>or they would be drowned; and when they rushed out, half clothed, to </p><p>discover the meaning of this alarm, they found that the tide, rising above </p><p>every mark, was rushing into the town. They ascended the cliff, but the </p><p>darkness permitted only the white crest of waves to be seen, while the </p><p>roaring wind mingled its howlings in dire accord with the wild surges. The </p><p>awful hour of night, the utter inexperience of many who had never seen the </p><p>sea before, the wailing of women and cries of children added to the horror </p><p>of the tumult. All the following day the same scene continued. When the tide </p><p>ebbed, the town was left dry; but on its flow, it rose even higher than on </p><p>the preceding night. The vast ships that lay rotting in the roads were </p><p>whirled from their anchorage, and driven and jammed against the cliff, the </p><p>vessels in the harbour were flung on land like sea-weed, and there battered </p><p>to pieces by the breakers. The waves dashed against the cliff, which if in </p><p>any place it had been before loosened, now gave way, and the affrighted </p><p>crowd saw vast fragments of the near earth fall with crash and roar into </p><p>the deep. This sight operated differently on different persons. The greater </p><p>part thought it a judgment of God, to prevent or punish our emigration from </p><p>our native land. Many were doubly eager to quit a nook of ground now become </p><p>their prison, which appeared unable to resist the inroads of ocean's giant </p><p>waves. </p><p>When we arrived at Dover, after a fatiguing day's journey, we all required </p><p>rest and sleep; but the scene acting around us soon drove away such ideas. </p><p>We were drawn, along with the greater part of our companions, to the edge </p><p>of the cliff, there to listen to and make a thousand conjectures. A fog </p><p>narrowed our horizon to about a quarter of a mile, and the misty veil, cold </p><p>and dense, enveloped sky and sea in equal obscurity. What added to our </p><p>inquietude was the circumstance that two-thirds of our original number were </p><p>now waiting for us in Paris, and clinging, as we now did most painfully, to </p><p>any addition to our melancholy remnant, this division, with the tameless </p><p>impassable ocean between, struck us with affright. At length, after </p><p>loitering for several hours on the cliff, we retired to Dover Castle, whose </p><p>roof sheltered all who breathed the English air, and sought the sleep </p><p>necessary to restore strength and courage to our worn frames and languid </p><p>spirits. </p><p>Early in the morning Adrian brought me the welcome intelligence that the </p><p>wind had changed: it had been south-west; it was now north-east. The sky</p><p>was stripped bare of clouds by the increasing gale, while the tide at its </p><p>ebb seceded entirely from the town. The change of wind rather increased the </p><p>fury of the sea, but it altered its late dusky hue to a bright green; and </p><p>in spite of its unmitigated clamour, its more cheerful appearance instilled </p><p>hope and pleasure. All day we watched the ranging of the mountainous waves, </p><p>and towards sunset a desire to decypher the promise for the morrow at its </p><p>setting, made us all gather with one accord on the edge of the cliff. When </p><p>the mighty luminary approached within a few degrees of the tempest-tossed </p><p>horizon, suddenly, a wonder! three other suns, alike burning and brilliant, </p><p>rushed from various quarters of the heavens towards the great orb; they </p><p>whirled round it. The glare of light was intense to our dazzled eyes; the </p><p>sun itself seemed to join in the dance, while the sea burned like a </p><p>furnace, like all Vesuvius a-light, with flowing lava beneath. The horses </p><p>broke loose from their stalls in terror--a herd of cattle, panic struck, </p><p>raced down to the brink of the cliff, and blinded by light, plunged down </p><p>with frightful yells in the waves below. The time occupied by the </p><p>apparition of these meteors was comparatively short; suddenly the three </p><p>mock suns united in one, and plunged into the sea. A few seconds </p><p>afterwards, a deafening watery sound came up with awful peal from the spot </p><p>where they had disappeared. </p><p>Meanwhile the sun, disencumbered from his strange satellites, paced with </p><p>its accustomed majesty towards its western home. When--we dared not trust </p><p>our eyes late dazzled, but it seemed that--the sea rose to meet it--it </p><p>mounted higher and higher, till the fiery globe was obscured, and the wall </p><p>of water still ascended the horizon; it appeared as if suddenly the motion </p><p>of earth was revealed to us--as if no longer we were ruled by ancient </p><p>laws, but were turned adrift in an unknown region of space. Many cried </p><p>aloud, that these were no meteors, but globes of burning matter, which had </p><p>set fire to the earth, and caused the vast cauldron at our feet to bubble </p><p>up with its measureless waves; the day of judgment was come they averred, </p><p>and a few moments would transport us before the awful countenance of the </p><p>omnipotent judge; while those less given to visionary terrors, declared </p><p>that two conflicting gales had occasioned the last phaenomenon. In support </p><p>of this opinion they pointed out the fact that the east wind died away, </p><p>while the rushing of the coming west mingled its wild howl with the roar of </p><p>the advancing waters. Would the cliff resist this new battery? Was not the </p><p>giant wave far higher than the precipice? Would not our little island be </p><p>deluged by its approach? The crowd of spectators fled. They were dispersed </p><p>over the fields, stopping now and then, and looking back in terror. A </p><p>sublime sense of awe calmed the swift pulsations of my heart--I awaited </p><p>the approach of the destruction menaced, with that solemn resignation which </p><p>an unavoidable necessity instils. The ocean every moment assumed a more </p><p>terrific aspect, while the twilight was dimmed by the rack which the west </p><p>wind spread over the sky. By slow degrees however, as the wave advanced, it </p><p>took a more mild appearance; some under current of air, or obstruction in </p><p>the bed of the waters, checked its progress, and it sank gradually; while </p><p>the surface of the sea became uniformly higher as it dissolved into it. </p><p>This change took from us the fear of an immediate catastrophe, although we </p><p>were still anxious as to the final result. We continued during the whole </p><p>night to watch the fury of the sea and the pace of the driving clouds, </p><p>through whose openings the rare stars rushed impetuously; the thunder of </p><p>conflicting elements deprived us of all power to sleep. </p><p>This endured ceaselessly for three days and nights. The stoutest hearts </p><p>quailed before the savage enmity of nature; provisions began to fail us, </p><p>though every day foraging parties were dispersed to the nearer towns. In </p><p>vain we schooled ourselves into the belief, that there was nothing out of </p><p>the common order of nature in the strife we witnessed; our disasterous and</p><p>overwhelming destiny turned the best of us to cowards. Death had hunted us </p><p>through the course of many months, even to the narrow strip of time on </p><p>which we now stood; narrow indeed, and buffeted by storms, was our footway </p><p>overhanging the great sea of calamity-- </p><p> As an unsheltered northern shore</p><p> Is shaken by the wintry wave--</p><p> And frequent storms for evermore,</p><p> (While from the west the loud winds rave,</p><p> Or from the east, or mountains hoar)</p><p> The struck and tott'ring sand-bank lave.[1]</p><p>It required more than human energy to bear up against the menaces of </p><p>destruction that every where surrounded us. </p><p>After the lapse of three days, the gale died away, the sea-gull sailed upon </p><p>the calm bosom of the windless atmosphere, and the last yellow leaf on the </p><p>topmost branch of the oak hung without motion. The sea no longer broke with </p><p>fury; but a swell setting in steadily for shore, with long sweep and sullen </p><p>burst replaced the roar of the breakers. Yet we derived hope from the </p><p>change, and we did not doubt that after the interval of a few days the sea </p><p>would resume its tranquillity. The sunset of the fourth day favoured this </p><p>idea; it was clear and golden. As we gazed on the purple sea, radiant </p><p>beneath, we were attracted by a novel spectacle; a dark speck--as it </p><p>neared, visibly a boat--rode on the top of the waves, every now and then </p><p>lost in the steep vallies between. We marked its course with eager </p><p>questionings; and, when we saw that it evidently made for shore, we </p><p>descended to the only practicable landing place, and hoisted a signal to </p><p>direct them. By the help of glasses we distinguished her crew; it consisted </p><p>of nine men, Englishmen, belonging in truth to the two divisions of our </p><p>people, who had preceded us, and had been for several weeks at Paris. As </p><p>countryman was wont to meet countryman in distant lands, did we greet our </p><p>visitors on their landing, with outstretched hands and gladsome welcome. </p><p>They were slow to reciprocate our gratulations. They looked angry and </p><p>resentful; not less than the chafed sea which they had traversed with </p><p>imminent peril, though apparently more displeased with each other than with </p><p>us. It was strange to see these human beings, who appeared to be given </p><p>forth by the earth like rare and inestimable plants, full of towering </p><p>passion, and the spirit of angry contest. Their first demand was to be </p><p>conducted to the Lord Protector of England, so they called Adrian, though </p><p>he had long discarded the empty title, as a bitter mockery of the shadow to </p><p>which the Protectorship was now reduced. They were speedily led to Dover </p><p>Castle, from whose keep Adrian had watched the movements of the boat. He </p><p>received them with the interest and wonder so strange a visitation created. </p><p>In the confusion occasioned by their angry demands for precedence, it was </p><p>long before we could discover the secret meaning of this strange scene. By </p><p>degrees, from the furious declamations of one, the fierce interruptions of </p><p>another, and the bitter scoffs of a third, we found that they were deputies </p><p>from our colony at Paris, from three parties there formed, who, each with </p><p>angry rivalry, tried to attain a superiority over the other two. These </p><p>deputies had been dispatched by them to Adrian, who had been selected </p><p>arbiter; and they had journied from Paris to Calais, through the vacant </p><p>towns and desolate country, indulging the while violent hatred against each </p><p>other; and now they pleaded their several causes with unmitigated </p><p>party-spirit. </p><p>By examining the deputies apart, and after much investigation, we learnt </p><p>the true state of things at Paris. Since parliament had elected him </p><p>Ryland's deputy, all the surviving English had submitted to Adrian. He was</p><p>our captain to lead us from our native soil to unknown lands, our lawgiver </p><p>and our preserver. On the first arrangement of our scheme of emigration, no </p><p>continued separation of our members was contemplated, and the command of </p><p>the whole body in gradual ascent of power had its apex in the Earl of </p><p>Windsor. But unforeseen circumstances changed our plans for us, and </p><p>occasioned the greater part of our numbers to be divided for the space of </p><p>nearly two months, from the supreme chief. They had gone over in two </p><p>distinct bodies; and on their arrival at Paris dissension arose between </p><p>them. </p><p>They had found Paris a desert. When first the plague had appeared, the </p><p>return of travellers and merchants, and communications by letter, informed </p><p>us regularly of the ravages made by disease on the continent. But with the </p><p>encreased mortality this intercourse declined and ceased. Even in England </p><p>itself communication from one part of the island to the other became slow </p><p>and rare. No vessel stemmed the flood that divided Calais from Dover; or if </p><p>some melancholy voyager, wishing to assure himself of the life or death of </p><p>his relatives, put from the French shore to return among us, often the </p><p>greedy ocean swallowed his little craft, or after a day or two he was </p><p>infected by the disorder, and died before he could tell the tale of the </p><p>desolation of France. We were therefore to a great degree ignorant of the </p><p>state of things on the continent, and were not without some vague hope of </p><p>finding numerous companions in its wide track. But the same causes that had </p><p>so fearfully diminished the English nation had had even greater scope for </p><p>mischief in the sister land. France was a blank; during the long line of </p><p>road from Calais to Paris not one human being was found. In Paris there </p><p>were a few, perhaps a hundred, who, resigned to their coming fate, flitted </p><p>about the streets of the capital and assembled to converse of past times, </p><p>with that vivacity and even gaiety that seldom deserts the individuals of </p><p>this nation. </p><p>The English took uncontested possession of Paris. Its high houses and </p><p>narrow streets were lifeless. A few pale figures were to be distinguished </p><p>at the accustomed resort at the Tuileries; they wondered wherefore the </p><p>islanders should approach their ill-fated city--for in the excess of </p><p>wretchedness, the sufferers always imagine, that their part of the calamity </p><p>is the bitterest, as, when enduring intense pain, we would exchange the </p><p>particular torture we writhe under, for any other which should visit a </p><p>different part of the frame. They listened to the account the emigrants </p><p>gave of their motives for leaving their native land, with a shrug almost of </p><p>disdain--"Return," they said, "return to your island, whose sea breezes, </p><p>and division from the continent gives some promise of health; if Pestilence </p><p>among you has slain its hundreds, with us it has slain its thousands. Are </p><p>you not even now more numerous than we are?--A year ago you would have </p><p>found only the sick burying the dead; now we are happier; for the pang of </p><p>struggle has passed away, and the few you find here are patiently waiting </p><p>the final blow. But you, who are not content to die, breathe no longer the </p><p>air of France, or soon you will only be a part of her soil." </p><p>Thus, by menaces of the sword, they would have driven back those who had </p><p>escaped from fire. But the peril left behind was deemed imminent by my </p><p>countrymen; that before them doubtful and distant; and soon other feelings </p><p>arose to obliterate fear, or to replace it by passions, that ought to have </p><p>had no place among a brotherhood of unhappy survivors of the expiring </p><p>world. </p><p>The more numerous division of emigrants, which arrived first at Paris, </p><p>assumed a superiority of rank and power; the second party asserted their </p><p>independence. A third was formed by a sectarian, a self-erected prophet,</p><p>who, while he attributed all power and rule to God, strove to get the real </p><p>command of his comrades into his own hands. This third division consisted </p><p>of fewest individuals, but their purpose was more one, their obedience to </p><p>their leader more entire, their fortitude and courage more unyielding and </p><p>active. </p><p>During the whole progress of the plague, the teachers of religion were in </p><p>possession of great power; a power of good, if rightly directed, or of </p><p>incalculable mischief, if fanaticism or intolerance guided their efforts. </p><p>In the present instance, a worse feeling than either of these actuated the </p><p>leader. He was an impostor in the most determined sense of the term. A man </p><p>who had in early life lost, through the indulgence of vicious propensities, </p><p>all sense of rectitude or self-esteem; and who, when ambition was awakened </p><p>in him, gave himself up to its influence unbridled by any scruple. His </p><p>father had been a methodist preacher, an enthusiastic man with simple </p><p>intentions; but whose pernicious doctrines of election and special grace </p><p>had contributed to destroy all conscientious feeling in his son. During the </p><p>progress of the pestilence he had entered upon various schemes, by which to </p><p>acquire adherents and power. Adrian had discovered and defeated these </p><p>attempts; but Adrian was absent; the wolf assumed the shepherd's garb, and </p><p>the flock admitted the deception: he had formed a party during the few </p><p>weeks he had been in Paris, who zealously propagated the creed of his </p><p>divine mission, and believed that safety and salvation were to be afforded </p><p>only to those who put their trust in him. </p><p>When once the spirit of dissension had arisen, the most frivolous causes </p><p>gave it activity. The first party, on arriving at Paris, had taken </p><p>possession of the Tuileries; chance and friendly feeling had induced the </p><p>second to lodge near to them. A contest arose concerning the distribution </p><p>of the pillage; the chiefs of the first division demanded that the whole </p><p>should be placed at their disposal; with this assumption the opposite party </p><p>refused to comply. When next the latter went to forage, the gates of Paris </p><p>were shut on them. After overcoming this difficulty, they marched in a body </p><p>to the Tuileries. They found that their enemies had been already expelled </p><p>thence by the Elect, as the fanatical party designated themselves, who </p><p>refused to admit any into the palace who did not first abjure obedience to </p><p>all except God, and his delegate on earth, their chief. Such was the </p><p>beginning of the strife, which at length proceeded so far, that the three </p><p>divisions, armed, met in the Place Vendome, each resolved to subdue by </p><p>force the resistance of its adversaries. They assembled, their muskets were </p><p>loaded, and even pointed at the breasts of their so called enemies. One </p><p>word had been sufficient; and there the last of mankind would have </p><p>burthened their souls with the crime of murder, and dipt their hands in </p><p>each other's blood. A sense of shame, a recollection that not only their </p><p>cause, but the existence of the whole human race was at stake, entered the </p><p>breast of the leader of the more numerous party. He was aware, that if the </p><p>ranks were thinned, no other recruits could fill them up; that each man was </p><p>as a priceless gem in a kingly crown, which if destroyed, the earth's deep </p><p>entrails could yield no paragon. He was a young man, and had been hurried </p><p>on by presumption, and the notion of his high rank and superiority to all </p><p>other pretenders; now he repented his work, he felt that all the blood </p><p>about to be shed would be on his head; with sudden impulse therefore he </p><p>spurred his horse between the bands, and, having fixed a white handkerchief </p><p>on the point of his uplifted sword, thus demanded parley; the opposite </p><p>leaders obeyed the signal. He spoke with warmth; he reminded them of the </p><p>oath all the chiefs had taken to submit to the Lord Protector; he declared </p><p>their present meeting to be an act of treason and mutiny; he allowed that </p><p>he had been hurried away by passion, but that a cooler moment had arrived; </p><p>and he proposed that each party should send deputies to the Earl of</p><p>Windsor, inviting his interference and offering submission to his decision. </p><p>His offer was accepted so far, that each leader consented to command a </p><p>retreat, and moreover agreed, that after the approbation of their several </p><p>parties had been consulted, they should meet that night on some neutral </p><p>spot to ratify the truce. At the meeting of the chiefs, this plan was </p><p>finally concluded upon. The leader of the fanatics indeed refused to admit </p><p>the arbitration of Adrian; he sent ambassadors, rather than deputies, to </p><p>assert his claim, not plead his cause. </p><p>The truce was to continue until the first of February, when the bands were </p><p>again to assemble on the Place Vendome; it was of the utmost consequence </p><p>therefore that Adrian should arrive in Paris by that day, since an hair </p><p>might turn the scale, and peace, scared away by intestine broils, might </p><p>only return to watch by the silent dead. It was now the twenty-eighth of </p><p>January; every vessel stationed near Dover had been beaten to pieces and </p><p>destroyed by the furious storms I have commemorated. Our journey however </p><p>would admit of no delay. That very night, Adrian, and I, and twelve others, </p><p>either friends or attendants, put off from the English shore, in the boat </p><p>that had brought over the deputies. We all took our turn at the oar; and </p><p>the immediate occasion of our departure affording us abundant matter for </p><p>conjecture and discourse, prevented the feeling that we left our native </p><p>country, depopulate England, for the last time, to enter deeply into the </p><p>minds of the greater part of our number. It was a serene starlight night, </p><p>and the dark line of the English coast continued for some time visible at </p><p>intervals, as we rose on the broad back of the waves. I exerted myself with </p><p>my long oar to give swift impulse to our skiff; and, while the waters </p><p>splashed with melancholy sound against its sides, I looked with sad </p><p>affection on this last glimpse of sea-girt England, and strained my eyes </p><p>not too soon to lose sight of the castellated cliff, which rose to protect </p><p>the land of heroism and beauty from the inroads of ocean, that, turbulent </p><p>as I had lately seen it, required such cyclopean walls for its repulsion. A </p><p>solitary sea-gull winged its flight over our heads, to seek its nest in a </p><p>cleft of the precipice. Yes, thou shalt revisit the land of thy birth, I </p><p>thought, as I looked invidiously on the airy voyager; but we shall, never </p><p>more! Tomb of Idris, farewell! Grave, in which my heart lies sepultured, </p><p>farewell for ever! </p><p>We were twelve hours at sea, and the heavy swell obliged us to exert all </p><p>our strength. At length, by mere dint of rowing, we reached the French </p><p>coast. The stars faded, and the grey morning cast a dim veil over the </p><p>silver horns of the waning moon--the sun rose broad and red from the sea, </p><p>as we walked over the sands to Calais. Our first care was to procure </p><p>horses, and although wearied by our night of watching and toil, some of our </p><p>party immediately went in quest of these in the wide fields of the </p><p>unenclosed and now barren plain round Calais. We divided ourselves, like </p><p>seamen, into watches, and some reposed, while others prepared the morning's </p><p>repast. Our foragers returned at noon with only six horses--on these, </p><p>Adrian and I, and four others, proceeded on our journey towards the great </p><p>city, which its inhabitants had fondly named the capital of the civilized </p><p>world. Our horses had become, through their long holiday, almost wild, and </p><p>we crossed the plain round Calais with impetuous speed. From the height </p><p>near Boulogne, I turned again to look on England; nature had cast a misty </p><p>pall over her, her cliff was hidden--there was spread the watery barrier </p><p>that divided us, never again to be crossed; she lay on the ocean plain, </p><p> In the great pool a swan's nest.</p><p>Ruined the nest, alas! the swans of Albion had passed away for ever--an </p><p>uninhabited rock in the wide Pacific, which had remained since the</p><p>creation uninhabited, unnamed, unmarked, would be of as much account in </p><p>the world's future history, as desert England. </p><p>Our journey was impeded by a thousand obstacles. As our horses grew tired, </p><p>we had to seek for others; and hours were wasted, while we exhausted our </p><p>artifices to allure some of these enfranchised slaves of man to resume the </p><p>yoke; or as we went from stable to stable through the towns, hoping to find </p><p>some who had not forgotten the shelter of their native stalls. Our ill </p><p>success in procuring them, obliged us continually to leave some one of our </p><p>companions behind; and on the first of February, Adrian and I entered </p><p>Paris, wholly unaccompanied. The serene morning had dawned when we arrived </p><p>at Saint Denis, and the sun was high, when the clamour of voices, and the </p><p>clash, as we feared, of weapons, guided us to where our countrymen had </p><p>assembled on the Place Vendome. We passed a knot of Frenchmen, who were </p><p>talking earnestly of the madness of the insular invaders, and then coming </p><p>by a sudden turn upon the Place, we saw the sun glitter on drawn swords and </p><p>fixed bayonets, while yells and clamours rent the air. It was a scene of </p><p>unaccustomed confusion in these days of depopulation. Roused by fancied </p><p>wrongs, and insulting scoffs, the opposite parties had rushed to attack </p><p>each other; while the elect, drawn up apart, seemed to wait an opportunity </p><p>to fall with better advantage on their foes, when they should have mutually </p><p>weakened each other. A merciful power interposed, and no blood was shed; </p><p>for, while the insane mob were in the very act of attack, the females, </p><p>wives, mothers and daughters, rushed between; they seized the bridles; they </p><p>embraced the knees of the horsemen, and hung on the necks, or enweaponed </p><p>arms of their enraged relatives; the shrill female scream was mingled with </p><p>the manly shout, and formed the wild clamour that welcomed us on our </p><p>arrival. </p><p>Our voices could not be heard in the tumult; Adrian however was eminent for </p><p>the white charger he rode; spurring him, he dashed into the midst of the </p><p>throng: he was recognized, and a loud cry raised for England and the </p><p>Protector. The late adversaries, warmed to affection at the sight of him, </p><p>joined in heedless confusion, and surrounded him; the women kissed his </p><p>hands, and the edges of his garments; nay, his horse received tribute of </p><p>their embraces; some wept their welcome; he appeared an angel of peace </p><p>descended among them; and the only danger was, that his mortal nature would </p><p>be demonstrated, by his suffocation from the kindness of his friends. His </p><p>voice was at length heard, and obeyed; the crowd fell back; the chiefs </p><p>alone rallied round him. I had seen Lord Raymond ride through his lines; </p><p>his look of victory, and majestic mien obtained the respect and obedience </p><p>of all: such was not the appearance or influence of Adrian. His slight </p><p>figure, his fervent look, his gesture, more of deprecation than rule, were </p><p>proofs that love, unmingled with fear, gave him dominion over the hearts of </p><p>a multitude, who knew that he never flinched from danger, nor was actuated </p><p>by other motives than care for the general welfare. No distinction was now </p><p>visible between the two parties, late ready to shed each other's blood, </p><p>for, though neither would submit to the other, they both yielded ready </p><p>obedience to the Earl of Windsor. </p><p>One party however remained, cut off from the rest, which did not sympathize </p><p>in the joy exhibited on Adrian's arrival, or imbibe the spirit of peace, </p><p>which fell like dew upon the softened hearts of their countrymen. At the </p><p>head of this assembly was a ponderous, dark-looking man, whose malign eye </p><p>surveyed with gloating delight the stern looks of his followers. They had </p><p>hitherto been inactive, but now, perceiving themselves to be forgotten in </p><p>the universal jubilee, they advanced with threatening gestures: our friends </p><p>had, as it were in wanton contention, attacked each other; they wanted but </p><p>to be told that their cause was one, for it to become so: their mutual</p><p>anger had been a fire of straw, compared to the slow-burning hatred they </p><p>both entertained for these seceders, who seized a portion of the world to </p><p>come, there to entrench and incastellate themselves, and to issue with </p><p>fearful sally, and appalling denunciations, on the mere common children of </p><p>the earth. The first advance of the little army of the elect reawakened </p><p>their rage; they grasped their arms, and waited but their leader's signal </p><p>to commence the attack, when the clear tones of Adrian's voice were heard, </p><p>commanding them to fall back; with confused murmur and hurried retreat, as </p><p>the wave ebbs clamorously from the sands it lately covered, our friends </p><p>obeyed. Adrian rode singly into the space between the opposing bands; he </p><p>approached the hostile leader, as requesting him to imitate his example, </p><p>but his look was not obeyed, and the chief advanced, followed by his whole </p><p>troop. There were many women among them, who seemed more eager and resolute </p><p>than their male companions. They pressed round their leader, as if to </p><p>shield him, while they loudly bestowed on him every sacred denomination and </p><p>epithet of worship. Adrian met them half way; they halted: "What," he said, </p><p>"do you seek? Do you require any thing of us that we refuse to give, and </p><p>that you are forced to acquire by arms and warfare?" </p><p>His questions were answered by a general cry, in which the words election, </p><p>sin, and red right arm of God, could alone be heard. </p><p>Adrian looked expressly at their leader, saying, "Can you not silence your </p><p>followers? Mine, you perceive, obey me." </p><p>The fellow answered by a scowl; and then, perhaps fearful that his people </p><p>should become auditors of the debate he expected to ensue, he commanded </p><p>them to fall back, and advanced by himself. "What, I again ask," said </p><p>Adrian, "do you require of us?" </p><p>"Repentance," replied the man, whose sinister brow gathered clouds as he </p><p>spoke. "Obedience to the will of the Most High, made manifest to these his </p><p>Elected People. Do we not all die through your sins, O generation of </p><p>unbelief, and have we not a right to demand of you repentance and </p><p>obedience?" </p><p>"And if we refuse them, what then?" his opponent inquired mildly. </p><p>"Beware," cried the man, "God hears you, and will smite your stony heart in </p><p>his wrath; his poisoned arrows fly, his dogs of death are unleashed! We </p><p>will not perish unrevenged--and mighty will our avenger be, when he </p><p>descends in visible majesty, and scatters destruction among you." </p><p>"My good fellow," said Adrian, with quiet scorn, "I wish that you were </p><p>ignorant only, and I think it would be no difficult task to prove to you, </p><p>that you speak of what you do not understand. On the present occasion </p><p>however, it is enough for me to know that you seek nothing of us; and, </p><p>heaven is our witness, we seek nothing of you. I should be sorry to </p><p>embitter by strife the few days that we any of us may have here to live; </p><p>when there," he pointed downwards, "we shall not be able to contend, while </p><p>here we need not. Go home, or stay; pray to your God in your own mode; your </p><p>friends may do the like. My orisons consist in peace and good will, in </p><p>resignation and hope. Farewell!" </p><p>He bowed slightly to the angry disputant who was about to reply; and, </p><p>turning his horse down Rue Saint Honore, called on his friends to follow </p><p>him. He rode slowly, to give time to all to join him at the Barrier, and </p><p>then issued his orders that those who yielded obedience to him, should </p><p>rendezvous at Versailles. In the meantime he remained within the walls of</p><p>Paris, until he had secured the safe retreat of all. In about a fortnight </p><p>the remainder of the emigrants arrived from England, and they all repaired </p><p>to Versailles; apartments were prepared for the family of the Protector in </p><p>the Grand Trianon, and there, after the excitement of these events, we </p><p>reposed amidst the luxuries of the departed Bourbons. </p><p>[1] Chorus in Oedipus Coloneus. </p><p>CHAPTER V. </p><p>AFTER the repose of a few days, we held a council, to decide on our future </p><p>movements. Our first plan had been to quit our wintry native latitude, and </p><p>seek for our diminished numbers the luxuries and delights of a southern </p><p>climate. We had not fixed on any precise spot as the termination of our </p><p>wanderings; but a vague picture of perpetual spring, fragrant groves, and </p><p>sparkling streams, floated in our imagination to entice us on. A variety of </p><p>causes had detained us in England, and we had now arrived at the middle of </p><p>February; if we pursued our original project, we should find ourselves in a </p><p>worse situation than before, having exchanged our temperate climate for the </p><p>intolerable heats of a summer in Egypt or Persia. We were therefore obliged </p><p>to modify our plan, as the season continued to be inclement; and it was </p><p>determined that we should await the arrival of spring in our present abode, </p><p>and so order our future movements as to pass the hot months in the icy </p><p>vallies of Switzerland, deferring our southern progress until the ensuing </p><p>autumn, if such a season was ever again to be beheld by us. </p><p>The castle and town of Versailles afforded our numbers ample accommodation, </p><p>and foraging parties took it by turns to supply our wants. There was a </p><p>strange and appalling motley in the situation of these the last of the </p><p>race. At first I likened it to a colony, which borne over the far seas, </p><p>struck root for the first time in a new country. But where was the bustle </p><p>and industry characteristic of such an assemblage; the rudely constructed </p><p>dwelling, which was to suffice till a more commodious mansion could be </p><p>built; the marking out of fields; the attempt at cultivation; the eager </p><p>curiosity to discover unknown animals and herbs; the excursions for the </p><p>sake of exploring the country? Our habitations were palaces our food was </p><p>ready stored in granaries--there was no need of labour, no </p><p>inquisitiveness, no restless desire to get on. If we had been assured that </p><p>we should secure the lives of our present numbers, there would have been </p><p>more vivacity and hope in our councils. We should have discussed as to the </p><p>period when the existing produce for man's sustenance would no longer </p><p>suffice for us, and what mode of life we should then adopt. We should have </p><p>considered more carefully our future plans, and debated concerning the spot </p><p>where we should in future dwell. But summer and the plague were near, and </p><p>we dared not look forward. Every heart sickened at the thought of </p><p>amusement; if the younger part of our community were ever impelled, by </p><p>youthful and untamed hilarity, to enter on any dance or song, to cheer the </p><p>melancholy time, they would suddenly break off, checked by a mournful look </p><p>or agonizing sigh from any one among them, who was prevented by sorrows and </p><p>losses from mingling in the festivity. If laughter echoed under our roof, </p><p>yet the heart was vacant of joy; and, when ever it chanced that I witnessed </p><p>such attempts at pastime, they encreased instead of diminishing my sense of </p><p>woe. In the midst of the pleasure-hunting throng, I would close my eyes, </p><p>and see before me the obscure cavern, where was garnered the mortality of </p><p>Idris, and the dead lay around, mouldering in hushed repose. When I again</p><p>became aware of the present hour, softest melody of Lydian flute, or </p><p>harmonious maze of graceful dance, was but as the demoniac chorus in the </p><p>Wolf's Glen, and the caperings of the reptiles that surrounded the magic </p><p>circle. </p><p>My dearest interval of peace occurred, when, released from the obligation </p><p>of associating with the crowd, I could repose in the dear home where my </p><p>children lived. Children I say, for the tenderest emotions of paternity </p><p>bound me to Clara. She was now fourteen; sorrow, and deep insight into the </p><p>scenes around her, calmed the restless spirit of girlhood; while the </p><p>remembrance of her father whom she idolized, and respect for me and Adrian, </p><p>implanted an high sense of duty in her young heart. Though serious she was </p><p>not sad; the eager desire that makes us all, when young, plume our wings, </p><p>and stretch our necks, that we may more swiftly alight tiptoe on the height </p><p>of maturity, was subdued in her by early experience. All that she could </p><p>spare of overflowing love from her parents' memory, and attention to her </p><p>living relatives, was spent upon religion. This was the hidden law of her </p><p>heart, which she concealed with childish reserve, and cherished the more </p><p>because it was secret. What faith so entire, what charity so pure, what </p><p>hope so fervent, as that of early youth? and she, all love, all tenderness </p><p>and trust, who from infancy had been tossed on the wide sea of passion and </p><p>misfortune, saw the finger of apparent divinity in all, and her best hope </p><p>was to make herself acceptable to the power she worshipped. Evelyn was only </p><p>five years old; his joyous heart was incapable of sorrow, and he enlivened </p><p>our house with the innocent mirth incident to his years. </p><p>The aged Countess of Windsor had fallen from her dream of power, rank and </p><p>grandeur; she had been suddenly seized with the conviction, that love was </p><p>the only good of life, virtue the only ennobling distinction and enriching </p><p>wealth. Such a lesson had been taught her by the dead lips of her neglected </p><p>daughter; and she devoted herself, with all the fiery violence of her </p><p>character, to the obtaining the affection of the remnants of her family. In </p><p>early years the heart of Adrian had been chilled towards her; and, though </p><p>he observed a due respect, her coldness, mixed with the recollection of </p><p>disappointment and madness, caused him to feel even pain in her society. </p><p>She saw this, and yet determined to win his love; the obstacle served the </p><p>rather to excite her ambition. As Henry, Emperor of Germany, lay in the </p><p>snow before Pope Leo's gate for three winter days and nights, so did she in </p><p>humility wait before the icy barriers of his closed heart, till he, the </p><p>servant of love, and prince of tender courtesy, opened it wide for her </p><p>admittance, bestowing, with fervency and gratitude, the tribute of filial </p><p>affection she merited. Her understanding, courage, and presence of mind, </p><p>became powerful auxiliaries to him in the difficult task of ruling the </p><p>tumultuous crowd, which were subjected to his control, in truth by a single </p><p>hair. </p><p>The principal circumstances that disturbed our tranquillity during this </p><p>interval, originated in the vicinity of the impostor-prophet and his </p><p>followers. They continued to reside at Paris; but missionaries from among </p><p>them often visited Versailles--and such was the power of assertions, </p><p>however false, yet vehemently iterated, over the ready credulity of the </p><p>ignorant and fearful, that they seldom failed in drawing over to their </p><p>party some from among our numbers. An instance of this nature coming </p><p>immediately under our notice, we were led to consider the miserable state </p><p>in which we should leave our countrymen, when we should, at the approach of </p><p>summer, move on towards Switzerland, and leave a deluded crew behind us in </p><p>the hands of their miscreant leader. The sense of the smallness of our </p><p>numbers, and expectation of decrease, pressed upon us; and, while it would </p><p>be a subject of congratulation to ourselves to add one to our party, it</p><p>would be doubly gratifying to rescue from the pernicious influence of </p><p>superstition and unrelenting tyranny, the victims that now, though </p><p>voluntarily enchained, groaned beneath it. If we had considered the </p><p>preacher as sincere in a belief of his own denunciations, or only </p><p>moderately actuated by kind feeling in the exercise of his assumed powers, </p><p>we should have immediately addressed ourselves to him, and endeavoured with </p><p>our best arguments to soften and humanize his views. But he was instigated </p><p>by ambition, he desired to rule over these last stragglers from the fold of </p><p>death; his projects went so far, as to cause him to calculate that, if, </p><p>from these crushed remains, a few survived, so that a new race should </p><p>spring up, he, by holding tight the reins of belief, might be remembered by </p><p>the post-pestilential race as a patriarch, a prophet, nay a deity; such as </p><p>of old among the post-diluvians were Jupiter the conqueror, Serapis the </p><p>lawgiver, and Vishnou the preserver. These ideas made him inflexible in his </p><p>rule, and violent in his hate of any who presumed to share with him his </p><p>usurped empire. </p><p>It is a strange fact, but incontestible, that the philanthropist, who </p><p>ardent in his desire to do good, who patient, reasonable and gentle, yet </p><p>disdains to use other argument than truth, has less influence over men's </p><p>minds, than he who, grasping and selfish, refuses not to adopt any means, </p><p>nor awaken any passion, nor diffuse any falsehood, for the advancement of </p><p>his cause. If this from time immemorial has been the case, the contrast was </p><p>infinitely greater, now that the one could bring harrowing fears and </p><p>transcendent hopes into play; while the other had few hopes to hold forth, </p><p>nor could influence the imagination to diminish the fears which he himself </p><p>was the first to entertain. The preacher had persuaded his followers, that </p><p>their escape from the plague, the salvation of their children, and the rise </p><p>of a new race of men from their seed, depended on their faith in, and their </p><p>submission to him. They greedily imbibed this belief; and their </p><p>over-weening credulity even rendered them eager to make converts to the </p><p>same faith. </p><p>How to seduce any individuals from such an alliance of fraud, was a </p><p>frequent subject of Adrian's meditations and discourse. He formed many </p><p>plans for the purpose; but his own troop kept him in full occupation to </p><p>ensure their fidelity and safety; beside which the preacher was as cautious </p><p>and prudent, as he was cruel. His victims lived under the strictest rules </p><p>and laws, which either entirely imprisoned them within the Tuileries, or </p><p>let them out in such numbers, and under such leaders, as precluded the </p><p>possibility of controversy. There was one among them however whom I </p><p>resolved to save; she had been known to us in happier days; Idris had loved </p><p>her; and her excellent nature made it peculiarly lamentable that she should </p><p>be sacrificed by this merciless cannibal of souls. </p><p>This man had between two and three hundred persons enlisted under his </p><p>banners. More than half of them were women; there were about fifty children </p><p>of all ages; and not more than eighty men. They were mostly drawn from that </p><p>which, when such distinctions existed, was denominated the lower rank of </p><p>society. The exceptions consisted of a few high-born females, who, </p><p>panic-struck, and tamed by sorrow, had joined him. Among these was one, </p><p>young, lovely, and enthusiastic, whose very goodness made her a more easy </p><p>victim. I have mentioned her before: Juliet, the youngest daughter, and now </p><p>sole relic of the ducal house of L---. There are some beings, whom fate </p><p>seems to select on whom to pour, in unmeasured portion, the vials of her </p><p>wrath, and whom she bathes even to the lips in misery. Such a one was the </p><p>ill-starred Juliet. She had lost her indulgent parents, her brothers and </p><p>sisters, companions of her youth; in one fell swoop they had been carried </p><p>off from her. Yet she had again dared to call herself happy; united to her</p><p>admirer, to him who possessed and filled her whole heart, she yielded to </p><p>the lethean powers of love, and knew and felt only his life and presence. </p><p>At the very time when with keen delight she welcomed the tokens of </p><p>maternity, this sole prop of her life failed, her husband died of the </p><p>plague. For a time she had been lulled in insanity; the birth of her child </p><p>restored her to the cruel reality of things, but gave her at the same time </p><p>an object for whom to preserve at once life and reason. Every friend and </p><p>relative had died off, and she was reduced to solitude and penury; deep </p><p>melancholy and angry impatience distorted her judgment, so that she could </p><p>not persuade herself to disclose her distress to us. When she heard of the </p><p>plan of universal emigration, she resolved to remain behind with her </p><p>child, and alone in wide England to live or die, as fate might decree, </p><p>beside the grave of her beloved. She had hidden herself in one of the many </p><p>empty habitations of London; it was she who rescued my Idris on the fatal </p><p>twentieth of November, though my immediate danger, and the subsequent </p><p>illness of Idris, caused us to forget our hapless friend. This circumstance </p><p>had however brought her again in contact with her fellow-creatures; a </p><p>slight illness of her infant, proved to her that she was still bound to </p><p>humanity by an indestructible tie; to preserve this little creature's life </p><p>became the object of her being, and she joined the first division of </p><p>migrants who went over to Paris. </p><p>She became an easy prey to the methodist; her sensibility and acute fears </p><p>rendered her accessible to every impulse; her love for her child made her </p><p>eager to cling to the merest straw held out to save him. Her mind, once </p><p>unstrung, and now tuned by roughest inharmonious hands, made her credulous: </p><p>beautiful as fabled goddess, with voice of unrivalled sweetness, burning </p><p>with new lighted enthusiasm, she became a stedfast proselyte, and powerful </p><p>auxiliary to the leader of the elect. I had remarked her in the crowd, on </p><p>the day we met on the Place Vendome; and, recollecting suddenly her </p><p>providential rescue of my lost one, on the night of the twentieth of </p><p>November, I reproached myself for my neglect and ingratitude, and felt </p><p>impelled to leave no means that I could adopt untried, to recall her to her </p><p>better self, and rescue her from the fangs of the hypocrite destroyer. </p><p>I will not, at this period of my story, record the artifices I used to </p><p>penetrate the asylum of the Tuileries, or give what would be a tedious </p><p>account of my stratagems, disappointments, and perseverance. I at last </p><p>succeeded in entering these walls, and roamed its halls and corridors in </p><p>eager hope to find my selected convert. In the evening I contrived to </p><p>mingle unobserved with the congregation, which assembled in the chapel to </p><p>listen to the crafty and eloquent harangue of their prophet. I saw Juliet </p><p>near him. Her dark eyes, fearfully impressed with the restless glare of </p><p>madness, were fixed on him; she held her infant, not yet a year old, in her </p><p>arms; and care of it alone could distract her attention from the words to </p><p>which she eagerly listened. After the sermon was over, the congregation </p><p>dispersed; all quitted the chapel except she whom I sought; her babe had </p><p>fallen asleep; so she placed it on a cushion, and sat on the floor beside, </p><p>watching its tranquil slumber. </p><p>I presented myself to her; for a moment natural feeling produced a </p><p>sentiment of gladness, which disappeared again, when with ardent and </p><p>affectionate exhortation I besought her to accompany me in flight from this </p><p>den of superstition and misery. In a moment she relapsed into the delirium </p><p>of fanaticism, and, but that her gentle nature forbade, would have loaded </p><p>me with execrations. She conjured me, she commanded me to leave her-- </p><p>"Beware, O beware," she cried, "fly while yet your escape is practicable. </p><p>Now you are safe; but strange sounds and inspirations come on me at times, </p><p>and if the Eternal should in awful whisper reveal to me his will, that to</p><p>save my child you must be sacrificed, I would call in the satellites of him </p><p>you call the tyrant; they would tear you limb from limb; nor would I hallow </p><p>the death of him whom Idris loved, by a single tear." </p><p>She spoke hurriedly, with tuneless voice, and wild look; her child awoke, </p><p>and, frightened, began to cry; each sob went to the ill-fated mother's </p><p>heart, and she mingled the epithets of endearment she addressed to her </p><p>infant, with angry commands that I should leave her. Had I had the means, I </p><p>would have risked all, have torn her by force from the murderer's den, and </p><p>trusted to the healing balm of reason and affection. But I had no choice, </p><p>no power even of longer struggle; steps were heard along the gallery, and </p><p>the voice of the preacher drew near. Juliet, straining her child in a close </p><p>embrace, fled by another passage. Even then I would have followed her; but </p><p>my foe and his satellites entered; I was surrounded, and taken prisoner. </p><p>I remembered the menace of the unhappy Juliet, and expected the full </p><p>tempest of the man's vengeance, and the awakened wrath of his followers, to </p><p>fall instantly upon me. I was questioned. My answers were simple and </p><p>sincere. "His own mouth condemns him," exclaimed the impostor; "he </p><p>confesses that his intention was to seduce from the way of salvation our </p><p>well-beloved sister in God; away with him to the dungeon; to-morrow he dies </p><p>the death; we are manifestly called upon to make an example, tremendous and </p><p>appalling, to scare the children of sin from our asylum of the saved." </p><p>My heart revolted from his hypocritical jargon: but it was unworthy of me </p><p>to combat in words with the ruffian; and my answer was cool; while, far </p><p>from being possessed with fear, methought, even at the worst, a man true to </p><p>himself, courageous and determined, could fight his way, even from the </p><p>boards of the scaffold, through the herd of these misguided maniacs. </p><p>"Remember," I said, "who I am; and be well assured that I shall not die </p><p>unavenged. Your legal magistrate, the Lord Protector, knew of my design, </p><p>and is aware that I am here; the cry of blood will reach him, and you and </p><p>your miserable victims will long lament the tragedy you are about to act." </p><p>My antagonist did not deign to reply, even by a look;--"You know your </p><p>duty," he said to his comrades,--"obey." </p><p>In a moment I was thrown on the earth, bound, blindfolded, and hurried away </p><p>--liberty of limb and sight was only restored to me, when, surrounded by </p><p>dungeon-walls, dark and impervious, I found myself a prisoner and alone. </p><p>Such was the result of my attempt to gain over the proselyte of this man of </p><p>crime; I could not conceive that he would dare put me to death.--Yet I </p><p>was in his hands; the path of his ambition had ever been dark and cruel; </p><p>his power was founded upon fear; the one word which might cause me to die, </p><p>unheard, unseen, in the obscurity of my dungeon, might be easier to speak </p><p>than the deed of mercy to act. He would not risk probably a public </p><p>execution; but a private assassination would at once terrify any of my </p><p>companions from attempting a like feat, at the same time that a cautious </p><p>line of conduct might enable him to avoid the enquiries and the vengeance </p><p>of Adrian. </p><p>Two months ago, in a vault more obscure than the one I now inhabited, I had </p><p>revolved the design of quietly laying me down to die; now I shuddered at </p><p>the approach of fate. My imagination was busied in shaping forth the kind </p><p>of death he would inflict. Would he allow me to wear out life with famine; </p><p>or was the food administered to me to be medicined with death? Would he </p><p>steal on me in my sleep; or should I contend to the last with my murderers, </p><p>knowing, even while I struggled, that I must be overcome? I lived upon an</p><p>earth whose diminished population a child's arithmetic might number; I had </p><p>lived through long months with death stalking close at my side, while at </p><p>intervals the shadow of his skeleton-shape darkened my path. I had believed </p><p>that I despised the grim phantom, and laughed his power to scorn. </p><p>Any other fate I should have met with courage, nay, have gone out gallantly </p><p>to encounter. But to be murdered thus at the midnight hour by cold-blooded </p><p>assassins, no friendly hand to close my eyes, or receive my parting </p><p>blessing--to die in combat, hate and execration--ah, why, my angel </p><p>love, didst thou restore me to life, when already I had stepped within the </p><p>portals of the tomb, now that so soon again I was to be flung back a </p><p>mangled corpse! </p><p>Hours passed--centuries. Could I give words to the many thoughts which </p><p>occupied me in endless succession during this interval, I should fill </p><p>volumes. The air was dank, the dungeon-floor mildewed and icy cold; hunger </p><p>came upon me too, and no sound reached me from without. To-morrow the </p><p>ruffian had declared that I should die. When would to-morrow come? Was it </p><p>not already here? </p><p>My door was about to be opened. I heard the key turn, and the bars and </p><p>bolts slowly removed. The opening of intervening passages permitted sounds </p><p>from the interior of the palace to reach me; and I heard the clock strike </p><p>one. They come to murder me, I thought; this hour does not befit a public </p><p>execution. I drew myself up against the wall opposite the entrance; I </p><p>collected my forces, I rallied my courage, I would not fall a tame prey. </p><p>Slowly the door receded on its hinges--I was ready to spring forward to </p><p>seize and grapple with the intruder, till the sight of who it was changed </p><p>at once the temper of my mind. It was Juliet herself; pale and trembling </p><p>she stood, a lamp in her hand, on the threshold of the dungeon, looking at </p><p>me with wistful countenance. But in a moment she re-assumed her </p><p>self-possession; and her languid eyes recovered their brilliancy. She said, </p><p>"I am come to save you, Verney." </p><p>"And yourself also," I cried: "dearest friend, can we indeed be saved?" </p><p>"Not a word," she replied, "follow me!" </p><p>I obeyed instantly. We threaded with light steps many corridors, ascended </p><p>several flights of stairs, and passed through long galleries; at the end of </p><p>one she unlocked a low portal; a rush of wind extinguished our lamp; but, </p><p>in lieu of it, we had the blessed moon-beams and the open face of heaven. </p><p>Then first Juliet spoke:--"You are safe," she said, "God bless you!-- </p><p>farewell!" </p><p>I seized her reluctant hand--"Dear friend," I cried, "misguided victim, </p><p>do you not intend to escape with me? Have you not risked all in </p><p>facilitating my flight? and do you think, that I will permit you to return, </p><p>and suffer alone the effects of that miscreant's rage? Never!" </p><p>"Do not fear for me," replied the lovely girl mournfully, "and do not </p><p>imagine that without the consent of our chief you could be without these </p><p>walls. It is he that has saved you; he assigned to me the part of leading </p><p>you hither, because I am best acquainted with your motives for coming here, </p><p>and can best appreciate his mercy in permitting you to depart." </p><p>"And are you," I cried, "the dupe of this man? He dreads me alive as an </p><p>enemy, and dead he fears my avengers. By favouring this clandestine escape </p><p>he preserves a shew of consistency to his followers; but mercy is far from</p><p>his heart. Do you forget his artifices, his cruelty, and fraud? As I am </p><p>free, so are you. Come, Juliet, the mother of our lost Idris will welcome </p><p>you, the noble Adrian will rejoice to receive you; you will find peace and </p><p>love, and better hopes than fanaticism can afford. Come, and fear not; long </p><p>before day we shall be at Versailles; close the door on this abode of crime </p><p>--come, sweet Juliet, from hypocrisy and guilt to the society of the </p><p>affectionate and good." </p><p>I spoke hurriedly, but with fervour: and while with gentle violence I drew </p><p>her from the portal, some thought, some recollection of past scenes of </p><p>youth and happiness, made her listen and yield to me; suddenly she broke </p><p>away with a piercing shriek:--"My child, my child! he has my child; my </p><p>darling girl is my hostage." </p><p>She darted from me into the passage; the gate closed between us--she was </p><p>left in the fangs of this man of crime, a prisoner, still to inhale the </p><p>pestilential atmosphere which adhered to his demoniac nature; the unimpeded </p><p>breeze played on my cheek, the moon shone graciously upon me, my path was </p><p>free. Glad to have escaped, yet melancholy in my very joy, I retrod my </p><p>steps to Versailles. </p><p>CHAPTER VI. </p><p>EVENTFUL winter passed; winter, the respite of our ills. By degrees the </p><p>sun, which with slant beams had before yielded the more extended reign to </p><p>night, lengthened his diurnal journey, and mounted his highest throne, at </p><p>once the fosterer of earth's new beauty, and her lover. We who, like flies </p><p>that congregate upon a dry rock at the ebbing of the tide, had played </p><p>wantonly with time, allowing our passions, our hopes, and our mad desires </p><p>to rule us, now heard the approaching roar of the ocean of destruction, and </p><p>would have fled to some sheltered crevice, before the first wave broke over </p><p>us. We resolved without delay, to commence our journey to Switzerland; we </p><p>became eager to leave France. Under the icy vaults of the glaciers, beneath </p><p>the shadow of the pines, the swinging of whose mighty branches was arrested </p><p>by a load of snow; beside the streams whose intense cold proclaimed their </p><p>origin to be from the slow-melting piles of congelated waters, amidst </p><p>frequent storms which might purify the air, we should find health, if in </p><p>truth health were not herself diseased. </p><p>We began our preparations at first with alacrity. We did not now bid adieu </p><p>to our native country, to the graves of those we loved, to the flowers, and </p><p>streams, and trees, which had lived beside us from infancy. Small sorrow </p><p>would be ours on leaving Paris. A scene of shame, when we remembered our </p><p>late contentions, and thought that we left behind a flock of miserable, </p><p>deluded victims, bending under the tyranny of a selfish impostor. Small </p><p>pangs should we feel in leaving the gardens, woods, and halls of the </p><p>palaces of the Bourbons at Versailles, which we feared would soon be </p><p>tainted by the dead, when we looked forward to vallies lovelier than any </p><p>garden, to mighty forests and halls, built not for mortal majesty, but </p><p>palaces of nature's own, with the Alp of marmoreal whiteness for their </p><p>walls, the sky for their roof. </p><p>Yet our spirits flagged, as the day drew near which we had fixed for our </p><p>departure. Dire visions and evil auguries, if such things were, thickened </p><p>around us, so that in vain might men say--</p><p> These are their reasons, they are natural,[1]</p><p>we felt them to be ominous, and dreaded the future event enchained </p><p>to them. That the night owl should screech before the noon-day </p><p>sun, that the hard-winged bat should wheel around the bed of </p><p>beauty, that muttering thunder should in early spring startle </p><p>the cloudless air, that sudden and exterminating blight should fall </p><p>on the tree and shrub, were unaccustomed, but physical events, less </p><p>horrible than the mental creations of almighty fear. Some had sight of </p><p>funeral processions, and faces all begrimed with tears, which flitted </p><p>through the long avenues of the gardens, and drew aside the curtains of the </p><p>sleepers at dead of night. Some heard wailing and cries in the air; a </p><p>mournful chaunt would stream through the dark atmosphere, as if spirits </p><p>above sang the requiem of the human race. What was there in all this, but </p><p>that fear created other senses within our frames, making us see, hear, and </p><p>feel what was not? What was this, but the action of diseased imaginations </p><p>and childish credulity? So might it be; but what was most real, was the </p><p>existence of these very fears; the staring looks of horror, the faces pale </p><p>even to ghastliness, the voices struck dumb with harrowing dread, of those </p><p>among us who saw and heard these things. Of this number was Adrian, who </p><p>knew the delusion, yet could not cast off the clinging terror. Even </p><p>ignorant infancy appeared with timorous shrieks and convulsions to </p><p>acknowledge the presence of unseen powers. We must go: in change of scene, </p><p>in occupation, and such security as we still hoped to find, we should </p><p>discover a cure for these gathering horrors. </p><p>On mustering our company, we found them to consist of fourteen hundred </p><p>souls, men, women, and children. Until now therefore, we were undiminished </p><p>in numbers, except by the desertion of those who had attached themselves to </p><p>the impostor-prophet, and remained behind in Paris. About fifty French </p><p>joined us. Our order of march was easily arranged; the ill success which </p><p>had attended our division, determined Adrian to keep all in one body. I, </p><p>with an hundred men, went forward first as purveyor, taking the road of the </p><p>Cote d'Or, through Auxerre, Dijon, Dole, over the Jura to Geneva. I was to </p><p>make arrangements, at every ten miles, for the accommodation of such </p><p>numbers as I found the town or village would receive, leaving behind a </p><p>messenger with a written order, signifying how many were to be quartered </p><p>there. The remainder of our tribe was then divided into bands of fifty </p><p>each, every division containing eighteen men, and the remainder, consisting </p><p>of women and children. Each of these was headed by an officer, who carried </p><p>the roll of names, by which they were each day to be mustered. If the </p><p>numbers were divided at night, in the morning those in the van waited for </p><p>those in the rear. At each of the large towns before mentioned, we were all </p><p>to assemble; and a conclave of the principal officers would hold council </p><p>for the general weal. I went first, as I said; Adrian last. His mother, </p><p>with Clara and Evelyn under her protection, remained also with him. Thus </p><p>our order being determined, I departed. My plan was to go at first no </p><p>further than Fontainebleau, where in a few days I should be joined by </p><p>Adrian, before I took flight again further eastward. </p><p>My friend accompanied me a few miles from Versailles. He was sad; and, in a </p><p>tone of unaccustomed despondency, uttered a prayer for our speedy arrival </p><p>among the Alps, accompanied with an expression of vain regret that we were </p><p>not already there. "In that case," I observed, "we can quicken our march; </p><p>why adhere to a plan whose dilatory proceeding you already disapprove?" </p><p>"Nay," replied he, "it is too late now. A month ago, and we were masters of </p><p>ourselves; now,--" he turned his face from me; though gathering twilight</p><p>had already veiled its expression, he turned it yet more away, as he added </p><p>--"a man died of the plague last night!" </p><p>He spoke in a smothered voice, then suddenly clasping his hands, he </p><p>exclaimed, "Swiftly, most swiftly advances the last hour for us all; as the </p><p>stars vanish before the sun, so will his near approach destroy us. I have </p><p>done my best; with grasping hands and impotent strength, I have hung on the </p><p>wheel of the chariot of plague; but she drags me along with it, while, like </p><p>Juggernaut, she proceeds crushing out the being of all who strew the high </p><p>road of life. Would that it were over--would that her procession </p><p>achieved, we had all entered the tomb together!" </p><p>Tears streamed from his eyes. "Again and again," he continued, "will the </p><p>tragedy be acted; again I must hear the groans of the dying, the wailing of </p><p>the survivors; again witness the pangs, which, consummating all, envelope </p><p>an eternity in their evanescent existence. Why am I reserved for this? Why </p><p>the tainted wether of the flock, am I not struck to earth among the first? </p><p>It is hard, very hard, for one of woman born to endure all that I endure!" </p><p>Hitherto, with an undaunted spirit, and an high feeling of duty and worth, </p><p>Adrian had fulfilled his self-imposed task. I had contemplated him with </p><p>reverence, and a fruitless desire of imitation. I now offered a few words </p><p>of encouragement and sympathy. He hid his face in his hands, and while he </p><p>strove to calm himself, he ejaculated, "For a few months, yet for a few </p><p>months more, let not, O God, my heart fail, or my courage be bowed down; </p><p>let not sights of intolerable misery madden this half-crazed brain, or </p><p>cause this frail heart to beat against its prison-bound, so that it burst. </p><p>I have believed it to be my destiny to guide and rule the last of the race </p><p>of man, till death extinguish my government; and to this destiny I submit. </p><p>"Pardon me, Verney, I pain you, but I will no longer complain. Now I am </p><p>myself again, or rather I am better than myself. You have known how from my </p><p>childhood aspiring thoughts and high desires have warred with inherent </p><p>disease and overstrained sensitiveness, till the latter became victors. You </p><p>know how I placed this wasted feeble hand on the abandoned helm of human </p><p>government. I have been visited at times by intervals of fluctuation; yet, </p><p>until now, I have felt as if a superior and indefatigable spirit had taken </p><p>up its abode within me or rather incorporated itself with my weaker being. </p><p>The holy visitant has for a time slept, perhaps to show me how powerless I </p><p>am without its inspiration. Yet, stay for a while, O Power of goodness and </p><p>strength; disdain not yet this rent shrine of fleshly mortality, O immortal </p><p>Capability! While one fellow creature remains to whom aid can be afforded, </p><p>stay by and prop your shattered, falling engine!" </p><p>His vehemence, and voice broken by irrepressible sighs, sunk to my heart; </p><p>his eyes gleamed in the gloom of night like two earthly stars; and, his </p><p>form dilating, his countenance beaming, truly it almost seemed as if at his </p><p>eloquent appeal a more than mortal spirit entered his frame, exalting him </p><p>above humanity. He turned quickly towards me, and held out his hand. </p><p>"Farewell, Verney," he cried, "brother of my love, farewell; no other weak </p><p>expression must cross these lips, I am alive again: to our tasks, to our </p><p>combats with our unvanquishable foe, for to the last I will struggle </p><p>against her." </p><p>He grasped my hand, and bent a look on me, more fervent and animated than </p><p>any smile; then turning his horse's head, he touched the animal with the </p><p>spur, and was out of sight in a moment. </p><p>A man last night had died of the plague. The quiver was not emptied, nor</p><p>the bow unstrung. We stood as marks, while Parthian Pestilence aimed and </p><p>shot, insatiated by conquest, unobstructed by the heaps of slain. A </p><p>sickness of the soul, contagious even to my physical mechanism, came over </p><p>me. My knees knocked together, my teeth chattered, the current of my blood, </p><p>clotted by sudden cold, painfully forced its way from my heavy heart. I did </p><p>not fear for myself, but it was misery to think that we could not even save </p><p>this remnant. That those I loved might in a few days be as clay-cold as </p><p>Idris in her antique tomb; nor could strength of body or energy of mind </p><p>ward off the blow. A sense of degradation came over me. Did God create man, </p><p>merely in the end to become dead earth in the midst of healthful vegetating </p><p>nature? Was he of no more account to his Maker, than a field of corn </p><p>blighted in the ear? Were our proud dreams thus to fade? Our name was </p><p>written "a little lower than the angels;" and, behold, we were no better </p><p>than ephemera. We had called ourselves the "paragon of animals," and, lo! </p><p>we were a "quint-essence of dust." We repined that the pyramids had </p><p>outlasted the embalmed body of their builder. Alas! the mere shepherd's hut </p><p>of straw we passed on the road, contained in its structure the principle of </p><p>greater longevity than the whole race of man. How reconcile this sad change </p><p>to our past aspirations, to our apparent powers! </p><p>Sudden an internal voice, articulate and clear, seemed to say:--Thus from </p><p>eternity, it was decreed: the steeds that bear Time onwards had this hour </p><p>and this fulfilment enchained to them, since the void brought forth its </p><p>burthen. Would you read backwards the unchangeable laws of Necessity? </p><p>Mother of the world! Servant of the Omnipotent! eternal, changeless </p><p>Necessity! who with busy fingers sittest ever weaving the indissoluble </p><p>chain of events!--I will not murmur at thy acts. If my human mind cannot </p><p>acknowledge that all that is, is right; yet since what is, must be, I will </p><p>sit amidst the ruins and smile. Truly we were not born to enjoy, but to </p><p>submit, and to hope. </p><p>Will not the reader tire, if I should minutely describe our long-drawn </p><p>journey from Paris to Geneva? If, day by day, I should record, in the form </p><p>of a journal, the thronging miseries of our lot, could my hand write, or </p><p>language afford words to express, the variety of our woe; the hustling and </p><p>crowding of one deplorable event upon another? Patience, oh reader! whoever </p><p>thou art, wherever thou dwellest, whether of race spiritual, or, sprung </p><p>from some surviving pair, thy nature will be human, thy habitation the </p><p>earth; thou wilt here read of the acts of the extinct race, and wilt ask </p><p>wonderingly, if they, who suffered what thou findest recorded, were of </p><p>frail flesh and soft organization like thyself. Most true, they were-- </p><p>weep therefore; for surely, solitary being, thou wilt be of gentle </p><p>disposition; shed compassionate tears; but the while lend thy attention to </p><p>the tale, and learn the deeds and sufferings of thy predecessors. </p><p>Yet the last events that marked our progress through France were so full of </p><p>strange horror and gloomy misery, that I dare not pause too long in the </p><p>narration. If I were to dissect each incident, every small fragment of a </p><p>second would contain an harrowing tale, whose minutest word would curdle </p><p>the blood in thy young veins. It is right that I should erect for thy </p><p>instruction this monument of the foregone race; but not that I should drag </p><p>thee through the wards of an hospital, nor the secret chambers of the </p><p>charnel-house. This tale, therefore, shall be rapidly unfolded. Images of </p><p>destruction, pictures of despair, the procession of the last triumph of </p><p>death, shall be drawn before thee, swift as the rack driven by the north </p><p>wind along the blotted splendour of the sky. </p><p>Weed-grown fields, desolate towns, the wild approach of riderless horses</p><p>had now become habitual to my eyes; nay, sights far worse, of the unburied </p><p>dead, and human forms which were strewed on the road side, and on the steps </p><p>of once frequented habitations, where, </p><p> Through the flesh that wastes away</p><p> Beneath the parching sun, the whitening bones</p><p> Start forth, and moulder in the sable dust.[2]</p><p>Sights like these had become--ah, woe the while! so familiar, that we had </p><p>ceased to shudder, or spur our stung horses to sudden speed, as we passed </p><p>them. France in its best days, at least that part of France through which </p><p>we travelled, had been a cultivated desert, and the absence of enclosures, </p><p>of cottages, and even of peasantry, was saddening to a traveller from sunny </p><p>Italy, or busy England. Yet the towns were frequent and lively, and the </p><p>cordial politeness and ready smile of the wooden-shoed peasant restored </p><p>good humour to the splenetic. Now, the old woman sat no more at the door </p><p>with her distaff--the lank beggar no longer asked charity in </p><p>courtier-like phrase; nor on holidays did the peasantry thread with slow </p><p>grace the mazes of the dance. Silence, melancholy bride of death, went in </p><p>procession with him from town to town through the spacious region. </p><p>We arrived at Fontainebleau, and speedily prepared for the reception of our </p><p>friends. On mustering our numbers for the night, three were found missing. </p><p>When I enquired for them, the man to whom I spoke, uttered the word </p><p>"plague," and fell at my feet in convulsions; he also was infected. There </p><p>were hard faces around me; for among my troop were sailors who had crossed </p><p>the line times unnumbered, soldiers who, in Russia and far America, had </p><p>suffered famine, cold and danger, and men still sterner-featured, once </p><p>nightly depredators in our over-grown metropolis; men bred from their </p><p>cradle to see the whole machine of society at work for their destruction. I </p><p>looked round, and saw upon the faces of all horror and despair written in </p><p>glaring characters. </p><p>We passed four days at Fontainebleau. Several sickened and died, and in the </p><p>mean time neither Adrian nor any of our friends appeared. My own troop was </p><p>in commotion; to reach Switzerland, to plunge into rivers of snow, and to </p><p>dwell in caves of ice, became the mad desire of all. Yet we had promised to </p><p>wait for the Earl; and he came not. My people demanded to be led forward-- </p><p>rebellion, if so we might call what was the mere casting away of </p><p>straw-formed shackles, appeared manifestly among them. They would away on </p><p>the word without a leader. The only chance of safety, the only hope of </p><p>preservation from every form of indescribable suffering, was our keeping </p><p>together. I told them this; while the most determined among them answered </p><p>with sullenness, that they could take care of themselves, and replied to my </p><p>entreaties with scoffs and menaces. </p><p>At length, on the fifth day, a messenger arrived from Adrian, bearing </p><p>letters, which directed us to proceed to Auxerre, and there await his </p><p>arrival, which would only be deferred for a few days. Such was the tenor of </p><p>his public letters. Those privately delivered to me, detailed at length the </p><p>difficulties of his situation, and left the arrangement of my future plans </p><p>to my own discretion. His account of the state of affairs at Versailles was </p><p>brief, but the oral communications of his messenger filled up his </p><p>omissions, and shewed me that perils of the most frightful nature were </p><p>gathering around him. At first the re-awakening of the plague had been </p><p>concealed; but the number of deaths encreasing, the secret was divulged, </p><p>and the destruction already achieved, was exaggerated by the fears of the </p><p>survivors. Some emissaries of the enemy of mankind, the accursed Impostors. </p><p>were among them instilling their doctrine, that safety and life could only</p><p>be ensured by submission to their chief; and they succeeded so well, that </p><p>soon, instead of desiring to proceed to Switzerland, the major part of the </p><p>multitude, weak-minded women, and dastardly men, desired to return to </p><p>Paris, and, by ranging themselves under the banners of the so called </p><p>prophet, and by a cowardly worship of the principle of evil, to purchase </p><p>respite, as they hoped, from impending death. The discord and tumult </p><p>induced by these conflicting fears and passions, detained Adrian. It </p><p>required all his ardour in pursuit of an object, and his patience under </p><p>difficulties, to calm and animate such a number of his followers, as might </p><p>counterbalance the panic of the rest, and lead them back to the means from </p><p>which alone safety could be derived. He had hoped immediately to follow me; </p><p>but, being defeated in this intention, he sent his messenger urging me to </p><p>secure my own troop at such a distance from Versailles, as to prevent the </p><p>contagion of rebellion from reaching them; promising, at the same time, to </p><p>join me the moment a favourable occasion should occur, by means of which he </p><p>could withdraw the main body of the emigrants from the evil influence at </p><p>present exercised over them. </p><p>I was thrown into a most painful state of uncertainty by these </p><p>communications. My first impulse was that we should all return to </p><p>Versailles, there to assist in extricating our chief from his perils. I </p><p>accordingly assembled my troop, and proposed to them this retrograde </p><p>movement, instead of the continuation of our journey to Auxerre. With one </p><p>voice they refused to comply. The notion circulated among them was, that </p><p>the ravages of the plague alone detained the Protector; they opposed his </p><p>order to my request; they came to a resolve to proceed without me, should I </p><p>refuse to accompany them. Argument and adjuration were lost on these </p><p>dastards. The continual diminution of their own numbers, effected by </p><p>pestilence, added a sting to their dislike of delay; and my opposition only </p><p>served to bring their resolution to a crisis. That same evening they </p><p>departed towards Auxerre. Oaths, as from soldiers to their general, had </p><p>been taken by them: these they broke. I also had engaged myself not to </p><p>desert them; it appeared to me inhuman to ground any infraction of my word </p><p>on theirs. The same spirit that caused them to rebel against me, would </p><p>impel them to desert each other; and the most dreadful sufferings would be </p><p>the consequence of their journey in their present unordered and chiefless </p><p>array. These feelings for a time were paramount; and, in obedience to them, </p><p>I accompanied the rest towards Auxerre. We arrived the same night at </p><p>Villeneuve-la-Guiard, a town at the distance of four posts from </p><p>Fontainebleau. When my companions had retired to rest, and I was left alone </p><p>to revolve and ruminate upon the intelligence I received of Adrian's </p><p>situation, another view of the subject presented itself to me. What was I </p><p>doing, and what was the object of my present movements? Apparently I was to </p><p>lead this troop of selfish and lawless men towards Switzerland, leaving </p><p>behind my family and my selected friend, which, subject as they were hourly </p><p>to the death that threatened to all, I might never see again. Was it not my </p><p>first duty to assist the Protector, setting an example of attachment and </p><p>duty? At a crisis, such as the one I had reached, it is very difficult to </p><p>balance nicely opposing interests, and that towards which our inclinations </p><p>lead us, obstinately assumes the appearance of selfishness, even when we </p><p>meditate a sacrifice. We are easily led at such times to make a compromise </p><p>of the question; and this was my present resource. I resolved that very </p><p>night to ride to Versailles; if I found affairs less desperate than I now </p><p>deemed them, I would return without delay to my troop; I had a vague idea </p><p>that my arrival at that town, would occasion some sensation more or less </p><p>strong, of which we might profit, for the purpose of leading forward the </p><p>vacillating multitude--at least no time was to be lost--I visited the </p><p>stables, I saddled my favourite horse, and vaulting on his back, without </p><p>giving myself time for further reflection or hesitation, quitted</p><p>Villeneuve-la-Guiard on my return to Versailles. </p><p>I was glad to escape from my rebellious troop, and to lose sight for a </p><p>time, of the strife of evil with good, where the former for ever remained </p><p>triumphant. I was stung almost to madness by my uncertainty concerning the </p><p>fate of Adrian, and grew reckless of any event, except what might lose or </p><p>preserve my unequalled friend. With an heavy heart, that sought relief in </p><p>the rapidity of my course, I rode through the night to Versailles. I </p><p>spurred my horse, who addressed his free limbs to speed, and tossed his </p><p>gallant head in pride. The constellations reeled swiftly by, swiftly each </p><p>tree and stone and landmark fled past my onward career. I bared my head to </p><p>the rushing wind, which bathed my brow in delightful coolness. As I lost </p><p>sight of Villeneuve-la-Guiard, I forgot the sad drama of human misery; </p><p>methought it was happiness enough to live, sensitive the while of the </p><p>beauty of the verdure-clad earth, the star-bespangled sky, and the tameless </p><p>wind that lent animation to the whole. My horse grew tired--and I, </p><p>forgetful of his fatigue, still as he lagged, cheered him with my voice, </p><p>and urged him with the spur. He was a gallant animal, and I did not wish to </p><p>exchange him for any chance beast I might light on, leaving him never to be </p><p>refound. All night we went forward; in the morning he became sensible that </p><p>we approached Versailles, to reach which as his home, he mustered his </p><p>flagging strength. The distance we had come was not less than fifty miles, </p><p>yet he shot down the long Boulevards swift as an arrow; poor fellow, as I </p><p>dismounted at the gate of the castle, he sunk on his knees, his eyes were </p><p>covered with a film, he fell on his side, a few gasps inflated his noble </p><p>chest, and he died. I saw him expire with an anguish, unaccountable even to </p><p>myself, the spasm was as the wrenching of some limb in agonizing torture, </p><p>but it was brief as it was intolerable. I forgot him, as I swiftly darted </p><p>through the open portal, and up the majestic stairs of this castle of </p><p>victories--heard Adrian's voice--O fool! O woman nurtured, effeminate </p><p>and contemptible being--I heard his voice, and answered it with </p><p>convulsive shrieks; I rushed into the Hall of Hercules, where he stood </p><p>surrounded by a crowd, whose eyes, turned in wonder on me, reminded me that </p><p>on the stage of the world, a man must repress such girlish extacies. I </p><p>would have given worlds to have embraced him; I dared not--Half in </p><p>exhaustion, half voluntarily, I threw myself at my length on the ground-- </p><p>dare I disclose the truth to the gentle offspring of solitude? I did so, </p><p>that I might kiss the dear and sacred earth he trod. </p><p>I found everything in a state of tumult. An emissary of the leader of the </p><p>elect, had been so worked up by his chief, and by his own fanatical creed, </p><p>as to make an attempt on the life of the Protector and preserver of lost </p><p>mankind. His hand was arrested while in the act of poignarding the Earl; </p><p>this circumstance had caused the clamour I heard on my arrival at the </p><p>castle, and the confused assembly of persons that I found assembled in the </p><p>Salle d'Hercule. Although superstition and demoniac fury had crept among </p><p>the emigrants, yet several adhered with fidelity to their noble chieftain; </p><p>and many, whose faith and love had been unhinged by fear, felt all their </p><p>latent affection rekindled by this detestable attempt. A phalanx of </p><p>faithful breasts closed round him; the wretch, who, although a prisoner and </p><p>in bonds, vaunted his design, and madly claimed the crown of martyrdom, </p><p>would have been torn to pieces, had not his intended victim interposed. </p><p>Adrian, springing forward, shielded him with his own person, and commanded </p><p>with energy the submission of his infuriate friends--at this moment I had </p><p>entered. </p><p>Discipline and peace were at length restored in the castle; and then Adrian </p><p>went from house to house, from troop to troop, to soothe the disturbed </p><p>minds of his followers, and recall them to their ancient obedience. But the</p><p>fear of immediate death was still rife amongst these survivors of a world's </p><p>destruction; the horror occasioned by the attempted assassination, past </p><p>away; each eye turned towards Paris. Men love a prop so well, that they </p><p>will lean on a pointed poisoned spear; and such was he, the impostor, who, </p><p>with fear of hell for his scourge, most ravenous wolf, played the driver to </p><p>a credulous flock. </p><p>It was a moment of suspense, that shook even the resolution of the </p><p>unyielding friend of man. Adrian for one moment was about to give in, to </p><p>cease the struggle, and quit, with a few adherents, the deluded crowd, </p><p>leaving them a miserable prey to their passions, and to the worse tyrant </p><p>who excited them. But again, after a brief fluctuation of purpose, he </p><p>resumed his courage and resolves, sustained by the singleness of his </p><p>purpose, and the untried spirit of benevolence which animated him. At this </p><p>moment, as an omen of excellent import, his wretched enemy pulled </p><p>destruction on his head, destroying with his own hands the dominion he had </p><p>erected. </p><p>His grand hold upon the minds of men, took its rise from the doctrine </p><p>inculcated by him, that those who believed in, and followed him, were the </p><p>remnant to be saved, while all the rest of mankind were marked out for </p><p>death. Now, at the time of the Flood, the omnipotent repented him that he </p><p>had created man, and as then with water, now with the arrows of pestilence, </p><p>was about to annihilate all, except those who obeyed his decrees, </p><p>promulgated by the ipse dixit prophet. It is impossible to say on what </p><p>foundations this man built his hopes of being able to carry on such an </p><p>imposture. It is likely that he was fully aware of the lie which murderous </p><p>nature might give to his assertions, and believed it to be the cast of a </p><p>die, whether he should in future ages be reverenced as an inspired delegate </p><p>from heaven, or be recognized as an impostor by the present dying </p><p>generation. At any rate he resolved to keep up the drama to the last act. </p><p>When, on the first approach of summer, the fatal disease again made its </p><p>ravages among the followers of Adrian, the impostor exultingly proclaimed </p><p>the exemption of his own congregation from the universal calamity. He was </p><p>believed; his followers, hitherto shut up in Paris, now came to Versailles. </p><p>Mingling with the coward band there assembled, they reviled their admirable </p><p>leader, and asserted their own superiority and exemption. At length the </p><p>plague, slow-footed, but sure in her noiseless advance, destroyed the </p><p>illusion, invading the congregation of the elect, and showering promiscuous </p><p>death among them. Their leader endeavoured to conceal this event; he had a </p><p>few followers, who, admitted into the arcana of his wickedness, could help </p><p>him in the execution of his nefarious designs. Those who sickened were </p><p>immediately and quietly withdrawn, the cord and a midnight-grave disposed </p><p>of them for ever; while some plausible excuse was given for their absence. </p><p>At last a female, whose maternal vigilance subdued even the effects of the </p><p>narcotics administered to her, became a witness of their murderous designs </p><p>on her only child. Mad with horror, she would have burst among her deluded </p><p>fellow-victims, and, wildly shrieking, have awaked the dull ear of night </p><p>with the history of the fiend-like crime; when the Impostor, in his last </p><p>act of rage and desperation, plunged a poignard in her bosom. Thus wounded </p><p>to death, her garments dripping with her own life-blood, bearing her </p><p>strangled infant in her arms, beautiful and young as she was, Juliet, (for </p><p>it was she) denounced to the host of deceived believers, the wickedness of </p><p>their leader. He saw the aghast looks of her auditors, changing from horror </p><p>to fury--the names of those already sacrificed were echoed by their </p><p>relatives, now assured of their loss. The wretch with that energy of </p><p>purpose, which had borne him thus far in his guilty career, saw his danger, </p><p>and resolved to evade the worst forms of it--he rushed on one of the </p><p>foremost, seized a pistol from his girdle, and his loud laugh of derision</p><p>mingled with the report of the weapon with which he destroyed himself. </p><p>They left his miserable remains even where they lay; they placed the corpse </p><p>of poor Juliet and her babe upon a bier, and all, with hearts subdued to </p><p>saddest regret, in long procession walked towards Versailles. They met </p><p>troops of those who had quitted the kindly protection of Adrian, and were </p><p>journeying to join the fanatics. The tale of horror was recounted--all </p><p>turned back; and thus at last, accompanied by the undiminished numbers of </p><p>surviving humanity, and preceded by the mournful emblem of their recovered </p><p>reason, they appeared before Adrian, and again and for ever vowed obedience </p><p>to his commands, and fidelity to his cause. </p><p>[1] Shakespeare--Julius Caesar. </p><p>[2] Elton's Translation of Hesiod's "Shield of Hercules." </p><p>CHAPTER VII. </p><p>THESE events occupied so much time, that June had numbered more than half </p><p>its days, before we again commenced our long-protracted journey. The day </p><p>after my return to Versailles, six men, from among those I had left at </p><p>Villeneuve-la-Guiard, arrived, with intelligence, that the rest of the </p><p>troop had already proceeded towards Switzerland. We went forward in the </p><p>same track. </p><p>It is strange, after an interval of time, to look back on a period, which, </p><p>though short in itself, appeared, when in actual progress, to be drawn out </p><p>interminably. By the end of July we entered Dijon; by the end of July those </p><p>hours, days, and weeks had mingled with the ocean of forgotten time, which </p><p>in their passage teemed with fatal events and agonizing sorrow. By the end </p><p>of July, little more than a month had gone by, if man's life were measured </p><p>by the rising and setting of the sun: but, alas! in that interval ardent </p><p>youth had become grey-haired; furrows deep and uneraseable were trenched in </p><p>the blooming cheek of the young mother; the elastic limbs of early manhood, </p><p>paralyzed as by the burthen of years, assumed the decrepitude of age. </p><p>Nights passed, during whose fatal darkness the sun grew old before it rose; </p><p>and burning days, to cool whose baleful heat the balmy eve, lingering far </p><p>in eastern climes, came lagging and ineffectual; days, in which the dial, </p><p>radiant in its noon-day station, moved not its shadow the space of a little </p><p>hour, until a whole life of sorrow had brought the sufferer to an untimely </p><p>grave. </p><p>We departed from Versailles fifteen hundred souls. We set out on the </p><p>eighteenth of June. We made a long procession, in which was contained every </p><p>dear relationship, or tie of love, that existed in human society. Fathers </p><p>and husbands, with guardian care, gathered their dear relatives around </p><p>them; wives and mothers looked for support to the manly form beside them, </p><p>and then with tender anxiety bent their eyes on the infant troop around. </p><p>They were sad, but not hopeless. Each thought that someone would be saved; </p><p>each, with that pertinacious optimism, which to the last characterized our </p><p>human nature, trusted that their beloved family would be the one </p><p>preserved. </p><p>We passed through France, and found it empty of inhabitants. Some one or </p><p>two natives survived in the larger towns, which they roamed through like </p><p>ghosts; we received therefore small encrease to our numbers, and such</p><p>decrease through death, that at last it became easier to count the scanty </p><p>list of survivors. As we never deserted any of the sick, until their death </p><p>permitted us to commit their remains to the shelter of a grave, our journey </p><p>was long, while every day a frightful gap was made in our troop--they </p><p>died by tens, by fifties, by hundreds. No mercy was shewn by death; we </p><p>ceased to expect it, and every day welcomed the sun with the feeling that </p><p>we might never see it rise again. </p><p>The nervous terrors and fearful visions which had scared us during the </p><p>spring, continued to visit our coward troop during this sad journey. Every </p><p>evening brought its fresh creation of spectres; a ghost was depicted by </p><p>every blighted tree; and appalling shapes were manufactured from each </p><p>shaggy bush. By degrees these common marvels palled on us, and then other </p><p>wonders were called into being. Once it was confidently asserted, that the </p><p>sun rose an hour later than its seasonable time; again it was discovered </p><p>that he grew paler and paler; that shadows took an uncommon appearance. It </p><p>was impossible to have imagined, during the usual calm routine of life men </p><p>had before experienced, the terrible effects produced by these extravagant </p><p>delusions: in truth, of such little worth are our senses, when unsupported </p><p>by concurring testimony, that it was with the utmost difficulty I kept </p><p>myself free from the belief in supernatural events, to which the major part </p><p>of our people readily gave credit. Being one sane amidst a crowd of the </p><p>mad, I hardly dared assert to my own mind, that the vast luminary had </p><p>undergone no change--that the shadows of night were unthickened by </p><p>innumerable shapes of awe and terror; or that the wind, as it sung in the </p><p>trees, or whistled round an empty building, was not pregnant with sounds of </p><p>wailing and despair. Sometimes realities took ghostly shapes; and it was </p><p>impossible for one's blood not to curdle at the perception of an evident </p><p>mixture of what we knew to be true, with the visionary semblance of all </p><p>that we feared. </p><p>Once, at the dusk of the evening, we saw a figure all in white, apparently </p><p>of more than human stature, flourishing about the road, now throwing up its </p><p>arms, now leaping to an astonishing height in the air, then turning round </p><p>several times successively, then raising itself to its full height and </p><p>gesticulating violently. Our troop, on the alert to discover and believe in </p><p>the supernatural, made a halt at some distance from this shape; and, as it </p><p>became darker, there was something appalling even to the incredulous, in </p><p>the lonely spectre, whose gambols, if they hardly accorded with spiritual </p><p>dignity, were beyond human powers. Now it leapt right up in the air, now </p><p>sheer over a high hedge, and was again the moment after in the road before </p><p>us. By the time I came up, the fright experienced by the spectators of this </p><p>ghostly exhibition, began to manifest itself in the flight of some, and the </p><p>close huddling together of the rest. Our goblin now perceived us; he </p><p>approached, and, as we drew reverentially back, made a low bow. The sight </p><p>was irresistibly ludicrous even to our hapless band, and his politeness was </p><p>hailed by a shout of laughter;--then, again springing up, as a last </p><p>effort, it sunk to the ground, and became almost invisible through the </p><p>dusky night. This circumstance again spread silence and fear through the </p><p>troop; the more courageous at length advanced, and, raising the dying </p><p>wretch, discovered the tragic explanation of this wild scene. It was an </p><p>opera-dancer, and had been one of the troop which deserted from </p><p>Villeneuve-la-Guiard: falling sick, he had been deserted by his companions; </p><p>in an access of delirium he had fancied himself on the stage, and, poor </p><p>fellow, his dying sense eagerly accepted the last human applause that could </p><p>ever be bestowed on his grace and agility. </p><p>At another time we were haunted for several days by an apparition, to which </p><p>our people gave the appellation of the Black Spectre. We never saw it</p><p>except at evening, when his coal black steed, his mourning dress, and plume </p><p>of black feathers, had a majestic and awe-striking appearance; his face, </p><p>one said, who had seen it for a moment, was ashy pale; he had lingered far </p><p>behind the rest of his troop, and suddenly at a turn in the road, saw the </p><p>Black Spectre coming towards him; he hid himself in fear, and the horse and </p><p>his rider slowly past, while the moonbeams fell on the face of the latter, </p><p>displaying its unearthly hue. Sometimes at dead of night, as we watched the </p><p>sick, we heard one galloping through the town; it was the Black Spectre </p><p>come in token of inevitable death. He grew giant tall to vulgar eyes; an </p><p>icy atmosphere, they said, surrounded him; when he was heard, all animals </p><p>shuddered, and the dying knew that their last hour was come. It was Death </p><p>himself, they declared, come visibly to seize on subject earth, and quell </p><p>at once our decreasing numbers, sole rebels to his law. One day at noon, we </p><p>saw a dark mass on the road before us, and, coming up, beheld the Black </p><p>Spectre fallen from his horse, lying in the agonies of disease upon the </p><p>ground. He did not survive many hours; and his last words disclosed the </p><p>secret of his mysterious conduct. He was a French noble of distinction, </p><p>who, from the effects of plague, had been left alone in his district; </p><p>during many months, he had wandered from town to town, from province to </p><p>province, seeking some survivor for a companion, and abhorring the </p><p>loneliness to which he was condemned. When he discovered our troop, fear of </p><p>contagion conquered his love of society. He dared not join us, yet he could </p><p>not resolve to lose sight of us, sole human beings who besides himself </p><p>existed in wide and fertile France; so he accompanied us in the spectral </p><p>guise I have described, till pestilence gathered him to a larger </p><p>congregation, even that of Dead Mankind. </p><p>It had been well, if such vain terrors could have distracted our thoughts </p><p>from more tangible evils. But these were too dreadful and too many not to </p><p>force themselves into every thought, every moment, of our lives. We were </p><p>obliged to halt at different periods for days together, till another and </p><p>yet another was consigned as a clod to the vast clod which had been once </p><p>our living mother. Thus we continued travelling during the hottest season; </p><p>and it was not till the first of August, that we, the emigrants,--reader, </p><p>there were just eighty of us in number,--entered the gates of Dijon. </p><p>We had expected this moment with eagerness, for now we had accomplished the </p><p>worst part of our drear journey, and Switzerland was near at hand. Yet how </p><p>could we congratulate ourselves on any event thus imperfectly fulfilled? </p><p>Were these miserable beings, who, worn and wretched, passed in sorrowful </p><p>procession, the sole remnants of the race of man, which, like a flood, had </p><p>once spread over and possessed the whole earth? It had come down clear and </p><p>unimpeded from its primal mountain source in Ararat, and grew from a puny </p><p>streamlet to a vast perennial river, generation after generation flowing on </p><p>ceaselessly. The same, but diversified, it grew, and swept onwards towards </p><p>the absorbing ocean, whose dim shores we now reached. It had been the mere </p><p>plaything of nature, when first it crept out of uncreative void into light; </p><p>but thought brought forth power and knowledge; and, clad with these, the </p><p>race of man assumed dignity and authority. It was then no longer the mere </p><p>gardener of earth, or the shepherd of her flocks; "it carried with it an </p><p>imposing and majestic aspect; it had a pedigree and illustrious ancestors; </p><p>it had its gallery of portraits, its monumental inscriptions, its records </p><p>and titles."[1] </p><p>This was all over, now that the ocean of death had sucked in the slackening </p><p>tide, and its source was dried up. We first had bidden adieu to the state </p><p>of things which having existed many thousand years, seemed eternal; such a </p><p>state of government, obedience, traffic, and domestic intercourse, as had </p><p>moulded our hearts and capacities, as far back as memory could reach. Then</p><p>to patriotic zeal, to the arts, to reputation, to enduring fame, to the </p><p>name of country, we had bidden farewell. We saw depart all hope of </p><p>retrieving our ancient state--all expectation, except the feeble one of </p><p>saving our individual lives from the wreck of the past. To preserve these </p><p>we had quitted England--England, no more; for without her children, what </p><p>name could that barren island claim? With tenacious grasp we clung to such </p><p>rule and order as could best save us; trusting that, if a little colony </p><p>could be preserved, that would suffice at some remoter period to restore </p><p>the lost community of mankind. </p><p>But the game is up! We must all die; nor leave survivor nor heir to the </p><p>wide inheritance of earth. We must all die! The species of man must perish; </p><p>his frame of exquisite workmanship; the wondrous mechanism of his senses; </p><p>the noble proportion of his godlike limbs; his mind, the throned king of </p><p>these; must perish. Will the earth still keep her place among the planets; </p><p>will she still journey with unmarked regularity round the sun; will the </p><p>seasons change, the trees adorn themselves with leaves, and flowers shed </p><p>their fragrance, in solitude? Will the mountains remain unmoved, and </p><p>streams still keep a downward course towards the vast abyss; will the tides </p><p>rise and fall, and the winds fan universal nature; will beasts pasture, </p><p>birds fly, and fishes swim, when man, the lord, possessor, perceiver, and </p><p>recorder of all these things, has passed away, as though he had never been? </p><p>O, what mockery is this! Surely death is not death, and humanity is not </p><p>extinct; but merely passed into other shapes, unsubjected to our </p><p>perceptions. Death is a vast portal, an high road to life: let us hasten to </p><p>pass; let us exist no more in this living death, but die that we may live! </p><p>We had longed with inexpressible earnestness to reach Dijon, since we had </p><p>fixed on it, as a kind of station in our progress. But now we entered it </p><p>with a torpor more painful than acute suffering. We had come slowly but </p><p>irrevocably to the opinion, that our utmost efforts would not preserve one </p><p>human being alive. We took our hands therefore away from the long grasped </p><p>rudder; and the frail vessel on which we floated, seemed, the government </p><p>over her suspended, to rush, prow foremost, into the dark abyss of the </p><p>billows. A gush of grief, a wanton profusion of tears, and vain laments, </p><p>and overflowing tenderness, and passionate but fruitless clinging to the </p><p>priceless few that remained, was followed by languor and recklessness. </p><p>During this disastrous journey we lost all those, not of our own family, to </p><p>whom we had particularly attached ourselves among the survivors. It were </p><p>not well to fill these pages with a mere catalogue of losses; yet I cannot </p><p>refrain from this last mention of those principally dear to us. The little </p><p>girl whom Adrian had rescued from utter desertion, during our ride through </p><p>London on the twentieth of November, died at Auxerre. The poor child had </p><p>attached herself greatly to us; and the suddenness of her death added to </p><p>our sorrow. In the morning we had seen her apparently in health--in the </p><p>evening, Lucy, before we retired to rest, visited our quarters to say that </p><p>she was dead. Poor Lucy herself only survived, till we arrived at Dijon. </p><p>She had devoted herself throughout to the nursing the sick, and attending </p><p>the friendless. Her excessive exertions brought on a slow fever, which </p><p>ended in the dread disease whose approach soon released her from her </p><p>sufferings. She had throughout been endeared to us by her good qualities, </p><p>by her ready and cheerful execution of every duty, and mild acquiescence in </p><p>every turn of adversity. When we consigned her to the tomb, we seemed at </p><p>the same time to bid a final adieu to those peculiarly feminine virtues </p><p>conspicuous in her; uneducated and unpretending as she was, she was </p><p>distinguished for patience, forbearance, and sweetness. These, with all </p><p>their train of qualities peculiarly English, would never again be revived </p><p>for us. This type of all that was most worthy of admiration in her class</p><p>among my countrywomen, was placed under the sod of desert France; and it </p><p>was as a second separation from our country to have lost sight of her for </p><p>ever. </p><p>The Countess of Windsor died during our abode at Dijon. One morning I was </p><p>informed that she wished to see me. Her message made me remember, that </p><p>several days had elapsed since I had last seen her. Such a circumstance had </p><p>often occurred during our journey, when I remained behind to watch to their </p><p>close the last moments of some one of our hapless comrades, and the rest of </p><p>the troop past on before me. But there was something in the manner of her </p><p>messenger, that made me suspect that all was not right. A caprice of the </p><p>imagination caused me to conjecture that some ill had occurred to Clara or </p><p>Evelyn, rather than to this aged lady. Our fears, for ever on the stretch, </p><p>demanded a nourishment of horror; and it seemed too natural an occurrence, </p><p>too like past times, for the old to die before the young. I found the </p><p>venerable mother of my Idris lying on a couch, her tall emaciated figure </p><p>stretched out; her face fallen away, from which the nose stood out in sharp </p><p>profile, and her large dark eyes, hollow and deep, gleamed with such light </p><p>as may edge a thunder cloud at sun-set. All was shrivelled and dried up, </p><p>except these lights; her voice too was fearfully changed, as she spoke to </p><p>me at intervals. "I am afraid," said she, "that it is selfish in me to have </p><p>asked you to visit the old woman again, before she dies: yet perhaps it </p><p>would have been a greater shock to hear suddenly that I was dead, than to </p><p>see me first thus." </p><p>I clasped her shrivelled hand: "Are you indeed so ill?" I asked. </p><p>"Do you not perceive death in my face," replied she, "it is strange; I </p><p>ought to have expected this, and yet I confess it has taken me unaware. I </p><p>never clung to life, or enjoyed it, till these last months, while among </p><p>those I senselessly deserted: and it is hard to be snatched immediately </p><p>away. I am glad, however, that I am not a victim of the plague; probably I </p><p>should have died at this hour, though the world had continued as it was in </p><p>my youth." </p><p>She spoke with difficulty, and I perceived that she regretted the necessity </p><p>of death, even more than she cared to confess. Yet she had not to complain </p><p>of an undue shortening of existence; her faded person shewed that life had </p><p>naturally spent itself. We had been alone at first; now Clara entered; the </p><p>Countess turned to her with a smile, and took the hand of this lovely </p><p>child; her roseate palm and snowy fingers, contrasted with relaxed fibres </p><p>and yellow hue of those of her aged friend; she bent to kiss her, touching </p><p>her withered mouth with the warm, full lips of youth. "Verney," said the </p><p>Countess, "I need not recommend this dear girl to you, for your own sake </p><p>you will preserve her. Were the world as it was, I should have a thousand </p><p>sage precautions to impress, that one so sensitive, good, and beauteous, </p><p>might escape the dangers that used to lurk for the destruction of the fair </p><p>and excellent. This is all nothing now. </p><p>"I commit you, my kind nurse, to your uncle's care; to yours I entrust the </p><p>dearest relic of my better self. Be to Adrian, sweet one, what you have </p><p>been to me--enliven his sadness with your sprightly sallies; sooth his </p><p>anguish by your sober and inspired converse, when he is dying; nurse him as </p><p>you have done me." </p><p>Clara burst into tears; "Kind girl," said the Countess, "do not weep for </p><p>me. Many dear friends are left to you." </p><p>"And yet," cried Clara, "you talk of their dying also. This is indeed cruel</p><p>--how could I live, if they were gone? If it were possible for my beloved </p><p>protector to die before me, I could not nurse him; I could only die too." </p><p>The venerable lady survived this scene only twenty-four hours. She was the </p><p>last tie binding us to the ancient state of things. It was impossible to </p><p>look on her, and not call to mind in their wonted guise, events and </p><p>persons, as alien to our present situation as the disputes of Themistocles </p><p>and Aristides, or the wars of the two roses in our native land. The crown </p><p>of England had pressed her brow; the memory of my father and his </p><p>misfortunes, the vain struggles of the late king, the images of Raymond, </p><p>Evadne, and Perdita, who had lived in the world's prime, were brought </p><p>vividly before us. We consigned her to the oblivious tomb with reluctance; </p><p>and when I turned from her grave, Janus veiled his retrospective face; that </p><p>which gazed on future generations had long lost its faculty. </p><p>After remaining a week at Dijon, until thirty of our number deserted the </p><p>vacant ranks of life, we continued our way towards Geneva. At noon on the </p><p>second day we arrived at the foot of Jura. We halted here during the heat </p><p>of the day. Here fifty human beings--fifty, the only human beings that </p><p>survived of the food-teeming earth, assembled to read in the looks of each </p><p>other ghastly plague, or wasting sorrow, desperation, or worse, </p><p>carelessness of future or present evil. Here we assembled at the foot of </p><p>this mighty wall of mountain, under a spreading walnut tree; a brawling </p><p>stream refreshed the green sward by its sprinkling; and the busy </p><p>grasshopper chirped among the thyme. We clustered together a group of </p><p>wretched sufferers. A mother cradled in her enfeebled arms the child, last </p><p>of many, whose glazed eye was about to close for ever. Here beauty, late </p><p>glowing in youthful lustre and consciousness, now wan and neglected, knelt </p><p>fanning with uncertain motion the beloved, who lay striving to paint his </p><p>features, distorted by illness, with a thankful smile. There an </p><p>hard-featured, weather-worn veteran, having prepared his meal, sat, his </p><p>head dropped on his breast, the useless knife falling from his grasp, his </p><p>limbs utterly relaxed, as thought of wife and child, and dearest relative, </p><p>all lost, passed across his recollection. There sat a man who for forty </p><p>years had basked in fortune's tranquil sunshine; he held the hand of his </p><p>last hope, his beloved daughter, who had just attained womanhood; and he </p><p>gazed on her with anxious eyes, while she tried to rally her fainting </p><p>spirit to comfort him. Here a servant, faithful to the last, though dying, </p><p>waited on one, who, though still erect with health, gazed with gasping fear </p><p>on the variety of woe around. </p><p>Adrian stood leaning against a tree; he held a book in his hand, but his </p><p>eye wandered from the pages, and sought mine; they mingled a sympathetic </p><p>glance; his looks confessed that his thoughts had quitted the inanimate </p><p>print, for pages more pregnant with meaning, more absorbing, spread out </p><p>before him. By the margin of the stream, apart from all, in a tranquil </p><p>nook, where the purling brook kissed the green sward gently, Clara and </p><p>Evelyn were at play, sometimes beating the water with large boughs, </p><p>sometimes watching the summer-flies that sported upon it. Evelyn now chased </p><p>a butterfly--now gathered a flower for his cousin; and his laughing </p><p>cherub-face and clear brow told of the light heart that beat in his bosom. </p><p>Clara, though she endeavoured to give herself up to his amusement, often </p><p>forgot him, as she turned to observe Adrian and me. She was now fourteen, </p><p>and retained her childish appearance, though in height a woman; she acted </p><p>the part of the tenderest mother to my little orphan boy; to see her </p><p>playing with him, or attending silently and submissively on our wants, you </p><p>thought only of her admirable docility and patience; but, in her soft eyes, </p><p>and the veined curtains that veiled them, in the clearness of her marmoreal </p><p>brow, and the tender expression of her lips, there was an intelligence and</p><p>beauty that at once excited admiration and love. </p><p>When the sun had sunk towards the precipitate west, and the evening shadows </p><p>grew long, we prepared to ascend the mountain. The attention that we were </p><p>obliged to pay to the sick, made our progress slow. The winding road, </p><p>though steep, presented a confined view of rocky fields and hills, each </p><p>hiding the other, till our farther ascent disclosed them in succession. We </p><p>were seldom shaded from the declining sun, whose slant beams were instinct </p><p>with exhausting heat. There are times when minor difficulties grow gigantic </p><p>--times, when as the Hebrew poet expressively terms it, "the grasshopper </p><p>is a burthen;" so was it with our ill fated party this evening. Adrian, </p><p>usually the first to rally his spirits, and dash foremost into fatigue and </p><p>hardship, with relaxed limbs and declined head, the reins hanging loosely </p><p>in his grasp, left the choice of the path to the instinct of his horse, now </p><p>and then painfully rousing himself, when the steepness of the ascent </p><p>required that he should keep his seat with better care. Fear and horror </p><p>encompassed me. Did his languid air attest that he also was struck with </p><p>contagion? How long, when I look on this matchless specimen of mortality, </p><p>may I perceive that his thought answers mine? how long will those limbs </p><p>obey the kindly spirit within? how long will light and life dwell in the </p><p>eyes of this my sole remaining friend? Thus pacing slowly, each hill </p><p>surmounted, only presented another to be ascended; each jutting corner only </p><p>discovered another, sister to the last, endlessly. Sometimes the pressure </p><p>of sickness in one among us, caused the whole cavalcade to halt; the call </p><p>for water, the eagerly expressed wish to repose; the cry of pain, and </p><p>suppressed sob of the mourner--such were the sorrowful attendants of our </p><p>passage of the Jura. </p><p>Adrian had gone first. I saw him, while I was detained by the loosening of </p><p>a girth, struggling with the upward path, seemingly more difficult than any </p><p>we had yet passed. He reached the top, and the dark outline of his figure </p><p>stood in relief against the sky. He seemed to behold something unexpected </p><p>and wonderful; for, pausing, his head stretched out, his arms for a moment </p><p>extended, he seemed to give an All Hail! to some new vision. Urged by </p><p>curiosity, I hurried to join him. After battling for many tedious minutes </p><p>with the precipice, the same scene presented itself to me, which had wrapt </p><p>him in extatic wonder. </p><p>Nature, or nature's favourite, this lovely earth, presented her most </p><p>unrivalled beauties in resplendent and sudden exhibition. Below, far, far </p><p>below, even as it were in the yawning abyss of the ponderous globe, lay the </p><p>placid and azure expanse of lake Leman; vine-covered hills hedged it in, </p><p>and behind dark mountains in cone-like shape, or irregular cyclopean wall, </p><p>served for further defence. But beyond, and high above all, as if the </p><p>spirits of the air had suddenly unveiled their bright abodes, placed in </p><p>scaleless altitude in the stainless sky, heaven-kissing, companions of the </p><p>unattainable ether, were the glorious Alps, clothed in dazzling robes of </p><p>light by the setting sun. And, as if the world's wonders were never to be </p><p>exhausted, their vast immensities, their jagged crags, and roseate </p><p>painting, appeared again in the lake below, dipping their proud heights </p><p>beneath the unruffled waves--palaces for the Naiads of the placid waters. </p><p>Towns and villages lay scattered at the foot of Jura, which, with dark </p><p>ravine, and black promontories, stretched its roots into the watery expanse </p><p>beneath. Carried away by wonder, I forgot the death of man, and the living </p><p>and beloved friend near me. When I turned, I saw tears streaming from his </p><p>eyes; his thin hands pressed one against the other, his animated </p><p>countenance beaming with admiration; "Why," cried he, at last, "Why, oh </p><p>heart, whisperest thou of grief to me? Drink in the beauty of that scene, </p><p>and possess delight beyond what a fabled paradise could afford."</p><p>By degrees, our whole party surmounting the steep, joined us, not one among </p><p>them, but gave visible tokens of admiration, surpassing any before </p><p>experienced. One cried, "God reveals his heaven to us; we may die blessed." </p><p>Another and another, with broken exclamations, and extravagant phrases, </p><p>endeavoured to express the intoxicating effect of this wonder of nature. So </p><p>we remained awhile, lightened of the pressing burthen of fate, forgetful of </p><p>death, into whose night we were about to plunge; no longer reflecting that </p><p>our eyes now and for ever were and would be the only ones which might </p><p>perceive the divine magnificence of this terrestrial exhibition. An </p><p>enthusiastic transport, akin to happiness, burst, like a sudden ray from </p><p>the sun, on our darkened life. Precious attribute of woe-worn humanity! </p><p>that can snatch extatic emotion, even from under the very share and harrow, </p><p>that ruthlessly ploughs up and lays waste every hope. </p><p>This evening was marked by another event. Passing through Ferney in our way </p><p>to Geneva, unaccustomed sounds of music arose from the rural church which </p><p>stood embosomed in trees, surrounded by smokeless, vacant cottages. The </p><p>peal of an organ with rich swell awoke the mute air, lingering along, and </p><p>mingling with the intense beauty that clothed the rocks and woods, and </p><p>waves around. Music--the language of the immortals, disclosed to us as </p><p>testimony of their existence--music, "silver key of the fountain of </p><p>tears," child of love, soother of grief, inspirer of heroism and radiant </p><p>thoughts, O music, in this our desolation, we had forgotten thee! Nor pipe </p><p>at eve cheered us, nor harmony of voice, nor linked thrill of string; thou </p><p>camest upon us now, like the revealing of other forms of being; and </p><p>transported as we had been by the loveliness of nature, fancying that we </p><p>beheld the abode of spirits, now we might well imagine that we heard their </p><p>melodious communings. We paused in such awe as would seize on a pale </p><p>votarist, visiting some holy shrine at midnight; if she beheld animated and </p><p>smiling, the image which she worshipped. We all stood mute; many knelt. In </p><p>a few minutes however, we were recalled to human wonder and sympathy by a </p><p>familiar strain. The air was Haydn's "New-Created World," and, old and </p><p>drooping as humanity had become, the world yet fresh as at creation's day, </p><p>might still be worthily celebrated by such an hymn of praise. Adrian and I </p><p>entered the church; the nave was empty, though the smoke of incense rose </p><p>from the altar, bringing with it the recollection of vast congregations, in </p><p>once thronged cathedrals; we went into the loft. A blind old man sat at the </p><p>bellows; his whole soul was ear; and as he sat in the attitude of attentive </p><p>listening, a bright glow of pleasure was diffused over his countenance; </p><p>for, though his lack-lustre eye could not reflect the beam, yet his parted </p><p>lips, and every line of his face and venerable brow spoke delight. A young </p><p>woman sat at the keys, perhaps twenty years of age. Her auburn hair hung on </p><p>her neck, and her fair brow shone in its own beauty; but her drooping eyes </p><p>let fall fast-flowing tears, while the constraint she exercised to suppress </p><p>her sobs, and still her trembling, flushed her else pale cheek; she was </p><p>thin; languor, and alas! sickness, bent her form. We stood looking at the </p><p>pair, forgetting what we heard in the absorbing sight; till, the last chord </p><p>struck, the peal died away in lessening reverberations. The mighty voice, </p><p>inorganic we might call it, for we could in no way associate it with </p><p>mechanism of pipe or key, stilled its sonorous tone, and the girl, turning </p><p>to lend her assistance to her aged companion, at length perceived us. </p><p>It was her father; and she, since childhood, had been the guide of his </p><p>darkened steps. They were Germans from Saxony, and, emigrating thither but </p><p>a few years before, had formed new ties with the surrounding villagers. </p><p>About the time that the pestilence had broken out, a young German student </p><p>had joined them. Their simple history was easily divined. He, a noble, </p><p>loved the fair daughter of the poor musician, and followed them in their</p><p>flight from the persecutions of his friends; but soon the mighty leveller </p><p>came with unblunted scythe to mow, together with the grass, the tall </p><p>flowers of the field. The youth was an early victim. She preserved herself </p><p>for her father's sake. His blindness permitted her to continue a delusion, </p><p>at first the child of accident--and now solitary beings, sole survivors </p><p>in the land, he remained unacquainted with the change, nor was aware that </p><p>when he listened to his child's music, the mute mountains, senseless lake, </p><p>and unconscious trees, were, himself excepted, her sole auditors. </p><p>The very day that we arrived she had been attacked by symptomatic illness. </p><p>She was paralyzed with horror at the idea of leaving her aged, sightless </p><p>father alone on the empty earth; but she had not courage to disclose the </p><p>truth, and the very excess of her desperation animated her to surpassing </p><p>exertions. At the accustomed vesper hour, she led him to the chapel; and, </p><p>though trembling and weeping on his account, she played, without fault in </p><p>time, or error in note, the hymn written to celebrate the creation of the </p><p>adorned earth, soon to be her tomb. </p><p>We came to her like visitors from heaven itself; her high-wrought courage; </p><p>her hardly sustained firmness, fled with the appearance of relief. With a </p><p>shriek she rushed towards us, embraced the knees of Adrian, and uttering </p><p>but the words, "O save my father!" with sobs and hysterical cries, opened </p><p>the long-shut floodgates of her woe. </p><p>Poor girl!--she and her father now lie side by side, beneath the high </p><p>walnut-tree where her lover reposes, and which in her dying moments she had </p><p>pointed out to us. Her father, at length aware of his daughter's danger, </p><p>unable to see the changes of her dear countenance, obstinately held her </p><p>hand, till it was chilled and stiffened by death. Nor did he then move or </p><p>speak, till, twelve hours after, kindly death took him to his breakless </p><p>repose. They rest beneath the sod, the tree their monument;--the hallowed </p><p>spot is distinct in my memory, paled in by craggy Jura, and the far, </p><p>immeasurable Alps; the spire of the church they frequented still points </p><p>from out the embosoming trees; and though her hand be cold, still methinks </p><p>the sounds of divine music which they loved wander about, solacing their </p><p>gentle ghosts. </p><p>[1] Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution. </p><p>CHAPTER VIII. </p><p>WE had now reached Switzerland, so long the final mark and aim of our </p><p>exertions. We had looked, I know not wherefore, with hope and pleasing </p><p>expectation on her congregation of hills and snowy crags, and opened our </p><p>bosoms with renewed spirits to the icy Biz, which even at Midsummer used to </p><p>come from the northern glacier laden with cold. Yet how could we nourish </p><p>expectation of relief? Like our native England, and the vast extent of </p><p>fertile France, this mountain-embowered land was desolate of its </p><p>inhabitants. Nor bleak mountain-top, nor snow-nourished rivulet; not the </p><p>ice-laden Biz, nor thunder, the tamer of contagion, had preserved them-- </p><p>why therefore should we claim exemption? </p><p>Who was there indeed to save? What troop had we brought fit to stand at </p><p>bay, and combat with the conqueror? We were a failing remnant, tamed to </p><p>mere submission to the coming blow. A train half dead, through fear of</p><p>death--a hopeless, unresisting, almost reckless crew, which, in the </p><p>tossed bark of life, had given up all pilotage, and resigned themselves to </p><p>the destructive force of ungoverned winds. Like a few furrows of unreaped </p><p>corn, which, left standing on a wide field after the rest is gathered to </p><p>the garner, are swiftly borne down by the winter storm. Like a few </p><p>straggling swallows, which, remaining after their fellows had, on the first </p><p>unkind breath of passing autumn, migrated to genial climes, were struck to </p><p>earth by the first frost of November. Like a stray sheep that wanders over </p><p>the sleet-beaten hill-side, while the flock is in the pen, and dies before </p><p>morning-dawn. Like a cloud, like one of many that were spread in </p><p>impenetrable woof over the sky, which, when the shepherd north has driven </p><p>its companions "to drink Antipodean noon," fades and dissolves in the clear </p><p>ether--Such were we! </p><p>We left the fair margin of the beauteous lake of Geneva, and entered the </p><p>Alpine ravines; tracing to its source the brawling Arve, through the </p><p>rock-bound valley of Servox, beside the mighty waterfalls, and under the </p><p>shadow of the inaccessible mountains, we travelled on; while the luxuriant </p><p>walnut-tree gave place to the dark pine, whose musical branches swung in </p><p>the wind, and whose upright forms had braved a thousand storms--till the </p><p>verdant sod, the flowery dell, and shrubbery hill were exchanged for the </p><p>sky-piercing, untrodden, seedless rock, "the bones of the world, waiting to </p><p>be clothed with every thing necessary to give life and beauty."[1] Strange </p><p>that we should seek shelter here! Surely, if, in those countries where </p><p>earth was wont, like a tender mother, to nourish her children, we had found </p><p>her a destroyer, we need not seek it here, where stricken by keen penury </p><p>she seems to shudder through her stony veins. Nor were we mistaken in our </p><p>conjecture. We vainly sought the vast and ever moving glaciers of </p><p>Chamounix, rifts of pendant ice, seas of congelated waters, the leafless </p><p>groves of tempest-battered pines, dells, mere paths for the loud avalanche, </p><p>and hill-tops, the resort of thunder-storms. Pestilence reigned paramount </p><p>even here. By the time that day and night, like twin sisters of equal </p><p>growth, shared equally their dominion over the hours, one by one, beneath </p><p>the ice-caves, beside the waters springing from the thawed snows of a </p><p>thousand winters, another and yet another of the remnant of the race of </p><p>Man, closed their eyes for ever to the light. </p><p>Yet we were not quite wrong in seeking a scene like this, whereon to close </p><p>the drama. Nature, true to the last, consoled us in the very heart of </p><p>misery. Sublime grandeur of outward objects soothed our hapless hearts, and </p><p>were in harmony with our desolation. Many sorrows have befallen man during </p><p>his chequered course; and many a woe-stricken mourner has found himself </p><p>sole survivor among many. Our misery took its majestic shape and colouring </p><p>from the vast ruin, that accompanied and made one with it. Thus on lovely </p><p>earth, many a dark ravine contains a brawling stream, shadowed by romantic </p><p>rocks, threaded by mossy paths--but all, except this, wanted the mighty </p><p>back-ground, the towering Alps, whose snowy capes, or bared ridges, lifted </p><p>us from our dull mortal abode, to the palaces of Nature's own. </p><p>This solemn harmony of event and situation regulated our feelings, and gave </p><p>as it were fitting costume to our last act. Majestic gloom and tragic pomp </p><p>attended the decease of wretched humanity. The funeral procession of </p><p>monarchs of old, was transcended by our splendid shews. Near the sources of </p><p>the Arveiron we performed the rites for, four only excepted, the last of </p><p>the species. Adrian and I, leaving Clara and Evelyn wrapt in peaceful </p><p>unobserving slumber, carried the body to this desolate spot, and placed it </p><p>in those caves of ice beneath the glacier, which rive and split with the </p><p>slightest sound, and bring destruction on those within the clefts--no </p><p>bird or beast of prey could here profane the frozen form. So, with hushed</p><p>steps and in silence, we placed the dead on a bier of ice, and then, </p><p>departing, stood on the rocky platform beside the river springs. All hushed </p><p>as we had been, the very striking of the air with our persons had sufficed </p><p>to disturb the repose of this thawless region; and we had hardly left the </p><p>cavern, before vast blocks of ice, detaching themselves from the roof, </p><p>fell, and covered the human image we had deposited within. We had chosen a </p><p>fair moonlight night, but our journey thither had been long, and the </p><p>crescent sank behind the western heights by the time we had accomplished </p><p>our purpose. The snowy mountains and blue glaciers shone in their own </p><p>light. The rugged and abrupt ravine, which formed one side of Mont Anvert, </p><p>was opposite to us, the glacier at our side; at our feet Arveiron, white </p><p>and foaming, dashed over the pointed rocks that jutted into it, and, with </p><p>whirring spray and ceaseless roar, disturbed the stilly night. Yellow </p><p>lightnings played around the vast dome of Mont Blanc, silent as the </p><p>snow-clad rock they illuminated; all was bare, wild, and sublime, while the </p><p>singing of the pines in melodious murmurings added a gentle interest to the </p><p>rough magnificence. Now the riving and fall of icy rocks clave the air; now </p><p>the thunder of the avalanche burst on our ears. In countries whose features </p><p>are of less magnitude, nature betrays her living powers in the foliage of </p><p>the trees, in the growth of herbage, in the soft purling of meandering </p><p>streams; here, endowed with giant attributes, the torrent, the </p><p>thunder-storm, and the flow of massive waters, display her activity. Such </p><p>the church-yard, such the requiem, such the eternal congregation, that </p><p>waited on our companion's funeral! </p><p>Nor was it the human form alone which we had placed in this eternal </p><p>sepulchre, whose obsequies we now celebrated. With this last victim Plague </p><p>vanished from the earth. Death had never wanted weapons wherewith to </p><p>destroy life, and we, few and weak as we had become, were still exposed to </p><p>every other shaft with which his full quiver teemed. But pestilence was </p><p>absent from among them. For seven years it had had full sway upon earth; </p><p>she had trod every nook of our spacious globe; she had mingled with the </p><p>atmosphere, which as a cloak enwraps all our fellow-creatures--the </p><p>inhabitants of native Europe--the luxurious Asiatic--the swarthy </p><p>African and free American had been vanquished and destroyed by her. Her </p><p>barbarous tyranny came to its close here in the rocky vale of Chamounix. </p><p>Still recurring scenes of misery and pain, the fruits of this distemper, </p><p>made no more a part of our lives--the word plague no longer rung in our </p><p>ears--the aspect of plague incarnate in the human countenance no longer </p><p>appeared before our eyes. From this moment I saw plague no more. She </p><p>abdicated her throne, and despoiled herself of her imperial sceptre among </p><p>the ice rocks that surrounded us. She left solitude and silence co-heirs of </p><p>her kingdom. </p><p>My present feelings are so mingled with the past, that I cannot say whether </p><p>the knowledge of this change visited us, as we stood on this sterile spot. </p><p>It seems to me that it did; that a cloud seemed to pass from over us, that </p><p>a weight was taken from the air; that henceforth we breathed more freely, </p><p>and raised our heads with some portion of former liberty. Yet we did not </p><p>hope. We were impressed by the sentiment, that our race was run, but that </p><p>plague would not be our destroyer. The coming time was as a mighty river, </p><p>down which a charmed boat is driven, whose mortal steersman knows, that the </p><p>obvious peril is not the one he needs fear, yet that danger is nigh; and </p><p>who floats awe-struck under beetling precipices, through the dark </p><p>and turbid waters--seeing in the distance yet stranger and ruder </p><p>shapes, towards which he is irresistibly impelled. What would </p><p>become of us? O for some Delphic oracle, or Pythian maid, to utter </p><p>the secrets of futurity! O for some Oedipus to solve the riddle of</p><p>the cruel Sphynx! Such Oedipus was I to be--not divining a word's juggle, </p><p>but whose agonizing pangs, and sorrow-tainted life were to be the engines, </p><p>wherewith to lay bare the secrets of destiny, and reveal the meaning of the </p><p>enigma, whose explanation closed the history of the human race. </p><p>Dim fancies, akin to these, haunted our minds, and instilled feelings not </p><p>unallied to pleasure, as we stood beside this silent tomb of nature, reared </p><p>by these lifeless mountains, above her living veins, choking her vital </p><p>principle. "Thus are we left," said Adrian, "two melancholy blasted trees, </p><p>where once a forest waved. We are left to mourn, and pine, and die. Yet </p><p>even now we have our duties, which we must string ourselves to fulfil: the </p><p>duty of bestowing pleasure where we can, and by force of love, irradiating </p><p>with rainbow hues the tempest of grief. Nor will I repine if in this </p><p>extremity we preserve what we now possess. Something tells me, Verney, that </p><p>we need no longer dread our cruel enemy, and I cling with delight to the </p><p>oracular voice. Though strange, it will be sweet to mark the growth of your </p><p>little boy, and the development of Clara's young heart. In the midst of a </p><p>desert world, we are everything to them; and, if we live, it must be our </p><p>task to make this new mode of life happy to them. At present this is easy, </p><p>for their childish ideas do not wander into futurity, and the stinging </p><p>craving for sympathy, and all of love of which our nature is susceptible, </p><p>is not yet awake within them: we cannot guess what will happen then, when </p><p>nature asserts her indefeasible and sacred powers; but, long before that </p><p>time, we may all be cold, as he who lies in yonder tomb of ice. We need </p><p>only provide for the present, and endeavour to fill with pleasant images </p><p>the inexperienced fancy of your lovely niece. The scenes which now surround </p><p>us, vast and sublime as they are, are not such as can best contribute to </p><p>this work. Nature is here like our fortunes, grand, but too destructive, </p><p>bare, and rude, to be able to afford delight to her young imagination. Let </p><p>us descend to the sunny plains of Italy. Winter will soon be here, to </p><p>clothe this wilderness in double desolation; but we will cross the bleak </p><p>hill-tops, and lead her to scenes of fertility and beauty, where her path </p><p>will be adorned with flowers, and the cheery atmosphere inspire pleasure </p><p>and hope." </p><p>In pursuance of this plan we quitted Chamounix on the following day. We had </p><p>no cause to hasten our steps; no event was transacted beyond our actual </p><p>sphere to enchain our resolves, so we yielded to every idle whim, and </p><p>deemed our time well spent, when we could behold the passage of the hours </p><p>without dismay. We loitered along the lovely Vale of Servox; passed long </p><p>hours on the bridge, which, crossing the ravine of Arve, commands a </p><p>prospect of its pine-clothed depths, and the snowy mountains that wall it </p><p>in. We rambled through romantic Switzerland; till, fear of coming winter </p><p>leading us forward, the first days of October found us in the valley of La </p><p>Maurienne, which leads to Cenis. I cannot explain the reluctance we felt at </p><p>leaving this land of mountains; perhaps it was, that we regarded the Alps </p><p>as boundaries between our former and our future state of existence, and so </p><p>clung fondly to what of old we had loved. Perhaps, because we had now so </p><p>few impulses urging to a choice between two modes of action, we were </p><p>pleased to preserve the existence of one, and preferred the prospect of </p><p>what we were to do, to the recollection of what had been done. We felt that </p><p>for this year danger was past; and we believed that, for some months, we </p><p>were secured to each other. There was a thrilling, agonizing delight in the </p><p>thought--it filled the eyes with misty tears, it tore the heart with </p><p>tumultuous heavings; frailer than the "snow fall in the river," were we </p><p>each and all--but we strove to give life and individuality to the </p><p>meteoric course of our several existences, and to feel that no moment </p><p>escaped us unenjoyed. Thus tottering on the dizzy brink, we were happy. </p><p>Yes! as we sat beneath the toppling rocks, beside the waterfalls, near</p><p> --Forests, ancient as the hills,</p><p>And folding sunny spots of greenery, where the chamois grazed, and the </p><p>timid squirrel laid up its hoard--descanting on the charms of nature, </p><p>drinking in the while her unalienable beauties--we were, in an empty </p><p>world, happy. </p><p>Yet, O days of joy--days, when eye spoke to eye, and voices, sweeter than </p><p>the music of the swinging branches of the pines, or rivulet's gentle </p><p>murmur, answered mine--yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved </p><p>society--days unutterably dear to me forlorn--pass, O pass before me, </p><p>making me in your memory forget what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes </p><p>blot this senseless paper--behold, how my features are convulsed by </p><p>agonizing throes, at your mere recollection, now that, alone, my tears </p><p>flow, my lips quiver, my cries fill the air, unseen, unmarked, unheard! </p><p>Yet, O yet, days of delight! let me dwell on your long-drawn hours! </p><p>As the cold increased upon us, we passed the Alps, and descended into </p><p>Italy. At the uprising of morn, we sat at our repast, and cheated our </p><p>regrets by gay sallies or learned disquisitions. The live-long day we </p><p>sauntered on, still keeping in view the end of our journey, but careless of </p><p>the hour of its completion. As the evening star shone out, and the orange </p><p>sunset, far in the west, marked the position of the dear land we had for </p><p>ever left, talk, thought enchaining, made the hours fly--O that we had </p><p>lived thus for ever and for ever! Of what consequence was it to our four </p><p>hearts, that they alone were the fountains of life in the wide world? As </p><p>far as mere individual sentiment was concerned, we had rather be left thus </p><p>united together, than if, each alone in a populous desert of unknown men, </p><p>we had wandered truly companionless till life's last term. In this manner, </p><p>we endeavoured to console each other; in this manner, true philosophy </p><p>taught us to reason. </p><p>It was the delight of Adrian and myself to wait on Clara, naming her the </p><p>little queen of the world, ourselves her humblest servitors. When we </p><p>arrived at a town, our first care was to select for her its most choice </p><p>abode; to make sure that no harrowing relic remained of its former </p><p>inhabitants; to seek food for her, and minister to her wants with assiduous </p><p>tenderness. Clara entered into our scheme with childish gaiety. Her chief </p><p>business was to attend on Evelyn; but it was her sport to array herself in </p><p>splendid robes, adorn herself with sunny gems, and ape a princely state. </p><p>Her religion, deep and pure, did not teach her to refuse to blunt thus the </p><p>keen sting of regret; her youthful vivacity made her enter, heart and soul, </p><p>into these strange masquerades. </p><p>We had resolved to pass the ensuing winter at Milan, which, as being a </p><p>large and luxurious city, would afford us choice of homes. We had descended </p><p>the Alps, and left far behind their vast forests and mighty crags. We </p><p>entered smiling Italy. Mingled grass and corn grew in her plains, the </p><p>unpruned vines threw their luxuriant branches around the elms. The grapes, </p><p>overripe, had fallen on the ground, or hung purple, or burnished green, </p><p>among the red and yellow leaves. The ears of standing corn winnowed to </p><p>emptiness by the spendthrift winds; the fallen foliage of the trees, the </p><p>weed-grown brooks, the dusky olive, now spotted with its blackened fruit; </p><p>the chestnuts, to which the squirrel only was harvest-man; all plenty, and </p><p>yet, alas! all poverty, painted in wondrous hues and fantastic groupings </p><p>this land of beauty. In the towns, in the voiceless towns, we visited the </p><p>churches, adorned by pictures, master-pieces of art, or galleries of </p><p>statues--while in this genial clime the animals, in new found liberty,</p><p>rambled through the gorgeous palaces, and hardly feared our forgotten </p><p>aspect. The dove-coloured oxen turned their full eyes on us, and paced </p><p>slowly by; a startling throng of silly sheep, with pattering feet, would </p><p>start up in some chamber, formerly dedicated to the repose of beauty, and </p><p>rush, huddling past us, down the marble staircase into the street, and </p><p>again in at the first open door, taking unrebuked possession of hallowed </p><p>sanctuary, or kingly council-chamber. We no longer started at these </p><p>occurrences, nor at worse exhibition of change--when the palace had </p><p>become a mere tomb, pregnant with fetid stench, strewn with the dead; and </p><p>we could perceive how pestilence and fear had played strange antics, </p><p>chasing the luxurious dame to the dank fields and bare cottage; gathering, </p><p>among carpets of Indian woof, and beds of silk, the rough peasant, or the </p><p>deformed half-human shape of the wretched beggar. </p><p>We arrived at Milan, and stationed ourselves in the Vice-Roy's palace. Here </p><p>we made laws for ourselves, dividing our day, and fixing distinct </p><p>occupations for each hour. In the morning we rode in the adjoining country, </p><p>or wandered through the palaces, in search of pictures or antiquities. In </p><p>the evening we assembled to read or to converse. There were few books that </p><p>we dared read; few, that did not cruelly deface the painting we bestowed on </p><p>our solitude, by recalling combinations and emotions never more to be </p><p>experienced by us. Metaphysical disquisition; fiction, which wandering from </p><p>all reality, lost itself in self-created errors; poets of times so far gone </p><p>by, that to read of them was as to read of Atlantis and Utopia; or such as </p><p>referred to nature only, and the workings of one particular mind; but most </p><p>of all, talk, varied and ever new, beguiled our hours. </p><p>While we paused thus in our onward career towards death, time held on its </p><p>accustomed course. Still and for ever did the earth roll on, enthroned in </p><p>her atmospheric car, speeded by the force of the invisible coursers of </p><p>never-erring necessity. And now, this dew-drop in the sky, this ball, </p><p>ponderous with mountains, lucent with waves, passing from the short tyranny </p><p>of watery Pisces and the frigid Ram, entered the radiant demesne of Taurus </p><p>and the Twins. There, fanned by vernal airs, the Spirit of Beauty sprung </p><p>from her cold repose; and, with winnowing wings and soft pacing feet, set a </p><p>girdle of verdure around the earth, sporting among the violets, hiding </p><p>within the springing foliage of the trees, tripping lightly down the </p><p>radiant streams into the sunny deep. "For lo! winter is past, the rain is </p><p>over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of </p><p>birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig </p><p>tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the tender grape, </p><p>give a good smell."[2] Thus was it in the time of the ancient regal poet; </p><p>thus was it now. </p><p>Yet how could we miserable hail the approach of this delightful season? We </p><p>hoped indeed that death did not now as heretofore walk in its shadow; yet, </p><p>left as we were alone to each other, we looked in each other's faces with </p><p>enquiring eyes, not daring altogether to trust to our presentiments, and </p><p>endeavouring to divine which would be the hapless survivor to the other </p><p>three. We were to pass the summer at the lake of Como, and thither we </p><p>removed as soon as spring grew to her maturity, and the snow disappeared </p><p>from the hill tops. Ten miles from Como, under the steep heights of the </p><p>eastern mountains, by the margin of the lake, was a villa called the </p><p>Pliniana, from its being built on the site of a fountain, whose periodical </p><p>ebb and flow is described by the younger Pliny in his letters. The house </p><p>had nearly fallen into ruin, till in the year 2090, an English nobleman had </p><p>bought it, and fitted it up with every luxury. Two large halls, hung with </p><p>splendid tapestry, and paved with marble, opened on each side of a court, </p><p>of whose two other sides one overlooked the deep dark lake, and the other</p><p>was bounded by a mountain, from whose stony side gushed, with roar and </p><p>splash, the celebrated fountain. Above, underwood of myrtle and tufts of </p><p>odorous plants crowned the rock, while the star-pointing giant cypresses </p><p>reared themselves in the blue air, and the recesses of the hills were </p><p>adorned with the luxuriant growth of chestnut-trees. Here we fixed our </p><p>summer residence. We had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed, now stemming </p><p>the midmost waves, now coasting the over-hanging and craggy banks, thick </p><p>sown with evergreens, which dipped their shining leaves in the waters, and </p><p>were mirrored in many a little bay and creek of waters of translucent </p><p>darkness. Here orange plants bloomed, here birds poured forth melodious </p><p>hymns; and here, during spring, the cold snake emerged from the clefts, and </p><p>basked on the sunny terraces of rock. </p><p>Were we not happy in this paradisiacal retreat? If some kind spirit had </p><p>whispered forgetfulness to us, methinks we should have been happy here, </p><p>where the precipitous mountains, nearly pathless, shut from our view the </p><p>far fields of desolate earth, and with small exertion of the imagination, </p><p>we might fancy that the cities were still resonant with popular hum, and </p><p>the peasant still guided his plough through the furrow, and that we, the </p><p>world's free denizens, enjoyed a voluntary exile, and not a remediless </p><p>cutting off from our extinct species. </p><p>Not one among us enjoyed the beauty of this scenery so much as Clara. </p><p>Before we quitted Milan, a change had taken place in her habits and </p><p>manners. She lost her gaiety, she laid aside her sports, and assumed an </p><p>almost vestal plainness of attire. She shunned us, retiring with Evelyn to </p><p>some distant chamber or silent nook; nor did she enter into his pastimes </p><p>with the same zest as she was wont, but would sit and watch him with sadly </p><p>tender smiles, and eyes bright with tears, yet without a word of complaint. </p><p>She approached us timidly, avoided our caresses, nor shook off her </p><p>embarrassment till some serious discussion or lofty theme called her for </p><p>awhile out of herself. Her beauty grew as a rose, which, opening to the </p><p>summer wind, discloses leaf after leaf till the sense aches with its excess </p><p>of loveliness. A slight and variable colour tinged her cheeks, and her </p><p>motions seemed attuned by some hidden harmony of surpassing sweetness. We </p><p>redoubled our tenderness and earnest attentions. She received them with </p><p>grateful smiles, that fled swift as sunny beam from a glittering wave on an </p><p>April day. </p><p>Our only acknowledged point of sympathy with her, appeared to be Evelyn. </p><p>This dear little fellow was a comforter and delight to us beyond all words. </p><p>His buoyant spirit, and his innocent ignorance of our vast calamity, were </p><p>balm to us, whose thoughts and feelings were over-wrought and spun out in </p><p>the immensity of speculative sorrow. To cherish, to caress, to amuse him </p><p>was the common task of all. Clara, who felt towards him in some degree like </p><p>a young mother, gratefully acknowledged our kindness towards him. To me, O! </p><p>to me, who saw the clear brows and soft eyes of the beloved of my heart, my </p><p>lost and ever dear Idris, re-born in his gentle face, to me he was dear </p><p>even to pain; if I pressed him to my heart, methought I clasped a real and </p><p>living part of her, who had lain there through long years of youthful </p><p>happiness. </p><p>It was the custom of Adrian and myself to go out each day in our skiff to </p><p>forage in the adjacent country. In these expeditions we were seldom </p><p>accompanied by Clara or her little charge, but our return was an hour of </p><p>hilarity. Evelyn ransacked our stores with childish eagerness, and we </p><p>always brought some new found gift for our fair companion. Then too we made </p><p>discoveries of lovely scenes or gay palaces, whither in the evening we all </p><p>proceeded. Our sailing expeditions were most divine, and with a fair wind</p><p>or transverse course we cut the liquid waves; and, if talk failed under the </p><p>pressure of thought, I had my clarionet with me, which awoke the echoes, </p><p>and gave the change to our careful minds. Clara at such times often </p><p>returned to her former habits of free converse and gay sally; and though </p><p>our four hearts alone beat in the world, those four hearts were happy. </p><p>One day, on our return from the town of Como, with a laden boat, we </p><p>expected as usual to be met at the port by Clara and Evelyn, and we were </p><p>somewhat surprised to see the beach vacant. I, as my nature prompted, would </p><p>not prognosticate evil, but explained it away as a mere casual incident. </p><p>Not so Adrian. He was seized with sudden trembling and apprehension, and he </p><p>called to me with vehemence to steer quickly for land, and, when near, </p><p>leapt from the boat, half falling into the water; and, scrambling up the </p><p>steep bank, hastened along the narrow strip of garden, the only level space </p><p>between the lake and the mountain. I followed without delay; the garden and </p><p>inner court were empty, so was the house, whose every room we visited. </p><p>Adrian called loudly upon Clara's name, and was about to rush up the near </p><p>mountain-path, when the door of a summer-house at the end of the garden </p><p>slowly opened, and Clara appeared, not advancing towards us, but leaning </p><p>against a column of the building with blanched cheeks, in a posture of </p><p>utter despondency. Adrian sprang towards her with a cry of joy, and folded </p><p>her delightedly in his arms. She withdrew from his embrace, and, without a </p><p>word, again entered the summer-house. Her quivering lips, her despairing </p><p>heart refused to afford her voice to express our misfortune. Poor little </p><p>Evelyn had, while playing with her, been seized with sudden fever, and now </p><p>lay torpid and speechless on a little couch in the summer-house. </p><p>For a whole fortnight we unceasingly watched beside the poor child, as his </p><p>life declined under the ravages of a virulent typhus. His little form and </p><p>tiny lineaments encaged the embryo of the world-spanning mind of man. Man's </p><p>nature, brimful of passions and affections, would have had an home in that </p><p>little heart, whose swift pulsations hurried towards their close. His small </p><p>hand's fine mechanism, now flaccid and unbent, would in the growth of sinew </p><p>and muscle, have achieved works of beauty or of strength. His tender rosy </p><p>feet would have trod in firm manhood the bowers and glades of earth-- </p><p>these reflections were now of little use: he lay, thought and strength </p><p>suspended, waiting unresisting the final blow. </p><p>We watched at his bedside, and when the access of fever was on him, we </p><p>neither spoke nor looked at each other, marking only his obstructed breath </p><p>and the mortal glow that tinged his sunken cheek, the heavy death that </p><p>weighed on his eyelids. It is a trite evasion to say, that words could not </p><p>express our long drawn agony; yet how can words image sensations, whose </p><p>tormenting keenness throw us back, as it were, on the deep roots and hidden </p><p>foundations of our nature, which shake our being with earth-quake-throe, so </p><p>that we leave to confide in accustomed feelings which like mother-earth </p><p>support us, and cling to some vain imagination or deceitful hope, which </p><p>will soon be buried in the ruins occasioned by the final shock. I have </p><p>called that period a fortnight, which we passed watching the changes of the </p><p>sweet child's malady--and such it might have been--at night, we </p><p>wondered to find another day gone, while each particular hour seemed </p><p>endless. Day and night were exchanged for one another uncounted; we slept </p><p>hardly at all, nor did we even quit his room, except when a pang of grief </p><p>seized us, and we retired from each other for a short period to conceal our </p><p>sobs and tears. We endeavoured in vain to abstract Clara from this </p><p>deplorable scene. She sat, hour after hour, looking at him, now softly </p><p>arranging his pillow, and, while he had power to swallow, administered his </p><p>drink. At length the moment of his death came: the blood paused in its flow </p><p>--his eyes opened, and then closed again: without convulsion or sigh, the</p><p>frail tenement was left vacant of its spiritual inhabitant. </p><p>I have heard that the sight of the dead has confirmed materialists in their </p><p>belief. I ever felt otherwise. Was that my child--that moveless decaying </p><p>inanimation? My child was enraptured by my caresses; his dear voice </p><p>cloathed with meaning articulations his thoughts, otherwise inaccessible; </p><p>his smile was a ray of the soul, and the same soul sat upon its throne in </p><p>his eyes. I turn from this mockery of what he was. Take, O earth, thy debt! </p><p>freely and for ever I consign to thee the garb thou didst afford. But thou, </p><p>sweet child, amiable and beloved boy, either thy spirit has sought a fitter </p><p>dwelling, or, shrined in my heart, thou livest while it lives. </p><p>We placed his remains under a cypress, the upright mountain being scooped </p><p>out to receive them. And then Clara said, "If you wish me to live, take me </p><p>from hence. There is something in this scene of transcendent beauty, in </p><p>these trees, and hills and waves, that for ever whisper to me, leave thy </p><p>cumbrous flesh, and make a part of us. I earnestly entreat you to take me </p><p>away." </p><p>So on the fifteenth of August we bade adieu to our villa, and the </p><p>embowering shades of this abode of beauty; to calm bay and noisy waterfall; </p><p>to Evelyn's little grave we bade farewell! and then, with heavy hearts, we </p><p>departed on our pilgrimage towards Rome. </p><p>[1] Mary Wollstonecraft's Letters from Norway. </p><p>[2] Solomon's Song. </p><p>CHAPTER IX. </p><p>NOW--soft awhile--have I arrived so near the end? Yes! it is all over </p><p>now--a step or two over those new made graves, and the wearisome way is </p><p>done. Can I accomplish my task? Can I streak my paper with words capacious </p><p>of the grand conclusion? Arise, black Melancholy! quit thy Cimmerian </p><p>solitude! Bring with thee murky fogs from hell, which may drink up the day; </p><p>bring blight and pestiferous exhalations, which, entering the hollow </p><p>caverns and breathing places of earth, may fill her stony veins with </p><p>corruption, so that not only herbage may no longer flourish, the trees may </p><p>rot, and the rivers run with gall--but the everlasting mountains be </p><p>decomposed, and the mighty deep putrify, and the genial atmosphere which </p><p>clips the globe, lose all powers of generation and sustenance. Do this, sad </p><p>visaged power, while I write, while eyes read these pages. </p><p>And who will read them? Beware, tender offspring of the re-born world-- </p><p>beware, fair being, with human heart, yet untamed by care, and human brow, </p><p>yet unploughed by time--beware, lest the cheerful current of thy blood be </p><p>checked, thy golden locks turn grey, thy sweet dimpling smiles be changed </p><p>to fixed, harsh wrinkles! Let not day look on these lines, lest garish day </p><p>waste, turn pale, and die. Seek a cypress grove, whose moaning boughs will </p><p>be harmony befitting; seek some cave, deep embowered in earth's dark </p><p>entrails, where no light will penetrate, save that which struggles, red and </p><p>flickering, through a single fissure, staining thy page with grimmest </p><p>livery of death. </p><p>There is a painful confusion in my brain, which refuses to delineate </p><p>distinctly succeeding events. Sometimes the irradiation of my friend's</p><p>gentle smile comes before me; and methinks its light spans and fills </p><p>eternity--then, again, I feel the gasping throes-- </p><p>We quitted Como, and in compliance with Adrian's earnest desire, we took </p><p>Venice in our way to Rome. There was something to the English peculiarly </p><p>attractive in the idea of this wave-encircled, island-enthroned city. </p><p>Adrian had never seen it. We went down the Po and the Brenta in a boat; </p><p>and, the days proving intolerably hot, we rested in the bordering palaces </p><p>during the day, travelling through the night, when darkness made the </p><p>bordering banks indistinct, and our solitude less remarkable; when the </p><p>wandering moon lit the waves that divided before our prow, and the </p><p>night-wind filled our sails, and the murmuring stream, waving trees, and </p><p>swelling canvass, accorded in harmonious strain. Clara, long overcome by </p><p>excessive grief, had to a great degree cast aside her timid, cold reserve, </p><p>and received our attentions with grateful tenderness. While Adrian with </p><p>poetic fervour discoursed of the glorious nations of the dead, of the </p><p>beauteous earth and the fate of man, she crept near him, drinking in his </p><p>speech with silent pleasure. We banished from our talk, and as much as </p><p>possible from our thoughts, the knowledge of our desolation. And it would </p><p>be incredible to an inhabitant of cities, to one among a busy throng, to </p><p>what extent we succeeded. It was as a man confined in a dungeon, whose </p><p>small and grated rift at first renders the doubtful light more sensibly </p><p>obscure, till, the visual orb having drunk in the beam, and adapted itself </p><p>to its scantiness, he finds that clear noon inhabits his cell. So we, a </p><p>simple triad on empty earth, were multiplied to each other, till we became </p><p>all in all. We stood like trees, whose roots are loosened by the wind, </p><p>which support one another, leaning and clinging with encreased fervour </p><p>while the wintry storms howl. Thus we floated down the widening stream of </p><p>the Po, sleeping when the cicale sang, awake with the stars. We entered the </p><p>narrower banks of the Brenta, and arrived at the shore of the Laguna at </p><p>sunrise on the sixth of September. The bright orb slowly rose from behind </p><p>its cupolas and towers, and shed its penetrating light upon the glassy </p><p>waters. Wrecks of gondolas, and some few uninjured ones, were strewed on </p><p>the beach at Fusina. We embarked in one of these for the widowed daughter </p><p>of ocean, who, abandoned and fallen, sat forlorn on her propping isles, </p><p>looking towards the far mountains of Greece. We rowed lightly over the </p><p>Laguna, and entered Canale Grande. The tide ebbed sullenly from out the </p><p>broken portals and violated halls of Venice: sea weed and sea monsters were </p><p>left on the blackened marble, while the salt ooze defaced the matchless </p><p>works of art that adorned their walls, and the sea gull flew out from the </p><p>shattered window. In the midst of this appalling ruin of the monuments of </p><p>man's power, nature asserted her ascendancy, and shone more beauteous from </p><p>the contrast. The radiant waters hardly trembled, while the rippling waves </p><p>made many sided mirrors to the sun; the blue immensity, seen beyond Lido, </p><p>stretched far, unspecked by boat, so tranquil, so lovely, that it seemed to </p><p>invite us to quit the land strewn with ruins, and to seek refuge from </p><p>sorrow and fear on its placid extent. </p><p>We saw the ruins of this hapless city from the height of the tower of San </p><p>Marco, immediately under us, and turned with sickening hearts to the sea, </p><p>which, though it be a grave, rears no monument, discloses no ruin. Evening </p><p>had come apace. The sun set in calm majesty behind the misty summits of the </p><p>Apennines, and its golden and roseate hues painted the mountains of the </p><p>opposite shore. "That land," said Adrian, "tinged with the last glories of </p><p>the day, is Greece." Greece! The sound had a responsive chord in the bosom </p><p>of Clara. She vehemently reminded us that we had promised to take her once </p><p>again to Greece, to the tomb of her parents. Why go to Rome? what should we </p><p>do at Rome? We might take one of the many vessels to be found here, embark </p><p>in it, and steer right for Albania.</p><p>I objected the dangers of ocean, and the distance of the mountains we saw, </p><p>from Athens; a distance which, from the savage uncultivation of the </p><p>country, was almost impassable. Adrian, who was delighted with Clara's </p><p>proposal, obviated these objections. The season was favourable; the </p><p>north-west that blew would take us transversely across the gulph; and then </p><p>we might find, in some abandoned port, a light Greek caique, adapted for </p><p>such navigation, and run down the coast of the Morea, and, passing over the </p><p>Isthmus of Corinth, without much land-travelling or fatigue, find ourselves </p><p>at Athens. This appeared to me wild talk; but the sea, glowing with a </p><p>thousand purple hues, looked so brilliant and safe; my beloved companions </p><p>were so earnest, so determined, that, when Adrian said, "Well, though it is </p><p>not exactly what you wish, yet consent, to please me"--I could no longer </p><p>refuse. That evening we selected a vessel, whose size just seemed fitted </p><p>for our enterprize; we bent the sails and put the rigging in order, and </p><p>reposing that night in one of the city's thousand palaces, agreed to embark </p><p>at sunrise the following morning. </p><p> When winds that move not its calm surface, sweep</p><p> The azure sea, I love the land no more;</p><p> The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep</p><p> Tempt my unquiet mind--</p><p>Thus said Adrian, quoting a translation of Moschus's poem, as in the clear </p><p>morning light, we rowed over the Laguna, past Lido, into the open sea--I </p><p>would have added in continuation, </p><p> But when the roar</p><p> Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam</p><p> Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst--</p><p>But my friends declared that such verses were evil augury; </p><p>so in cheerful mood we left the shallow waters, and, when </p><p>out at sea, unfurled our sails to catch the favourable breeze. </p><p>The laughing morning air filled them, while sun-light bathed earth, sky and </p><p>ocean--the placid waves divided to receive our keel, and playfully kissed </p><p>the dark sides of our little skiff, murmuring a welcome; as land receded, </p><p>still the blue expanse, most waveless, twin sister to the azure empyrean, </p><p>afforded smooth conduct to our bark. As the air and waters were tranquil </p><p>and balmy, so were our minds steeped in quiet. In comparison with the </p><p>unstained deep, funereal earth appeared a grave, its high rocks and stately </p><p>mountains were but monuments, its trees the plumes of a herse, the brooks </p><p>and rivers brackish with tears for departed man. Farewell to desolate towns </p><p>--to fields with their savage intermixture of corn and weeds--to ever </p><p>multiplying relics of our lost species. Ocean, we commit ourselves to thee </p><p>--even as the patriarch of old floated above the drowned world, let us be </p><p>saved, as thus we betake ourselves to thy perennial flood. </p><p>Adrian sat at the helm; I attended to the rigging, the breeze right aft </p><p>filled our swelling canvas, and we ran before it over the untroubled deep. </p><p>The wind died away at noon; its idle breath just permitted us to hold our </p><p>course. As lazy, fair-weather sailors, careless of the coming hour, we </p><p>talked gaily of our coasting voyage, of our arrival at Athens. We would </p><p>make our home of one of the Cyclades, and there in myrtle-groves, amidst </p><p>perpetual spring, fanned by the wholesome sea-breezes--we would live long </p><p>years in beatific union--Was there such a thing as death in the world?-- </p><p>The sun passed its zenith, and lingered down the stainless floor of heaven.</p><p>Lying in the boat, my face turned up to the sky, I thought I saw on its </p><p>blue white, marbled streaks, so slight, so immaterial, that now I said-- </p><p>They are there--and now, It is a mere imagination. A sudden fear stung me </p><p>while I gazed; and, starting up, and running to the prow,--as I stood, my </p><p>hair was gently lifted on my brow--a dark line of ripples appeared to the </p><p>east, gaining rapidly on us--my breathless remark to Adrian, was followed </p><p>by the flapping of the canvas, as the adverse wind struck it, and our boat </p><p>lurched--swift as speech, the web of the storm thickened over head, the </p><p>sun went down red, the dark sea was strewed with foam, and our skiff rose </p><p>and fell in its encreasing furrows. </p><p>Behold us now in our frail tenement, hemmed in by hungry, roaring waves, </p><p>buffeted by winds. In the inky east two vast clouds, sailing contrary ways, </p><p>met; the lightning leapt forth, and the hoarse thunder muttered. Again in </p><p>the south, the clouds replied, and the forked stream of fire running along </p><p>the black sky, shewed us the appalling piles of clouds, now met and </p><p>obliterated by the heaving waves. Great God! And we alone--we three-- </p><p>alone--alone--sole dwellers on the sea and on the earth, we three must </p><p>perish! The vast universe, its myriad worlds, and the plains of boundless </p><p>earth which we had left--the extent of shoreless sea around--contracted </p><p>to my view--they and all that they contained, shrunk up to one point, </p><p>even to our tossing bark, freighted with glorious humanity. </p><p>A convulsion of despair crossed the love-beaming face of Adrian, while with </p><p>set teeth he murmured, "Yet they shall be saved!" Clara, visited by an </p><p>human pang, pale and trembling, crept near him--he looked on her with an </p><p>encouraging smile--"Do you fear, sweet girl? O, do not fear, we shall </p><p>soon be on shore!" </p><p>The darkness prevented me from seeing the changes of her countenance; but </p><p>her voice was clear and sweet, as she replied, "Why should I fear? neither </p><p>sea nor storm can harm us, if mighty destiny or the ruler of destiny does </p><p>not permit. And then the stinging fear of surviving either of you, is not </p><p>here--one death will clasp us undivided." </p><p>Meanwhile we took in all our sails, save a gib; and, as soon as we might </p><p>without danger, changed our course, running with the wind for the Italian </p><p>shore. Dark night mixed everything; we hardly discerned the white crests of </p><p>the murderous surges, except when lightning made brief noon, and drank the </p><p>darkness, shewing us our danger, and restoring us to double night. We were </p><p>all silent, except when Adrian, as steersman, made an encouraging </p><p>observation. Our little shell obeyed the rudder miraculously well, and ran </p><p>along on the top of the waves, as if she had been an offspring of the sea, </p><p>and the angry mother sheltered her endangered child. </p><p>I sat at the prow, watching our course; when suddenly I heard the waters </p><p>break with redoubled fury. We were certainly near the shore--at the same </p><p>time I cried, "About there!" and a broad lightning filling the concave, </p><p>shewed us for one moment the level beach a-head, disclosing even the sands, </p><p>and stunted, ooze-sprinkled beds of reeds, that grew at high water mark. </p><p>Again it was dark, and we drew in our breath with such content as one may, </p><p>who, while fragments of volcano-hurled rock darken the air, sees a vast </p><p>mass ploughing the ground immediately at his feet. What to do we knew not </p><p>--the breakers here, there, everywhere, encompassed us--they roared, and </p><p>dashed, and flung their hated spray in our faces. With considerable </p><p>difficulty and danger we succeeded at length in altering our course, and </p><p>stretched out from shore. I urged my companions to prepare for the wreck of </p><p>our little skiff, and to bind themselves to some oar or spar which might </p><p>suffice to float them. I was myself an excellent swimmer--the very sight</p><p>of the sea was wont to raise in me such sensations, as a huntsman </p><p>experiences, when he hears a pack of hounds in full cry; I loved to feel </p><p>the waves wrap me and strive to overpower me; while I, lord of myself, </p><p>moved this way or that, in spite of their angry buffetings. Adrian also </p><p>could swim--but the weakness of his frame prevented him from feeling </p><p>pleasure in the exercise, or acquiring any great expertness. But what power </p><p>could the strongest swimmer oppose to the overpowering violence of ocean in </p><p>its fury? My efforts to prepare my companions were rendered nearly futile </p><p>--for the roaring breakers prevented our hearing one another speak, and </p><p>the waves, that broke continually over our boat, obliged me to exert all my </p><p>strength in lading the water out, as fast as it came in. The while </p><p>darkness, palpable and rayless, hemmed us round, dissipated only by the </p><p>lightning; sometimes we beheld thunderbolts, fiery red, fall into the sea, </p><p>and at intervals vast spouts stooped from the clouds, churning the wild </p><p>ocean, which rose to meet them; while the fierce gale bore the rack </p><p>onwards, and they were lost in the chaotic mingling of sky and sea. Our </p><p>gunwales had been torn away, our single sail had been rent to ribbands, and </p><p>borne down the stream of the wind. We had cut away our mast, and lightened </p><p>the boat of all she contained--Clara attempted to assist me in heaving </p><p>the water from the hold, and, as she turned her eyes to look on the </p><p>lightning, I could discern by that momentary gleam, that resignation had </p><p>conquered every fear. We have a power given us in any worst extremity, </p><p>which props the else feeble mind of man, and enables us to endure the most </p><p>savage tortures with a stillness of soul which in hours of happiness we </p><p>could not have imagined. A calm, more dreadful in truth than the tempest, </p><p>allayed the wild beatings of my heart--a calm like that of the gamester, </p><p>the suicide, and the murderer, when the last die is on the point of being </p><p>cast--while the poisoned cup is at the lips,--as the death-blow is </p><p>about to be given. </p><p>Hours passed thus--hours which might write old age on the face of </p><p>beardless youth, and grizzle the silky hair of infancy---hours, while the </p><p>chaotic uproar continued, while each dread gust transcended in fury the one </p><p>before, and our skiff hung on the breaking wave, and then rushed into the </p><p>valley below, and trembled and spun between the watery precipices that </p><p>seemed most to meet above her. For a moment the gale paused, and ocean sank </p><p>to comparative silence--it was a breathless interval; the wind which, as </p><p>a practised leaper, had gathered itself up before it sprung, now with </p><p>terrific roar rushed over the sea, and the waves struck our stern. Adrian </p><p>exclaimed that the rudder was gone;--"We are lost," cried Clara, "Save </p><p>yourselves--O save yourselves!" The lightning shewed me the poor girl </p><p>half buried in the water at the bottom of the boat; as she was sinking in </p><p>it Adrian caught her up, and sustained her in his arms. We were without a </p><p>rudder--we rushed prow foremost into the vast billows piled up a-head-- </p><p>they broke over and filled the tiny skiff; one scream I heard--one cry </p><p>that we were gone, I uttered; I found myself in the waters; darkness was </p><p>around. When the light of the tempest flashed, I saw the keel of our upset </p><p>boat close to me--I clung to this, grasping it with clenched hand and </p><p>nails, while I endeavoured during each flash to discover any appearance of </p><p>my companions. I thought I saw Adrian at no great distance from me, </p><p>clinging to an oar; I sprung from my hold, and with energy beyond my human </p><p>strength, I dashed aside the waters as I strove to lay hold of him. As that </p><p>hope failed, instinctive love of life animated me, and feelings of </p><p>contention, as if a hostile will combated with mine. I breasted the surges, </p><p>and flung them from me, as I would the opposing front and sharpened claws </p><p>of a lion about to enfang my bosom. When I had been beaten down by one </p><p>wave, I rose on another, while I felt bitter pride curl my lip. </p><p>Ever since the storm had carried us near the shore, we had never attained</p><p>any great distance from it. With every flash I saw the bordering coast; yet </p><p>the progress I made was small, while each wave, as it receded, carried me </p><p>back into ocean's far abysses. At one moment I felt my foot touch the sand, </p><p>and then again I was in deep water; my arms began to lose their power of </p><p>motion; my breath failed me under the influence of the strangling waters-- </p><p>a thousand wild and delirious thoughts crossed me: as well as I can now </p><p>recall them, my chief feeling was, how sweet it would be to lay my head on </p><p>the quiet earth, where the surges would no longer strike my weakened frame, </p><p>nor the sound of waters ring in my ears--to attain this repose, not to </p><p>save my life, I made a last effort--the shelving shore suddenly presented </p><p>a footing for me. I rose, and was again thrown down by the breakers--a </p><p>point of rock to which I was enabled to cling, gave me a moment's respite; </p><p>and then, taking advantage of the ebbing of the waves, I ran forwards-- </p><p>gained the dry sands, and fell senseless on the oozy reeds that sprinkled </p><p>them. </p><p>I must have lain long deprived of life; for when first, with a sickening </p><p>feeling, I unclosed my eyes, the light of morning met them. Great change </p><p>had taken place meanwhile: grey dawn dappled the flying clouds, which sped </p><p>onwards, leaving visible at intervals vast lakes of pure ether. A fountain </p><p>of light arose in an encreasing stream from the east, behind the waves of </p><p>the Adriatic, changing the grey to a roseate hue, and then flooding sky and </p><p>sea with aerial gold. </p><p>A kind of stupor followed my fainting; my senses were alive, but memory was </p><p>extinct. The blessed respite was short--a snake lurked near me to sting </p><p>me into life--on the first retrospective emotion I would have started up, </p><p>but my limbs refused to obey me; my knees trembled, the muscles had lost </p><p>all power. I still believed that I might find one of my beloved companions </p><p>cast like me, half alive, on the beach; and I strove in every way to </p><p>restore my frame to the use of its animal functions. I wrung the brine from </p><p>my hair; and the rays of the risen sun soon visited me with genial warmth. </p><p>With the restoration of my bodily powers, my mind became in some degree </p><p>aware of the universe of misery, henceforth to be its dwelling. I ran to </p><p>the water's edge, calling on the beloved names. Ocean drank in, and </p><p>absorbed my feeble voice, replying with pitiless roar. I climbed a near </p><p>tree: the level sands bounded by a pine forest, and the sea clipped round </p><p>by the horizon, was all that I could discern. In vain I extended my </p><p>researches along the beach; the mast we had thrown overboard, with tangled </p><p>cordage, and remnants of a sail, was the sole relic land received of our </p><p>wreck. Sometimes I stood still, and wrung my hands. I accused earth and sky </p><p>--the universal machine and the Almighty power that misdirected it. Again </p><p>I threw myself on the sands, and then the sighing wind, mimicking a human </p><p>cry, roused me to bitter, fallacious hope. Assuredly if any little bark or </p><p>smallest canoe had been near, I should have sought the savage plains of </p><p>ocean, found the dear remains of my lost ones, and clinging round them, </p><p>have shared their grave. </p><p>The day passed thus; each moment contained eternity; although when hour </p><p>after hour had gone by, I wondered at the quick flight of time. Yet even </p><p>now I had not drunk the bitter potion to the dregs; I was not yet persuaded </p><p>of my loss; I did not yet feel in every pulsation, in every nerve, in every </p><p>thought, that I remained alone of my race,--that I was the LAST MAN. </p><p>The day had clouded over, and a drizzling rain set in at sunset. Even the </p><p>eternal skies weep, I thought; is there any shame then, that mortal man </p><p>should spend himself in tears? I remembered the ancient fables, in which </p><p>human beings are described as dissolving away through weeping into </p><p>ever-gushing fountains. Ah! that so it were; and then my destiny would be</p><p>in some sort akin to the watery death of Adrian and Clara. Oh! grief is </p><p>fantastic; it weaves a web on which to trace the history of its woe from </p><p>every form and change around; it incorporates itself with all living </p><p>nature; it finds sustenance in every object; as light, it fills all things, </p><p>and, like light, it gives its own colours to all. </p><p>I had wandered in my search to some distance from the spot on which I had </p><p>been cast, and came to one of those watch-towers, which at stated distances </p><p>line the Italian shore. I was glad of shelter, glad to find a work of human </p><p>hands, after I had gazed so long on nature's drear barrenness; so I </p><p>entered, and ascended the rough winding staircase into the guard-room. So </p><p>far was fate kind, that no harrowing vestige remained of its former </p><p>inhabitants; a few planks laid across two iron tressels, and strewed with </p><p>the dried leaves of Indian corn, was the bed presented to me; and an open </p><p>chest, containing some half mouldered biscuit, awakened an appetite, which </p><p>perhaps existed before, but of which, until now, I was not aware. Thirst </p><p>also, violent and parching, the result of the sea-water I had drank, and of </p><p>the exhaustion of my frame, tormented me. Kind nature had gifted the supply </p><p>of these wants with pleasurable sensations, so that I--even I!--was </p><p>refreshed and calmed, as I ate of this sorry fare, and drank a little of </p><p>the sour wine which half filled a flask left in this abandoned dwelling. </p><p>Then I stretched myself on the bed, not to be disdained by the victim of </p><p>shipwreck. The earthy smell of the dried leaves was balm to my sense after </p><p>the hateful odour of sea-weed. I forgot my state of loneliness. I neither </p><p>looked backward nor forward; my senses were hushed to repose; I fell asleep </p><p>and dreamed of all dear inland scenes, of hay-makers, of the shepherd's </p><p>whistle to his dog, when he demanded his help to drive the flock to fold; </p><p>of sights and sounds peculiar to my boyhood's mountain life, which I had </p><p>long forgotten. </p><p>I awoke in a painful agony--for I fancied that ocean, breaking its </p><p>bounds, carried away the fixed continent and deep rooted mountains, </p><p>together with the streams I loved, the woods, and the flocks--it raged </p><p>around, with that continued and dreadful roar which had accompanied the </p><p>last wreck of surviving humanity. As my waking sense returned, the bare </p><p>walls of the guard room closed round me, and the rain pattered against the </p><p>single window. How dreadful it is, to emerge from the oblivion of slumber, </p><p>and to receive as a good morrow the mute wailing of one's own hapless heart </p><p>--to return from the land of deceptive dreams, to the heavy knowledge of </p><p>unchanged disaster!--Thus was it with me, now, and for ever! The sting of </p><p>other griefs might be blunted by time; and even mine yielded sometimes </p><p>during the day, to the pleasure inspired by the imagination or the senses; </p><p>but I never look first upon the morning-light but with my fingers pressed </p><p>tight on my bursting heart, and my soul deluged with the interminable flood </p><p>of hopeless misery. Now I awoke for the first time in the dead world--I </p><p>awoke alone--and the dull dirge of the sea, heard even amidst the rain, </p><p>recalled me to the reflection of the wretch I had become. The sound came </p><p>like a reproach, a scoff--like the sting of remorse in the soul--I </p><p>gasped--the veins and muscles of my throat swelled, suffocating me. I put </p><p>my fingers to my ears, I buried my head in the leaves of my couch, I would </p><p>have dived to the centre to lose hearing of that hideous moan. </p><p>But another task must be mine--again I visited the detested beach-- </p><p>again I vainly looked far and wide--again I raised my unanswered cry, </p><p>lifting up the only voice that could ever again force the mute air to </p><p>syllable the human thought. </p><p>What a pitiable, forlorn, disconsolate being I was! My very aspect and garb </p><p>told the tale of my despair. My hair was matted and wild--my limbs soiled</p><p>with salt ooze; while at sea, I had thrown off those of my garments that </p><p>encumbered me, and the rain drenched the thin summer-clothing I had </p><p>retained--my feet were bare, and the stunted reeds and broken shells made </p><p>them bleed--the while, I hurried to and fro, now looking earnestly on </p><p>some distant rock which, islanded in the sands, bore for a moment a </p><p>deceptive appearance--now with flashing eyes reproaching the murderous </p><p>ocean for its unutterable cruelty. </p><p>For a moment I compared myself to that monarch of the waste--Robinson </p><p>Crusoe. We had been both thrown companionless--he on the shore of a </p><p>desolate island: I on that of a desolate world. I was rich in the so called </p><p>goods of life. If I turned my steps from the near barren scene, and entered </p><p>any of the earth's million cities, I should find their wealth stored up for </p><p>my accommodation--clothes, food, books, and a choice of dwelling beyond </p><p>the command of the princes of former times--every climate was subject to </p><p>my selection, while he was obliged to toil in the acquirement of every </p><p>necessary, and was the inhabitant of a tropical island, against whose heats </p><p>and storms he could obtain small shelter.--Viewing the question thus, who </p><p>would not have preferred the Sybarite enjoyments I could command, the </p><p>philosophic leisure, and ample intellectual resources, to his life of </p><p>labour and peril? Yet he was far happier than I: for he could hope, nor </p><p>hope in vain--the destined vessel at last arrived, to bear him to </p><p>countrymen and kindred, where the events of his solitude became a fire-side </p><p>tale. To none could I ever relate the story of my adversity; no hope had I. </p><p>He knew that, beyond the ocean which begirt his lonely island, thousands </p><p>lived whom the sun enlightened when it shone also on him: beneath the </p><p>meridian sun and visiting moon, I alone bore human features; I alone could </p><p>give articulation to thought; and, when I slept, both day and night were </p><p>unbeheld of any. He had fled from his fellows, and was transported with </p><p>terror at the print of a human foot. I would have knelt down and worshipped </p><p>the same. The wild and cruel Caribbee, the merciless Cannibal--or worse </p><p>than these, the uncouth, brute, and remorseless veteran in the vices of </p><p>civilization, would have been to me a beloved companion, a treasure dearly </p><p>prized--his nature would be kin to mine; his form cast in the same mould; </p><p>human blood would flow in his veins; a human sympathy must link us for </p><p>ever. It cannot be that I shall never behold a fellow being more!--never! </p><p>--never!--not in the course of years!--Shall I wake, and speak to </p><p>none, pass the interminable hours, my soul, islanded in the world, a </p><p>solitary point, surrounded by vacuum? Will day follow day endlessly thus? </p><p>--No! no! a God rules the world--providence has not exchanged its golden </p><p>sceptre for an aspic's sting. Away! let me fly from the ocean-grave, let me </p><p>depart from this barren nook, paled in, as it is, from access by its own </p><p>desolateness; let me tread once again the paved towns; step over the </p><p>threshold of man's dwellings, and most certainly I shall find this thought </p><p>a horrible vision--a maddening, but evanescent dream. </p><p>I entered Ravenna, (the town nearest to the spot whereon I had been cast), </p><p>before the second sun had set on the empty world; I saw many living </p><p>creatures; oxen, and horses, and dogs, but there was no man among them; I </p><p>entered a cottage, it was vacant; I ascended the marble stairs of a palace, </p><p>the bats and the owls were nestled in the tapestry; I stepped softly, not </p><p>to awaken the sleeping town: I rebuked a dog, that by yelping disturbed the </p><p>sacred stillness; I would not believe that all was as it seemed--The </p><p>world was not dead, but I was mad; I was deprived of sight, hearing, and </p><p>sense of touch; I was labouring under the force of a spell, which permitted </p><p>me to behold all sights of earth, except its human inhabitants; they were </p><p>pursuing their ordinary labours. Every house had its inmate; but I could </p><p>not perceive them. If I could have deluded myself into a belief of this </p><p>kind, I should have been far more satisfied. But my brain, tenacious of its</p><p>reason, refused to lend itself to such imaginations--and though I </p><p>endeavoured to play the antic to myself, I knew that I, the offspring of </p><p>man, during long years one among many--now remained sole survivor of my </p><p>species. </p><p>The sun sank behind the western hills; I had fasted since the preceding </p><p>evening, but, though faint and weary, I loathed food, nor ceased, while yet </p><p>a ray of light remained, to pace the lonely streets. Night came on, and </p><p>sent every living creature but me to the bosom of its mate. It was my </p><p>solace, to blunt my mental agony by personal hardship--of the thousand </p><p>beds around, I would not seek the luxury of one; I lay down on the </p><p>pavement,--a cold marble step served me for a pillow--midnight came; </p><p>and then, though not before, did my wearied lids shut out the sight of the </p><p>twinkling stars, and their reflex on the pavement near. Thus I passed the </p><p>second night of my desolation. </p><p>CHAPTER X. </p><p>I AWOKE in the morning, just as the higher windows of the lofty houses </p><p>received the first beams of the rising sun. The birds were chirping, </p><p>perched on the windows sills and deserted thresholds of the doors. I awoke, </p><p>and my first thought was, Adrian and Clara are dead. I no longer shall be </p><p>hailed by their good-morrow--or pass the long day in their society. I </p><p>shall never see them more. The ocean has robbed me of them--stolen their </p><p>hearts of love from their breasts, and given over to corruption what was </p><p>dearer to me than light, or life, or hope. </p><p>I was an untaught shepherd-boy, when Adrian deigned to confer on me his </p><p>friendship. The best years of my life had been passed with him. All I had </p><p>possessed of this world's goods, of happiness, knowledge, or virtue--I </p><p>owed to him. He had, in his person, his intellect, and rare qualities, </p><p>given a glory to my life, which without him it had never known. Beyond all </p><p>other beings he had taught me, that goodness, pure and single, can be an </p><p>attribute of man. It was a sight for angels to congregate to behold, to </p><p>view him lead, govern, and solace, the last days of the human race. </p><p>My lovely Clara also was lost to me--she who last of the daughters of </p><p>man, exhibited all those feminine and maiden virtues, which poets, </p><p>painters, and sculptors, have in their various languages strove to express. </p><p>Yet, as far as she was concerned, could I lament that she was removed in </p><p>early youth from the certain advent of misery? Pure she was of soul, and </p><p>all her intents were holy. But her heart was the throne of love, and the </p><p>sensibility her lovely countenance expressed, was the prophet of many </p><p>woes, not the less deep and drear, because she would have for ever </p><p>concealed them. </p><p>These two wondrously endowed beings had been spared from the universal </p><p>wreck, to be my companions during the last year of solitude. I had felt, </p><p>while they were with me, all their worth. I was conscious that every other </p><p>sentiment, regret, or passion had by degrees merged into a yearning, </p><p>clinging affection for them. I had not forgotten the sweet partner of my </p><p>youth, mother of my children, my adored Idris; but I saw at least a part of </p><p>her spirit alive again in her brother; and after, that by Evelyn's death I </p><p>had lost what most dearly recalled her to me; I enshrined her memory in </p><p>Adrian's form, and endeavoured to confound the two dear ideas. I sound the</p><p>depths of my heart, and try in vain to draw thence the expressions that can </p><p>typify my love for these remnants of my race. If regret and sorrow came </p><p>athwart me, as well it might in our solitary and uncertain state, the clear </p><p>tones of Adrian's voice, and his fervent look, dissipated the gloom; or I </p><p>was cheered unaware by the mild content and sweet resignation Clara's </p><p>cloudless brow and deep blue eyes expressed. They were all to me--the </p><p>suns of my benighted soul--repose in my weariness--slumber in my </p><p>sleepless woe. Ill, most ill, with disjointed words, bare and weak, have I </p><p>expressed the feeling with which I clung to them. I would have wound myself </p><p>like ivy inextricably round them, so that the same blow might destroy us. I </p><p>would have entered and been a part of them--so that </p><p> If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,</p><p>even now I had accompanied them to their new and incommunicable abode. </p><p>Never shall I see them more. I am bereft of their dear converse--bereft </p><p>of sight of them. I am a tree rent by lightning; never will the bark close </p><p>over the bared fibres--never will their quivering life, torn by the </p><p>winds, receive the opiate of a moment's balm. I am alone in the world-- </p><p>but that expression as yet was less pregnant with misery, than that Adrian </p><p>and Clara are dead. </p><p>The tide of thought and feeling rolls on for ever the same, though the </p><p>banks and shapes around, which govern its course, and the reflection in the </p><p>wave, vary. Thus the sentiment of immediate loss in some sort decayed, </p><p>while that of utter, irremediable loneliness grew on me with time. Three </p><p>days I wandered through Ravenna--now thinking only of the beloved beings </p><p>who slept in the oozy caves of ocean--now looking forward on the dread </p><p>blank before me; shuddering to make an onward step--writhing at each </p><p>change that marked the progress of the hours. </p><p>For three days I wandered to and fro in this melancholy town. I passed </p><p>whole hours in going from house to house, listening whether I could detect </p><p>some lurking sign of human existence. Sometimes I rang at a bell; it </p><p>tinkled through the vaulted rooms, and silence succeeded to the sound. I </p><p>called myself hopeless, yet still I hoped; and still disappointment ushered </p><p>in the hours, intruding the cold, sharp steel which first pierced me, into </p><p>the aching festering wound. I fed like a wild beast, which seizes its food </p><p>only when stung by intolerable hunger. I did not change my garb, or seek </p><p>the shelter of a roof, during all those days. Burning heats, nervous </p><p>irritation, a ceaseless, but confused flow of thought, sleepless nights, </p><p>and days instinct with a frenzy of agitation, possessed me during that </p><p>time. </p><p>As the fever of my blood encreased, a desire of wandering came upon me. I </p><p>remember, that the sun had set on the fifth day after my wreck, when, </p><p>without purpose or aim, I quitted the town of Ravenna. I must have been </p><p>very ill. Had I been possessed by more or less of delirium, that night had </p><p>surely been my last; for, as I continued to walk on the banks of the </p><p>Mantone, whose upward course I followed, I looked wistfully on the stream, </p><p>acknowledging to myself that its pellucid waves could medicine my woes </p><p>for ever, and was unable to account to myself for my tardiness in seeking </p><p>their shelter from the poisoned arrows of thought, that were piercing me </p><p>through and through. I walked a considerable part of the night, and </p><p>excessive weariness at length conquered my repugnance to the availing </p><p>myself of the deserted habitations of my species. The waning moon, which </p><p>had just risen, shewed me a cottage, whose neat entrance and trim garden </p><p>reminded me of my own England. I lifted up the latch of the door and</p><p>entered. A kitchen first presented itself, where, guided by the moon beams, </p><p>I found materials for striking a light. Within this was a bed room; the </p><p>couch was furnished with sheets of snowy whiteness; the wood piled on the </p><p>hearth, and an array as for a meal, might almost have deceived me into the </p><p>dear belief that I had here found what I had so long sought--one </p><p>survivor, a companion for my loneliness, a solace to my despair. I steeled </p><p>myself against the delusion; the room itself was vacant: it was only </p><p>prudent, I repeated to myself, to examine the rest of the house. I fancied </p><p>that I was proof against the expectation; yet my heart beat audibly, as I </p><p>laid my hand on the lock of each door, and it sunk again, when I perceived </p><p>in each the same vacancy. Dark and silent they were as vaults; so I </p><p>returned to the first chamber, wondering what sightless host had spread the </p><p>materials for my repast, and my repose. I drew a chair to the table, and </p><p>examined what the viands were of which I was to partake. In truth it was a </p><p>death feast! The bread was blue and mouldy; the cheese lay a heap of dust. </p><p>I did not dare examine the other dishes; a troop of ants passed in a double </p><p>line across the table cloth; every utensil was covered with dust, with </p><p>cobwebs, and myriads of dead flies: these were objects each and all </p><p>betokening the fallaciousness of my expectations. Tears rushed into my </p><p>eyes; surely this was a wanton display of the power of the destroyer. What </p><p>had I done, that each sensitive nerve was thus to be anatomized? Yet why </p><p>complain more now than ever? This vacant cottage revealed no new sorrow-- </p><p>the world was empty; mankind was dead--I knew it well--why quarrel </p><p>therefore with an acknowledged and stale truth? Yet, as I said, I had hoped </p><p>in the very heart of despair, so that every new impression of the hard-cut </p><p>reality on my soul brought with it a fresh pang, telling me the yet </p><p>unstudied lesson, that neither change of place nor time could bring </p><p>alleviation to my misery, but that, as I now was, I must continue, day </p><p>after day, month after month, year after year, while I lived. I hardly </p><p>dared conjecture what space of time that expression implied. It is true, I </p><p>was no longer in the first blush of manhood; neither had I declined far in </p><p>the vale of years--men have accounted mine the prime of life: I had just </p><p>entered my thirty-seventh year; every limb was as well knit, every </p><p>articulation as true, as when I had acted the shepherd on the hills of </p><p>Cumberland; and with these advantages I was to commence the train of </p><p>solitary life. Such were the reflections that ushered in my slumber on that </p><p>night. </p><p>The shelter, however, and less disturbed repose which I enjoyed, restored </p><p>me the following morning to a greater portion of health and strength, than </p><p>I had experienced since my fatal shipwreck. Among the stores I had </p><p>discovered on searching the cottage the preceding night, was a quantity of </p><p>dried grapes; these refreshed me in the morning, as I left my lodging and </p><p>proceeded towards a town which I discerned at no great distance. As far as </p><p>I could divine, it must have been Forli. I entered with pleasure its wide </p><p>and grassy streets. All, it is true, pictured the excess of desolation; yet </p><p>I loved to find myself in those spots which had been the abode of my fellow </p><p>creatures. I delighted to traverse street after street, to look up at the </p><p>tall houses, and repeat to myself, once they contained beings similar to </p><p>myself--I was not always the wretch I am now. The wide square of Forli, </p><p>the arcade around it, its light and pleasant aspect cheered me. I was </p><p>pleased with the idea, that, if the earth should be again peopled, we, the </p><p>lost race, would, in the relics left behind, present no contemptible </p><p>exhibition of our powers to the new comers. </p><p>I entered one of the palaces, and opened the door of a magnificent saloon. </p><p>I started--I looked again with renewed wonder. What wild-looking, </p><p>unkempt, half-naked savage was that before me? The surprise was momentary. </p><p>I perceived that it was I myself whom I beheld in a large mirror at the end </p><p>of the hall. No wonder that the lover of the princely Idris should fail to </p><p>recognize himself in the miserable object there pourtrayed. My tattered </p><p>dress was that in which I had crawled half alive from the tempestuous sea. </p><p>My long and tangled hair hung in elf locks on my brow--my dark eyes, now </p><p>hollow and wild, gleamed from under them--my cheeks were discoloured by </p><p>the jaundice, which (the effect of misery and neglect) suffused my skin, </p><p>and were half hid by a beard of many days' growth. </p><p>Yet why should I not remain thus, I thought; the world is dead, and this </p><p>squalid attire is a fitter mourning garb than the foppery of a black suit. </p><p>And thus, methinks, I should have remained, had not hope, without which I </p><p>do not believe man could exist, whispered to me, that, in such a plight, I </p><p>should be an object of fear and aversion to the being, preserved I knew not </p><p>where, but I fondly trusted, at length, to be found by me. Will my readers </p><p>scorn the vanity, that made me attire myself with some care, for the sake </p><p>of this visionary being? Or will they forgive the freaks of a half crazed </p><p>imagination? I can easily forgive myself--for hope, however vague, was so </p><p>dear to me, and a sentiment of pleasure of so rare occurrence, that I </p><p>yielded readily to any idea, that cherished the one, or promised any </p><p>recurrence of the former to my sorrowing heart. After such occupation, I </p><p>visited every street, alley, and nook of Forli. These Italian towns </p><p>presented an appearance of still greater desolation, than those of England </p><p>or France. Plague had appeared here earlier--it had finished its course, </p><p>and achieved its work much sooner than with us. Probably the last summer </p><p>had found no human being alive, in all the track included between the </p><p>shores of Calabria and the northern Alps. My search was utterly vain, yet I </p><p>did not despond. Reason methought was on my side; and the chances were by </p><p>no means contemptible, that there should exist in some part of Italy a </p><p>survivor like myself--of a wasted, depopulate land. As therefore I </p><p>rambled through the empty town, I formed my plan for future operations. I </p><p>would continue to journey on towards Rome. After I should have satisfied </p><p>myself, by a narrow search, that I left behind no human being in the towns </p><p>through which I passed, I would write up in a conspicuous part of each, </p><p>with white paint, in three languages, that "Verney, the last of the race of </p><p>Englishmen, had taken up his abode in Rome." </p><p>In pursuance of this scheme, I entered a painter's shop, and procured </p><p>myself the paint. It is strange that so trivial an occupation should have </p><p>consoled, and even enlivened me. But grief renders one childish, despair </p><p>fantastic. To this simple inscription, I merely added the adjuration, </p><p>"Friend, come! I wait for thee!--Deh, vieni! ti aspetto!" On the </p><p>following morning, with something like hope for my companion, I quitted </p><p>Forli on my way to Rome. Until now, agonizing retrospect, and dreary </p><p>prospects for the future, had stung me when awake, and cradled me to my </p><p>repose. Many times I had delivered myself up to the tyranny of anguish-- </p><p>many times I resolved a speedy end to my woes; and death by my own hands </p><p>was a remedy, whose practicability was even cheering to me. What could I </p><p>fear in the other world? If there were an hell, and I were doomed to it, I </p><p>should come an adept to the sufferance of its tortures--the act were </p><p>easy, the speedy and certain end of my deplorable tragedy. But now these </p><p>thoughts faded before the new born expectation. I went on my way, not as </p><p>before, feeling each hour, each minute, to be an age instinct with </p><p>incalculable pain. </p><p>As I wandered along the plain, at the foot of the Appennines--through </p><p>their vallies, and over their bleak summits, my path led me through a </p><p>country which had been trodden by heroes, visited and admired by thousands. </p><p>They had, as a tide, receded, leaving me blank and bare in the midst. But</p><p>why complain? Did I not hope?--so I schooled myself, even after the </p><p>enlivening spirit had really deserted me, and thus I was obliged to call up </p><p>all the fortitude I could command, and that was not much, to prevent a </p><p>recurrence of that chaotic and intolerable despair, that had succeeded to </p><p>the miserable shipwreck, that had consummated every fear, and dashed to </p><p>annihilation every joy. </p><p>I rose each day with the morning sun, and left my desolate inn. As my feet </p><p>strayed through the unpeopled country, my thoughts rambled through the </p><p>universe, and I was least miserable when I could, absorbed in reverie, </p><p>forget the passage of the hours. Each evening, in spite of weariness, I </p><p>detested to enter any dwelling, there to take up my nightly abode--I have </p><p>sat, hour after hour, at the door of the cottage I had selected, unable to </p><p>lift the latch, and meet face to face blank desertion within. Many nights, </p><p>though autumnal mists were spread around, I passed under an ilex--many </p><p>times I have supped on arbutus berries and chestnuts, making a fire, </p><p>gypsy-like, on the ground--because wild natural scenery reminded me less </p><p>acutely of my hopeless state of loneliness. I counted the days, and bore </p><p>with me a peeled willow-wand, on which, as well as I could remember, I had </p><p>notched the days that had elapsed since my wreck, and each night I added </p><p>another unit to the melancholy sum. </p><p>I had toiled up a hill which led to Spoleto. Around was spread a plain, </p><p>encircled by the chestnut-covered Appennines. A dark ravine was on one </p><p>side, spanned by an aqueduct, whose tall arches were rooted in the dell </p><p>below, and attested that man had once deigned to bestow labour and thought </p><p>here, to adorn and civilize nature. Savage, ungrateful nature, which in </p><p>wild sport defaced his remains, protruding her easily renewed, and fragile </p><p>growth of wild flowers and parasite plants around his eternal edifices. I </p><p>sat on a fragment of rock, and looked round. The sun had bathed in gold the </p><p>western atmosphere, and in the east the clouds caught the radiance, and </p><p>budded into transient loveliness. It set on a world that contained me alone </p><p>for its inhabitant. I took out my wand--I counted the marks. Twenty-five </p><p>were already traced--twenty-five days had already elapsed, since human </p><p>voice had gladdened my ears, or human countenance met my gaze. Twenty-five </p><p>long, weary days, succeeded by dark and lonesome nights, had mingled with </p><p>foregone years, and had become a part of the past--the never to be </p><p>recalled--a real, undeniable portion of my life--twenty-five long, long </p><p>days. </p><p>Why this was not a month!--Why talk of days--or weeks--or months--I </p><p>must grasp years in my imagination, if I would truly picture the future to </p><p>myself--three, five, ten, twenty, fifty anniversaries of that fatal epoch </p><p>might elapse--every year containing twelve months, each of more numerous </p><p>calculation in a diary, than the twenty-five days gone by--Can it be? </p><p>Will it be?--We had been used to look forward to death tremulously-- </p><p>wherefore, but because its place was obscure? But more terrible, and far </p><p>more obscure, was the unveiled course of my lone futurity. I broke my wand; </p><p>I threw it from me. I needed no recorder of the inch and barley-corn growth </p><p>of my life, while my unquiet thoughts created other divisions, than those </p><p>ruled over by the planets--and, in looking back on the age that had </p><p>elapsed since I had been alone, I disdained to give the name of days and </p><p>hours to the throes of agony which had in truth portioned it out. </p><p>I hid my face in my hands. The twitter of the young birds going to rest, </p><p>and their rustling among the trees, disturbed the still evening-air--the </p><p>crickets chirped--the aziolo cooed at intervals. My thoughts had been of </p><p>death--these sounds spoke to me of life. I lifted up my eyes--a bat </p><p>wheeled round--the sun had sunk behind the jagged line of mountains, and</p><p>the paly, crescent moon was visible, silver white, amidst the orange </p><p>sunset, and accompanied by one bright star, prolonged thus the twilight. A </p><p>herd of cattle passed along in the dell below, untended, towards their </p><p>watering place--the grass was rustled by a gentle breeze, and the </p><p>olive-woods, mellowed into soft masses by the moonlight, contrasted their </p><p>sea-green with the dark chestnut foliage. Yes, this is the earth; there is </p><p>no change--no ruin--no rent made in her verdurous expanse; she </p><p>continues to wheel round and round, with alternate night and day, through </p><p>the sky, though man is not her adorner or inhabitant. Why could I not </p><p>forget myself like one of those animals, and no longer suffer the wild </p><p>tumult of misery that I endure? Yet, ah! what a deadly breach yawns between </p><p>their state and mine! Have not they companions? Have not they each their </p><p>mate--their cherished young, their home, which, though unexpressed to us, </p><p>is, I doubt not, endeared and enriched, even in their eyes, by the society </p><p>which kind nature has created for them? It is I only that am alone--I, on </p><p>this little hill top, gazing on plain and mountain recess--on sky, and </p><p>its starry population, listening to every sound of earth, and air, and </p><p>murmuring wave,--I only cannot express to any companion my many thoughts, </p><p>nor lay my throbbing head on any loved bosom, nor drink from meeting eyes </p><p>an intoxicating dew, that transcends the fabulous nectar of the gods. Shall </p><p>I not then complain? Shall I not curse the murderous engine which has mowed </p><p>down the children of men, my brethren? Shall I not bestow a malediction on </p><p>every other of nature's offspring, which dares live and enjoy, while I live </p><p>and suffer? </p><p>Ah, no! I will discipline my sorrowing heart to sympathy in your joys; I </p><p>will be happy, because ye are so. Live on, ye innocents, nature's selected </p><p>darlings; I am not much unlike to you. Nerves, pulse, brain, joint, and </p><p>flesh, of such am I composed, and ye are organized by the same laws. I have </p><p>something beyond this, but I will call it a defect, not an endowment, if it </p><p>leads me to misery, while ye are happy. Just then, there emerged from a </p><p>near copse two goats and a little kid, by the mother's side; they began to </p><p>browze the herbage of the hill. I approached near to them, without their </p><p>perceiving me; I gathered a handful of fresh grass, and held it out; the </p><p>little one nestled close to its mother, while she timidly withdrew. The </p><p>male stepped forward, fixing his eyes on me: I drew near, still holding out </p><p>my lure, while he, depressing his head, rushed at me with his horns. I was </p><p>a very fool; I knew it, yet I yielded to my rage. I snatched up a huge </p><p>fragment of rock; it would have crushed my rash foe. I poized it--aimed </p><p>it--then my heart failed me. I hurled it wide of the mark; it rolled </p><p>clattering among the bushes into dell. My little visitants, all aghast, </p><p>galloped back into the covert of the wood; while I, my very heart bleeding </p><p>and torn, rushed down the hill, and by the violence of bodily exertion, </p><p>sought to escape from my miserable self. </p><p>No, no, I will not live among the wild scenes of nature, the enemy of all </p><p>that lives. I will seek the towns--Rome, the capital of the world, the </p><p>crown of man's achievements. Among its storied streets, hallowed ruins, and </p><p>stupendous remains of human exertion, I shall not, as here, find every </p><p>thing forgetful of man; trampling on his memory, defacing his works, </p><p>proclaiming from hill to hill, and vale to vale,--by the torrents freed </p><p>from the boundaries which he imposed--by the vegetation liberated from </p><p>the laws which he enforced--by his habitation abandoned to mildew and </p><p>weeds, that his power is lost, his race annihilated for ever. </p><p>I hailed the Tiber, for that was as it were an unalienable possession of </p><p>humanity. I hailed the wild Campagna, for every rood had been trod by man; </p><p>and its savage uncultivation, of no recent date, only proclaimed more </p><p>distinctly his power, since he had given an honourable name and sacred</p><p>title to what else would have been a worthless, barren track. I entered </p><p>Eternal Rome by the Porta del Popolo, and saluted with awe its </p><p>time-honoured space. The wide square, the churches near, the long extent of </p><p>the Corso, the near eminence of Trinita de' Monti appeared like fairy work, </p><p>they were so silent, so peaceful, and so very fair. It was evening; and the </p><p>population of animals which still existed in this mighty city, had gone to </p><p>rest; there was no sound, save the murmur of its many fountains, whose soft </p><p>monotony was harmony to my soul. The knowledge that I was in Rome, soothed </p><p>me; that wondrous city, hardly more illustrious for its heroes and sages, </p><p>than for the power it exercised over the imaginations of men. I went to </p><p>rest that night; the eternal burning of my heart quenched,--my senses </p><p>tranquil. </p><p>The next morning I eagerly began my rambles in search of oblivion. I </p><p>ascended the many terraces of the garden of the Colonna Palace, under whose </p><p>roof I had been sleeping; and passing out from it at its summit, I found </p><p>myself on Monte Cavallo. The fountain sparkled in the sun; the obelisk </p><p>above pierced the clear dark-blue air. The statues on each side, the works, </p><p>as they are inscribed, of Phidias and Praxiteles, stood in undiminished </p><p>grandeur, representing Castor and Pollux, who with majestic power tamed the </p><p>rearing animal at their side. If those illustrious artists had in truth </p><p>chiselled these forms, how many passing generations had their giant </p><p>proportions outlived! and now they were viewed by the last of the species </p><p>they were sculptured to represent and deify. I had shrunk into </p><p>insignificance in my own eyes, as I considered the multitudinous beings </p><p>these stone demigods had outlived, but this after-thought restored me to </p><p>dignity in my own conception. The sight of the poetry eternized in these </p><p>statues, took the sting from the thought, arraying it only in poetic </p><p>ideality. </p><p>I repeated to myself,--I am in Rome! I behold, and as it were, familiarly </p><p>converse with the wonder of the world, sovereign mistress of the </p><p>imagination, majestic and eternal survivor of millions of generations of </p><p>extinct men. I endeavoured to quiet the sorrows of my aching heart, by even </p><p>now taking an interest in what in my youth I had ardently longed to see. </p><p>Every part of Rome is replete with relics of ancient times. The meanest </p><p>streets are strewed with truncated columns, broken capitals--Corinthian </p><p>and Ionic, and sparkling fragments of granite or porphyry. The walls of the </p><p>most penurious dwellings enclose a fluted pillar or ponderous stone, which </p><p>once made part of the palace of the Caesars; and the voice of dead time, in </p><p>still vibrations, is breathed from these dumb things, animated and </p><p>glorified as they were by man. </p><p>I embraced the vast columns of the temple of Jupiter Stator, which survives </p><p>in the open space that was the Forum, and leaning my burning cheek against </p><p>its cold durability, I tried to lose the sense of present misery and </p><p>present desertion, by recalling to the haunted cell of my brain vivid </p><p>memories of times gone by. I rejoiced at my success, as I figured Camillus, </p><p>the Gracchi, Cato, and last the heroes of Tacitus, which shine meteors of </p><p>surpassing brightness during the murky night of the empire;--as the </p><p>verses of Horace and Virgil, or the glowing periods of Cicero thronged into </p><p>the opened gates of my mind, I felt myself exalted by long forgotten </p><p>enthusiasm. I was delighted to know that I beheld the scene which they </p><p>beheld--the scene which their wives and mothers, and crowds of the </p><p>unnamed witnessed, while at the same time they honoured, applauded, or wept </p><p>for these matchless specimens of humanity. At length, then, I had found a </p><p>consolation. I had not vainly sought the storied precincts of Rome--I had </p><p>discovered a medicine for my many and vital wounds. </p><p>I sat at the foot of these vast columns. The Coliseum, whose naked ruin is </p><p>robed by nature in a verdurous and glowing veil, lay in the sunlight on my </p><p>right. Not far off, to the left, was the Tower of the Capitol. Triumphal </p><p>arches, the falling walls of many temples, strewed the ground at my feet. I </p><p>strove, I resolved, to force myself to see the Plebeian multitude and lofty </p><p>Patrician forms congregated around; and, as the Diorama of ages passed </p><p>across my subdued fancy, they were replaced by the modern Roman; the Pope, </p><p>in his white stole, distributing benedictions to the kneeling worshippers; </p><p>the friar in his cowl; the dark-eyed girl, veiled by her mezzera; the </p><p>noisy, sun-burnt rustic, leading his heard of buffaloes and oxen to the </p><p>Campo Vaccino. The romance with which, dipping our pencils in the rainbow </p><p>hues of sky and transcendent nature, we to a degree gratuitously endow the </p><p>Italians, replaced the solemn grandeur of antiquity. I remembered the dark </p><p>monk, and floating figures of "The Italian," and how my boyish blood had </p><p>thrilled at the description. I called to mind Corinna ascending the Capitol </p><p>to be crowned, and, passing from the heroine to the author, reflected how </p><p>the Enchantress Spirit of Rome held sovereign sway over the minds of the </p><p>imaginative, until it rested on me--sole remaining spectator of its </p><p>wonders. </p><p>I was long wrapt by such ideas; but the soul wearies of a pauseless flight; </p><p>and, stooping from its wheeling circuits round and round this spot, </p><p>suddenly it fell ten thousand fathom deep, into the abyss of the present-- </p><p>into self-knowledge--into tenfold sadness. I roused myself--I cast off </p><p>my waking dreams; and I, who just now could almost hear the shouts of the </p><p>Roman throng, and was hustled by countless multitudes, now beheld the </p><p>desart ruins of Rome sleeping under its own blue sky; the shadows lay </p><p>tranquilly on the ground; sheep were grazing untended on the Palatine, and </p><p>a buffalo stalked down the Sacred Way that led to the Capitol. I was alone </p><p>in the Forum; alone in Rome; alone in the world. Would not one living man </p><p>--one companion in my weary solitude, be worth all the glory and </p><p>remembered power of this time-honoured city? Double sorrow--sadness, </p><p>bred in Cimmerian caves, robed my soul in a mourning garb. The generations </p><p>I had conjured up to my fancy, contrasted more strongly with the end of all </p><p>--the single point in which, as a pyramid, the mighty fabric of society </p><p>had ended, while I, on the giddy height, saw vacant space around me. </p><p>From such vague laments I turned to the contemplation of the minutiae of my </p><p>situation. So far, I had not succeeded in the sole object of my desires, </p><p>the finding a companion for my desolation. Yet I did not despair. It is </p><p>true that my inscriptions were set up for the most part, in insignificant </p><p>towns and villages; yet, even without these memorials, it was possible that </p><p>the person, who like me should find himself alone in a depopulate land, </p><p>should, like me, come to Rome. The more slender my expectation was, the </p><p>more I chose to build on it, and to accommodate my actions to this vague </p><p>possibility. </p><p>It became necessary therefore, that for a time I should domesticate myself </p><p>at Rome. It became necessary, that I should look my disaster in the face-- </p><p>not playing the school-boy's part of obedience without submission; enduring </p><p>life, and yet rebelling against the laws by which I lived. </p><p>Yet how could I resign myself? Without love, without sympathy, without </p><p>communion with any, how could I meet the morning sun, and with it trace its </p><p>oft repeated journey to the evening shades? Why did I continue to live-- </p><p>why not throw off the weary weight of time, and with my own hand, let out </p><p>the fluttering prisoner from my agonized breast?--It was not cowardice </p><p>that withheld me; for the true fortitude was to endure; and death had a </p><p>soothing sound accompanying it, that would easily entice me to enter its</p><p>demesne. But this I would not do. I had, from the moment I had reasoned on </p><p>the subject, instituted myself the subject to fate, and the servant of </p><p>necessity, the visible laws of the invisible God--I believed that my </p><p>obedience was the result of sound reasoning, pure feeling, and an exalted </p><p>sense of the true excellence and nobility of my nature. Could I have seen </p><p>in this empty earth, in the seasons and their change, the hand of a blind </p><p>power only, most willingly would I have placed my head on the sod, and </p><p>closed my eyes on its loveliness for ever. But fate had administered life </p><p>to me, when the plague had already seized on its prey--she had dragged me </p><p>by the hair from out the strangling waves--By such miracles she had </p><p>bought me for her own; I admitted her authority, and bowed to her decrees. </p><p>If, after mature consideration, such was my resolve, it was doubly </p><p>necessary that I should not lose the end of life, the improvement of my </p><p>faculties, and poison its flow by repinings without end. Yet how cease to </p><p>repine, since there was no hand near to extract the barbed spear that had </p><p>entered my heart of hearts? I stretched out my hand, and it touched none </p><p>whose sensations were responsive to mine. I was girded, walled in, vaulted </p><p>over, by seven-fold barriers of loneliness. Occupation alone, if I could </p><p>deliver myself up to it, would be capable of affording an opiate to my </p><p>sleepless sense of woe. Having determined to make Rome my abode, at least </p><p>for some months, I made arrangements for my accommodation--I selected my </p><p>home. The Colonna Palace was well adapted for my purpose. Its grandeur-- </p><p>its treasure of paintings, its magnificent halls were objects soothing and </p><p>even exhilarating. </p><p>I found the granaries of Rome well stored with grain, and particularly with </p><p>Indian corn; this product requiring less art in its preparation for food, I </p><p>selected as my principal support. I now found the hardships and lawlessness </p><p>of my youth turn to account. A man cannot throw off the habits of sixteen </p><p>years. Since that age, it is true, I had lived luxuriously, or at least </p><p>surrounded by all the conveniences civilization afforded. But before that </p><p>time, I had been "as uncouth a savage, as the wolf-bred founder of old </p><p>Rome"--and now, in Rome itself, robber and shepherd propensities, similar </p><p>to those of its founder, were of advantage to its sole inhabitant. I spent </p><p>the morning riding and shooting in the Campagna--I passed long hours in </p><p>the various galleries--I gazed at each statue, and lost myself in a </p><p>reverie before many a fair Madonna or beauteous nymph. I haunted the </p><p>Vatican, and stood surrounded by marble forms of divine beauty. Each stone </p><p>deity was possessed by sacred gladness, and the eternal fruition of love. </p><p>They looked on me with unsympathizing complacency, and often in wild </p><p>accents I reproached them for their supreme indifference--for they were </p><p>human shapes, the human form divine was manifest in each fairest limb and </p><p>lineament. The perfect moulding brought with it the idea of colour and </p><p>motion; often, half in bitter mockery, half in self-delusion, I clasped </p><p>their icy proportions, and, coming between Cupid and his Psyche's lips, </p><p>pressed the unconceiving marble. </p><p>I endeavoured to read. I visited the libraries of Rome. I selected a </p><p>volume, and, choosing some sequestered, shady nook, on the banks of the </p><p>Tiber, or opposite the fair temple in the Borghese Gardens, or under the </p><p>old pyramid of Cestius, I endeavoured to conceal me from myself, and </p><p>immerse myself in the subject traced on the pages before me. As if in the </p><p>same soil you plant nightshade and a myrtle tree, they will each </p><p>appropriate the mould, moisture, and air administered, for the fostering </p><p>their several properties--so did my grief find sustenance, and power of </p><p>existence, and growth, in what else had been divine manna, to feed radiant </p><p>meditation. Ah! while I streak this paper with the tale of what my so named </p><p>occupations were--while I shape the skeleton of my days--my hand </p><p>trembles--my heart pants, and my brain refuses to lend expression, or</p><p>phrase, or idea, by which to image forth the veil of unutterable woe that </p><p>clothed these bare realities. O, worn and beating heart, may I dissect thy </p><p>fibres, and tell how in each unmitigable misery, sadness dire, repinings, </p><p>and despair, existed? May I record my many ravings--the wild curses I </p><p>hurled at torturing nature--and how I have passed days shut out from </p><p>light and food--from all except the burning hell alive in my own bosom? </p><p>I was presented, meantime, with one other occupation, the one best fitted </p><p>to discipline my melancholy thoughts, which strayed backwards, over many a </p><p>ruin, and through many a flowery glade, even to the mountain recess, from </p><p>which in early youth I had first emerged. </p><p>During one of my rambles through the habitations of Rome, I found writing </p><p>materials on a table in an author's study. Parts of a manuscript lay </p><p>scattered about. It contained a learned disquisition on the Italian </p><p>language; one page an unfinished dedication to posterity, for whose profit </p><p>the writer had sifted and selected the niceties of this harmonious language </p><p>--to whose everlasting benefit he bequeathed his labours. </p><p>I also will write a book, I cried--for whom to read?--to whom </p><p>dedicated? And then with silly flourish (what so capricious and childish as </p><p>despair?) I wrote, DEDICATION TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD. SHADOWS, ARISE, AND </p><p>READ YOUR FALL! BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF THE LAST MAN. </p><p>Yet, will not this world be re-peopled, and the children of a saved pair of </p><p>lovers, in some to me unknown and unattainable seclusion, wandering to </p><p>these prodigious relics of the ante-pestilential race, seek to learn how </p><p>beings so wondrous in their achievements, with imaginations infinite, and </p><p>powers godlike, had departed from their home to an unknown country? </p><p>I will write and leave in this most ancient city, this "world's sole </p><p>monument," a record of these things. I will leave a monument of the </p><p>existence of Verney, the Last Man. At first I thought only to speak of </p><p>plague, of death, and last, of desertion; but I lingered fondly on my early </p><p>years, and recorded with sacred zeal the virtues of my companions. They </p><p>have been with me during the fulfilment of my task. I have brought it to an </p><p>end--I lift my eyes from my paper--again they are lost to me. Again I </p><p>feel that I am alone. </p><p>A year has passed since I have been thus occupied. The seasons have made </p><p>their wonted round, and decked this eternal city in a changeful robe of </p><p>surpassing beauty. A year has passed; and I no longer guess at my state or </p><p>my prospects--loneliness is my familiar, sorrow my inseparable companion. </p><p>I have endeavoured to brave the storm--I have endeavoured to school </p><p>myself to fortitude--I have sought to imbue myself with the lessons of </p><p>wisdom. It will not do. My hair has become nearly grey--my voice, unused </p><p>now to utter sound, comes strangely on my ears. My person, with its human </p><p>powers and features, seem to me a monstrous excrescence of nature. How </p><p>express in human language a woe human being until this hour never knew! How </p><p>give intelligible expression to a pang none but I could ever understand!-- </p><p>No one has entered Rome. None will ever come. I smile bitterly at the </p><p>delusion I have so long nourished, and still more, when I reflect that I </p><p>have exchanged it for another as delusive, as false, but to which I now </p><p>cling with the same fond trust. </p><p>Winter has come again; and the gardens of Rome have lost their leaves-- </p><p>the sharp air comes over the Campagna, and has driven its brute inhabitants </p><p>to take up their abode in the many dwellings of the deserted city--frost </p><p>has suspended the gushing fountains--and Trevi has stilled her eternal</p><p>music. I had made a rough calculation, aided by the stars, by which I </p><p>endeavoured to ascertain the first day of the new year. In the old out-worn </p><p>age, the Sovereign Pontiff was used to go in solemn pomp, and mark the </p><p>renewal of the year by driving a nail in the gate of the temple of Janus. </p><p>On that day I ascended St. Peter's, and carved on its topmost stone the </p><p>aera 2100, last year of the world! </p><p>My only companion was a dog, a shaggy fellow, half water and half </p><p>shepherd's dog, whom I found tending sheep in the Campagna. His master was </p><p>dead, but nevertheless he continued fulfilling his duties in expectation of </p><p>his return. If a sheep strayed from the rest, he forced it to return to the </p><p>flock, and sedulously kept off every intruder. Riding in the Campagna I had </p><p>come upon his sheep-walk, and for some time observed his repetition of </p><p>lessons learned from man, now useless, though unforgotten. His delight was </p><p>excessive when he saw me. He sprung up to my knees; he capered round and </p><p>round, wagging his tail, with the short, quick bark of pleasure: he left </p><p>his fold to follow me, and from that day has never neglected to watch by </p><p>and attend on me, shewing boisterous gratitude whenever I caressed or </p><p>talked to him. His pattering steps and mine alone were heard, when we </p><p>entered the magnificent extent of nave and aisle of St. Peter's. We </p><p>ascended the myriad steps together, when on the summit I achieved my </p><p>design, and in rough figures noted the date of the last year. I then turned </p><p>to gaze on the country, and to take leave of Rome. I had long determined to </p><p>quit it, and I now formed the plan I would adopt for my future career, </p><p>after I had left this magnificent abode. </p><p>A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer, and that I would become. A hope </p><p>of amelioration always attends on change of place, which would even lighten </p><p>the burthen of my life. I had been a fool to remain in Rome all this time: </p><p>Rome noted for Malaria, the famous caterer for death. But it was still </p><p>possible, that, could I visit the whole extent of earth, I should find in </p><p>some part of the wide extent a survivor. Methought the sea-side was the </p><p>most probable retreat to be chosen by such a one. If left alone in an </p><p>inland district, still they could not continue in the spot where their last </p><p>hopes had been extinguished; they would journey on, like me, in search of a </p><p>partner for their solitude, till the watery barrier stopped their further </p><p>progress. </p><p>To that water--cause of my woes, perhaps now to be their cure, I would </p><p>betake myself. Farewell, Italy!--farewell, thou ornament of the world, </p><p>matchless Rome, the retreat of the solitary one during long months!--to </p><p>civilized life--to the settled home and succession of monotonous days, </p><p>farewell! Peril will now be mine; and I hail her as a friend--death will </p><p>perpetually cross my path, and I will meet him as a benefactor; hardship, </p><p>inclement weather, and dangerous tempests will be my sworn mates. Ye </p><p>spirits of storm, receive me! ye powers of destruction, open wide your </p><p>arms, and clasp me for ever! if a kinder power have not decreed another </p><p>end, so that after long endurance I may reap my reward, and again feel my </p><p>heart beat near the heart of another like to me. </p><p>Tiber, the road which is spread by nature's own hand, threading her </p><p>continent, was at my feet, and many a boat was tethered to the banks. I </p><p>would with a few books, provisions, and my dog, embark in one of these and </p><p>float down the current of the stream into the sea; and then, keeping near </p><p>land, I would coast the beauteous shores and sunny promontories of the blue </p><p>Mediterranean, pass Naples, along Calabria, and would dare the twin perils </p><p>of Scylla and Charybdis; then, with fearless aim, (for what had I to lose?) </p><p>skim ocean's surface towards Malta and the further Cyclades. I would avoid </p><p>Constantinople, the sight of whose well-known towers and inlets belonged to</p><p>another state of existence from my present one; I would coast Asia Minor, </p><p>and Syria, and, passing the seven-mouthed Nile, steer northward again, till </p><p>losing sight of forgotten Carthage and deserted Lybia, I should reach the </p><p>pillars of Hercules. And then--no matter where--the oozy caves, and </p><p>soundless depths of ocean may be my dwelling, before I accomplish this </p><p>long-drawn voyage, or the arrow of disease find my heart as I float singly </p><p>on the weltering Mediterranean; or, in some place I touch at, I may find </p><p>what I seek--a companion; or if this may not be--to endless time, </p><p>decrepid and grey headed--youth already in the grave with those I love-- </p><p>the lone wanderer will still unfurl his sail, and clasp the tiller--and, </p><p>still obeying the breezes of heaven, for ever round another and another </p><p>promontory, anchoring in another and another bay, still ploughing seedless </p><p>ocean, leaving behind the verdant land of native Europe, adown the tawny </p><p>shore of Africa, having weathered the fierce seas of the Cape, I may moor </p><p>my worn skiff in a creek, shaded by spicy groves of the odorous islands of </p><p>the far Indian ocean. </p><p>These are wild dreams. Yet since, now a week ago, they came on me, as I </p><p>stood on the height of St. Peter's, they have ruled my imagination. I have </p><p>chosen my boat, and laid in my scant stores. I have selected a few books; </p><p>the principal are Homer and Shakespeare--But the libraries of the world </p><p>are thrown open to me--and in any port I can renew my stock. I form no </p><p>expectation of alteration for the better; but the monotonous present is </p><p>intolerable to me. Neither hope nor joy are my pilots--restless despair </p><p>and fierce desire of change lead me on. I long to grapple with danger, to </p><p>be excited by fear, to have some task, however slight or voluntary, for </p><p>each day's fulfilment. I shall witness all the variety of appearance, that </p><p>the elements can assume--I shall read fair augury in the rainbow-- </p><p>menace in the cloud--some lesson or record dear to my heart in </p><p>everything. Thus around the shores of deserted earth, while the sun is </p><p>high, and the moon waxes or wanes, angels, the spirits of the dead, and the </p><p>ever-open eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted with </p><p>Verney--the LAST MAN. </p><p>THE END. </p><p>End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Man, by Mary Shelley </p><p>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST MAN *** </p><p>***** This file should be named 18247.txt or 18247.zip ***** </p><p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: </p><p> http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/4/18247/</p><p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions </p><p>will be renamed. </p><p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no </p><p>one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation </p><p>(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without </p><p>permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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