"The Last Man\n\nMary W. Shelley\n\nFirst edition.\nHenry Colburn\nLondon\n1826\n\n\n\n\nVOL. I.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nI VISITED Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of December of that year, my\ncompanion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities which are\nscattered on the shores of Baiae. The translucent and shining waters of the\ncalm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were interlaced by\nsea-weed, and received diamond tints from the chequering of the sun-beams;\nthe blue and pellucid element was such as Galatea might have skimmed in her\ncar of mother of pearl; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile, have chosen\nas the path of her magic ship. Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed\nmore appropriate to early spring; and its genial warmth contributed to\ninspire those sensations of placid delight, which are the portion of every\ntraveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil bays and radiant\npromontories of Baiae.\n\nWe visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus: and wandered through\nvarious ruined temples, baths, and classic spots; at length we entered the\ngloomy cavern of the Cumaean Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore flaring torches,\nwhich shone red, and almost dusky, in the murky subterranean passages,\nwhose darkness thirstily surrounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and\nmore of the element of light. We passed by a natural archway, leading to a\nsecond gallery, and enquired, if we could not enter there also. The guides\npointed to the reflection of their torches on the water that paved it,\nleaving us to form our own conclusion; but adding it was a pity, for it led\nto the Sibyl's Cave. Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this\ncircumstance, and we insisted upon attempting the passage. As is usually\nthe case in the prosecution of such enterprizes, the difficulties decreased\non examination. We found, on each side of the humid pathway, \"dry land for\nthe sole of the foot.\"\n\nAt length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern, which the Lazzeroni\nassured us was the Sibyl's Cave. We were sufficiently disappointed--Yet\nwe examined it with care, as if its blank, rocky walls could still bear\ntrace of celestial visitant. On one side was a small opening. Whither does\nthis lead? we asked: can we enter here?--\"Questo poi, no,\"--said the\nwild looking savage, who held the torch; \"you can advance but a short\ndistance, and nobody visits it.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, I will try it,\" said my companion; \"it may lead to the real\ncavern. Shall I go alone, or will you accompany me?\"\n\nI signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides protested against such\na measure. With great volubility, in their native Neapolitan dialect, with\nwhich we were not very familiar, they told us that there were spectres,\nthat the roof would fall in, that it was too narrow to admit us, that there\nwas a deep hole within, filled with water, and we might be drowned. My\nfriend shortened the harangue, by taking the man's torch from him; and we\nproceeded alone.\n\nThe passage, which at first scarcely admitted us, quickly grew narrower and\nlower; we were almost bent double; yet still we persisted in making our way\nthrough it. At length we entered a wider space, and the low roof\nheightened; but, as we congratulated ourselves on this change, our torch\nwas extinguished by a current of air, and we were left in utter darkness.\nThe guides bring with them materials for renewing the light, but we had\nnone--our only resource was to return as we came. We groped round the\nwidened space to find the entrance, and after a time fancied that we had\nsucceeded. This proved however to be a second passage, which evidently\nascended. It terminated like the former; though something approaching to a\nray, we could not tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the space.\nBy degrees, our eyes grew somewhat accustomed to this dimness, and we\nperceived that there was no direct passage leading us further; but that it\nwas possible to climb one side of the cavern to a low arch at top, which\npromised a more easy path, from whence we now discovered that this light\nproceeded. With considerable difficulty we scrambled up, and came to\nanother passage with still more of illumination, and this led to another\nascent like the former.\n\nAfter a succession of these, which our resolution alone permitted us to\nsurmount, we arrived at a wide cavern with an arched dome-like roof. An\naperture in the midst let in the light of heaven; but this was overgrown\nwith brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil, obscuring the day, and\ngiving a solemn religious hue to the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly\ncircular, with a raised seat of stone, about the size of a Grecian couch,\nat one end. The only sign that life had been here, was the perfect\nsnow-white skeleton of a goat, which had probably not perceived the opening\nas it grazed on the hill above, and had fallen headlong. Ages perhaps had\nelapsed since this catastrophe; and the ruin it had made above, had been\nrepaired by the growth of vegetation during many hundred summers.\n\nThe rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of piles of leaves,\nfragments of bark, and a white filmy substance, resembling the inner part\nof the green hood which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian corn. We\nwere fatigued by our struggles to attain this point, and seated ourselves\non the rocky couch, while the sounds of tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of\nshepherd-boy, reached us from above.\n\nAt length my friend, who had taken up some of the leaves strewed about,\nexclaimed, \"This is the Sibyl's cave; these are Sibylline leaves.\" On\nexamination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and other substances, were\ntraced with written characters. What appeared to us more astonishing, was\nthat these writings were expressed in various languages: some unknown to my\ncompanion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian hieroglyphics, old as the\nPyramids. Stranger still, some were in modern dialects, English and\nItalian. We could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed to\ncontain prophecies, detailed relations of events but lately passed; names,\nnow well known, but of modern date; and often exclamations of exultation or\nwoe, of victory or defeat, were traced on their thin scant pages. This was\ncertainly the Sibyl's Cave; not indeed exactly as Virgil describes it, but\nthe whole of this land had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano,\nthat the change was not wonderful, though the traces of ruin were effaced\nby time; and we probably owed the preservation of these leaves, to the\naccident which had closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing\nvegetation which had rendered its sole opening impervious to the storm. We\nmade a hasty selection of such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of\nus could understand; and then, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to\nthe dim hypaethric cavern, and after much difficulty succeeded in rejoining\nour guides.\n\nDuring our stay at Naples, we often returned to this cave, sometimes alone,\nskimming the sun-lit sea, and each time added to our store. Since that\nperiod, whenever the world's circumstance has not imperiously called me\naway, or the temper of my mind impeded such study, I have been employed in\ndeciphering these sacred remains. Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent, has\noften repaid my toil, soothing me in sorrow, and exciting my imagination to\ndaring flights, through the immensity of nature and the mind of man. For\nawhile my labours were not solitary; but that time is gone; and, with the\nselected and matchless companion of my toils, their dearest reward is also\nlost to me--\n\n  Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro\n  Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta\n  Ne' nvidio insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?\n\nI present the public with my latest discoveries in the slight Sibylline\npages. Scattered and unconnected as they were, I have been obliged to add\nlinks, and model the work into a consistent form. But the main substance\nrests on the truths contained in these poetic rhapsodies, and the divine\nintuition which the Cumaean damsel obtained from heaven.\n\nI have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and at the English\ndress of the Latin poet. Sometimes I have thought, that, obscure and\nchaotic as they are, they owe their present form to me, their decipherer.\nAs if we should give to another artist, the painted fragments which form\nthe mosaic copy of Raphael's Transfiguration in St. Peter's; he would put\nthem together in a form, whose mode would be fashioned by his own peculiar\nmind and talent. Doubtless the leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl have suffered\ndistortion and diminution of interest and excellence in my hands. My only\nexcuse for thus transforming them, is that they were unintelligible in\ntheir pristine condition.\n\nMy labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and taken me out of a\nworld, which has averted its once benignant face from me, to one glowing\nwith imagination and power. Will my readers ask how I could find solace\nfrom the narration of misery and woeful change? This is one of the\nmysteries of our nature, which holds full sway over me, and from whose\ninfluence I cannot escape. I confess, that I have not been unmoved by the\ndevelopment of the tale; and that I have been depressed, nay, agonized, at\nsome parts of the recital, which I have faithfully transcribed from my\nmaterials. Yet such is human nature, that the excitement of mind was dear\nto me, and that the imagination, painter of tempest and earthquake, or,\nworse, the stormy and ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my real\nsorrows and endless regrets, by clothing these fictitious ones in that\nideality, which takes the mortal sting from pain.\n\nI hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For the merits of my\nadaptation and translation must decide how far I have well bestowed my time\nand imperfect powers, in giving form and substance to the frail and\nattenuated Leaves of the Sibyl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nI AM the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed land, which,\nwhen the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless\ncontinents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as an inconsiderable\nspeck in the immense whole; and yet, when balanced in the scale of mental\npower, far outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous\npopulation. So true it is, that man's mind alone was the creator of all\nthat was good or great to man, and that Nature herself was only his first\nminister. England, seated far north in the turbid sea, now visits my dreams\nin the semblance of a vast and well-manned ship, which mastered the winds\nand rode proudly over the waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to\nme. When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and mountain stretch out\nto the utmost limits of my vision, speckled by the dwellings of my\ncountrymen, and subdued to fertility by their labours, the earth's very\ncentre was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb was as a\nfable, to have forgotten which would have cost neither my imagination nor\nunderstanding an effort.\n\nMy fortunes have been, from the beginning, an exemplification of the power\nthat mutability may possess over the varied tenor of man's life. With\nregard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My father was one of\nthose men on whom nature had bestowed to prodigality the envied gifts of\nwit and imagination, and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these\nwinds, without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment as the pilot for\nthe voyage. His extraction was obscure; but circumstances brought him early\ninto public notice, and his small paternal property was soon dissipated in\nthe splendid scene of fashion and luxury in which he was an actor. During\nthe short years of thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred\ntriflers of the day, nor least by the youthful sovereign, who escaped from\nthe intrigues of party, and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find\nnever-failing amusement and exhilaration of spirit in his society. My\nfather's impulses, never under his own controul, perpetually led him into\ndifficulties from which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the\naccumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade, which would have bent to\nearth any other, was supported by him with a light spirit and tameless\nhilarity; while his company was so necessary at the tables and assemblies\nof the rich, that his derelictions were considered venial, and he himself\nreceived with intoxicating flattery.\n\nThis kind of popularity, like every other, is evanescent: and the\ndifficulties of every kind with which he had to contend, increased in a\nfrightful ratio compared with his small means of extricating himself. At\nsuch times the king, in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his relief,\nand then kindly take his friend to task; my father gave the best promises\nfor amendment, but his social disposition, his craving for the usual diet\nof admiration, and more than all, the fiend of gambling, which fully\npossessed him, made his good resolutions transient, his promises vain. With\nthe quick sensibility peculiar to his temperament, he perceived his power\nin the brilliant circle to be on the wane. The king married; and the\nhaughty princess of Austria, who became, as queen of England, the head of\nfashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and with contempt on the\naffection her royal husband entertained for him. My father felt that his\nfall was near; but so far from profiting by this last calm before the storm\nto save himself, he sought to forget anticipated evil by making still\ngreater sacrifices to the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of\nhis destiny.\n\nThe king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but easily led, had now\nbecome a willing disciple of his imperious consort. He was induced to look\nwith extreme disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my father's\nimprudence and follies. It is true that his presence dissipated these\nclouds; his warm-hearted frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding\ndemeanour were irresistible: it was only when at a distance, while still\nrenewed tales of his errors were poured into his royal friend's ear, that\nhe lost his influence. The queen's dextrous management was employed to\nprolong these absences, and gather together accusations. At length the king\nwas brought to see in him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he\nshould pay for the short-lived pleasure of his society by tedious homilies,\nand more painful narrations of excesses, the truth of which he could not\ndisprove. The result was, that he would make one more attempt to reclaim\nhim, and in case of ill success, cast him off for ever.\n\nSuch a scene must have been one of deepest interest and high-wrought\npassion. A powerful king, conspicuous for a goodness which had heretofore\nmade him meek, and now lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty\nand reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real interests,\nresolutely to avoid those fascinations which in fact were fast deserting\nhim, and to spend his great powers on a worthy field, in which he, his\nsovereign, would be his prop, his stay, and his pioneer. My father felt\nthis kindness; for a moment ambitious dreams floated before him; and he\nthought that it would be well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler\nduties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the required promise: as a\npledge of continued favour, he received from his royal master a sum of\nmoney to defray pressing debts, and enable him to enter under good auspices\nhis new career. That very night, while yet full of gratitude and good\nresolves, this whole sum, and its amount doubled, was lost at the\ngaming-table. In his desire to repair his first losses, my father risked\ndouble stakes, and thus incurred a debt of honour he was wholly unable to\npay. Ashamed to apply again to the king, he turned his back upon London,\nits false delights and clinging miseries; and, with poverty for his sole\ncompanion, buried himself in solitude among the hills and lakes of\nCumberland. His wit, his bon mots, the record of his personal attractions,\nfascinating manners, and social talents, were long remembered and repeated\nfrom mouth to mouth. Ask where now was this favourite of fashion, this\ncompanion of the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien\nsplendour the assemblies of the courtly and the gay--you heard that he\nwas under a cloud, a lost man; not one thought it belonged to him to repay\npleasure by real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit deserved\na pension on retiring. The king lamented his absence; he loved to repeat\nhis sayings, relate the adventures they had had together, and exalt his\ntalents--but here ended his reminiscence.\n\nMeanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He repined for the loss\nof what was more necessary to him than air or food--the excitements of\npleasure, the admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished living of\nthe great. A nervous fever was the consequence; during which he was nursed\nby the daughter of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was\nlovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it afford\nastonishment, that the late idol of high-bred beauty should, even in a\nfallen state, appear a being of an elevated and wondrous nature to the\nlowly cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to the ill-fated\nmarriage, of which I was the offspring. Notwithstanding the tenderness and\nsweetness of my mother, her husband still deplored his degraded state.\nUnaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way to contribute to the\nsupport of his increasing family. Sometimes he thought of applying to the\nking; pride and shame for a while withheld him; and, before his necessities\nbecame so imperious as to compel him to some kind of exertion, he died. For\none brief interval before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the\nfuture, and contemplated with anguish the desolate situation in which his\nwife and children would be left. His last effort was a letter to the king,\nfull of touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant\nspirit which was an integral part of him. He bequeathed his widow and\norphans to the friendship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by\nthis means, their prosperity was better assured in his death than in his\nlife. This letter was enclosed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not\ndoubt, would perform the last and inexpensive office of placing it in the\nking's own hand.\n\nHe died in debt, and his little property was seized immediately by his\ncreditors. My mother, pennyless and burthened with two children, waited\nweek after week, and month after month, in sickening expectation of a\nreply, which never came. She had no experience beyond her father's cottage;\nand the mansion of the lord of the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur\nshe could conceive. During my father's life, she had been made familiar\nwith the name of royalty and the courtly circle; but such things, ill\naccording with her personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him who\ngave substance and reality to them, vague and fantastical. If, under any\ncircumstances, she could have acquired sufficient courage to address the\nnoble persons mentioned by her husband, the ill success of his own\napplication caused her to banish the idea. She saw therefore no escape from\ndire penury: perpetual care, joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous\nbeing, whom she continued to contemplate with ardent admiration, hard\nlabour, and naturally delicate health, at length released her from the sad\ncontinuity of want and misery.\n\nThe condition of her orphan children was peculiarly desolate. Her own\nfather had been an emigrant from another part of the country, and had died\nlong since: they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they were\noutcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the most scanty pittance was\na matter of favour, and who were treated merely as children of peasants,\nyet poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left them, a thankless\nbequest, to the close-handed charity of the land.\n\nI, the elder of the two, was five years old when my mother died. A\nremembrance of the discourses of my parents, and the communications which\nmy mother endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father's friends, in\nslight hope that I might one day derive benefit from the knowledge, floated\nlike an indistinct dream through my brain. I conceived that I was different\nand superior to my protectors and companions, but I knew not how or\nwherefore. The sense of injury, associated with the name of king and noble,\nclung to me; but I could draw no conclusions from such feelings, to serve\nas a guide to action. My first real knowledge of myself was as an\nunprotected orphan among the valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the\nservice of a farmer; and with crook in hand, my dog at my side, I\nshepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I cannot say much in\npraise of such a life; and its pains far exceeded its pleasures. There was\nfreedom in it, a companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness; but\nthese, romantic as they were, did not accord with the love of action and\ndesire of human sympathy, characteristic of youth. Neither the care of my\nflock, nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager spirit;\nmy out-door life and unemployed time were the temptations that led me early\ninto lawless habits. I associated with others friendless like myself; I\nformed them into a band, I was their chief and captain. All shepherd-boys\nalike, while our flocks were spread over the pastures, we schemed and\nexecuted many a mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and revenge\nof the rustics. I was the leader and protector of my comrades, and as I\nbecame distinguished among them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon\nme. But while I endured punishment and pain in their defence with the\nspirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward their praise and obedience.\n\nIn such a school my disposition became rugged, but firm. The appetite for\nadmiration and small capacity for self-controul which I inherited from my\nfather, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was rough as\nthe elements, and unlearned as the animals I tended. I often compared\nmyself to them, and finding that my chief superiority consisted in power, I\nsoon persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was inferior to the\nchiefest potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in refined philosophy, and\npursued by a restless feeling of degradation from my true station in\nsociety, I wandered among the hills of civilized England as uncouth a\nsavage as the wolf-bred founder of old Rome. I owned but one law, it was\nthat of the strongest, and my greatest deed of virtue was never to submit.\n\nYet let me a little retract from this sentence I have passed on myself. My\nmother, when dying, had, in addition to her other half-forgotten and\nmisapplied lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other child to\nmy fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I performed to the best of my\nability, with all the zeal and affection of which my nature was capable. My\nsister was three years younger than myself; I had nursed her as an infant,\nand when the difference of our sexes, by giving us various occupations, in\na great measure divided us, yet she continued to be the object of my\ncareful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of the term, we were poorest\namong the poor, and despised among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage\nobtained for me a kind of respectful aversion, her youth and sex, since\nthey did not excite tenderness, by proving her to be weak, were the causes\nof numberless mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not so\nconstituted as to diminish the evil effects of her lowly station.\n\nShe was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar\ndisposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes\nwere not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after\nspace in their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul which was\ntheir soul, comprehended an universe of thought in its ken. She was pale\nand fair, and her golden hair clustered on her temples, contrasting its\nrich hue with the living marble beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little\nconsonant apparently with the refinement of feeling which her face\nexpressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with it. She was like one of\nGuido's saints, with heaven in her heart and in her look, so that when you\nsaw her you only thought of that within, and costume and even feature were\nsecondary to the mind that beamed in her countenance.\n\nYet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this was\nthe fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent), was not\naltogether saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and repulsive.\nIf she had been nurtured by those who had regarded her with affection, she\nmight have been different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want of\nkindness with distrust and silence. She was submissive to those who held\nauthority over her, but a perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as\nif she expected enmity from every one who approached her, and her actions\nwere instigated by the same feeling. All the time she could command she\nspent in solitude. She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and\nscale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots she might wrap\nherself in loneliness. Often she passed whole hours walking up and down the\npaths of the woods; she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the\nflickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves; sometimes she sat\nbeside a stream, and as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or pebbles into\nthe waters, watching how those swam and these sank; or she would set afloat\nboats formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather for a sail, and\nintensely watch the navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows\nof the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a thousand combinations; she\ndreamt \"of moving accidents by flood and field\"--she lost herself\ndelightedly in these self-created wanderings, and returned with unwilling\nspirit to the dull detail of common life. Poverty was the cloud that veiled\nher excellencies, and all that was good in her seemed about to perish from\nwant of the genial dew of affection. She had not even the same advantage as\nI in the recollection of her parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her\nonly friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste that her\nprotectors felt for her; and every error was magnified by them into crimes.\nIf she had been bred in that sphere of life to which by inheritance the\ndelicate framework of her mind and person was adapted, she would have been\nthe object almost of adoration, for her virtues were as eminent as her\ndefects. All the genius that ennobled the blood of her father illustrated\nhers; a generous tide flowed in her veins; artifice, envy, or meanness,\nwere at the antipodes of her nature; her countenance, when enlightened by\namiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of nations; her eyes were\nbright; her look fearless.\n\nAlthough by our situation and dispositions we were almost equally cut off\nfrom the usual forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to\neach other. I always required the stimulants of companionship and applause.\nPerdita was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstanding my lawless habits,\nmy disposition was sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among tangible\nrealities, hers was a dream. I might be said even to love my enemies, since\nby exciting me they in a sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost\ndisliked her friends, for they interfered with her visionary moods. All my\nfeelings, even of exultation and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if\nunparticipated; Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and could go on\nfrom day to day, neither expressing her emotions, nor seeking a\nfellow-feeling in another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with\ntenderness on the look and voice of her friend, while her demeanour\nexpressed the coldest reserve. A sensation with her became a sentiment, and\nshe never spoke until she had mingled her perceptions of outward objects\nwith others which were the native growth of her own mind. She was like a\nfruitful soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth\nagain to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then she was\noften dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with unseen\nseed.\n\nShe dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped down to the waters of\nthe lake of Ulswater; a beech wood stretched up the hill behind, and a\npurling brook gently falling from the acclivity ran through poplar-shaded\nbanks into the lake. I lived with a farmer whose house was built higher up\namong the hills: a dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the north, the\nsnow lay in its crevices the summer through. Before dawn I led my flock to\nthe sheep-walks, and guarded them through the day. It was a life of toil;\nfor rain and cold were more frequent than sunshine; but it was my pride to\ncontemn the elements. My trusty dog watched the sheep as I slipped away to\nthe rendezvous of my comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our\nschemes. At noon we met again, and we threw away in contempt our peasant\nfare, as we built our fire-place and kindled the cheering blaze destined to\ncook the game stolen from the neighbouring preserves. Then came the tale of\nhair-breadth escapes, combats with dogs, ambush and flight, as gipsey-like\nwe encompassed our pot. The search after a stray lamb, or the devices by\nwhich we elude or endeavoured to elude punishment, filled up the hours of\nafternoon; in the evening my flock went to its fold, and I to my sister.\n\nIt was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an old-fashioned phrase, scot\nfree. Our dainty fare was often exchanged for blows and imprisonment. Once,\nwhen thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month to the county jail. I\ncame out, my morals unimproved, my hatred to my oppressors encreased\ntenfold. Bread and water did not tame my blood, nor solitary confinement\ninspire me with gentle thoughts. I was angry, impatient, miserable; my only\nhappy hours were those during which I devised schemes of revenge; these\nwere perfected in my forced solitude, so that during the whole of the\nfollowing season, and I was freed early in September, I never failed to\nprovide excellent and plenteous fare for myself and my comrades. This was a\nglorious winter. The sharp frost and heavy snows tamed the animals, and\nkept the country gentlemen by their firesides; we got more game than we\ncould eat, and my faithful dog grew sleek upon our refuse.\n\nThus years passed on; and years only added fresh love of freedom, and\ncontempt for all that was not as wild and rude as myself. At the age of\nsixteen I had shot up in appearance to man's estate; I was tall and\nathletic; I was practised to feats of strength, and inured to the\ninclemency of the elements. My skin was embrowned by the sun; my step was\nfirm with conscious power. I feared no man, and loved none. In after life I\nlooked back with wonder to what I then was; how utterly worthless I should\nhave become if I had pursued my lawless career. My life was like that of an\nanimal, and my mind was in danger of degenerating into that which informs\nbrute nature. Until now, my savage habits had done me no radical mischief;\nmy physical powers had grown up and flourished under their influence, and\nmy mind, undergoing the same discipline, was imbued with all the hardy\nvirtues. But now my boasted independence was daily instigating me to acts\nof tyranny, and freedom was becoming licentiousness. I stood on the brink\nof manhood; passions, strong as the trees of a forest, had already taken\nroot within me, and were about to shadow with their noxious overgrowth, my\npath of life.\n\nI panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits, and formed\ndistempered dreams of future action. I avoided my ancient comrades, and I\nsoon lost them. They arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil their\ndestined situations in life; while I, an outcast, with none to lead or\ndrive me forward, paused. The old began to point at me as an example, the\nyoung to wonder at me as a being distinct from themselves; I hated them,\nand began, last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I clung to my\nferocious habits, yet half despised them; I continued my war against\ncivilization, and yet entertained a wish to belong to it.\n\nI revolved again and again all that I remembered my mother to have told me\nof my father's former life; I contemplated the few relics I possessed\nbelonging to him, which spoke of greater refinement than could be found\namong the mountain cottages; but nothing in all this served as a guide to\nlead me to another and pleasanter way of life. My father had been connected\nwith nobles, but all I knew of such connection was subsequent neglect. The\nname of the king,--he to whom my dying father had addressed his latest\nprayers, and who had barbarously slighted them, was associated only with\nthe ideas of unkindness, injustice, and consequent resentment. I was born\nfor something greater than I was--and greater I would become; but\ngreatness, at least to my distorted perceptions, was no necessary associate\nof goodness, and my wild thoughts were unchecked by moral considerations\nwhen they rioted in dreams of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a\nsea of evil rolled at my feet; I was about to precipitate myself into it,\nand rush like a torrent over all obstructions to the object of my wishes--\nwhen a stranger influence came over the current of my fortunes, and changed\ntheir boisterous course to what was in comparison like the gentle\nmeanderings of a meadow-encircling streamlet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nI LIVED far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour of wars or\npolitical changes came worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes.\nEngland had been the scene of momentous struggles, during my early boyhood.\nIn the year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient friend of my father,\nhad abdicated in compliance with the gentle force of the remonstrances of\nhis subjects, and a republic was instituted. Large estates were secured to\nthe dethroned monarch and his family; he received the title of Earl of\nWindsor, and Windsor Castle, an ancient royalty, with its wide demesnes\nwere a part of his allotted wealth. He died soon after, leaving two\nchildren, a son and a daughter.\n\nThe ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had long impelled her\nhusband to withstand the necessity of the times. She was haughty and\nfearless; she cherished a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him who\nhad despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her children's sake alone she\nconsented to remain, shorn of regality, a member of the English republic.\nWhen she became a widow, she turned all her thoughts to the educating her\nson Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accomplish her ambitious ends;\nand with his mother's milk he imbibed, and was intended to grow up in the\nsteady purpose of re-acquiring his lost crown. Adrian was now fifteen years\nof age. He was addicted to study, and imbued beyond his years with learning\nand talent: report said that he had already begun to thwart his mother's\nviews, and to entertain republican principles. However this might be, the\nhaughty Countess entrusted none with the secrets of her family-tuition.\nAdrian was bred up in solitude, and kept apart from the natural companions\nof his age and rank. Some unknown circumstance now induced his mother to\nsend him from under her immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was about\nto visit Cumberland. A thousand tales were rife, explanatory of the\nCountess of Windsor's conduct; none true probably; but each day it became\nmore certain that we should have the noble scion of the late regal house of\nEngland among us.\n\nThere was a large estate with a mansion attached to it, belonging to this\nfamily, at Ulswater. A large park was one of its appendages, laid out with\ngreat taste, and plentifully stocked with game. I had often made\ndepredations on these preserves; and the neglected state of the property\nfacilitated my incursions. When it was decided that the young Earl of\nWindsor should visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the house and\ngrounds in order for his reception. The apartments were restored to their\npristine splendour, and the park, all disrepairs restored, was guarded with\nunusual care.\n\nI was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It roused all my\ndormant recollections, my suspended sentiments of injury, and gave rise to\nthe new one of revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations; all my\nplans and devices were forgotten; I seemed about to begin life anew, and\nthat under no good auspices. The tug of war, I thought, was now to begin.\nHe would come triumphantly to the district to which my parent had fled\nbroken-hearted; he would find the ill-fated offspring, bequeathed with such\nvain confidence to his royal father, miserable paupers. That he should know\nof our existence, and treat us, near at hand, with the same contumely which\nhis father had practised in distance and absence, appeared to me the\ncertain consequence of all that had gone before. Thus then I should meet\nthis titled stripling--the son of my father's friend. He would be hedged\nin by servants; nobles, and the sons of nobles, were his companions; all\nEngland rang with his name; and his coming, like a thunderstorm, was heard\nfrom far: while I, unlettered and unfashioned, should, if I came in contact\nwith him, in the judgment of his courtly followers, bear evidence in my\nvery person to the propriety of that ingratitude which had made me the\ndegraded being I appeared.\n\nWith my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be said as if\nfascinated, to haunt the destined abode of the young Earl. I watched the\nprogress of the improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as various\narticles of luxury, brought from London, were taken forth and conveyed into\nthe mansion. It was part of the Ex-Queen's plan, to surround her son with\nprincely magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and silken hangings, ornaments\nof gold, richly embossed metals, emblazoned furniture, and all the\nappendages of high rank arranged, so that nothing but what was regal in\nsplendour should reach the eye of one of royal descent. I looked on these;\nI turned my gaze to my own mean dress.--Whence sprung this difference?\nWhence but from ingratitude, from falsehood, from a dereliction on the part\nof the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and generous feeling.\nDoubtless, he also, whose blood received a mingling tide from his proud\nmother--he, the acknowledged focus of the kingdom's wealth and nobility,\nhad been taught to repeat my father's name with disdain, and to scoff at my\njust claims to protection. I strove to think that all this grandeur was but\nmore glaring infamy, and that, by planting his gold-enwoven flag beside my\ntarnished and tattered banner, he proclaimed not his superiority, but his\ndebasement. Yet I envied him. His stud of beautiful horses, his arms of\ncostly workmanship, the praise that attended him, the adoration, ready\nservitor, high place and high esteem,--I considered them as forcibly\nwrenched from me, and envied them all with novel and tormenting\nbitterness.\n\nTo crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary Perdita, seemed to\nawake to real life with transport, when she told me that the Earl of\nWindsor was about to arrive.\n\n\"And this pleases you?\" I observed, moodily.\n\n\"Indeed it does, Lionel,\" she replied; \"I quite long to see him; he is the\ndescendant of our kings, the first noble of the land: every one admires and\nloves him, and they say that his rank is his least merit; he is generous,\nbrave, and affable.\"\n\n\"You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita,\" said I, \"and repeat it so\nliterally, that you forget the while the proofs we have of the Earl's\nvirtues; his generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his bravery in the\nprotection he affords us, his affability in the notice he takes of us. His\nrank his least merit, do you say? Why, all his virtues are derived from his\nstation only; because he is rich, he is called generous; because he is\npowerful, brave; because he is well served, he is affable. Let them call\nhim so, let all England believe him to be thus--we know him--he is our\nenemy--our penurious, dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he were gifted with\none particle of the virtues you call his, he would do justly by us, if it\nwere only to shew, that if he must strike, it should not be a fallen foe.\nHis father injured my father--his father, unassailable on his throne,\ndared despise him who only stooped beneath himself, when he deigned to\nassociate with the royal ingrate. We, descendants from the one and the\nother, must be enemies also. He shall find that I can feel my injuries; he\nshall learn to dread my revenge!\"\n\nA few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the most miserable\ncottage, went to swell the stream of population that poured forth to meet\nhim: even Perdita, in spite of my late philippic, crept near the highway,\nto behold this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad, as I met party after\nparty of the country people, in their holiday best, descending the hills,\nescaped to their cloud-veiled summits, and looking on the sterile rocks\nabout me, exclaimed--\"They do not cry, long live the Earl!\" Nor, when\nnight came, accompanied by drizzling rain and cold, would I return home;\nfor I knew that each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian; as I felt my\nlimbs grow numb and chill, my pain served as food for my insane aversion;\nnay, I almost triumphed in it, since it seemed to afford me reason and\nexcuse for my hatred of my unheeding adversary. All was attributed to him,\nfor I confounded so entirely the idea of father and son, that I forgot that\nthe latter might be wholly unconscious of his parent's neglect of us; and\nas I struck my aching head with my hand, I cried: \"He shall hear of this! I\nwill be revenged! I will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know, beggar\nand friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit to injury!\" Each day,\neach hour added to these exaggerated wrongs. His praises were so many\nadder's stings infixed in my vulnerable breast. If I saw him at a distance,\nriding a beautiful horse, my blood boiled with rage; the air seemed\npoisoned by his presence, and my very native English was changed to a vile\njargon, since every phrase I heard was coupled with his name and honour. I\npanted to relieve this painful heart-burning by some misdeed that should\nrouse him to a sense of my antipathy. It was the height of his offending,\nthat he should occasion in me such intolerable sensations, and not deign\nhimself to afford any demonstration that he was aware that I even lived to\nfeel them.\n\nIt soon became known that Adrian took great delight in his park and\npreserves. He never sported, but spent hours in watching the tribes of\nlovely and almost tame animals with which it was stocked, and ordered that\ngreater care should be taken of them than ever. Here was an opening for my\nplans of offence, and I made use of it with all the brute impetuosity I\nderived from my active mode of life. I proposed the enterprize of poaching\non his demesne to my few remaining comrades, who were the most determined\nand lawless of the crew; but they all shrunk from the peril; so I was left\nto achieve my revenge myself. At first my exploits were unperceived; I\nincreased in daring; footsteps on the dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of\nslaughter, at length betrayed me to the game-keepers. They kept better\nwatch; I was taken, and sent to prison. I entered its gloomy walls in a fit\nof triumphant extasy: \"He feels me now,\" I cried, \"and shall, again and\nagain!\"--I passed but one day in confinement; in the evening I was\nliberated, as I was told, by the order of the Earl himself. This news\nprecipitated me from my self-raised pinnacle of honour. He despises me, I\nthought; but he shall learn that I despise him, and hold in equal contempt\nhis punishments and his clemency. On the second night after my release, I\nwas again taken by the gamekeepers--again imprisoned, and again released;\nand again, such was my pertinacity, did the fourth night find me in the\nforbidden park. The gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my\nobstinacy. They had received orders that if I were again taken, I should be\nbrought to the Earl; and his lenity made them expect a conclusion which\nthey considered ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had been from the\nfirst the leader among those who had seized me, resolved to satisfy his own\nresentment, before he made me over to the higher powers.\n\nThe late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I was obliged to use\nin this my third expedition, consumed so much time, that something like a\nqualm of fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to twilight. I\ncrept along by the fern, on my hands and knees, seeking the shadowy coverts\nof the underwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome song above, and the\nfresh morning wind, playing among the boughs, made me suspect a footfall at\neach turn. My heart beat quick as I approached the palings; my hand was on\none of them, a leap would take me to the other side, when two keepers\nsprang from an ambush upon me: one knocked me down, and proceeded to\ninflict a severe horse-whipping. I started up--a knife was in my grasp; I\nmade a plunge at his raised right arm, and inflicted a deep, wide wound in\nhis hand. The rage and yells of the wounded man, the howling execrations of\nhis comrade, which I answered with equal bitterness and fury, echoed\nthrough the dell; morning broke more and more, ill accordant in its\ncelestial beauty with our brute and noisy contest. I and my enemy were\nstill struggling, when the wounded man exclaimed, \"The Earl!\" I sprang out\nof the herculean hold of the keeper, panting from my exertions; I cast\nfurious glances on my persecutors, and placing myself with my back to a\ntree, resolved to defend myself to the last. My garments were torn, and\nthey, as well as my hands, were stained with the blood of the man I had\nwounded; one hand grasped the dead birds--my hard-earned prey, the other\nheld the knife; my hair was matted; my face besmeared with the same guilty\nsigns that bore witness against me on the dripping instrument I clenched;\nmy whole appearance was haggard and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in\nform, I must have looked like, what indeed I was, the merest ruffian that\never trod the earth.\n\nThe name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the indignant blood that\nwarmed my heart to rush into my cheeks; I had never seen him before; I\nfigured to myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take me to task, if\nhe deigned to speak to me, with all the arrogance of superiority. My reply\nwas ready; a reproach I deemed calculated to sting his very heart. He came\nup the while; and his appearance blew aside, with gentle western breath, my\ncloudy wrath: a tall, slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the\nexcess of sensibility and refinement stood before me; the morning sunbeams\ntinged with gold his silken hair, and spread light and glory over his\nbeaming countenance. \"How is this?\" he cried. The men eagerly began their\ndefence; he put them aside, saying, \"Two of you at once on a mere lad--\nfor shame!\" He came up to me: \"Verney,\" he cried, \"Lionel Verney, do we\nmeet thus for the first time? We were born to be friends to each other; and\nthough ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknowledge the hereditary\nbond of friendship which I trust will hereafter unite us?\"\n\nAs he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to read my very soul: my\nheart, my savage revengeful heart, felt the influence of sweet benignity\nsink upon it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest melody, awoke a mute\necho within me, stirring to its depths the life-blood in my frame. I\ndesired to reply, to acknowledge his goodness, accept his proffered\nfriendship; but words, fitting words, were not afforded to the rough\nmountaineer; I would have held out my hand, but its guilty stain restrained\nme. Adrian took pity on my faltering mien: \"Come with me,\" he said, \"I have\nmuch to say to you; come home with me--you know who I am?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I exclaimed, \"I do believe that I now know you, and that you will\npardon my mistakes--my crime.\"\n\nAdrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to the gamekeepers, he\ncame up to me; putting his arm in mine, we walked together to the mansion.\n\nIt was not his rank--after all that I have said, surely it will not be\nsuspected that it was Adrian's rank, that, from the first, subdued my heart\nof hearts, and laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor was it I\nalone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His sensibility and\ncourtesy fascinated every one. His vivacity, intelligence, and active\nspirit of benevolence, completed the conquest. Even at this early age, he\nwas deep read and imbued with the spirit of high philosophy. This spirit\ngave a tone of irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with others, so\nthat he seemed like an inspired musician, who struck, with unerring skill,\nthe \"lyre of mind,\" and produced thence divine harmony. In person, he\nhardly appeared of this world; his slight frame was overinformed by the\nsoul that dwelt within; he was all mind; \"Man but a rush against\" his\nbreast, and it would have conquered his strength; but the might of his\nsmile would have tamed an hungry lion, or caused a legion of armed men to\nlay their weapons at his feet.\n\nI spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to the past, or indeed\nto any personal occurrences. He wished probably to inspire me with\nconfidence, and give me time to gather together my scattered thoughts. He\ntalked of general subjects, and gave me ideas I had never before conceived.\nWe sat in his library, and he spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the\npower which they had acquired over the minds of men, through the force of\nlove and wisdom only. The room was decorated with the busts of many of\nthem, and he described their characters to me. As he spoke, I felt subject\nto him; and all my boasted pride and strength were subdued by the honeyed\naccents of this blue-eyed boy. The trim and paled demesne of civilization,\nwhich I had before regarded from my wild jungle as inaccessible, had its\nwicket opened by him; I stepped within, and felt, as I entered, that I trod\nmy native soil.\n\nAs evening came on, he reverted to the past. \"I have a tale to relate,\" he\nsaid, \"and much explanation to give concerning the past; perhaps you can\nassist me to curtail it. Do you remember your father? I had never the\nhappiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my earliest recollections:\nhe stands written in my mind's tablets as the type of all that was gallant,\namiable, and fascinating in man. His wit was not more conspicuous than the\noverflowing goodness of his heart, which he poured in such full measure on\nhis friends, as to leave, alas! small remnant for himself.\"\n\nEncouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to his inquiries, to\nrelate what I remembered of my parent; and he gave an account of those\ncircumstances which had brought about a neglect of my father's testamentary\nletter. When, in after times, Adrian's father, then king of England, felt\nhis situation become more perilous, his line of conduct more embarrassed,\nagain and again he wished for his early friend, who might stand a mound\nagainst the impetuous anger of his queen, a mediator between him and the\nparliament. From the time that he had quitted London, on the fatal night of\nhis defeat at the gaming-table, the king had received no tidings concerning\nhim; and when, after the lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover\nhim, every trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever, he clung to his\nmemory; and gave it in charge to his son, if ever he should meet this\nvalued friend, in his name to bestow every succour, and to assure him that,\nto the last, his attachment survived separation and silence.\n\nA short time before Adrian's visit to Cumberland, the heir of the nobleman\nto whom my father had confided his last appeal to his royal master, put\nthis letter, its seal unbroken, into the young Earl's hands. It had been\nfound cast aside with a mass of papers of old date, and accident alone\nbrought it to light. Adrian read it with deep interest; and found there\nthat living spirit of genius and wit he had so often heard commemorated. He\ndiscovered the name of the spot whither my father had retreated, and where\nhe died; he learnt the existence of his orphan children; and during the\nshort interval between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting in the park,\nhe had been occupied in making inquiries concerning us, and arranging a\nvariety of plans for our benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to\nour notice.\n\nThe mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying to my vanity; the\nveil which he delicately cast over his benevolence, in alledging a duteous\nfulfilment of the king's latest will, was soothing to my pride. Other\nfeelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his conciliating manner\nand the generous warmth of his expressions, respect rarely before\nexperienced, admiration, and love--he had touched my rocky heart with his\nmagic power, and the stream of affection gushed forth, imperishable and\npure. In the evening we parted; he pressed my hand: \"We shall meet again;\ncome to me to-morrow.\" I clasped that kind hand; I tried to answer; a\nfervent \"God bless you!\" was all my ignorance could frame of speech, and I\ndarted away, oppressed by my new emotions.\n\nI could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept them, and the stars\nglittered above. I ran on, careless of outward objects, but trying to\nmaster the struggling spirit within me by means of bodily fatigue. \"This,\"\nI thought, \"is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard of heart, ferocious,\nand daring; but kind compassionate and soft.\"--Stopping short, I clasped\nmy hands, and with the fervour of a new proselyte, cried, \"Doubt me not,\nAdrian, I also will become wise and good!\" and then quite overcome, I wept\naloud.\n\nAs this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more composed. I lay on the\nground, and giving the reins to my thoughts, repassed in my mind my former\nlife; and began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my heart, and\nto discover how brutish, savage, and worthless I had hitherto been. I could\nnot however at that time feel remorse, for methought I was born anew; my\nsoul threw off the burthen of past sin, to commence a new career in\ninnocence and love. Nothing harsh or rough remained to jar with the soft\nfeelings which the transactions of the day had inspired; I was as a child\nlisping its devotions after its mother, and my plastic soul was remoulded\nby a master hand, which I neither desired nor was able to resist.\n\nThis was the first commencement of my friendship with Adrian, and I must\ncommemorate this day as the most fortunate of my life. I now began to be\nhuman. I was admitted within that sacred boundary which divides the\nintellectual and moral nature of man from that which characterizes animals.\nMy best feelings were called into play to give fitting responses to the\ngenerosity, wisdom, and amenity of my new friend. He, with a noble goodness\nall his own, took infinite delight in bestowing to prodigality the\ntreasures of his mind and fortune on the long-neglected son of his father's\nfriend, the offspring of that gifted being whose excellencies and talents\nhe had heard commemorated from infancy.\n\nAfter his abdication the late king had retreated from the sphere of\npolitics, yet his domestic circle afforded him small content. The ex-queen\nhad none of the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage and daring\nwhich she possessed were rendered null by the secession of her husband: she\ndespised him, and did not care to conceal her sentiments. The king had, in\ncompliance with her exactions, cast off his old friends, but he had\nacquired no new ones under her guidance. In this dearth of sympathy, he had\nrecourse to his almost infant son; and the early development of talent and\nsensibility rendered Adrian no unfitting depository of his father's\nconfidence. He was never weary of listening to the latter's often repeated\naccounts of old times, in which my father had played a distinguished part;\nhis keen remarks were repeated to the boy, and remembered by him; his wit,\nhis fascinations, his very faults were hallowed by the regret of affection;\nhis loss was sincerely deplored. Even the queen's dislike of the favourite\nwas ineffectual to deprive him of his son's admiration: it was bitter,\nsarcastic, contemptuous--but as she bestowed her heavy censure alike on\nhis virtues as his errors, on his devoted friendship and his ill-bestowed\nloves, on his disinterestedness and his prodigality, on his pre-possessing\ngrace of manner, and the facility with which he yielded to temptation, her\ndouble shot proved too heavy, and fell short of the mark. Nor did her angry\ndislike prevent Adrian from imaging my father, as he had said, the type of\nall that was gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It was not strange\ntherefore, that when he heard of the existence of the offspring of this\ncelebrated person, he should have formed the plan of bestowing on them all\nthe advantages his rank made him rich to afford. When he found me a\nvagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher, an unlettered savage, still his\nkindness did not fail. In addition to the opinion he entertained that his\nfather was to a degree culpable of neglect towards us, and that he was\nbound to every possible reparation, he was pleased to say that under all my\nruggedness there glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be\ndistinguished from mere animal courage, and that I inherited a similarity\nof countenance to my father, which gave proof that all his virtues and\ntalents had not died with him. Whatever those might be which descended to\nme, my noble young friend resolved should not be lost for want of culture.\n\nActing upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he led me to wish to\nparticipate in that cultivation which graced his own intellect. My active\nmind, when once it seized upon this new idea, fastened on it with extreme\navidity. At first it was the great object of my ambition to rival the\nmerits of my father, and render myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian.\nBut curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love of knowledge, which caused me\nto pass days and nights in reading and study. I was already well acquainted\nwith what I may term the panorama of nature, the change of seasons, and the\nvarious appearances of heaven and earth. But I was at once startled and\nenchanted by my sudden extension of vision, when the curtain, which had\nbeen drawn before the intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the\nuniverse, not only as it presented itself to my outward senses, but as it\nhad appeared to the wisest among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy\nand its researches and classifications, alike awoke the sleeping ideas in\nmy mind, and gave me new ones.\n\nI felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first discovered the shore of\nAmerica; and like him I hastened to tell my companions of my discoveries in\nunknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any breast the same craving\nappetite for knowledge that existed in mine. Even Perdita was unable to\nunderstand me. I had lived in what is generally called the world of\nreality, and it was awakening to a new country to find that there was a\ndeeper meaning in all I saw, besides that which my eyes conveyed to me. The\nvisionary Perdita beheld in all this only a new gloss upon an old reading,\nand her own was sufficiently inexhaustible to content her. She listened to\nme as she had done to the narration of my adventures, and sometimes took an\ninterest in this species of information; but she did not, as I did, look on\nit as an integral part of her being, which having obtained, I could no more\nput off than the universal sense of touch.\n\nWe both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not having yet escaped from\nchildhood could not appreciate as I did the extent of his merits, or feel\nthe same sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever with him.\nThere was a sensibility and sweetness in his disposition, that gave a\ntender and unearthly tone to our converse. Then he was gay as a lark\ncarolling from its skiey tower, soaring in thought as an eagle, innocent as\nthe mild-eyed dove. He could dispel the seriousness of Perdita, and take\nthe sting from the torturing activity of my nature. I looked back to my\nrestless desires and painful struggles with my fellow beings as to a\ntroubled dream, and felt myself as much changed as if I had transmigrated\ninto another form, whose fresh sensorium and mechanism of nerves had\naltered the reflection of the apparent universe in the mirror of mind. But\nit was not so; I was the same in strength, in earnest craving for sympathy,\nin my yearning for active exertion. My manly virtues did not desert me, for\nthe witch Urania spared the locks of Sampson, while he reposed at her feet;\nbut all was softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian instruct me only in the\ncold truths of history and philosophy. At the same time that he taught me\nby their means to subdue my own reckless and uncultured spirit, he opened\nto my view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to feel and\nunderstand its wondrous character.\n\nThe ex-queen of England had, even during infancy, endeavoured to implant\ndaring and ambitious designs in the mind of her son. She saw that he was\nendowed with genius and surpassing talent; these she cultivated for the\nsake of afterwards using them for the furtherance of her own views. She\nencouraged his craving for knowledge and his impetuous courage; she even\ntolerated his tameless love of freedom, under the hope that this would, as\nis too often the case, lead to a passion for command. She endeavoured to\nbring him up in a sense of resentment towards, and a desire to revenge\nhimself upon, those who had been instrumental in bringing about his\nfather's abdication. In this she did not succeed. The accounts furnished\nhim, however distorted, of a great and wise nation asserting its right to\ngovern itself, excited his admiration: in early days he became a republican\nfrom principle. Still his mother did not despair. To the love of rule and\nhaughty pride of birth she added determined ambition, patience, and\nself-control. She devoted herself to the study of her son's disposition. By\nthe application of praise, censure, and exhortation, she tried to seek and\nstrike the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed her touch\nseemed discord to her, she built her hopes on his talents, and felt sure\nthat she would at last win him. The kind of banishment he now experienced\narose from other causes.\n\nThe ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of age; his fairy\nsister, Adrian was wont to call her; a lovely, animated, little thing, all\nsensibility and truth. With these, her children, the noble widow constantly\nresided at Windsor; and admitted no visitors, except her own partizans,\ntravellers from her native Germany, and a few of the foreign ministers.\nAmong these, and highly distinguished by her, was Prince Zaimi, ambassador\nto England from the free States of Greece; and his daughter, the young\nPrincess Evadne, passed much of her time at Windsor Castle. In company with\nthis sprightly and clever Greek girl, the Countess would relax from her\nusual state. Her views with regard to her own children, placed all her\nwords and actions relative to them under restraint: but Evadne was a\nplaything she could in no way fear; nor were her talents and vivacity\nslight alleviations to the monotony of the Countess's life.\n\nEvadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent much time together at\nWindsor, the extreme youth of Adrian prevented any suspicion as to the\nnature of their intercourse. But he was ardent and tender of heart beyond\nthe common nature of man, and had already learnt to love, while the\nbeauteous Greek smiled benignantly on the boy. It was strange to me, who,\nthough older than Adrian, had never loved, to witness the whole heart's\nsacrifice of my friend. There was neither jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust\nin his sentiment; it was devotion and faith. His life was swallowed up in\nthe existence of his beloved; and his heart beat only in unison with the\npulsations that vivified hers. This was the secret law of his life--he\nloved and was beloved. The universe was to him a dwelling, to inhabit with\nhis chosen one; and not either a scheme of society or an enchainment of\nevents, that could impart to him either happiness or misery. What, though\nlife and the system of social intercourse were a wilderness, a\ntiger-haunted jungle! Through the midst of its errors, in the depths of its\nsavage recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery pathway, through\nwhich they might journey in safety and delight. Their track would be like\nthe passage of the Red Sea, which they might traverse with unwet feet,\nthough a wall of destruction were impending on either side.\n\nAlas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this matchless specimen of\nhumanity? What is there in our nature that is for ever urging us on towards\npain and misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however we may be\nattuned to the reception of pleasureable emotion, disappointment is the\nnever-failing pilot of our life's bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the\nshoals. Who was better framed than this highly-gifted youth to love and be\nbeloved, and to reap unalienable joy from an unblamed passion? If his heart\nhad slept but a few years longer, he might have been saved; but it awoke in\nits infancy; it had power, but no knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a\ntoo early-blowing bud is nipt by the killing frost.\n\nI did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to deceive her lover; but\nthe first letter that I saw of hers convinced me that she did not love him;\nit was written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with great command\nof language. The hand-writing itself was exquisitely beautiful; there was\nsomething in her very paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love,\nand was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern as being tasteful.\nThere was much kindness, gratitude, and sweetness in her expression, but no\nlove. Evadne was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen, ever\nloved one so much their junior? I compared her placid epistles with the\nburning ones of Adrian. His soul seemed to distil itself into the words he\nwrote; and they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a portion of the\nlife of love, which was his life. The very writing used to exhaust him; and\nhe would weep over them, merely from the excess of emotion they awakened in\nhis heart.\n\nAdrian's soul was painted in his countenance, and concealment or deceit\nwere at the antipodes to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made\nit her earnest request that the tale of their loves should not be revealed\nto his mother; and after for a while contesting the point, he yielded it to\nher. A vain concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret to the\nquick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary prudence that characterized\nher whole conduct, she concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her\nson from the sphere of the attractive Greek. He was sent to Cumberland; but\nthe plan of correspondence between the lovers, arranged by Evadne, was\neffectually hidden from her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the\npurpose of separating, united them in firmer bonds than ever. To me he\ndiscoursed ceaselessly of his beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancient\nannals, its late memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her glory\nand excellence. He submitted to be away from her, because she commanded\nthis submission; but for her influence, he would have declared his\nattachment before all England, and resisted, with unshaken constancy, his\nmother's opposition. Evadne's feminine prudence perceived how useless any\nassertion of his resolves would be, till added years gave weight to his\npower. Perhaps there was besides a lurking dislike to bind herself in the\nface of the world to one whom she did not love--not love, at least, with\nthat passionate enthusiasm which her heart told her she might one day feel\ntowards another. He obeyed her injunctions, and passed a year in exile in\nCumberland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nHAPPY, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and hours of that year.\nFriendship, hand in hand with admiration, tenderness and respect, built a\nbower of delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in America, as\nthe homeless wind or herbless sea. Insatiate thirst for knowledge, and\nboundless affection for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart and\nunderstanding occupied, and I was consequently happy. What happiness is so\ntrue and unclouded, as the overflowing and talkative delight of young\npeople. In our boat, upon my native lake, beside the streams and the pale\nbordering poplars--in valley and over hill, my crook thrown aside, a\nnobler flock to tend than silly sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I\nread or listened to Adrian; and his discourse, whether it concerned his\nlove or his theories for the improvement of man, alike entranced me.\nSometimes my lawless mood would return, my love of peril, my resistance to\nauthority; but this was in his absence; under the mild sway of his dear\neyes, I was obedient and good as a boy of five years old, who does his\nmother's bidding.\n\nAfter a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian visited London, and\ncame back full of plans for our benefit. You must begin life, he said: you\nare seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary apprenticeship\nmore and more irksome. He foresaw that his own life would be one of\nstruggle, and I must partake his labours with him. The better to fit me for\nthis task, we must now separate. He found my name a good passport to\npreferment, and he had procured for me the situation of private secretary\nto the Ambassador at Vienna, where I should enter on my career under the\nbest auspices. In two years, I should return to my country, with a name\nwell known and a reputation already founded.\n\nAnd Perdita?--Perdita was to become the pupil, friend and younger sister\nof Evadne. With his usual thoughtfulness, he had provided for her\nindependence in this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous\nfriend?--I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart of hearts, I made\na vow to devote life, knowledge, and power, all of which, in as much as\nthey were of any value, he had bestowed on me--all, all my capacities and\nhopes, to him alone I would devote.\n\nThus I promised myself, as I journied towards my destination with roused\nand ardent expectation: expectation of the fulfilment of all that in\nboyhood we promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in maturity. Methought\nthe time was now arrived, when, childish occupations laid aside, I should\nenter into life. Even in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes the souls of\nthe happy as eager to drink of the wave which was to restore them to this\nmortal coil. The young are seldom in Elysium, for their desires,\noutstripping possibility, leave them as poor as a moneyless debtor. We are\ntold by the wisest philosophers of the dangers of the world, the deceits of\nmen, and the treason of our own hearts: but not the less fearlessly does\neach put off his frail bark from the port, spread the sail, and strain his\noar, to attain the multitudinous streams of the sea of life. How few in\nyouth's prime, moor their vessels on the \"golden sands,\" and collect the\npainted shells that strew them. But all at close of day, with riven planks\nand rent canvas make for shore, and are either wrecked ere they reach it,\nor find some wave-beaten haven, some desart strand, whereon to cast\nthemselves and die unmourned.\n\nA truce to philosophy!--Life is before me, and I rush into possession.\nHope, glory, love, and blameless ambition are my guides, and my soul knows\nno dread. What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is good only\nbecause it is about to change, and the to come is all my own. Do I fear,\nthat my heart palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of my blood; my\neyes seem to penetrate the cloudy midnight of time, and to discern within\nthe depths of its darkness, the fruition of all my soul desires.\n\nNow pause!--During my journey I might dream, and with buoyant wings reach\nthe summit of life's high edifice. Now that I am arrived at its base, my\npinions are furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step by step I\nmust ascend the wondrous fane--\n\n  Speak!--What door is opened?\n\nBehold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among the pleasure-seeking\nsociety of a gay city; a youth of promise; favourite of the Ambassador. All\nwas strange and admirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With breathless\namaze I entered on the gay scene, whose actors were\n\n --the lilies glorious as Solomon,\n  Who toil not, neither do they spin.\n\nSoon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting my studious hours,\nand the companionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent\npursuit for a wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of beauty\nentranced me, and attractive manners in man or woman won my entire\nconfidence. I called it rapture, when a smile made my heart beat; and I\nfelt the life's blood tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol which\nfor awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of animal spirits was Paradise, and\nat night's close I only desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The\ndazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely forms arrayed in splendid\ndresses; the motions of a dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite music,\ncradled my senses in one delightful dream.\n\nAnd is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to moralists and sages. I\nask if in the calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep meditations\nwhich fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful tyro in the\nschool of pleasure? Can the calm beams of their heaven-seeking eyes equal\nthe flashes of mingling passion which blind his, or does the influence of\ncold philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal to his, engaged\n\n  In this dear work of youthful revelry.\n\nBut in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the hermit, nor the\ntumultuous raptures of the reveller, are capable of satisfying man's heart.\nFrom the one we gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The\nmind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in the heartless\nintercourse of those whose sole aim is amusement. There is no fruition in\ntheir vacant kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling ripples of\nthese shallow waters.\n\nThus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back\nupon my heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren. My\nflagging spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and not\nfinding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless delight that\nwaited on its commencement, the impression I have of my life at Vienna is\nmelancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot be happy unless we\nlove. I did not love; but I was devoured by a restless wish to be something\nto others. I became the victim of ingratitude and cold coquetry--then I\ndesponded, and imagined that my discontent gave me a right to hate the\nworld. I receded to solitude; I had recourse to my books, and my desire\nagain to enjoy the society of Adrian became a burning thirst.\n\nEmulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of\nenvy, gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and exploits\nof one of my countrymen filled the world with admiration. Relations of what\nhe had done, conjectures concerning his future actions, were the\nnever-failing topics of the hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I\nfelt as if the praises which this idol received were leaves torn from\nlaurels destined for Adrian. But I must enter into some account of this\ndarling of fame--this favourite of the wonder-loving world.\n\nLord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but impoverished family. From\nearly youth he had considered his pedigree with complacency, and bitterly\nlamented his want of wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement; and the\nmeans that led towards this end were secondary considerations. Haughty, yet\ntrembling to every demonstration of respect; ambitious, but too proud to\nshew his ambition; willing to achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,--\nhe entered upon life. He was met on the threshold by some insult, real or\nimaginary; some repulse, where he least expected it; some disappointment,\nhard for his pride to bear. He writhed beneath an injury he was unable to\nrevenge; and he quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good\ntime should arrive, when she might feel the power of him she now despised.\n\nHe became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless courage and\ncomprehensive genius brought him into notice. He became the darling hero of\nthis rising people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw off his\nallegiance to his native country, alone prevented him from filling the\nfirst offices in the state. But, though others might rank higher in title\nand ceremony, Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond all this. He led\nthe Greek armies to victory; their triumphs were all his own. When he\nappeared, whole towns poured forth their population to meet him; new songs\nwere adapted to their national airs, whose themes were his glory, valour,\nand munificence. A truce was concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At the\nsame time, Lord Raymond, by some unlooked-for chance, became the possessor\nof an immense fortune in England, whither he returned, crowned with glory,\nto receive the meed of honour and distinction before denied to his\npretensions. His proud heart rebelled against this change. In what was the\ndespised Raymond not the same? If the acquisition of power in the shape of\nwealth caused this alteration, that power should they feel as an iron yoke.\nPower therefore was the aim of all his endeavours; aggrandizement the mark\nat which he for ever shot. In open ambition or close intrigue, his end was\nthe same--to attain the first station in his own country.\n\nThis account filled me with curiosity. The events that in succession\nfollowed his return to England, gave me keener feelings. Among his other\nadvantages, Lord Raymond was supremely handsome; every one admired him; of\nwomen he was the idol. He was courteous, honey-tongued--an adept in\nfascinating arts. What could not this man achieve in the busy English\nworld? Change succeeded to change; the entire history did not reach me; for\nAdrian had ceased to write, and Perdita was a laconic correspondent. The\nrumour went that Adrian had become--how write the fatal word--mad: that\nLord Raymond was the favourite of the ex-queen, her daughter's destined\nhusband. Nay, more, that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the house\nof Windsor to the crown, and that, on the event of Adrian's incurable\ndisorder and his marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambitious\nRaymond might be encircled with the magic ring of regality.\n\nSuch a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame; such a tale rendered my\nlonger stay at Vienna, away from the friend of my youth, intolerable. Now I\nmust fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side, and be his ally and\nsupport till death. Farewell to courtly pleasure; to politic intrigue; to\nthe maze of passion and folly! All hail, England! Native England, receive\nthy child! thou art the scene of all my hopes, the mighty theatre on which\nis acted the only drama that can, heart and soul, bear me along with it in\nits development. A voice most irresistible, a power omnipotent, drew me\nthither. After an absence of two years I landed on its shores, not daring\nto make any inquiries, fearful of every remark. My first visit would be to\nmy sister, who inhabited a little cottage, a part of Adrian's gift, on the\nborders of Windsor Forest. From her I should learn the truth concerning our\nprotector; I should hear why she had withdrawn from the protection of the\nPrincess Evadne, and be instructed as to the influence which this\novertopping and towering Raymond exercised over the fortunes of my friend.\n\nI had never before been in the neighbourhood of Windsor; the fertility and\nbeauty of the country around now struck me with admiration, which encreased\nas I approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks which had\ngrown, flourished, and decayed during the progress of centuries, marked\nwhere the limits of the forest once reached, while the shattered palings\nand neglected underwood shewed that this part was deserted for the younger\nplantations, which owed their birth to the beginning of the nineteenth\ncentury, and now stood in the pride of maturity. Perdita's humble dwelling\nwas situated on the skirts of the most ancient portion; before it was\nstretched Bishopgate Heath, which towards the east appeared interminable,\nand was bounded to the west by Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water.\nBehind, the cottage was shadowed by the venerable fathers of the forest,\nunder which the deer came to graze, and which for the most part hollow and\ndecayed, formed fantastic groups that contrasted with the regular beauty of\nthe younger trees. These, the offspring of a later period, stood erect and\nseemed ready to advance fearlessly into coming time; while those out worn\nstragglers, blasted and broke, clung to each other, their weak boughs\nsighing as the wind buffetted them--a weather-beaten crew.\n\nA light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage, which, low-roofed,\nseemed to submit to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst the venerable\nremains of forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the spring, adorned her\ngarden and casements; in the midst of lowliness there was an air of\nelegance which spoke the graceful taste of the inmate. With a beating heart\nI entered the enclosure; as I stood at the entrance, I heard her\nvoice, melodious as it had ever been, which before I saw her assured me of\nher welfare.\n\nA moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me in the fresh bloom\nof youthful womanhood, different from and yet the same as the mountain girl\nI had left. Her eyes could not be deeper than they were in childhood, nor\nher countenance more expressive; but the expression was changed and\nimproved; intelligence sat on her brow; when she smiled her face was\nembellished by the softest sensibility, and her low, modulated voice seemed\ntuned by love. Her person was formed in the most feminine proportions; she\nwas not tall, but her mountain life had given freedom to her motions, so\nthat her light step scarce made her foot-fall heard as she tript across the\nhall to meet me. When we had parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with\nunrestrained warmth; we met again, and new feelings were awakened; when\neach beheld the other, childhood passed, as full grown actors on this\nchangeful scene. The pause was but for a moment; the flood of association\nand natural feeling which had been checked, again rushed in full tide upon\nour hearts, and with tenderest emotion we were swiftly locked in each\nother's embrace.\n\nThis burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed thoughts we sat\ntogether, talking of the past and present. I alluded to the coldness of her\nletters; but the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently explained\nthe origin of this. New feelings had arisen within her, which she was\nunable to express in writing to one whom she had only known in childhood;\nbut we saw each other again, and our intimacy was renewed as if nothing had\nintervened to check it. I detailed the incidents of my sojourn abroad, and\nthen questioned her as to the changes that had taken place at home, the\ncauses of Adrian's absence, and her secluded life.\n\nThe tears that suffused my sister's eyes when I mentioned our friend, and\nher heightened colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the reports that had\nreached me. But their import was too terrible for me to give instant credit\nto my suspicion. Was there indeed anarchy in the sublime universe of\nAdrian's thoughts, did madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and was\nhe no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend, this ill world was\nno clime for your gentle spirit; you delivered up its governance to false\nhumanity, which stript it of its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare its\nquivering life to the evil ministration of roughest winds. Have those\ngentle eyes, those \"channels of the soul\" lost their meaning, or do they\nonly in their glare disclose the horrible tale of its aberrations? Does\nthat voice no longer \"discourse excellent music?\" Horrible, most horrible!\nI veil my eyes in terror of the change, and gushing tears bear witness to\nmy sympathy for this unimaginable ruin.\n\nIn obedience to my request Perdita detailed the melancholy circumstances\nthat led to this event.\n\nThe frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it was by every\nnatural grace, endowed with transcendant powers of intellect, unblemished\nby the shadow of defect (unless his dreadless independence of thought was\nto be construed into one), was devoted, even as a victim to sacrifice, to\nhis love for Evadne. He entrusted to her keeping the treasures of his soul,\nhis aspirations after excellence, and his plans for the improvement of\nmankind. As manhood dawned upon him, his schemes and theories, far from\nbeing changed by personal and prudential motives, acquired new strength\nfrom the powers he felt arise within him; and his love for Evadne became\ndeep-rooted, as he each day became more certain that the path he pursued\nwas full of difficulty, and that he must seek his reward, not in the\napplause or gratitude of his fellow creatures, hardly in the success of his\nplans, but in the approbation of his own heart, and in her love and\nsympathy, which was to lighten every toil and recompence every sacrifice.\n\nIn solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the haunts of men, he\nmatured his views for the reform of the English government, and the\nimprovement of the people. It would have been well if he had concealed his\nsentiments, until he had come into possession of the power which would\nsecure their practical development. But he was impatient of the years that\nmust intervene, he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave not only a\nbrief denial to his mother's schemes, but published his intention of using\nhis influence to diminish the power of the aristocracy, to effect a greater\nequalization of wealth and privilege, and to introduce a perfect system of\nrepublican government into England. At first his mother treated his\ntheories as the wild ravings of inexperience. But they were so\nsystematically arranged, and his arguments so well supported, that though\nstill in appearance incredulous, she began to fear him. She tried to reason\nwith him, and finding him inflexible, learned to hate him.\n\nStrange to say, this feeling was infectious. His enthusiasm for good which\ndid not exist; his contempt for the sacredness of authority; his ardour and\nimprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual routine of life; the\nworldly feared him; the young and inexperienced did not understand the\nlofty severity of his moral views, and disliked him as a being different\nfrom themselves. Evadne entered but coldly into his systems. She thought he\ndid well to assert his own will, but she wished that will to have been more\nintelligible to the multitude. She had none of the spirit of a martyr, and\ndid not incline to share the shame and defeat of a fallen patriot. She was\naware of the purity of his motives, the generosity of his disposition, his\ntrue and ardent attachment to her; and she entertained a great affection\nfor him. He repaid this spirit of kindness with the fondest gratitude, and\nmade her the treasure-house of all his hopes.\n\nAt this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two persons could be\nmore opposite than Adrian and he. With all the incongruities of his\ncharacter, Raymond was emphatically a man of the world. His passions were\nviolent; as these often obtained the mastery over him, he could not always\nsquare his conduct to the obvious line of self-interest, but\nself-gratification at least was the paramount object with him. He looked on\nthe structure of society as but a part of the machinery which supported the\nweb on which his life was traced. The earth was spread out as an highway\nfor him; the heavens built up as a canopy for him.\n\nAdrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He owned affinity not\nonly with mankind, but all nature was akin to him; the mountains and sky\nwere his friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth his\nplaymates; while he the focus only of this mighty mirror, felt his life\nmingle with the universe of existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedicated\nto the worship of beauty and excellence. Adrian and Raymond now came into\ncontact, and a spirit of aversion rose between them. Adrian despised the\nnarrow views of the politician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt the\nbenevolent visions of the philanthropist.\n\nWith the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that laid waste at one fell\nblow the gardens of delight and sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that\nhe had secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and contumely. Raymond,\nthe deliverer of Greece, the graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge\nof all that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as most dear--\nRaymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered by her new sensations, she did not\npause to examine them, or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except\nthe tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her heart. She\nyielded to its influence, and the too natural consequence in a mind\nunattuned to soft emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became\ndistasteful to her. She grew capricious; her gentle conduct towards him was\nexchanged for asperity and repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild\nor pathetic appeal of his expressive countenance, she would relent, and for\na while resume her ancient kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its\ndepths the soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed the world\nsubject to him, because he possessed Evadne's love; he felt in every nerve\nthat the dire storms of the mental universe were about to attack his\nfragile being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent.\n\nPerdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture that Adrian endured.\nShe loved him as a kind elder brother; a relation to guide, protect, and\ninstruct her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental authority. She\nadored his virtues, and with mixed contempt and indignation she saw Evadne\npile drear sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly marked her.\nIn his solitary despair Adrian would often seek my sister, and in covered\nterms express his misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of\nhis mind. Soon, alas! was one to conquer. Anger made no part of his\nemotion. With whom should he be angry? Not with Raymond, who was\nunconscious of the misery he occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul\nwept tears of blood--poor, mistaken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and\namidst his own anguish he grieved for her future destiny. Once a writing of\nhis fell into Perdita's hands; it was blotted with tears--well might any\nblot it with the like--\n\n\"Life\"--it began thus--\"is not the thing romance writers describe it;\ngoing through the measures of a dance, and after various evolutions\narriving at a conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose. While\nthere is life there is action and change. We go on, each thought linked to\nthe one which was its parent, each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow\ndies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and generating, weaves the\nchain that make our life:\n\n  Un dia llama a otro dia\n  y ass i llama, y encadena\n  llanto a llanto, y pena a pena.\n\nTruly disappointment is the guardian deity of human life; she sits\nat the threshold of unborn time, and marshals the events as they\ncome forth. Once my heart sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the\nworld was doubly beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed from my own\nsoul. O wherefore are love and ruin for ever joined in this our mortal\ndream? So that when we make our hearts a lair for that gently seeming\nbeast, its companion enters with it, and pitilessly lays waste what might\nhave been an home and a shelter.\"\n\nBy degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and then his intellect\nyielded to the same tyranny. His manners grew wild; he was sometimes\nferocious, sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadne\nquitted London for Paris; he followed, and overtook her when the vessel was\nabout to sail; none knew what passed between them, but Perdita had never\nseen him since; he lived in seclusion, no one knew where, attended by such\npersons as his mother selected for that purpose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nTHE next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita's cottage, on his way to\nWindsor Castle. My sister's heightened colour and sparkling eyes half\nrevealed her secret to me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted us\nboth with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into our feelings, and to\nmake one with us. I scanned his physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet\nwas beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his eyes was soft,\nthough at times he could make them even glare with ferocity; his complexion\nwas colourless; and every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was\npleasing, though disdain too often curled his lips--lips which to female\neyes were the very throne of beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle,\noften startled you by a sharp discordant note, which shewed that his usual\nlow tone was rather the work of study than nature. Thus full of\ncontradictions, unbending yet haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again\nneglectful, he by some strange art found easy entrance to the admiration\nand affection of women; now caressing and now tyrannizing over them\naccording to his mood, but in every change a despot.\n\nAt the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear amiable. Wit,\nhilarity, and deep observation were mingled in his talk, rendering every\nsentence that he uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered my latent\ndistaste; I endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and to keep in mind every\nthing I had heard to his disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous, and\nall was so fascinating, that I forgot everything except the pleasure his\nsociety afforded me. Under the idea of initiating me in the scene of\nEnglish politics and society, of which I was soon to become a part, he\nnarrated a number of anecdotes, and sketched many characters; his\ndiscourse, rich and varied, flowed on, pervading all my senses with\npleasure. But for one thing he would have been completely triumphant. He\nalluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with that disparagement that the\nworldly wise always attach to enthusiasm. He perceived the cloud gathering,\nand tried to dissipate it; but the strength of my feelings would not permit\nme to pass thus lightly over this sacred subject; so I said emphatically,\n\"Permit me to remark, that I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor;\nhe is my best friend and benefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord\nwith his opinions, and bitterly lament his present, and I trust temporary,\nillness. That illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to me beyond\nwords to hear him mentioned, unless in terms of respect and affection.\"\n\nRaymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in his reply. I saw\nthat in his heart he despised those dedicated to any but worldly idols.\n\"Every man,\" he said, \"dreams about something, love, honour, and pleasure;\nyou dream of friendship, and devote yourself to a maniac; well, if that be\nyour vocation, doubtless you are in the right to follow it.\"--\n\nSome reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of pain that for a\nmoment convulsed his countenance, checked my indignation. \"Happy are\ndreamers,\" he continued, \"so that they be not awakened! Would I could\ndream! but 'broad and garish day' is the element in which I live; the\ndazzling glare of reality inverts the scene for me. Even the ghost of\nfriendship has departed, and love\"----He broke off; nor could I guess\nwhether the disdain that curled his lip was directed against the passion,\nor against himself for being its slave.\n\nThis account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse with Lord Raymond.\nI became intimate with him, and each day afforded me occasion to admire\nmore and more his powerful and versatile talents, that together with his\neloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his wealth now immense, caused\nhim to be feared, loved, and hated beyond any other man in England.\n\nMy descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my former connection\nwith Adrian, the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary I had been, and\nnow my intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to the fashionable\nand political circles of England. To my inexperience we at first appeared\non the eve of a civil war; each party was violent, acrimonious, and\nunyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions, aristocrats,\ndemocrats, and royalists. After Adrian's declared predeliction to the\nrepublican form of government, the latter party had nearly died away,\nchiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came forward as its leader, it\nrevived with redoubled force. Some were royalists from prejudice and\nancient affection, and there were many moderately inclined who feared alike\nthe capricious tyranny of the popular party, and the unbending despotism of\nthe aristocrats. More than a third of the members ranged themselves under\nRaymond, and their number was perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built\ntheir hopes on their preponderant wealth and influence; the reformers on\nthe force of the nation itself; the debates were violent, more violent the\ndiscourses held by each knot of politicians as they assembled to arrange\ntheir measures. Opprobrious epithets were bandied about, resistance even to\nthe death threatened; meetings of the populace disturbed the quiet order of\nthe country; except in war, how could all this end? Even as the destructive\nflames were ready to break forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed by the\nabsence of the military, by the aversion entertained by every one to any\nviolence, save that of speech, and by the cordial politeness and even\nfriendship of the hostile leaders when they met in private society. I was\nfrom a thousand motives induced to attend minutely to the course of events,\nand watch each turn with intense anxiety.\n\nI could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also that he\nregarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and tenderness. Yet I\nknew that he was urging forward his marriage with the presumptive heiress\nof the Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of the advantages that\nwould thence accrue to him. All the ex-queen's friends were his friends; no\nweek passed that he did not hold consultations with her at Windsor.\n\nI had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely,\namiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times when\nwe have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or for\nworse, to arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse, we fear\nthe change, and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this high-born\ndamsel. To me she was everything and nothing; her very name mentioned by\nanother made me start and tremble; the endless discussion concerning her\nunion with Lord Raymond was real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian\nwithdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a victim probably to\nher mother's ambitious schemes, I ought to come forward to protect her from\nundue influence, guard her from unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of\nchoice, the right of every human being. Yet how was I to do this? She\nherself would disdain my interference. Since then I must be an object of\nindifference or contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose\nmyself before her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad\ngame of a fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to\nEngland, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief\nsolace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of seeing\nher. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and discernment; in her\npleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by magnificent\ncasts, antique vases, and copies of the finest pictures of Raphael,\nCorreggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy\nretreat untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions of\npoliticians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion. On this occasion, my\nsister was not alone; nor could I fail to recognise her companion: it was\nIdris, the till now unseen object of my mad idolatry.\n\nIn what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression and\nsoft flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in\npoor assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that surrounded her, the\nthousand graces that waited unwearied on her. The first thing that struck\nyou on beholding that charming countenance was its perfect goodness and\nfrankness; candour sat upon her brow, simplicity in her eyes, heavenly\nbenignity in her smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar to\nthe breezy west, and her gait, goddess-like, was as that of a winged angel\nnew alit from heaven's high floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion\nwas stained by a pure suffusion; her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor\nof a flute. It is easiest perhaps to describe by contrast. I have detailed\nthe perfections of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.\nPerdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid; Idris was frank and\nconfiding. The one recoiled to solitude, that she might there entrench\nherself from disappointment and injury; the other walked forth in open day,\nbelieving that none would harm her. Wordsworth has compared a beloved\nfemale to two fair objects in nature; but his lines always appeared to me\nrather a contrast than a similitude:\n\n  A violet by a mossy stone\n  Half hidden from the eye,\n  Fair as a star when only one\n  Is shining in the sky.\n\nSuch a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust herself to the very\nair, cowering from observation, yet betrayed by her excellences; and\nrepaying with a thousand graces the labour of those who sought her in her\nlonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in single splendour in the\ndim anadem of balmy evening; ready to enlighten and delight the subject\nworld, shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined distance from\nall that was not like herself akin to heaven.\n\nI found this vision of beauty in Perdita's alcove, in earnest conversation\nwith its inmate. When my sister saw me, she rose, and taking my hand, said,\n\"He is here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my brother.\" Idris arose\nalso, and bent on me her eyes of celestial blue, and with grace peculiar\nsaid--\"You hardly need an introduction; we have a picture, highly valued\nby my father, which declares at once your name. Verney, you will\nacknowledge this tie, and as my brother's friend, I feel that I may trust\nyou.\"\n\nThen, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice, she continued--\n\"Dear friends, do not think it strange that now, visiting you for the first\ntime, I ask your assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to you. To you\nalone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended by impartial spectators;\nyou are my brother's friends, therefore you must be mine. What can I say?\nif you refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!\" She cast up her eyes, while\nwonder held her auditors mute; then, as if carried away by her feelings,\nshe cried--\"My brother! beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your\nmisfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard the current tale; perhaps\nbelieve the slander; but he is not mad! Were an angel from the foot of\nGod's throne to assert it, never, never would I believe it. He is wronged,\nbetrayed, imprisoned--save him! Verney, you must do this; seek him out in\nwhatever part of the island he is immured; find him, rescue him from his\npersecutors, restore him to himself, to me--on the wide earth I have none\nto love but only him!\"\n\nHer earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me with\nwonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and look,\n\"Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?\" I vowed, with energy and\ntruth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration and welfare of\nAdrian. We then conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed the\nprobable means of discovering his residence. While we were in earnest\ndiscourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced: I saw Perdita tremble and grow\ndeadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes. He must have\nbeen astonished at our conclave, disturbed by it I should have thought; but\nnothing of this appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me with a\ncordial greeting. Idris appeared suspended for a moment, and then with\nextreme sweetness, she said, \"Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and\nhonour.\"\n\nSmiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with emphasis, \"Do you\nindeed confide, Lady Idris?\"\n\nShe endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered with dignity, \"As\nyou please. It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by any\nconcealment.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" he replied, \"if I have offended. Whether you trust me or not,\nrely on my doing my utmost to further your wishes, whatever they may be.\"\n\nIdris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord Raymond requested\npermission to accompany her to Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and\nthey quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were left--truly like\ntwo fools, who fancied that they had obtained a golden treasure, till\ndaylight shewed it to be lead--two silly, luckless flies, who had played\nin sunbeams and were caught in a spider's web. I leaned against the\ncasement, and watched those two glorious creatures, till they disappeared\nin the forest-glades; and then I turned. Perdita had not moved; her eyes\nfixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless and\nrigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat. Half frightened, I would\nhave taken her hand; but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to\ncollect herself. I entreated her to speak to me: \"Not now,\" she replied,\n\"nor do you speak to me, my dear Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know\nnothing. I will see you to-morrow; in the meantime, adieu!\" She rose, and\nwalked from the room; but pausing at the door, and leaning against it, as\nif her over-busy thoughts had taken from her the power of supporting\nherself, she said, \"Lord Raymond will probably return. Will you tell him\nthat he must excuse me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow\nif he wishes it, and you also. You had better return to London with him;\nyou can there make the enquiries agreed upon, concerning the Earl of\nWindsor and visit me again to-morrow, before you proceed on your\njourney--till then, farewell!\"\n\nShe spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh. I gave my assent to\nher request; and she left me. I felt as if, from the order of the\nsystematic world, I had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary,\nunintelligible. That Raymond should marry Idris was more than ever\nintolerable; yet my passion, though a giant from its birth, was too\nstrange, wild, and impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery I\nperceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not confided in me; I could\nnot demand an explanation from Raymond without the hazard of betraying what\nwas perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain the truth from her\nthe following day--in the mean time--But, while I was occupied by\nmultiplying reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked for my sister; and\nI delivered her message. After musing on it for a moment, he asked me if I\nwere about to return to London, and if I would accompany him: I consented.\nHe was full of thought, and remained silent during a considerable part of\nour ride; at length he said, \"I must apologize to you for my abstraction;\nthe truth is, Ryland's motion comes on to-night, and I am considering my\nreply.\"\n\nRyland was the leader of the popular party, a hard-headed man, and in his\nway eloquent; he had obtained leave to bring in a bill making it treason to\nendeavour to change the present state of the English government and the\nstanding laws of the republic. This attack was directed against Raymond and\nhis machinations for the restoration of the monarchy.\n\nRaymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House that evening. I\nremembered my pursuit for intelligence concerning Adrian; and, knowing that\nmy time would be fully occupied, I excused myself. \"Nay,\" said my\ncompanion, \"I can free you from your present impediment. You are going to\nmake enquiries concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at once,\nhe is at the Duke of Athol's seat at Dunkeld. On the first approach of his\ndisorder, he travelled about from one place to another; until, arriving at\nthat romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and we made arrangements\nwith the Duke for his continuing there.\"\n\nI was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed this information,\nand replied coldly: \"I am obliged to you for your intelligence, and will\navail myself of it.\"\n\n\"You shall, Verney,\" said he, \"and if you continue of the same mind, I will\nfacilitate your views. But first witness, I beseech you, the result of this\nnight's contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if I may so call\nit, while I fear that victory is to me defeat. What can I do? My dearest\nhopes appear to be near their fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris;\nAdrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom, and that earldom in\nmy hands becomes a kingdom. By the reigning God it is true; the paltry\nearldom of Windsor shall no longer content him, who will inherit the rights\nwhich must for ever appertain to the person who possesses it. The Countess\ncan never forget that she has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a\ndiminished inheritance to her children; her power and my wit will rebuild\nthe throne, and this brow will be clasped by a kingly diadem.--I can do\nthis--I can marry Idris.\"---\n\nHe stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its expression changed\nagain and again under the influence of internal passion. I asked, \"Does\nLady Idris love you?\"\n\n\"What a question,\" replied he laughing. \"She will of course, as I shall\nher, when we are married.\"\n\n\"You begin late,\" said I, ironically, \"marriage is usually considered the\ngrave, and not the cradle of love. So you are about to love her, but do not\nalready?\"\n\n\"Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her, be assured. Love! I\nmust steel my heart against that; expel it from its tower of strength,\nbarricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to play, its waters be\ndried up, and all passionate thoughts attendant on it die--that is to\nsay, the love which would rule me, not that which I rule. Idris is a\ngentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible not to have an\naffection for her, and I have a very sincere one; only do not speak of love\n--love, the tyrant and the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror,\nnow my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable beast, the fanged\nsnake--no--no--I will have nothing to do with that love. Tell me,\nLionel, do you consent that I should marry this young lady?\"\n\nHe bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable heart swelled in my\nbosom. I replied in a calm voice--but how far from calm was the thought\nimaged by my still words--\"Never! I can never consent that Lady Idris\nshould be united to one who does not love her.\"\n\n\"Because you love her yourself.\"\n\n\"Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not, dare not love her.\"\n\n\"At least,\" he continued haughtily, \"she does not love you. I would not\nmarry a reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her heart was free. But,\nO, Lionel! a kingdom is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms\nthat compose the style of royalty. Were not the mightiest men of the olden\ntimes kings? Alexander was a king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king;\nNapoleon was a king; Caesar died in his attempt to become one, and\nCromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to regality. The father of\nAdrian yielded up the already broken sceptre of England; but I will rear\nthe fallen plant, join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above all the\nflowers of the field.\n\n\"You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian's abode. Do not\nsuppose that I am wicked or foolish enough to found my purposed\nsovereignty on a fraud, and one so easily discovered as the truth\nor falsehood of the Earl's insanity. I am just come from him. Before I\ndecided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to see him myself again, and\nto judge of the probability of his recovery.--He is irrecoverably mad.\"\n\nI gasped for breath--\n\n\"I will not detail to you,\" continued Raymond, \"the melancholy particulars.\nYou shall see him, and judge for yourself; although I fear this visit,\nuseless to him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has weighed on my\nspirits ever since. Excellent and gentle as he is even in the downfall of\nhis reason, I do not worship him as you do, but I would give all my hopes\nof a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him restored to himself.\"\n\nHis voice expressed the deepest compassion: \"Thou most unaccountable\nbeing,\" I cried, \"whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze of\npurpose in which thou seemest lost?\"\n\n\"Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown, I hope; and yet I\ndare not trust and though I dream of a crown and wake for one, ever and\nanon a busy devil whispers to me, that it is but a fool's cap that I seek,\nand that were I wise, I should trample on it, and take in its stead, that\nwhich is worth all the crowns of the east and presidentships of the west.\"\n\n\"And what is that?\"\n\n\"If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at present I dare not\nspeak, even think of it.\"\n\nAgain he was silent, and after a pause turned to me laughingly. When scorn\ndid not inspire his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that painted his\nfeatures with a joyous expression, his beauty became super-eminent, divine.\n\"Verney,\" said he, \"my first act when I become King of England, will be to\nunite with the Greeks, take Constantinople, and subdue all Asia. I intend\nto be a warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon's name shall vail to mine; and\nenthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky grave, and exalting the merits\nof the fallen, shall adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious\nachievements.\"\n\nI listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be other than all ear,\nto one who seemed to govern the whole earth in his grasping imagination,\nand who only quailed when he attempted to rule himself. Then on his word\nand will depended my own happiness--the fate of all dear to me. I\nendeavoured to divine the concealed meaning of his words. Perdita's name\nwas not mentioned; yet I could not doubt that love for her caused the\nvacillation of purpose that he exhibited. And who was so worthy of love as\nmy noble-minded sister? Who deserved the hand of this self-exalted king\nmore than she whose glance belonged to a queen of nations? who loved him,\nas he did her; notwithstanding that disappointment quelled her passion, and\nambition held strong combat with his.\n\nWe went together to the House in the evening. Raymond, while he knew that\nhis plans and prospects were to be discussed and decided during the\nexpected debate, was gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten thousand\nhives of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the coffee-room. Knots of\npoliticians were assembled with anxious brows and loud or deep voices. The\naristocratical party, the richest and most influential men in England,\nappeared less agitated than the others, for the question was to be\ndiscussed without their interference. Near the fire was Ryland and his\nsupporters. Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of immense wealth,\ninherited from his father, who had been a manufacturer. He had witnessed,\nwhen a young man, the abdication of the king, and the amalgamation of the\ntwo houses of Lords and Commons; he had sympathized with these popular\nencroachments, and it had been the business of his life to consolidate and\nencrease them. Since then, the influence of the landed proprietors had\naugmented; and at first Ryland was not sorry to observe the machinations of\nLord Raymond, which drew off many of his opponent's partizans. But the\nthing was now going too far. The poorer nobility hailed the return of\nsovereignty, as an event which would restore them to their power and\nrights, now lost. The half extinct spirit of royalty roused itself in the\nminds of men; and they, willing slaves, self-constituted subjects, were\nready to bend their necks to the yoke. Some erect and manly spirits still\nremained, pillars of state; but the word republic had grown stale to the\nvulgar ear; and many--the event would prove whether it was a majority--\npined for the tinsel and show of royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance;\nhe asserted that his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of this\nparty; but the time for indulgence was passed, and with one motion of his\narm he would sweep away the cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.\n\nWhen Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was hailed by his\nfriends almost with a shout. They gathered round him, counted their\nnumbers, and detailed the reasons why they were now to receive an addition\nof such and such members, who had not yet declared themselves. Some\ntrifling business of the House having been gone through, the leaders took\ntheir seats in the chamber; the clamour of voices continued, till Ryland\narose to speak, and then the slightest whispered observation was audible.\nAll eyes were fixed upon him as he stood--ponderous of frame, sonorous of\nvoice, and with a manner which, though not graceful, was impressive. I\nturned from his marked, iron countenance to Raymond, whose face, veiled by\na smile, would not betray his care; yet his lips quivered somewhat, and his\nhand clasped the bench on which he sat, with a convulsive strength that\nmade the muscles start again.\n\nRyland began by praising the present state of the British empire. He\nrecalled past years to their memory; the miserable contentions which in the\ntime of our fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of the late\nking, and the foundation of the republic. He described this republic;\nshewed how it gave privilege to each individual in the state, to rise to\nconsequence, and even to temporary sovereignty. He compared the royal and\nrepublican spirit; shewed how the one tended to enslave the minds of men;\nwhile all the institutions of the other served to raise even the meanest\namong us to something great and good. He shewed how England had become\npowerful, and its inhabitants valiant and wise, by means of the freedom\nthey enjoyed. As he spoke, every heart swelled with pride, and every cheek\nglowed with delight to remember, that each one there was English, and that\neach supported and contributed to the happy state of things now\ncommemorated. Ryland's fervour increased--his eyes lighted up--his\nvoice assumed the tone of passion. There was one man, he continued, who\nwished to alter all this, and bring us back to our days of impotence and\ncontention:--one man, who would dare arrogate the honour which was due to\nall who claimed England as their birthplace, and set his name and style\nabove the name and style of his country. I saw at this juncture that\nRaymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn from the orator, and cast\non the ground; the listeners turned from one to the other; but in the\nmeantime the speaker's voice filled their ears--the thunder of his\ndenunciations influenced their senses. The very boldness of his language\ngave him weight; each knew that he spoke truth--a truth known, but not\nacknowledged. He tore from reality the mask with which she had been\nclothed; and the purposes of Raymond, which before had crept around,\nensnaring by stealth, now stood a hunted stag--even at bay--as all\nperceived who watched the irrepressible changes of his countenance. Ryland\nended by moving, that any attempt to re-erect the kingly power should be\ndeclared treason, and he a traitor who should endeavour to change the\npresent form of government. Cheers and loud acclamations followed the close\nof his speech.\n\nAfter his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond rose,--his countenance\nbland, his voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and\nsweetness came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the loud,\norgan-like voice of his adversary. He rose, he said, to speak in favour of\nthe honourable member's motion, with one slight amendment subjoined. He was\nready to go back to old times, and commemorate the contests of our fathers,\nand the monarch's abdication. Nobly and greatly, he said, had the\nillustrious and last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the\napparent good of his country, and divested himself of a power which could\nonly be maintained by the blood of his subjects--these subjects named so\nno more, these, his friends and equals, had in gratitude conferred certain\nfavours and distinctions on him and his family for ever. An ample estate\nwas allotted to them, and they took the first rank among the peers of Great\nBritain. Yet it might be conjectured that they had not forgotten their\nancient heritage; and it was hard that his heir should suffer alike with\nany other pretender, if he attempted to regain what by ancient right and\ninheritance belonged to him. He did not say that he should favour such an\nattempt; but he did say that such an attempt would be venial; and, if the\naspirant did not go so far as to declare war, and erect a standard in the\nkingdom, his fault ought to be regarded with an indulgent eye. In his\namendment he proposed, that an exception should be made in the bill in\nfavour of any person who claimed the sovereign power in right of the earls\nof Windsor. Nor did Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid and glowing\ncolours, the splendour of a kingdom, in opposition to the commercial spirit\nof republicanism. He asserted, that each individual under the English\nmonarchy, was then as now, capable of attaining high rank and power--with\none only exception, that of the function of chief magistrate; higher and\nnobler rank, than a bartering, timorous commonwealth could afford. And for\nthis one exception, to what did it amount? The nature of riches and\ninfluence forcibly confined the list of candidates to a few of the\nwealthiest; and it was much to be feared, that the ill-humour and\ncontention generated by this triennial struggle, would counterbalance its\nadvantages in impartial eyes. I can ill record the flow of language and\ngraceful turns of expression, the wit and easy raillery that gave vigour\nand influence to his speech. His manner, timid at first, became firm--his\nchangeful face was lit up to superhuman brilliancy; his voice, various as\nmusic, was like that enchanting.\n\nIt were useless to record the debate that followed this harangue. Party\nspeeches were delivered, which clothed the question in cant, and veiled its\nsimple meaning in a woven wind of words. The motion was lost; Ryland\nwithdrew in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and exulting, retired to\ndream of his future kingdom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nIS there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if there be, in what\ndoes its nature differ from love founded in long observation and slow\ngrowth? Perhaps its effects are not so permanent; but they are, while they\nlast, as violent and intense. We walk the pathless mazes of society, vacant\nof joy, till we hold this clue, leading us through that labyrinth to\nparadise. Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch, sleeps in formless\nblank till the fire attain it; this life of life, this light to moon, and\nglory to the sun. What does it matter, whether the fire be struck from\nflint and steel, nourished with care into a flame, slowly communicated to\nthe dark wick, or whether swiftly the radiant power of light and warmth\npasses from a kindred power, and shines at once the beacon and the hope. In\nthe deepest fountain of my heart the pulses were stirred; around, above,\nbeneath, the clinging Memory as a cloak enwrapt me. In no one moment of\ncoming time did I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit of Idris\nhovered in the air I breathed; her eyes were ever and for ever bent on\nmine; her remembered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused me to walk as\none, not in eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy--but in a new and\nbrilliant light, too novel, too dazzling for my human senses. On every\nleaf, on every small division of the universe, (as on the hyacinth ai is\nengraved) was imprinted the talisman of my existence--SHE LIVES! SHE IS!\n--I had not time yet to analyze my feeling, to take myself to task, and\nleash in the tameless passion; all was one idea, one feeling, one knowledge\n--it was my life!\n\nBut the die was cast--Raymond would marry Idris. The merry marriage bells\nrung in my ears; I heard the nation's gratulation which followed the union;\nthe ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from the lowly ground\nto regal supremacy--and to the love of Idris. Yet, not so! She did not\nlove him; she had called me her friend; she had smiled on me; to me she had\nentrusted her heart's dearest hope, the welfare of Adrian. This reflection\nthawed my congealing blood, and again the tide of life and love flowed\nimpetuously onward, again to ebb as my busy thoughts changed.\n\nThe debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul was in tumults; I\ntraversed the streets with eager rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night--\nlove--which I have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with despair!\nMy heart, the field of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the one,\nwatered by the gushing tears of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned; I\nretreated to my lodgings--I threw myself on a couch--I slept--was it\nsleep?--for thought was still alive--love and despair struggled still,\nand I writhed with unendurable pain.\n\nI awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on me, but knew not\nwherefore; I entered, as it were, the council-chamber of my brain, and\nquestioned the various ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon I\nremembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the tormenting power;\nsoon, too soon, I knew myself a slave!\n\nSuddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my apartment. He came in gaily,\nsinging the Tyrolese song of liberty; noticed me with a gracious nod, and\nthrew himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the Apollo\nBelvidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to which I sullenly replied,\nhe suddenly cried, looking at the bust, \"I am called like that victor! Not\na bad idea; the head will serve for my new coinage, and be an omen to all\ndutiful subjects of my future success.\"\n\nHe said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner, and smiled, not\ndisdainfully, but in playful mockery of himself. Then his countenance\nsuddenly darkened, and in that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he cried,\n\"I fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the plains of Greece\nnever saw me achieve. Now I am the first man in the state, burthen of every\nballad, and object of old women's mumbled devotions. What are your\nmeditations? You, who fancy that you can read the human soul, as your\nnative lake reads each crevice and folding of its surrounding hills--say\nwhat you think of me; king-expectant, angel or devil, which?\"\n\nThis ironical tone was discord to my bursting, over-boiling-heart; I was\nnettled by his insolence, and replied with bitterness; \"There is a spirit,\nneither angel or devil, damned to limbo merely.\" I saw his cheeks become\npale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his anger served but to enkindle\nmine, and I answered with a determined look his eyes which glared on me;\nsuddenly they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I thought, wetted the dark\nlashes; I was softened, and with involuntary emotion added, \"Not that you\nare such, my dear lord.\"\n\nI paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; \"Yes,\" he said at length,\nrising and biting his lip, as he strove to curb his passion; \"Such am I!\nYou do not know me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience of last night,\nnor does universal England know aught of me. I stand here, it would seem,\nan elected king; this hand is about to grasp a sceptre; these brows feel in\neach nerve the coming diadem. I appear to have strength, power, victory;\nstanding as a dome-supporting column stands; and I am--a reed! I have\nambition, and that attains its aim; my nightly dreams are realized, my\nwaking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my acceptance, my enemies are\noverthrown. But here,\" and he struck his heart with violence, \"here is the\nrebel, here the stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which I may drain\nof its living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsation remains, I am its\nslave.\"\n\nHe spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and, hiding his face in\nhis hands, wept. I was still smarting from my own disappointment; yet this\nscene oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his access of\npassion. It subsided at length; and, throwing himself on the couch, he\nremained silent and motionless, except that his changeful features shewed a\nstrong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said in his usual tone of\nvoice, \"The time grows on us, Verney, I must away. Let me not forget my\nchiefest errand here. Will you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow? You will\nnot be dishonoured by my society, and as this is probably the last service,\nor disservice you can do me, will you grant my request?\"\n\nHe held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly I thought--Yes, I\nwill witness the last scene of the drama. Beside which, his mien conquered\nme, and an affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled my heart--I\nbade him command me. \"Aye, that I will,\" said he gaily, \"that's my cue now;\nbe with me to-morrow morning by seven; be secret and faithful; and you\nshall be groom of the stole ere long.\"\n\nSo saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and with a gesture as if\nhe gave me his hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu. Left to\nmyself, I strove with painful intensity to divine the motive of his request\nand foresee the events of the coming day. The hours passed on unperceived;\nmy head ached with thought, the nerves seemed teeming with the over full\nfraught--I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered hand could medicine\nits pain. I was punctual to the appointed hour on the following day, and\nfound Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into his carriage, and proceeded\ntowards Windsor. I had tutored myself, and was resolved by no outward sign\nto disclose my internal agitation.\n\n\"What a mistake Ryland made,\" said Raymond, \"when he thought to overpower\nme the other night. He spoke well, very well; such an harangue would have\nsucceeded better addressed to me singly, than to the fools and knaves\nassembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have listened to him with a\nwish to hear reason, but when he endeavoured to vanquish me in my own\nterritory, with my own weapons, he put me on my mettle, and the event was\nsuch as all might have expected.\"\n\nI smiled incredulously, and replied: \"I am of Ryland's way of thinking, and\nwill, if you please, repeat all his arguments; we shall see how far you\nwill be induced by them, to change the royal for the patriotic style.\"\n\n\"The repetition would be useless,\" said Raymond, \"since I well remember\nthem, and have many others, self-suggested, which speak with unanswerable\npersuasion.\"\n\nHe did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark on his reply. Our\nsilence endured for some miles, till the country with open fields, or shady\nwoods and parks, presented pleasant objects to our view. After some\nobservations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said: \"Philosophers have\ncalled man a microcosm of nature, and find a reflection in the internal\nmind for all this machinery visibly at work around us. This theory has\noften been a source of amusement to me; and many an idle hour have I spent,\nexercising my ingenuity in finding resemblances. Does not Lord Bacon say\nthat, 'the falling from a discord to a concord, which maketh great\nsweetness in music, hath an agreement with the affections, which are\nre-integrated to the better after some dislikes?' What a sea is the tide of\npassion, whose fountains are in our own nature! Our virtues are the\nquick-sands, which shew themselves at calm and low water; but let the waves\narise and the winds buffet them, and the poor devil whose hope was in their\ndurability, finds them sink from under him. The fashions of the world, its\nexigencies, educations and pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like\nclouds all one way; but let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of love,\nhate, or ambition, and the rack goes backward, stemming the opposing air in\ntriumph.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" replied I, \"nature always presents to our eyes the appearance of a\npatient: while there is an active principle in man which is capable of\nruling fortune, and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in some\nmode conquers it.\"\n\n\"There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction,\" said my\ncompanion. \"Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and our\npowers? I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with chords and\nstops--but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my thoughts to a\nhigher or lower key.\"\n\n\"Other men,\" I observed, \"may be better musicians.\"\n\n\"I talk not of others, but myself,\" replied Raymond, \"and I am as fair an\nexample to go by as another. I cannot set my heart to a particular tune, or\nrun voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose neither our\nparents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by the world's\ncircumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our innate disposition,\nis the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives grow.\"\n\n\"There is much truth in what you say,\" said I, \"and yet no man ever acts\nupon this theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I choose, because\nI am necessitated? Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will\nwithin him, which, though you may call it fallacious, still actuates him as\nhe decides?\"\n\n\"Exactly so,\" replied Raymond, \"another link of the breakless chain.\nWere I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and\npluck the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary\nweeds, would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?\"\n\nAs we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road to\nWindsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I began to\ndivine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was brought\nto witness the scene that was to decide the fate of Raymond--and of\nPerdita. Raymond had evidently vacillated during his journey, and\nirresolution was marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita's cottage. I\nwatched him curiously, determined that, if this hesitation should continue,\nI would assist Perdita to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the\nwavering love of him, who balanced between the possession of a crown, and\nof her, whose excellence and affection transcended the worth of a\nkingdom.\n\nWe found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the newspaper\nreport of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed her to\nhopelessness. That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes and\nspiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and frequent sighs were\ntokens of her distress. This sight had an instantaneous effect on Raymond;\nhis eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse clothed his manners with\nearnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking the paper from her\nhand, said, \"Not a word more shall my sweet Perdita read of this contention\nof madmen and fools. I must not permit you to be acquainted with the extent\nof my delusion, lest you despise me; although, believe me, a wish to appear\nbefore you, not vanquished, but as a conqueror, inspired me during my wordy\nwar.\"\n\nPerdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone for\na moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness. But a bitter\nthought swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground,\nendeavouring to master the passion of tears that threatened to overwhelm\nher. Raymond continued, \"I will not act a part with you, dear girl, or\nappear other than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite your\ndisdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel and know that you do,\nand thence I draw my most cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even\nreason, you might well reject me. Do so; if your high heart, incapable of\nmy infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend to the lowness of mine. Turn from\nme, if you will,--if you can. If your whole soul does not urge you to\nforgive me--if your entire heart does not open wide its door to admit me\nto its very centre, forsake me, never speak to me again. I, though sinning\nagainst you almost beyond remission, I also am proud; there must be no\nreserve in your pardon--no drawback to the gift of your affection.\"\n\nPerdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence embarrassed her; so\nthat she dared not turn to meet her lover's eye, or trust her voice to\nassure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her\ndisconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt joy. Raymond\nencircled her waist with his arm, and continued, \"I do not deny that I have\nbalanced between you and the highest hope that mortal men can entertain;\nbut I do so no longer. Take me--mould me to your will, possess my heart\nand soul to all eternity. If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I\nquit England to-night, and will never set foot in it again.\n\n\"Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister to forgive the\ninjury I have done her; persuade her to be mine.\"\n\n\"There needs no persuasion,\" said the blushing Perdita, \"except your own\ndear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me that they are\ntrue.\"\n\nThat same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with the\ngarrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history of\ntheir loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved\nPerdita changed through happy love into prattling, playful children, both\nlosing their characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual contentment. A\nnight or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and a heart oppressed\nwith thought, bent all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators\nof England that a sceptre was not too weighty for his hand, while visions\nof dominion, war, and triumph floated before him; now, frolicsome as a\nlively boy sporting under his mother's approving eye, the hopes of his\nambition were complete, when he pressed the small fair hand of Perdita to\nhis lips; while she, radiant with delight, looked on the still pool, not\ntruly admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the reflection there\nmade of the form of herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear\nconjunction.\n\nI rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was theirs, I\nenjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers of Windsor.\nHigh is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of\nBeauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few more years dwell in\nthy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire a right to\ngather thee. Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now? First I\nmust seek Adrian, and restore him to her. Patience, gentleness, and untired\naffection, shall recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is\nmad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.\n\nAfter the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove. Truly\nit was a fairy's supper; for though the air was perfumed by the scent of\nfruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank--even the beauty of\nthe night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased by outward\nobjects, and I was wrapt in reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took\nleave of my sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps of songs\nfell from his lips; every thought of his mind--every object about us,\ngleamed under the sunshine of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of\nill-humour and envy.\n\n\"Not so,\" said I, \"though I confess that my thoughts are not occupied as\npleasantly as yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I\nconjure you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I long to soothe\n--perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend. I shall\nimmediately depart for Dunkeld.\"\n\n\"Thou bird of night,\" replied Raymond, \"what an eclipse do you throw across\nmy bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy ruin, which\nstands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of a carved\ncolumn in a weed-grown field. You dream that you can restore him? Daedalus\nnever wound so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has woven\nabout his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can thread the\nlabyrinth, to which perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue.\"\n\n\"You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in England.\"\n\n\"And were she,\" said Raymond, \"I would not advise her seeing him. Better to\ndecay in absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the methodical\nunreason of ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his malady has probably\nerased from his mind all vestige of her; and it were well that it should\nnever again be imprinted. You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and\ntractable he wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits listening\nbeside the waterfall. You may see him--his hair stuck with wild flowers\n--his eyes full of untraceable meaning--his voice broken--his person\nwasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves chaplets of\nthem, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in\ntheir safety, or weeping at their wreck. The very memory half unmans me. By\nHeaven! the first tears I have shed since boyhood rushed scalding into my\neyes when I saw him.\"\n\nIt needed not this last account to spur me on to visit him. I only doubted\nwhether or not I should endeavour to see Idris again, before I departed.\nThis doubt was decided on the following day. Early in the morning Raymond\ncame to me; intelligence had arrived that Adrian was dangerously ill, and\nit appeared impossible that his failing strength should surmount the\ndisorder. \"To-morrow,\" said Raymond, \"his mother and sister set out for\nScotland to see him once again.\"\n\n\"And I go to-day,\" I cried; \"this very hour I will engage a sailing\nballoon; I shall be there in forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in\nless, if the wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having chosen the\nbetter part in life. This turn of fortune revives me. I feared madness, not\nsickness--I have a presentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps this\nillness is a crisis, and he may recover.\"\n\nEverything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about half a mile from the\nearth, and with a favourable wind it hurried through the air, its feathered\nvans cleaving the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the melancholy\nobject of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated by reviving hope, by the\nswift motion of the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny\nair. The pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and the slender mechanism\nof the wings, wide unfurled, gave forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the\nsense. Plain and hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible below, while\nwe unimpeded sped on swift and secure, as a wild swan in his spring-tide\nflight. The machine obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind\nblowing steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our course. Such was the\npower of man over the elements; a power long sought, and lately won; yet\nforetold in by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I quoted much\nto the astonishment of my pilot, when I told him how many hundred years ago\nthey had been written:--\n\n  Oh! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill,\n  Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,\n  An heavy man like a light bird should stray,\n  And through the empty heavens find a way?\n\nI alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a constant exposure to\nthe air for many hours, I would not rest, but merely altering my mode of\nconveyance, I went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was rising\nas I entered the opening of the hills. After the revolution of ages Birnam\nhill was again covered with a young forest, while more aged pines, planted\nat the very commencement of the nineteenth century by the then Duke of\nAthol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene. The rising sun first tinged\nthe pine tops; and my mind, rendered through my mountain education deeply\nsusceptible of the graces of nature, and now on the eve of again beholding\nmy beloved and perhaps dying friend, was strangely influenced by the sight\nof those distant beams: surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded\nthem, good omens for Adrian, on whose life my happiness depended.\n\nPoor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his cheeks glowing with\nthe hues of fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irregular and\ndifficult. Yet it was less painful to see him thus, than to find him\nfulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick the while. I\nestablished myself at his bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter\ntask was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and life: to see his\nwarm cheek, and know that the very fire which burned too fiercely there,\nwas consuming the vital fuel; to hear his moaning voice, which might never\nagain articulate words of love and wisdom; to witness the ineffectual\nmotions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in their mortal shroud. Such for\nthree days and nights appeared the consummation which fate had decreed for\nmy labours, and I became haggard and spectre-like, through anxiety and\nwatching. At length his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a look of returning\nlife; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his features was\nsoftened by approaching convalescence. He knew me. What a brimful cup of\njoyful agony it was, when his face first gleamed with the glance of\nrecognition--when he pressed my hand, now more fevered than his own, and\nwhen he pronounced my name! No trace of his past insanity remained, to dash\nmy joy with sorrow.\n\nThis same evening his mother and sister arrived. The Countess of Windsor\nwas by nature full of energetic feeling; but she had very seldom in her\nlife permitted the concentrated emotions of her heart to shew themselves on\nher features. The studied immovability of her countenance; her slow,\nequable manner, and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask, hiding her\nfiery passions, and the impatience of her disposition. She did not in the\nleast resemble either of her children; her black and sparkling eye, lit up\nby pride, was totally unlike the blue lustre, and frank, benignant\nexpression of either Adrian or Idris. There was something grand and\nmajestic in her motions, but nothing persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall,\nthin, and strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair hardly tinged\nwith grey, her forehead arched and beautiful, had not the eye-brows been\nsomewhat scattered--it was impossible not to be struck by her, almost to\nfear her. Idris appeared to be the only being who could resist her mother,\nnotwithstanding the extreme mildness of her character. But there was a\nfearlessness and frankness about her, which said that she would not\nencroach on another's liberty, but held her own sacred and unassailable.\n\nThe Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out frame, though\nafterwards she thanked me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris; her first\nglance was for her brother; she took his hand, she kissed his eye-lids, and\nhung over him with looks of compassion and love. Her eyes glistened with\ntears when she thanked me, and the grace of her expressions was enhanced,\nnot diminished, by the fervour, which caused her almost to falter as she\nspoke. Her mother, all eyes and ears, soon interrupted us; and I saw, that\nshe wished to dismiss me quietly, as one whose services, now that his\nrelatives had arrived, were of no use to her son. I was harassed and ill,\nresolved not to give up my post, yet doubting in what way I should assert\nit; when Adrian called me, and clasping my hand, bade me not leave him. His\nmother, apparently inattentive, at once understood what was meant, and\nseeing the hold we had upon her, yielded the point to us.\n\nThe days that followed were full of pain to me; so that I sometimes\nregretted that I had not yielded at once to the haughty lady, who watched\nall my motions, and turned my beloved task of nursing my friend to a work\nof pain and irritation. Never did any woman appear so entirely made of\nmind, as the Countess of Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appetites,\neven her natural wants; she slept little, and hardly ate at all; her body\nwas evidently considered by her as a mere machine, whose health was\nnecessary for the accomplishment of her schemes, but whose senses formed no\npart of her enjoyment. There is something fearful in one who can thus\nconquer the animal part of our nature, if the victory be not the effect of\nconsummate virtue; nor was it without a mixture of this feeling, that I\nbeheld the figure of the Countess awake when others slept, fasting when I,\nabstemious naturally, and rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was\nforced to recruit myself with food. She resolved to prevent or diminish my\nopportunities of acquiring influence over her children, and circumvented my\nplans by a hard, quiet, stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong to\nflesh and blood. War was at last tacitly acknowledged between us. We had\nmany pitched battles, during which no word was spoken, hardly a look was\ninterchanged, but in which each resolved not to submit to the other. The\nCountess had the advantage of position; so I was vanquished, though I would\nnot yield.\n\nI became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with the hues of ill\nhealth and vexation. Adrian and Idris saw this; they attributed it to my\nlong watching and anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of myself,\nwhile I most truly assured them, that my best medicine was their good\nwishes; those, and the assured convalescence of my friend, now daily more\napparent. The faint rose again blushed on his cheek; his brow and lips lost\nthe ashy paleness of threatened dissolution; such was the dear reward of my\nunremitting attention--and bounteous heaven added overflowing recompence,\nwhen it gave me also the thanks and smiles of Idris.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris and her mother\nreturned immediately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed by slow\njournies and frequent stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness. As\nwe traversed the various counties of fertile England, all wore an\nexhilarating appearance to my companion, who had been so long secluded by\ndisease from the enjoyments of weather and scenery. We passed through busy\ntowns and cultivated plains. The husbandmen were getting in their plenteous\nharvests, and the women and children, occupied by light rustic toils,\nformed groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very sight of whom carried\ncheerfulness to the heart. One evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down\na shady lane, then up a grassy slope, till we came to an eminence, that\ncommanded an extensive view of hill and dale, meandering rivers, dark\nwoods, and shining villages. The sun was setting; and the clouds, straying,\nlike new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields of sky, received the golden\ncolour of his parting beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy\nhum of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear. Adrian, who felt\nall the fresh spirit infused by returning health, clasped his hands in\ndelight, and exclaimed with transport:\n\n\"O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A stately palace has God\nbuilt for you, O man! and worthy are you of your dwelling! Behold the\nverdant carpet spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the fields\nof earth which generate and nurture all things, and the track of heaven,\nwhich contains and clasps all things. Now, at this evening hour, at the\nperiod of repose and refection, methinks all hearts breathe one hymn of\nlove and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops,\ngive a voice to their sentiment.\n\n\"Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic fabric we inhabit,\nand framed the laws by which it endures. If mere existence, and not\nhappiness, had been the final end of our being, what need of the profuse\nluxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place be so lovely, and\nwhy should the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sensations? The\nvery sustaining of our animal machine is made delightful; and our\nsustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted with transcendant hues,\nendued with grateful odours, and palatable to our taste. Why should this\nbe, if HE were not good? We need houses to protect us from the seasons, and\nbehold the materials with which we are provided; the growth of trees with\ntheir adornment of leaves; while rocks of stone piled above the plains\nvariegate the prospect with their pleasant irregularity.\n\n\"Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the Spirit of Good. Look\ninto the mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned; where imagination, the\npainter, sits, with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of sunset,\nadorning familiar life with glowing tints. What a noble boon, worthy the\ngiver, is the imagination! it takes from reality its leaden hue: it\nenvelopes all thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an hand of\nbeauty beckons us from the sterile seas of life, to her gardens, and\nbowers, and glades of bliss. And is not love a gift of the divinity? Love,\nand her child, Hope, which can bestow wealth on poverty, strength on the\nweak, and happiness on the sorrowing.\n\n\"My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long with grief, entered\nthe gloomy labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half alive. Yet I thank\nGod that I have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his throne, the\nheavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad that I have seen the changes\nof his day; to behold the sun, fountain of light, and the gentle pilgrim\nmoon; to have seen the fire bearing flowers of the sky, and the flowery\nstars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing and the harvest. I am glad\nthat I have loved, and have experienced sympathetic joy and sorrow with my\nfellow-creatures. I am glad now to feel the current of thought flow through\nmy mind, as the blood through the articulations of my frame; mere existence\nis pleasure; and I thank God that I live!\n\n\"And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not echo my words? Ye\nwho are linked by the affectionate ties of nature, companions, friends,\nlovers! fathers, who toil with joy for their offspring; women, who while\ngazing on the living forms of their children, forget the pains of\nmaternity; children, who neither toil nor spin, but love and are loved!\n\n\"Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our earthly home! that\nhatred, tyranny, and fear could no longer make their lair in the human\nheart! that each man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of\nrepose amid the wide plains of his inheritance! that the source of tears\nwere dry, and that lips might no longer form expressions of sorrow.\nSleeping thus under the beneficent eye of heaven, can evil visit thee, O\nEarth, or grief cradle to their graves thy luckless children? Whisper it\nnot, let the demons hear and rejoice! The choice is with us; let us will\nit, and our habitation becomes a paradise. For the will of man is\nomnipotent, blunting the arrows of death, soothing the bed of disease, and\nwiping away the tears of agony. And what is each human being worth, if he\ndo not put forth his strength to aid his fellow-creatures? My soul is a\nfading spark, my nature frail as a spent wave; but I dedicate all of\nintellect and strength that remains to me, to that one work, and take upon\nme the task, as far as I am able, of bestowing blessings on my\nfellow-men!\"\n\nHis voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands clasped, and his\nfragile person was bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The spirit of\nlife seemed to linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar flickers on\nthe embers of an accepted sacrifice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nWHEN we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and Perdita had departed\nfor the continent. I took possession of my sister's cottage, and blessed\nmyself that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a curious fact,\nthat at this period, when by the marriage of Perdita I was allied to one of\nthe richest individuals in England, and was bound by the most intimate\nfriendship to its chiefest noble, I experienced the greatest excess of\npoverty that I had ever known. My knowledge of the worldly principles of\nLord Raymond, would have ever prevented me from applying to him, however\ndeep my distress might have been. It was in vain that I repeated to myself\nwith regard to Adrian, that his purse was open to me; that one in soul, as\nwe were, our fortunes ought also to be common. I could never, while with\nhim, think of his bounty as a remedy to my poverty; and I even put aside\nhastily his offers of supplies, assuring him of a falsehood, that I needed\nthem not. How could I say to this generous being, \"Maintain me in idleness.\nYou who have dedicated your powers of mind and fortune to the benefit of\nyour species, shall you so misdirect your exertions, as to support in\nuselessness the strong, healthy, and capable?\"\n\nAnd yet I dared not request him to use his influence that I might obtain an\nhonourable provision for myself--for then I should have been obliged to\nleave Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its Castle, beneath\nits enshadowing thickets; my sole companions were my books and my loving\nthoughts. I studied the wisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the happy\nwalls that sheltered the beloved of my soul. My mind was nevertheless idle.\nI pored over the poetry of old times; I studied the metaphysics of Plato\nand Berkeley. I read the histories of Greece and Rome, and of England's\nformer periods, and I watched the movements of the lady of my heart. At\nnight I could see her shadow on the walls of her apartment; by day I viewed\nher in her flower-garden, or riding in the park with her usual companions.\nMethought the charm would be broken if I were seen, but I heard the music\nof her voice and was happy. I gave to each heroine of whom I read, her\nbeauty and matchless excellences--such was Antigone, when she guided the\nblind Oedipus to the grove of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral\nrites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the unvisited cave of Prospero;\nsuch Haidee, on the sands of the Ionian island. I was mad with excess of\npassionate devotion; but pride, tameless as fire, invested my nature, and\nprevented me from betraying myself by word or look.\n\nIn the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with rich mental repasts, a\npeasant would have disdained my scanty fare, which I sometimes robbed from\nthe squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often tempted to recur to the\nlawless feats of my boy-hood, and knock down the almost tame pheasants that\nperched upon the trees, and bent their bright eyes on me. But they were the\nproperty of Adrian, the nurslings of Idris; and so, although my imagination\nrendered sensual by privation, made me think that they would better become\nthe spit in my kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest,\n\n     Nathelesse,\n  I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;\n\nbut supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of \"such morsels sweet,\" as\nI might not waking attain.\n\nBut, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence was about to change.\nThe orphan and neglected son of Verney, was on the eve of being linked to\nthe mechanism of society by a golden chain, and to enter into all the\nduties and affections of life. Miracles were to be wrought in my favour,\nthe machine of social life pushed with vast effort backward. Attend, O\nreader! while I narrate this tale of wonders!\n\nOne day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the forest, with their\nmother and accustomed companions, Idris, drawing her brother aside from the\nrest of the cavalcade, suddenly asked him, \"What had become of his friend,\nLionel Verney?\"\n\n\"Even from this spot,\" replied Adrian, pointing to my sister's cottage,\n\"you can see his dwelling.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said Idris, \"and why, if he be so near, does he not come to see\nus, and make one of our society?\"\n\n\"I often visit him,\" replied Adrian; \"but you may easily guess the motives,\nwhich prevent him from coming where his presence may annoy any one among\nus.\"\n\n\"I do guess them,\" said Idris, \"and such as they are, I would not\nventure to combat them. Tell me, however, in what way he passes his time;\nwhat he is doing and thinking in his cottage retreat?\"\n\n\"Nay, my sweet sister,\" replied Adrian, \"you ask me more than I can well\nanswer; but if you feel interest in him, why not visit him? He will feel\nhighly honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the obligation I owe him,\nand compensate for the injuries fortune has done him.\"\n\n\"I will most readily accompany you to his abode,\" said the lady, \"not that\nI wish that either of us should unburthen ourselves of our debt, which,\nbeing no less than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But let us go;\nto-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and proceeding towards that\npart of the forest, call upon him.\"\n\nThe next evening therefore, though the autumnal change had brought on cold\nand rain, Adrian and Idris entered my cottage. They found me Curius-like,\nfeasting on sorry fruits for supper; but they brought gifts richer than the\ngolden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I refuse the invaluable store of\nfriendship and delight which they bestowed. Surely the glorious twins of\nLatona were not more welcome, when, in the infancy of the world, they were\nbrought forth to beautify and enlighten this \"sterile promontory,\" than\nwere this angelic pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart. We sat like\none family round my hearth. Our talk was on subjects, unconnected with the\nemotions that evidently occupied each; but we each divined the other's\nthought, and as our voices spoke of indifferent matters, our eyes, in mute\nlanguage, told a thousand things no tongue could have uttered.\n\nThey left me in an hour's time. They left me happy--how unspeakably\nhappy. It did not require the measured sounds of human language to syllable\nthe story of my extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should again and\nagain see--my imagination did not wander beyond the completeness of this\nknowledge. I trod air; no doubt, no fear, no hope even, disturbed me; I\nclasped with my soul the fulness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring,\nbeatified.\n\nFor many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me thus. In this dear\nintercourse, love, in the guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused more\nand more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of the\nworld, I read your characters in her looks and gesture; I heard your\nmelodious voice echoed by her--you prepared for us a soft and flowery\npath, all gentle thoughts adorned it--your name, O Love, was not spoken,\nbut you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand,\nmight raise the curtain. Organs of articulate sound did not proclaim the\nunion of our hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed no opportunity for\nthe expression that hovered on our lips. Oh my pen! haste thou to write what\nwas, before the thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee. If I\nlift up my eyes and see the desart earth, and feel that those dear eyes\nhave spent their mortal lustre, and that those beauteous lips are silent,\ntheir \"crimson leaves\" faded, for ever I am mute!\n\nBut you live, my Idris, even now you move before me! There was a glade, O\nreader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its velvet\nexpanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one side, and\na willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair, dishevelled by the\nwind's viewless hand. The oaks around were the home of a tribe of\nnightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear prime, is by my side\n--remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarcely\npassed over the beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal rains,\ndeluged the low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is employed in the\ndangerous pastime of plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are\nyou weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with danger?--\n\nHe has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood; our\neyes were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us;\nhe was forced to land far lower down, and to make a considerable circuit\nbefore he could join us. \"He is safe!\" said Idris, as he leapt on shore,\nand waved the bough over his head in token of success; \"we will wait for\nhim here.\"\n\nWe were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales\nbegan; the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was yet\nunfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on this\nsweet emblem of herself: \"How the light palpitates,\" she said, \"which is\nthat star's life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state,\neven like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears, methinks,\nand it loves.\"\n\n\"Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend,\" I cried, \"read not love in\nits trembling rays; look not upon distant worlds; speak not of the mere\nimagination of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to sickness\nhave I desired to speak to you, and submit my soul, my life, my entire\nbeing to you. Look not on the star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal\nspark plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate, silent as it\nshines--love is to me as light to the star; even so long as that is\nuneclipsed by annihilation, so long shall I love you.\"\n\nVeiled for ever to the world's callous eye must be the transport of that\nmoment. Still do I feel her graceful form press against my full-fraught\nheart--still does sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and fail, at the\nremembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we went to meet Adrian,\nwhom we heard approaching.\n\nI entreated Adrian to return to me after he had conducted his sister home.\nAnd that same evening, walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I poured\nforth my whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my friend. For a\nmoment he looked disturbed--\"I might have foreseen this,\" he said, \"what\nstrife will now ensue! Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expectation\nof contest with my mother should jar me, when else I should delightedly\nconfess that my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my sister to your\nprotection. If you do not already know it, you will soon learn the deep\nhate my mother bears to the name Verney. I will converse with Idris; then\nall that a friend can do, I will do; to her it must belong to play the\nlover's part, if she be capable of it.\"\n\nWhile the brother and sister were still hesitating in what manner they\ncould best attempt to bring their mother over to their party, she,\nsuspecting our meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair\ndaughter with deceit, and an unbecoming attachment for one whose only merit\nwas being the son of the profligate favourite of her imprudent father; and\nwho was doubtless as worthless as he from whom he boasted his descent. The\neyes of Idris flashed at this accusation; she replied, \"I do not deny that\nI love Verney; prove to me that he is worthless; and I will never see him\nmore.\"\n\n\"Dear Madam,\" said Adrian, \"let me entreat you to see him, to cultivate his\nfriendship. You will wonder then, as I do, at the extent of his\naccomplishments, and the brilliancy of his talents.\" (Pardon me, gentle\nreader, this is not futile vanity;--not futile, since to know that Adrian\nfelt thus, brings joy even now to my lone heart).\n\n\"Mad and foolish boy!\" exclaimed the angry lady, \"you have chosen with\ndreams and theories to overthrow my schemes for your own aggrandizement;\nbut you shall not do the same by those I have formed for your sister. I but\ntoo well understand the fascination you both labour under; since I had the\nsame struggle with your father, to make him cast off the parent of this\nyouth, who hid his evil propensities with the smoothness and subtlety of a\nviper. In those days how often did I hear of his attractions, his wide\nspread conquests, his wit, his refined manners. It is well when flies only\nare caught by such spiders' webs; but is it for the high-born and powerful\nto bow their necks to the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pretensions? Were\nyour sister indeed the insignificant person she deserves to be, I would\nwillingly leave her to the fate, the wretched fate, of the wife of a man,\nwhose very person, resembling as it does his wretched father, ought to\nremind you of the folly and vice it typifies--but remember, Lady Idris,\nit is not alone the once royal blood of England that colours your veins,\nyou are a Princess of Austria, and every life-drop is akin to emperors and\nkings. Are you then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-boy, whose only\ninheritance is his father's tarnished name?\"\n\n\"I can make but one defence,\" replied Idris, \"the same offered by my\nbrother; see Lionel, converse with my shepherd-boy\"---The Countess\ninterrupted her indignantly--\"Yours!\"--she cried: and then, smoothing\nher impassioned features to a disdainful smile, she continued--\"We will\ntalk of this another time. All I now ask, all your mother, Idris, requests\nis, that you will not see this upstart during the interval of one month.\"\n\n\"I dare not comply,\" said Idris, \"it would pain him too much. I have no\nright to play with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and then\nsting him with neglect.\"\n\n\"This is going too far,\" her mother answered, with quivering lips, and eyes\nagain instinct by anger.\n\n\"Nay, Madam,\" said Adrian, \"unless my sister consent never to see him\nagain, it is surely an useless torment to separate them for a month.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn, \"his love, and her\nlove, and both their childish flutterings, are to be put in fit comparison\nwith my years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the offspring of\nkings, with the high and dignified conduct which one of her descent ought\nto pursue. But it is unworthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps you will\nhave the goodness to promise me not to marry during that interval?\"\n\nThis was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered why her mother\nshould extort from her a solemn vow not to do, what she had never dreamed\nof doing--but the promise was required and given.\n\nAll went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked without dread of\nour future plans. The Countess was so gentle, and even beyond her wont,\namiable with her children, that they began to entertain hopes of her\nultimate consent. She was too unlike them, too utterly alien to their\ntastes, for them to find delight in her society, or in the prospect of its\ncontinuance, but it gave them pleasure to see her conciliating and kind.\nOnce even, Adrian ventured to propose her receiving me. She refused with a\nsmile, reminding him that for the present his sister had promised to be\npatient.\n\nOne day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian received a letter from a\nfriend in London, requesting his immediate presence for the furtherance of\nsome important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared no deceit. I rode\nwith him as far as Staines: he was in high spirits; and, since I could not\nsee Idris during his absence, he promised a speedy return. His gaiety,\nwhich was extreme, had the strange effect of awakening in me contrary\nfeelings; a presentiment of evil hung over me; I loitered on my return; I\ncounted the hours that must elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore\nshould this be? What evil might not happen in the mean time? Might not her\nmother take advantage of Adrian's absence to urge her beyond her\nsufferance, perhaps to entrap her? I resolved, let what would befall, to\nsee and converse with her the following day. This determination soothed me.\nTo-morrow, loveliest and best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will\nsee thee--Fool, to dream of a moment's delay!\n\nI went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a violent knocking. It was\nnow deep winter; it had snowed, and was still snowing; the wind whistled in\nthe leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as they fell; its\ndrear moaning, and the continued knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams--\nat length I was wide awake; hastily dressing myself, I hurried to discover\nthe cause of this disturbance, and to open my door to the unexpected\nvisitor. Pale as the snow that showered about her, with clasped hands,\nIdris stood before me. \"Save me!\" she exclaimed, and would have sunk to the\nground had I not supported her. In a moment however she revived, and, with\nenergy, almost with violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her\naway, away to London--to her brother--at least to save her. I had no\nhorses--she wrung her hands. \"What can I do?\" she cried, \"I am lost--we\nare both for ever lost! But come--come with me, Lionel; here I must not\nstay,--we can get a chaise at the nearest post-house; yet perhaps we have\ntime! come, O come with me to save and protect me!\"\n\nWhen I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered dress, dishevelled\nhair, and aghast looks, she wrung her hands--the idea shot across me is\nshe also mad?--\"Sweet one,\" and I folded her to my heart, \"better repose\nthan wander further;--rest--my beloved, I will make a fire--you are\nchill.\"\n\n\"Rest!\" she cried, \"repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we are lost;\ncome, I pray you, unless you would cast me off for ever.\"\n\nThat Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should have\ncome through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode, and\nstanding at my lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness and\nstorm--was surely a dream--again her plaintive tones, the sight of her\nloveliness assured me that it was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if\nshe feared to be overheard, she whispered: \"I have discovered--to-morrow\n--that is, to-day--already the to-morrow is come--before dawn,\nforeigners, Austrians, my mother's hirelings, are to carry me off to\nGermany, to prison, to marriage--to anything, except you and my brother\n--take me away, or soon they will be here!\"\n\nI was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some mistake in her\nincoherent tale; but I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had come by\nherself from the Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the heavy\nsnow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and a half further, before we\ncould obtain a chaise. She told me, that she had kept up her strength and\ncourage till her arrival at my cottage, and then both failed. Now she could\nhardly walk. Supporting her as I did, still she lagged: and at the distance\nof half a mile, after many stoppages, shivering fits, and half faintings,\nshe slipt from my supporting arm on the snow, and with a torrent of tears\naverred that she must be taken, for that she could not proceed. I lifted\nher up in my arms; her light form rested on my breast.--I felt no\nburthen, except the internal one of contrary and contending emotions.\nBrimming delight now invested me. Again her chill limbs touched me as a\ntorpedo; and I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head lay\non my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine,\ntransport made me tremble, blinded me, annihilated me--till a suppressed\ngroan, bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she\nstrove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced,\nrecalled me to the necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her,\n\"There is Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus\nstrangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your\nflight too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will\nput you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.\"\n\nShe answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased. I\nobserved the door of a small out-house a-jar. I pushed it open; and, with\nsome hay strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted\nframe on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared to leave her, she\nlooked so wan and faint--but in a moment she re-acquired animation, and,\nwith that, fear; and again she implored me not to delay. To call up the\npeople of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and horses, even though I\nharnessed them myself, was the work of many minutes; minutes, each\nfreighted with the weight of ages. I caused the chaise to advance a little,\nwaited till the people of the inn had retired, and then made the post-boy\ndraw up the carriage to the spot where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat\nrecovered, stood waiting for me. I lifted her into the chaise; I assured\nher that with our four horses we should arrive in London before five\no'clock, the hour when she would be sought and missed. I besought her to\ncalm herself; a kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she\nrelated her tale of fear and peril.\n\nThat same night after Adrian's departure, her mother had warmly\nexpostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me. Every motive,\nevery threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed to consider\nthat through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil influence of her life;\nI was even accused of encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy\nof Adrian from all views of advancement and grandeur; and now this\nmiserable mountaineer was to steal her daughter. Never, Idris related, did\nthe angry lady deign to recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she had, the\ntask of resistance would have been exquisitely painful. As it was, the\nsweet girl's generous nature was roused to defend, and ally herself with,\nmy despised cause. Her mother ended with a look of contempt and covert\ntriumph, which for a moment awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they\nparted for the night, the Countess said, \"To-morrow I trust your tone will\nbe changed: be composed; I have agitated you; go to rest; and I will send\nyou a medicine I always take when unduly restless--it will give you a\nquiet night.\"\n\nBy the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her fair cheek upon her\npillow, her mother's servant brought a draught; a suspicion again crossed\nher at this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to determine her not to\ntake the potion; but dislike of contention, and a wish to discover whether\nthere was any just foundation for her conjectures, made her, she said,\nalmost instinctively, and in contradiction to her usual frankness, pretend\nto swallow the medicine. Then, agitated as she had been by her mother's\nviolence, and now by unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep, starting\nat every sound. Soon her door opened softly, and on her springing up, she\nheard a whisper, \"Not asleep yet,\" and the door again closed. With a\nbeating heart she expected another visit, and when after an interval her\nchamber was again invaded, having first assured herself that the intruders\nwere her mother and an attendant, she composed herself to feigned sleep. A\nstep approached her bed, she dared not move, she strove to calm her\npalpitations, which became more violent, when she heard her mother say\nmutteringly, \"Pretty simpleton, little do you think that your game is\nalready at an end for ever.\"\n\nFor a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother believed that she had\ndrank poison: she was on the point of springing up; when the Countess,\nalready at a distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to her companion,\nand again Idris listened: \"Hasten,\" said she, \"there is no time to lose--\nit is long past eleven; they will be here at five; take merely the clothes\nnecessary for her journey, and her jewel-casket.\" The servant obeyed; few\nwords were spoken on either side; but those were caught at with avidity by\nthe intended victim. She heard the name of her own maid mentioned;--\"No,\nno,\" replied her mother, \"she does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget\nEngland, and all belonging to it.\" And again she heard, \"She will not wake\ntill late to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea.\"----\"All is ready,\" at\nlength the woman announced. The Countess again came to her daughter's\nbedside: \"In Austria at least,\" she said, \"you will obey. In Austria, where\nobedience can be enforced, and no choice left but between an honourable\nprison and a fitting marriage.\"\n\nBoth then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess said, \"Softly; all\nsleep; though all have not been prepared for sleep, like her. I would not\nhave any one suspect, or she might be roused to resistance, and perhaps\nescape. Come with me to my room; we will remain there till the hour agreed\nupon.\" They went. Idris, panic-struck, but animated and strengthened even\nby her excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and going down a flight\nof back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of her mother's apartment, she\ncontrived to escape from the castle by a low window, and came through snow,\nwind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor lost her courage, until she arrived,\nand, depositing her fate in my hands, gave herself up to the desperation\nand weariness that overwhelmed her.\n\nI comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation, were mine, to\npossess, and to save her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her, \"per\nnon turbar quel bel viso sereno,\" I curbed my delight. I strove to quiet\nthe eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her my eyes, beaming with too\nmuch tenderness, and proudly, to dark night, and the inclement atmosphere,\nmurmured the expressions of my transport. We reached London, methought, all\ntoo soon; and yet I could not regret our speedy arrival, when I witnessed\nthe extasy with which my beloved girl found herself in her brother's arms,\nsafe from every evil, under his unblamed protection.\n\nAdrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her that Idris was under\nhis care and guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at last an answer\ncame, dated from Cologne. \"It was useless,\" the haughty and disappointed\nlady wrote, \"for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to address again the\ninjured parent, whose only expectation of tranquillity must be derived from\noblivion of their existence. Her desires had been blasted, her schemes\noverthrown. She did not complain; in her brother's court she would find,\nnot compensation for their disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of\nnone), but such a state of things and mode of life, as might best reconcile\nher to her fate. Under such circumstances, she positively declined any\ncommunication with them.\"\n\nSuch were the strange and incredible events, that finally brought about my\nunion with the sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris. With\nsimplicity and courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition which\nwere obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand, where she\nhad given her heart. To be worthy of her, to raise myself to her height\nthrough the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her love with devoted,\nunwearied tenderness, were the only thanks I could offer for the matchless\ngift.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nAND now let the reader, passing over some short period of time, be\nintroduced to our happy circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established in\nWindsor Castle; Lord Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which the\nformer had built on the borders of the Great Park, near Perdita's cottage,\nas was still named the low-roofed abode, where we two, poor even in hope,\nhad each received the assurance of our felicity. We had our separate\noccupations and our common amusements. Sometimes we passed whole days under\nthe leafy covert of the forest with our books and music. This occurred\nduring those rare days in this country, when the sun mounts his etherial\nthrone in unclouded majesty, and the windless atmosphere is as a bath of\npellucid and grateful water, wrapping the senses in tranquillity. When the\nclouds veiled the sky, and the wind scattered them there and here, rending\ntheir woof, and strewing its fragments through the aerial plains--then we\nrode out, and sought new spots of beauty and repose. When the frequent\nrains shut us within doors, evening recreation followed morning study,\nushered in by music and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her\nvoice, which had been carefully cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and\nI made a part of the concert, and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners.\nThen we were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we ever met one\nanother with smiles, and read content and joy in each other's countenances.\nOur prime festivals were held in Perdita's cottage; nor were we ever weary\nof talking of the past or dreaming of the future. Jealousy and disquiet\nwere unknown among us; nor did a fear or hope of change ever disturb our\ntranquillity. Others said, We might be happy--we said--We are.\n\nWhen any separation took place between us, it generally so happened, that\nIdris and Perdita would ramble away together, and we remained to discuss\nthe affairs of nations, and the philosophy of life. The very difference of\nour dispositions gave zest to these conversations. Adrian had the\nsuperiority in learning and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a quick\npenetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which usually displayed\nitself in opposition to Adrian, and thus kept up the ball of discussion. At\nother times we made excursions of many days' duration, and crossed the\ncountry to visit any spot noted for beauty or historical association.\nSometimes we went up to London, and entered into the amusements of the busy\nthrong; sometimes our retreat was invaded by visitors from among them. This\nchange made us only the more sensible to the delights of the intimate\nintercourse of our own circle, the tranquillity of our divine forest, and\nour happy evenings in the halls of our beloved Castle.\n\nThe disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft, and affectionate. Her\ntemper was unalterably sweet; and although firm and resolute on any point\nthat touched her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The nature of\nPerdita was less perfect; but tenderness and happiness improved her temper,\nand softened her natural reserve. Her understanding was clear and\ncomprehensive, her imagination vivid; she was sincere, generous, and\nreasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of my soul, the sensitive and\nexcellent Adrian, loving all, and beloved by all, yet seemed destined not\nto find the half of himself, which was to complete his happiness. He often\nleft us, and wandered by himself in the woods, or sailed in his little\nskiff, his books his only companions. He was often the gayest of our party,\nat the same time that he was the only one visited by fits of despondency;\nhis slender frame seemed overcharged with the weight of life, and his soul\nappeared rather to inhabit his body than unite with it. I was hardly more\ndevoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she loved him as her teacher,\nher friend, the benefactor who had secured to her the fulfilment of her\ndearest wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless Raymond, reposed midway on\nthe great high-road of life, and was content to give up all his schemes of\nsovereignty and fame, to make one of us, the flowers of the field. His\nkingdom was the heart of Perdita, his subjects her thoughts; by her he was\nloved, respected as a superior being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no\ndevotion, no watching was irksome to her, as it regarded him. She would sit\napart from us and watch him; she would weep for joy to think that he was\nhers. She erected a temple for him in the depth of her being, and each\nfaculty was a priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might be\nwayward and capricious; but her repentance was bitter, her return entire,\nand even this inequality of temper suited him who was not formed by nature\nto float idly down the stream of life.\n\nDuring the first year of their marriage, Perdita presented Raymond with a\nlovely girl. It was curious to trace in this miniature model the very\ntraits of its father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of triumph,\nthe same intelligent eyes, the same brow and chestnut hair; her very hands\nand taper fingers resembled his. How very dear she was to Perdita! In\nprogress of time, I also became a father, and our little darlings, our\nplaythings and delights, called forth a thousand new and delicious\nfeelings.\n\nYears passed thus,--even years. Each month brought forth its successor,\neach year one like to that gone by; truly, our lives were a living comment\non that beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that \"our souls have a natural\ninclination to love, being born as much to love, as to feel, to reason, to\nunderstand and remember.\" We talked of change and active pursuits, but\nstill remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the charm that attached\nus to our secluded life.\n\n  Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto\n  Che fra mortali in piu parte si rimembra.\n\nNow also that our children gave us occupation, we found excuses for\nour idleness, in the idea of bringing them up to a more splendid\ncareer. At length our tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events,\nwhich for five years had flowed on in hushing tranquillity, was broken by\nbreakers and obstacles, that woke us from our pleasant dream.\n\nA new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and, at Raymond's\nrequest, we removed to London, to witness, and even take a part in the\nelection. If Raymond had been united to Idris, this post had been his\nstepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for power and fame had\nbeen crowned with fullest measure. He had exchanged a sceptre for a lute, a\nkingdom for Perdita.\n\nDid he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I watched him, but could\nmake but little of him. He was particularly gay, playing with his child,\nand turning to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did this\nbecause he saw a cloud upon Perdita's brow. She tried to rouse herself, but\nher eyes every now and then filled with tears, and she looked wistfully on\nRaymond and her girl, as if fearful that some evil would betide them. And\nso she felt. A presentiment of ill hung over her. She leaned from the\nwindow looking on the forest, and the turrets of the Castle, and as these\nbecame hid by intervening objects, she passionately exclaimed--\"Scenes of\nhappiness! scenes sacred to devoted love, when shall I see you again! and\nwhen I see ye, shall I be still the beloved and joyous Perdita, or shall I,\nheart-broken and lost, wander among your groves, the ghost of what I\nam!\"\n\n\"Why, silly one,\" cried Raymond, \"what is your little head pondering\nupon, that of a sudden you have become so sublimely dismal? Cheer up, or I\nshall make you over to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I see\nby his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits.\"\n\nAdrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage, and his gaiety, in\naddition to that of Raymond, dispelled my sister's melancholy. We entered\nLondon in the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde Park.\n\nThe following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. \"I come to you,\" he\nsaid, \"only half assured that you will assist me in my project, but\nresolved to go through with it, whether you concur with me or not. Promise\nme secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my success, at least\nyou must not baffle me.\"\n\n\"Well, I promise. And now---\"\n\n\"And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to London? To be present at\nthe election of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for his shuffling\nGrace of----? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe, Verney, that I\nbrought you to town for that? No, we will have a Protector of our own. We\nwill set up a candidate, and ensure his success. We will nominate Adrian,\nand do our best to bestow on him the power to which he is entitled by his\nbirth, and which he merits through his virtues.\n\n\"Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will reply to them in\norder. First, Whether he will or will not consent to become a great man?\nLeave the task of persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you to\nassist me there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange his employment of\nplucking blackberries, and nursing wounded partridges in the forest, for\nthe command of a nation? My dear Lionel, we are married men, and find\nemployment sufficient in amusing our wives, and dancing our children. But\nAdrian is alone, wifeless, childless, unoccupied. I have long observed him.\nHe pines for want of some interest in life. His heart, exhausted by his\nearly sufferings, reposes like a new-healed limb, and shrinks from all\nexcitement. But his understanding, his charity, his virtues, want a field\nfor exercise and display; and we will procure it for him. Besides, is it\nnot a shame, that the genius of Adrian should fade from the earth like a\nflower in an untrod mountain-path, fruitless? Do you think Nature composed\nhis surpassing machine for no purpose? Believe me, he was destined to be\nthe author of infinite good to his native England. Has she not bestowed on\nhim every gift in prodigality?--birth, wealth, talent, goodness? Does not\nevery one love and admire him? and does he not delight singly in such\nefforts as manifest his love to all? Come, I see that you are already\npersuaded, and will second me when I propose him to-night in parliament.\"\n\n\"You have got up all your arguments in excellent order,\" I replied; \"and,\nif Adrian consent, they are unanswerable. One only condition I would make,\n--that you do nothing without his concurrence.\"\n\n\"I believe you are in the right,\" said Raymond; \"although I had thought at\nfirst to arrange the affair differently. Be it so. I will go instantly to\nAdrian; and, if he inclines to consent, you will not destroy my labour by\npersuading him to return, and turn squirrel again in Windsor Forest. Idris,\nyou will not act the traitor towards me?\"\n\n\"Trust me,\" replied she, \"I will preserve a strict neutrality.\"\n\n\"For my part,\" said I, \"I am too well convinced of the worth of our friend,\nand the rich harvest of benefits that all England would reap from his\nProtectorship, to deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if he consent\nto bestow it on them.\"\n\nIn the evening Adrian visited us.--\"Do you cabal also against me,\" said\nhe, laughing; \"and will you make common cause with Raymond, in dragging a\npoor visionary from the clouds to surround him with the fire-works and\nblasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays and airs? I thought\nyou knew me better.\"\n\n\"I do know you better,\" I replied \"than to think that you would be happy in\nsuch a situation; but the good you would do to others may be an inducement,\nsince the time is probably arrived when you can put your theories into\npractice, and you may bring about such reformation and change, as will\nconduce to that perfect system of government which you delight to\nportray.\"\n\n\"You speak of an almost-forgotten dream,\" said Adrian, his countenance\nslightly clouding as he spoke; \"the visions of my boyhood have long since\nfaded in the light of reality; I know now that I am not a man fitted to\ngovern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in wholesome rule the little\nkingdom of my own mortality.\n\n\"But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble friend; a drift,\nperhaps, unknown to himself, but apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never\nborn to be a drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral life.\nHe thinks, that he ought to be satisfied; he imagines, that his present\nsituation precludes the possibility of aggrandisement; he does not\ntherefore, even in his own heart, plan change for himself. But do you not\nsee, that, under the idea of exalting me, he is chalking out a new path for\nhimself; a path of action from which he has long wandered?\n\n\"Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the great in every quality\nthat can adorn the mind and person of man; he is fitted to be the Protector\nof England. If I--that is, if we propose him, he will assuredly be\nelected, and will find, in the functions of that high office, scope for the\ntowering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will rejoice. Perdita, in whom\nambition was a covered fire until she married Raymond, which event was for\na time the fulfilment of her hopes; Perdita will rejoice in the glory and\nadvancement of her lord--and, coyly and prettily, not be discontented\nwith her share. In the mean time, we, the wise of the land, will return to\nour Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual labours, until our\nfriend shall require our presence and assistance here.\"\n\nThe more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more feasible it appeared.\nHis own determination never to enter into public life was insurmountable,\nand the delicacy of his health was a sufficient argument against it. The\nnext step was to induce Raymond to confess his secret wishes for dignity\nand fame. He entered while we were speaking. The way in which Adrian had\nreceived his project for setting him up as a candidate for the\nProtectorship, and his replies, had already awakened in his mind, the view\nof the subject which we were now discussing. His countenance and manner\nbetrayed irresolution and anxiety; but the anxiety arose from a fear that\nwe should not prosecute, or not succeed in our idea; and his irresolution,\nfrom a doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A few words from us decided\nhim, and hope and joy sparkled in his eyes; the idea of embarking in a\ncareer, so congenial to his early habits and cherished wishes, made him as\nbefore energetic and bold. We discussed his chances, the merits of the\nother candidates, and the dispositions of the voters.\n\nAfter all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of his popularity, and\nwas deserted by his peculiar partizans. Absence from the busy stage had\ncaused him to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary\nsupporters were principally composed of royalists, who had been willing to\nmake an idol of him when he appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Windsor;\nbut who were indifferent to him, when he came forward with no other\nattributes and distinctions than they conceived to be common to many among\nthemselves. Still he had many friends, admirers of his transcendent\ntalents; his presence in the house, his eloquence, address and imposing\nbeauty, were calculated to produce an electric effect. Adrian also,\nnotwithstanding his recluse habits and theories, so adverse to the spirit\nof party, had many friends, and they were easily induced to vote for a\ncandidate of his selection.\n\nThe Duke of----, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond's old antagonist, were the\nother candidates. The Duke was supported by all the aristocrats of the\nrepublic, who considered him their proper representative. Ryland was the\npopular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first added to the list, his\nchance of success appeared small. We retired from the debate which had\nfollowed on his nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he dispirited to\nexcess. Perdita reproached us bitterly. Her expectations had been strongly\nexcited; she had urged nothing against our project, on the contrary, she\nwas evidently pleased by it; but its evident ill success changed the\ncurrent of her ideas. She felt, that, once awakened, Raymond would never\nreturn unrepining to Windsor. His habits were unhinged; his restless mind\nroused from its sleep, ambition must now be his companion through life; and\nif he did not succeed in his present attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness\nand cureless discontent would follow. Perhaps her own disappointment added\na sting to her thoughts and words; she did not spare us, and our own\nreflections added to our disquietude.\n\nIt was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to persuade Raymond to\npresent himself to the electors on the following evening. For a long time\nhe was obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail for a distant\nquarter of the world, where his name and humiliation were unknown. But this\nwas useless; his attempt was registered; his purpose published to the\nworld; his shame could never be erased from the memories of men. It was as\nwell to fail at last after a struggle, as to fly now at the beginning of\nhis enterprise.\n\nFrom the moment that he adopted this idea, he was changed. His depression\nand anxiety fled; he became all life and activity. The smile of triumph\nshone on his countenance; determined to pursue his object to the uttermost,\nhis manner and expression seem ominous of the accomplishment of his wishes.\nNot so Perdita. She was frightened by his gaiety, for she dreaded a greater\nrevulsion at the end. If his appearance even inspired us with hope, it only\nrendered the state of her mind more painful. She feared to lose sight of\nhim; yet she dreaded to remark any change in the temper of his mind. She\nlistened eagerly to him, yet tantalized herself by giving to his words a\nmeaning foreign to their true interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She\ndared not be present at the contest; yet she remained at home a prey to\ndouble solicitude. She wept over her little girl; she looked, she spoke, as\nif she dreaded the occurrence of some frightful calamity. She was half mad\nfrom the effects of uncontrollable agitation.\n\nLord Raymond presented himself to the house with fearless confidence and\ninsinuating address. After the Duke of----and Mr. Ryland had finished\ntheir speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his lesson; and\nat first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in the choice of his\nexpressions. By degrees he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his language\nwas full of vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He reverted to his past\nlife, his successes in Greece, his favour at home. Why should he lose this,\nnow that added years, prudence, and the pledge which his marriage gave to\nhis country, ought to encrease, rather than diminish his claims to\nconfidence? He spoke of the state of England; the necessary measures to be\ntaken to ensure its security, and confirm its prosperity. He drew a glowing\npicture of its present situation. As he spoke, every sound was hushed,\nevery thought suspended by intense attention. His graceful elocution\nenchained the senses of his hearers. In some degree also he was fitted to\nreconcile all parties. His birth pleased the aristocracy; his being the\ncandidate recommended by Adrian, a man intimately allied to the popular\nparty, caused a number, who had no great reliance either on the Duke or Mr.\nRyland, to range on his side.\n\nThe contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor myself would have\nbeen so anxious, if our own success had depended on our exertions; but we\nhad egged our friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to ensure his\ntriumph. Idris, who entertained the highest opinion of his abilities, was\nwarmly interested in the event: and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and\nto whom fear was misery, was plunged into a fever of disquietude.\n\nDay after day passed while we discussed our projects for the evening, and\neach night was occupied by debates which offered no conclusion. At last the\ncrisis came: the night when parliament, which had so long delayed its\nchoice, must decide: as the hour of twelve passed, and the new day began,\nit was by virtue of the constitution dissolved, its power extinct.\n\nWe assembled at Raymond's house, we and our partizans. At half past five\no'clock we proceeded to the House. Idris endeavoured to calm Perdita; but\nthe poor girl's agitation deprived her of all power of self-command. She\nwalked up and down the room,--gazed wildly when any one entered, fancying\nthat they might be the announcers of her doom. I must do justice to my\nsweet sister: it was not for herself that she was thus agonized. She alone\nknew the weight which Raymond attached to his success. Even to us he\nassumed gaiety and hope, and assumed them so well, that we did not divine\nthe secret workings of his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling, a sharp\ndissonance of voice, and momentary fits of absence revealed to Perdita the\nviolence he did himself; but we, intent on our plans, observed only his\nready laugh, his joke intruded on all occasions, the flow of his spirits\nwhich seemed incapable of ebb. Besides, Perdita was with him in his\nretirement; she saw the moodiness that succeeded to this forced hilarity;\nshe marked his disturbed sleep, his painful irritability--once she had\nseen his tears--hers had scarce ceased to flow, since she had beheld the\nbig drops which disappointed pride had caused to gather in his eye, but\nwhich pride was unable to dispel. What wonder then, that her feelings were\nwrought to this pitch! I thus accounted to myself for her agitation; but\nthis was not all, and the sequel revealed another excuse.\n\nOne moment we seized before our departure, to take leave of our beloved\ngirls. I had small hope of success, and entreated Idris to watch over my\nsister. As I approached the latter, she seized my hand, and drew me into\nanother apartment; she threw herself into my arms, and wept and sobbed\nbitterly and long. I tried to soothe her; I bade her hope; I asked what\ntremendous consequences would ensue even on our failure. \"My brother,\" she\ncried, \"protector of my childhood, dear, most dear Lionel, my fate hangs by\na thread. I have you all about me now--you, the companion of my infancy;\nAdrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of blood; Idris, the sister\nof my heart, and her lovely offspring. This, O this may be the last time\nthat you will surround me thus!\"\n\nAbruptly she stopped, and then cried: \"What have I said?--foolish false\ngirl that I am!\" She looked wildly on me, and then suddenly calming\nherself, apologized for what she called her unmeaning words, saying that\nshe must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived, she must be happy; and\nthen, though she still wept, she suffered me tranquilly to depart. Raymond\nonly took her hand when he went, and looked on her expressively; she\nanswered by a look of intelligence and assent.\n\nPoor girl! what she then suffered! I could never entirely forgive Raymond\nfor the trials he imposed on her, occasioned as they were by a selfish\nfeeling on his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his present attempt,\nwithout taking leave of any of us, to embark for Greece, and never again to\nrevisit England. Perdita acceded to his wishes; for his contentment was the\nchief object of her life, the crown of her enjoyment; but to leave us all,\nher companions, the beloved partners of her happiest years, and in the\ninterim to conceal this frightful determination, was a task that almost\nconquered her strength of mind. She had been employed in arranging for\ntheir departure; she had promised Raymond during this decisive evening, to\ntake advantage of our absence, to go one stage of the journey, and he,\nafter his defeat was ascertained, would slip away from us, and join her.\n\nAlthough, when I was informed of this scheme, I was bitterly offended by\nthe small attention which Raymond paid to my sister's feelings, I was led\nby reflection to consider, that he acted under the force of such strong\nexcitement, as to take from him the consciousness, and, consequently, the\nguilt of a fault. If he had permitted us to witness his agitation, he would\nhave been more under the guidance of reason; but his struggles for the shew\nof composure, acted with such violence on his nerves, as to destroy his\npower of self-command. I am convinced that, at the worst, he would have\nreturned from the seashore to take leave of us, and to make us the partners\nof his council. But the task imposed on Perdita was not the less painful.\nHe had extorted from her a vow of secrecy; and her part of the drama, since\nit was to be performed alone, was the most agonizing that could be devised.\nBut to return to my narrative.\n\nThe debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had often been protracted\nmerely for the sake of delay. But now each seemed fearful lest the fatal\nmoment should pass, while the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted silence\nreigned in the house, the members spoke in whispers, and the ordinary\nbusiness was transacted with celerity and quietness. During the first stage\nof the election, the Duke of----had been thrown out; the question\ntherefore lay between Lord Raymond and Mr. Ryland. The latter had felt\nsecure of victory, until the appearance of Raymond; and, since his name had\nbeen inserted as a candidate, he had canvassed with eagerness. He had\nappeared each evening, impatience and anger marked in his looks, scowling\non us from the opposite side of St. Stephen's, as if his mere frown would\ncast eclipse on our hopes.\n\nEvery thing in the English constitution had been regulated for the better\npreservation of peace. On the last day, two candidates only were allowed to\nremain; and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle between these, a\nbribe was offered to him who should voluntarily resign his pretensions; a\nplace of great emolument and honour was given him, and his success\nfacilitated at a future election. Strange to say however, no instance had\nyet occurred, where either candidate had had recourse to this expedient; in\nconsequence the law had become obsolete, nor had been referred to by any of\nus in our discussions. To our extreme surprise, when it was moved that we\nshould resolve ourselves into a committee for the election of the Lord\nProtector, the member who had nominated Ryland, rose and informed us that\nthis candidate had resigned his pretensions. His information was at first\nreceived with silence; a confused murmur succeeded; and, when the chairman\ndeclared Lord Raymond duly chosen, it amounted to a shout of applause and\nvictory. It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat even if Mr. Ryland\nhad not resigned, every voice would have been united in favour of our\ncandidate. In fact, now that the idea of contest was dismissed, all hearts\nreturned to their former respect and admiration of our accomplished friend.\nEach felt, that England had never seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling\nthe arduous duties of that high office. One voice made of many voices,\nresounded through the chamber; it syllabled the name of Raymond.\n\nHe entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw him walk up the\npassage to the table of the speaker. The native modesty of his disposition\nconquered the joy of his triumph. He looked round timidly; a mist seemed\nbefore his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to him, and jumping\ndown the benches, was at his side in a moment. His appearance re-animated\nour friend; and, when he came to speak and act, his hesitation vanished,\nand he shone out supreme in majesty and victory. The former Protector\ntendered him the oaths, and presented him with the insignia of office,\nperforming the ceremonies of installation. The house then dissolved. The\nchief members of the state crowded round the new magistrate, and conducted\nhim to the palace of government. Adrian suddenly vanished; and, by the time\nthat Raymond's supporters were reduced to our intimate friends merely,\nreturned leading Idris to congratulate her friend on his success.\n\nBut where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an unobserved retreat in\ncase of failure, Raymond had forgotten to arrange the mode by which she was\nto hear of his success; and she had been too much agitated to revert to\nthis circumstance. When Idris entered, so far had Raymond forgotten\nhimself, that he asked for my sister; one word, which told of her\nmysterious disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true had already gone\nto seek the fugitive, imagining that her tameless anxiety had led her to\nthe purlieus of the House, and that some sinister event detained her. But\nRaymond, without explaining himself, suddenly quitted us, and in another\nmoment we heard him gallop down the street, in spite of the wind and rain\nthat scattered tempest over the earth. We did not know how far he had to\ngo, and soon separated, supposing that in a short time he would return to\nthe palace with Perdita, and that they would not be sorry to find\nthemselves alone.\n\nPerdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping and inconsolable.\nShe directed everything to be prepared for the continuance of their\njourney, and placing her lovely sleeping charge on a bed, passed several\nhours in acute suffering. Sometimes she observed the war of elements,\nthinking that they also declared against her, and listened to the pattering\nof the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes she hung over her child, tracing\nher resemblance to the father, and fearful lest in after life she should\ndisplay the same passions and uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him\nunhappy. Again, with a gush of pride and delight, she marked in the\nfeatures of her little girl, the same smile of beauty that often irradiated\nRaymond's countenance. The sight of it soothed her. She thought of the\ntreasure she possessed in the affections of her lord; of his\naccomplishments, surpassing those of his contemporaries, his genius, his\ndevotion to her.--Soon she thought, that all she possessed in the world,\nexcept him, might well be spared, nay, given with delight, a propitiatory\noffering, to secure the supreme good she retained in him. Soon she\nimagined, that fate demanded this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was\ndevoted to Raymond, and that it must be made with cheerfulness. She figured\nto herself their life in the Greek isle he had selected for their retreat;\nher task of soothing him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her rides in\nhis company, her dedication of herself to his consolation. The picture then\npresented itself to her in such glowing colours, that she feared the\nreverse, and a life of magnificence and power in London; where Raymond\nwould no longer be hers only, nor she the sole source of happiness to him.\nSo far as she merely was concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it\nwas only on his account that her feelings vacillated, as she heard him\ngallop into the court-yard of the inn. That he should come to her alone,\nwetted by the storm, careless of every thing except speed, what else could\nit mean, than that, vanquished and solitary, they were to take their way\nfrom native England, the scene of shame, and hide themselves in the myrtle\ngroves of the Grecian isles?\n\nIn a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his success had become so\nmuch a part of himself, that he forgot that it was necessary to impart it\nto his companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear assurance that while\nhe possessed her, he would not despair. \"This is kind,\" she cried; \"this is\nnoble, my own beloved! O fear not disgrace or lowly fortune, while you have\nyour Perdita; fear not sorrow, while our child lives and smiles. Let us go\neven where you will; the love that accompanies us will prevent our\nregrets.\"\n\nLocked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back her head, seeking an\nassent to her words in his eyes--they were sparkling with ineffable\ndelight. \"Why, my little Lady Protectress,\" said he, playfully, \"what is\nthis you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven of exile and obscurity,\nwhile a brighter web, a gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, you\nought to contemplate?\"\n\nHe kissed her brow--but the wayward girl, half sorry at his triumph,\nagitated by swift change of thought, hid her face in his bosom and wept. He\ncomforted her; he instilled into her his own hopes and desires; and soon\nher countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy were they that night!\nHow full even to bursting was their sense of joy!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nHAVING seen our friend properly installed in his new office, we turned our\neyes towards Windsor. The nearness of this place to London was such, as to\ntake away the idea of painful separation, when we quitted Raymond and\nPerdita. We took leave of them in the Protectoral Palace. It was pretty\nenough to see my sister enter as it were into the spirit of the drama, and\nendeavour to fill her station with becoming dignity. Her internal pride and\nhumility of manner were now more than ever at war. Her timidity was not\nartificial, but arose from that fear of not being properly appreciated,\nthat slight estimation of the neglect of the world, which also\ncharacterized Raymond. But then Perdita thought more constantly of others\nthan he; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish to take from those\naround her a sense of inferiority; a feeling which never crossed her mind.\nFrom the circumstances of her birth and education, Idris would have been\nbetter fitted for the formulae of ceremony; but the very ease which\naccompanied such actions with her, arising from habit, rendered them\ntedious; while, with every drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her\nsituation. She was too full of new ideas to feel much pain when we\ndeparted; she took an affectionate leave of us, and promised to visit us\nsoon; but she did not regret the circumstances that caused our separation.\nThe spirits of Raymond were unbounded; he did not know what to do with his\nnew got power; his head was full of plans; he had as yet decided on none--\nbut he promised himself, his friends, and the world, that the aera of his\nProtectorship should be signalized by some act of surpassing glory. Thus, we\ntalked of them, and moralized, as with diminished numbers we returned to\nWindsor Castle. We felt extreme delight at our escape from political\nturmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled zest. We did not want for\noccupation; but my eager disposition was now turned to the field of\nintellectual exertion only; and hard study I found to be an excellent\nmedicine to allay a fever of spirit with which in indolence, I should\ndoubtless have been assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back\nwith us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants were perpetual\nsources of interest and amusement.\n\nThe only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the health of Adrian.\nIt evidently declined, without any symptom which could lead us to suspect\nhis disease, unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated look, and\nflustering cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he was without pain or\nfear. He betook himself to books with ardour, and reposed from study in the\nsociety he best loved, that of his sister and myself. Sometimes he went up\nto London to visit Raymond, and watch the progress of events. Clara often\naccompanied him in these excursions; partly that she might see her parents,\npartly because Adrian delighted in the prattle, and intelligent looks of\nthis lovely child.\n\nMeanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections were finished;\nparliament met, and Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial schemes.\nCanals, aqueducts, bridges, stately buildings, and various edifices for\npublic utility, were entered upon; he was continually surrounded by\nprojectors and projects, which were to render England one scene of\nfertility and magnificence; the state of poverty was to be abolished; men\nwere to be transported from place to place almost with the same facility as\nthe Princes Houssain, Ali, and Ahmed, in the Arabian Nights. The physical\nstate of man would soon not yield to the beatitude of angels; disease was\nto be banished; labour lightened of its heaviest burden. Nor did this seem\nextravagant. The arts of life, and the discoveries of science had augmented\nin a ratio which left all calculation behind; food sprung up, so to say,\nspontaneously--machines existed to supply with facility every want of the\npopulation. An evil direction still survived; and men were not happy, not\nbecause they could not, but because they would not rouse themselves to\nvanquish self-raised obstacles. Raymond was to inspire them with his\nbeneficial will, and the mechanism of society, once systematised according\nto faultless rules, would never again swerve into disorder. For these hopes\nhe abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being enregistered in the\nannals of nations as a successful warrior; laying aside his sword, peace\nand its enduring glories became his aim--the title he coveted was that of\nthe benefactor of his country.\n\nAmong other works of art in which he was engaged, he had projected the\nerection of a national gallery for statues and pictures. He possessed many\nhimself, which he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the edifice\nwas to be the great ornament of his Protectorship, he was very fastidious\nin his choice of the plan on which it would be built. Hundreds were brought\nto him and rejected. He sent even to Italy and Greece for drawings; but, as\nthe design was to be characterized by originality as well as by perfect\nbeauty, his endeavours were for a time without avail. At length a drawing\ncame, with an address where communications might be sent, and no artist's\nname affixed. The design was new and elegant, but faulty; so faulty, that\nalthough drawn with the hand and eye of taste, it was evidently the work of\none who was not an architect. Raymond contemplated it with delight; the\nmore he gazed, the more pleased he was; and yet the errors multiplied under\ninspection. He wrote to the address given, desiring to see the draughtsman,\nthat such alterations might be made, as should be suggested in a\nconsultation between him and the original conceiver.\n\nA Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence of manner, but with\nso common-place a physiognomy, that Raymond could scarcely believe that he\nwas the designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect; but the\nidea of the building had struck him, though he had sent it without the\nsmallest hope of its being accepted. He was a man of few words. Raymond\nquestioned him; but his reserved answers soon made him turn from the man to\nthe drawing. He pointed out the errors, and the alterations that he wished\nto be made; he offered the Greek a pencil that he might correct the sketch\non the spot; this was refused by his visitor, who said that he perfectly\nunderstood, and would work at it at home. At length Raymond suffered him to\ndepart.\n\nThe next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn; but many defects\nstill remained, and several of the instructions given had been\nmisunderstood. \"Come,\" said Raymond, \"I yielded to you yesterday, now\ncomply with my request--take the pencil.\"\n\nThe Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like way; at length he\nsaid: \"I must confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make this drawing. It\nis impossible for you to see the real designer; your instructions must pass\nthrough me. Condescend therefore to have patience with my ignorance, and to\nexplain your wishes to me; in time I am certain that you will be\nsatisfied.\"\n\nRaymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would say no more. Would an\narchitect be permitted to see the artist? This also was refused. Raymond\nrepeated his instructions, and the visitor retired. Our friend resolved\nhowever not to be foiled in his wish. He suspected, that unaccustomed\npoverty was the cause of the mystery, and that the artist was unwilling to\nbe seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond was only the more excited by\nthis consideration to discover him; impelled by the interest he took in\nobscure talent, he therefore ordered a person skilled in such matters, to\nfollow the Greek the next time he came, and observe the house in which he\nshould enter. His emissary obeyed, and brought the desired intelligence. He\nhad traced the man to one of the most penurious streets in the metropolis.\nRaymond did not wonder, that, thus situated, the artist had shrunk from\nnotice, but he did not for this alter his resolve.\n\nOn the same evening, he went alone to the house named to him. Poverty,\ndirt, and squalid misery characterized its appearance. Alas! thought\nRaymond, I have much to do before England becomes a Paradise. He knocked;\nthe door was opened by a string from above--the broken, wretched\nstaircase was immediately before him, but no person appeared; he knocked\nagain, vainly--and then, impatient of further delay, he ascended the\ndark, creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly now that he\nwitnessed the abject dwelling of the artist, was to relieve one, possessed\nof talent, but depressed by want. He pictured to himself a youth, whose\neyes sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated by famine. He half\nfeared to displease him; but he trusted that his generous kindness would be\nadministered so delicately, as not to excite repulse. What human heart is\nshut to kindness? and though poverty, in its excess, might render the\nsufferer unapt to submit to the supposed degradation of a benefit, the zeal\nof the benefactor must at last relax him into thankfulness. These thoughts\nencouraged Raymond, as he stood at the door of the highest room of the\nhouse. After trying vainly to enter the other apartments, he perceived just\nwithin the threshold of this one, a pair of small Turkish slippers; the\ndoor was ajar, but all was silent within. It was probable that the inmate\nwas absent, but secure that he had found the right person, our adventurous\nProtector was tempted to enter, to leave a purse on the table, and silently\ndepart. In pursuance of this idea, he pushed open the door gently--but\nthe room was inhabited.\n\nRaymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and the scene that now\npresented itself struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in many\nplaces; the walls ragged and bare--the ceiling weather-stained--a\ntattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two chairs in the room,\nand a rough broken table, on which was a light in a tin candlestick;--yet\nin the midst of such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was an air of\norder and cleanliness that surprised him. The thought was fleeting; for his\nattention was instantly drawn towards the inhabitant of this wretched\nabode. It was a female. She sat at the table; one small hand shaded her\neyes from the candle; the other held a pencil; her looks were fixed on a\ndrawing before her, which Raymond recognized as the design presented to\nhim. Her whole appearance awakened his deepest interest. Her dark hair was\nbraided and twined in thick knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue;\nher garb was mean, but her attitude might have been selected as a model of\ngrace. Raymond had a confused remembrance that he had seen such a form\nbefore; he walked across the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely\nasking in Romaic, who is there? \"A friend,\" replied Raymond in the same\ndialect. She looked up wondering, and he saw that it was Evadne Zaimi.\nEvadne, once the idol of Adrian's affections; and who, for the sake of her\npresent visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and then, neglected by him\nshe loved, with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery, had returned\nto her native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have brought her to\nEngland, and housed her thus?\n\nRaymond recognized her; and his manner changed from polite beneficence to\nthe warmest protestations of kindness and sympathy. The sight of her, in\nher present situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He sat by her,\nhe took her hand, and said a thousand things which breathed the deepest\nspirit of compassion and affection. Evadne did not answer; her large dark\neyes were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the lashes. \"Thus,\" she\ncried, \"kindness can do, what no want, no misery ever effected; I weep.\"\nShe shed indeed many tears; her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder of\nRaymond; he held her hand: he kissed her sunken tear-stained cheek. He told\nher, that her sufferings were now over: no one possessed the art of\nconsoling like Raymond; he did not reason or declaim, but his look shone\nwith sympathy; he brought pleasant images before the sufferer; his caresses\nexcited no distrust, for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a\nmother to kiss her wounded child; a desire to demonstrate in every possible\nway the truth of his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm\ninto the lacerated mind of the unfortunate. As Evadne regained her\ncomposure, his manner became even gay; he sported with the idea of her\npoverty. Something told him that it was not its real evils that lay heavily\nat her heart, but the debasement and disgrace attendant on it; as he\ntalked, he divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her fortitude with\nenergetic praise; then, alluding to her past state, he called her his\nPrincess in disguise. He made her warm offers of service; she was too much\noccupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept or reject them; at\nlength he left her, making a promise to repeat his visit the next day. He\nreturned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain excited by Evadne's\nwretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of relieving it. Some motive for\nwhich he did not account, even to himself, prevented him from relating his\nadventure to Perdita.\n\nThe next day he threw such disguise over his person as a cloak afforded,\nand revisited Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of costly fruits, such\nas were natives of her own country, and throwing over these various\nbeautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable garret of his friend.\n\"Behold,\" cried he, as he entered, \"what bird's food I have brought for my\nsparrow on the house-top.\"\n\nEvadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her father, though of high\nrank, had in the end dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed his\nreputation and influence through a course of dissolute indulgence. His\nhealth was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became his earnest wish,\nbefore he died, to preserve his daughter from the poverty which would be\nthe portion of her orphan state. He therefore accepted for her, and\npersuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage, from a wealthy Greek\nmerchant settled at Constantinople. She quitted her native Greece; her\nfather died; by degrees she was cut off from all the companions and ties of\nher youth.\n\nThe war, which about a year before the present time had broken out between\nGreece and Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune. Her husband\nbecame bankrupt, and then in a tumult and threatened massacre on the part\nof the Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight, and reached in an open\nboat an English vessel under sail, which brought them immediately to this\nisland. The few jewels they had saved, supported them awhile. The whole\nstrength of Evadne's mind was exerted to support the failing spirits of her\nhusband. Loss of property, hopelessness as to his future prospects, the\ninoccupation to which poverty condemned him, combined to reduce him to a\nstate bordering on insanity. Five months after their arrival in England, he\ncommitted suicide.\n\n\"You will ask me,\" continued Evadne, \"what I have done since; why I have\nnot applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident here; why I have not\nreturned to my native country? My answer to these questions must needs\nappear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to lead me on, day\nafter day, enduring every wretchedness, rather than by such means to seek\nrelief. Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal Zaimi, appear a\nbeggar before her compeers or inferiors--superiors she had none. Shall I\nbow my head before them, and with servile gesture sell my nobility for\nlife? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me to existence, I might descend to\nthis--but, as it is--the world has been to me a harsh step-mother; fain\nwould I leave the abode she seems to grudge, and in the grave forget my\npride, my struggles, my despair. The time will soon come; grief and famine\nhave already sapped the foundations of my being; a very short time, and I\nshall have passed away; unstained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung\nby the memory of degradation, my spirit will throw aside the miserable\ncoil, and find such recompense as fortitude and resignation may deserve.\nThis may seem madness to you, yet you also have pride and resolution; do\nnot then wonder that my pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable.\"\n\nHaving thus finished her tale, and given such an account as she deemed fit,\nof the motives of her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid from her\ncountrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more to say, to which she\nwas unable to give words. In the mean time Raymond was eloquent. His desire\nof restoring his lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her lost\nprosperity, animated him, and he poured forth with energy, all his wishes\nand intentions on that subject. But he was checked; Evadne exacted a\npromise, that he should conceal from all her friends her existence in\nEngland. \"The relatives of the Earl of Windsor,\" said she haughtily,\n\"doubtless think that I injured him; perhaps the Earl himself would be the\nfirst to acquit me, but probably I do not deserve acquittal. I acted then,\nas I ever must, from impulse. This abode of penury may at least prove the\ndisinterestedness of my conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause\nbefore any of them, not even before your Lordship, had you not first\ndiscovered me. The tenor of my actions will prove that I had rather die,\nthan be a mark for scorn--behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on\nthe beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the thought--promise me that\nmy secret shall not be violated by you.\"\n\nRaymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued. Evadne required another\nengagement on his part, that he would not without her concurrence enter\ninto any project for her benefit, nor himself offer relief. \"Do not degrade\nme in my own eyes,\" she said; \"poverty has long been my nurse; hard-visaged\nshe is, but honest. If dishonour, or what I conceive to be dishonour, come\nnear me, I am lost.\" Raymond adduced many arguments and fervent persuasions\nto overcome her feeling, but she remained unconvinced; and, agitated by the\ndiscussion, she wildly and passionately made a solemn vow, to fly and hide\nherself where he never could discover her, where famine would soon bring\ndeath to conclude her woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing\noffers. She could support herself, she said. And then she shewed him how,\nby executing various designs and paintings, she earned a pittance for her\nsupport. Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after he had for\nawhile humoured her self-will, that in the end friendship and reason would\ngain the day.\n\nBut the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in the depths of her\nbeing, and were such in their growth as he had no means of understanding.\nEvadne loved Raymond. He was the hero of her imagination, the image carved\nby love in the unchanged texture of her heart. Seven years ago, in her\nyouthful prime, she had become attached to him; he had served her country\nagainst the Turks; he had in her own land acquired that military glory\npeculiarly dear to the Greeks, since they were still obliged inch by inch\nto fight for their security. Yet when he returned thence, and first\nappeared in public life in England, her love did not purchase his, which\nthen vacillated between Perdita and a crown. While he was yet undecided,\nshe had quitted England; the news of his marriage reached her, and her\nhopes, poorly nurtured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory of life was\ngone for her; the roseate halo of love, which had imbued every object with\nits own colour, faded;--she was content to take life as it was, and to\nmake the best of leaden-coloured reality. She married; and, carrying her\nrestless energy of character with her into new scenes, she turned her\nthoughts to ambition, and aimed at the title and power of Princess of\nWallachia; while her patriotic feelings were soothed by the idea of the\ngood she might do her country, when her husband should be chief of this\nprincipality. She lived to find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her\nintrigues with Russia for the furtherance of her object, excited the\njealousy of the Porte, and the animosity of the Greek government. She was\nconsidered a traitor by both, the ruin of her husband followed; they\navoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the height of her\ndesires to penury in England. Much of this tale she concealed from Raymond;\nnor did she confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal convicted of\nthe worst of crimes, that of bringing the scythe of foreign despotism to\ncut away the new springing liberties of her country, would have followed\nher application to any among the Greeks.\n\nShe knew that she was the cause of her husband's utter ruin; and she strung\nherself to bear the consequences. The reproaches which agony extorted; or\nworse, cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind was sunk in a\ntorpor, not the less painful because it was silent and moveless. She\nreproached herself with the crime of his death; guilt and its punishments\nappeared to surround her; in vain she endeavoured to allay remorse by the\nmemory of her real integrity; the rest of the world, and she among them,\njudged of her actions, by their consequences. She prayed for her husband's\nsoul; she conjured the Supreme to place on her head the crime of his\nself-destruction--she vowed to live to expiate his fault.\n\nIn the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have destroyed her, one\nthought only was matter of consolation. She lived in the same country,\nbreathed the same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the burthen of\nevery tongue; his achievements, projects, and magnificence, the argument of\nevery story. Nothing is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory and\nexcellence of him she loves; thus in every horror Evadne revelled in his\nfame and prosperity. While her husband lived, this feeling was regarded by\nher as a crime, repressed, repented of. When he died, the tide of love\nresumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves,\nand she gave herself up a prey to its uncontrollable power.\n\nBut never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded state. Never should\nhe behold her fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty, the\npoverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a\nreproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though impenetrably veiled\nfrom him, his public office permitted her to become acquainted with all his\nactions, his daily course of life, even his conversation. She allowed\nherself one luxury, she saw the newspapers every day, and feasted on the\npraise and actions of the Protector. Not that this indulgence was devoid of\naccompanying grief. Perdita's name was for ever joined with his; their\nconjugal felicity was celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts.\nThey were continually together, nor could the unfortunate Evadne read the\nmonosyllable that designated his name, without, at the same time, being\npresented with the image of her who was the faithful companion of all his\nlabours and pleasures. They, their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line,\nmingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood.\n\nIt was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement for the design for a\nnational gallery. Combining with taste her remembrance of the edifices\nwhich she had seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing them\nwith unity of design, she executed the plan which had been sent to the\nProtector. She triumphed in the idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as\nshe was, a benefit upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride looked\nforward to the accomplishment of a work of hers, which, immortalized in\nstone, would go down to posterity stamped with the name of Raymond. She\nawaited with eagerness the return of her messenger from the palace; she\nlistened insatiate to his account of each word, each look of the Protector;\nshe felt bliss in this communication with her beloved, although he knew not\nto whom he addressed his instructions. The drawing itself became ineffably\ndear to her. He had seen it, and praised it; it was again retouched by her,\neach stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music, and bore to\nher the idea of a temple raised to celebrate the deepest and most\nunutterable emotions of her soul. These contemplations engaged her, when\nthe voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once heard, never to be\nforgotten; she mastered her gush of feelings, and welcomed him with quiet\ngentleness.\n\nPride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made a compromise\ntogether. She would see Raymond, since destiny had led him to her, and her\nconstancy and devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights with\nregard to him, and her cherished independence, should not be injured by the\nidea of interest, or the intervention of the complicated feelings attendant\non pecuniary obligation, and the relative situations of the benefactor, and\nbenefited. Her mind was of uncommon strength; she could subdue her sensible\nwants to her mental wishes, and suffer cold, hunger and misery, rather than\nconcede to fortune a contested point. Alas! that in human nature such a\npitch of mental discipline, and disdainful negligence of nature itself,\nshould not have been allied to the extreme of moral excellence! But the\nresolution that permitted her to resist the pains of privation, sprung from\nthe too great energy of her passions; and the concentrated self-will of\nwhich this was a sign, was destined to destroy even the very idol, to\npreserve whose respect she submitted to this detail of wretchedness.\n\nTheir intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related to her friend the\nwhole of her story, the stain her name had received in Greece, the weight\nof sin which had accrued to her from the death of her husband. When Raymond\noffered to clear her reputation, and demonstrate to the world her real\npatriotism, she declared that it was only through her present sufferings\nthat she hoped for any relief to the stings of conscience; that, in her\nstate of mind, diseased as he might think it, the necessity of occupation\nwas salutary medicine; she ended by extorting a promise that for the space\nof one month he would refrain from the discussion of her interests,\nengaging after that time to yield in part to his wishes. She could not\ndisguise to herself that any change would separate her from him; now she\nsaw him each day. His connection with Adrian and Perdita was never\nmentioned; he was to her a meteor, a companionless star, which at its\nappointed hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity,\nand which, although it set, was never eclipsed. He came each day to her\nabode of penury, and his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with\nsweets, radiant with heaven's own light; he partook of her delirium. \"They\nbuilt a wall between them and the world\"--Without, a thousand harpies\nraved, remorse and misery, expecting the destined moment for their\ninvasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence, reckless blindless,\ndeluding joy, hope, whose still anchor rested on placid but unconstant\nwater.\n\nThus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power and fame, while he\nlooked forward to entire dominion over the elements and the mind of man,\nthe territory of his own heart escaped his notice; and from that unthought\nof source arose the mighty torrent that overwhelmed his will, and carried\nto the oblivious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nIN the mean time what did Perdita?\n\nDuring the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond and she had been\ninseparable; each project was discussed with her, each plan approved by\nher. I never beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister. Her\nexpressive eyes were two stars whose beams were love; hope and\nlight-heartedness sat on her cloudless brow. She fed even to tears of joy\non the praise and glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one sacrifice\nto him, and if in the humility of her heart she felt self-complacency, it\narose from the reflection that she had won the distinguished hero of the\nage, and had for years preserved him, even after time had taken from love\nits usual nourishment. Her own feeling was as entire as at its birth. Five\nyears had failed to destroy the dazzling unreality of passion. Most men\nruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which the female heart is wont to\nadorn the idol of its affections. Not so Raymond; he was an enchanter,\nwhose reign was for ever undiminished; a king whose power never was\nsuspended: follow him through the details of common life, still the same\ncharm of grace and majesty adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the\ninnate deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita grew in\nbeauty and excellence under his eye; I no longer recognised my reserved\nabstracted sister in the fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond. The\ngenius that enlightened her countenance, was now united to an expression of\nbenevolence, which gave divine perfection to her beauty.\n\nHappiness is in its highest degree the sister of goodness. Suffering and\namiability may exist together, and writers have loved to depict their\nconjunction; there is a human and touching harmony in the picture. But\nperfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and those who possess it,\nappear angelic. Fear has been said to be the parent of religion: even of\nthat religion is it the generator, which leads its votaries to sacrifice\nhuman victims at its altars; but the religion which springs from happiness\nis a lovelier growth; the religion which makes the heart breathe forth\nfervent thanksgiving, and causes us to pour out the overflowings of the\nsoul before the author of our being; that which is the parent of the\nimagination and the nurse of poetry; that which bestows benevolent\nintelligence on the visible mechanism of the world, and makes earth a\ntemple with heaven for its cope. Such happiness, goodness, and religion\ninhabited the mind of Perdita.\n\nDuring the five years we had spent together, a knot of happy human beings\nat Windsor Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent theme of my\nsister's conversation. From early habit, and natural affection, she\nselected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be the partner in her\noverflowings of delight; perhaps, though apparently much unlike, some\nsecret point of resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, induced this\npreference. Often at sunset, I have walked with her, in the sober,\nenshadowed forest paths, and listened with joyful sympathy. Security gave\ndignity to her passion; the certainty of a full return, left her with no\nwish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter, embryo copy of her Raymond,\nfilled up the measure of her content, and produced a sacred and\nindissoluble tie between them. Sometimes she felt proud that he had\npreferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she remembered that she\nhad suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in his choice. But this memory\nof past discontent only served to enhance her present joy. What had been\nhardly won, was now, entirely possessed, doubly dear. She would look at him\nat a distance with the same rapture, (O, far more exuberant rapture!) that\none might feel, who after the perils of a tempest, should find himself in\nthe desired port; she would hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his\narms, the reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection, added to the\ndepth of her understanding, and the brilliancy of her imagination, made her\nbeyond words dear to Raymond.\n\nIf a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it arose from the idea\nthat he was not perfectly happy. Desire of renown, and presumptuous\nambition, had characterized his youth. The one he had acquired in Greece;\nthe other he had sacrificed to love. His intellect found sufficient field\nfor exercise in his domestic circle, whose members, all adorned by\nrefinement and literature, were many of them, like himself, distinguished\nby genius. Yet active life was the genuine soil for his virtues; and he\nsometimes suffered tedium from the monotonous succession of events in our\nretirement. Pride made him recoil from complaint; and gratitude and\naffection to Perdita, generally acted as an opiate to all desire, save that\nof meriting her love. We all observed the visitation of these feelings, and\nnone regretted them so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a\nslight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that sufficient--Did\nhe need any gratification that she was unable to bestow? This was the only\ncloud in the azure of her happiness.\n\nHis passage to power had been full of pain to both. He however attained his\nwish; he filled the situation for which nature seemed to have moulded him.\nHis activity was fed in wholesome measure, without either exhaustion or\nsatiety; his taste and genius found worthy expression in each of the modes\nhuman beings have invented to encage and manifest the spirit of beauty; the\ngoodness of his heart made him never weary of conducing to the well-being\nof his fellow-creatures; his magnificent spirit, and aspirations for the\nrespect and love of mankind, now received fruition; true, his exaltation\nwas temporary; perhaps it were better that it should be so. Habit would not\ndull his sense of the enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and\ndefeat await the end of that which would expire at its maturity. He\ndetermined to extract and condense all of glory, power, and achievement,\nwhich might have resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his\nProtectorate.\n\nRaymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed would have been\ndevoid of pleasure to him, had it been unparticipated. But in Perdita he\npossessed all that his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to sympathy;\nher intelligence made her understand him at a word; her powers of intellect\nenabled her to assist and guide him. He felt her worth. During the early\nyears of their union, the inequality of her temper, and yet unsubdued\nself-will which tarnished her character, had been a slight drawback to the\nfulness of his sentiment. Now that unchanged serenity, and gentle\ncompliance were added to her other qualifications, his respect equalled his\nlove. Years added to the strictness of their union. They did not now guess\nat, and totter on the pathway, divining the mode to please, hoping, yet\nfearing the continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty to\ntheir emotions, though it did not rob them of their etherial nature. It had\ngiven them a child; but it had not detracted from the personal attractions\nof my sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to awkwardness,\nwas exchanged for a graceful decision of manner; frankness, instead of\nreserve, characterized her physiognomy; and her voice was attuned to\nthrilling softness. She was now three and twenty, in the pride of\nwomanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and mother, possessed of\nall her heart had ever coveted. Raymond was ten years older; to his\nprevious beauty, noble mien, and commanding aspect, he now added gentlest\nbenevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and unwearied attention to the\nwishes of another.\n\nThe first secret that had existed between them was the visits of Raymond to\nEvadne. He had been struck by the fortitude and beauty of the ill-fated\nGreek; and, when her constant tenderness towards him unfolded itself, he\nasked with astonishment, by what act of his he had merited this passionate\nand unrequited love. She was for a while the sole object of his reveries;\nand Perdita became aware that his thoughts and time were bestowed on a\nsubject unparticipated by her. My sister was by nature destitute of the\ncommon feelings of anxious, petulant jealousy. The treasure which she\npossessed in the affections of Raymond, was more necessary to her being,\nthan the life-blood that animated her veins--more truly than Othello she\nmight say,\n\n  To be once in doubt,\n  Is--once to be resolved.\n\nOn the present occasion she did not suspect any alienation of affection; but\nshe conjectured that some circumstance connected with his high place, had\noccasioned this mystery. She was startled and pained. She began to count\nthe long days, and months, and years which must elapse, before he would be\nrestored to a private station, and unreservedly to her. She was not content\nthat, even for a time, he should practice concealment with her. She often\nrepined; but her trust in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed;\nand, when they were together, unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to\nthe fullest delight.\n\nTime went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild career, paused suddenly\nto think of consequences. Two results presented themselves in the view he\ntook of the future. That his intercourse with Evadne should continue a\nsecret to, or that finally it should be discovered by Perdita. The\ndestitute condition, and highly wrought feelings of his friend prevented\nhim from adverting to the possibility of exiling himself from her. In the\nfirst event he had bidden an eternal farewell to open-hearted converse, and\nentire sympathy with the companion of his life. The veil must be thicker\nthan that invented by Turkish jealousy; the wall higher than the\nunscaleable tower of Vathek, which should conceal from her the workings of\nhis heart, and hide from her view the secret of his actions. This idea was\nintolerably painful to him. Frankness and social feelings were the essence\nof Raymond's nature; without them his qualities became common-place;\nwithout these to spread glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his\nvaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak and empty as the\nrainbow hues which vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy.\nGenius, devotion, and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies\nof his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back\none hair's breadth the wheel of time's chariot; that which had been was\nwritten with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of\nthe past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the\nact fulfilled.\n\nBut this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance should\nlead Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his\nframe became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at this idea.\nMany men may scoff at his dread; but he read the future; and the peace of\nPerdita was too dear to him, her speechless agony too certain, and too\nfearful, not to unman him. His course was speedily decided upon. If the\nworst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would neither stand her\nreproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks. He would forsake her,\nEngland, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming time, he\nwould seek another country, and in other scenes begin life again. Having\nresolved on this, he became calmer. He endeavoured to guide with prudence\nthe steeds of destiny through the devious road which he had chosen, and\nbent all his efforts the better to conceal what he could not alter.\n\nThe perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered\nevery communication common between them. They opened each other's letters,\neven as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed to\nthe other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it contained\nconfirmation, she must have been annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold,\nand pale, she sought Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions lately\npresented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa opposite to him, and gazed\non him with a look of such despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans\nwould have been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to the living\nincarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her.\n\nAt first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them, he\nwas struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment\nhe forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with consternation--\"Dearest\ngirl, what is the matter; what has happened?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" she replied at first; \"and yet not so,\" she continued, hurrying\non in her speech; \"you have secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately,\nwhom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I banished from\nyour confidence? Yet this is not it--I do not intend to entrap you with\nquestions--one will suffice--am I completely a wretch?\"\n\nWith trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and motionless\nlooking at him while he read it. He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne,\nand the colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the\ncontents of the letter; all was now cast on one die; falsehood and artifice\nwere trifles in comparison with the impending ruin. He would either\nentirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or quit her for ever. \"My dear girl,\"\nhe said, \"I have been to blame; but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong\nto commence a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of sparing\nyou pain; and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to alter my\nplan. Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of\nthese few lines.\"\n\nPerdita gasped: \"Well,\" she cried, \"well, go on!\"\n\n\"That is all--this paper tells all. I am placed in the most difficult\ncircumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong. My\nlove for you is inviolate.\"\n\nPerdita shook her head doubtingly: \"It cannot be,\" she cried, \"I know that\nit is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived. I have lost\nyou, myself, my life!\"\n\n\"Do you not believe me?\" said Raymond haughtily.\n\n\"To believe you,\" she exclaimed, \"I would give up all, and expire with joy,\nso that in death I could feel that you were true--but that cannot be!\"\n\n\"Perdita,\" continued Raymond, \"you do not see the precipice on which you\nstand. You may believe that I did not enter on my present line of conduct\nwithout reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that your\nsuspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my simple word would cause\nthem to disappear. I built my hope on your confidence. Do you think that I\nwill be questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do you think\nthat I will be suspected, perhaps watched, cross-questioned, and\ndisbelieved? I am not yet fallen so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished.\nYou have loved me; I adored you. But all human sentiments come to an end.\nLet our affection expire--but let it not be exchanged for distrust and\nrecrimination. Heretofore we have been friends--lovers--let us not\nbecome enemies, mutual spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion--you\ncannot believe me--let us part!\"\n\n\"Exactly so,\" cried Perdita, \"I knew that it would come to this! Are we not\nalready parted? Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn\nbetween us?\"\n\nRaymond rose, his voice was broken, his features convulsed, his manner calm\nas the earthquake-cradling atmosphere, he replied: \"I am rejoiced that you\ntake my decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play the part of\nthe injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you may be stung with the feeling\nthat you have wronged me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of\nthe world, the complacency which the consciousness of your own immaculate\ninnocence will bestow, will be excellent balm;--me you will never see\nmore!\"\n\nRaymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each word he spoke was\nfalse. He personated his assumption of innocence even to self-deception.\nHave not actors wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more intense\nfeeling of the reality of fiction possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride;\nhe felt injured. Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance; his hand was\non the lock of the door. She started up, she threw herself on his neck, she\ngasped and sobbed; he took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down\nnear her. Her head fell on his shoulder, she trembled, alternate changes of\nfire and ice ran through her limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with\nsoftened accents:\n\n\"The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;--I owe you too\nmuch. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I\nwill not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you too\nwell. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for dignity and\npropriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our true\ncharacters. Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of our\nintercourse;--these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of life,\nthe unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian\"--\n\n\"And you,\" cried Perdita, \"the writer of that letter.\"\n\nUncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew that\nthis accusation at least was false. \"Entertain this belief,\" he cried, \"hug\nit to your heart--make it a pillow to your head, an opiate for your eyes\n--I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not more false than\nthe word you have spoken!\"\n\nPerdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of his asseverations. She\nreplied with earnestness, \"I do not refuse to believe you, Raymond; on the\ncontrary I promise to put implicit faith in your simple word. Only assure\nme that your love and faith towards me have never been violated; and\nsuspicion, and doubt, and jealousy will at once be dispersed. We shall\ncontinue as we have ever done, one heart, one hope, one life.\"\n\n\"I have already assured you of my fidelity,\" said Raymond with disdainful\ncoldness, \"triple assertions will avail nothing where one is despised. I\nwill say no more; for I can add nothing to what I have already said, to\nwhat you before contemptuously set aside. This contention is unworthy of\nboth of us; and I confess that I am weary of replying to charges at once\nunfounded and unkind.\"\n\nPerdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily averted. There was\nso much of truth and nature in his resentment, that her doubts were\ndispelled. Her countenance, which for years had not expressed a feeling\nunallied to affection, became again radiant and satisfied. She found it\nhowever no easy task to soften and reconcile Raymond. At first he refused\nto stay to hear her. But she would not be put off; secure of his unaltered\nlove, she was willing to undertake any labour, use any entreaty, to dispel\nhis anger. She obtained an hearing, he sat in haughty silence, but he\nlistened. She first assured him of her boundless confidence; of this he\nmust be conscious, since but for that she would not seek to detain him. She\nenumerated their years of happiness; she brought before him past scenes of\nintimacy and happiness; she pictured their future life, she mentioned their\nchild--tears unbidden now filled her eyes. She tried to disperse them,\nbut they refused to be checked--her utterance was choaked. She had not\nwept before. Raymond could not resist these signs of distress: he felt\nperhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted of the injured man, he who\nwas in truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita; the bend of\nher head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of her form were to him subjects of\ndeep tenderness and admiration; as she spoke, her melodious tones entered\nhis soul; he soon softened towards her, comforting and caressing her, and\nendeavouring to cheat himself into the belief that he had never wronged\nher.\n\nRaymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might do, who had been\njust put to the torture, and looked forward to when it would be again\ninflicted. He had sinned against his own honour, by affirming, swearing to,\na direct falsehood; true this he had palmed on a woman, and it might\ntherefore be deemed less base--by others--not by him;--for whom had\nhe deceived?--his own trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita, whose\ngenerous belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade of\ninnocence with which it had been exacted. The mind of Raymond was not so\nrough cast, nor had been so rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as\nto make him proof to these considerations--on the contrary, he was all\nnerve; his spirit was as a pure fire, which fades and shrinks from every\ncontagion of foul atmosphere: but now the contagion had become incorporated\nwith its essence, and the change was the more painful. Truth and falsehood,\nlove and hate lost their eternal boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle\nwith hell; while his sensitive mind, turned to a field for such battle, was\nstung to madness. He heartily despised himself, he was angry with Perdita,\nand the idea of Evadne was attended by all that was hideous and cruel. His\npassions, always his masters, acquired fresh strength, from the long sleep\nin which love had cradled them, the clinging weight of destiny bent him\ndown; he was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of that worst of\nmiseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state yielded by degrees, to\nsullen animosity, and depression of spirits. His dependants, even his\nequals, if in his present post he had any, were startled to find anger,\nderision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished for suavity and\nbenevolence of manner. He transacted public business with distaste, and\nhastened from it to the solitude which was at once his bane and relief. He\nmounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him forward to victory in\nGreece; he fatigued himself with deadening exercise, losing the pangs of a\ntroubled mind in animal sensation.\n\nHe slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might from the effects of\npoison, he lifted his head from above the vapours of fever and passion into\nthe still atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated on what was best to\nbe done. He was first struck by the space of time that had elapsed, since\nmadness, rather than any reasonable impulse, had regulated his actions. A\nmonth had gone by, and during that time he had not seen Evadne. Her power,\nwhich was linked to few of the enduring emotions of his heart, had greatly\ndecayed. He was no longer her slave--no longer her lover: he would never\nsee her more, and by the completeness of his return, deserve the confidence\nof Perdita.\n\nYet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the miserable abode of the\nGreek girl. An abode, which from noble and lofty principle, she had refused\nto exchange for one of greater luxury. He thought of the splendour of her\nsituation and appearance when he first knew her; he thought of her life at\nConstantinople, attended by every circumstance of oriental magnificence; of\nher present penury, her daily task of industry, her lorn state, her faded,\nfamine-struck cheek. Compassion swelled his breast; he would see her once\nagain; he would devise some plan for restoring her to society, and the\nenjoyment of her rank; their separation would then follow, as a matter of\ncourse.\n\nAgain he thought, how during this long month, he had avoided Perdita,\nflying from her as from the stings of his own conscience. But he was awake\nnow; all this should be remedied; and future devotion erase the memory of\nthis only blot on the serenity of their life. He became cheerful, as he\nthought of this, and soberly and resolutely marked out the line of conduct\nhe would adopt. He remembered that he had promised Perdita to be present\nthis very evening (the 19th of October, anniversary of his election as\nProtector) at a festival given in his honour. Good augury should this\nfestival be of the happiness of future years. First, he would look in on\nEvadne; he would not stay; but he owed her some account, some compensation\nfor his long and unannounced absence; and then to Perdita, to the forgotten\nworld, to the duties of society, the splendour of rank, the enjoyment of\npower.\n\nAfter the scene sketched in the preceding pages, Perdita had contemplated\nan entire change in the manners and conduct of Raymond. She expected\nfreedom of communication, and a return to those habits of affectionate\nintercourse which had formed the delight of her life. But Raymond did not\njoin her in any of her avocations. He transacted the business of the day\napart from her; he went out, she knew not whither. The pain inflicted by\nthis disappointment was tormenting and keen. She looked on it as a\ndeceitful dream, and tried to throw off the consciousness of it; but like\nthe shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very flesh, and ate with sharp agony\ninto her vital principle. She possessed that (though such an assertion may\nappear a paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity of happiness. Her\ndelicate organization and creative imagination rendered her peculiarly\nsusceptible of pleasurable emotion. The overflowing warmth of her heart, by\nmaking love a plant of deep root and stately growth, had attuned her whole\nsoul to the reception of happiness, when she found in Raymond all that\ncould adorn love and satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which\nthe fabric of her existence was founded, became common place through\nparticipation, the endless succession of attentions and graceful action\nsnapt by transfer, his universe of love wrested from her, happiness must\ndepart, and then be exchanged for its opposite. The same peculiarities of\ncharacter rendered her sorrows agonies; her fancy magnified them, her\nsensibility made her for ever open to their renewed impression; love\nenvenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was neither submission, patience,\nnor self-abandonment in her grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath\nit, and rendered every pang more sharp by resistance. Again and again the\nidea recurred, that he loved another. She did him justice; she believed\nthat he felt a tender affection for her; but give a paltry prize to him who\nin some life-pending lottery has calculated on the possession of tens of\nthousands, and it will disappoint him more than a blank. The affection and\namity of a Raymond might be inestimable; but, beyond that affection,\nembosomed deeper than friendship, was the indivisible treasure of love.\nTake the sum in its completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its\nprice; take from it the smallest portion, give it but the name of parts,\nseparate it into degrees and sections, and like the magician's coin, the\nvalueless gold of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There is a\nmeaning in the eye of love; a cadence in its voice, an irradiation in its\nsmile, the talisman of whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit\nis elemental, its essence single, its divinity an unit. The very heart and\nsoul of Raymond and Perdita had mingled, even as two mountain brooks that\njoin in their descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over shining\npebbles, beside starry flowers; but let one desert its primal course, or be\ndammed up by choaking obstruction, and the other shrinks in its altered\nbanks. Perdita was sensible of the failing of the tide that fed her life.\nUnable to support the slow withering of her hopes, she suddenly formed a\nplan, resolving to terminate at once the period of misery, and to bring to\nan happy conclusion the late disastrous events.\n\nThe anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of Raymond to the office of\nProtector; and it was customary to celebrate this day by a splendid\nfestival. A variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double magnificence\nover the scene; yet, as she arrayed herself for the evening gala, she\nwondered herself at the pains she took, to render sumptuous the celebration\nof an event which appeared to her the beginning of her sufferings. Woe\nbefall the day, she thought, woe, tears, and mourning betide the hour, that\ngave Raymond another hope than love, another wish than my devotion; and\nthrice joyful the moment when he shall be restored to me! God knows, I put\nmy trust in his vows, and believe his asserted faith--but for that, I\nwould not seek what I am now resolved to attain. Shall two years more be\nthus passed, each day adding to our alienation, each act being another\nstone piled on the barrier which separates us? No, my Raymond, my only\nbeloved, sole possession of Perdita! This night, this splendid assembly,\nthese sumptuous apartments, and this adornment of your tearful girl, are\nall united to celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you relinquished the\nprospect of a crown. That was in days of early love, when I could only hold\nout the hope, not the assurance of happiness. Now you have the experience\nof all that I can give, the heart's devotion, taintless love, and\nunhesitating subjection to you. You must choose between these and your\nprotectorate. This, proud noble, is your last night! Perdita has bestowed\non it all of magnificent and dazzling that your heart best loves--but,\nfrom these gorgeous rooms, from this princely attendance, from power and\nelevation, you must return with to-morrow's sun to our rural abode; for I\nwould not buy an immortality of joy, by the endurance of one more week\nsister to the last.\n\nBrooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should come, to propose,\nand insist upon its accomplishment, secure of his consent, the heart of\nPerdita was lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was flushed by the\nexpectation of struggle; her eyes sparkled with the hope of triumph. Having\ncast her fate upon a die, and feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have\nnamed as bearing the stamp of queen of nations on her noble brow, now rose\nsuperior to humanity, and seemed in calm power, to arrest with her finger,\nthe wheel of destiny. She had never before looked so supremely lovely.\n\nWe, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to be present at this\nfestivity, but Perdita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to absent\nourselves from Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her scheme to\nus) resolved the next morning to return with Raymond to our dear circle,\nthere to renew a course of life in which she had found entire felicity.\nLate in the evening she entered the apartments appropriated to the\nfestival. Raymond had quitted the palace the night before; he had promised\nto grace the assembly, but he had not yet returned. Still she felt sure\nthat he would come at last; and the wider the breach might appear at this\ncrisis, the more secure she was of closing it for ever.\n\nIt was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn was far advanced\nand dreary. The wind howled; the half bare trees were despoiled of the\nremainder of their summer ornament; the state of the air which induced the\ndecay of vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or hope. Raymond had been\nexalted by the determination he had made; but with the declining day his\nspirits declined. First he was to visit Evadne, and then to hasten to the\npalace of the Protectorate. As he walked through the wretched streets in\nthe neighbourhood of the luckless Greek's abode, his heart smote him for\nthe whole course of his conduct towards her. First, his having entered into\nany engagement that should permit her to remain in such a state of\ndegradation; and then, after a short wild dream, having left her to drear\nsolitude, anxious conjecture, and bitter, still--disappointed\nexpectation. What had she done the while, how supported his absence and\nneglect? Light grew dim in these close streets, and when the well known\ndoor was opened, the staircase was shrouded in perfect night. He groped his\nway up, he entered the garret, he found Evadne stretched speechless, almost\nlifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people of the house, but\ncould learn nothing from them, except that they knew nothing. Her story was\nplain to him, plain and distinct as the remorse and horror that darted\ntheir fangs into him. When she found herself forsaken by him, she lost the\nheart to pursue her usual avocations; pride forbade every application to\nhim; famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of death, within\nwhose opening folds she should now, without sin, quickly repose. No\ncreature came near her, as her strength failed.\n\nIf she died, where could there be found on record a murderer, whose cruel\nact might compare with his? What fiend more wanton in his mischief, what\ndamned soul more worthy of perdition! But he was not reserved for this\nagony of self-reproach. He sent for medical assistance; the hours passed,\nspun by suspense into ages; the darkness of the long autumnal night yielded\nto day, before her life was secure. He had her then removed to a more\ncommodious dwelling, and hovered about her, again and again to assure\nhimself that she was safe.\n\nIn the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to the event, he\nremembered the festival given in his honour, by Perdita; in his honour\nthen, when misery and death were affixing indelible disgrace to his name,\nhonour to him whose crimes deserved a scaffold; this was the worst mockery.\nStill Perdita would expect him; he wrote a few incoherent words on a scrap\nof paper, testifying that he was well, and bade the woman of the house take\nit to the palace, and deliver it into the hands of the wife of the Lord\nProtector. The woman, who did not know him, contemptuously asked, how he\nthought she should gain admittance, particularly on a festal night, to that\nlady's presence? Raymond gave her his ring to ensure the respect of the\nmenials. Thus, while Perdita was entertaining her guests, and anxiously\nawaiting the arrival of her lord, his ring was brought her; and she was\ntold that a poor woman had a note to deliver to her from its wearer.\n\nThe vanity of the old gossip was raised by her commission, which, after\nall, she did not understand, since she had no suspicion, even now that\nEvadne's visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from his horse,\nor some similar accident--till the woman's answers woke other fears. From\na feeling of cunning blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant\nmessenger, did not speak of Evadne's illness; but she garrulously gave an\naccount of Raymond's frequent visits, adding to her narration such\ncircumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated\nthe unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all, his absence now from\nthe festival, his message wholly unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful\nhints of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult. Again she looked at the\nring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped, which she had herself given\nhim. She looked at the hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and\nrepeated to herself the words--\"Do not, I charge you, I entreat you,\npermit your guests to wonder at my absence:\" the while the old crone going\non with her talk, filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and\nfalsehood. At length Perdita dismissed her.\n\nThe poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had not been\nmissed. She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning against an\nornamental column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her faculties\nwere palsied. She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a carved vase:\nthat morning she had arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even\nnow all aghast as she was, she observed their brilliant colours and starry\nshapes.--\"Divine infoliations of the spirit of beauty,\" she exclaimed,\n\"Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart, has\nnot spread contagion over you!--Why am I not a partner of your\ninsensibility, a sharer in your calm!\"\n\nShe paused. \"To my task,\" she continued mentally, \"my guests must not\nperceive the reality, either as it regards him or me. I obey; they shall\nnot, though I die the moment they are gone. They shall behold the antipodes\nof what is real--for I will appear to live--while I am--dead.\" It\nrequired all her self-command, to suppress the gush of tears self-pity\ncaused at this idea. After many struggles, she succeeded, and turned to\njoin the company.\n\nAll her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal conflict.\nShe had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine\nthe focus of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this, while in deep woe she\nsighed for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged her crowded rooms\nfor dark forest depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath. But she became\ngay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be, as was usual with her,\nplacidly content. Every one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all\nactions appear graceful in the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her\napplaudingly, although there was a sharpness in her laugh, and an\nabruptness in her sallies, which might have betrayed her secret to an\nattentive observer. She went on, feeling that, if she had paused for a\nmoment, the checked waters of misery would have deluged her soul, that her\nwrecked hopes would raise their wailing voices, and that those who now\nechoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would have shrunk in fear\nfrom her convulsive despair. Her only consolation during the violence which\nshe did herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated clock, and\ninternally count the moments which must elapse before she could be alone.\n\nAt length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own desires, she rallied her\nguests on their early departure. One by one they left her--at length she\npressed the hand of her last visitor. \"How cold and damp your hand is,\"\nsaid her friend; \"you are over fatigued, pray hasten to rest.\" Perdita\nsmiled faintly--her guest left her; the carriage rolling down the street\nassured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an enemy, as if wings\nhad been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her\nattendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself wildly on the floor,\nshe bit her lips even to blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey\nto the vulture of despair, striving not to think, while multitudinous ideas\nmade a home of her heart; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and\npoured in with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound\neach other, while they worked her up to madness.\n\nAt length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before a\nlarge mirror--she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful\ndress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous arms\nand neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy tresses, all\nwere to her clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame\nto a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. \"Vase am I,\" she thought, \"vase\nbrimful of despair's direst essence. Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor\ngirl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no\nlonger yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy the homeless\nbeggar; most truly am I without a home! I live on a barren desart, which,\nwide and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in the midst\nis a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita, art chained, and thou seest the\ndreary level stretch far away.\"\n\nShe threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden. Light and\ndarkness were struggling together, and the orient was streaked by roseate\nand golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the kindling\natmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly over the dewy plants, rushed\ninto the heated room. \"All things go on,\" thought Perdita, \"all things\nproceed, decay, and perish! When noontide has passed, and the weary day has\ndriven her team to their western stalls, the fires of heaven rise from the\nEast, moving in their accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey\nhill. When their course is fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an\nuncertain shadow; the eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers,\nthe startled vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length\nappears, and in majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven. All\nproceeds, changes and dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting\nheart.\n\n\"Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has journied on\nto its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed? We call the\nsupernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I look\nagain where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal heavens is\naltered. The silly moon and inconstant planets vary nightly their erratic\ndance; the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon deserts his\nthrone, and leaves his dominion to night and winter. Nature grows old, and\nshakes in her decaying limbs,--creation has become bankrupt! What wonder\nthen, that eclipse and death have led to destruction the light of thy life,\nO Perdita!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nTHUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sister, when she\nbecame assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and all her\ndefects tended to make the blow incurable. Her affection for me, her\nbrother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to the reigning\npassion of her heart; even her maternal tenderness borrowed half its force\nfrom the delight she had in tracing Raymond's features and expression in\nthe infant's countenance. She had been reserved and even stern in\nchildhood; but love had softened the asperities of her character, and her\nunion with Raymond had caused her talents and affections to unfold\nthemselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost, she in some degree\nreturned to her ancient disposition. The concentrated pride of her nature,\nforgotten during her blissful dream, awoke, and with its adder's sting\npierced her heart; her humility of spirit augmented the power of the venom;\nshe had been exalted in her own estimation, while distinguished by his\nlove: of what worth was she, now that he thrust her from this preferment?\nShe had been proud of having won and preserved him--but another had won\nhim from her, and her exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember.\n\nWe, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfortune. Soon\nafter the festival she had sent for her child, and then she seemed to have\nforgotten us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he afterward\npaid them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine the cause. They\nstill appeared in public together, and lived under the same roof. Raymond\nwas as usual courteous, though there was, on occasions, an unbidden\nhaughtiness, or painful abruptness in his manners, which startled his\ngentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain sat on his lips, and\nhis voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention to her lord;\nbut she was silent, and beyond words sad. She had grown thin and pale; and\nher eyes often filled with tears. Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to\nsay--That it should be so! At others her countenance expressed--I will\nstill do all I can to make you happy. But Adrian read with uncertain aim\nthe charactery of her face, and might mistake.--Clara was always with\nher, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit\nholding her child's hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to\nguess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they\npromised to come during the following month.\n\nIt was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees with\nleaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of their\nintention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived with\nher daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had been detained by\nbusiness. According to Adrian's account, I had expected to find her sad;\nbut, on the contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true, she had\ngrown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though\ntinged by a bright glow. She was delighted to see us; caressed our\nchildren, praised their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to\nmeet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of childish games were\nentered into, in which Perdita joined. She communicated her gaiety to us,\nand as we amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a\nhappier, less care-worn party could not have been assembled. \"This is\nbetter, Mamma,\" said Clara, \"than being in that dismal London, where you\noften cry, and never laugh as you do now.\"--\"Silence, little foolish\nthing,\" replied her mother, \"and remember any one that mentions London is\nsent to Coventry for an hour.\"\n\nSoon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual in the playful spirit\nof the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and myself, by\ndegrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only remained\nwith the children. Raymond talked of his new buildings; of his plan for an\nestablishment for the better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he\nentered into argument, and the time slipped away unperceived.\n\nWe assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having\nrecourse to music. She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her new\naccomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied herself\nto music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal of sweetness.\nWe were not permitted by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and\nall the Operas of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the\nmost exhilarating of his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of\nMozart's music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing to come\nfrom the heart; you enter into the passions expressed by him, and are\ntransported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul's master,\nchooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but,\nat length, Perdita receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the\ntrio of \"Taci ingiusto core,\" in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was\nsoftened by him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of\nthe changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same\nsounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of\nlove to her--no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its\ndissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon after\nIdris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in\nFigaro, \"Porgi, amor, qualche risforo,\" in which the deserted Countess\nlaments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The soul of tender sorrow is\nbreathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by\nthe mournful chords of her instrument, added to the expression of the\nwords. During the pathetic appeal with which it concludes, a stifled sob\nattracted our attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music recalled her\nto herself, she hastened out of the hall--I followed her. At first, she\nseemed to wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning,\nshe threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:--\"Once more,\" she cried,\n\"once more on your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the lost\nPerdita pour forth her sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself;\nand for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong\nin giving words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know\nthat I am miserable--be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil\nof life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that\ngrief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!\"\n\nI endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed her,\nassured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the changes\nof her fortune:--\"Dear words,\" she cried, \"expressions of love come upon\nmy ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that had been dear\nto me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe or\ncomfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered during\nthese long months. I have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed\nthemselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread\nmingled with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops,\nreproaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the\nvery luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day contriving new\nextravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the\nappurtenances of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness\nthat consumes me. I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my\ngrief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful\nsmiles--even in solitude I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become\ninsane and rave.\"\n\nThe tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to return\nto the circle we had left--so I persuaded her to let me drive her through\nthe park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale of her\nunhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would lighten the burthen,\nand certain that, if there were a remedy, it should be found and secured to\nher.\n\nSeveral weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and she\nhad been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any regular\ntrain. Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly to heart,\nthat which many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was no subject for\nreason; and, ignorant as she was of the motives and true conduct of\nRaymond, things assumed for her even a worse appearance, than the reality\nwarranted. He was seldom at the palace; never, but when he was assured that\nhis public duties would prevent his remaining alone with Perdita. They\nseldom addressed each other, shunning explanation, each fearing any\ncommunication the other might make. Suddenly, however, the manners of\nRaymond changed; he appeared to desire to find opportunities of bringing\nabout a return to kindness and intimacy with my sister. The tide of love\ntowards her appeared to flow again; he could never forget, how once he had\nbeen devoted to her, making her the shrine and storehouse wherein to place\nevery thought and every sentiment. Shame seemed to hold him back; yet he\nevidently wished to establish a renewal of confidence and affection. From\nthe moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered herself to form any plan of\naction, she had laid one down, which now she prepared to follow. She\nreceived these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did not shun\nhis company; but she endeavoured to place a barrier in the way of familiar\nintercourse or painful discussion, which mingled pride and shame prevented\nRaymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew signs of angry\nimpatience, and Perdita became aware that the system she had adopted could\nnot continue; she must explain herself to him; she could not summon courage\nto speak--she wrote thus:--\n\n\"Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will contain no\nreproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word: for what should I reproach\nyou?\n\n\"Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without that, we shall both\ngrope in the dark, mistaking one another; erring from the path which may\nconduct, one of us at least, to a more eligible mode of life than that led\nby either during the last few weeks.\n\n\"I loved you--I love you--neither anger nor pride dictates these lines;\nbut a feeling beyond, deeper, and more unalterable than either. My\naffections are wounded; it is impossible to heal them:--cease then the\nvain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours tend. Forgiveness!\nReturn! Idle words are these! I forgive the pain I endure; but the trodden\npath cannot be retraced.\n\n\"Common affection might have been satisfied with common usages. I believed\nthat you read my heart, and knew its devotion, its unalienable fidelity\ntowards you. I never loved any but you. You came the embodied image of my\nfondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high aspirations attended your\ncareer. Love for you invested the world for me in enchanted light; it was\nno longer the earth I trod--the earth, common mother, yielding only trite\nand stale repetition of objects and circumstances old and worn out. I lived\nin a temple glorified by intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I walked,\na consecrated being, contemplating only your power, your excellence;\n\n  For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,\n  Transformed for me the real to a dream,\n  Cloathing the palpable and familiar\n  With golden exhalations of the dawn.\n\n'The bloom has vanished from my life'--there is no morning to this all\ninvesting night; no rising to the set-sun of love. In those days the\nrest of the world was nothing to me: all other men--I never\nconsidered nor felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one of them.\nSeparated from them; exalted in my heart; sole possessor of my affections;\nsingle object of my hopes, the best half of myself.\n\n\"Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on any, who could enjoy\nits light with purer and more intense bliss? It was not--it is not a\ncommon infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an whole which\nmay not have parts; it is the carelessness with which you have shaken off\nthe mantle of election with which to me you were invested, and have become\none among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not love a divinity,\nbecause it is immortal? Did not I appear sanctified, even to myself,\nbecause this love had for its temple my heart? I have gazed on you as you\nslept, melted even to tears, as the idea filled my mind, that all I\npossessed lay cradled in those idolized, but mortal lineaments before me.\nYet, even then, I have checked thick-coming fears with one thought; I would\nnot fear death, for the emotions that linked us must be immortal.\n\n\"And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased to close my eyes,\nnever more to open them again. And yet I fear it; even as I fear all\nthings; for in any state of being linked by the chain of memory with this,\nhappiness would not return--even in Paradise, I must feel that your love\nwas less enduring than the mortal beatings of my fragile heart, every pulse\nof which knells audibly,\n\n  The funeral note\n  Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.\n  No--no--me miserable; for love extinct there is no resurrection!\n\n\"Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute all I possess to\nyour welfare. On account of a tattling world; for the sake of my--of our\nchild, I would remain by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake your\ncounsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor can I call myself a\nfriend to any; since, lost as I am, I have no thought to spare from my own\nwretched, engrossing self. But it will please me to see you each day! to\nlisten to the public voice praising you; to keep up your paternal love for\nour girl; to hear your voice; to know that I am near you, though you are no\nlonger mine.\n\n\"If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the word, and it\nshall be done--I will take all the blame on myself, of harshness\nor unkindness, in the world's eye.\n\n\"Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at least for the present,\nto live under the same roof with you. When the fever of my young life is\nspent; when placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me, friendship\nmay come, love and hope being dead. May this be true? Can my soul,\ninextricably linked to this perishable frame, become lethargic and cold,\neven as this sensitive mechanism shall lose its youthful elasticity? Then,\nwith lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs, and wrinkled brow, though now the words\nsound hollow and meaningless, then, tottering on the grave's extreme edge,\nI may be--your affectionate and true friend,\n\n\"PERDITA.\"\n\nRaymond's answer was brief. What indeed could he reply to her complaints,\nto her griefs which she jealously paled round, keeping out all thought of\nremedy. \"Notwithstanding your bitter letter,\" he wrote, \"for bitter I must\ncall it, you are the chief person in my estimation, and it is your\nhappiness that I would principally consult. Do that which seems best to\nyou: and if you can receive gratification from one mode of life in\npreference to another, do not let me be any obstacle. I foresee that the\nplan which you mark out in your letter will not endure long; but you are\nmistress of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to contribute as far as you\nwill permit me to your happiness.\"\n\n\"Raymond has prophesied well,\" said Perdita, \"alas, that it should be so!\nour present mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not be the first\nto propose alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has injured even unto\ndeath; and I derive no hope from his kindness; no change can possibly be\nbrought about even by his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra have\nworn as an ornament the vinegar which contained her dissolved pearl, as I\nbe content with the love that Raymond can now offer me.\"\n\nI own that I did not see her misfortune with the same eyes as Perdita. At\nall events methought that the wound could be healed; and, if they remained\ntogether, it would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and soften her\nmind; and it was not until after many endeavours that I gave up the task as\nimpracticable. Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with some\nasperity:--\"Do you think that any of your arguments are new to me? or\nthat my own burning wishes and intense anguish have not suggested them all\na thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety than you can put\ninto them? Lionel, you cannot understand what woman's love is. In days of\nhappiness I have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart and\nexulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for me. I was a poor,\nuneducated, unbefriended, mountain girl, raised from nothingness\nby him. All that I possessed of the luxuries of life came\nfrom him. He gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the world's\nrespect reflected from his own glory: all this joined to his own undying\nlove, inspired me with sensations towards him, akin to those with which we\nregard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I devoted myself to him:\nimperfect creature that I was, I took myself to task, that I might become\nworthy of him. I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my burning\nimpatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing thoughts, educating\nmyself to the best perfection I might attain, that the fruit of my\nexertions might be his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He\ndeserved it all--all labour, all devotion, all sacrifice; I would have\ntoiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that would please him. I was\nready to quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to live only\nwith him, for him. I could not do otherwise, even if I had wished; for if\nwe are said to have two souls, he was my better soul, to which the other\nwas a perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even fidelity. I\nearned that; I deserved it. Because I was mountain bred, unallied to the\nnoble and wealthy, shall he think to repay me by an empty name and station?\nLet him take them back; without his love they are nothing to me. Their only\nmerit in my eyes was that they were his.\"\n\nThus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to the question of their\nentire separation, she replied: \"Be it so! One day the period will arrive;\nI know it, and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect\ncompanionship, and our masquerade of union, are strangely dear to me. It is\npainful, I allow, destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual fever\nin my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is instinct with poison. Yet\nI must cling to it; perhaps it will kill me soon, and thus perform a\nthankful office.\"\n\nIn the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and Idris. He was\nnaturally frank; the continued absence of Perdita and myself became\nremarkable; and Raymond soon found relief from the constraint of months, by\nan unreserved confidence with his two friends. He related to them the\nsituation in which he had found Evadne. At first, from delicacy to Adrian\nhe concealed her name; but it was divulged in the course of his narrative,\nand her former lover heard with the most acute agitation the history of her\nsufferings. Idris had shared Perdita's ill opinion of the Greek; but\nRaymond's account softened and interested her. Evadne's constancy,\nfortitude, even her ill-fated and ill-regulated love, were matter of\nadmiration and pity; especially when, from the detail of the events of the\nnineteenth of October, it was apparent that she preferred suffering and\ndeath to any in her eyes degrading application for the pity and assistance\nof her lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish this interest. At\nfirst, relieved from famine and the grave, watched over by Raymond with the\ntenderest assiduity, with that feeling of repose peculiar to convalescence,\nEvadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love. But reflection\nreturned with health. She questioned him with regard to the motives which\nhad occasioned his critical absence. She framed her enquiries with Greek\nsubtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision and firmness\npeculiar to her disposition. She could not divine, that the breach which\nshe had occasioned between Raymond and Perdita was already irreparable: but\nshe knew, that under the present system it would be widened each day, and\nthat its result must be to destroy her lover's happiness, and to implant\nthe fangs of remorse in his heart. From the moment that she perceived the\nright line of conduct, she resolved to adopt it, and to part from Raymond\nfor ever. Conflicting passions, long-cherished love, and self-inflicted\ndisappointment, made her regard death alone as sufficient refuge for her\nwoe. But the same feelings and opinions which had before restrained her,\nacted with redoubled force; for she knew that the reflection that he had\noccasioned her death, would pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every\nenjoyment, clouding every prospect. Besides, though the violence of her\nanguish made life hateful, it had not yet produced that monotonous,\nlethargic sense of changeless misery which for the most part produces\nsuicide. Her energy of character induced her still to combat with the ills\nof life; even those attendant on hopeless love presented themselves, rather\nin the shape of an adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she\nmust submit. Besides, she had memories of past tenderness to cherish,\nsmiles, words, and even tears, to con over, which, though remembered in\ndesertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of the\ngrave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her letter to\nRaymond gave no clue for discovery; it assured him, that she was in no\ndanger of wanting the means of life; she promised in it to preserve\nherself, and some future day perhaps to present herself to him in a station\nnot unworthy of her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of despair and\nof unalterable love, a last farewell.\n\nAll these circumstances were now related to Adrian and Idris. Raymond then\nlamented the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita. He declared,\nnotwithstanding her harshness, he even called it coldness, that he loved\nher. He had been ready once with the humility of a penitent, and the duty\nof a vassal, to surrender himself to her; giving up his very soul to her\ntutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her bondsman. She had rejected\nthese advances; and the time for such exuberant submission, which must be\nfounded on love and nourished by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes\nand endeavours were directed towards her peace, and his chief discomfort\narose from the perception that he exerted himself in vain. If she were to\ncontinue inflexible in the line of conduct she now pursued, they must part.\nThe combinations and occurrences of this senseless mode of intercourse were\nmaddening to him. Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted\nby the fear of causing the death of one or other of the beings implicated\nin these events; and he could not persuade himself to undertake to direct\nthe course of events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he should\nlead those attached to the car into irremediable ruin.\n\nAfter a discussion on this subject, which lasted for several hours, he took\nleave of his friends, and returned to town, unwilling to meet Perdita\nbefore us, conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts uppermost in the\nminds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him with her child. Idris\nendeavoured to persuade her to remain. My poor sister looked at the\ncounsellor with affright. She knew that Raymond had conversed with her; had\nhe instigated this request?--was this to be the prelude to their eternal\nseparation?--I have said, that the defects of her character awoke and\nacquired vigour from her unnatural position. She regarded with suspicion\nthe invitation of Idris; she embraced me, as if she were about to be\ndeprived of my affection also: calling me her more than brother, her only\nfriend, her last hope, she pathetically conjured me not to cease to love\nher; and with encreased anxiety she departed for London, the scene and\ncause of all her misery.\n\nThe scenes that followed, convinced her that she had not yet fathomed the\nobscure gulph into which she had plunged. Her unhappiness assumed every day\na new shape; every day some unexpected event seemed to close, while in fact\nit led onward, the train of calamities which now befell her.\n\nThe selected passion of the soul of Raymond was ambition. Readiness of\ntalent, a capacity of entering into, and leading the dispositions of men;\nearnest desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of his\nambition. But other ingredients mingled with these, and prevented him from\nbecoming the calculating, determined character, which alone forms a\nsuccessful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his first\nmovements; harsh and reckless when provoked. Above all, he was remorseless\nand unyielding in the pursuit of any object of desire, however lawless.\nLove of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our nature, made a\nprominent part of his character, conquering the conqueror; holding him in\nat the moment of acquisition; sweeping away ambition's web; making him\nforget the toil of weeks, for the sake of one moment's indulgence of the\nnew and actual object of his wishes. Obeying these impulses, he had become\nthe husband of Perdita: egged on by them, he found himself the lover of\nEvadne. He had now lost both. He had neither the ennobling\nself-gratulation, which constancy inspires, to console him, nor the\nvoluptuous sense of abandonment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion.\nHis heart was exhausted by the recent events; his enjoyment of life was\ndestroyed by the resentment of Perdita, and the flight of Evadne; and the\ninflexibility of the former, set the last seal upon the annihilation of his\nhopes. As long as their disunion remained a secret, he cherished an\nexpectation of re-awakening past tenderness in her bosom; now that we were\nall made acquainted with these occurrences, and that Perdita, by declaring\nher resolves to others, in a manner pledged herself to their\naccomplishment, he gave up the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only,\nsince he was unable to influence her to change, to reconcile himself to the\npresent state of things. He made a vow against love and its train of\nstruggles, disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual\nenjoyment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of passion.\n\nDebasement of character is the certain follower of such pursuits. Yet this\nconsequence would not have been immediately remarkable, if Raymond had\ncontinued to apply himself to the execution of his plans for the public\nbenefit, and the fulfilling his duties as Protector. But, extreme in all\nthings, given up to immediate impressions, he entered with ardour into this\nnew pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the incongruous intimacies\noccasioned by it without reflection or foresight. The council-chamber was\ndeserted; the crowds which attended on him as agents to his various\nprojects were neglected. Festivity, and even libertinism, became the order\nof the day.\n\nPerdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder. For a moment she\nthought that she could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could be induced\nto hear reason from her.--Vain hope! The moment of her influence was\npassed. He listened with haughtiness, replied disdainfully; and, if in\ntruth, she succeeded in awakening his conscience, the sole effect was that\nhe sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the energy natural\nto her, Perdita then endeavoured to supply his place. Their still apparent\nunion permitted her to do much; but no woman could, in the end, present a\nremedy to the encreasing negligence of the Protector; who, as if seized\nwith a paroxysm of insanity, trampled on all ceremony, all order, all duty,\nand gave himself up to license.\n\nReports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we were undecided what\nmethod to adopt to restore our friend to himself and his country, when\nPerdita suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress of the\nmournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself to go up to London, and\nendeavour to remedy the encreasing evil:--\"Tell him,\" she cried, \"tell\nLord Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him. That he need not\nplunge into this destructive dissipation for the sake of disgusting me, and\ncausing me to fly. This purpose is now accomplished; he will never see me\nmore. But let me, it is my last entreaty, let me in the praises of his\ncountrymen and the prosperity of England, find the choice of my youth\njustified.\"\n\nDuring our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon\nRaymond's conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent\nexcellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to entertain. My\nfriend and I had both been educated in one school, or rather I was his\npupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to principle was the only road\nto honour; a ceaseless observance of the laws of general utility, the only\nconscientious aim of human ambition. But though we both entertained these\nideas, we differed in their application. Resentment added also a sting to\nmy censure; and I reprobated Raymond's conduct in severe terms. Adrian was\nmore benign, more considerate. He admitted that the principles that I laid\ndown were the best; but he denied that they were the only ones. Quoting the\ntext, there are many mansions in my father's house, he insisted that the\nmodes of becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of men,\nof whom it might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there were no two\nalike.\n\nWe arrived in London at about eleven at night. We conjectured,\nnotwithstanding what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St.\nStephen's: thither we sped. The chamber was full--but there was no\nProtector; and there was an austere discontent manifest on the countenances\nof the leaders, and a whispering and busy tattle among the underlings, not\nless ominous. We hastened to the palace of the Protectorate. We found\nRaymond in his dining room with six others: the bottle was being pushed\nabout merrily, and had made considerable inroads on the understanding of\none or two. He who sat near Raymond was telling a story, which convulsed\nthe rest with laughter.\n\nRaymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the\nhour, his natural dignity never forsook him. He was gay, playful,\nfascinating--but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the\nrespect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that considering\nthe task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of England, and\nthe cares to which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly provoked to\nobserve the worthless fellows on whom his time was wasted, and the jovial\nif not drunken spirit which seemed on the point of robbing him of his\nbetter self. I stood watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a shadow\nin among them, and, by a word and look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore\norder in the assembly. Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him,\ndeclaring that he should make one in the festivity of the night.\n\nThis action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that he should sit at\nthe same table with the companions of Raymond--men of abandoned\ncharacters, or rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the\ndisgrace of their country. \"Let me entreat Adrian,\" I cried, \"not to\ncomply: rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond from\nthis scene, and restore him to other society.\"\n\n\"My good fellow,\" said Raymond, \"this is neither the time nor place for the\ndelivery of a moral lecture: take my word for it that my amusements and\nsociety are not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or fools\n--for the rest, 'Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be\nno more cakes and ale?'\"\n\nI turned angrily away: \"Verney,\" said Adrian, \"you are very cynical: sit\ndown; or if you will not, perhaps, as you are not a frequent visitor, Lord\nRaymond will humour you, and accompany us, as we had previously agreed\nupon, to parliament.\"\n\nRaymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity only in his gentle\nlineaments; he turned to me, observing with scorn my moody and stern\ndemeanour. \"Come,\" said Adrian, \"I have promised for you, enable me to keep\nmy engagement. Come with us.\"--Raymond made an uneasy movement, and\nlaconically replied--\"I won't!\"\n\nThe party in the mean time had broken up. They looked at the pictures,\nstrolled into the other apartments, talked of billiards, and one by one\nvanished. Raymond strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to\nreceive and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned against the wall. \"This\nis infinitely ridiculous,\" he cried, \"if you were school-boys, you could\nnot conduct yourselves more unreasonably.\"\n\n\"You do not understand,\" said Raymond. \"This is only part of a system:--a\nscheme of tyranny to which I will never submit. Because I am Protector of\nEngland, am I to be the only slave in its empire? My privacy invaded, my\nactions censured, my friends insulted? But I will get rid of the whole\ntogether.--Be you witnesses,\" and he took the star, insignia of office,\nfrom his breast, and threw it on the table. \"I renounce my office, I\nabdicate my power--assume it who will!\"---\n\n\"Let him assume it,\" exclaimed Adrian, \"who can pronounce himself, or whom\nthe world will pronounce to be your superior. There does not exist the man\nin England with adequate presumption. Know yourself, Raymond, and your\nindignation will cease; your complacency return. A few months ago, whenever\nwe prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own, we at the same\ntime prayed for the life and welfare of the Protector, as indissolubly\nlinked to it. Your hours were devoted to our benefit, your ambition was to\nobtain our commendation. You decorated our towns with edifices, you\nbestowed on us useful establishments, you gifted the soil with abundant\nfertility. The powerful and unjust cowered at the steps of your\njudgment-seat, and the poor and oppressed arose like morn-awakened flowers\nunder the sunshine of your protection.\n\n\"Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when this appears\nchanged? But, come, this splenetic fit is already passed; resume your\nfunctions; your partizans will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our\nlove, honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you. Master\nyourself, Raymond, and the world is subject to you.\"\n\n\"All this would be very good sense, if addressed to another,\" replied\nRaymond, moodily, \"con the lesson yourself, and you, the first peer of the\nland, may become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just, may rule\nall hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my own happiness, too late for\nEngland's good, that I undertook a task to which I am unequal. I cannot\nrule myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse my tyrant. Do\nyou think that I renounced the Protectorate (and I have renounced it) in a\nfit of spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never to take up that bauble\nagain; never again to burthen myself with the weight of care and misery, of\nwhich that is the visible sign.\n\n\"Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of youth, in the pride\nof boyish folly. I knew myself when I renounced it. I renounced it to gain\n--no matter what--for that also I have lost. For many months I have\nsubmitted to this mock majesty--this solemn jest. I am its dupe no\nlonger. I will be free.\n\n\"I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life; that which linked me\nto other men. Again I am a solitary man; and I will become again, as in my\nearly years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My friends, for Verney, I\nfeel that you are my friend, do not endeavour to shake my resolve. Perdita,\nwedded to an imagination, careless of what is behind the veil, whose\ncharactery is in truth faulty and vile, Perdita has renounced me. With her\nit was pretty enough to play a sovereign's part; and, as in the recesses of\nyour beloved forest we acted masques, and imagined ourselves Arcadian\nshepherds, to please the fancy of the moment--so was I content, more for\nPerdita's sake than my own, to take on me the character of one of the great\nones of the earth; to lead her behind the scenes of grandeur, to vary her\nlife with a short act of magnificence and power. This was to be the colour;\nlove and confidence the substance of our existence. But we must live, and\nnot act our lives; pursuing the shadow, I lost the reality--now I\nrenounce both.\n\n\"Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become again a soldier, perhaps\na conqueror. Will you accompany me? You will behold new scenes; see a new\npeople; witness the mighty struggle there going forward between\ncivilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps direct the efforts of a\nyoung and vigorous population, for liberty and order. Come with me. I have\nexpected you. I waited for this moment; all is prepared;--will you\naccompany me?\"\n\n\"I will,\" replied Adrian. \"Immediately?\"\n\n\"To-morrow if you will.\"\n\n\"Reflect!\" I cried.\n\n\"Wherefore?\" asked Raymond--\"My dear fellow, I have done nothing else\nthan reflect on this step the live-long summer; and be assured that Adrian\nhas condensed an age of reflection into this little moment. Do not talk of\nreflection; from this moment I abjure it; this is my only happy moment\nduring a long interval of time. I must go, Lionel--the Gods will it; and\nI must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion, the out-cast's\nfriend.\n\n\"One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a time, I thought\nthat, by watching a complying moment, fostering the still warm ashes, I\nmight relume in her the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than a\nfire left by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers crowned by a pyramid\nof snow. Then, in endeavouring to do violence to my own disposition, I made\nall worse than before. Still I think, that time, and even absence, may\nrestore her to me. Remember, that I love her still, that my dearest hope is\nthat she will again be mine. I know, though she does not, how false the\nveil is which she has spread over the reality--do not endeavour to rend\nthis deceptive covering, but by degrees withdraw it. Present her with a\nmirror, in which she may know herself; and, when she is an adept in that\nnecessary but difficult science, she will wonder at her present mistake,\nand hasten to restore to me, what is by right mine, her forgiveness, her\nkind thoughts, her love.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nAFTER these events, it was long before we were able to attain any degree of\ncomposure. A moral tempest had wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we,\nremnants of the diminished crew, were aghast at the losses and changes\nwhich we had undergone. Idris passionately loved her brother, and could ill\nbrook an absence whose duration was uncertain; his society was dear and\nnecessary to me--I had followed up my chosen literary occupations with\ndelight under his tutorship and assistance; his mild philosophy, unerring\nreason, and enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the exalted\nspirit of our circle; even the children bitterly regretted the loss of\ntheir kind playfellow. Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of\nresentment, by day and night she figured to herself the toils and dangers\nof the wanderers. Raymond absent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the\npower and rank of the Protectorate, exposed to the perils of war, became an\nobject of anxious interest; not that she felt any inclination to recall\nhim, if recall must imply a return to their former union. Such return she\nfelt to be impossible; and while she believed it to be thus, and with\nanguish regretted that so it should be, she continued angry and impatient\nwith him, who occasioned her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused\nher to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce her in person and\nin mind to the shadow of what she had been. She sought solitude, and\navoided us when in gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a family\ncircle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and solemn music were her\nonly pastimes. She neglected even her child; shutting her heart against all\ntenderness, she grew reserved towards me, her first and fast friend.\n\nI could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself to remedy the evil\n--remediless I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to reconcile\nherself to Raymond. Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion\nto induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one with a gush of\ntears--telling me that to be persuaded--life and the goods of life were\na cheap exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the capacity; again\nand again she declared, it were as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on\nthe wind's viewless courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit\nfor honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding love. She answered\nmy reasonings more briefly, declaring with disdain, that the reason was\nhers; and, until I could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that\nmaturity could go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as\nthough it had never been, it was useless to assure her that no real change\nhad taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered him to\ngo, though her very heart-strings cracked at the fulfilling of the act,\nwhich rent from her all that made life valuable.\n\nTo change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by the\ncloud that had come over us, I persuaded my two remaining companions that\nit were better that we should absent ourselves for a time from Windsor. We\nvisited the north of England, my native Ulswater, and lingered in scenes\ndear from a thousand associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland,\nthat we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence we crossed to\nIreland, and passed several weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney. The\nchange of scene operated to a great degree as I expected; after a year's\nabsence, Perdita returned in gentler and more docile mood to Windsor. The\nfirst sight of this place for a time unhinged her. Here every spot was\ndistinct with associations now grown bitter. The forest glades, the ferny\ndells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread around\nthe silver pathway of ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one\nchoral voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plaintive regret.\n\nBut my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of her own situation, did\nnot end here. Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated. When first\nshe left her peasant life, and resided with the elegant and cultivated\nEvadne, the only accomplishment she brought to any perfection was that of\npainting, for which she had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had\noccupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted her Greek friend's\nprotection. Her pallet and easel were now thrown aside; did she try to\npaint, thronging recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with\ntears. With this occupation she gave up almost every other; and her mind\npreyed upon itself almost to madness.\n\nFor my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me from my selvatic\nwilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded to\nliterature. I felt convinced that however it might have been in former\ntimes, in the present stage of the world, no man's faculties could be\ndeveloped, no man's moral principle be enlarged and liberal, without an\nextensive acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place of an\nactive career, of ambition, and those palpable excitements necessary to the\nmultitude. The collation of philosophical opinions, the study of historical\nfacts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my recreation, and the\nserious aim of my life. I turned author myself. My productions however were\nsufficiently unpretending; they were confined to the biography of favourite\nhistorical characters, especially those whom I believed to have been\ntraduced, or about whom clung obscurity and doubt.\n\nAs my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I\nfound another and a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my\npoint of sight was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of all\nhuman beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings have been called the\nfathers of their people. Suddenly I became as it were the father of all\nmankind. Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to enrich the\ntreasure house of man's intellectual possessions; each sentiment was a\nprecious gift I bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be attributed\nto vanity. They were not expressed in words, nor even reduced to form in my\nown mind; but they filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of\nenthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which I before walked,\ninto the bright noon-enlightened highway of mankind, making me, citizen of\nthe world, a candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the praise\nand sympathy of my fellow men.\n\nNo one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of composition more intensely\nthan I. If I left the woods, the solemn music of the waving branches, and\nthe majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of the Castle, and\nlooked over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our regal mount, and\nlistened the while to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn\nharmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my lagging thoughts,\npermitting them, methought, to penetrate the last veil of nature and her\nGod, and to display the highest beauty in visible expression to the\nunderstandings of men. As the music went on, my ideas seemed to quit their\nmortal dwelling house; they shook their pinions and began a flight, sailing\non the placid current of thought, filling the creation with new glory, and\nrousing sublime imagery that else had slept voiceless. Then I would hasten\nto my desk, weave the new-found web of mind in firm texture and brilliant\ncolours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a calmer moment.\n\nBut this account, which might as properly belong to a former period of my\nlife as to the present moment, leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I\ntook in literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from it, that made\nme eager to lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I began with light hand and\ngentle allurement; first exciting her curiosity, and then satisfying it in\nsuch a way as might occasion her, at the same time that she half forgot her\nsorrows in occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a reaction of\nbenevolence and toleration.\n\nIntellectual activity, though not directed towards books, had always been\nmy sister's characteristic. It had been displayed early in life, leading\nher out to solitary musing among her native mountains, causing her to form\ninnumerous combinations from common objects, giving strength to her\nperceptions, and swiftness to their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod\nof the master-prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity. Love had\ndoubled all her excellencies, and placed a diadem on her genius. Was she to\ncease to love? Take the colours and odour from the rose, change the sweet\nnutriment of mother's milk to gall and poison; as easily might you wean\nPerdita from love. She grieved for the loss of Raymond with an anguish,\nthat exiled all smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her brow of\nbeauty. But each day seemed to change the nature of her suffering, and\nevery succeeding hour forced her to alter (if so I may style it) the\nfashion of her soul's mourning garb. For a time music was able to satisfy\nthe cravings of her mental hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed\nthemselves in each change of key, and varied with every alteration in the\nstrain. My schooling first impelled her towards books; and, if music had\nbeen the food of sorrow, the productions of the wise became its\nmedicine. The acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an\noccupation, for one who referred every expression to the universe within,\nand read not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling up time; but who was\nstill questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea in a thousand\nways, ardently desirous for the discovery of truth in every sentence. She\nsought to improve her understanding; mechanically her heart and\ndispositions became soft and gentle under this benign discipline. After\nawhile she discovered, that amidst all her newly acquired knowledge, her\nown character, which formerly she fancied that she thoroughly understood,\nbecame the first in rank among the terrae incognitae, the pathless wilds of\na country that had no chart. Erringly and strangely she began the task of\nself-examination with self-condemnation. And then again she became aware of\nher own excellencies, and began to balance with juster scales the shades of\ngood and evil. I, who longed beyond words, to restore her to the happiness\nit was still in her power to enjoy, watched with anxiety the result of\nthese internal proceedings.\n\nBut man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his forces like that of\nan engine; and, though an impulse draw with a forty-horse power at what\nappears willing to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the\nmovement is not effected. Neither grief, philosophy, nor love could make\nPerdita think with mildness of the dereliction of Raymond. She now took\npleasure in my society; towards Idris she felt and displayed a full and\naffectionate sense of her worth--she restored to her child in abundant\nmeasure her tenderness and care. But I could discover, amidst all her\nrepinings, deep resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense of\ninjury, that plucked from me my hope, when I appeared nearest to its\nfulfilment. Among other painful restrictions, she has occasioned it to\nbecome a law among us, never to mention Raymond's name before her. She\nrefused to read any communications from Greece, desiring me only to mention\nwhen any arrived, and whether the wanderers were well. It was curious that\neven little Clara observed this law towards her mother. This lovely child\nwas nearly eight years of age. Formerly she had been a light-hearted\ninfant, fanciful, but gay and childish. After the departure of her father,\nthought became impressed on her young brow. Children, unadepts in language,\nseldom find words to express their thoughts, nor could we tell in what\nmanner the late events had impressed themselves on her mind. But certainly\nshe had made deep observations while she noted in silence the changes that\npassed around her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita, she appeared\nhalf afraid when she spoke of him to me, and though I tried to draw her out\non the subject, and to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas\nconcerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she watched\nfor the arrival of letters--knew the post mark, and watched me as I read.\nI found her often poring over the article of Greek intelligence in the\nnewspaper.\n\nThere is no more painful sight than that of untimely care in children, and\nit was particularly observable in one whose disposition had heretofore been\nmirthful. Yet there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara, that\nyour admiration was excited; and if the moods of mind are calculated to\npaint the cheek with beauty, and endow motions with grace, surely her\ncontemplations must have been celestial; since every lineament was moulded\ninto loveliness, and her motions were more harmonious than the elegant\nboundings of the fawns of her native forest. I sometimes expostulated with\nPerdita on the subject of her reserve; but she rejected my counsels, while\nher daughter's sensibility excited in her a tenderness still more\npassionate.\n\nAfter the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned from Greece.\n\nWhen our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in existence between the\nTurks and Greeks; a truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal of\nrenewed activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia, with all of\nwarlike stores, ships, and military engines, that wealth and power could\ncommand, the Turks at once resolved to crush an enemy, which creeping on by\ndegrees, had from their stronghold in the Morea, acquired Thrace and\nMacedonia, and had led their armies even to the gates of Constantinople,\nwhile their extensive commercial relations gave every European nation an\ninterest in their success. Greece prepared for a vigorous resistance; it\nrose to a man; and the women, sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred\ntheir sons for the war, and bade them conquer or die with the spirit of the\nSpartan mother. The talents and courage of Raymond were highly esteemed\namong the Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her own, and by\ngiving him the command of her peculiar division in the army, the\ncommander-in-chief only possessed superior power. He was numbered among her\ncitizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian heroes. His judgment,\nactivity, and consummate bravery, justified their choice. The Earl of\nWindsor became a volunteer under his friend.\n\n\"It is well,\" said Adrian, \"to prate of war in these pleasant shades, and\nwith much ill-spent oil make a show of joy, because many thousand of our\nfellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and natal earth. I shall\nnot be suspected of being averse to the Greek cause; I know and feel its\nnecessity; it is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it with\nmy sword, and was willing that my spirit should be breathed out in its\ndefence; freedom is of more worth than life, and the Greeks do well to\ndefend their privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves. The\nTurks are men; each fibre, each limb is as feeling as our own, and every\nspasm, be it mental or bodily, is as truly felt in a Turk's heart or brain,\nas in a Greek's. The last action at which I was present was the taking of\n----. The Turks resisted to the last, the garrison perished on the\nramparts, and we entered by assault. Every breathing creature within the\nwalls was massacred. Think you, amidst the shrieks of violated innocence\nand helpless infancy, I did not feel in every nerve the cry of a fellow\nbeing? They were men and women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans,\nand when they rise turbanless from the grave, in what except their good or\nevil actions will they be the better or worse than we? Two soldiers\ncontended for a girl, whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the\nbrutal appetites of these wretches, who, perhaps good men among their\nfamilies, were changed by the fury of the moment into incarnated evils. An\nold man, with a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be her\ngrandfather, interposed to save her; the battle axe of one of them clove\nhis skull. I rushed to her defence, but rage made them blind and deaf; they\ndid not distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words--words were blunt\nweapons then, for while war cried \"havoc,\" and murder gave fit echo, how\ncould I--\n\n  Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong\n  With mild accost of soothing eloquence?\n\nOne of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck me with his bayonet\nin the side, and I fell senseless.\n\n\"This wound will probably shorten my life, having shattered a frame, weak\nof itself. But I am content to die. I have learnt in Greece that one man,\nmore or less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to fill up the\nthinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the identity of an individual may\nbe overlooked, so that the muster roll contain its full numbers. All this\nhas a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to contemplate the ideal of\nwar, while I am sensible only to its realities. He is a soldier, a general.\nHe can influence the blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their\npropensities vainly. The cause is simple. Burke has said that, 'in all\nbodies those who would lead, must also, in a considerable degree, follow.'\n--I cannot follow; for I do not sympathize in their dreams of massacre and\nglory--to follow and to lead in such a career, is the natural bent of\nRaymond's mind. He is always successful, and bids fair, at the same time\nthat he acquires high name and station for himself, to secure liberty,\nprobably extended empire, to the Greeks.\"\n\nPerdita's mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can be\ngreat and happy without me. Would that I also had a career! Would that I\ncould freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and desires,\nand launch it forth into the ocean of life--bound for some attainable\npoint, with ambition or pleasure at the helm! But adverse winds detain me\non shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water's edge and weep. But my\nnerveless hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the planks. Under\nthe influence of these melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in\nlove with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presence did some good; he at once broke\nthrough the law of silence observed concerning Raymond. At first she\nstarted from the unaccustomed sound; soon she got used to it and to love\nit, and she listened with avidity to the account of his achievements. Clara\ngot rid also of her restraint; Adrian and she had been old playfellows; and\nnow, as they walked or rode together, he yielded to her earnest entreaty,\nand repeated, for the hundredth time, some tale of her father's bravery,\nmunificence, or justice.\n\nEach vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating tidings from Greece. The\npresence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into the\ndetails with enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from Raymond told\nus how he was engrossed by the interests of his adopted country. The Greeks\nwere strongly attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have been\nsatisfied with their present acquisitions, had not the Turks roused them by\ninvasion. The patriots were victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled;\nand already they looked on Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose\nperpetually in their estimation; but one man held a superior command to him\nin their armies. He was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position\nin a battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the Hebrus,\nwhich was to decide the fate of Islam. The Mahometans were defeated, and\ndriven entirely from the country west of this river. The battle was\nsanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently irreparable; the Greeks, in\nlosing one man, forgot the nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody field,\nand they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost them--\nRaymond.\n\nAt the battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued the\nfugitives even to the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse was found\ngrazing by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question whether\nhe had fallen among the unrecognized; but no broken ornament or stained\ntrapping betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks, finding\nthemselves possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to satisfy their\ncruelty rather than their avarice, and fearful of the interference of\nEngland, had come to the determination of concealing for ever the\ncold-blooded murder of the soldier they most hated and feared in the\nsquadrons of their enemy.\n\nRaymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the Protectorate\nhad caused an unexampled sensation; and, when his magnificent and manly\nsystem was contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding politicians, the\nperiod of his elevation was referred to with sorrow. The perpetual\nrecurrence of his name, joined to most honourable testimonials, in the\nGreek gazettes, kept up the interest he had excited. He seemed the\nfavourite child of fortune, and his untimely loss eclipsed the world, and\nshewed forth the remnant of mankind with diminished lustre. They clung with\neagerness to the hope held out that he might yet be alive. Their minister\nat Constantinople was urged to make the necessary perquisitions, and should\nhis existence be ascertained, to demand his release. It was to be hoped\nthat their efforts would succeed, and that though now a prisoner, the sport\nof cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and\nrestored to the happiness, power, and honour which he deserved.\n\nThe effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never for\na moment credited the story of his death; she resolved instantly to go to\nGreece. Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she would\nendure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth, that, if\nargument or entreaty can turn any one from a desperate purpose, whose\nmotive and end depends on the strength of the affections only, then it is\nright so to turn them, since their docility shews, that neither the motive\nnor the end were of sufficient force to bear them through the obstacles\nattendant on their undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof against\nexpostulation, this very steadiness is an omen of success; and it becomes\nthe duty of those who love them, to assist in smoothing the obstructions in\ntheir path. Such sentiments actuated our little circle. Finding Perdita\nimmoveable, we consulted as to the best means of furthering her purpose.\nShe could not go alone to a country where she had no friends, where she\nmight arrive only to hear the dreadful news, which must overwhelm her with\ngrief and remorse. Adrian, whose health had always been weak, now suffered\nconsiderable aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris\ncould not endure to leave him in this state; nor was it right either to\nquit or take with us a young family for a journey of this description. I\nresolved at length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my Idris was\npainful--but necessity reconciled us to it in some degree: necessity and\nthe hope of saving Raymond, and restoring him again to happiness and\nPerdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our\ndetermination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked. The season was May,\nthe weather stormless; we were promised a prosperous voyage. Cherishing the\nmost fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw with delight the\nreceding shore of Britain, and on the wings of desire outspeeded our well\nfilled sails towards the South. The light curling waves bore us onward, and\nold ocean smiled at the freight of love and hope committed to his charge;\nit stroked gently its tempestuous plains, and the path was smoothed for us.\nDay and night the wind right aft, gave steady impulse to our keel--nor\ndid rough gale, or treacherous sand, or destructive rock interpose an\nobstacle between my sister and the land which was to restore her to her\nfirst beloved,\n\n  Her dear heart's confessor--a heart within that heart.\n\n\n\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nDURING this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed on deck, watching\nthe glancing of the waves and the changeful appearances of the sky, I\ndiscovered the total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had wrought\nin the mind of my sister. Were they the same waters of love, which, lately\ncold and cutting as ice, repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen\nchains, flowed through the regions of her soul in gushing and grateful\nexuberance? She did not believe that he was dead, but she knew that he was\nin danger, and the hope of assisting in his liberation, and the idea of\nsoothing by tenderness the ills that he might have undergone, elevated and\nharmonized the late jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as\nshe as to the result of our voyage. She was not sanguine, but secure; and\nthe expectation of seeing the lover she had banished, the husband, friend,\nheart's companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt her senses\nin delight, her mind in placidity. It was beginning life again; it was\nleaving barren sands for an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after\na tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy waking from a terrible\ndream.\n\nLittle Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not well understand what\nwas going forward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, that she would\nsee her father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of him to her\nmother.\n\nOn landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease upon us: nor could the\nstoried earth or balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure,\nwhile the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had ever excited so\nstrong an interest in the public mind; this was apparent even among the\nphlegmatic English, from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had\nexpected their hero to return in triumph; the women had taught their\nchildren to lisp his name joined to thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his\ncourage, his devotion to their cause, made him appear in their eyes almost\nas one of the ancient deities of the soil descended from their native\nOlympus to defend them. When they spoke of his probable death and certain\ncaptivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even as the women of Syria\nsorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece lament our English\nRaymond--Athens was a city of mourning.\n\nAll these shews of despair struck Perdita with affright. With that sanguine\nbut confused expectation, which desire engendered while she was at a\ndistance from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of instantaneous\nchange, when she should set her foot on Grecian shores. She fancied that\nRaymond would already be free, and that her tender attentions would come to\nentirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance. But his fate was\nstill uncertain; she began to fear the worst, and to feel that her soul's\nhope was cast on a chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely\nchild of Lord Raymond became objects of intense interest in Athens. The\ngates of their abode were besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his\nrestoration; all these circumstances added to the dismay and fears of\nPerdita.\n\nMy exertions were unremitted: after a time I left Athens, and joined the\narmy stationed at Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon\ndiscovered the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner, suffering the\nmost rigorous confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in movement every\nimpulse of policy and money to redeem him from their hands.\n\nThe impatience of my sister's disposition now returned on her, awakened by\nrepentance, sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the Grecian climate,\nduring the season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The\nunexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth--the genial sunshine and\ngrateful shade--the melody of the birds--the majesty of the woods--\nthe splendour of the marble ruins--the clear effulgence of the stars by\nnight--the combination of all that was exciting and voluptuous in this\ntranscending land, by inspiring a quicker spirit of life and an added\nsensitiveness to every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the\npoignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and \"He suffers\" was\nthe burthen of all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay on the\nbare earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments, endeavoured to\nhold communion with his distant pain. I remembered in one of her harshest\nmoments a quotation of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. \"Perdita,\"\nI had said, \"some day you will discover that you have done wrong in again\ncasting Raymond on the thorns of life. When disappointment has sullied his\nbeauty, when a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and loneliness\nmade even triumph bitter to him, then you will repent; and regret for the\nirreparable change\n\n  \"will move\n  In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love.\"[1]\n\nThe stinging \"remorse of love\" now pierced her heart. She accused herself\nof his journey to Greece--his dangers--his imprisonment. She pictured\nto herself the anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager\ndelight he had in former days made her the partner of his joyful hopes--\nwith what grateful affection he received her sympathy in his cares. She\ncalled to mind how often he had declared that solitude was to him the\ngreatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him more full of fear\nand pain when he pictured to himself a lonely grave. \"My best girl,\" he had\nsaid, \"relieves me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in her\ndear heart, never again shall I know the misery of finding myself alone.\nEven if I die before you, my Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may\nmingle with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not a\nmaterialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I may feel that my\ninanimate dust mingles with yours, and thus have a companion in decay.\" In\nher resentful mood, these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and\ndisdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes,\nall hope of rest from her uneasy mind.\n\nTwo months passed thus, when at last we obtained a promise of Raymond's\nrelease. Confinement and hardship had undermined his health; the Turks\nfeared an accomplishment of the threats of the English government, if he\ndied under their hands; they looked upon his recovery as impossible; they\ndelivered him up as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites of\nburial.\n\nHe came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind, favourable to him,\nblew so strongly in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first\nintended, to meet him on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was\nbesieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out for; till on the first\nof May the gallant frigate bore in sight, freighted with treasure more\ninvaluable than the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed Pacific\nswallowed, or that was conveyed over its tranquil bosom to enrich the crown\nof Spain. At early dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore; it was\nconjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles from land. The news\nspread through Athens, and the whole city poured out at the gate of the\nPiraeus, down the roads, through the vineyards, the olive woods and\nplantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The noisy joy of the\npopulace, the gaudy colours of their dress, the tumult of carriages and\nhorses, the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound\nof martial music added to the high excitement of the scene; while round us\nreposed in solemn majesty the relics of antient time. To our right the\nAcropolis rose high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient glory,\nTurkish slavery, and the restoration of dear-bought liberty; tombs and\ncenotaphs were strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation;\nthe mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm\nand congregated numbers a renewal of the scenes in which they had been the\nactors. Perdita and Clara rode in a close carriage; I attended them on\nhorseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was agitated by the\noutward swell of the sea; the beach, as far could be discerned, was covered\nby a moving multitude, which, urged by those behind toward the sea, again\nrushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close to them. I\napplied my glass, and could discern that the frigate had already cast\nanchor, fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee shore: a boat\nwas lowered; with a pang I saw that Raymond was unable to descend the\nvessel's side; he was let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the\nbottom of the boat.\n\nI dismounted, and called to some sailors who were rowing about the harbour\nto pull up, and take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same moment\nalighted from her carriage--she seized my arm--\"Take me with you,\" she\ncried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to her--\"You must not,\" I\nsaid, \"the sea is rough--he will soon be here--do you not see his\nboat?\" The little bark to which I had beckoned had now pulled up; before I\ncould stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in it--Clara\nfollowed her mother--a loud shout echoed from the crowd as we pulled out\nof the inner harbour; while my sister at the prow, had caught hold of one\nof the men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions, careless of\nthe spray that broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except the little\nspeck that, just visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We\napproached with all the speed six rowers could give; the orderly and\npicturesque dress of the soldiers on the beach, the sounds of exulting\nmusic, the stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of\nthe eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were purely eastern; the\nsight of temple-crowned rock, the white marble of the buildings glittering\nin the sun, and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty\nmountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the splash of oars, and dash of\nspray, all steeped my soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common\ncourse of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to look through\nthe glass with which I had watched the motion of the crew, when the\nfrigate's boat had first been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at\nlength the number and forms of those within could be discerned; its dark\nsides grew big, and the splash of its oars became audible: I could\ndistinguish the languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at our\napproach.\n\nPerdita's questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm, panting with emotions\ntoo acute for tears--our men pulled alongside the other boat. As a last\neffort, my sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped from one\nboat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards Raymond, knelt\nat his side, and glueing her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded\nby her long hair, gave herself up to tears.\n\nRaymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach, but it was with\ndifficulty that he exerted himself even thus much. With sunken cheek and\nhollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita?\nI continued awe-struck and mute--he looked smilingly on the poor girl;\nthe smile was his. A day of sun-shine falling on a dark valley, displays\nits before hidden characteristics; and now this smile, the same with which\nhe first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had welcomed the\nprotectorate, playing on his altered countenance, made me in my heart's\ncore feel that this was Raymond.\n\nHe stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the trace of manacles on\nhis bared wrist. I heard my sister's sobs, and thought, happy are women who\ncan weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the oppression of their\nfeelings; shame and habitual restraint hold back a man. I would have given\nworlds to have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my breast,\npressed his hand to my lips, and wept over him; my swelling heart choked\nme; the natural current would not be checked; the big rebellious tears\ngathered in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the sea--they\ncame fast and faster;--yet I could hardly be ashamed, for I saw that the\nrough sailors were not unmoved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from\namong our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which convalescence always\ninduces, enjoying in secure tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her\nwhom he adored. Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion, and rose,\n--she looked round for Clara; the child frightened, not recognizing her\nfather, and neglected by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she\ncame at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to Raymond; her first\nwords were: \"Beloved, embrace our child!\"\n\n\"Come hither, sweet one,\" said her father, \"do you not know me?\" she\nknew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful but\nuncontrollable emotion.\n\nPerceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences from\nthe pressure of the crowd on his landing. But they were awed as I had been,\nat the change of his appearance. The music died away, the shouts abruptly\nended; the soldiers had cleared a space in which a carriage was drawn up.\nHe was placed in it; Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort\nclosed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring of the near waves,\nwent through the multitude; they fell back as the carriage advanced, and\nfearful of injuring him they had come to welcome, by loud testimonies of\njoy, they satisfied themselves with bending in a low salaam as the carriage\npassed; it went slowly along the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique\ntemple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the citadel. The sound\nof the waves was left behind; that of the multitude continued at intervals,\nsupressed and hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches, and\npublic buildings were decorated with tapestry and banners--though the\nsoldiery lined the streets, and the inhabitants in thousands were assembled\nto give him hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery presented\narms, the banners vailed, many a white hand waved a streamer, and vainly\nsought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which, closed and encompassed by\nthe city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his abode.\n\nRaymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he perceived to be excited\non his account, filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with\nkindness. It is true, the populace retained themselves; but there arose a\nperpetual hum and bustle from the throng round the palace, which added to\nthe noise of fireworks, the frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and\nfro of horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was the focus,\nretarded his recovery. So we retired awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and\ntender care added each day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous\nattention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the causes which induced his\nrapid recovery; but the second was surely the delight he felt in the\naffection and good will of the Greeks. We are said to love much those whom\nwe greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and conquered for the Athenians; he\nhad suffered, on their account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their\ngratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever\nto that of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him.\n\nSocial feeling and sympathy constituted a marked feature in my disposition.\nIn early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul\ninto its vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I\nenjoyed; but there was something besides this. I was inquisitive as to the\ninternal principles of action of those around me: anxious to read their\nthoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining their inmost mind. All\nevents, at the same time that they deeply interested me, arranged\nthemselves in pictures before me. I gave the right place to every personage\nin the groupe, the just balance to every sentiment. This undercurrent of\nthought, often soothed me amidst distress, and even agony. It gave ideality\nto that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul would have revolted: it\nbestowed pictorial colours on misery and disease, and not unfrequently\nrelieved me from despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or instinct,\nwas now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened devotion of my sister; Clara's\ntimid, but concentrated admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite\nfor renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affection of the\nAthenians. Attentively perusing this animated volume, I was the less\nsurprised at the tale I read on the new-turned page.\n\nThe Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto; and the Greeks,\nhastening their preparations, and sending each day reinforcements, were on\nthe eve of forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the coming\nstruggle as that which would be to a great degree decisive; as, in case of\nvictory, the next step would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks.\nRaymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to re-assume his command in the\narmy.\n\nPerdita did not oppose herself to his determination. She only stipulated to\nbe permitted to accompany him. She had set down no rule of conduct for\nherself; but for her life she could not have opposed his slightest wish, or\ndo other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects. One word, in truth,\nhad alarmed her more than battles or sieges, during which she trusted\nRaymond's high command would exempt him from danger. That word, as yet it\nwas not more to her, was PLAGUE. This enemy to the human race had begun\nearly in June to raise its serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of\nAsia, not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was in\nConstantinople; but as each year that city experienced a like visitation,\nsmall attention was paid to those accounts which declared more people to\nhave died there already, than usually made up the accustomed prey of the\nwhole of the hotter months. However it might be, neither plague nor war\ncould prevent Perdita from following her lord, or induce her to utter one\nobjection to the plans which he proposed. To be near him, to be loved by\nhim, to feel him again her own, was the limit of her desires. The object of\nher life was to do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a\ndifference. In past times, without thought or foresight she had made him\nhappy, being so herself, and in any question of choice, consulted her own\nwishes, as being one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the\nquestion, sacrificing even her anxiety for his health and welfare to her\nresolve not to oppose any of his desires. Love of the Greek people,\nappetite for glory, and hatred of the barbarian government under which he\nhad suffered even to the approach of death, stimulated him. He wished to\nrepay the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive the splendid\nassociations connected with his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power\nwhich, while every other nation advanced in civilization, stood still, a\nmonument of antique barbarism. Having effected the reunion of Raymond and\nPerdita, I was eager to return to England; but his earnest request, added\nto awakening curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold the\ncatastrophe, now apparently at hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian\nand Turkish warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the autumn, the\nperiod of my residence in Greece.\n\nAs soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently re-established, he\nprepared to join the Grecian camp, hear Kishan, a town of some importance,\nsituated to the east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to\nremain until the event of the expected battle. We quitted Athens on the 2nd\nof June. Raymond had recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If\nI no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured countenance, if care\nhad besieged his brow, \"And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field,\" if\nhis hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look, considerate even in its\neagerness, gave signs of added years and past sufferings, yet there was\nsomething irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately snatched from\nthe grave, renewing his career, untamed by sickness or disaster. The\nAthenians saw in him, not as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man,\nwho was ready to die for them; but the prudent commander, who for their\nsakes was careful of his life, and could make his own warrior-propensities\nsecond to the scheme of conduct policy might point out.\n\nAll Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he had landed a month\nago, the noisy populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a\nfestival day to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their picturesque\ncostume, and the gay colours of which it was composed, flaunted in the\nsunshine; their eager gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild\nappearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the hope of each wife,\nmother or betrothed bride, whose husband, child, or lover, making a part of\nthe Greek army, were to be conducted to victory by him.\n\nNotwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it was full of\nromantic interest, as we passed through the vallies, and over the hills, of\nthis divine country. Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of\nrecovered health; he felt that in being general of the Athenians, he filled\na post worthy of his ambition; and, in his hope of the conquest of\nConstantinople, he counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the\nwaste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals of man; when a city of\ngrand historic association, the beauty of whose site was the wonder of the\nworld, which for many hundred years had been the strong hold of the\nMoslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism, and restored to a\npeople illustrious for genius, civilization, and a spirit of liberty.\nPerdita rested on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and fame,\neven as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every thought was transport, each\nemotion bathed as it were in a congenial and balmy element.\n\nWe arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather during our journey had\nbeen serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our night's encampment, and\nwatched the shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the golden\nsplendour of the sun's approach. The accompanying soldiers received, with\nnational vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful\nnature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by triumphant strains,\nwhile the birds, heard by snatches, filled up the intervals of the music.\nAt noon, we pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering wood\namong the mountains, while a stream prattling over pebbles induced grateful\nsleep. Our evening march, more calm, was yet more delightful than the\nmorning restlessness of spirit. If the band played, involuntarily they\nchose airs of moderated passion; the farewell of love, or lament at\nabsence, was followed and closed by some solemn hymn, which harmonized with\nthe tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the soul to grand and\nreligious thought. Often all sounds were suspended, that we might listen to\nthe nightingale, while the fire-flies danced in bright measure, and the\nsoft cooing of the aziolo spoke of fair weather to the travellers. Did we\npass a valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with beauteous\nhues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a living map, was spread beneath,\nher renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether; her rivers threading in silver\nline the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English travellers\nsurveyed with extasy this splendid landscape, so different from the sober\nhues and melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we quitted\nMacedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace afforded fewer beauties;\nyet our journey continued to be interesting. An advanced guard gave\ninformation of our approach, and the country people were quickly in motion\nto do honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were decorated by triumphal\narches of greenery by day, and lamps by night; tapestry waved from the\nwindows, the ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of Raymond,\njoined to that of Greece, was echoed in the Evive of the peasant crowd.\n\nWhen we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing of the advance of\nLord Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had retreated from\nRodosto; but meeting with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In\nthe meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief, had advanced, so as\nto be between the Turks and Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable.\nPerdita and her child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked me, if I\nwould not continue with them. \"Now by the fells of Cumberland,\" I cried,\n\"by all of the vagabond and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at\nyour side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed as a victor\nalong with you!\"\n\nAll the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of sixteen leagues, was\nalive with troops, or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the\napproach of a battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various towns\nand fortresses, and went to swell the main army. We met baggage waggons,\nand many females of high and low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there\nto wait the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at Rodosto, we found\nthat the field had been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged. The\nsound of firing, early on the following morning, informed us that advanced\nposts of the armies were engaged. Regiment after regiment advanced, their\ncolours flying and bands playing. They planted the cannon on the tumuli,\nsole elevations in this level country, and formed themselves into column\nand hollow square; while the pioneers threw up small mounds for their\nprotection.\n\nThese then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the battle itself; far\ndifferent from any thing the imagination had pictured. We read of centre\nand wing in Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a table, and\nsoldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth, so that the most ignorant of\nthe game can discover science and order in the disposition of the forces.\nWhen I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off to the left far out\nof sight, fields intervening between the battalions, but a few troops\nsufficiently near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of\nunderstanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching myself to Raymond\nattended with intense interest to his actions. He shewed himself collected,\ngallant and imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of the events\nof the day to me miraculous. In the mean time the cannon roared; the music\nlifted up its enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of the\nmounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the fallen sheaves which death\ngathered into his storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in smoke, now\nbanners and staves peering above the cloud, while shout and clamour drowned\nevery sound.\n\nEarly in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously, and Raymond assumed\nthe command of the whole army. He made few remarks, till, on observing\nthrough his glass the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded\nfor awhile with doubt, became radiant. \"The day is ours,\" he cried, \"the\nTurks fly from the bayonet.\" And then swiftly he dispatched his\naides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat\nbecame total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry rallied, and horse\npursued the flying Turks along the dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was\ndispersed in various directions, to make observations, and bear commands.\nEven I was dispatched to a distant part of the field.\n\nThe ground on which the battle was fought, was a level plain--so level,\nthat from the tumuli you saw the waving line of mountains on the\nwide-stretched horizon; yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least\nirregularity, save such undulations as resembled the waves of the sea. The\nwhole of this part of Thrace had been so long a scene of contest, that it\nhad remained uncultivated, and presented a dreary, barren appearance. The\norder I had received, was to make an observation of the direction which a\ndetachment of the enemy might have taken, from a northern tumulus; the\nwhole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had poured eastward; none but\nthe dead remained in the direction of my side. From the top of the mound, I\nlooked far round--all was silent and deserted.\n\nThe last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from behind the far summit\nof Mount Athos; the sea of Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while\nthe Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a\ncasque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen from unnerved arms, reflected the\ndeparting ray; they lay scattered far and near. From the east, a band of\nravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came sailing along\ntowards their harvest; the sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet\nsweet, has always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally led to\ncommune with higher powers; our mortal sternness departs, and gentle\ncomplacency invests the soul. But now, in the midst of the dying and the\ndead, how could a thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity possess\none of the murderers? During the busy day, my mind had yielded itself a\nwilling slave to the state of things presented to it by its fellow-beings;\nhistorical association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm had held\ndominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening star, as softly and calmly\nit hung pendulous in the orange hues of sunset. I turned to the\ncorse-strewn earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were the\nplacid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this\nchange assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south;\nheavy masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red and turbid\nlightning shot from their dark edges; the rushing wind disturbed the\ngarments of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy forms.\nDarkness gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct, I\ndescended from my station, and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to\navoid the slain.\n\nSuddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to rise from the earth;\nit flew swiftly towards me, sinking to the ground again as it drew near.\nAll this passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my horse, so\nthat it should not trample on the prostrate being. The dress of this person\nwas that of a soldier, but the bared neck and arms, and the continued\nshrieks discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her aid, while\nshe, with heavy groans, and her hand placed on her side, resisted my\nattempt to lead her on. In the hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in\nGreece, and in my native accents endeavoured to soothe the sufferer. With\nwild and terrific exclamations did the lost, dying Evadne (for it was she)\nrecognize the language of her lover; pain and fever from her wound had\nderanged her intellects, while her piteous cries and feeble efforts to\nescape, penetrated me with compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the\nname of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from her, while the\nTurks with fearful instruments of torture were about to take his life. Then\nagain she sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a woman's heart\nand sensibility, should be driven by hopeless love and vacant hopes to take\nup the trade of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man privation,\nlabour, and pain--the while her dry, hot hand pressed mine, and her brow\nand lips burned with consuming fire.\n\nAs her strength grew less, I lifted her from the ground; her emaciated form\nhung over my arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral\nvoice she murmured:--\"This is the end of love!--Yet not the end!\"--\nand frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up to heaven: \"there is\nthe end! there we meet again. Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O\nRaymond, and now I expire, thy victim!--By my death I purchase thee--\nlo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are my servitors. I dared, I\nconquered them all, till now! I have sold myself to death, with the sole\ncondition that thou shouldst follow me--Fire, and war, and plague, unite\nfor thy destruction--O my Raymond, there is no safety for thee!\"\n\nWith an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her delirium; I made her a\nbed of cloaks; her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as\nthe paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I placed her on\nthe cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy meeting with her beloved in\nthe grave, of his death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared that\nhe was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew\nfeebler, her speech interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her\nmuscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more to be sustained, one deep sigh,\nand life was gone.\n\nI bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead; wrapt in cloaks, I\nplaced her beneath a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face; the last\ntime I saw her she was eighteen; beautiful as poet's vision, splendid as a\nSultana of the East--Twelve years had past; twelve years of change,\nsorrow and hardship; her brilliant complexion had become worn and dark, her\nlimbs had lost the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk\ndeep,\n\n    Crushed and o'erworn,\n  The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow\n  With lines and wrinkles.\n\nWith shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human passion and human\nmisery; I heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutrements I could\nfind, to guard her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow on\nher a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my course from among the\nheaps of slain, and, guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at length\nreached Rodosto.\n\n[1] Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.\n[2] Shakspeare's Sonnets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nON my arrival, I found that an order had already gone forth for the army to\nproceed immediately towards Constantinople; and the troops which had\nsuffered least in the battle were already on their way. The town was full\nof tumult. The wound, and consequent inability of Argyropylo, caused\nRaymond to be the first in command. He rode through the town, visiting the\nwounded, and giving such orders as were necessary for the siege he\nmeditated. Early in the morning the whole army was in motion. In the hurry\nI could hardly find an opportunity to bestow the last offices on Evadne.\nAttended only by my servant, I dug a deep grave for her at the foot of the\ntree, and without disturbing her warrior shroud, I placed her in it,\nheaping stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and glare of daylight,\ndeprived the scene of solemnity; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Raymond\nand his staff, now on their way to the Golden City.\n\nConstantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances made. The whole\nGreek fleet blockaded it by sea; on land from the river Kyat Kbanah, near\nthe Sweet Waters, to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Propontis,\nalong the whole line of the ancient walls, the trenches of the siege were\ndrawn. We already possessed Pera; the Golden Horn itself, the city,\nbastioned by the sea, and the ivy-mantled walls of the Greek emperors was\nall of Europe that the Mahometans could call theirs. Our army looked on her\nas certain prey. They counted the garrison; it was impossible that it\nshould be relieved; each sally was a victory; for, even when the Turks were\ntriumphant, the loss of men they sustained was an irreparable injury. I rode\none morning with Raymond to the lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou,\n(Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud planted his standard, and first saw the\ncity. Still the same lofty domes and minarets towered above the verdurous\nwalls, where Constantine had died, and the Turk had entered the city. The\nplain around was interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and Armenian,\nwith their growth of cypress trees; and other woods of more cheerful\naspect, diversified the scene. Among them the Greek army was encamped, and\ntheir squadrons moved to and fro--now in regular march, now in swift\ncareer.\n\nRaymond's eyes were fixed on the city. \"I have counted the hours of her\nlife,\" said he; \"one month, and she falls. Remain with me till then; wait\ntill you see the cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your peaceful\nglades.\"\n\n\"You then,\" I asked, \"still remain in Greece?\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" replied Raymond. \"Yet Lionel, when I say this,\nbelieve me I look back with regret to our tranquil life at Windsor.\nI am but half a soldier; I love the renown, but not the trade of war.\nBefore the battle of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to\nconquer there, and afterwards to take Constantinople, was the\nhope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my ambition. This enthusiasm is now\nspent, I know not why; I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulph;\nthe ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture of triumph\nnull.\"\n\nHe paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien recalled, by some\nassociation, the half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized this\nopportunity to make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I asked\nhim, if he had ever seen among the troops any one resembling her; if since\nhe had returned to Greece he had heard of her?\n\nHe started at her name,--he looked uneasily on me. \"Even so,\" he cried,\n\"I knew you would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten her. Since our\nencampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am addressed,\nher name is the sound I expect: in every communication, I imagine that she\nwill form a part. At length you have broken the spell; tell me what you\nknow of her.\"\n\nI related my meeting with her; the story of her death was told and re-told.\nWith painful earnestness he questioned me concerning her prophecies with\nregard to him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. \"No, no,\" he\nsaid, \"do not deceive yourself,--me you cannot. She has said nothing but\nwhat I knew before--though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and\nplague! They may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may they\nfall!\"\n\nFrom this day Raymond's melancholy increased. He secluded himself as much\nas the duties of his station permitted. When in company, sadness would in\nspite of every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent and mute\namong the busy crowd that thronged about him. Perdita rejoined him, and\nbefore her he forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror,\nchanged as he changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she solicitously\ninquired concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause of his\nseriousness. She resided at the palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio\nof the Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding scenery, undefiled by war, and\nthe freshness of the river, made this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt\nno relief, received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth. He often\nleft Perdita, to wander in the grounds alone; or in a light shallop he\nfloated idly on the pure waters, musing deeply. Sometimes I joined him; at\nsuch times his countenance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He\nseemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk with some degree of interest\non the affairs of the day. There was evidently something behind all this;\nyet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest his heart,\nhe would abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour to deliver the\npainful idea to the winds.\n\nIt had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Perdita's\ndrawing-room, Clara came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, said, \"Papa\nis gone; shall we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see you.\" And,\nas accident permitted, I complied with or refused her request. One evening\na numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were gathered together in the\npalace. The intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike\nYpsilanti, were among the principal. They talked of the events of the day;\nthe skirmish at noon; the diminished numbers of the Infidels; their defeat\nand flight: they contemplated, after a short interval of time, the capture\nof the Golden City. They endeavoured to picture forth what would then\nhappen, and spoke in lofty terms of the prosperity of Greece, when\nConstantinople should become its capital. The conversation then reverted to\nAsiatic intelligence, and the ravages the plague made in its chief cities;\nconjectures were hazarded as to the progress that disease might have made\nin the besieged city.\n\nRaymond had joined in the former part of the discussion. In lively terms he\ndemonstrated the extremities to which Constantinople was reduced; the\nwasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the troops; famine and\npestilence was at work for them, he observed, and the infidels would soon\nbe obliged to take refuge in their only hope--submission. Suddenly in the\nmidst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung by some painful thought; he\nrose uneasily, and I perceived him at length quit the hall, and through the\nlong corridor seek the open air. He did not return; and soon Clara crept\nround to me, making the accustomed invitation. I consented to her request,\nand taking her little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about to\nembark in his boat, and he readily agreed to receive us as companions.\nAfter the heats of the day, the cooling land-breeze ruffled the river, and\nfilled our little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while numerous\nlights along the near shores, and the beautiful aspect of the banks\nreposing in placid night, the waters keenly reflecting the heavenly lights,\ngave to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might have\ncharacterized a retreat in Paradise. Our single boatman attended to the\nsail; Raymond steered; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her\narms, and laying her head on them. Raymond began the conversation somewhat\nabruptly.\n\n\"This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall have an opportunity of\nconversing freely; my plans are now in full operation, and my time will\nbecome more and more occupied. Besides, I wish at once to tell you my\nwishes and expectations, and then never again to revert to so painful a\nsubject. First, I must thank you, Lionel, for having remained here at my\nrequest. Vanity first prompted me to ask you: vanity, I call it; yet even\nin this I see the hand of fate--your presence will soon be necessary; you\nwill become the last resource of Perdita, her protector and consoler. You\nwill take her back to Windsor.\"--\n\n\"Not without you,\" I said. \"You do not mean to separate again?\"\n\n\"Do not deceive yourself,\" replied Raymond, \"the separation at hand is one\nover which I have no control; most near at hand is it; the days are already\ncounted. May I trust you? For many days I have longed to disclose the\nmysterious presentiments that weigh on me, although I fear that you will\nridicule them. Yet do not, my gentle friend; for, all childish and unwise\nas they are, they have become a part of me, and I dare not expect to shake\nthem off.\n\n\"Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You are of this world; I\nam not. You hold forth your hand; it is even as a part of yourself; and you\ndo not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form that shapes\nforth Lionel. How then can you understand me? Earth is to me a tomb, the\nfirmament a vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have\nstepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I meet appears a corse,\nwhich will soon be deserted of its animating spark, on the eve of decay and\ncorruption.\n\n  Cada piedra un piramide levanta,\n  y cada flor costruye un monumento,\n  cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,\n  cada soldado un esqueleto vivo.\"[1]\n\nHis accent was mournful,--he sighed deeply. \"A few months ago,\" he\ncontinued, \"I was thought to be dying; but life was strong within me. My\naffections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life. Now--\nthey dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel faith are about\nto be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of\ntitle, power, and wealth--all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let them raise\na mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome of St.\nSophia has fallen.\n\n\"Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when first I\nsaw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one, departed.\nThe last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my death. Yet I\ndo not pretend to account for my mood by any particular event. All I can\nsay is, that it is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps I\nhave imbibed its effluvia--perhaps disease is the real cause of my\nprognostications. It matters little why or wherefore I am affected, no\npower can avert the stroke, and the shadow of Fate's uplifted hand already\ndarkens me.\n\n\"To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child. Never mention to her\nthe fatal name of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the strange link\nthat enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice, following\nher, as it is about to do, to the unknown country.\"\n\nI listened to him with wonder; but that his sad demeanour and solemn\nutterance assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I should\nwith light derision have attempted to dissipate his fears. Whatever I was\nabout to reply, was interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond\nhad spoken, thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard with\nterror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her father was moved by her\nviolent grief; he took her in his arms and soothed her, but his very\nsoothings were solemn and fearful. \"Weep not, sweet child,\" said he, \"the\ncoming death of one you have hardly known. I may die, but in death I can\nnever forget or desert my own Clara. In after sorrow or joy, believe that\nyou father's spirit is near, to save or sympathize with you. Be proud of\nme, and cherish your infant remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not\nappear to die. One thing you must promise,--not to speak to any one but\nyour uncle, of the conversation you have just overheard. When I am gone,\nyou will console your mother, and tell her that death was only bitter\nbecause it divided me from her; that my last thoughts will be spent on her.\nBut while I live, promise not to betray me; promise, my child.\"\n\nWith faltering accents Clara promised, while she still clung to her father\nin a transport of sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I endeavoured to\nobviate the impression made on the child's mind, by treating Raymond's\nfears lightly. We heard no more of them; for, as he had said, the siege,\nnow drawing to a conclusion, became paramount in interest, engaging all his\ntime and attention.\n\nThe empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its close. The Greek fleet\nblockading every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of succour from\nAsia; all egress on the side towards land had become impracticable, except\nto such desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers of the enemy without\nmaking any impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much\ndiminished, that it was evident that the city could easily have been\ncarried by storm; but both humanity and policy dictated a slower mode of\nproceeding. We could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the utmost, its\npalaces, its temples and store of wealth would be destroyed in the fury of\ncontending triumph and defeat. Already the defenceless citizens had\nsuffered through the barbarity of the Janisaries; and, in time of storm,\ntumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decrepitude, would have alike been\nsacrificed to the brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were\ncertain means of conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of victory.\n\nEach day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our advanced posts, and\nimpeded the accomplishment of our works. Fire-boats were launched from the\nvarious ports, while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted courage\nof men who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives dearly. These\ncontests were aggravated by the season: they took place during summer, when\nthe southern Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat, when the\nstreams were dried up in their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea\nappeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did\nnight refresh the earth. Dew was denied; herbage and flowers there were\nnone; the very trees drooped; and summer assumed the blighted appearance of\nwinter, as it went forth in silence and flame to abridge the means of\nsustenance to man. In vain did the eye strive to find the wreck of some\nnorthern cloud in the stainless empyrean, which might bring hope of change\nand moisture to the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was serene,\nburning, annihilating. We the besiegers were in the comparison little\naffected by these evils. The woods around afforded us shade,--the river\nsecured to us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were employed in\nfurnishing the army with ice, which had been laid up on Haemus, and Athos,\nand the mountains of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and wholesome food\nrenovated the strength of the labourers, and made us bear with less\nimpatience the weight of the unrefreshing air. But in the city things wore\na different face. The sun's rays were refracted from the pavement and\nbuildings--the stoppage of the public fountains--the bad quality of the\nfood, and scarcity even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was\naggravated by the scourge of disease; while the garrison arrogated every\nsuperfluity to themselves, adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils\nof the time. Still they would not capitulate.\n\nSuddenly the system of warfare was changed. We experienced no more\nassaults; and by night and day we continued our labours unimpeded. Stranger\nstill, when the troops advanced near the city, the walls were vacant, and\nno cannon was pointed against the intruders. When these circumstances were\nreported to Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to what\nwas doing within the walls, and when his scouts returned, reporting only\nthe continued silence and desolation of the city, he commanded the army to\nbe drawn out before the gates. No one appeared on the walls; the very\nportals, though locked and barred, seemed unguarded; above, the many domes\nand glittering crescents pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of\nages, with ivy-crowned tower and weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in\nan uninhabited waste. From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor aught\nexcept the casual howling of a dog, broke the noon-day stillness. Even our\nsoldiers were awed to silence; the music paused; the clang of arms was\nhushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers, the meaning of this sudden\npeace; while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by means of glasses, to\ndiscover and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form could be discerned\non the terraces of the houses; in the higher parts of the town no moving\nshadow bespoke the presence of any living being: the very trees waved not,\nand mocked the stability of architecture with like immovability.\n\nThe tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence, was at length\ndiscerned. It was a troop sent by Karazza, the Admiral; they bore\ndispatches to the Lord General. The contents of these papers were\nimportant. The night before, the watch, on board one of the smaller vessels\nanchored near the seraglio wall, was roused by a slight splashing as of\nmuffled oars; the alarm was given: twelve small boats, each containing\nthree Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to make their way through the\nfleet to the opposite shore of Scutari. When they found themselves\ndiscovered they discharged their muskets, and some came to the front to\ncover the others, whose crews, exerting all their strength, endeavoured to\nescape with their light barks from among the dark hulls that environed\nthem. They were in the end all sunk, and, with the exception of two or\nthree prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could be got from the survivors;\nbut their cautious answers caused it to be surmised that several\nexpeditions had preceded this last, and that several Turks of rank and\nimportance had been conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled the\nidea of having deserted the defence of their city; and one, the youngest\namong them, in answer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed, \"Take it,\nChristian dogs! take the palaces, the gardens, the mosques, the abode of\nour fathers--take plague with them; pestilence is the enemy we fly; if\nshe be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The curse of Allah is on\nStamboul, share ye her fate.\"\n\nSuch was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond: but a tale full of\nmonstrous exaggerations, though founded on this, was spread by the\naccompanying troop among our soldiers. A murmur arose, the city was the\nprey of pestilence; already had a mighty power subjugated the inhabitants;\nDeath had become lord of Constantinople.\n\nI have heard a picture described, wherein all the inhabitants of earth were\ndrawn out in fear to stand the encounter of Death. The feeble and decrepid\nfled; the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in flight. Wolves\nand lions, and various monsters of the desert roared against him; while the\ngrim Unreality hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but invincible\nassailant. Even so was it with the army of Greece. I am convinced, that had\nthe myriad troops of Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders\nof the Golden City, each and every Greek would have marched against the\noverwhelming numbers, and have devoted himself with patriotic fury for his\ncountry. But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no death-dealing\nartillery, no formidable array of brave soldiers--the unguarded walls\nafforded easy entrance--the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but above\nthe dome of St. Sophia the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and shrunk\nin trepidation from her influence.\n\nRaymond was actuated by far other feelings. He descended the hill with a\nface beaming with triumph, and pointing with his sword to the gates,\ncommanded his troops to--down with those barricades--the only obstacles\nnow to completest victory. The soldiers answered his cheerful words with\naghast and awe-struck looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode\nin the front of the lines:--\"By my sword I swear,\" he cried, \"that no\nambush or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is already vanquished; the\npleasant places, the noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already\nyours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats of your ancestors, your\nown inheritance!\"\n\nAn universal shudder and fearful whispering passed through the lines; not a\nsoldier moved. \"Cowards!\" exclaimed their general, exasperated, \"give me an\nhatchet! I alone will enter! I will plant your standard; and when you see\nit wave from yon highest minaret, you may gain courage, and rally round\nit!\"\n\nOne of the officers now came forward: \"General,\" he said, \"we neither fear\nthe courage, nor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush of the Moslems.\nWe are ready to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times before, to\nthe balls and scymetars of the infidels, and to fall gloriously for Greece.\nBut we will not die in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the\npestilential air of that city--we dare not go against the Plague!\"\n\nA multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a voice, a leader; give\nthem that, and they regain the strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts\nfrom a thousand voices now rent the air--the cry of applause became\nuniversal. Raymond saw the danger; he was willing to save his troops from\nthe crime of disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun between\nthe commander and his army, each act and word added to the weakness of the\nformer, and bestowed power on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to\nbe sounded, and the regiments repaired in good order to the camp.\n\nI hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange proceedings to\nPerdita; and we were soon joined by Raymond. He looked gloomy and\nperturbed. My sister was struck by my narrative: \"How beyond the\nimagination of man,\" she exclaimed, \"are the decrees of heaven, wondrous\nand inexplicable!\"\n\n\"Foolish girl,\" cried Raymond angrily, \"are you like my valiant soldiers,\npanic-struck? What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so very natural\nan occurrence? Does not the plague rage each year in Stamboul? What wonder,\nthat this year, when as we are told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia,\nthat it should have occasioned double havoc in that city? What wonder then,\nin time of siege, want, extreme heat, and drought, that it should make\nunaccustomed ravages? Less wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing\nof being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of the negligence\nof our fleet to escape at once from siege and capture. It is not pestilence\n--by the God that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger that\nmakes us, like birds in harvest-time, terrified by a scarecrow, abstain\nfrom the ready prey--it is base superstition--And thus the aim of the\nvaliant is made the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the\nhigh-souled, the plaything of these tamed hares! But yet Stamboul shall be\nours! By my past labours, by torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by\nmy victories, by my sword, I swear--by my hopes of fame, by my former\ndeserts now awaiting their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands to plant\nthe cross on yonder mosque!\"\n\n\"Dearest Raymond!\" interrupted Perdita, in a supplicating accent.\n\nHe had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of the seraglio; his very\nlips were pale with rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry words--\nhis eyes shot fire--his gestures seemed restrained by their very\nvehemence. \"Perdita,\" he continued, impatiently, \"I know what you would\nsay; I know that you love me, that you are good and gentle; but this is no\nwoman's work--nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane which tears\nme!\"\n\nHe seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall: a\nlook from Perdita shewed me her distress, and I followed him. He was pacing\nthe garden: his passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence. \"Am I\nfor ever,\" he cried, \"to be the sport of fortune! Must man, the\nheaven-climber, be for ever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his\nspecies! Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life, to a\nsuccession of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments and\nfresh-springing hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General's staff, seek\nrepose in the glades of Windsor. But I am about to die!--nay, interrupt\nme not--soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth, from the\nsympathies of man, from the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of\nmy friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita, I am about to be\nremoved. Such is the will of fate! Such the decree of the High Ruler from\nwhom there is no appeal: to whom I submit. But to lose all--to lose with\nlife and love, glory also! It shall not be!\n\n\"I, and in a few brief years, all you,--this panic-struck army, and all\nthe population of fair Greece, will no longer be. But other generations\nwill arise, and ever and for ever will continue, to be made happier by our\npresent acts, to be glorified by our valour. The prayer of my youth was to\nbe one among those who render the pages of earth's history splendid; who\nexalt the race of man, and make this little globe a dwelling of the mighty.\nAlas, for Raymond! the prayer of his youth is wasted--the hopes of his\nmanhood are null!\n\n\"From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, soon I will be thy lord! When\nEvadne pronounced my death, I thought that the title of Victor of\nConstantinople would be written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear.\nI stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call myself a conqueror.\nSo shall it not be! Did not Alexander leap from the walls of the city of\nthe Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the way to victory, encountering\nalone the swords of its defenders? Even so will I brave the plague--and\nthough no man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard on the height of\nSt. Sophia.\"\n\nReason came unavailing to such high-wrought feelings. In vain I shewed him,\nthat when winter came, the cold would dissipate the pestilential air, and\nrestore courage to the Greeks. \"Talk not of other season than this!\" he\ncried. \"I have lived my last winter, and the date of this year, 2092, will\nbe carved upon my tomb. Already do I see,\" he continued, looking up\nmournfully, \"the bourne and precipitate edge of my existence, over which I\nplunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to come. I am prepared, so that\nI leave behind a trail of light so radiant, that my worst enemies cannot\ncloud it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita, and to\nmyself, the victim of ambition.\"\n\nWe were interrupted by an attendant, who announced, that the staff of\nRaymond was assembled in the council-chamber. He requested me in the\nmeantime to ride through the camp, and to observe and report to him the\ndispositions of the soldiers; he then left me. I had been excited to the\nutmost by the proceedings of the day, and now more than ever by the\npassionate language of Raymond. Alas! for human reason! He accused the\nGreeks of superstition: what name did he give to the faith he lent to the\npredictions of Evadne? I passed from the palace of Sweet Waters to the\nplain on which the encampment lay, and found its inhabitants in commotion.\nThe arrival of several with fresh stories of marvels, from the fleet; the\nexaggerations bestowed on what was already known; tales of old prophecies,\nof fearful histories of whole regions which had been laid waste during the\npresent year by pestilence, alarmed and occupied the troops. Discipline was\nlost; the army disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part of a great\nwhole moving only in unison with others, now became resolved into the unit\nnature had made him, and thought of himself only. They stole off at first\nby ones and twos, then in larger companies, until, unimpeded by the\nofficers, whole battalions sought the road that led to Macedonia.\n\nAbout midnight I returned to the palace and sought Raymond; he was alone,\nand apparently composed; such composure, at least, was his as is inspired\nby a resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He heard my account of\nthe self-dissolution of the army with calmness, and then said, \"You know,\nVerney, my fixed determination not to quit this place, until in the light\nof day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If the men I have about me shrink from\nfollowing me, others, more courageous, are to be found. Go you before break\nof day, bear these dispatches to Karazza, add to them your own entreaties\nthat he send me his marines and naval force; if I can get but one regiment\nto second me, the rest would follow of course. Let him send me this\nregiment. I shall expect your return by to-morrow noon.\"\n\nMethought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured him of my obedience\nand zeal. I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With the breaking of\nmorning I was accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking\nleave of Perdita, and from my window observed the approach of the sun. The\ngolden splendour arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer yet another day of\nheat and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet\nthe dawn; the dry grass had withered on the plains; the burning fields of\nair were vacant of birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun, began\ntheir shrill and deafening song among the cypresses and olives. I saw\nRaymond's coal-black charger brought to the palace gate; a small company of\nofficers arrived soon after; care and fear was painted on each cheek, and\nin each eye, unrefreshed by sleep. I found Raymond and Perdita together. He\nwas watching the rising sun, while with one arm he encircled his beloved's\nwaist; she looked on him, the sun of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled\nanxiety and tenderness. Raymond started angrily when he saw me. \"Here\nstill?\" he cried. \"Is this your promised zeal?\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" I said, \"but even as you speak, I am gone.\"\n\n\"Nay, pardon me,\" he replied; \"I have no right to command or reproach; but\nmy life hangs on your departure and speedy return. Farewell!\"\n\nHis voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark cloud still hung on his\nfeatures. I would have delayed; I wished to recommend watchfulness to\nPerdita, but his presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my\nhesitation; and on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his outstretched\nhand; it was cold and clammy. \"Take care of yourself, my dear Lord,\" I\nsaid.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Perdita, \"that task shall be mine. Return speedily,\nLionel.\" With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn locks, while\nshe leaned on him; twice I turned back, only to look again on this\nmatchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the\nhall, and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew towards me;\nclasping my knee she cried, \"Make haste back, uncle! Dear uncle, I have\nsuch fearful dreams; I dare not tell my mother. Do not be long away!\" I\nassured her of my impatience to return, and then, with a small escort rode\nalong the plain towards the tower of Marmora.\n\nI fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was somewhat surprised; he\nwould see, he said, what could be done; but it required time; and Raymond\nhad ordered me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect any thing in\nso short a time. I must stay till the next day; or come back, after having\nreported the present state of things to the general. My choice was easily\nmade. A restlessness, a fear of what was about to betide, a doubt as to\nRaymond's purposes, urged me to return without delay to his quarters.\nQuitting the Seven Towers, I rode eastward towards the Sweet Waters. I took\na circuitous path, principally for the sake of going to the top of the\nmount before mentioned, which commanded a view of the city. I had my glass\nwith me. The city basked under the noon-day sun, and the venerable walls\nformed its picturesque boundary. Immediately before me was the Top Kapou,\nthe gate near which Mahomet had made the breach by which he entered the\ncity. Trees gigantic and aged grew near; before the gate I discerned a\ncrowd of moving human figures--with intense curiosity I lifted my glass\nto my eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger; a small company of officers\nhad gathered about him; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of soldiers\nand subalterns, their discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no music\nsounded, no banners streamed. The only flag among them was one which\nRaymond carried; he pointed with it to the gate of the city. The circle\nround him fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and\nseizing a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went with the apparent\nintention of battering down the opposing gate. A few men came to aid him;\ntheir numbers increased; under their united blows the obstacle was\nvanquished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demolished; and the wide\nsun-lit way, leading to the heart of the city, now lay open before them.\nThe men shrank back; they seemed afraid of what they had already done, and\nstood as if they expected some Mighty Phantom to stalk in offended majesty\nfrom the opening. Raymond sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the\nstandard, and with words which I could not hear (but his gestures, being\ntheir fit accompaniment, were marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to\nadjure their assistance and companionship; even as he spoke, the crowd\nreceded from him. Indignation now transported him; his words I guessed were\nfraught with disdain--then turning from his coward followers, he\naddressed himself to enter the city alone. His very horse seemed to back\nfrom the fatal entrance; his dog, his faithful dog, lay moaning and\nsupplicating in his path--in a moment more, he had plunged the rowels\ninto the sides of the stung animal, who bounded forward, and he, the\ngateway passed, was galloping up the broad and desart street.\n\nUntil this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I had gazed with\nwonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling now\npredominated. I forgot the distance between us: \"I will go with thee,\nRaymond!\" I cried; but, my eye removed from the glass, I could scarce\ndiscern the pigmy forms of the crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded\nthe gate; the form of Raymond was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my\nhorse with force of spur and loosened reins down the acclivity, that,\nbefore danger could arrive, I might be at the side of my noble, godlike\nfriend. A number of buildings and trees intervened, when I had reached the\nplain, hiding the city from my view. But at that moment a crash was heard.\nThunderlike it reverberated through the sky, while the air was darkened. A\nmoment more and the old walls again met my sight, while over them hovered a\nmurky cloud; fragments of buildings whirled above, half seen in smoke,\nwhile flames burst out beneath, and continued explosions filled the air\nwith terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin which leapt\nover the high walls, and shook the ivy towers, a crowd of soldiers made for\nthe road by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable to\nget forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I stretched out my hands to\nthe men; I conjured them to turn back and save their General, the conqueror\nof Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye tears, in warm flow gushed\nfrom my eyes--I would not believe in his destruction; yet every mass that\ndarkened the air seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred Raymond.\nHorrible sights were shaped to me in the turbid cloud that hovered over the\ncity; and my only relief was derived from the struggles I made to approach\nthe gate. Yet when I effected my purpose, all I could discern within the\nprecincts of the massive walls was a city of fire: the open way through\nwhich Raymond had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame. After an\ninterval the explosions ceased, but the flames still shot up from various\nquarters; the dome of St. Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the\nresult perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the blowing up of the\ncity) huge, white thunder clouds lifted themselves up from the southern\nhorizon, and gathered over-head; they were the first blots on the blue\nexpanse that I had seen for months, and amidst this havoc and despair they\ninspired pleasure. The vault above became obscured, lightning flashed from\nthe heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing thunder; then the\nbig rain fell. The flames of the city bent beneath it; and the smoke and\ndust arising from the ruins was dissipated.\n\nI no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than, hurried on by an\nirresistible impulse, I endeavoured to penetrate the town. I could only do\nthis on foot, as the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had\nnever entered the city before, and its ways were unknown to me. The streets\nwere blocked up, the ruins smoking; I climbed up one heap, only to view\nothers in succession; and nothing told me where the centre of the town\nmight be, or towards what point Raymond might have directed his course. The\nrain ceased; the clouds sunk behind the horizon; it was now evening, and\nthe sun descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled on, until I came to\na street, whose wooden houses, half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, and\nwere fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up this I hurried--until now\nI had not seen a vestige of man. Yet none of the defaced human forms which\nI distinguished, could be Raymond; so I turned my eyes away, while my heart\nsickened within me. I came to an open space--a mountain of ruin in the\nmidst, announced that some large mosque had occupied the space--and here,\nscattered about, I saw various articles of luxury and wealth, singed,\ndestroyed--but shewing what they had been in their ruin--jewels,\nstrings of pearls, embroidered robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and\noriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected here in a pile destined\nfor destruction; but the rain had stopped the havoc midway.\n\nHours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond.\nInsurmountable heaps sometimes opposed themselves; the still burning fires\nscorched me. The sun set; the atmosphere grew dim--and the evening star\nno longer shone companionless. The glare of flames attested the progress of\ndestruction, while, during mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me\ntook gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I could yield to\nthe creative power of the imagination, and for a moment was soothed by the\nsublime fictions it presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me\nback to blank reality. Where, in this wilderness of death, art thou, O\nRaymond--ornament of England, deliverer of Greece, \"hero of unwritten\nstory,\" where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I called\naloud for him--through the darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of\nfallen Constantinople, his name was heard; no voice replied--echo even\nwas mute.\n\nI was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my spirits. The sultry\nair impregnated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning palaces, palsied\nmy limbs. Hunger suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had\nhitherto sustained me was lost; as a building, whose props are loosened,\nand whose foundations rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and hope\ndeserted me, did my strength fail. I sat on the sole remaining step of an\nedifice, which even in its downfall, was huge and magnificent; a few broken\nwalls, not dislodged by gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame\nglimmered at intervals on the summit of the pile. For a time hunger and\nsleep contended, till the constellations reeled before my eyes and then\nwere lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids closed, my limbs\nover-wearied, claimed repose--I rested my head on the stone, I yielded to\nthe grateful sensation of utter forgetfulness; and in that scene of\ndesolation, on that night of despair--I slept.\n\n[1] Calderon de la Barca.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nTHE stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus high in the\nsouthern heaven shewed that it was midnight. I awoke from disturbed dreams.\nMethought I had been invited to Timon's last feast; I came with keen\nappetite, the covers were removed, the hot water sent up its unsatisfying\nsteams, while I fled before the anger of the host, who assumed the form of\nRaymond; while to my diseased fancy, the vessels hurled by him after me,\nwere surcharged with fetid vapour, and my friend's shape, altered by a\nthousand distortions, expanded into a gigantic phantom, bearing on its brow\nthe sign of pestilence. The growing shadow rose and rose, filling, and then\nseeming to endeavour to burst beyond, the adamantine vault that bent over,\nsustaining and enclosing the world. The night-mare became torture; with a\nstrong effort I threw off sleep, and recalled reason to her wonted\nfunctions. My first thought was Perdita; to her I must return; her I must\nsupport, drawing such food from despair as might best sustain her wounded\nheart; recalling her from the wild excesses of grief, by the austere laws\nof duty, and the soft tenderness of regret.\n\nThe position of the stars was my only guide. I turned from the awful ruin\nof the Golden City, and, after great exertion, succeeded in extricating\nmyself from its enclosure. I met a company of soldiers outside the walls; I\nborrowed a horse from one of them, and hastened to my sister. The\nappearance of the plain was changed during this short interval; the\nencampment was broken up; the relics of the disbanded army met in small\ncompanies here and there; each face was clouded; every gesture spoke\nastonishment and dismay.\n\nWith an heavy heart I entered the palace, and stood fearful to advance, to\nspeak, to look. In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat on the marble\npavement, her head fallen on her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her fingers\ntwined busily one within the other; she was pale as marble, and every\nfeature was contracted by agony. She perceived me, and looked up\nenquiringly; her half glance of hope was misery; the words died before I\ncould articulate them; I felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She\nunderstood my gesture; again her head fell; again her fingers worked\nrestlessly. At last I recovered speech, but my voice terrified her; the\nhapless girl had understood my look, and for worlds she would not that the\ntale of her heavy misery should have been shaped out and confirmed by hard,\nirrevocable words. Nay, she seemed to wish to distract my thoughts from the\nsubject: she rose from the floor: \"Hush!\" she said, whisperingly; \"after\nmuch weeping, Clara sleeps; we must not disturb her.\" She seated herself\nthen on the same ottoman where I had left her in the morning resting on the\nbeating heart of her Raymond; I dared not approach her, but sat at a\ndistant corner, watching her starting and nervous gestures. At length, in\nan abrupt manner she asked, \"Where is he?\"\n\n\"O, fear not,\" she continued, \"fear not that I should entertain hope! Yet\ntell me, have you found him? To have him once more in my arms, to see him,\nhowever changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be heaped above him\nas a tomb, yet I must find him--then cover us with the city's weight,\nwith a mountain piled above--I care not, so that one grave hold Raymond\nand his Perdita.\" Then weeping, she clung to me: \"Take me to him,\" she\ncried, \"unkind Lionel, why do you keep me here? Of myself I cannot find him\n--but you know where he lies--lead me thither.\"\n\nAt first these agonizing plaints filled me with intolerable compassion. But\nsoon I endeavoured to extract patience for her from the ideas she\nsuggested. I related my adventures of the night, my endeavours to find our\nlost one, and my disappointment. Turning her thoughts this way, I gave them\nan object which rescued them from insanity. With apparent calmness she\ndiscussed with me the probable spot where he might be found, and planned\nthe means we should use for that purpose. Then hearing of my fatigue and\nabstinence, she herself brought me food. I seized the favourable moment,\nand endeavoured to awaken in her something beyond the killing torpor of\ngrief. As I spoke, my subject carried me away; deep admiration; grief, the\noffspring of truest affection, the overflowing of a heart bursting with\nsympathy for all that had been great and sublime in the career of my\nfriend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises of Raymond.\n\n\"Alas, for us,\" I cried, \"who have lost this latest honour of the world!\nBeloved Raymond! He is gone to the nations of the dead; he has become one\nof those, who render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious by\ndwelling there. He has journied on the road that leads to it, and joined\nthe mighty of soul who went before him. When the world was in its infancy\ndeath must have been terrible, and man left his friends and kindred to\ndwell, a solitary stranger, in an unknown country. But now, he who dies\nfinds many companions gone before to prepare for his reception. The great\nof past ages people it, the exalted hero of our own days is counted among\nits inhabitants, while life becomes doubly 'the desart and the solitude.'\n\n\"What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the men of our time. By\nthe grandeur of his conceptions, the graceful daring of his actions, by his\nwit and beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only fault he\nmight have been accused; but his death has cancelled that. I have heard him\ncalled inconstant of purpose--when he deserted, for the sake of love, the\nhope of sovereignty, and when he abdicated the protectorship of England,\nmen blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death has crowned his life,\nand to the end of time it will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a\nwilling victim, to the glory of Greece. Such was his choice: he expected to\ndie. He foresaw that he should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome\nsky, and thy love, Perdita; yet he neither hesitated or turned back, going\nright onward to his mark of fame. While the earth lasts, his actions will\nbe recorded with praise. Grecian maidens will in devotion strew flowers on\nhis tomb, and make the air around it resonant with patriotic hymns, in\nwhich his name will find high record.\"\n\nI saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of grief yielded to\ntenderness--I continued:--\"Thus to honour him, is the sacred duty of\nhis survivors. To make his name even as an holy spot of ground, enclosing\nit from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the blossoms of\nlove and regret, guarding it from decay, and bequeathing it untainted to\nposterity. Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs to you,\nPerdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in her infancy, with what\ntransport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her the united being of yourself\nand Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a manifestation of your\neternal loves. Even such is she still. You say that you have lost Raymond.\nO, no!--yet he lives with you and in you there. From him she sprung,\nflesh of his flesh, bone of his bone--and not, as heretofore, are you\ncontent to trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to\nRaymond, but in her enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities of her\nmind, you may still find him living, the good, the great, the beloved. Be\nit your care to foster this similarity--be it your care to render her\nworthy of him, so that, when she glory in her origin, she take not shame\nfor what she is.\"\n\nI could perceive that, when I recalled my sister's thoughts to her duties\nin life, she did not listen with the same patience as before. She appeared\nto suspect a plan of consolation on my part, from which she, cherishing her\nnew-born grief, revolted. \"You talk of the future,\" she said, \"while the\npresent is all to me. Let me find the earthly dwelling of my beloved; let\nus rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come men may point to\nthe sacred tomb, and name it his--then to other thoughts, and a new\ncourse of life, or what else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked\nout for me.\"\n\nAfter a short repose I prepared to leave her, that I might endeavour to\naccomplish her wish. In the mean time we were joined by Clara, whose pallid\ncheek and scared look shewed the deep impression grief had made on her\nyoung mind. She seemed to be full of something to which she could not give\nwords; but, seizing an opportunity afforded by Perdita's absence, she\npreferred to me an earnest prayer, that I would take her within view of the\ngate at which her father had entered Constantinople. She promised to commit\nno extravagance, to be docile, and immediately to return. I could not\nrefuse; for Clara was not an ordinary child; her sensibility and\nintelligence seemed already to have endowed her with the rights of\nwomanhood. With her therefore, before me on my horse, attended only by the\nservant who was to re-conduct her, we rode to the Top Kapou. We found a\nparty of soldiers gathered round it. They were listening. \"They are human\ncries,\" said one: \"More like the howling of a dog,\" replied another; and\nagain they bent to catch the sound of regular distant moans, which issued\nfrom the precincts of the ruined city. \"That, Clara,\" I said, \"is the gate,\nthat the street which yestermorn your father rode up.\" Whatever Clara's\nintention had been in asking to be brought hither, it was balked by the\npresence of the soldiers. With earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth of\nsmoking piles which had been a city, and then expressed her readiness to\nreturn home. At this moment a melancholy howl struck on our ears; it was\nrepeated; \"Hark!\" cried Clara, \"he is there; that is Florio, my father's\ndog.\" It seemed to me impossible that she could recognise the sound, but\nshe persisted in her assertion till she gained credit with the crowd about.\nAt least it would be a benevolent action to rescue the sufferer, whether\nhuman or brute, from the desolation of the town; so, sending Clara back to\nher home, I again entered Constantinople. Encouraged by the impunity\nattendant on my former visit, several soldiers who had made a part of\nRaymond's body guard, who had loved him, and sincerely mourned his loss,\naccompanied me.\n\nIt is impossible to conjecture the strange enchainment of events which\nrestored the lifeless form of my friend to our hands. In that part of the\ntown where the fire had most raged the night before, and which now lay\nquenched, black and cold, the dying dog of Raymond crouched beside the\nmutilated form of its lord. At such a time sorrow has no voice; affliction,\ntamed by it is very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal recognised me,\nlicked my hand, crept close to its lord, and died. He had been evidently\nthrown from his horse by some falling ruin, which had crushed his head, and\ndefaced his whole person. I bent over the body, and took in my hand the\nedge of his cloak, less altered in appearance than the human frame it\nclothed. I pressed it to my lips, while the rough soldiers gathered around,\nmourning over this worthiest prey of death, as if regret and endless\nlamentation could re-illumine the extinguished spark, or call to its\nshattered prison-house of flesh the liberated spirit. Yesterday those limbs\nwere worth an universe; they then enshrined a transcendant power, whose\nintents, words, and actions were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold;\nnow the superstition of affection alone could give value to the shattered\nmechanism, which, incapable and clod-like, no more resembled Raymond, than\nthe fallen rain is like the former mansion of cloud in which it climbed the\nhighest skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all eyes, and satiated the\nsense by its excess of beauty.\n\nSuch as he had now become, such as was his terrene vesture, defaced and\nspoiled, we wrapt it in our cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our arms,\nbore it from this city of the dead. The question arose as to where we\nshould deposit him. In our road to the palace, we passed through the Greek\ncemetery; here on a tablet of black marble I caused him to be laid; the\ncypresses waved high above, their death-like gloom accorded with his state\nof nothingness. We cut branches of the funereal trees and placed them over\nhim, and on these again his sword. I left a guard to protect this treasure\nof dust; and ordered perpetual torches to be burned around.\n\nWhen I returned to Perdita, I found that she had already been informed of\nthe success of my undertaking. He, her beloved, the sole and eternal object\nof her passionate tenderness, was restored her. Such was the maniac\nlanguage of her enthusiasm. What though those limbs moved not, and those\nlips could no more frame modulated accents of wisdom and love! What though\nlike a weed flung from the fruitless sea, he lay the prey of corruption--\nstill that was the form she had caressed, those the lips that meeting hers,\nhad drank the spirit of love from the commingling breath; that was the\nearthly mechanism of dissoluble clay she had called her own. True, she\nlooked forward to another life; true, the burning spirit of love seemed to\nher unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet at this time, with human\nfondness, she clung to all that her human senses permitted her to see and\nfeel to be a part of Raymond.\n\nPale as marble, clear and beaming as that, she heard my tale, and enquired\nconcerning the spot where he had been deposited. Her features had lost the\ndistortion of grief; her eyes were brightened, her very person seemed\ndilated; while the excessive whiteness and even transparency of her skin,\nand something hollow in her voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but\nexcess of excitement, occasioned the treacherous calm that settled on her\ncountenance. I asked her where he should be buried. She replied, \"At\nAthens; even at the Athens which he loved. Without the town, on the\nacclivity of Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he pointed out to me\nas the spot where he would wish to repose.\"\n\nMy own desire certainly was that he should not be removed from the spot\nwhere he now lay. But her wish was of course to be complied with; and I\nentreated her to prepare without delay for our departure.\n\nBehold now the melancholy train cross the flats of Thrace, and wind through\nthe defiles, and over the mountains of Macedonia, coast the clear waves of\nthe Peneus, cross the Larissean plain, pass the straits of Thermopylae, and\nascending in succession Oeta and Parnassus, descend to the fertile plain of\nAthens. Women bear with resignation these long drawn ills, but to a man's\nimpatient spirit, the slow motion of our cavalcade, the melancholy repose\nwe took at noon, the perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous though it\nwas, that wrapt the rifled casket which had contained Raymond, the\nmonotonous recurrence of day and night, unvaried by hope or change, all the\ncircumstances of our march were intolerable. Perdita, shut up in herself,\nspoke little. Her carriage was closed; and, when we rested, she sat leaning\nher pale cheek on her white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground,\nindulging thoughts which refused communication or sympathy.\n\nWe descended from Parnassus, emerging from its many folds, and passed\nthrough Livadia on our road to Attica. Perdita would not enter Athens; but\nreposing at Marathon on the night of our arrival, conducted me on the\nfollowing day, to the spot selected by her as the treasure house of\nRaymond's dear remains. It was in a recess near the head of the ravine to\nthe south of Hymettus. The chasm, deep, black, and hoary, swept from the\nsummit to the base; in the fissures of the rock myrtle underwood grew and\nwild thyme, the food of many nations of bees; enormous crags protruded into\nthe cleft, some beetling over, others rising perpendicularly from it. At\nthe foot of this sublime chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached from sea\nto sea, and beyond was spread the blue Aegean, sprinkled with islands, the\nlight waves glancing beneath the sun. Close to the spot on which we stood,\nwas a solitary rock, high and conical, which, divided on every side from\nthe mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid; with little labour this block\nwas reduced to a perfect shape; the narrow cell was scooped out beneath in\nwhich Raymond was placed, and a short inscription, carved in the living\nstone, recorded the name of its tenant, the cause and aera of his death.\n\nEvery thing was accomplished with speed under my directions. I agreed to\nleave the finishing and guardianship of the tomb to the head of the\nreligious establishment at Athens, and by the end of October prepared for\nmy return to England. I mentioned this to Perdita. It was painful to appear\nto drag her from the last scene that spoke of her lost one; but to linger\nhere was vain, and my very soul was sick with its yearning to rejoin my\nIdris and her babes. In reply, my sister requested me to accompany her the\nfollowing evening to the tomb of Raymond. Some days had passed since I had\nvisited the spot. The path to it had been enlarged, and steps hewn in the\nrock led us less circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the platform\non which the pyramid stood was enlarged, and looking towards the south, in\na recess overshadowed by the straggling branches of a wild fig-tree, I saw\nfoundations dug, and props and rafters fixed, evidently the commencement of\na cottage; standing on its unfinished threshold, the tomb was at our\nright-hand, the whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea immediately before\nus; the dark rocks received a glow from the descending sun, which glanced\nalong the cultivated valley, and dyed in purple and orange the placid\nwaves; we sat on a rocky elevation, and I gazed with rapture on the\nbeauteous panorama of living and changeful colours, which varied and\nenhanced the graces of earth and ocean.\n\n\"Did I not do right,\" said Perdita, \"in having my loved one conveyed\nhither? Hereafter this will be the cynosure of Greece. In such a spot death\nloses half its terrors, and even the inanimate dust appears to partake of\nthe spirit of beauty which hallows this region. Lionel, he sleeps there;\nthat is the grave of Raymond, he whom in my youth I first loved; whom my\nheart accompanied in days of separation and anger; to whom I am now joined\nfor ever. Never--mark me--never will I leave this spot. Methinks his\nspirit remains here as well as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it\nbe, is more precious in its nothingness than aught else widowed earth\nclasps to her sorrowing bosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the little\ncyclamen, which peep from the fissures of the rock, all the produce of the\nplace, bear affinity to him; the light that invests the hills participates\nin his essence, and sky and mountains, sea and valley, are imbued by the\npresence of his spirit. I will live and die here!\n\n\"Go you to England, Lionel; return to sweet Idris and dearest Adrian;\nreturn, and let my orphan girl be as a child of your own in your house.\nLook on me as dead; and truly if death be a mere change of state, I am\ndead. This is another world, from that which late I inhabited, from that\nwhich is now your home. Here I hold communion only with the has been, and\nto come. Go you to England, and leave me where alone I can consent to drag\nout the miserable days which I must still live.\"\n\nA shower of tears terminated her sad harangue. I had expected some\nextravagant proposition, and remained silent awhile, collecting my thoughts\nthat I might the better combat her fanciful scheme. \"You cherish dreary\nthoughts, my dear Perdita,\" I said, \"nor do I wonder that for a time your\nbetter reason should be influenced by passionate grief and a disturbed\nimagination. Even I am in love with this last home of Raymond's;\nnevertheless we must quit it.\"\n\n\"I expected this,\" cried Perdita; \"I supposed that you would treat me as a\nmad, foolish girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage is built by my\norder; and here I shall remain, until the hour arrives when I may share his\nhappier dwelling.\"\n\n\"My dearest girl!\"\n\n\"And what is there so strange in my design? I might have deceived you; I\nmight have talked of remaining here only a few months; in your anxiety to\nreach Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or contention, I\nmight have pursued my plan. But I disdained the artifice; or rather in my\nwretchedness it was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my\nbrother, my only friend. You will not dispute with me? You know how wilful\nyour poor, misery-stricken sister is. Take my girl with you; wean her from\nsights and thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her heart,\nand animate her eyes; so could it never be, were she near me; it is far\nbetter for all of you that you should never see me again. For myself, I\nwill not voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while I can command\nmyself; and I can here. But drag me from this country; and my power of self\ncontrol vanishes, nor can I answer for the violence my agony of grief may\nlead me to commit.\"\n\n\"You clothe your meaning, Perdita,\" I replied, \"in powerful words, yet that\nmeaning is selfish and unworthy of you. You have often agreed with me that\nthere is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve\nourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others: and now, in the very\nprime of life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up in useless\nsolitude. Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor, the scene of your\nearly happiness? Will you commune less with his departed spirit, while you\nwatch over and cultivate the rare excellence of his child? You have been\nsadly visited; nor do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should drive\nyou to bitter and unreasonable imaginings. But a home of love awaits you in\nyour native England. My tenderness and affection must soothe you; the\nsociety of Raymond's friends will be of more solace than these dreary\nspeculations. We will all make it our first care, our dearest task, to\ncontribute to your happiness.\"\n\nPerdita shook her head; \"If it could be so,\" she replied, \"I were much in\nthe wrong to disdain your offers. But it is not a matter of choice; I can\nlive here only. I am a part of this scene; each and all its properties are\na part of me. This is no sudden fancy; I live by it. The knowledge that I\nam here, rises with me in the morning, and enables me to endure the light;\nit is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it walks, it sleeps\nwith me, for ever it accompanies me. Here I may even cease to repine, and\nmay add my tardy consent to the decree which has taken him from me. He\nwould rather have died such a death, which will be recorded in history to\nendless time, than have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured. Nor can I\ndesire better, than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart, here,\nin youth's prime, before added years can tarnish the best feelings of my\nnature, to watch his tomb, and speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.\n\n\"So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, wishing to persuade you that I do\nright. If you are unconvinced, I can add nothing further by way of\nargument, and I can only declare my fixed resolve. I stay here; force only\ncan remove me. Be it so; drag me away--I return; confine me, imprison me,\nstill I escape, and come here. Or would my brother rather devote the\nheart-broken Perdita to the straw and chains of a maniac, than suffer her\nto rest in peace beneath the shadow of His society, in this my own selected\nand beloved recess?\"--\n\nAll this appeared to me, I own, methodized madness. I imagined, that it was\nmy imperative duty to take her from scenes that thus forcibly reminded her\nof her loss. Nor did I doubt, that in the tranquillity of our family circle\nat Windsor, she would recover some degree of composure, and in the end, of\nhappiness. My affection for Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams\nof cherished grief; her sensibility had already been too much excited; her\ninfant heedlessness too soon exchanged for deep and anxious thought. The\nstrange and romantic scheme of her mother, might confirm and perpetuate the\npainful view of life, which had intruded itself thus early on her\ncontemplation.\n\nOn returning home, the captain of the steam packet with whom I had agreed\nto sail, came to tell me, that accidental circumstances hastened his\ndeparture, and that, if I went with him, I must come on board at five on\nthe following morning. I hastily gave my consent to this arrangement, and\nas hastily formed a plan through which Perdita should be forced to become\nmy companion. I believe that most people in my situation would have acted\nin the same manner. Yet this consideration does not, or rather did not in\nafter time, diminish the reproaches of my conscience. At the moment, I felt\nconvinced that I was acting for the best, and that all I did was right and\neven necessary.\n\nI sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my seeming assent to her wild\nscheme. She received my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand times\nover thanked her deceiving, deceitful brother. As night came on, her\nspirits, enlivened by my unexpected concession, regained an almost\nforgotten vivacity. I pretended to be alarmed by the feverish glow in her\ncheek; I entreated her to take a composing draught; I poured out the\nmedicine, which she took docilely from me. I watched her as she drank it.\nFalsehood and artifice are in themselves so hateful, that, though I still\nthought I did right, a feeling of shame and guilt came painfully upon me. I\nleft her, and soon heard that she slept soundly under the influence of the\nopiate I had administered. She was carried thus unconscious on board; the\nanchor weighed, and the wind being favourable, we stood far out to sea;\nwith all the canvas spread, and the power of the engine to assist, we\nscudded swiftly and steadily through the chafed element.\n\nIt was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a longer time elapsed\nbefore recovering from the torpor occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived\nher change of situation. She started wildly from her couch, and flew to the\ncabin window. The blue and troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was\nspread shoreless around: the sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift\nmotion shewed how speedily she was borne away. The creaking of the masts,\nthe clang of the wheels, the tramp above, all persuaded her that she was\nalready far from the shores of Greece.--\"Where are we?\" she cried, \"where\nare we going?\"--\n\nThe attendant whom I had stationed to watch her, replied, \"to England.\"--\n\n\n\"And my brother?\"--\n\n\"Is on deck, Madam.\"\n\n\"Unkind! unkind!\" exclaimed the poor victim, as with a deep sigh she looked\non the waste of waters. Then without further remark, she threw herself on\nher couch, and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but for the\ndeep sighs that burst from her, it would have seemed that she slept.\n\nAs soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to her, that the sight\nof the lovely innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts. But\nneither the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could\nrouse my sister. She looked on Clara with a countenance of woful meaning,\nbut she did not speak. When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my\nenquiries, only said, \"You know not what you have done!\"--I trusted that\nthis sullenness betokened merely the struggle between disappointment and\nnatural affection, and that in a few days she would be reconciled to her\nfate.\n\nWhen night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep in a separate cabin.\nHer servant, however, remained with her. About midnight she spoke to the\nlatter, saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to her\ndaughter, and bring word whether she rested quietly. The woman obeyed.\n\nThe breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose again. I was on deck,\nenjoying our swift progress. The quiet was disturbed only by the rush of\nwaters as they divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless\nand full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds, and the regular motion\nof the engine. The sea was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and\nnow resuming an uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared; and dark ether\nclipt the broad ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought their\naccustomed mirror. Our rate could not have been less than eight knots.\n\nSuddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The sailors on watch rushed to the\nside of the vessel, with the cry--some one gone overboard. \"It is not\nfrom deck,\" said the man at the helm, \"something has been thrown from the\naft cabin.\" A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed from the deck. I\nrushed into my sister's cabin; it was empty.\n\nWith sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel remained unwillingly\nstationary, until, after an hour's search, my poor Perdita was brought on\nboard. But no care could re-animate her, no medicine cause her dear eyes to\nopen, and the blood to flow again from her pulseless heart. One clenched\nhand contained a slip of paper, on which was written, \"To Athens.\" To\nensure her removal thither, and prevent the irrecoverable loss of her body\nin the wide sea, she had had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round\nher waist, and again to the staunchions of the cabin window. She had\ndrifted somewhat under the keel of the vessel, and her being out of sight\noccasioned the delay in finding her. And thus the ill-starred girl died a\nvictim to my senseless rashness. Thus, in early day, she left us for the\ncompany of the dead, and preferred to share the rocky grave of Raymond,\nbefore the animated scene this cheerful earth afforded, and the society of\nloving friends. Thus in her twenty-ninth year she died; having enjoyed some\nfew years of the happiness of paradise, and sustaining a reverse to which\nher impatient spirit and affectionate disposition were unable to submit. As\nI marked the placid expression that had settled on her countenance in\ndeath, I felt, in spite of the pangs of remorse, in spite of heart-rending\nregret, that it was better to die so, than to drag on long, miserable years\nof repining and inconsolable grief. Stress of weather drove us up the\nAdriatic Gulph; and, our vessel being hardly fitted to weather a storm, we\ntook refuge in the port of Ancona. Here I met Georgio Palli, the\nvice-admiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and warm partizan of\nRaymond. I committed the remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the\npurpose of having them transported to Hymettus, and placed in the cell her\nRaymond already occupied beneath the pyramid. This was all accomplished\neven as I wished. She reposed beside her beloved, and the tomb above was\ninscribed with the united names of Raymond and Perdita.\n\nI then came to a resolution of pursuing our journey to England overland. My\nown heart was racked by regrets and remorse. The apprehension, that Raymond\nhad departed for ever, that his name, blended eternally with the past, must\nbe erased from every anticipation of the future, had come slowly upon me. I\nhad always admired his talents; his noble aspirations; his grand\nconceptions of the glory and majesty of his ambition: his utter want of\nmean passions; his fortitude and daring. In Greece I had learnt to love\nhim; his very waywardness, and self-abandonment to the impulses of\nsuperstition, attached me to him doubly; it might be weakness, but it was\nthe antipodes of all that was grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were\nadded the loss of Perdita, lost through my own accursed self-will and\nconceit. This dear one, my sole relation; whose progress I had marked from\ntender childhood through the varied path of life, and seen her throughout\nconspicuous for integrity, devotion, and true affection; for all that\nconstitutes the peculiar graces of the female character, and beheld her at\nlast the victim of too much loving, too constant an attachment to the\nperishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty and life, had thrown aside\nthe pleasant perception of the apparent world for the unreality of the\ngrave, and had left poor Clara quite an orphan. I concealed from this\nbeloved child that her mother's death was voluntary, and tried every means\nto awaken cheerfulness in her sorrow-stricken spirit.\n\nOne of my first acts for the recovery even of my own composure, was to bid\nfarewell to the sea. Its hateful splash renewed again and again to my sense\nthe death of my sister; its roar was a dirge; in every dark hull that was\ntossed on its inconstant bosom, I imaged a bier, that would convey to death\nall who trusted to its treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea! Come, my\nClara, sit beside me in this aerial bark; quickly and gently it cleaves the\nazure serene, and with soft undulation glides upon the current of the air;\nor, if storm shake its fragile mechanism, the green earth is below; we can\ndescend, and take shelter on the stable continent. Here aloft, the\ncompanions of the swift-winged birds, we skim through the unresisting\nelement, fleetly and fearlessly. The light boat heaves not, nor is opposed\nby death-bearing waves; the ether opens before the prow, and the shadow of\nthe globe that upholds it, shelters us from the noon-day sun. Beneath are\nthe plains of Italy, or the vast undulations of the wave-like Apennines:\nfertility reposes in their many folds, and woods crown the summits. The\nfree and happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, bears the double\nharvest to the garner; and the refined citizens rear without dread the long\nblighted tree of knowledge in this garden of the world. We were lifted\nabove the Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines entered\nthe plain of fair France, and after an airy journey of six days, we landed\nat Dieppe, furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our\nlittle pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of travelling now incommodious;\nso we embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at\nPortsmouth.\n\nA strange story was rife here. A few days before, a tempest-struck vessel\nhad appeared off the town: the hull was parched-looking and cracked, the\nsails rent, and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the shrouds\ntangled and broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and was stranded on\nthe sands at the entrance. In the morning the custom-house officers,\ntogether with a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only of the crew appeared\nto have arrived with her. He had got to shore, and had walked a few paces\ntowards the town, and then, vanquished by malady and approaching death, had\nfallen on the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his hands clenched,\nand pressed against his breast. His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and\nbristly beard, were signs of a long protracted misery. It was whispered\nthat he had died of the plague. No one ventured on board the vessel, and\nstrange sights were averred to be seen at night, walking the deck, and\nhanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces; I was shewn\nwhere she had been, and saw her disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The\nbody of the man who had landed, had been buried deep in the sands; and none\ncould tell more, than that the vessel was American built, and that several\nmonths before the Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no\ntidings were afterwards received.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nI RETURNED to my family estate in the autumn of the year 2092. My heart had\nlong been with them; and I felt sick with the hope and delight of seeing\nthem again. The district which contained them appeared the abode of every\nkindly spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked the forest paths, and\ntempered the atmosphere. After all the agitation and sorrow I had endured\nin Greece, I sought Windsor, as the storm-driven bird does the nest in\nwhich it may fold its wings in tranquillity.\n\nHow unwise had the wanderers been, who had deserted its shelter, entangled\nthemselves in the web of society, and entered on what men of the world call\n\"life,\"--that labyrinth of evil, that scheme of mutual torture. To live,\naccording to this sense of the word, we must not only observe and learn, we\nmust also feel; we must not be mere spectators of action, we must act; we\nmust not describe, but be subjects of description. Deep sorrow must have\nbeen the inmate of our bosoms; fraud must have lain in wait for us; the\nartful must have deceived us; sickening doubt and false hope must have\nchequered our days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in ecstasy, must at\ntimes have possessed us. Who that knows what \"life\" is, would pine for this\nfeverish species of existence? I have lived. I have spent days and nights\nof festivity; I have joined in ambitious hopes, and exulted in victory:\nnow,--shut the door on the world, and build high the wall that is to\nseparate me from the troubled scene enacted within its precincts. Let us\nlive for each other and for happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home,\nnear the inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of trees, the\nbeauteous vesture of earth, and sublime pageantry of the skies. Let us\nleave \"life,\" that we may live.\n\nIdris was well content with this resolve of mine. Her native sprightliness\nneeded no undue excitement, and her placid heart reposed contented on my\nlove, the well-being of her children, and the beauty of surrounding nature.\nHer pride and blameless ambition was to create smiles in all around her,\nand to shed repose on the fragile existence of her brother. In spite of her\ntender nursing, the health of Adrian perceptibly declined. Walking, riding,\nthe common occupations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain, but seemed\nto tremble for ever on the verge of annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on\nfor months nearly in the same state, he did not inspire us with any\nimmediate fear; and, though he talked of death as an event most familiar to\nhis thoughts, he did not cease to exert himself to render others happy, or\nto cultivate his own astonishing powers of mind. Winter passed away; and\nspring, led by the months, awakened life in all nature. The forest was\ndressed in green; the young calves frisked on the new-sprung grass; the\nwind-winged shadows of light clouds sped over the green cornfields; the\nhermit cuckoo repeated his monotonous all-hail to the season; the\nnightingale, bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled the woods\nwith song; while Venus lingered in the warm sunset, and the young green of\nthe trees lay in gentle relief along the clear horizon.\n\nDelight awoke in every heart, delight and exultation; for there was peace\nthrough all the world; the temple of Universal Janus was shut, and man died\nnot that year by the hand of man.\n\n\"Let this last but twelve months,\" said Adrian; \"and earth will become a\nParadise. The energies of man were before directed to the destruction of\nhis species: they now aim at its liberation and preservation. Man cannot\nrepose, and his restless aspirations will now bring forth good instead of\nevil. The favoured countries of the south will throw off the iron yoke of\nservitude; poverty will quit us, and with that, sickness. What may not the\nforces, never before united, of liberty and peace achieve in this dwelling\nof man?\"\n\n\"Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor!\" said Ryland, the old adversary of\nRaymond, and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing election. \"Be\nassured that earth is not, nor ever can be heaven, while the seeds of hell\nare natives of her soil. When the seasons have become equal, when the air\nbreeds no disorders, when its surface is no longer liable to blights and\ndroughts, then sickness will cease; when men's passions are dead, poverty\nwill depart. When love is no longer akin to hate, then brotherhood will\nexist: we are very far from that state at present.\"\n\n\"Not so far as you may suppose,\" observed a little old astronomer, by name\nMerrival, \"the poles precede slowly, but securely; in an hundred thousand\nyears--\"\n\n\"We shall all be underground,\" said Ryland.\n\n\"The pole of the earth will coincide with the pole of the ecliptic,\"\ncontinued the astronomer, \"an universal spring will be produced, and earth\nbecome a paradise.\"\n\n\"And we shall of course enjoy the benefit of the change,\" said Ryland,\ncontemptuously.\n\n\"We have strange news here,\" I observed. I had the newspaper in my hand,\nand, as usual, had turned to the intelligence from Greece. \"It seems that\nthe total destruction of Constantinople, and the supposition that winter\nhad purified the air of the fallen city, gave the Greeks courage to visit\nits site, and begin to rebuild it. But they tell us that the curse of God\nis on the place, for every one who has ventured within the walls has been\ntainted by the plague; that this disease has spread in Thrace and\nMacedonia; and now, fearing the virulence of infection during the coming\nheats, a cordon has been drawn on the frontiers of Thessaly, and a strict\nquarantine exacted.\" This intelligence brought us back from the prospect of\nparadise, held out after the lapse of an hundred thousand years, to the\npain and misery at present existent upon earth. We talked of the ravages\nmade last year by pestilence in every quarter of the world; and of the\ndreadful consequences of a second visitation. We discussed the best means\nof preventing infection, and of preserving health and activity in a large\ncity thus afflicted--London, for instance. Merrival did not join in this\nconversation; drawing near Idris, he proceeded to assure her that the\njoyful prospect of an earthly paradise after an hundred thousand years, was\nclouded to him by the knowledge that in a certain period of time after, an\nearthly hell or purgatory, would occur, when the ecliptic and equator would\nbe at right angles.[1] Our party at length broke up; \"We are all dreaming\nthis morning,\" said Ryland, \"it is as wise to discuss the probability of a\nvisitation of the plague in our well-governed metropolis, as to calculate\nthe centuries which must escape before we can grow pine-apples here in the\nopen air.\"\n\nBut, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon the arrival of the plague in\nLondon, I could not reflect without extreme pain on the desolation this\nevil would cause in Greece. The English for the most part talked of Thrace\nand Macedonia, as they would of a lunar territory, which, unknown to them,\npresented no distinct idea or interest to the minds. I had trod the soil.\nThe faces of many of the inhabitants were familiar to me; in the towns,\nplains, hills, and defiles of these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable\ndelight, as I journied through them the year before. Some romantic village,\nsome cottage, or elegant abode there situated, inhabited by the lovely and\nthe good, rose before my mental sight, and the question haunted me, is the\nplague there also?--That same invincible monster, which hovered over and\ndevoured Constantinople--that fiend more cruel than tempest, less tame\nthan fire, is, alas, unchained in that beautiful country--these\nreflections would not allow me to rest.\n\nThe political state of England became agitated as the time drew near when\nthe new Protector was to be elected. This event excited the more interest,\nsince it was the current report, that if the popular candidate (Ryland)\nshould be chosen, the question of the abolition of hereditary rank, and\nother feudal relics, would come under the consideration of parliament. Not\na word had been spoken during the present session on any of these topics.\nEvery thing would depend upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections\nof the ensuing year. Yet this very silence was awful, shewing the deep\nweight attributed to the question; the fear of either party to hazard an\nill-timed attack, and the expectation of a furious contention when it\nshould begin.\n\nBut although St. Stephen's did not echo with the voice which filled each\nheart, the newspapers teemed with nothing else; and in private companies\nthe conversation however remotely begun, soon verged towards this central\npoint, while voices were lowered and chairs drawn closer. The nobles did\nnot hesitate to express their fear; the other party endeavoured to treat\nthe matter lightly. \"Shame on the country,\" said Ryland, \"to lay so much\nstress upon words and frippery; it is a question of nothing; of the new\npainting of carriage-pannels and the embroidery of footmen's coats.\"\n\nYet could England indeed doff her lordly trappings, and be content with the\ndemocratic style of America? Were the pride of ancestry, the patrician\nspirit, the gentle courtesies and refined pursuits, splendid attributes of\nrank, to be erased among us? We were told that this would not be the case;\nthat we were by nature a poetical people, a nation easily duped by words,\nready to array clouds in splendour, and bestow honour on the dust. This\nspirit we could never lose; and it was to diffuse this concentrated spirit\nof birth, that the new law was to be brought forward. We were assured that,\nwhen the name and title of Englishman was the sole patent of nobility, we\nshould all be noble; that when no man born under English sway, felt another\nhis superior in rank, courtesy and refinement would become the birth-right\nof all our countrymen. Let not England be so far disgraced, as to have it\nimagined that it can be without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear\ntheir patent in their mien, who are from their cradle elevated above the\nrest of their species, because they are better than the rest. Among a race\nof independent, and generous, and well educated men, in a country where the\nimagination is empress of men's minds, there needs be no fear that we\nshould want a perpetual succession of the high-born and lordly. That party,\nhowever, could hardly yet be considered a minority in the kingdom, who\nextolled the ornament of the column, \"the Corinthian capital of polished\nsociety;\" they appealed to prejudices without number, to old attachments\nand young hopes; to the expectation of thousands who might one day become\npeers; they set up as a scarecrow, the spectre of all that was sordid,\nmechanic and base in the commercial republics.\n\nThe plague had come to Athens. Hundreds of English residents returned to\ntheir own country. Raymond's beloved Athenians, the free, the noble people\nof the divinest town in Greece, fell like ripe corn before the merciless\nsickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places were deserted; its temples and\npalaces were converted into tombs; its energies, bent before towards the\nhighest objects of human ambition, were now forced to converge to one\npoint, the guarding against the innumerous arrows of the plague.\n\nAt any other time this disaster would have excited extreme compassion among\nus; but it was now passed over, while each mind was engaged by the coming\ncontroversy. It was not so with me; and the question of rank and right\ndwindled to insignificance in my eyes, when I pictured the scene of\nsuffering Athens. I heard of the death of only sons; of wives and husbands\nmost devoted; of the rending of ties twisted with the heart's fibres, of\nfriend losing friend, and young mothers mourning for their first born; and\nthese moving incidents were grouped and painted in my mind by the knowledge\nof the persons, by my esteem and affection for the sufferers. It was the\nadmirers, friends, fellow soldiers of Raymond, families that had welcomed\nPerdita to Greece, and lamented with her the loss of her lord, that were\nswept away, and went to dwell with them in the undistinguishing tomb.\n\nThe plague at Athens had been preceded and caused by the contagion from the\nEast; and the scene of havoc and death continued to be acted there, on a\nscale of fearful magnitude. A hope that the visitation of the present year\nwould prove the last, kept up the spirits of the merchants connected with\nthese countries; but the inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a\nresignation which, arising from fanaticism, assumed the same dark hue.\nAmerica had also received the taint; and, were it yellow fever or plague,\nthe epidemic was gifted with a virulence before unfelt. The devastation was\nnot confined to the towns, but spread throughout the country; the hunter\ndied in the woods, the peasant in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his\nnative waters.\n\nA strange story was brought to us from the East, to which little credit\nwould have been given, had not the fact been attested by a multitude of\nwitnesses, in various parts of the world. On the twenty-first of June, it\nwas said that an hour before noon, a black sun arose: an orb, the size of\nthat luminary, but dark, defined, whose beams were shadows, ascended from\nthe west; in about an hour it had reached the meridian, and eclipsed the\nbright parent of day. Night fell upon every country, night, sudden,\nrayless, entire. The stars came out, shedding their ineffectual glimmerings\non the light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb passed from over the sun,\nand lingered down the eastern heaven. As it descended, its dusky rays\ncrossed the brilliant ones of the sun, and deadened or distorted them. The\nshadows of things assumed strange and ghastly shapes. The wild animals in\nthe woods took fright at the unknown shapes figured on the ground. They\nfled they knew not whither; and the citizens were filled with greater\ndread, at the convulsion which \"shook lions into civil streets;\"--birds,\nstrong-winged eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in the market-places, while\nowls and bats shewed themselves welcoming the early night. Gradually the\nobject of fear sank beneath the horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy\nbeams into the otherwise radiant air. Such was the tale sent us from Asia,\nfrom the eastern extremity of Europe, and from Africa as far west as the\nGolden Coast. Whether this story were true or not, the effects were certain.\nThrough Asia, from the banks of the Nile to the shores of the Caspian, from\nthe Hellespont even to the sea of Oman, a sudden panic was driven. The men\nfilled the mosques; the women, veiled, hastened to the tombs, and carried\nofferings to the dead, thus to preserve the living. The plague was\nforgotten, in this new fear which the black sun had spread; and, though the\ndead multiplied, and the streets of Ispahan, of Pekin, and of Delhi were\nstrewed with pestilence-struck corpses, men passed on, gazing on the\nominous sky, regardless of the death beneath their feet. The christians\nsought their churches,--christian maidens, even at the feast of roses,\nclad in white, with shining veils, sought, in long procession, the places\nconsecrated to their religion, filling the air with their hymns; while,\never and anon, from the lips of some poor mourner in the crowd, a voice of\nwailing burst, and the rest looked up, fancying they could discern the\nsweeping wings of angels, who passed over the earth, lamenting the\ndisasters about to fall on man.\n\nIn the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded cities of China, amidst the\naromatic groves of Cashmere, and along the southern shores of the\nMediterranean, such scenes had place. Even in Greece the tale of the sun of\ndarkness encreased the fears and despair of the dying multitude. We, in our\ncloudy isle, were far removed from danger, and the only circumstance that\nbrought these disasters at all home to us, was the daily arrival of vessels\nfrom the east, crowded with emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems,\nthough the fear of death was spread keenly among them, still clung\ntogether; that, if they were to die (and if they were, death would as\nreadily meet them on the homeless sea, or in far England, as in Persia,)--\nif they were to die, their bones might rest in earth made sacred by the\nrelics of true believers. Mecca had never before been so crowded with\npilgrims; yet the Arabs neglected to pillage the caravans, but, humble and\nweaponless, they joined the procession, praying Mahomet to avert plague\nfrom their tents and deserts.\n\nI cannot describe the rapturous delight with which I turned from political\nbrawls at home, and the physical evils of distant countries, to my own dear\nhome, to the selected abode of goodness and love; to peace, and the\ninterchange of every sacred sympathy. Had I never quitted Windsor, these\nemotions would not have been so intense; but I had in Greece been the prey\nof fear and deplorable change; in Greece, after a period of anxiety and\nsorrow, I had seen depart two, whose very names were the symbol of\ngreatness and virtue. But such miseries could never intrude upon the\ndomestic circle left to me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we\npassed our lives in tranquillity. Some small change indeed the progress of\nyears brought here; and time, as it is wont, stamped the traces of\nmortality on our pleasures and expectations. Idris, the most affectionate\nwife, sister and friend, was a tender and loving mother. The feeling was\nnot with her as with many, a pastime; it was a passion. We had had three\nchildren; one, the second in age, died while I was in Greece. This had\ndashed the triumphant and rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and\nfear. Before this event, the little beings, sprung from herself, the young\nheirs of her transient life, seemed to have a sure lease of existence; now\nshe dreaded that the pitiless destroyer might snatch her remaining\ndarlings, as it had snatched their brother. The least illness caused throes\nof terror; she was miserable if she were at all absent from them; her\ntreasure of happiness she had garnered in their fragile being, and kept\nforever on the watch, lest the insidious thief should as before steal these\nvalued gems. She had fortunately small cause for fear. Alfred, now nine\nyears old, was an upright, manly little fellow, with radiant brow, soft\neyes, and gentle, though independent disposition. Our youngest was yet in\ninfancy; but his downy cheek was sprinkled with the roses of health, and\nhis unwearied vivacity filled our halls with innocent laughter.\n\nClara had passed the age which, from its mute ignorance, was the source of\nthe fears of Idris. Clara was dear to her, to all. There was so much\nintelligence combined with innocence, sensibility with forbearance, and\nseriousness with perfect good-humour, a beauty so transcendant, united to\nsuch endearing simplicity, that she hung like a pearl in the shrine of our\npossessions, a treasure of wonder and excellence.\n\nAt the beginning of winter our Alfred, now nine years of age, first went to\nschool at Eton. This appeared to him the primary step towards manhood, and\nhe was proportionably pleased. Community of study and amusement developed\nthe best parts of his character, his steady perseverance, generosity, and\nwell-governed firmness. What deep and sacred emotions are excited in a\nfather's bosom, when he first becomes convinced that his love for his child\nis not a mere instinct, but worthily bestowed, and that others, less akin,\nparticipate his approbation! It was supreme happiness to Idris and myself,\nto find that the frankness which Alfred's open brow indicated, the\nintelligence of his eyes, the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not\ndelusions, but indications of talents and virtues, which would \"grow with\nhis growth, and strengthen with his strength.\" At this period, the\ntermination of an animal's love for its offspring,--the true affection of\nthe human parent commences. We no longer look on this dearest part of\nourselves, as a tender plant which we must cherish, or a plaything for an\nidle hour. We build now on his intellectual faculties, we establish our\nhopes on his moral propensities. His weakness still imparts anxiety to this\nfeeling, his ignorance prevents entire intimacy; but we begin to respect\nthe future man, and to endeavour to secure his esteem, even as if he were\nour equal. What can a parent have more at heart than the good opinion of\nhis child? In all our transactions with him our honour must be inviolate,\nthe integrity of our relations untainted: fate and circumstance may, when\nhe arrives at maturity, separate us for ever--but, as his aegis in\ndanger, his consolation in hardship, let the ardent youth for ever bear\nwith him through the rough path of life, love and honour for his parents.\n\nWe had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, that its population of young\nfolks was well known to us. Many of them had been Alfred's playmates,\nbefore they became his school-fellows. We now watched this youthful\ncongregation with redoubled interest. We marked the difference of character\namong the boys, and endeavoured to read the future man in the stripling.\nThere is nothing more lovely, to which the heart more yearns than a\nfree-spirited boy, gentle, brave, and generous. Several of the Etonians had\nthese characteristics; all were distinguished by a sense of honour, and\nspirit of enterprize; in some, as they verged towards manhood, this\ndegenerated into presumption; but the younger ones, lads a little older\nthan our own, were conspicuous for their gallant and sweet dispositions.\n\nHere were the future governors of England; the men, who, when our ardour\nwas cold, and our projects completed or destroyed for ever, when, our drama\nacted, we doffed the garb of the hour, and assumed the uniform of age, or\nof more equalizing death; here were the beings who were to carry on the\nvast machine of society; here were the lovers, husbands, fathers; here the\nlandlord, the politician, the soldier; some fancied that they were even now\nready to appear on the stage, eager to make one among the dramatis personae\nof active life. It was not long since I was like one of these beardless\naspirants; when my boy shall have obtained the place I now hold, I shall\nhave tottered into a grey-headed, wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle\nof the Sphynx, most awe-striking! that thus man remains, while we the\nindividuals pass away. Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent and\nphilosophic writer, \"the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body\ncomposed of transitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a stupendous\nwisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human\nrace, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, or young, but,\nin a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied\ntenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression.\"[2]\n\nWillingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred! advance, offspring of\ntender love, child of our hopes; advance a soldier on the road to which I\nhave been the pioneer! I will make way for thee. I have already put off the\ncarelessness of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy gait of early\nyears, that they may adorn thee. Advance; and I will despoil myself still\nfurther for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the graces of maturity,\nshall take the fire from my eyes, and agility from my limbs, shall steal\nthe better part of life, eager expectation and passionate love, and shower\nthem in double portion on thy dear head. Advance! avail thyself of the\ngift, thou and thy comrades; and in the drama you are about to act, do not\ndisgrace those who taught you to enter on the stage, and to pronounce\nbecomingly the parts assigned to you! May your progress be uninterrupted\nand secure; born during the spring-tide of the hopes of man, may you lead\nup the summer to which no winter may succeed!\n\n[1] See an ingenious Essay, entitled, \"The Mythological Astronomy of the\nAncients Demonstrated,\" by Mackey, a shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822.\n[2] Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nSOME disorder had surely crept into the course of the elements, destroying\ntheir benignant influence. The wind, prince of air, raged through his\nkingdom, lashing the sea into fury, and subduing the rebel earth into some\nsort of obedience.\n\n  The God sends down his angry plagues from high,\n  Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.\n  Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls\n  On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls;\n  Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain,\n  And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.\n\nTheir deadly power shook the flourishing countries of the south, and\nduring winter, even, we, in our northern retreat, began to quake under\ntheir ill effects.\n\nThat fable is unjust, which gives the superiority to the sun over the wind.\nWho has not seen the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and basking\nnature become dark, cold and ungenial, when the sleeping wind has awoke in\nthe east? Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky, while exhaustless\nstores of rain are poured down, until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe\nthe superabundant moisture, it lies in pools on the surface; when the torch\nof day seems like a meteor, to be quenched; who has not seen the\ncloud-stirring north arise, the streaked blue appear, and soon an opening\nmade in the vapours in the eye of the wind, through which the bright azure\nshines? The clouds become thin; an arch is formed for ever rising upwards,\ntill, the universal cope being unveiled, the sun pours forth its rays,\nre-animated and fed by the breeze.\n\nThen mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned above all other vicegerents of\nnature's power; whether thou comest destroying from the east, or pregnant\nwith elementary life from the west; thee the clouds obey; the sun is\nsubservient to thee; the shoreless ocean is thy slave! Thou sweepest over\nthe earth, and oaks, the growth of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe;\nthe snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the Alps, the avalanche\nthunders down their vallies. Thou holdest the keys of the frost, and canst\nfirst chain and then set free the streams; under thy gentle governance the\nbuds and leaves are born, they flourish nursed by thee.\n\nWhy dost thou howl thus, O wind? By day and by night for four long months\nthy roarings have not ceased--the shores of the sea are strewn with\nwrecks, its keel-welcoming surface has become impassable, the earth has\nshed her beauty in obedience to thy command; the frail balloon dares no\nlonger sail on the agitated air; thy ministers, the clouds, deluge the land\nwith rain; rivers forsake their banks; the wild torrent tears up the\nmountain path; plain and wood, and verdant dell are despoiled of their\nloveliness; our very cities are wasted by thee. Alas, what will become of\nus? It seems as if the giant waves of ocean, and vast arms of the sea, were\nabout to wrench the deep-rooted island from its centre; and cast it, a ruin\nand a wreck, upon the fields of the Atlantic.\n\nWhat are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least among the many that\npeople infinite space? Our minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of\nour being is subject to merest accident. Day by day we are forced to\nbelieve this. He whom a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears from\napparent life under the influence of the hostile agency at work around us,\nhad the same powers as I--I also am subject to the same laws. In the face\nof all this we call ourselves lords of the creation, wielders of the\nelements, masters of life and death, and we allege in excuse of this\narrogance, that though the individual is destroyed, man continues for\never.\n\nThus, losing our identity, that of which we are chiefly conscious, we glory\nin the continuity of our species, and learn to regard death without terror.\nBut when any whole nation becomes the victim of the destructive powers of\nexterior agents, then indeed man shrinks into insignificance, he feels his\ntenure of life insecure, his inheritance on earth cut off.\n\nI remember, after having witnessed the destructive effects of a fire, I\ncould not even behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation of fear.\nThe mounting flames had curled round the building, as it fell, and was\ndestroyed. They insinuated themselves into the substances about them, and\nthe impediments to their progress yielded at their touch. Could we take\nintegral parts of this power, and not be subject to its operation? Could we\ndomesticate a cub of this wild beast, and not fear its growth and\nmaturity?\n\nThus we began to feel, with regard to many-visaged death let loose on the\nchosen districts of our fair habitation, and above all, with regard to the\nplague. We feared the coming summer. Nations, bordering on the already\ninfected countries, began to enter upon serious plans for the better\nkeeping out of the enemy. We, a commercial people, were obliged to bring\nsuch schemes under consideration; and the question of contagion became\nmatter of earnest disquisition.\n\nThat the plague was not what is commonly called contagious, like the\nscarlet fever, or extinct small-pox, was proved. It was called an epidemic.\nBut the grand question was still unsettled of how this epidemic was\ngenerated and increased. If infection depended upon the air, the air was\nsubject to infection. As for instance, a typhus fever has been brought by\nships to one sea-port town; yet the very people who brought it there, were\nincapable of communicating it in a town more fortunately situated. But how\nare we to judge of airs, and pronounce--in such a city plague will die\nunproductive; in such another, nature has provided for it a plentiful\nharvest? In the same way, individuals may escape ninety-nine times, and\nreceive the death-blow at the hundredth; because bodies are sometimes in a\nstate to reject the infection of malady, and at others, thirsty to imbibe\nit. These reflections made our legislators pause, before they could decide\non the laws to be put in force. The evil was so wide-spreading, so violent\nand immedicable, that no care, no prevention could be judged superfluous,\nwhich even added a chance to our escape.\n\nThese were questions of prudence; there was no immediate necessity for an\nearnest caution. England was still secure. France, Germany, Italy and\nSpain, were interposed, walls yet without a breach, between us and the\nplague. Our vessels truly were the sport of winds and waves, even as\nGulliver was the toy of the Brobdignagians; but we on our stable abode\ncould not be hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature. We could\nnot fear--we did not. Yet a feeling of awe, a breathless sentiment of\nwonder, a painful sense of the degradation of humanity, was introduced into\nevery heart. Nature, our mother, and our friend, had turned on us a brow of\nmenace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she permitted us to assign her\nlaws and subdue her apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a finger, we\nmust quake. She could take our globe, fringed with mountains, girded by the\natmosphere, containing the condition of our being, and all that man's mind\ncould invent or his force achieve; she could take the ball in her hand, and\ncast it into space, where life would be drunk up, and man and all his\nefforts for ever annihilated.\n\nThese speculations were rife among us; yet not the less we proceeded in our\ndaily occupations, and our plans, whose accomplishment demanded the lapse\nof many years. No voice was heard telling us to hold! When foreign\ndistresses came to be felt by us through the channels of commerce, we set\nourselves to apply remedies. Subscriptions were made for the emigrants, and\nmerchants bankrupt by the failure of trade. The English spirit awoke to its\nfull activity, and, as it had ever done, set itself to resist the evil, and\nto stand in the breach which diseased nature had suffered chaos and death\nto make in the bounds and banks which had hitherto kept them out.\n\nAt the commencement of summer, we began to feel, that the mischief which\nhad taken place in distant countries was greater than we had at first\nsuspected. Quito was destroyed by an earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the\nunited effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds of emigrants\ninundated the west of Europe; and our island had become the refuge of\nthousands. In the mean time Ryland had been chosen Protector. He had sought\nthis office with eagerness, under the idea of turning his whole forces to\nthe suppression of the privileged orders of our community. His measures\nwere thwarted, and his schemes interrupted by this new state of things.\nMany of the foreigners were utterly destitute; and their increasing numbers\nat length forbade a recourse to the usual modes of relief. Trade was\nstopped by the failure of the interchange of cargoes usual between us, and\nAmerica, India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden break was made in the routine of\nour lives. In vain our Protector and his partizans sought to conceal this\ntruth; in vain, day after day, he appointed a period for the discussion of\nthe new laws concerning hereditary rank and privilege; in vain he\nendeavoured to represent the evil as partial and temporary. These disasters\ncame home to so many bosoms, and, through the various channels of commerce,\nwere carried so entirely into every class and division of the community,\nthat of necessity they became the first question in the state, the chief\nsubjects to which we must turn our attention.\n\nCan it be true, each asked the other with wonder and dismay, that whole\ncountries are laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these disorders in\nnature? The vast cities of America, the fertile plains of Hindostan, the\ncrowded abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter ruin. Where late the\nbusy multitudes assembled for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of\nwailing and misery is heard. The air is empoisoned, and each human being\ninhales death, even while in youth and health, their hopes are in the\nflower. We called to mind the plague of 1348, when it was calculated that a\nthird of mankind had been destroyed. As yet western Europe was uninfected;\nwould it always be so?\n\nO, yes, it would--Countrymen, fear not! In the still uncultivated wilds\nof America, what wonder that among its other giant destroyers, Plague\nshould be numbered! It is of old a native of the East, sister of the\ntornado, the earthquake, and the simoon. Child of the sun, and nursling of\nthe tropics, it would expire in these climes. It drinks the dark blood of\nthe inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts on the pale-faced Celt. If\nperchance some stricken Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him,\nuncommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep for our brethren, though we can\nnever experience their reverse. Let us lament over and assist the children\nof the garden of the earth. Late we envied their abodes, their spicy\ngroves, fertile plains, and abundant loveliness. But in this mortal life\nextremes are always matched; the thorn grows with the rose, the poison tree\nand the cinnamon mingle their boughs. Persia, with its cloth of gold,\nmarble halls, and infinite wealth, is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is\nfallen in the sands, and his horse spurns the ground unbridled and\nunsaddled. The voice of lamentation fills the valley of Cashmere; its dells\nand woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses, are polluted by the\ndead; in Circassia and Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin of\nits favourite temple--the form of woman.\n\nOur own distresses, though they were occasioned by the fictitious\nreciprocity of commerce, encreased in due proportion. Bankers, merchants,\nand manufacturers, whose trade depended on exports and interchange of\nwealth, became bankrupt. Such things, when they happen singly, affect only\nthe immediate parties; but the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by\nfrequent and extensive losses. Families, bred in opulence and luxury, were\nreduced to beggary. The very state of peace in which we gloried was\ninjurious; there were no means of employing the idle, or of sending any\noverplus of population out of the country. Even the source of colonies was\ndried up, for in New Holland, Van Diemen's Land, and the Cape of Good Hope,\nplague raged. O, for some medicinal vial to purge unwholesome nature, and\nbring back the earth to its accustomed health!\n\nRyland was a man of strong intellects and quick and sound decision in the\nusual course of things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of evils that\ngathered round us. Must he tax the landed interest to assist our commercial\npopulation? To do this, he must gain the favour of the chief land-holders,\nthe nobility of the country; and these were his vowed enemies--he must\nconciliate them by abandoning his favourite scheme of equalization; he must\nconfirm them in their manorial rights; he must sell his cherished plans for\nthe permanent good of his country, for temporary relief. He must aim no\nmore at the dear object of his ambition; throwing his arms aside, he must\nfor present ends give up the ultimate object of his endeavours. He came to\nWindsor to consult with us. Every day added to his difficulties; the\narrival of fresh vessels with emigrants, the total cessation of commerce,\nthe starving multitude that thronged around the palace of the Protectorate,\nwere circumstances not to be tampered with. The blow was struck; the\naristocracy obtained all they wished, and they subscribed to a\ntwelvemonths' bill, which levied twenty per cent on all the rent-rolls of\nthe country. Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and to the populous\ncities, before driven to desperation; and we returned to the consideration\nof distant calamities, wondering if the future would bring any alleviation\nto their excess. It was August; so there could be small hope of relief\nduring the heats. On the contrary, the disease gained virulence, while\nstarvation did its accustomed work. Thousands died unlamented; for beside\nthe yet warm corpse the mourner was stretched, made mute by death.\n\nOn the eighteenth of this month news arrived in London that the plague was\nin France and Italy. These tidings were at first whispered about town; but\nno one dared express aloud the soul-quailing intelligence. When any one met\na friend in the street, he only cried as he hurried on, \"You know!\"--\nwhile the other, with an ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer,--\n\"What will become of us?\" At length it was mentioned in the newspapers. The\nparagraph was inserted in an obscure part: \"We regret to state that there\ncan be no longer a doubt of the plague having been introduced at Leghorn,\nGenoa, and Marseilles.\" No word of comment followed; each reader made his\nown fearful one. We were as a man who hears that his house is burning, and\nyet hurries through the streets, borne along by a lurking hope of a\nmistake, till he turns the corner, and sees his sheltering roof enveloped\nin a flame. Before it had been a rumour; but now in words uneraseable, in\ndefinite and undeniable print, the knowledge went forth. Its obscurity of\nsituation rendered it the more conspicuous: the diminutive letters grew\ngigantic to the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed graven with a pen of\niron, impressed by fire, woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front of\nthe universe.\n\nThe English, whether travellers or residents, came pouring in one great\nrevulsive stream, back on their own country; and with them crowds of\nItalians and Spaniards. Our little island was filled even to bursting. At\nfirst an unusual quantity of specie made its appearance with the emigrants;\nbut these people had no means of receiving back into their hands what they\nspent among us. With the advance of summer, and the increase of the\ndistemper, rents were unpaid, and their remittances failed them. It was\nimpossible to see these crowds of wretched, perishing creatures, late\nnurslings of luxury, and not stretch out a hand to save them. As at the\nconclusion of the eighteenth century, the English unlocked their hospitable\nstore, for the relief of those driven from their homes by political\nrevolution; so now they were not backward in affording aid to the victims\nof a more wide-spreading calamity. We had many foreign friends whom we\neagerly sought out, and relieved from dreadful penury. Our Castle became an\nasylum for the unhappy. A little population occupied its halls. The revenue\nof its possessor, which had always found a mode of expenditure congenial to\nhis generous nature, was now attended to more parsimoniously, that it might\nembrace a wider portion of utility. It was not however money, except\npartially, but the necessaries of life, that became scarce. It was\ndifficult to find an immediate remedy. The usual one of imports was\nentirely cut off. In this emergency, to feed the very people to whom we had\ngiven refuge, we were obliged to yield to the plough and the mattock our\npleasure-grounds and parks. Live stock diminished sensibly in the country,\nfrom the effects of the great demand in the market. Even the poor deer, our\nantlered proteges, were obliged to fall for the sake of worthier\npensioners. The labour necessary to bring the lands to this sort of\nculture, employed and fed the offcasts of the diminished manufactories.\n\nAdrian did not rest only with the exertions he could make with regard to\nhis own possessions. He addressed himself to the wealthy of the land; he\nmade proposals in parliament little adapted to please the rich; but his\nearnest pleadings and benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give up\ntheir pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist, to diminish sensibly the\nnumber of horses kept for the purposes of luxury throughout the country,\nwere means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet, to the honour of the English be it\nrecorded, that, although natural disinclination made them delay awhile, yet\nwhen the misery of their fellow-creatures became glaring, an enthusiastic\ngenerosity inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were often the first\nto part with their indulgencies. As is common in communities, a fashion was\nset. The high-born ladies of the country would have deemed themselves\ndisgraced if they had now enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the\nease of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden time, and Indian palanquins were\nintroduced for the infirm; but else it was nothing singular to see females\nof rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort. It was more common,\nfor all who possessed landed property to secede to their estates, attended\nby whole troops of the indigent, to cut down their woods to erect temporary\ndwellings, and to portion out their parks, parterres and flower-gardens, to\nnecessitous families. Many of these, of high rank in their own countries,\nnow, with hoe in hand, turned up the soil. It was found necessary at last\nto check the spirit of sacrifice, and to remind those whose generosity\nproceeded to lavish waste, that, until the present state of things became\npermanent, of which there was no likelihood, it was wrong to carry change\nso far as to make a reaction difficult. Experience demonstrated that in a\nyear or two pestilence would cease; it were well that in the mean time we\nshould not have destroyed our fine breeds of horses, or have utterly\nchanged the face of the ornamented portion of the country.\n\nIt may be imagined that things were in a bad state indeed, before this\nspirit of benevolence could have struck such deep roots. The infection had\nnow spread in the southern provinces of France. But that country had so\nmany resources in the way of agriculture, that the rush of population from\none part of it to another, and its increase through foreign emigration, was\nless felt than with us. The panic struck appeared of more injury, than\ndisease and its natural concomitants.\n\nWinter was hailed, a general and never-failing physician. The embrowning\nwoods, and swollen rivers, the evening mists, and morning frosts, were\nwelcomed with gratitude. The effects of purifying cold were immediately\nfelt; and the lists of mortality abroad were curtailed each week. Many of\nour visitors left us: those whose homes were far in the south, fled\ndelightedly from our northern winter, and sought their native land, secure\nof plenty even after their fearful visitation. We breathed again. What the\ncoming summer would bring, we knew not; but the present months were our\nown, and our hopes of a cessation of pestilence were high.\n\n[1] Elton's translation of Hesiod's Works.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nI HAVE lingered thus long on the extreme bank, the wasting shoal that\nstretched into the stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death. Thus\nlong, I have cradled my heart in retrospection of past happiness, when hope\nwas. Why not for ever thus? I am not immortal; and the thread of my history\nmight be spun out to the limits of my existence. But the same sentiment\nthat first led me to pourtray scenes replete with tender recollections, now\nbids me hurry on. The same yearning of this warm, panting heart, that has\nmade me in written words record my vagabond youth, my serene manhood, and\nthe passions of my soul, makes me now recoil from further delay. I must\ncomplete my work.\n\nHere then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet waters of the flowing years,\nand now away! Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying by dark\nimpending crags, adown steep rapids, even to the sea of desolation I have\nreached. Yet one moment, one brief interval before I put from shore--\nonce, once again let me fancy myself as I was in 2094 in my abode at\nWindsor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that the immeasurable boughs of\nits oaks still shadow me, its castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray the\njoyous scene of the twentieth of June, such as even now my aching heart\nrecalls it.\n\nCircumstances had called me to London; here I heard talk that symptoms\nof the plague had occurred in hospitals of that city. I returned to\nWindsor; my brow was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little\nPark, as was my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to the\nCastle. A great part of these grounds had been given to cultivation,\nand strips of potatoe-land and corn were scattered here and there.\nThe rooks cawed loudly in the trees above; mixed with their hoarse\ncries I heard a lively strain of music. It was Alfred's birthday.\nThe young people, the Etonians, and children of the neighbouring gentry,\nheld a mock fair, to which all the country people were invited. The\npark was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy flags, waving\nin the sunshine, added to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform erected\nbeneath the terrace, a number of the younger part of the assembly were\ndancing. I leaned against a tree to observe them. The band played the wild\neastern air of Weber introduced in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave\nwings to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on unconsciously beat\ntime. At first the tripping measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a\nmoment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the dance. The revulsion of\nthought passed like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, I\nthought; already your tomb is built up around you. Awhile, because you are\ngifted with agility and strength, you fancy that you live: but frail is the\n\"bower of flesh\" that encaskets life; dissoluble the silver cord than binds\nyou to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure to pleasure by the\ngraceful mechanism of well-formed limbs, will suddenly feel the axle-tree\ngive way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust. Not one of you, O! fated\ncrowd, can escape--not one! not my own ones! not my Idris and her babes!\nHorror and misery! Already the gay dance vanished, the green sward was\nstrewn with corpses, the blue air above became fetid with deathly\nexhalations. Shriek, ye clarions! ye loud trumpets, howl! Pile dirge on\ndirge; rouse the funereal chords; let the air ring with dire wailing; let\nwild discord rush on the wings of the wind! Already I hear it, while\nguardian angels, attendant on humanity, their task achieved, hasten away,\nand their departure is announced by melancholy strains; faces all unseemly\nwith weeping, forced open my lids; faster and faster many groups of these\nwoe-begone countenances thronged around, exhibiting every variety of\nwretchedness--well known faces mingled with the distorted creations of\nfancy. Ashy pale, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking on with sad\nsmiles. Adrian's countenance flitted across, tainted by death--Idris,\nwith eyes languidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide into the wide\ngrave. The confusion grew--their looks of sorrow changed to mockery; they\nnodded their heads in time to the music, whose clang became maddening.\n\nI felt that this was insanity--I sprang forward to throw it off; I rushed\ninto the midst of the crowd. Idris saw me: with light step she advanced; as\nI folded her in my arms, feeling, as I did, that I thus enclosed what was\nto me a world, yet frail as the waterdrop which the noon-day sun will drink\nfrom the water lily's cup; tears filled my eyes, unwont to be thus\nmoistened. The joyful welcome of my boys, the soft gratulation of Clara,\nthe pressure of Adrian's hand, contributed to unman me. I felt that they\nwere near, that they were safe, yet methought this was all deceit;--the\nearth reeled, the firm-enrooted trees moved--dizziness came over me--I\nsank to the ground.\n\nMy beloved friends were alarmed--nay, they expressed their alarm so\nanxiously, that I dared not pronounce the word plague, that hovered on my\nlips, lest they should construe my perturbed looks into a symptom, and see\ninfection in my languor. I had scarcely recovered, and with feigned\nhilarity had brought back smiles into my little circle, when we saw Ryland\napproach.\n\nRyland had something the appearance of a farmer; of a man whose muscles and\nfull grown stature had been developed under the influence of vigorous\nexercise and exposure to the elements. This was to a great degree the case:\nfor, though a large landed proprietor, yet, being a projector, and of an\nardent and industrious disposition, he had on his own estate given himself\nup to agricultural labours. When he went as ambassador to the Northern\nStates of America, he, for some time, planned his entire migration; and\nwent so far as to make several journies far westward on that immense\ncontinent, for the purpose of choosing the site of his new abode. Ambition\nturned his thoughts from these designs--ambition, which labouring through\nvarious lets and hindrances, had now led him to the summit of his hopes, in\nmaking him Lord Protector of England.\n\nHis countenance was rough but intelligent--his ample brow and quick grey\neyes seemed to look out, over his own plans, and the opposition of his\nenemies. His voice was stentorian: his hand stretched out in debate, seemed\nby its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his hearers that words were not\nhis only weapons. Few people had discovered some cowardice and much\ninfirmity of purpose under this imposing exterior. No man could crush a\n\"butterfly on the wheel\" with better effect; no man better cover a speedy\nretreat from a powerful adversary. This had been the secret of his\nsecession at the time of Lord Raymond's election. In the unsteady glance of\nhis eye, in his extreme desire to learn the opinions of all, in the\nfeebleness of his hand-writing, these qualities might be obscurely traced,\nbut they were not generally known. He was now our Lord Protector. He had\ncanvassed eagerly for this post. His protectorate was to be distinguished\nby every kind of innovation on the aristocracy. This his selected task was\nexchanged for the far different one of encountering the ruin caused by the\nconvulsions of physical nature. He was incapable of meeting these evils by\nany comprehensive system; he had resorted to expedient after expedient, and\ncould never be induced to put a remedy in force, till it came too late to\nbe of use.\n\nCertainly the Ryland that advanced towards us now, bore small resemblance\nto the powerful, ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for the first rank\namong Englishmen. Our native oak, as his partisans called him, was visited\ntruly by a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared half his usual height; his\njoints were unknit, his limbs would not support him; his face was\ncontracted, his eye wandering; debility of purpose and dastard fear were\nexpressed in every gesture.\n\nIn answer to our eager questions, one word alone fell, as it were\ninvoluntarily, from his convulsed lips: The Plague.--\"Where?\"--\"Every\nwhere--we must fly--all fly--but whither? No man can tell--there is\nno refuge on earth, it comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves--we\nmust all fly--where shall you go? Where can any of us go?\"\n\nThese words were syllabled trembling by the iron man. Adrian replied,\n\"Whither indeed would you fly? We must all remain; and do our best to help\nour suffering fellow-creatures.\"\n\n\"Help!\" said Ryland, \"there is no help!--great God, who talks of help!\nAll the world has the plague!\"\n\n\"Then to avoid it, we must quit the world,\" observed Adrian, with a\ngentle smile.\n\nRyland groaned; cold drops stood on his brow. It was useless to oppose his\nparoxysm of terror: but we soothed and encouraged him, so that after an\ninterval he was better able to explain to us the ground of his alarm. It\nhad come sufficiently home to him. One of his servants, while waiting on\nhim, had suddenly fallen down dead. The physician declared that he died of\nthe plague. We endeavoured to calm him--but our own hearts were not calm.\nI saw the eye of Idris wander from me to her children, with an anxious\nappeal to my judgment. Adrian was absorbed in meditation. For myself, I own\nthat Ryland's words rang in my ears; all the world was infected;--in what\nuncontaminated seclusion could I save my beloved treasures, until the\nshadow of death had passed from over the earth? We sunk into silence: a\nsilence that drank in the doleful accounts and prognostications of our\nguest. We had receded from the crowd; and ascending the steps of the\nterrace, sought the Castle. Our change of cheer struck those nearest to us;\nand, by means of Ryland's servants, the report soon spread that he had fled\nfrom the plague in London. The sprightly parties broke up--they assembled\nin whispering groups. The spirit of gaiety was eclipsed; the music ceased;\nthe young people left their occupations and gathered together. The\nlightness of heart which had dressed them in masquerade habits, had\ndecorated their tents, and assembled them in fantastic groups, appeared a\nsin against, and a provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid its\npalsying hand upon hope and life. The merriment of the hour was an unholy\nmockery of the sorrows of man. The foreigners whom we had among us, who had\nfled from the plague in their own country, now saw their last asylum\ninvaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they described to eager listeners\nthe miseries they had beheld in cities visited by the calamity, and gave\nfearful accounts of the insidious and irremediable nature of the disease.\n\nWe had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a window that over-looked the\npark; her maternal eyes sought her own children among the young crowd. An\nItalian lad had got an audience about him, and with animated gestures was\ndescribing some scene of horror. Alfred stood immoveable before him, his\nwhole attention absorbed. Little Evelyn had endeavoured to draw Clara away\nto play with him; but the Italian's tale arrested her, she crept near, her\nlustrous eyes fixed on the speaker. Either watching the crowd in the park,\nor occupied by painful reflection, we were all silent; Ryland stood by\nhimself in an embrasure of the window; Adrian paced the hall, revolving\nsome new and overpowering idea--suddenly he stopped and said: \"I have\nlong expected this; could we in reason expect that this island should be\nexempt from the universal visitation? The evil is come home to us, and we\nmust not shrink from our fate. What are your plans, my Lord Protector, for\nthe benefit of our country?\"\n\n\"For heaven's love! Windsor,\" cried Ryland, \"do not mock me with that\ntitle. Death and disease level all men. I neither pretend to protect nor\ngovern an hospital--such will England quickly become.\"\n\n\"Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to recede from your duties?\"\n\n\"Duties! speak rationally, my Lord!--when I am a plague-spotted corpse,\nwhere will my duties be? Every man for himself! the devil take the\nprotectorship, say I, if it expose me to danger!\"\n\n\"Faint-hearted man!\" cried Adrian indignantly--\"Your countrymen put their\ntrust in you, and you betray them!\"\n\n\"I betray them!\" said Ryland, \"the plague betrays me. Faint-hearted! It is\nwell, shut up in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself out of fear.\nTake the Protectorship who will; before God I renounce it!\"\n\n\"And before God,\" replied his opponent, fervently, \"do I receive it! No one\nwill canvass for this honour now--none envy my danger or labours. Deposit\nyour powers in my hands. Long have I fought with death, and much\" (he\nstretched out his thin hand) \"much have I suffered in the struggle. It is\nnot by flying, but by facing the enemy, that we can conquer. If my last\ncombat is now about to be fought, and I am to be worsted--so let it be!\"\n\n\"But come, Ryland, recollect yourself! Men have hitherto thought you\nmagnanimous and wise, will you cast aside these titles? Consider the panic\nyour departure will occasion. Return to London. I will go with you.\nEncourage the people by your presence. I will incur all the danger. Shame!\nshame! if the first magistrate of England be foremost to renounce his\nduties.\"\n\nMeanwhile among our guests in the park, all thoughts of festivity had\nfaded. As summer-flies are scattered by rain, so did this congregation,\nlate noisy and happy, in sadness and melancholy murmurs break up, dwindling\naway apace. With the set sun and the deepening twilight the park became\nnearly empty. Adrian and Ryland were still in earnest discussion. We had\nprepared a banquet for our guests in the lower hall of the castle; and\nthither Idris and I repaired to receive and entertain the few that\nremained. There is nothing more melancholy than a merry-meeting thus turned\nto sorrow: the gala dresses--the decorations, gay as they might otherwise\nbe, receive a solemn and funereal appearance. If such change be painful\nfrom lighter causes, it weighed with intolerable heaviness from the\nknowledge that the earth's desolator had at last, even as an arch-fiend,\nlightly over-leaped the boundaries our precautions raised, and at once\nenthroned himself in the full and beating heart of our country. Idris sat\nat the top of the half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she almost forgot her\nduties as hostess; her eyes were fixed on her children. Alfred's serious\nair shewed that he still revolved the tragic story related by the Italian\nboy. Evelyn was the only mirthful creature present: he sat on Clara's lap;\nand, making matter of glee from his own fancies, laughed aloud. The vaulted\nroof echoed again his infant tone. The poor mother who had brooded long\nover, and suppressed the expression of her anguish, now burst into tears,\nand folding her babe in her arms, hurried from the hall. Clara and Alfred\nfollowed. While the rest of the company, in confused murmur, which grew\nlouder and louder, gave voice to their many fears.\n\nThe younger part gathered round me to ask my advice; and those who had\nfriends in London were anxious beyond the rest, to ascertain the present\nextent of disease in the metropolis. I encouraged them with such thoughts\nof cheer as presented themselves. I told them exceedingly few deaths had\nyet been occasioned by pestilence, and gave them hopes, as we were the last\nvisited, so the calamity might have lost its most venomous power before it\nhad reached us. The cleanliness, habits of order, and the manner in which\nour cities were built, were all in our favour. As it was an epidemic, its\nchief force was derived from pernicious qualities in the air, and it would\nprobably do little harm where this was naturally salubrious. At first, I\nhad spoken only to those nearest me; but the whole assembly gathered about\nme, and I found that I was listened to by all. \"My friends,\" I said, \"our\nrisk is common; our precautions and exertions shall be common also. If\nmanly courage and resistance can save us, we will be saved. We will fight\nthe enemy to the last. Plague shall not find us a ready prey; we will\ndispute every inch of ground; and, by methodical and inflexible laws, pile\ninvincible barriers to the progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part of the\nworld has she met with so systematic and determined an opposition. Perhaps\nno country is naturally so well protected against our invader; nor has\nnature anywhere been so well assisted by the hand of man. We will not\ndespair. We are neither cowards nor fatalists; but, believing that God has\nplaced the means for our preservation in our own hands, we will use those\nmeans to our utmost. Remember that cleanliness, sobriety, and even\ngood-humour and benevolence, are our best medicines.\"\n\nThere was little I could add to this general exhortation; for the plague,\nthough in London, was not among us. I dismissed the guests therefore; and\nthey went thoughtful, more than sad, to await the events in store for\nthem.\n\nI now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the result of his discussion with\nRyland. He had in part prevailed; the Lord Protector consented to return to\nLondon for a few weeks; during which time things should be so arranged, as\nto occasion less consternation at his departure. Adrian and Idris were\ntogether. The sadness with which the former had first heard that the plague\nwas in London had vanished; the energy of his purpose informed his body\nwith strength, the solemn joy of enthusiasm and self-devotion illuminated\nhis countenance; and the weakness of his physical nature seemed to pass\nfrom him, as the cloud of humanity did, in the ancient fable, from the\ndivine lover of Semele. He was endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to\nbring her to look on his intent in a less tragic light than she was\nprepared to do; and with passionate eloquence he unfolded his designs to\nher.\n\n\"Let me, at the first word,\" he said, \"relieve your mind from all fear on\nmy account. I will not task myself beyond my powers, nor will I needlessly\nseek danger. I feel that I know what ought to be done, and as my presence\nis necessary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will take especial care\nto preserve my life.\n\n\"I am now going to undertake an office fitted for me. I cannot intrigue, or\nwork a tortuous path through the labyrinth of men's vices and passions; but\nI can bring patience, and sympathy, and such aid as art affords, to the bed\nof disease; I can raise from earth the miserable orphan, and awaken to new\nhopes the shut heart of the mourner. I can enchain the plague in limits,\nand set a term to the misery it would occasion; courage, forbearance, and\nwatchfulness, are the forces I bring towards this great work.\n\n\"O, I shall be something now! From my birth I have aspired like the eagle\n--but, unlike the eagle, my wings have failed, and my vision has been\nblinded. Disappointment and sickness have hitherto held dominion over me;\ntwin born with me, my would, was for ever enchained by the shall not, of\nthese my tyrants. A shepherd-boy that tends a silly flock on the mountains,\nwas more in the scale of society than I. Congratulate me then that I have\nfound fitting scope for my powers. I have often thought of offering my\nservices to the pestilence-stricken towns of France and Italy; but fear of\npaining you, and expectation of this catastrophe, withheld me. To England\nand to Englishmen I dedicate myself. If I can save one of her mighty\nspirits from the deadly shaft; if I can ward disease from one of her\nsmiling cottages, I shall not have lived in vain.\"\n\nStrange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian. He appeared given up to\ncontemplation, averse to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions--\nbut afford him worthy theme, and--\n\n  Like to the lark at break of day arising,\n  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.[1]\n\nso did he spring up from listlessness and unproductive thought, to the\nhighest pitch of virtuous action.\n\nWith him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought resolve, the eye that without\nblenching could look at death. With us remained sorrow, anxiety, and\nunendurable expectation of evil. The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife\nand children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain was all philosophical\nreasoning--vain all fortitude--vain, vain, a reliance on probable good.\nI might heap high the scale with logic, courage, and resignation--but let\none fear for Idris and our children enter the opposite one, and,\nover-weighed, it kicked the beam.\n\nThe plague was in London! Fools that we were not long ago to have foreseen\nthis. We wept over the ruin of the boundless continents of the east, and\nthe desolation of the western world; while we fancied that the little\nchannel between our island and the rest of the earth was to preserve us\nalive among the dead. It were no mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover.\nThe eye easily discerns the sister land; they were united once; and the\nlittle path that runs between looks in a map but as a trodden footway\nthrough high grass. Yet this small interval was to save us: the sea was to\nrise a wall of adamant--without, disease and misery--within, a shelter\nfrom evil, a nook of the garden of paradise--a particle of celestial\nsoil, which no evil could invade--truly we were wise in our generation,\nto imagine all these things!\n\nBut we are awake now. The plague is in London; the air of England is\ntainted, and her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome earth. And now,\nthe sea, late our defence, seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its gulphs,\nwe shall die like the famished inhabitants of a besieged town. Other\nnations have a fellowship in death; but we, shut out from all\nneighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and little England become a wide,\nwide tomb.\n\nThis feeling of universal misery assumed concentration and shape, when I\nlooked on my wife and children; and the thought of danger to them possessed\nmy whole being with fear. How could I save them? I revolved a thousand and\na thousand plans. They should not die--first I would be gathered to\nnothingness, ere infection should come anear these idols of my soul. I\nwould walk barefoot through the world, to find an uninfected spot; I would\nbuild my home on some wave-tossed plank, drifted about on the barren,\nshoreless ocean. I would betake me with them to some wild beast's den,\nwhere a tyger's cubs, which I would slay, had been reared in health. I\nwould seek the mountain eagle's eirie, and live years suspended in some\ninaccessible recess of a sea-bounding cliff--no labour too great, no\nscheme too wild, if it promised life to them. O! ye heart-strings of mine,\ncould ye be torn asunder, and my soul not spend itself in tears of blood\nfor sorrow!\n\nIdris, after the first shock, regained a portion of fortitude. She\nstudiously shut out all prospect of the future, and cradled her heart in\npresent blessings. She never for a moment lost sight of her children. But\nwhile they in health sported about her, she could cherish contentment and\nhope. A strange and wild restlessness came over me--the more intolerable,\nbecause I was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian were ceaseless;\nAugust had come; and the symptoms of plague encreased rapidly in London. It\nwas deserted by all who possessed the power of removing; and he, the\nbrother of my soul, was exposed to the perils from which all but slaves\nenchained by circumstance fled. He remained to combat the fiend--his side\nunguarded, his toils unshared--infection might even reach him, and he die\nunattended and alone. By day and night these thoughts pursued me. I\nresolved to visit London, to see him; to quiet these agonizing throes by\nthe sweet medicine of hope, or the opiate of despair.\n\nIt was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I perceived much change in\nthe face of the country. The better sort of houses were shut up; the busy\ntrade of the town palsied; there was an air of anxiety among the few\npassengers I met, and they looked wonderingly at my carriage--the first\nthey had seen pass towards London, since pestilence sat on its high places,\nand possessed its busy streets. I met several funerals; they were slenderly\nattended by mourners, and were regarded by the spectators as omens of\ndirest import. Some gazed on these processions with wild eagerness--\nothers fled timidly--some wept aloud.\n\nAdrian's chief endeavour, after the immediate succour of the sick, had been\nto disguise the symptoms and progress of the plague from the inhabitants of\nLondon. He knew that fear and melancholy forebodings were powerful\nassistants to disease; that desponding and brooding care rendered the\nphysical nature of man peculiarly susceptible of infection. No unseemly\nsights were therefore discernible: the shops were in general open, the\nconcourse of passengers in some degree kept up. But although the appearance\nof an infected town was avoided, to me, who had not beheld it since the\ncommencement of the visitation, London appeared sufficiently changed. There\nwere no carriages, and grass had sprung high in the streets; the houses had\na desolate look; most of the shutters were closed; and there was a ghast\nand frightened stare in the persons I met, very different from the usual\nbusiness-like demeanour of the Londoners. My solitary carriage attracted\nnotice, as it rattled along towards the Protectoral Palace--and the\nfashionable streets leading to it wore a still more dreary and deserted\nappearance. I found Adrian's anti-chamber crowded--it was his hour for\ngiving audience. I was unwilling to disturb his labours, and waited,\nwatching the ingress and egress of the petitioners. They consisted of\npeople of the middling and lower classes of society, whose means of\nsubsistence failed with the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of\nmoney-making in all its branches, peculiar to our country. There was an air\nof anxiety, sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly contrasted with\nthe resigned and even satisfied mien of those who had had audience. I could\nread the influence of my friend in their quickened motions and cheerful\nfaces. Two o'clock struck, after which none were admitted; those who had\nbeen disappointed went sullenly or sorrowfully away, while I entered the\naudience-chamber.\n\nI was struck by the improvement that appeared in the health of Adrian. He\nwas no longer bent to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of spring,\nthat, shooting up beyond its strength, is weighed down even by its own\ncoronal of blossoms. His eyes were bright, his countenance composed, an air\nof concentrated energy was diffused over his whole person, much unlike its\nformer languor. He sat at a table with several secretaries, who were\narranging petitions, or registering the notes made during that day's\naudience. Two or three petitioners were still in attendance. I admired his\njustice and patience. Those who possessed a power of living out of London,\nhe advised immediately to quit it, affording them the means of so doing.\nOthers, whose trade was beneficial to the city, or who possessed no other\nrefuge, he provided with advice for better avoiding the epidemic; relieving\noverloaded families, supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order,\ncomfort, and even health, rose under his influence, as from the touch of a\nmagician's wand.\n\n\"I am glad you are come,\" he said to me, when we were at last alone; \"I can\nonly spare a few minutes, and must tell you much in that time. The plague\nis now in progress--it is useless closing one's eyes to the fact--the\ndeaths encrease each week. What will come I cannot guess. As yet, thank\nGod, I am equal to the government of the town; and I look only to the\npresent. Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has stipulated that I shall\nsuffer him to depart before the end of this month. The deputy appointed by\nparliament is dead; another therefore must be named; I have advanced my\nclaim, and I believe that I shall have no competitor. To-night the question\nis to be decided, as there is a call of the house for the purpose. You must\nnominate me, Lionel; Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my\nfriend, will do me this service?\n\nHow lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally sprung, bred in\nluxury, by nature averse to the usual struggles of a public life,\nand now, in time of danger, at a period when to live was the\nutmost scope of the ambitious, he, the beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in\nsweet simplicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the public good. The\nvery idea was generous and noble,--but, beyond this, his unpretending\nmanner, his entire want of the assumption of a virtue, rendered his act ten\ntimes more touching. I would have withstood his request; but I had seen the\ngood he diffused; I felt that his resolves were not to be shaken, so, with\nan heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my hand\naffectionately:--\"Thank you,\" he said, \"you have relieved me from a\npainful dilemma, and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends.\nFarewell--I must now leave you for a few hours. Go you and converse with\nRyland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may be of the greatest\nservice in the north of England, by receiving and assisting travellers, and\ncontributing to supply the metropolis with food. Awaken him, I entreat you,\nto some sense of duty.\"\n\nAdrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily task of visiting the\nhospitals, and inspecting the crowded parts of London. I found Ryland much\naltered, even from what he had been when he visited Windsor. Perpetual fear\nhad jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled his whole person. I told him\nof the business of the evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted muscles.\nHe desired to go; each day he expected to be infected by pestilence, each\nday he was unable to resist the gentle violence of Adrian's detention. The\nmoment Adrian should be legally elected his deputy, he would escape to\nsafety. Under this impression he listened to all I said; and, elevated\nalmost to joy by the near prospect of his departure, he entered into a\ndiscussion concerning the plans he should adopt in his own county,\nforgetting, for the moment, his cherished resolution of shutting himself up\nfrom all communication in the mansion and grounds of his estate.\n\nIn the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster. As we went he\nreminded me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered the\nchamber without having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian remained in the\ncoffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire, took my seat in St.\nStephen's. There reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I had not visited\nit since Raymond's protectorate; a period conspicuous for a numerous\nattendance of members, for the eloquence of the speakers, and the warmth of\nthe debate. The benches were very empty, those by custom occupied by the\nhereditary members were vacant; the city members were there--the members\nfor the commercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not many of those who\nentered parliament for the sake of a career. The first subject that\noccupied the attention of the house was an address from the Lord Protector,\npraying them to appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.\n\nA silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered that\nthe Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his election, in\nthe absence of the person who had been first chosen for this office. Now\nfor the first time I saw the full extent of my task, and I was overwhelmed\nby what I had brought on myself. Ryland had deserted his post through fear\nof the plague: from the same fear Adrian had no competitor. And I, the\nnearest kinsman of the Earl of Windsor, was to propose his election. I was\nto thrust this selected and matchless friend into the post of danger--\nimpossible! the die was cast--I would offer myself as candidate.\n\nThe few members who were present, had come more for the sake of terminating\nthe business by securing a legal attendance, than under the idea of a\ndebate. I had risen mechanically--my knees trembled; irresolution hung on\nmy voice, as I uttered a few words on the necessity of choosing a person\nadequate to the dangerous task in hand. But, when the idea of presenting\nmyself in the room of my friend intruded, the load of doubt and pain was\ntaken from off me. My words flowed spontaneously--my utterance was firm\nand quick. I adverted to what Adrian had already done--I promised the\nsame vigilance in furthering all his views. I drew a touching picture of\nhis vacillating health; I boasted of my own strength. I prayed them to save\neven from himself this scion of the noblest family in England. My alliance\nwith him was the pledge of my sincerity, my union with his sister, my\nchildren, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.\n\nThis unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian. He\nhurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned harangue. I did\nnot see him: my soul was in my words,--my eyes could not perceive that\nwhich was; while a vision of Adrian's form, tainted by pestilence, and\nsinking in death, floated before them. He seized my hand, as I concluded--\n\"Unkind!\" he cried, \"you have betrayed me!\" then, springing forwards, with\nthe air of one who had a right to command, he claimed the place of deputy\nas his own. He had bought it, he said, with danger, and paid for it with\ntoil. His ambition rested there; and, after an interval devoted to the\ninterests of his country, was I to step in, and reap the profit? Let them\nremember what London had been when he arrived: the panic that prevailed\nbrought famine, while every moral and legal tie was loosened. He had\nrestored order--this had been a work which required perseverance,\npatience, and energy; and he had neither slept nor waked but for the good\nof his country.--Would they dare wrong him thus? Would they wrest his\nhard-earned reward from him, to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled\nin public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in which he was an adept.\nHe demanded the place of deputy as his right. Ryland had shewn that he\npreferred him. Never before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of\nthe throne of England, never had he asked favour or honour from those now\nhis equals, but who might have been his subjects. Would they refuse him?\nCould they thrust back from the path of distinction and laudable ambition,\nthe heir of their ancient kings, and heap another disappointment on a\nfallen house.\n\nNo one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the rights of his ancestors.\nNone had ever before suspected, that power, or the suffrage of the many,\ncould in any manner become dear to him. He had begun his speech with\nvehemence; he ended with unassuming gentleness, making his appeal with the\nsame humility, as if he had asked to be the first in wealth, honour, and\npower among Englishmen, and not, as was the truth, to be the foremost in\nthe ranks of loathsome toils and inevitable death. A murmur of approbation\nrose after his speech. \"Oh, do not listen to him,\" I cried, \"he speaks\nfalse--false to himself,\"--I was interrupted: and, silence being restored,\nwe were ordered, as was the custom, to retire during the decision of the\nhouse. I fancied that they hesitated, and that there was some hope for\nme--I was mistaken--hardly had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was\nrecalled, and installed in his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector.\n\nWe returned together to the palace. \"Why, Lionel,\" said Adrian, \"what did\nyou intend? you could not hope to conquer, and yet you gave me the pain of\na triumph over my dearest friend.\"\n\n\"This is mockery,\" I replied, \"you devote yourself,--you, the adored\nbrother of Idris, the being, of all the world contains, dearest to our\nhearts--you devote yourself to an early death. I would have prevented\nthis; my death would be a small evil--or rather I should not die; while\nyou cannot hope to escape.\"\n\n\"As to the likelihood of escaping,\" said Adrian, \"ten years hence the\ncold stars may shine on the graves of all of us; but as to my peculiar\nliability to infection, I could easily prove, both logically and\nphysically, that in the midst of contagion I have a better chance\nof life than you.\n\n\"This is my post: I was born for this--to rule England in anarchy, to\nsave her in danger--to devote myself for her. The blood of my forefathers\ncries aloud in my veins, and bids me be first among my countrymen. Or, if\nthis mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my mother, the proud\nqueen, instilled early into me a love of distinction, and all that, if the\nweakness of my physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not prevented\nsuch a design, might have made me long since struggle for the lost\ninheritance of my race. But now my mother, or, if you will, my mother's\nlessons, awaken within me. I cannot lead on to battle; I cannot, through\nintrigue and faithlessness rear again the throne upon the wreck of English\npublic spirit. But I can be the first to support and guard my country, now\nthat terrific disasters and ruin have laid strong hands upon her.\n\n\"That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I will protect the\nfirst--the latter I commit to your charge. If I survive, and she be lost,\nI were far better dead. Preserve her--for her own sake I know that you\nwill--if you require any other spur, think that, in preserving her, you\npreserve me. Her faultless nature, one sum of perfections, is wrapt up in\nher affections--if they were hurt, she would droop like an unwatered\nfloweret, and the slightest injury they receive is a nipping frost to her.\nAlready she fears for us. She fears for the children she adores, and for\nyou, the father of these, her lover, husband, protector; and you must be\nnear her to support and encourage her. Return to Windsor then, my brother;\nfor such you are by every tie--fill the double place my absence imposes\non you, and let me, in all my sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that\ndear seclusion, and say--There is peace.\"\n\n[1] Shakespeare's Sonnets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nI DID proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining there. I\nwent but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return and take my\nstation beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours, and save him, if\nso it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded to witness the\nanguish which my resolve might excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart\nnever to shadow her countenance even with transient grief, and should I\nprove recreant at the hour of greatest need? I had begun my journey with\nanxious haste; now I desired to draw it out through the course of days and\nmonths. I longed to avoid the necessity of action; I strove to escape from\nthought--vainly--futurity, like a dark image in a phantasmagoria, came\nnearer and more near, till it clasped the whole earth in its shadow.\n\nA slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual route, and to return\nhome by Egham and Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita's ancient abode, her\ncottage; and, sending forward the carriage, determined to walk across the\npark to the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest recollections, the\ndeserted house and neglected garden were well adapted to nurse my\nmelancholy. In our happiest days, Perdita had adorned her cottage with\nevery aid art might bring, to that which nature had selected to favour. In\nthe same spirit of exaggeration she had, on the event of her separation\nfrom Raymond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It was now in ruin: the\ndeer had climbed the broken palings, and reposed among the flowers; grass\ngrew on the threshold, and the swinging lattice creaking to the wind, gave\nsignal of utter desertion. The sky was blue above, and the air impregnated\nwith fragrance by the rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees\nmoved overhead, awakening nature's favourite melody--but the melancholy\nappearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed even\nthis gay summer scene. The time when in proud and happy security we\nassembled at this cottage, was gone--soon the present hours would join\nthose past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing from the womb\nof time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my life I\nenvied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one's bed under\nthe sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through the gap of\nthe broken paling--I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears--I\nrushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change, rulers of our\nlife, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was there in our\ntranquillity, that excited your envy--in our happiness, that ye should\ndestroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn of Amalthea\ncontained no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas!\n\n  la fortuna\n  deidad barbara importuna,\n  oy cadaver y ayer flor,\n  no permanece jamas![1]\n\nAs I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me.\nThey seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their conversation\nthat reached me, induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A party\nof people flying from London, as was frequent in those days, had come up\nthe Thames in a boat. No one at Windsor would afford them shelter; so,\ngoing a little further up, they remained all night in a deserted hut near\nBolter's lock. They pursued their way the following morning, leaving one of\ntheir company behind them, sick of the plague. This circumstance once\nspread abroad, none dared approach within half a mile of the infected\nneighbourhood, and the deserted wretch was left to fight with disease and\ndeath in solitude, as he best might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to\nthe hut, for the purpose of ascertaining his situation, and administering\nto his wants.\n\nAs I advanced I met knots of country-people talking earnestly of this\nevent: distant as they were from the apprehended contagion, fear was\nimpressed on every countenance. I passed by a group of these terrorists, in\na lane in the direct road to the hut. One of them stopped me, and,\nconjecturing that I was ignorant of the circumstance, told me not to go on,\nfor that an infected person lay but at a short distance.\n\n\"I know it,\" I replied, \"and I am going to see in what condition the poor\nfellow is.\"\n\nA murmur of surprise and horror ran through the assembly. I continued:--\n\"This poor wretch is deserted, dying, succourless; in these unhappy times,\nGod knows how soon any or all of us may be in like want. I am going to do,\nas I would be done by.\"\n\n\"But you will never be able to return to the Castle--Lady Idris--his\nchildren--\" in confused speech were the words that struck my ear.\n\n\"Do you not know, my friends,\" I said, \"that the Earl himself, now Lord\nProtector, visits daily, not only those probably infected by this disease,\nbut the hospitals and pest houses, going near, and even touching the sick?\nyet he was never in better health. You labour under an entire mistake as to\nthe nature of the plague; but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to\naccompany me, nor to believe me, until I return safe and sound from my\npatient.\"\n\nSo I left them, and hurried on. I soon arrived at the hut: the door was\najar. I entered, and one glance assured me that its former inhabitant was\nno more--he lay on a heap of straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious\neffluvia filled the room, and various stains and marks served to shew the\nvirulence of the disorder.\n\nI had never before beheld one killed by pestilence. While every mind was\nfull of dismay at its effects, a craving for excitement had led us to\nperuse De Foe's account, and the masterly delineations of the author of\nArthur Mervyn. The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid, that we\nseemed to have experienced the results depicted by them. But cold were the\nsensations excited by words, burning though they were, and describing the\ndeath and misery of thousands, compared to what I felt in looking on the\ncorpse of this unhappy stranger. This indeed was the plague. I raised his\nrigid limbs, I marked the distortion of his face, and the stony eyes lost\nto perception. As I was thus occupied, chill horror congealed my blood,\nmaking my flesh quiver and my hair to stand on end. Half insanely I spoke\nto the dead. So the plague killed you, I muttered. How came this? Was the\ncoming painful? You look as if the enemy had tortured, before he murdered\nyou. And now I leapt up precipitately, and escaped from the hut, before\nnature could revoke her laws, and inorganic words be breathed in answer\nfrom the lips of the departed.\n\nOn returning through the lane, I saw at a distance the same assemblage of\npersons which I had left. They hurried away, as soon as they saw me; my\nagitated mien added to their fear of coming near one who had entered within\nthe verge of contagion.\n\nAt a distance from facts one draws conclusions which appear infallible,\nwhich yet when put to the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams. I had\nridiculed the fears of my countrymen, when they related to others; now that\nthey came home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I felt, was passed; and it\nbehoved me well to reflect what I should do on this hither side of disease\nand danger. According to the vulgar superstition, my dress, my person, the\nair I breathed, bore in it mortal danger to myself and others. Should I\nreturn to the Castle, to my wife and children, with this taint upon me? Not\nsurely if I were infected; but I felt certain that I was not--a few hours\nwould determine the question--I would spend these in the forest, in\nreflection on what was to come, and what my future actions were to be. In\nthe feeling communicated to me by the sight of one struck by the plague, I\nforgot the events that had excited me so strongly in London; new and more\npainful prospects, by degrees were cleared of the mist which had hitherto\nveiled them. The question was no longer whether I should share Adrian's\ntoils and danger; but in what manner I could, in Windsor and the\nneighbourhood, imitate the prudence and zeal which, under his government,\nproduced order and plenty in London, and how, now pestilence had spread\nmore widely, I could secure the health of my own family.\n\nI spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no one spot of its\nsurface could I put my finger and say, here is safety. In the south, the\ndisease, virulent and immedicable, had nearly annihilated the race of man;\nstorm and inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled up the measure of\nsuffering. In the north it was worse--the lesser population gradually\ndeclined, and famine and plague kept watch on the survivors, who, helpless\nand feeble, were ready to fall an easy prey into their hands.\n\nI contracted my view to England. The overgrown metropolis, the great heart\nof mighty Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased. All resort for\nambition or pleasure was cut off--the streets were grass-grown--the\nhouses empty--the few, that from necessity remained, seemed already\nbranded with the taint of inevitable pestilence. In the larger\nmanufacturing towns the same tragedy was acted on a smaller, yet more\ndisastrous scale. There was no Adrian to superintend and direct, while\nwhole flocks of the poor were struck and killed. Yet we were not all to die.\nNo truly, though thinned, the race of man would continue, and the great\nplague would, in after years, become matter of history and wonder.\nDoubtless this visitation was for extent unexampled--more need that we\nshould work hard to dispute its progress; ere this men have gone out in\nsport, and slain their thousands and tens of thousands; but now man had\nbecome a creature of price; the life of one of them was of more worth than\nthe so called treasures of kings. Look at his thought-endued countenance,\nhis graceful limbs, his majestic brow, his wondrous mechanism--the type\nand model of this best work of God is not to be cast aside as a broken\nvessel--he shall be preserved, and his children and his children's\nchildren carry down the name and form of man to latest time.\n\nAbove all I must guard those entrusted by nature and fate to my especial\ncare. And surely, if among all my fellow-creatures I were to select those\nwho might stand forth examples of the greatness and goodness of man, I\ncould choose no other than those allied to me by the most sacred ties. Some\nfrom among the family of man must survive, and these should be among the\nsurvivors; that should be my task--to accomplish it my own life were a\nsmall sacrifice. There then in that castle--in Windsor Castle,\nbirth-place of Idris and my babes, should be the haven and retreat for the\nwrecked bark of human society. Its forest should be our world--its garden\nafford us food; within its walls I would establish the shaken throne of\nhealth. I was an outcast and a vagabond, when Adrian gently threw over me\nthe silver net of love and civilization, and linked me inextricably to\nhuman charities and human excellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant\nafter good, and an ardent lover of wisdom, was yet unenrolled in any list\nof worth, when Idris, the princely born, who was herself the\npersonification of all that was divine in woman, she who walked the earth\nlike a poet's dream, as a carved goddess endued with sense, or pictured\nsaint stepping from the canvas--she, the most worthy, chose me, and gave\nme herself--a priceless gift.\n\nDuring several hours I continued thus to meditate, till hunger and fatigue\nbrought me back to the passing hour, then marked by long shadows cast from\nthe descending sun. I had wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west of\nWindsor. The feeling of perfect health which I enjoyed, assured me that I\nwas free from contagion. I remembered that Idris had been kept in ignorance\nof my proceedings. She might have heard of my return from London, and my\nvisit to Bolter's Lock, which, connected with my continued absence, might\ntend greatly to alarm her. I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and\npassing through the town towards the Castle, I found it in a state of\nagitation and disturbance.\n\n\"It is too late to be ambitious,\" says Sir Thomas Browne. \"We cannot hope\nto live so long in our names as some have done in their persons; one face\nof Janus holds no proportion to the other.\" Upon this text many fanatics\narose, who prophesied that the end of time was come. The spirit of\nsuperstition had birth, from the wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and\ndangerous were played on the great theatre, while the remaining particle of\nfuturity dwindled into a point in the eyes of the prognosticators.\nWeak-spirited women died of fear as they listened to their denunciations;\nmen of robust form and seeming strength fell into idiotcy and madness,\nracked by the dread of coming eternity. A man of this kind was now pouring\nforth his eloquent despair among the inhabitants of Windsor. The scene of\nthe morning, and my visit to the dead, which had been spread abroad, had\nalarmed the country-people, so they had become fit instruments to be played\nupon by a maniac.\n\nThe poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely infant by the plague. He\nwas a mechanic; and, rendered unable to attend to the occupation which\nsupplied his necessities, famine was added to his other miseries. He left\nthe chamber which contained his wife and child--wife and child no more,\nbut \"dead earth upon the earth\"--wild with hunger, watching and grief,\nhis diseased fancy made him believe himself sent by heaven to preach the\nend of time to the world. He entered the churches, and foretold to the\ncongregations their speedy removal to the vaults below. He appeared like\nthe forgotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade the spectators\ngo home and die. He had been seized and confined; he had escaped and\nwandered from London among the neighbouring towns, and, with frantic\ngestures and thrilling words, he unveiled to each their hidden fears, and\ngave voice to the soundless thought they dared not syllable. He stood under\nthe arcade of the town-hall of Windsor, and from this elevation harangued a\ntrembling crowd.\n\n\"Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth,\" he cried, \"hear thou, all seeing,\nbut most pitiless Heaven! hear thou too, O tempest-tossed heart, which\nbreathes out these words, yet faints beneath their meaning! Death is among\nus! The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our grave! The\nclouds of heaven weep for us--the pageantry of the stars is but our\nfuneral torchlight. Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a few years in your\nlong-known abode--but the lease is up, you must remove--children, ye\nwill never reach maturity, even now the small grave is dug for ye--\nmothers, clasp them in your arms, one death embraces you!\"\n\nShuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast up, seemed bursting\nfrom their sockets, while he appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible, in\nthe yielding air--\"There they are,\" he cried, \"the dead! They rise in\ntheir shrouds, and pass in silent procession towards the far land of their\ndoom--their bloodless lips move not--their shadowy limbs are void of\nmotion, while still they glide onwards. We come,\" he exclaimed, springing\nforwards, \"for what should we wait? Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves\nin the court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you to his presence. Why\nthus long? they, the good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone before.\nMothers, kiss you last--husbands, protectors no more, lead on the\npartners of your death! Come, O come! while the dear ones are yet in sight,\nfor soon they will pass away, and we never never shall join them more.\"\n\nFrom such ravings as these, he would suddenly become collected, and with\nunexaggerated but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time; describe\nwith minute detail, the effects of the plague on the human frame, and tell\nheart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities--the gasping\nhorror of despair over the death-bed of the last beloved--so that groans\nand even shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in particular stood in\nfront, his eyes fixt on the prophet, his mouth open, his limbs rigid, while\nhis face changed to various colours, yellow, blue, and green, through\nintense fear. The maniac caught his glance, and turned his eye on him--\none has heard of the gaze of the rattle-snake, which allures the trembling\nvictim till he falls within his jaws. The maniac became composed; his\nperson rose higher; authority beamed from his countenance. He looked on the\npeasant, who began to tremble, while he still gazed; his knees knocked\ntogether; his teeth chattered. He at last fell down in convulsions. \"That\nman has the plague,\" said the maniac calmly. A shriek burst from the lips\nof the poor wretch; and then sudden motionlessness came over him; it was\nmanifest to all that he was dead.\n\nCries of horror filled the place--every one endeavoured to effect his\nescape--in a few minutes the market place was cleared--the corpse lay\non the ground; and the maniac, subdued and exhausted, sat beside it,\nleaning his gaunt cheek upon his thin hand. Soon some people, deputed by\nthe magistrates, came to remove the body; the unfortunate being saw a\njailor in each--he fled precipitately, while I passed onwards to the\nCastle.\n\nDeath, cruel and relentless, had entered these beloved walls. An old\nservant, who had nursed Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on the\nfooting of a revered relative than a domestic, had gone a few days before\nto visit a daughter, married, and settled in the neighbourhood of London.\nOn the night of her return she sickened of the plague. From the haughty and\nunbending nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris had few tender filial\nassociations with her. This good woman had stood in the place of a mother,\nand her very deficiencies of education and knowledge, by rendering her\nhumble and defenceless, endeared her to us--she was the especial\nfavourite of the children. I found my poor girl, there is no exaggeration\nin the expression, wild with grief and dread. She hung over the patient in\nagony, which was not mitigated when her thoughts wandered towards her\nbabes, for whom she feared infection. My arrival was like the newly\ndiscovered lamp of a lighthouse to sailors, who are weathering some\ndangerous point. She deposited her appalling doubts in my hands; she relied\non my judgment, and was comforted by my participation in her sorrow. Soon\nour poor nurse expired; and the anguish of suspense was changed to deep\nregret, which though at first more painful, yet yielded with greater\nreadiness to my consolations. Sleep, the sovereign balm, at length steeped\nher tearful eyes in forgetfulness.\n\nShe slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle, whose inhabitants were hushed\nto repose. I was awake, and during the long hours of dead night, my busy\nthoughts worked in my brain, like ten thousand mill-wheels, rapid, acute,\nuntameable. All slept--all England slept; and from my window, commanding\na wide prospect of the star-illumined country, I saw the land stretched out\nin placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the brother of death possessed my\nrace. What, if the more potent of these fraternal deities should obtain\ndominion over it? The silence of midnight, to speak truly, though\napparently a paradox, rung in my ears. The solitude became intolerable--I\nplaced my hand on the beating heart of Idris, I bent my head to catch the\nsound of her breath, to assure myself that she still existed--for a\nmoment I doubted whether I should not awake her; so effeminate an horror\nran through my frame.--Great God! would it one day be thus? One day all\nextinct, save myself, should I walk the earth alone? Were these warning\nvoices, whose inarticulate and oracular sense forced belief upon me?\n\n  Yet I would not call them\n  Voices of warning, that announce to us\n  Only the inevitable. As the sun,\n  Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image\n  In the atmosphere--so often do the spirits\n  Of great events stride on before the events,\n  And in to-day already walks to-morrow.[2]\n\n[1] Calderon de la Barca.\n[2] Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nAFTER a long interval, I am again impelled by the restless spirit within me\nto continue my narration; but I must alter the mode which I have hitherto\nadopted. The details contained in the foregoing pages, apparently trivial,\nyet each slightest one weighing like lead in the depressed scale of human\nafflictions; this tedious dwelling on the sorrows of others, while my own\nwere only in apprehension; this slowly laying bare of my soul's wounds:\nthis journal of death; this long drawn and tortuous path, leading to the\nocean of countless tears, awakens me again to keen grief. I had used this\nhistory as an opiate; while it described my beloved friends, fresh with\nlife and glowing with hope, active assistants on the scene, I was soothed;\nthere will be a more melancholy pleasure in painting the end of all. But\nthe intermediate steps, the climbing the wall, raised up between what was\nand is, while I still looked back nor saw the concealed desert beyond, is a\nlabour past my strength. Time and experience have placed me on an height\nfrom which I can comprehend the past as a whole; and in this way I must\ndescribe it, bringing forward the leading incidents, and disposing light\nand shade so as to form a picture in whose very darkness there will be\nharmony.\n\nIt would be needless to narrate those disastrous occurrences, for which a\nparallel might be found in any slighter visitation of our gigantic\ncalamity. Does the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses, where death is\nthe comforter--of the mournful passage of the death-cart--of the\ninsensibility of the worthless, and the anguish of the loving heart--of\nharrowing shrieks and silence dire--of the variety of disease, desertion,\nfamine, despair, and death? There are many books which can feed the\nappetite craving for these things; let them turn to the accounts of\nBoccaccio, De Foe, and Browne. The vast annihilation that has swallowed all\nthings--the voiceless solitude of the once busy earth--the lonely state\nof singleness which hems me in, has deprived even such details of their\nstinging reality, and mellowing the lurid tints of past anguish with poetic\nhues, I am able to escape from the mosaic of circumstance, by perceiving\nand reflecting back the grouping and combined colouring of the past.\n\nI had returned from London possessed by the idea, with the intimate feeling\nthat it was my first duty to secure, as well as I was able, the well-being\nof my family, and then to return and take my post beside Adrian. The events\nthat immediately followed on my arrival at Windsor changed this view of\nthings. The plague was not in London alone, it was every where--it came\non us, as Ryland had said, like a thousand packs of wolves, howling through\nthe winter night, gaunt and fierce. When once disease was introduced into\nthe rural districts, its effects appeared more horrible, more exigent, and\nmore difficult to cure, than in towns. There was a companionship in\nsuffering there, and, the neighbours keeping constant watch on each other,\nand inspired by the active benevolence of Adrian, succour was afforded, and\nthe path of destruction smoothed. But in the country, among the scattered\nfarm-houses, in lone cottages, in fields, and barns, tragedies were acted\nharrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Medical aid was less\neasily procured, food was more difficult to obtain, and human beings,\nunwithheld by shame, for they were unbeheld of their fellows, ventured on\ndeeds of greater wickedness, or gave way more readily to their abject\nfears.\n\nDeeds of heroism also occurred, whose very mention swells the heart and\nbrings tears into the eyes. Such is human nature, that beauty and deformity\nare often closely linked. In reading history we are chiefly struck by the\ngenerosity and self-devotion that follow close on the heels of crime,\nveiling with supernal flowers the stain of blood. Such acts were not\nwanting to adorn the grim train that waited on the progress of the plague.\n\nThe inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had been long aware that the plague\nwas in London, in Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, York, in short, in all\nthe more populous towns of England. They were not however the less\nastonished and dismayed when it appeared among themselves. They were\nimpatient and angry in the midst of terror. They would do something to\nthrow off the clinging evil, and, while in action, they fancied that a\nremedy was applied. The inhabitants of the smaller towns left their houses,\npitched tents in the fields, wandering separate from each other careless of\nhunger or the sky's inclemency, while they imagined that they avoided the\ndeath-dealing disease. The farmers and cottagers, on the contrary, struck\nwith the fear of solitude, and madly desirous of medical assistance,\nflocked into the towns.\n\nBut winter was coming, and with winter, hope. In August, the plague had\nappeared in the country of England, and during September it made its\nravages. Towards the end of October it dwindled away, and was in some\ndegree replaced by a typhus, of hardly less virulence. The autumn was warm\nand rainy: the infirm and sickly died off--happier they: many young\npeople flushed with health and prosperity, made pale by wasting malady,\nbecame the inhabitants of the grave. The crop had failed, the bad corn, and\nwant of foreign wines, added vigour to disease. Before Christmas half\nEngland was under water. The storms of the last winter were renewed; but\nthe diminished shipping of this year caused us to feel less the tempests of\nthe sea. The flood and storms did more harm to continental Europe than to\nus--giving, as it were, the last blow to the calamities which destroyed\nit. In Italy the rivers were unwatched by the diminished peasantry; and,\nlike wild beasts from their lair when the hunters and dogs are afar, did\nTiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and destroy the fertility of the plains.\nWhole villages were carried away. Rome, and Florence, and Pisa were\noverflowed, and their marble palaces, late mirrored in tranquil streams,\nhad their foundations shaken by their winter-gifted power. In Germany and\nRussia the injury was still more momentous.\n\nBut frost would come at last, and with it a renewal of our lease of earth.\nFrost would blunt the arrows of pestilence, and enchain the furious\nelements; and the land would in spring throw off her garment of snow,\nreleased from her menace of destruction. It was not until February that the\ndesired signs of winter appeared. For three days the snow fell, ice stopped\nthe current of the rivers, and the birds flew out from crackling branches\nof the frost-whitened trees. On the fourth morning all vanished. A\nsouth-west wind brought up rain--the sun came out, and mocking the usual\nlaws of nature, seemed even at this early season to burn with solsticial\nforce. It was no consolation, that with the first winds of March the lanes\nwere filled with violets, the fruit trees covered with blossoms, that the\ncorn sprung up, and the leaves came out, forced by the unseasonable heat.\nWe feared the balmy air--we feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered\nearth, and delightful woods, for we looked on the fabric of the universe no\nlonger as our dwelling, but our tomb, and the fragrant land smelled to the\napprehension of fear like a wide church-yard.\n\n  Pisando la tierra dura\n  de continuo el hombre esta\n  y cada passo que da\n  es sobre su sepultura.[1]\n\nYet notwithstanding these disadvantages winter was breathing time; and we\nexerted ourselves to make the best of it. Plague might not revive with the\nsummer; but if it did, it should find us prepared. It is a part of man's\nnature to adapt itself through habit even to pain and sorrow. Pestilence\nhad become a part of our future, our existence; it was to be guarded\nagainst, like the flooding of rivers, the encroachments of ocean, or the\ninclemency of the sky. After long suffering and bitter experience, some\npanacea might be discovered; as it was, all that received infection died--\nall however were not infected; and it became our part to fix deep the\nfoundations, and raise high the barrier between contagion and the sane; to\nintroduce such order as would conduce to the well-being of the survivors,\nand as would preserve hope and some portion of happiness to those who were\nspectators of the still renewed tragedy. Adrian had introduced systematic\nmodes of proceeding in the metropolis, which, while they were unable to\nstop the progress of death, yet prevented other evils, vice and folly, from\nrendering the awful fate of the hour still more tremendous. I wished to\nimitate his example, but men are used to\n\n --move all together, if they move at all,[2]\n\nand I could find no means of leading the inhabitants of scattered\ntowns and villages, who forgot my words as soon as they heard them\nnot, and veered with every baffling wind, that might arise from an\napparent change of circumstance.\n\nI adopted another plan. Those writers who have imagined a reign of peace\nand happiness on earth, have generally described a rural country, where\neach small township was directed by the elders and wise men. This was the\nkey of my design. Each village, however small, usually contains a leader,\none among themselves whom they venerate, whose advice they seek in\ndifficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly value. I was immediately\ndrawn to make this observation by occurrences that presented themselves to\nmy personal experience.\n\nIn the village of Little Marlow an old woman ruled the community. She had\nlived for some years in an alms-house, and on fine Sundays her threshold\nwas constantly beset by a crowd, seeking her advice and listening to her\nadmonitions. She had been a soldier's wife, and had seen the world;\ninfirmity, induced by fevers caught in unwholesome quarters, had come on\nher before its time, and she seldom moved from her little cot. The plague\nentered the village; and, while fright and grief deprived the inhabitants\nof the little wisdom they possessed, old Martha stepped forward and said--\n\"Before now I have been in a town where there was the plague.\"--\"And you\nescaped?\"--\"No, but I recovered.\"--After this Martha was seated more\nfirmly than ever on the regal seat, elevated by reverence and love. She\nentered the cottages of the sick; she relieved their wants with her own\nhand; she betrayed no fear, and inspired all who saw her with some portion\nof her own native courage. She attended the markets--she insisted upon\nbeing supplied with food for those who were too poor to purchase it. She\nshewed them how the well-being of each included the prosperity of all. She\nwould not permit the gardens to be neglected, nor the very flowers in the\ncottage lattices to droop from want of care. Hope, she said, was better\nthan a doctor's prescription, and every thing that could sustain and\nenliven the spirits, of more worth than drugs and mixtures.\n\nIt was the sight of Little Marlow, and my conversations with Martha, that\nled me to the plan I formed. I had before visited the manor houses and\ngentlemen's seats, and often found the inhabitants actuated by the purest\nbenevolence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the welfare of their\ntenants. But this was not enough. The intimate sympathy generated by\nsimilar hopes and fears, similar experience and pursuits, was wanting here.\nThe poor perceived that the rich possessed other means of preservation than\nthose which could be partaken of by themselves, seclusion, and, as far as\ncircumstances permitted, freedom from care. They could not place reliance\non them, but turned with tenfold dependence to the succour and advice of\ntheir equals. I resolved therefore to go from village to village, seeking\nout the rustic archon of the place, and by systematizing their exertions,\nand enlightening their views, encrease both their power and their use among\ntheir fellow-cottagers. Many changes also now occurred in these spontaneous\nregal elections: depositions and abdications were frequent, while, in the\nplace of the old and prudent, the ardent youth would step forward, eager\nfor action, regardless of danger. Often too, the voice to which all\nlistened was suddenly silenced, the helping hand cold, the sympathetic eye\nclosed, and the villagers feared still more the death that had selected a\nchoice victim, shivering in dust the heart that had beat for them, reducing\nto incommunicable annihilation the mind for ever occupied with projects for\ntheir welfare.\n\nWhoever labours for man must often find ingratitude, watered by vice and\nfolly, spring from the grain which he has sown. Death, which had in our\nyounger days walked the earth like \"a thief that comes in the night,\" now,\nrising from his subterranean vault, girt with power, with dark banner\nfloating, came a conqueror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal throne, a\nsupreme Providence, who directed his shafts, and guided his progress, and\nthey bowed their heads in resignation, or at least in obedience. Others\nperceived only a passing casualty; they endeavoured to exchange terror for\nheedlessness, and plunged into licentiousness, to avoid the agonizing\nthroes of worst apprehension. Thus, while the wise, the good, and the\nprudent were occupied by the labours of benevolence, the truce of winter\nproduced other effects among the young, the thoughtless, and the vicious.\nDuring the colder months there was a general rush to London in search of\namusement--the ties of public opinion were loosened; many were rich,\nheretofore poor--many had lost father and mother, the guardians of their\nmorals, their mentors and restraints. It would have been useless to have\nopposed these impulses by barriers, which would only have driven those\nactuated by them to more pernicious indulgencies. The theatres were open\nand thronged; dance and midnight festival were frequented--in many of\nthese decorum was violated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an\nadvanced state of civilization, were doubled. The student left his books,\nthe artist his study: the occupations of life were gone, but the amusements\nremained; enjoyment might be protracted to the verge of the grave. All\nfactitious colouring disappeared--death rose like night, and, protected\nby its murky shadows the blush of modesty, the reserve of pride, the\ndecorum of prudery were frequently thrown aside as useless veils. This was\nnot universal. Among better natures, anguish and dread, the fear of eternal\nseparation, and the awful wonder produced by unprecedented calamity, drew\ncloser the ties of kindred and friendship. Philosophers opposed their\nprinciples, as barriers to the inundation of profligacy or despair, and the\nonly ramparts to protect the invaded territory of human life; the\nreligious, hoping now for their reward, clung fast to their creeds, as the\nrafts and planks which over the tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would bear\nthem in safety to the harbour of the Unknown Continent. The loving heart,\nobliged to contract its view, bestowed its overflow of affection in triple\nportion on the few that remained. Yet, even among these, the present, as an\nunalienable possession, became all of time to which they dared commit the\nprecious freight of their hopes.\n\nThe experience of immemorial time had taught us formerly to count our\nenjoyments by years, and extend our prospect of life through a lengthened\nperiod of progression and decay; the long road threaded a vast labyrinth,\nand the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it terminated, was hid by\nintervening objects. But an earthquake had changed the scene--under our\nvery feet the earth yawned--deep and precipitous the gulph below opened\nto receive us, while the hours charioted us towards the chasm. But it was\nwinter now, and months must elapse before we are hurled from our security.\nWe became ephemera, to whom the interval between the rising and setting sun\nwas as a long drawn year of common time. We should never see our children\nripen into maturity, nor behold their downy cheeks roughen, their blithe\nhearts subdued by passion or care; but we had them now--they lived, and\nwe lived--what more could we desire? With such schooling did my poor\nIdris try to hush thronging fears, and in some measure succeeded. It was\nnot as in summer-time, when each hour might bring the dreaded fate--until\nsummer, we felt sure; and this certainty, short lived as it must be, yet\nfor awhile satisfied her maternal tenderness. I know not how to express or\ncommunicate the sense of concentrated, intense, though evanescent\ntransport, that imparadized us in the present hour. Our joys were dearer\nbecause we saw their end; they were keener because we felt, to its fullest\nextent, their value; they were purer because their essence was sympathy--\nas a meteor is brighter than a star, did the felicity of this winter\ncontain in itself the extracted delights of a long, long life.\n\nHow lovely is spring! As we looked from Windsor Terrace on the sixteen\nfertile counties spread beneath, speckled by happy cottages and wealthier\ntowns, all looked as in former years, heart-cheering and fair. The land was\nploughed, the slender blades of wheat broke through the dark soil, the\nfruit trees were covered with buds, the husbandman was abroad in the\nfields, the milk-maid tripped home with well-filled pails, the swallows and\nmartins struck the sunny pools with their long, pointed wings, the new\ndropped lambs reposed on the young grass, the tender growth of leaves--\n\n  Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds\n  A silent space with ever sprouting green.[3]\n\nMan himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the frost of winter yield to\nan elastic and warm renewal of life--reason told us that care and sorrow\nwould grow with the opening year--but how to believe the ominous voice\nbreathed up with pestiferous vapours from fear's dim cavern, while nature,\nlaughing and scattering from her green lap flowers, and fruits, and\nsparkling waters, invited us to join the gay masque of young life she\nled upon the scene?\n\nWhere was the plague? \"Here--every where!\" one voice of horror and dismay\nexclaimed, when in the pleasant days of a sunny May the Destroyer of man\nbrooded again over the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic\nchrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life. With one mighty sweep of its\npotent weapon, all caution, all care, all prudence were levelled low: death\nsat at the tables of the great, stretched itself on the cottager's pallet,\nseized the dastard who fled, quelled the brave man who resisted:\ndespondency entered every heart, sorrow dimmed every eye.\n\nSights of woe now became familiar to me, and were I to tell all of anguish\nand pain that I witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and the more\nterrible smiles of infancy in the bosom of horror, my reader, his limbs\nquivering and his hair on end, would wonder how I did not, seized with\nsudden frenzy, dash myself from some precipice, and so close my eyes for\never on the sad end of the world. But the powers of love, poetry, and\ncreative fancy will dwell even beside the sick of the plague, with the\nsqualid, and with the dying. A feeling of devotion, of duty, of a high and\nsteady purpose, elevated me; a strange joy filled my heart. In the midst of\nsaddest grief I seemed to tread air, while the spirit of good shed round me\nan ambrosial atmosphere, which blunted the sting of sympathy, and purified\nthe air of sighs. If my wearied soul flagged in its career, I thought of my\nloved home, of the casket that contained my treasures, of the kiss of love\nand the filial caress, while my eyes were moistened by purest dew, and my\nheart was at once softened and refreshed by thrilling tenderness.\n\nMaternal affection had not rendered Idris selfish; at the beginning of our\ncalamity she had, with thoughtless enthusiasm, devoted herself to the care\nof the sick and helpless. I checked her; and she submitted to my rule. I\ntold her how the fear of her danger palsied my exertions, how the knowledge\nof her safety strung my nerves to endurance. I shewed her the dangers which\nher children incurred during her absence; and she at length agreed not to\ngo beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed, within the walls of the\nCastle we had a colony of the unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and in\nthemselves helpless, sufficient to occupy her time and attention, while\nceaseless anxiety for my welfare and the health of her children, however\nshe strove to curb or conceal it, absorbed all her thoughts, and undermined\nthe vital principle. After watching over and providing for their safety,\nher second care was to hide from me her anguish and tears. Each night I\nreturned to the Castle, and found there repose and love awaiting me. Often\nI waited beside the bed of death till midnight, and through the obscurity\nof rainy, cloudy nights rode many miles, sustained by one circumstance\nonly, the safety and sheltered repose of those I loved. If some scene of\ntremendous agony shook my frame and fevered my brow, I would lay my head on\nthe lap of Idris, and the tumultuous pulses subsided into a temperate flow\n--her smile could raise me from hopelessness, her embrace bathe my\nsorrowing heart in calm peace. Summer advanced, and, crowned with the sun's\npotent rays, plague shot her unerring shafts over the earth. The nations\nbeneath their influence bowed their heads, and died. The corn that sprung\nup in plenty, lay in autumn rotting on the ground, while the melancholy\nwretch who had gone out to gather bread for his children, lay stiff and\nplague-struck in the furrow. The green woods waved their boughs\nmajestically, while the dying were spread beneath their shade, answering\nthe solemn melody with inharmonious cries. The painted birds flitted\nthrough the shades; the careless deer reposed unhurt upon the fern--the\noxen and the horses strayed from their unguarded stables, and grazed among\nthe wheat, for death fell on man alone.\n\nWith summer and mortality grew our fears. My poor love and I looked at each\nother, and our babes.--\"We will save them, Idris,\" I said, \"I will save\nthem. Years hence we shall recount to them our fears, then passed away with\ntheir occasion. Though they only should remain on the earth, still they\nshall live, nor shall their cheeks become pale nor their sweet voices\nlanguish.\" Our eldest in some degree understood the scenes passing around,\nand at times, he with serious looks questioned me concerning the reason of\nso vast a desolation. But he was only ten years old; and the hilarity of\nyouth soon chased unreasonable care from his brow. Evelyn, a laughing\ncherub, a gamesome infant, without idea of pain or sorrow, would, shaking\nback his light curls from his eyes, make the halls re-echo with his\nmerriment, and in a thousand artless ways attract our attention to his\nplay. Clara, our lovely gentle Clara, was our stay, our solace, our\ndelight. She made it her task to attend the sick, comfort the sorrowing,\nassist the aged, and partake the sports and awaken the gaiety of the young.\nShe flitted through the rooms, like a good spirit, dispatched from the\ncelestial kingdom, to illumine our dark hour with alien splendour.\nGratitude and praise marked where her footsteps had been. Yet, when she\nstood in unassuming simplicity before us, playing with our children, or\nwith girlish assiduity performing little kind offices for Idris, one\nwondered in what fair lineament of her pure loveliness, in what soft tone\nof her thrilling voice, so much of heroism, sagacity and active goodness\nresided.\n\nThe summer passed tediously, for we trusted that winter would at least\ncheck the disease. That it would vanish altogether was an hope too dear--\ntoo heartfelt, to be expressed. When such a thought was heedlessly uttered,\nthe hearers, with a gush of tears and passionate sobs, bore witness how\ndeep their fears were, how small their hopes. For my own part, my exertions\nfor the public good permitted me to observe more closely than most others,\nthe virulence and extensive ravages of our sightless enemy. A short month\nhas destroyed a village, and where in May the first person sickened, in\nJune the paths were deformed by unburied corpses--the houses tenantless,\nno smoke arising from the chimneys; and the housewife's clock marked only\nthe hour when death had been triumphant. From such scenes I have sometimes\nsaved a deserted infant--sometimes led a young and grieving mother from\nthe lifeless image of her first born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from\nchildish weeping over his extinct family.\n\nJuly is gone. August must pass, and by the middle of September we may hope.\nEach day was eagerly counted; and the inhabitants of towns, desirous to\nleap this dangerous interval, plunged into dissipation, and strove, by\nriot, and what they wished to imagine to be pleasure, to banish thought and\nopiate despair. None but Adrian could have tamed the motley population of\nLondon, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds rushing to their pastures,\nhad thrown aside all minor fears, through the operation of the fear\nparamount. Even Adrian was obliged in part to yield, that he might be able,\nif not to guide, at least to set bounds to the license of the times. The\ntheatres were kept open; every place of public resort was frequented;\nthough he endeavoured so to modify them, as might best quiet the agitation\nof the spectators, and at the same time prevent a reaction of misery when\nthe excitement was over. Tragedies deep and dire were the chief favourites.\nComedy brought with it too great a contrast to the inner despair: when such\nwere attempted, it was not unfrequent for a comedian, in the midst of the\nlaughter occasioned by his disporportioned buffoonery, to find a word or\nthought in his part that jarred with his own sense of wretchedness, and\nburst from mimic merriment into sobs and tears, while the spectators,\nseized with irresistible sympathy, wept, and the pantomimic revelry was\nchanged to a real exhibition of tragic passion.\n\nIt was not in my nature to derive consolation from such scenes; from\ntheatres, whose buffoon laughter and discordant mirth awakened distempered\nsympathy, or where fictitious tears and wailings mocked the heart-felt\ngrief within; from festival or crowded meeting, where hilarity sprung from\nthe worst feelings of our nature, or such enthralment of the better ones,\nas impressed it with garish and false varnish; from assemblies of mourners\nin the guise of revellers. Once however I witnessed a scene of singular\ninterest at one of the theatres, where nature overpowered art, as an\noverflowing cataract will tear away the puny manufacture of a mock cascade,\nwhich had before been fed by a small portion of its waters.\n\nI had come to London to see Adrian. He was not at the palace; and, though\nthe attendants did not know whither he had gone, they did not expect him\ntill late at night. It was between six and seven o'clock, a fine summer\nafternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a ramble through the empty\nstreets of London; now turning to avoid an approaching funeral, now urged\nby curiosity to observe the state of a particular spot; my wanderings were\ninstinct with pain, for silence and desertion characterized every place I\nvisited, and the few beings I met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked\nwith care and depressed by fear, that weary of encountering only signs of\nmisery, I began to retread my steps towards home.\n\nI was now in Holborn, and passed by a public house filled with uproarious\ncompanions, whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more sorrowful than the\npale looks and silence of the mourner. Such an one was near, hovering round\nthis house. The sorry plight of her dress displayed her poverty, she was\nghastly pale, and continued approaching, first the window and then the door\nof the house, as if fearful, yet longing to enter. A sudden burst of song\nand merriment seemed to sting her to the heart; she murmured, \"Can he have\nthe heart?\" and then mustering her courage, she stepped within the\nthreshold. The landlady met her in the passage; the poor creature asked,\n\"Is my husband here? Can I see George?\"\n\n\"See him,\" cried the woman, \"yes, if you go to him; last night he was taken\nwith the plague, and we sent him to the hospital.\"\n\nThe unfortunate inquirer staggered against a wall, a faint cry escaped her\n--\"O! were you cruel enough,\" she exclaimed, \"to send him there?\"\n\nThe landlady meanwhile hurried away; but a more compassionate bar-maid gave\nher a detailed account, the sum of which was, that her husband had been\ntaken ill, after a night of riot, and sent by his boon companions with all\nexpedition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had watched this scene, for\nthere was a gentleness about the poor woman that interested me; she now\ntottered away from the door, walking as well as she could down Holborn\nHill; but her strength soon failed her; she leaned against a wall, and her\nhead sunk on her bosom, while her pallid cheek became still more white. I\nwent up to her and offered my services. She hardly looked up--\"You can do\nme no good,\" she replied; \"I must go to the hospital; if I do not die\nbefore I get there.\"\n\nThere were still a few hackney-coaches accustomed to stand about the\nstreets, more truly from habit than for use. I put her in one of these, and\nentered with her that I might secure her entrance into the hospital. Our\nway was short, and she said little; except interrupted ejaculations of\nreproach that he had left her, exclamations on the unkindness of some of\nhis friends, and hope that she would find him alive. There was a simple,\nnatural earnestness about her that interested me in her fate, especially\nwhen she assured me that her husband was the best of men,--had been so,\ntill want of business during these unhappy times had thrown him into bad\ncompany. \"He could not bear to come home,\" she said, \"only to see our\nchildren die. A man cannot have the patience a mother has, with her own\nflesh and blood.\"\n\nWe were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and entered the wretched precincts\nof the house of disease. The poor creature clung closer to me, as she saw\nwith what heartless haste they bore the dead from the wards, and took them\ninto a room, whose half-opened door displayed a number of corpses, horrible\nto behold by one unaccustomed to such scenes. We were directed to the ward\nwhere her husband had been first taken, and still was, the nurse said, if\nalive. My companion looked eagerly from one bed to the other, till at the\nend of the ward she espied, on a wretched bed, a squalid, haggard creature,\nwrithing under the torture of disease. She rushed towards him, she embraced\nhim, blessing God for his preservation.\n\nThe enthusiasm that inspired her with this strange joy, blinded her to the\nhorrors about her; but they were intolerably agonizing to me. The ward was\nfilled with an effluvia that caused my heart to heave with painful qualms.\nThe dead were carried out, and the sick brought in, with like indifference;\nsome were screaming with pain, others laughing from the influence of more\nterrible delirium; some were attended by weeping, despairing relations,\nothers called aloud with thrilling tenderness or reproach on the friends\nwho had deserted them, while the nurses went from bed to bed, incarnate\nimages of despair, neglect, and death. I gave gold to my luckless\ncompanion; I recommended her to the care of the attendants; I then hastened\naway; while the tormentor, the imagination, busied itself in picturing my\nown loved ones, stretched on such beds, attended thus. The country afforded\nno such mass of horrors; solitary wretches died in the open fields; and I\nhave found a survivor in a vacant village, contending at once with famine\nand disease; but the assembly of pestilence, the banqueting hall of death,\nwas spread only in London.\n\nI rambled on, oppressed, distracted by painful emotions--suddenly I found\nmyself before Drury Lane Theatre. The play was Macbeth--the first actor\nof the age was there to exert his powers to drug with irreflection the\nauditors; such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered. The theatre was\ntolerably well filled. Shakspeare, whose popularity was established by the\napproval of four centuries, had not lost his influence even at this dread\nperiod; but was still \"Ut magus,\" the wizard to rule our hearts and govern\nour imaginations. I came in during the interval between the third and\nfourth act. I looked round on the audience; the females were mostly of the\nlower classes, but the men were of all ranks, come hither to forget awhile\nthe protracted scenes of wretchedness, which awaited them at their\nmiserable homes. The curtain drew up, and the stage presented the scene of\nthe witches' cave. The wildness and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was\na pledge that it could contain little directly connected with our present\ncircumstances. Great pains had been taken in the scenery to give the\nsemblance of reality to the impossible. The extreme darkness of the stage,\nwhose only light was received from the fire under the cauldron, joined to a\nkind of mist that floated about it, rendered the unearthly shapes of the\nwitches obscure and shadowy. It was not three decrepid old hags that bent\nover their pot throwing in the grim ingredients of the magic charm, but\nforms frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance of Hecate, and the wild\nmusic that followed, took us out of this world. The cavern shape the stage\nassumed, the beetling rocks, the glare of the fire, the misty shades that\ncrossed the scene at times, the music in harmony with all witch-like\nfancies, permitted the imagination to revel, without fear of contradiction,\nor reproof from reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth did not\ndestroy the illusion, for he was actuated by the same feelings that\ninspired us, and while the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in his\nwonder and his daring, and gave ourselves up with our whole souls to the\ninfluence of scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of such\nexcitement, in a renewal of those pleasing flights of fancy to which I had\nlong been a stranger. The effect of this scene of incantation communicated\na portion of its power to that which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and\nMacduff were mere human beings, acted upon by such simple passions as\nwarmed our own breasts. By slow degrees however we were drawn to the real\ninterest of the scene. A shudder like the swift passing of an electric\nshock ran through the house, when Rosse exclaimed, in answer to \"Stands\nScotland where it did?\"\n\n  Alas, poor country;\n  Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot\n  Be called our mother, but our grave: where nothing,\n  But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;\n  Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,\n  Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems\n  A modern extasy: the dead man's knell\n  Is there scarce asked, for who; and good men's lives\n  Expire before the flowers in their caps,\n  Dying, or ere they sicken.\n\nEach word struck the sense, as our life's passing bell; we feared to look\nat each other, but bent our gaze on the stage, as if our eyes could fall\ninnocuous on that alone. The person who played the part of Rosse, suddenly\nbecame aware of the dangerous ground he trod. He was an inferior actor, but\ntruth now made him excellent; as he went on to announce to Macduff the\nslaughter of his family, he was afraid to speak, trembling from\napprehension of a burst of grief from the audience, not from his\nfellow-mime. Each word was drawn out with difficulty; real anguish painted\nhis features; his eyes were now lifted in sudden horror, now fixed in dread\nupon the ground. This shew of terror encreased ours, we gasped with him,\neach neck was stretched out, each face changed with the actor's changes--\nat length while Macduff, who, attending to his part, was unobservant of the\nhigh wrought sympathy of the house, cried with well acted passion:\n\n  All my pretty ones?\n  Did you say all?--O hell kite! All?\n  What! all my pretty chickens, and their dam,\n  At one fell swoop!\n\nA pang of tameless grief wrenched every heart, a burst of despair was\nechoed from every lip.--I had entered into the universal feeling--I\nhad been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse--I re-echoed the cry of Macduff,\nand then rushed out as from an hell of torture, to find calm in the free\nair and silent street.\n\nFree the air was not, or the street silent. Oh, how I longed then for the\ndear soothings of maternal Nature, as my wounded heart was still further\nstung by the roar of heartless merriment from the public-house, by the\nsight of the drunkard reeling home, having lost the memory of what he would\nfind there in oblivious debauch, and by the more appalling salutations of\nthose melancholy beings to whom the name of home was a mockery. I ran on at\nmy utmost speed until I found myself I knew not how, close to Westminster\nAbbey, and was attracted by the deep and swelling tone of the organ. I\nentered with soothing awe the lighted chancel, and listened to the solemn\nreligious chaunt, which spoke peace and hope to the unhappy. The notes,\nfreighted with man's dearest prayers, re-echoed through the dim aisles, and\nthe bleeding of the soul's wounds was staunched by heavenly balm. In spite\nof the misery I deprecated, and could not understand; in spite of the cold\nhearths of wide London, and the corpse-strewn fields of my native land; in\nspite of all the variety of agonizing emotions I had that evening\nexperienced, I thought that in reply to our melodious adjurations, the\nCreator looked down in compassion and promise of relief; the awful peal of\nthe heaven-winged music seemed fitting voice wherewith to commune with the\nSupreme; calm was produced by its sound, and by the sight of many other\nhuman creatures offering up prayers and submission with me. A sentiment\napproaching happiness followed the total resignation of one's being to the\nguardianship of the world's ruler. Alas! with the failing of this solemn\nstrain, the elevated spirit sank again to earth. Suddenly one of the\nchoristers died--he was lifted from his desk, the vaults below were\nhastily opened--he was consigned with a few muttered prayers to the\ndarksome cavern, abode of thousands who had gone before--now wide yawning\nto receive even all who fulfilled the funeral rites. In vain I would then\nhave turned from this scene, to darkened aisle or lofty dome, echoing with\nmelodious praise. In the open air alone I found relief; among nature's\nbeauteous works, her God reassumed his attribute of benevolence, and again\nI could trust that he who built up the mountains, planted the forests, and\npoured out the rivers, would erect another state for lost humanity, where\nwe might awaken again to our affections, our happiness, and our faith.\n\nFortunately for me those circumstances were of rare occurrence that obliged\nme to visit London, and my duties were confined to the rural district which\nour lofty castle overlooked; and here labour stood in the place of pastime,\nto occupy such of the country people as were sufficiently exempt from\nsorrow or disease. My endeavours were directed towards urging them to their\nusual attention to their crops, and to the acting as if pestilence did not\nexist. The mower's scythe was at times heard; yet the joyless haymakers\nafter they had listlessly turned the grass, forgot to cart it; the\nshepherd, when he had sheared his sheep, would let the wool lie to be\nscattered by the winds, deeming it useless to provide clothing for another\nwinter. At times however the spirit of life was awakened by these\nemployments; the sun, the refreshing breeze, the sweet smell of the hay,\nthe rustling leaves and prattling rivulets brought repose to the agitated\nbosom, and bestowed a feeling akin to happiness on the apprehensive. Nor,\nstrange to say, was the time without its pleasures. Young couples, who had\nloved long and hopelessly, suddenly found every impediment removed, and\nwealth pour in from the death of relatives. The very danger drew them\ncloser. The immediate peril urged them to seize the immediate opportunity;\nwildly and passionately they sought to know what delights existence\nafforded, before they yielded to death, and\n\n  Snatching their pleasures with rough strife\n  Thorough the iron gates of life,[4]\n\nthey defied the conquering pestilence to destroy what had been, or to\nerase even from their death-bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness\nwhich had been theirs.\n\nOne instance of this kind came immediately under our notice, where a\nhigh-born girl had in early youth given her heart to one of meaner\nextraction. He was a schoolfellow and friend of her brother's, and usually\nspent a part of the holidays at the mansion of the duke her father. They\nhad played together as children, been the confidants of each other's little\nsecrets, mutual aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow. Love had crept\nin, noiseless, terrorless at first, till each felt their life bound up in\nthe other, and at the same time knew that they must part. Their extreme\nyouth, and the purity of their attachment, made them yield with less\nresistance to the tyranny of circumstances. The father of the fair Juliet\nseparated them; but not until the young lover had promised to remain absent\nonly till he had rendered himself worthy of her, and she had vowed to\npreserve her virgin heart, his treasure, till he returned to claim and\npossess it.\n\nPlague came, threatening to destroy at once the aim of the ambitious and\nthe hopes of love. Long the Duke of L----derided the idea that there\ncould be danger while he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion; and he so\nfar succeeded, that it was not till this second summer, that the destroyer,\nat one fell stroke, overthrew his precautions, his security, and his life.\nPoor Juliet saw one by one, father, mother, brothers, and sisters, sicken\nand die. Most of the servants fled on the first appearance of disease,\nthose who remained were infected mortally; no neighbour or rustic ventured\nwithin the verge of contagion. By a strange fatality Juliet alone escaped,\nand she to the last waited on her relatives, and smoothed the pillow of\ndeath. The moment at length came, when the last blow was given to the last\nof the house: the youthful survivor of her race sat alone among the dead.\nThere was no living being near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this\nhideous company. With the declining heat of a September night, a whirlwind\nof storm, thunder, and hail, rattled round the house, and with ghastly\nharmony sung the dirge of her family. She sat upon the ground absorbed in\nwordless despair, when through the gusty wind and bickering rain she\nthought she heard her name called. Whose could that familiar voice be? Not\none of her relations, for they lay glaring on her with stony eyes. Again\nher name was syllabled, and she shuddered as she asked herself, am I\nbecoming mad, or am I dying, that I hear the voices of the departed? A\nsecond thought passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain; she rushed to the\nwindow; and a flash of lightning shewed to her the expected vision, her\nlover in the shrubbery beneath; joy lent her strength to descend the\nstairs, to open the door, and then she fainted in his supporting arms.\n\nA thousand times she reproached herself, as with a crime, that she should\nrevive to happiness with him. The natural clinging of the human mind to\nlife and joy was in its full energy in her young heart; she gave herself\nimpetuously up to the enchantment: they were married; and in their radiant\nfeatures I saw incarnate, for the last time, the spirit of love, of\nrapturous sympathy, which once had been the life of the world.\n\nI envied them, but felt how impossible it was to imbibe the same feeling,\nnow that years had multiplied my ties in the world. Above all, the anxious\nmother, my own beloved and drooping Idris, claimed my earnest care; I could\nnot reproach the anxiety that never for a moment slept in her heart, but I\nexerted myself to distract her attention from too keen an observation of\nthe truth of things, of the near and nearer approaches of disease, misery,\nand death, of the wild look of our attendants as intelligence of another\nand yet another death reached us; for to the last something new occurred\nthat seemed to transcend in horror all that had gone before. Wretched\nbeings crawled to die under our succouring roof; the inhabitants of the\nCastle decreased daily, while the survivors huddled together in fear, and,\nas in a famine-struck boat, the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each\nlooked in the other's face, to guess on whom the death-lot would next fall.\nAll this I endeavoured to veil, so that it might least impress my Idris;\nyet, as I have said, my courage survived even despair: I might be\nvanquished, but I would not yield.\n\nOne day, it was the ninth of September, seemed devoted to every disaster,\nto every harrowing incident. Early in the day, I heard of the arrival of\nthe aged grandmother of one of our servants at the Castle. This old woman\nhad reached her hundredth year; her skin was shrivelled, her form was bent\nand lost in extreme decrepitude; but as still from year to year she\ncontinued in existence, out-living many younger and stronger, she began to\nfeel as if she were to live for ever. The plague came, and the inhabitants\nof her village died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the aged, to the\nremnant of her spent life, she had, on hearing that the pestilence had come\ninto her neighbourhood, barred her door, and closed her casement, refusing\nto communicate with any. She would wander out at night to get food, and\nreturned home, pleased that she had met no one, that she was in no danger\nfrom the plague. As the earth became more desolate, her difficulty in\nacquiring sustenance increased; at first, her son, who lived near, had\nhumoured her by placing articles of food in her way: at last he died. But,\neven though threatened by famine, her fear of the plague was paramount; and\nher greatest care was to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew weaker each\nday, and each day she had further to go. The night before, she had reached\nDatchet; and, prowling about, had found a baker's shop open and deserted.\nLaden with spoil, she hastened to return, and lost her way. The night was\nwindless, hot, and cloudy; her load became too heavy for her; and one by\none she threw away her loaves, still endeavouring to get along, though her\nhobbling fell into lameness, and her weakness at last into inability to\nmove.\n\nShe lay down among the tall corn, and fell asleep. Deep in midnight, she\nwas awaked by a rustling near her; she would have started up, but her stiff\njoints refused to obey her will. A low moan close to her ear followed, and\nthe rustling increased; she heard a smothered voice breathe out, Water,\nWater! several times; and then again a sigh heaved from the heart of the\nsufferer. The old woman shuddered, she contrived at length to sit upright;\nbut her teeth chattered, and her knees knocked together--close, very\nclose, lay a half-naked figure, just discernible in the gloom, and the cry\nfor water and the stifled moan were again uttered. Her motions at length\nattracted the attention of her unknown companion; her hand was seized with\na convulsive violence that made the grasp feel like iron, the fingers like\nthe keen teeth of a trap.--\"At last you are come!\" were the words given\nforth--but this exertion was the last effort of the dying--the joints\nrelaxed, the figure fell prostrate, one low moan, the last, marked the\nmoment of death. Morning broke; and the old woman saw the corpse, marked\nwith the fatal disease, close to her; her wrist was livid with the hold\nloosened by death. She felt struck by the plague; her aged frame was unable\nto bear her away with sufficient speed; and now, believing herself\ninfected, she no longer dreaded the association of others; but, as swiftly\nas she might, came to her grand-daughter, at Windsor Castle, there to\nlament and die. The sight was horrible; still she clung to life, and\nlamented her mischance with cries and hideous groans; while the swift\nadvance of the disease shewed, what proved to be the fact, that she could\nnot survive many hours.\n\nWhile I was directing that the necessary care should be taken of her, Clara\ncame in; she was trembling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked her the\ncause of her agitation, she threw herself into my arms weeping and\nexclaiming--\"Uncle, dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever! I must tell\nyou, for you must know, that Evelyn, poor little Evelyn\"--her voice was\nchoked by sobs. The fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of our adored\ninfant made the current of my blood pause with chilly horror; but the\nremembrance of the mother restored my presence of mind. I sought the little\nbed of my darling; he was oppressed by fever; but I trusted, I fondly and\nfearfully trusted, that there were no symptoms of the plague. He was not\nthree years old, and his illness appeared only one of those attacks\nincident to infancy. I watched him long--his heavy half-closed lids, his\nburning cheeks and restless twining of his small fingers--the fever was\nviolent, the torpor complete--enough, without the greater fear of\npestilence, to awaken alarm. Idris must not see him in this state. Clara,\nthough only twelve years old, was rendered, through extreme sensibility, so\nprudent and careful, that I felt secure in entrusting the charge of him to\nher, and it was my task to prevent Idris from observing their absence. I\nadministered the fitting remedies, and left my sweet niece to watch beside\nhim, and bring me notice of any change she should observe.\n\nI then went to Idris, contriving in my way, plausible excuses for remaining\nall day in the Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the traces of care from\nmy brow. Fortunately she was not alone. I found Merrival, the astronomer,\nwith her. He was far too long sighted in his view of humanity to heed the\ncasualties of the day, and lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of\nits existence. This poor man, learned as La Place, guileless and\nunforeseeing as a child, had often been on the point of starvation, he, his\npale wife and numerous offspring, while he neither felt hunger, nor\nobserved distress. His astronomical theories absorbed him; calculations\nwere scrawled with coal on the bare walls of his garret: a hard-earned\nguinea, or an article of dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse;\nhe neither heard his children cry, nor observed his companion's emaciated\nform, and the excess of calamity was merely to him as the occurrence of a\ncloudy night, when he would have given his right hand to observe a\ncelestial phenomenon. His wife was one of those wondrous beings, to be\nfound only among women, with affections not to be diminished by misfortune.\nHer mind was divided between boundless admiration for her husband, and\ntender anxiety for her children--she waited on him, worked for them, and\nnever complained, though care rendered her life one long-drawn, melancholy\ndream.\n\nHe had introduced himself to Adrian, by a request he made to observe some\nplanetary motions from his glass. His poverty was easily detected and\nrelieved. He often thanked us for the books we lent him, and for the use of\nour instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode or change of\ncircumstances. His wife assured us, that he had not observed any\ndifference, except in the absence of the children from his study, and to\nher infinite surprise he complained of this unaccustomed quiet.\n\nHe came now to announce to us the completion of his Essay on the\nPericyclical Motions of the Earth's Axis, and the precession of the\nequinoctial points. If an old Roman of the period of the Republic had\nreturned to life, and talked of the impending election of some\nlaurel-crowned consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates, his ideas\nwould not have been more alien to the times, than the conversation of\nMerrival. Man, no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed his\nthoughts in visible signs; nor were there any readers left: while each one,\nhaving thrown away his sword with opposing shield alone, awaited the\nplague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind six thousand years hence.\nHe might with equal interest to us, have added a commentary, to describe\nthe unknown and unimaginable lineaments of the creatures, who would then\noccupy the vacated dwelling of mankind. We had not the heart to undeceive\nthe poor old man; and at the moment I came in, he was reading parts of his\nbook to Idris, asking what answer could be given to this or that position.\n\nIdris could not refrain from a smile, as she listened; she had already\ngathered from him that his family was alive and in health; though not apt\nto forget the precipice of time on which she stood, yet I could perceive\nthat she was amused for a moment, by the contrast between the contracted\nview we had so long taken of human life, and the seven league strides with\nwhich Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was glad to see her smile,\nbecause it assured me of her total ignorance of her infant's danger: but I\nshuddered to think of the revulsion that would be occasioned by a discovery\nof the truth. While Merrival was talking, Clara softly opened a door behind\nIdris, and beckoned me to come with a gesture and look of grief. A mirror\nbetrayed the sign to Idris--she started up. To suspect evil, to perceive\nthat, Alfred being with us, the danger must regard her youngest darling, to\nfly across the long chambers into his apartment, was the work but of a\nmoment. There she beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken and motionless. I\nfollowed her, and strove to inspire more hope than I could myself\nentertain; but she shook her head mournfully. Anguish deprived her of\npresence of mind; she gave up to me and Clara the physician's and nurse's\nparts; she sat by the bed, holding one little burning hand, and, with\nglazed eyes fixed on her babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony.\nIt was not the plague that visited our little boy so roughly; but she could\nnot listen to my assurances; apprehension deprived her of judgment and\nreflection; every slight convulsion of her child's features shook her frame\n--if he moved, she dreaded the instant crisis; if he remained still, she\nsaw death in his torpor, and the cloud on her brow darkened.\n\nThe poor little thing's fever encreased towards night. The sensation is\nmost dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks forward to\npassing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, especially if the\npatient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose flickering\nlife resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light,\n\n  Whose narrow fire\n  Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge\n  Devouring darkness hovers.[5]\n\nWith eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience\none marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that\nsound of glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable--the creaking\nof rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the\nsignal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated\nherself at the foot of her cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts\nslumber weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she shook it off; but at\nlength she was conquered and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding\nEvelyn's hand; we were afraid to speak to each other; I watched the stars\n--I hung over my child--I felt his little pulse--I drew near the\nmother--again I receded. At the turn of morning a gentle sigh from the\npatient attracted me, the burning spot on his cheek faded--his pulse beat\nsoftly and regularly--torpor yielded to sleep. For a long time I dared\nnot hope; but when his unobstructed breathing and the moisture that\nsuffused his forehead, were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the\ndeparture of mortal malady, I ventured to whisper the news of the change to\nIdris, and at length succeeded in persuading her that I spoke truth.\n\nBut neither this assurance, nor the speedy convalescence of our child could\nrestore her, even to the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her fear had\nbeen too deep, too absorbing, too entire, to be changed to security. She\nfelt as if during her past calm she had dreamed, but was now awake; she\nwas\n\n  As one\n  In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened\n  From soothing visions of the home he loves,\n  Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;[6]\n\nas one who has been cradled by a storm, and awakes to find the\nvessel sinking. Before, she had been visited by pangs of fear--now, she\nnever enjoyed an interval of hope. No smile of the heart ever irradiated\nher fair countenance; sometimes she forced one, and then gushing tears\nwould flow, and the sea of grief close above these wrecks of past\nhappiness. Still while I was near her, she could not be in utter despair--\nshe fully confided herself to me--she did not seem to fear my death, or\nrevert to its possibility; to my guardianship she consigned the full\nfreight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as a wind-nipped fawn by the\nside of a doe, as a wounded nestling under its mother's wing, as a tiny,\nshattered boat, quivering still, beneath some protecting willow-tree. While\nI, not proudly as in days of joy, yet tenderly, and with glad consciousness\nof the comfort I afforded, drew my trembling girl close to my heart, and\ntried to ward every painful thought or rough circumstance from her\nsensitive nature.\n\nOne other incident occurred at the end of this summer. The Countess of\nWindsor, Ex-Queen of England, returned from Germany. She had at the\nbeginning of the season quitted the vacant city of Vienna; and, unable to\ntame her haughty mind to anything like submission, she had delayed at\nHamburgh, and, when at last she came to London, many weeks elapsed before\nshe gave Adrian notice of her arrival. In spite of her coldness and long\nabsence, he welcomed her with sensibility, displaying such affection as\nsought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow, and was repulsed only by her\ntotal apparent want of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother's return with\npleasure. Her own maternal feelings were so ardent, that she imagined her\nparent must now, in this waste world, have lost pride and harshness, and\nwould receive with delight her filial attentions. The first check to her\nduteous demonstrations was a formal intimation from the fallen majesty of\nEngland, that I was in no manner to be intruded upon her. She consented,\nshe said, to forgive her daughter, and acknowledge her grandchildren;\nlarger concessions must not be expected.\n\nTo me this proceeding appeared (if so light a term may be permitted)\nextremely whimsical. Now that the race of man had lost in fact all\ndistinction of rank, this pride was doubly fatuitous; now that we felt a\nkindred, fraternal nature with all who bore the stamp of humanity, this\nangry reminiscence of times for ever gone, was worse than foolish. Idris\nwas too much taken up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry, hardly\ngrieved; for she judged that insensibility must be the source of this\ncontinued rancour. This was not altogether the fact: but predominant\nself-will assumed the arms and masque of callous feeling; and the haughty\nlady disdained to exhibit any token of the struggle she endured; while the\nslave of pride, she fancied that she sacrificed her happiness to immutable\nprinciple.\n\nFalse was all this--false all but the affections of our nature, and the\nlinks of sympathy with pleasure or pain. There was but one good and one\nevil in the world--life and death. The pomp of rank, the assumption of\npower, the possessions of wealth vanished like morning mist. One living\nbeggar had become of more worth than a national peerage of dead lords--\nalas the day!--than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of genius. There was\nmuch of degradation in this: for even vice and virtue had lost their\nattributes--life--life--the continuation of our animal mechanism--\nwas the Alpha and Omega of the desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition\nof human race.\n\n[1] Calderon de la Barca.\n[2] Wordsworth.\n[3] Keats.\n[4] Andrew Marvell.\n[5] The Cenci\n[6] The Brides' Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nHALF England was desolate, when October came, and the equinoctial winds\nswept over the earth, chilling the ardours of the unhealthy season. The\nsummer, which was uncommonly hot, had been protracted into the beginning of\nthis month, when on the eighteenth a sudden change was brought about from\nsummer temperature to winter frost. Pestilence then made a pause in her\ndeath-dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name our hopes, yet full even\nto the brim with intense expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor\nstands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, watching a distant vessel,\nfancying that now it nears, and then again that it is bearing from sight.\nThis promise of a renewed lease of life turned rugged natures to melting\ntenderness, and by contrast filled the soft with harsh and unnatural\nsentiments. When it seemed destined that all were to die, we were reckless\nof the how and when--now that the virulence of the disease was mitigated,\nand it appeared willing to spare some, each was eager to be among the\nelect, and clung to life with dastard tenacity. Instances of desertion\nbecame more frequent; and even murders, which made the hearer sick with\nhorror, where the fear of contagion had armed those nearest in blood\nagainst each other. But these smaller and separate tragedies were about to\nyield to a mightier interest--and, while we were promised calm from\ninfectious influences, a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest\nbred by the passions of man, nourished by his most violent impulses,\nunexampled and dire.\n\nA number of people from North America, the relics of that populous\ncontinent, had set sail for the East with mad desire of change, leaving\ntheir native plains for lands not less afflicted than their own. Several\nhundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of November, and took\npossession of such vacant habitations as they could find; seizing upon the\nsuperabundant food, and the stray cattle. As they exhausted the produce of\none spot, they went on to another. At length they began to interfere with\nthe inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated numbers, ejected the\nnatives from their dwellings, and robbed them of their winter store. A few\nevents of this kind roused the fiery nature of the Irish; and they attacked\nthe invaders. Some were destroyed; the major part escaped by quick and well\nordered movements; and danger made them careful. Their numbers ably\narranged; the very deaths among them concealed; moving on in good order,\nand apparently given up to enjoyment, they excited the envy of the Irish.\nThe Americans permitted a few to join their band, and presently the\nrecruits outnumbered the strangers--nor did they join with them, nor\nimitate the admirable order which, preserved by the Trans-Atlantic chiefs,\nrendered them at once secure and formidable. The Irish followed their track\nin disorganized multitudes; each day encreasing; each day becoming more\nlawless. The Americans were eager to escape from the spirit they had\nroused, and, reaching the eastern shores of the island, embarked for\nEngland. Their incursion would hardly have been felt had they come alone;\nbut the Irish, collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel the inroads of\nfamine, and they followed in the wake of the Americans for England also.\nThe crossing of the sea could not arrest their progress. The harbours of\nthe desolate sea-ports of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels of\nall sizes, from the man of war to the small fishers' boat, which lay\nsailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The emigrants embarked by\nhundreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, made strange havoc of\nbuoy and cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves to the smaller\ncraft, for the most part achieved their watery journey in safety. Some, in\nthe true spirit of reckless enterprise, went on board a ship of an hundred\nand twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with the tide out of the bay, and\nafter many hours its crew of landsmen contrived to spread a great part of\nher enormous canvass--the wind took it, and while a thousand mistakes of\nthe helmsman made her present her head now to one point, and now to\nanother, the vast fields of canvass that formed her sails flapped with a\nsound like that of a huge cataract; or such as a sea-like forest may give\nforth when buffeted by an equinoctial north-wind. The port-holes were open,\nand with every sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they received\nwhole tons of water. The difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze\nwhich began to blow, whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this\nway and that, and rending them with horrid split, and such whir as may have\nvisited the dreams of Milton, when he imagined the winnowing of the\narch-fiend's van-like wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos.\nThese sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the splash of the\nchafed billows round the vessel's sides, and the gurgling up of the water\nin the hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen the sea before, felt\nindeed as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as the vessel dipped\nher bows in the waves, or rose high upon them. Their yells were drowned in\nthe clamour of elements, and the thunder rivings of their unwieldy\nhabitation--they discovered at last that the water gained on them, and\nthey betook themselves to their pumps; they might as well have laboured to\nempty the ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went down, the gale encreased;\nthe ship seemed to feel her danger, she was now completely water-logged,\nand presented other indications of settling before she went down. The bay\nwas crowded with vessels, whose crews, for the most part, were observing\nthe uncouth sportings of this huge unwieldy machine--they saw her\ngradually sink; the waters now rising above her lower decks--they could\nhardly wink before she had utterly disappeared, nor could the place where\nthe sea had closed over her be at all discerned. Some few of her crew were\nsaved, but the greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went down\nwith her, to rise only when death loosened their hold.\n\nThis event caused many of those who were about to sail, to put foot again\non firm land, ready to encounter any evil rather than to rush into the\nyawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But these were few, in comparison to\nthe numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high as Belfast to ensure\na shorter passage, and then journeying south through Scotland, they were\njoined by the poorer natives of that country, and all poured with one\nconsent into England.\n\nSuch incursions struck the English with affright, in all those towns where\nthere was still sufficient population to feel the change. There was room\nenough indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of invaders; but\ntheir lawless spirit instigated them to violence; they took a delight in\nthrusting the possessors from their houses; in seizing on some mansion of\nluxury, where the noble dwellers secluded themselves in fear of the plague;\nin forcing these of either sex to become their servants and purveyors;\ntill, the ruin complete in one place, they removed their locust visitation\nto another. When unopposed they spread their ravages wide; in cases of\ndanger they clustered, and by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and\ndespairing foes. They came from the east and the north, and directed their\ncourse without apparent motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy\nmetropolis.\n\nCommunication had been to a great degree cut off through the paralyzing\neffects of pestilence, so that the van of our invaders had proceeded as far\nas Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of their arrival. They\nswept the country like a conquering army, burning--laying waste--\nmurdering. The lower and vagabond English joined with them. Some few of the\nLords Lieutenant who remained, endeavoured to collect the militia--but\nthe ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the opposition that was\nmade only served to increase the audacity and cruelty of the enemy. They\ntalked of taking London, conquering England--calling to mind the long\ndetail of injuries which had for many years been forgotten. Such vaunts\ndisplayed their weakness, rather than their strength--yet still they\nmight do extreme mischief, which, ending in their destruction, would render\nthem at last objects of compassion and remorse.\n\nWe were now taught how, in the beginning of the world, mankind clothed\ntheir enemies in impossible attributes--and how details proceeding from\nmouth to mouth, might, like Virgil's ever-growing Rumour, reach the heavens\nwith her brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her outstretched hands.\nGorgon and Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion, vast sea-monster and\ngigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and appalling accounts\nbrought to London concerning our invaders. Their landing was long unknown,\nbut having now advanced within an hundred miles of London, the country\npeople flying before them arrived in successive troops, each exaggerating\nthe numbers, fury, and cruelty of the assailants. Tumult filled the before\nquiet streets--women and children deserted their homes, escaping they\nknew not whither--fathers, husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not for\nthemselves, but for their loved and defenceless relations. As the country\npeople poured into London, the citizens fled southwards--they climbed the\nhigher edifices of the town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and\nflames the enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to a great degree, in\nthe line of march from the west, I removed my family to London, assigning\nthe Tower for their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his Lieutenant in\nthe coming struggle.\n\nWe employed only two days in our preparations, and made good use of them.\nArtillery and arms were collected; the remnants of such regiments, as could\nbe brought through many losses into any show of muster, were put under\narms, with that appearance of military discipline which might encourage our\nown party, and seem most formidable to the disorganized multitude of our\nenemies. Even music was not wanting: banners floated in the air, and the\nshrill fife and loud trumpet breathed forth sounds of encouragement and\nvictory. A practised ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the\nsoldiers; but this was not occasioned so much by fear of the adversary, as\nby disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostications, which often weighed\nmost potently on the brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject\nsubjection.\n\nAdrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was small relief to him that\nour discipline should gain us success in such a conflict; while plague\nstill hovered to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it was not\nvictory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced, we were met\nby bands of peasantry, whose almost naked condition, whose despair and\nhorror, told at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy. The senseless\nspirit of conquest and thirst of spoil blinded them, while with insane fury\nthey deluged the country in ruin. The sight of the military restored hope\nto those who fled, and revenge took place of fear. They inspired the\nsoldiers with the same sentiment. Languor was changed to ardour, the slow\nstep converted to a speedy pace, while the hollow murmur of the multitude,\ninspired by one feeling, and that deadly, filled the air, drowning the\nclang of arms and sound of music. Adrian perceived the change, and feared\nthat it would be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their utmost fury\non the Irish. He rode through the lines, charging the officers to restrain\nthe troops, exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some\ndegree the violent agitation that swelled every bosom.\n\nWe first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St. Albans. They\nretreated, and, joining others of their companions, still fell back, till\nthey reached the main body. Tidings of an armed and regular opposition\nrecalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham their head-quarters,\nand scouts were sent out to ascertain our situation. We remained for the\nnight at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement caused us each to\nadvance. It was early dawn, and the air, impregnated with freshest odour,\nseemed in idle mockery to play with our banners, and bore onwards towards\nthe enemy the music of the bands, the neighings of the horses, and regular\nstep of the infantry. The first sound of martial instruments that came upon\nour undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not unmingled with dread. It\nspoke of other days, of days of concord and order; it was associated with\ntimes when plague was not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent\nfate. The pause was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly clamour, the\nbarbarian shouts, the untimed step of thousands coming on in disarray.\nTheir troops now came pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes;\na large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we advanced to the\nmiddle of this, and then made a halt: being somewhat on superior ground, we\ncould discern the space they covered. When their leaders perceived us drawn\nout in opposition, they also gave the word to halt, and endeavoured to form\ntheir men into some imitation of military discipline. The first ranks had\nmuskets; some were mounted, but their arms were such as they had seized\nduring their advance, their horses those they had taken from the peasantry;\nthere was no uniformity, and little obedience, but their shouts and wild\ngestures showed the untamed spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers\nreceived the word, and advanced to quickest time, but in perfect order:\ntheir uniform dresses, the gleam of their polished arms, their silence, and\nlooks of sullen hate, were more appalling than the savage clamour of our\ninnumerous foe. Thus coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and\nshouts of the Irish increased; the English proceeded in obedience to their\nofficers, until they came near enough to distinguish the faces of their\nenemies; the sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent heaven\nand was re-echoed by the furthest lines, they rushed on; they disdained the\nuse of the bullet, but with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe,\nwhile the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted the cannon,\nwhose deafening roar and blinding smoke filled up the horror of the scene. I\nwas beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given the word to halt, and\nhad remained a few yards distant from us in deep meditation: he was forming\nswiftly his plan of action, to prevent the effusion of blood; the noise of\ncannon, the sudden rush of the troops, and yell of the foe, startled him:\nwith flashing eyes he exclaimed, \"Not one of these must perish!\" and\nplunging the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed between the\nconflicting bands. We, his staff, followed him to surround and protect him;\nobeying his signal, however, we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving\nhim, paused in their onset; he did not swerve from the bullets that passed\nnear him, but rode immediately between the opposing lines. Silence\nsucceeded to clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead.\nAdrian raised his sword in act to speak: \"By whose command,\" he cried,\naddressing his own troops, \"do you advance? Who ordered your attack? Fall\nback; these misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I am your\ngeneral. Sheath your weapons; these are your brothers, commit not\nfratricide; soon the plague will not leave one for you to glut your revenge\nupon: will you be more pitiless than pestilence? As you honour me--as you\nworship God, in whose image those also are created--as your children and\nfriends are dear to you,--shed not a drop of precious human blood.\"\n\nHe spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and then turning to our\ninvaders, with a severe brow, he commanded them to lay down their arms: \"Do\nyou think,\" he said, \"that because we are wasted by plague, you can\novercome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye are vanquished by\nfamine and disease, the ghosts of those you have murdered will arise to bid\nyou not hope in death. Lay down your arms, barbarous and cruel men--men\nwhose hands are stained with the blood of the innocent, whose souls are\nweighed down by the orphan's cry! We shall conquer, for the right is on our\nside; already your cheeks are pale--the weapons fall from your nerveless\ngrasp. Lay down your arms, fellow men! brethren! Pardon, succour, and\nbrotherly love await your repentance. You are dear to us, because you wear\nthe frail shape of humanity; each one among you will find a friend and\nhost among these forces. Shall man be the enemy of man, while plague, the\nfoe to all, even now is above us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel\nthan her own?\"\n\nEach army paused. On our side the soldiers grasped their arms firmly, and\nlooked with stern glances on the foe. These had not thrown down their\nweapons, more from fear than the spirit of contest; they looked at each\nother, each wishing to follow some example given him,--but they had no\nleader. Adrian threw himself from his horse, and approaching one of those\njust slain: \"He was a man,\" he cried, \"and he is dead. O quickly bind up\nthe wounds of the fallen--let not one die; let not one more soul escape\nthrough your merciless gashes, to relate before the throne of God the tale\nof fratricide; bind up their wounds--restore them to their friends. Cast\naway the hearts of tigers that burn in your breasts; throw down those tools\nof cruelty and hate; in this pause of exterminating destiny, let each man\nbe brother, guardian, and stay to the other. Away with those blood-stained\narms, and hasten some of you to bind up these wounds.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and raised in his arms a man from\nwhose side the warm tide of life gushed--the poor wretch gasped--so\nstill had either host become, that his moans were distinctly heard, and\nevery heart, late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now beat anxiously\nin hope and fear for the fate of this one man. Adrian tore off his military\nscarf and bound it round the sufferer--it was too late--the man heaved\na deep sigh, his head fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining power.--\n\"He is dead!\" said Adrian, as the corpse fell from his arms on the ground,\nand he bowed his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the world seemed bound\nup in the death of this single man. On either side the bands threw down\ntheir arms, even the veterans wept, and our party held out their hands to\ntheir foes, while a gush of love and deepest amity filled every heart. The\ntwo forces mingling, unarmed and hand in hand, talking only how each might\nassist the other, the adversaries conjoined; each repenting, the one side\ntheir former cruelties, the other their late violence, they obeyed the\norders of the General to proceed towards London.\n\nAdrian was obliged to exert his utmost prudence, first to allay the\ndiscord, and then to provide for the multitude of the invaders. They were\nmarched to various parts of the southern counties, quartered in deserted\nvillages,--a part were sent back to their own island, while the season of\nwinter so far revived our energy, that the passes of the country were\ndefended, and any increase of numbers prohibited.\n\nOn this occasion Adrian and Idris met after a separation of nearly a year.\nAdrian had been occupied in fulfilling a laborious and painful task. He had\nbeen familiar with every species of human misery, and had for ever found\nhis powers inadequate, his aid of small avail. Yet the purpose of his soul,\nhis energy and ardent resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow. He\nseemed born anew, and virtue, more potent than Medean alchemy, endued him\nwith health and strength. Idris hardly recognized the fragile being, whose\nform had seemed to bend even to the summer breeze, in the energetic man,\nwhose very excess of sensibility rendered him more capable of fulfilling\nhis station of pilot in storm-tossed England.\n\nIt was not thus with Idris. She was uncomplaining; but the very soul of\nfear had taken its seat in her heart. She had grown thin and pale, her eyes\nfilled with involuntary tears, her voice was broken and low. She tried to\nthrow a veil over the change which she knew her brother must observe in\nher, but the effort was ineffectual; and when alone with him, with a burst\nof irrepressible grief she gave vent to her apprehensions and sorrow. She\ndescribed in vivid terms the ceaseless care that with still renewing hunger\nate into her soul; she compared this gnawing of sleepless expectation of\nevil, to the vulture that fed on the heart of Prometheus; under the\ninfluence of this eternal excitement, and of the interminable struggles she\nendured to combat and conceal it, she felt, she said, as if all the wheels\nand springs of the animal machine worked at double rate, and were fast\nconsuming themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking thoughts, bridled\nby some remains of reason, and by the sight of her children happy and in\nhealth, were then transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were\nrealized, all her fears received their dread fulfilment. To this state\nthere was no hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should quickly receive\nits destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before she experienced a\nthousand living deaths in the loss of those she loved. Fearing to give me\npain, she hid as best she could the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting\nthus her brother after a long absence, she could not restrain the\nexpression of her woe, but with all the vividness of imagination with which\nmisery is always replete, she poured out the emotions of her heart to her\nbeloved and sympathizing Adrian.\n\nHer present visit to London tended to augment her state of inquietude, by\nshewing in its utmost extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence. It\nhardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung up thick\nin the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the houses were shut up, while\nsilence and loneliness characterized the busiest parts of the town. Yet in\nthe midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order; and each one continued\nto live according to law and custom--human institutions thus surviving as\nit were divine ones, and while the decree of population was abrogated,\nproperty continued sacred. It was a melancholy reflection; and in spite of\nthe diminution of evil produced, it struck on the heart as a wretched\nmockery. All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and festivals had\npassed away. \"Next summer,\" said Adrian as we parted on our return to\nWindsor, \"will decide the fate of the human race. I shall not pause in\nmy exertions until that time; but, if plague revives with the coming year,\nall contest with her must cease, and our only occupation be the choice of\na grave.\"\n\nI must not forget one incident that occurred during this visit to London.\nThe visits of Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had suddenly ceased. At\nthis time where but a hair's line separated the living from the dead, I\nfeared that our friend had become a victim to the all-embracing evil. On\nthis occasion I went, dreading the worst, to his dwelling, to see if I\ncould be of any service to those of his family who might have survived. The\nhouse was deserted, and had been one of those assigned to the invading\nstrangers quartered in London. I saw his astronomical instruments put to\nstrange uses, his globes defaced, his papers covered with abstruse\ncalculations destroyed. The neighbours could tell me little, till I lighted\non a poor woman who acted as nurse in these perilous times. She told me\nthat all the family were dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone mad--\nmad, she called it, yet on questioning her further, it appeared that he was\npossessed only by the delirium of excessive grief. This old man, tottering\non the edge of the grave, and prolonging his prospect through millions of\ncalculated years,--this visionary who had not seen starvation in the\nwasted forms of his wife and children, or plague in the horrible sights and\nsounds that surrounded him--this astronomer, apparently dead on earth,\nand living only in the motion of the spheres--loved his family with\nunapparent but intense affection. Through long habit they had become a part\nof himself; his want of worldly knowledge, his absence of mind and infant\nguilelessness, made him utterly dependent on them. It was not till one of\nthem died that he perceived their danger; one by one they were carried off\nby pestilence; and his wife, his helpmate and supporter, more necessary to\nhim than his own limbs and frame, which had hardly been taught the lesson\nof self-preservation, the kind companion whose voice always spoke peace to\nhim, closed her eyes in death. The old man felt the system of universal\nnature which he had so long studied and adored, slide from under him, and\nhe stood among the dead, and lifted his voice in curses.--No wonder that\nthe attendant should interpret as phrensy the harrowing maledictions of the\ngrief-struck old man.\n\nI had commenced my search late in the day, a November day, that closed in\nearly with pattering rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from the door, I\nsaw Merrival, or rather the shadow of Merrival, attenuated and wild, pass\nme, and sit on the steps of his home. The breeze scattered the grey locks\non his temples, the rain drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his\nface in his withered hands. I pressed his shoulder to awaken his attention,\nbut he did not alter his position. \"Merrival,\" I said, \"it is long since we\nhave seen you--you must return to Windsor with me--Lady Idris desires\nto see you, you will not refuse her request--come home with me.\"\n\nHe replied in a hollow voice, \"Why deceive a helpless old man, why talk\nhypocritically to one half crazed? Windsor is not my home; my true home I\nhave found; the home that the Creator has prepared for me.\"\n\nHis accent of bitter scorn thrilled me--\"Do not tempt me to speak,\" he\ncontinued, \"my words would scare you--in an universe of cowards I dare\nthink--among the church-yard tombs--among the victims of His merciless\ntyranny I dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he punish me? Let him\nbare his arm and transfix me with lightning--this is also one of his\nattributes\"--and the old man laughed.\n\nHe rose, and I followed him through the rain to a neighbouring church-yard\n--he threw himself on the wet earth. \"Here they are,\" he cried, \"beautiful\ncreatures--breathing, speaking, loving creatures. She who by day and\nnight cherished the age-worn lover of her youth--they, parts of my flesh,\nmy children--here they are: call them, scream their names through the\nnight; they will not answer!\" He clung to the little heaps that marked the\ngraves. \"I ask but one thing; I do not fear His hell, for I have it here; I\ndo not desire His heaven, let me but die and be laid beside them; let me\nbut, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it moulders, mingle with theirs.\nPromise,\" and he raised himself painfully, and seized my arm, \"promise to\nbury me with them.\"\n\n\"So God help me and mine as I promise,\" I replied, \"on one condition:\nreturn with me to Windsor.\"\n\n\"To Windsor!\" he cried with a shriek, \"Never!--from this place I never go\n--my bones, my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and what you see\nof me is corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling here, till\nrain, and hail, and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make me one in\nsubstance with them below.\"\n\nIn a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was obliged to leave London,\nand Adrian undertook to watch over him; the task was soon fulfilled; age,\ngrief, and inclement weather, all united to hush his sorrows, and bring\nrepose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He died embracing the sod,\nwhich was piled above his breast, when he was placed beside the beings whom\nhe regretted with such wild despair.\n\nI returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed to think that there\nwas greater safety for her children at that spot; and because, once having\ntaken on me the guardianship of the district, I would not desert it while\nan inhabitant survived. I went also to act in conformity with Adrian's\nplans, which was to congregate in masses what remained of the population;\nfor he possessed the conviction that it was only through the benevolent and\nsocial virtues that any safety was to be hoped for the remnant of mankind.\n\nIt was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so dear to us, as the\nscene of a happiness rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction of\nour species, and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease over the\nfertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the country had so far changed,\nthat it had been impossible to enter on the task of sowing seed, and other\nautumnal labours. That season was now gone; and winter had set in with\nsudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws succeeding to\nfloods, rendered the country impassable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic\nappearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses peeped from the white\nmass; the lowly cot and stately mansion, alike deserted, were blocked up,\ntheir thresholds uncleared; the windows were broken by the hail, while the\nprevalence of a north-east wind rendered out-door exertions extremely\npainful. The altered state of society made these accidents of nature,\nsources of real misery. The luxury of command and the attentions of\nservitude were lost. It is true that the necessaries of life were assembled\nin such quantities, as to supply to superfluity the wants of the diminished\npopulation; but still much labour was required to arrange these, as it\nwere, raw materials; and depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future,\nwe had not energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any system.\n\nI can speak for myself--want of energy was not my failing. The intense\nlife that quickened my pulses, and animated my frame, had the effect, not\nof drawing me into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my lowliness,\nand of bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant objects--I could\nhave lived the life of a peasant in the same way--my trifling occupations\nwere swelled into important pursuits; my affections were impetuous and\nengrossing passions, and nature with all her changes was invested in divine\nattributes. The very spirit of the Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I\ndeified the uplands, glades, and streams, I\n\n  Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;\n  And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[1]\n\nStrange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous course, I dwelt with\never-renewing wonder on her antique laws, and now that with excentric wheel\nshe rushed into an untried path, I should feel this spirit fade; I\nstruggled with despondency and weariness, but like a fog, they choked me.\nPerhaps, after the labours and stupendous excitement of the past summer,\nthe calm of winter and the almost menial toils it brought with it, were by\nnatural re-action doubly irksome. It was not the grasping passion of the\npreceding year, which gave life and individuality to each moment--it was\nnot the aching pangs induced by the distresses of the times. The utter\ninutility that had attended all my exertions took from them their usual\neffects of exhilaration, and despair rendered abortive the balm of self\napplause--I longed to return to my old occupations, but of what use were\nthey? To read were futile--to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide\ncircus for the display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for a\nmagnificent drama, now presented a vacant space, an empty stage--for\nactor or spectator there was no longer aught to say or hear.\n\nOur little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from the neighbouring\ncounties were chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect. Its streets were\nblocked up with snow--the few passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by\nthe ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these evils was the aim and\nscope of all our exertions. Families late devoted to exalting and refined\npursuits, rich, blooming, and young, with diminished numbers and\ncare-fraught hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish and grovelling\nthrough suffering. Without the aid of servants, it was necessary to\ndischarge all household duties; hands unused to such labour must knead the\nbread, or in the absence of flour, the statesmen or perfumed courtier must\nundertake the butcher's office. Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the\npoor were the superior, since they entered on such tasks with alacrity and\nexperience; while ignorance, inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered\nthem fatiguing to the luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all\nwhose minds, bent on intellectual improvement, held it their dearest\nprivilege to be exempt from attending to mere animal wants.\n\nBut in every change goodness and affection can find field for exertion and\ndisplay. Among some these changes produced a devotion and sacrifice of self\nat once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers of the human\nrace to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient times, the patriarchal modes in\nwhich the variety of kindred and friendship fulfilled their duteous and\nkindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land, performed for the sake of\nmother or sister, the services of menials with amiable cheerfulness. They\nwent to the river to break the ice, and draw water: they assembled on\nforaging expeditions, or axe in hand felled the trees for fuel. The females\nreceived them on their return with the simple and affectionate welcome\nknown before only to the lowly cottage--a clean hearth and bright fire;\nthe supper ready cooked by beloved hands; gratitude for the provision for\nto-morrow's meal: strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they\nwere now their sole, hard earned, and dearly prized luxuries.\n\nNone was more conspicuous for this graceful submission to circumstances,\nnoble humility, and ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with romantic\ncolouring, than our own Clara. She saw my despondency, and the aching cares\nof Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us from labour and to spread\nease and even elegance over our altered mode of life. We still had some\nattendants spared by disease, and warmly attached to us. But Clara was\njealous of their services; she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole\nminister to the wants of her little cousins; nothing gave her so much\npleasure as our employing her in this way; she went beyond our desires,\nearnest, diligent, and unwearied,--\n\n  Abra was ready ere we called her name,\n  And though we called another, Abra came.[2]\n\nIt was my task each day to visit the various families assembled in our\ntown, and when the weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my ride, and to\nmuse in solitude over every changeful appearance of our destiny,\nendeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the experience of the\npast. The impatience with which, while in society, the ills that afflicted\nmy species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when individual\nsuffering was merged in the general calamity, strange to say, less\nafflicting to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with difficulty\nthrough the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the bridge and passed\nthrough Eton. No youthful congregation of gallant-hearted boys thronged the\nportal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy school-room and noisy\nplayground. I extended my ride towards Salt Hill, on every side impeded by\nthe snow. Were those the fertile fields I loved--was that the interchange\nof gentle upland and cultivated dale, once covered with waving corn,\ndiversified by stately trees, watered by the meandering Thames? One sheet\nof white covered it, while bitter recollection told me that cold as the\nwinter-clothed earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants. I met troops of\nhorses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing\ndown a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them\nshelter and food--there having taken possession of a vacant cottage. Once\non a frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a\nfavourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A bubbling\nspring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a few elms and\nbeeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. This spot had\nfor me peculiar charms. It had been a favourite resort of Adrian; it was\nsecluded; and he often said that in boyhood, his happiest hours were spent\nhere; having escaped the stately bondage of his mother, he sat on the rough\nhewn steps that led to the spring, now reading a favourite book, now\nmusing, with speculation beyond his years, on the still unravelled skein of\nmorals or metaphysics. A melancholy foreboding assured me that I should\nnever see this place more; so with careful thought, I noted each tree,\nevery winding of the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I might\nbetter call up its idea in absence. A robin red-breast dropt from the\nfrosty branches of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet; its panting\nbreast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk appeared in\nthe air; sudden fear seized the little creature; it exerted its last\nstrength, throwing itself on its back, raising its talons in impotent\ndefence against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it in my\nbreast. I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived;\nits warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this\ntrifling incident--but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad fields\nseen through the silvered trunks of the beeches,--the brook, in days of\nhappiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice--the leafless\ntrees fantastically dressed in hoar frost--the shapes of summer leaves\nimaged by winter's frozen hand on the hard ground--the dusky sky, drear\ncold, and unbroken silence--while close in my bosom, my feathered\nnursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp--\npainful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild commotion--cold\nand death-like as the snowy fields was all earth--misery-stricken the\nlife-tide of the inhabitants--why should I oppose the cataract of\ndestruction that swept us away?--why string my nerves and renew my\nwearied efforts--ah, why? But that my firm courage and cheerful exertions\nmight shelter the dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my life; though\nthe throbbings of my heart be replete with pain, though my hopes for the\nfuture are chill, still while your dear head, my gentlest love, can repose\nin peace on that heart, and while you derive from its fostering care,\ncomfort, and hope, my struggles shall not cease,--I will not call myself\naltogether vanquished.\n\nOne fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some of its genial power,\nI walked in the forest with my family. It was one of those lovely\nwinter-days which assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty on\nbarrenness. The leafless trees spread their fibrous branches against the\npure sky; their intricate and pervious tracery resembled delicate sea-weed;\nthe deer were turning up the snow in search of the hidden grass; the white\nwas made intensely dazzling by the sun, and trunks of the trees, rendered\nmore conspicuous by the loss of preponderating foliage, gathered around\nlike the labyrinthine columns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to\nreceive pleasure from the sight of these things. Our children, freed from\nthe bondage of winter, bounded before us; pursuing the deer, or rousing the\npheasants and partridges from their coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her\nsadness yielded to the present sense of pleasure. We met other families on\nthe Long Walk, enjoying like ourselves the return of the genial season. At\nonce, I seemed to awake; I cast off the clinging sloth of the past months;\nearth assumed a new appearance, and my view of the future was suddenly made\nclear. I exclaimed, \"I have now found out the secret!\"\n\n\"What secret?\"\n\nIn answer to this question, I described our gloomy winter-life, our sordid\ncares, our menial labours:--\"This northern country,\" I said, \"is no place\nfor our diminished race. When mankind were few, it was not here that they\nbattled with the powerful agents of nature, and were enabled to cover the\nglobe with offspring. We must seek some natural Paradise, some garden of\nthe earth, where our simple wants may be easily supplied, and the enjoyment\nof a delicious climate compensate for the social pleasures we have lost. If\nwe survive this coming summer, I will not spend the ensuing winter in\nEngland; neither I nor any of us.\"\n\nI spoke without much heed, and the very conclusion of what I said brought\nwith it other thoughts. Should we, any of us, survive the coming summer? I\nsaw the brow of Idris clouded; I again felt, that we were enchained to the\ncar of fate, over whose coursers we had no control. We could no longer say,\nThis we will do, and this we will leave undone. A mightier power than the\nhuman was at hand to destroy our plans or to achieve the work we avoided.\nIt were madness to calculate upon another winter. This was our last. The\ncoming summer was the extreme end of our vista; and, when we arrived there,\ninstead of a continuation of the long road, a gulph yawned, into which we\nmust of force be precipitated. The last blessing of humanity was wrested\nfrom us; we might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his chains,\nhope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when he lays his head on the\nblock, marks the double shadow of himself and the executioner, whose\nuplifted arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner, who spent\nwith swimming, hears close behind the splashing waters divided by a shark\nwhich pursues him through the Atlantic, hope? Such hope as theirs, we also\nmay entertain!\n\nOld fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from the box of Pandora,\nelse crammed with evils; but these were unseen and null, while all admired\nthe inspiriting loveliness of young Hope; each man's heart became her home;\nshe was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and here-after; she was\ndeified and worshipped, declared incorruptible and everlasting. But like\nall other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her life has attained\nits last hour. We have watched over her; nursed her flickering existence;\nnow she has fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, from health to\nimmedicinable disease; even as we spend ourselves in struggles for her\nrecovery, she dies; to all nations the voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We\nare but mourners in the funeral train, and what immortal essence or\nperishable creation will refuse to make one in the sad procession that\nattends to its grave the dead comforter of humanity?\n\n  Does not the sun call in his light? and day\n  Like a thin exhalation melt away--\n  Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be\n  Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.[3]\n\n[1] Wordsworth.\n[2] Prior's \"Solomon.\"\n[3] Cleveland's Poems.\n\n\n\n\nVOL. III.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nHEAR YOU not the rushing sound of the coming tempest? Do you not behold the\nclouds open, and destruction lurid and dire pour down on the blasted earth?\nSee you not the thunderbolt fall, and are deafened by the shout of heaven\nthat follows its descent? Feel you not the earth quake and open with\nagonizing groans, while the air is pregnant with shrieks and wailings,--\nall announcing the last days of man? No! none of these things accompanied\nour fall! The balmy air of spring, breathed from nature's ambrosial home,\ninvested the lovely earth, which wakened as a young mother about to lead\nforth in pride her beauteous offspring to meet their sire who had been long\nabsent. The buds decked the trees, the flowers adorned the land: the dark\nbranches, swollen with seasonable juices, expanded into leaves, and the\nvariegated foliage of spring, bending and singing in the breeze, rejoiced\nin the genial warmth of the unclouded empyrean: the brooks flowed\nmurmuring, the sea was waveless, and the promontories that over-hung it\nwere reflected in the placid waters; birds awoke in the woods, while\nabundant food for man and beast sprung up from the dark ground. Where was\npain and evil? Not in the calm air or weltering ocean; not in the woods or\nfertile fields, nor among the birds that made the woods resonant with song,\nnor the animals that in the midst of plenty basked in the sunshine. Our\nenemy, like the Calamity of Homer, trod our hearts, and no sound was echoed\nfrom her steps--\n\n  With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea,\n  Diseases haunt our frail humanity,\n  Through noon, through night, on casual wing they glide,\n  Silent,--a voice the power all-wise denied.[1]\n\nOnce man was a favourite of the Creator, as the royal psalmist sang, \"God\nhad made him a little lower than the angels, and had crowned him with glory\nand honour. God made him to have dominion over the works of his hands, and\nput all things under his feet.\" Once it was so; now is man lord of the\ncreation? Look at him--ha! I see plague! She has invested his form, is\nincarnate in his flesh, has entwined herself with his being, and blinds his\nheaven-seeking eyes. Lie down, O man, on the flower-strown earth; give up\nall claim to your inheritance, all you can ever possess of it is the small\ncell which the dead require. Plague is the companion of spring, of sunshine,\nand plenty. We no longer struggle with her. We have forgotten what we did\nwhen she was not. Of old navies used to stem the giant ocean-waves betwixt\nIndus and the Pole for slight articles of luxury. Men made perilous\njournies to possess themselves of earth's splendid trifles, gems and gold.\nHuman labour was wasted--human life set at nought. Now life is all that\nwe covet; that this automaton of flesh should, with joints and springs in\norder, perform its functions, that this dwelling of the soul should be\ncapable of containing its dweller. Our minds, late spread abroad through\ncountless spheres and endless combinations of thought, now retrenched\nthemselves behind this wall of flesh, eager to preserve its well-being\nonly. We were surely sufficiently degraded.\n\nAt first the increase of sickness in spring brought increase of toil to\nsuch of us, who, as yet spared to life, bestowed our time and thoughts on\nour fellow creatures. We nerved ourselves to the task: \"in the midst of\ndespair we performed the tasks of hope.\" We went out with the resolution of\ndisputing with our foe. We aided the sick, and comforted the sorrowing;\nturning from the multitudinous dead to the rare survivors, with an energy\nof desire that bore the resemblance of power, we bade them--live. Plague\nsat paramount the while, and laughed us to scorn.\n\nHave any of you, my readers, observed the ruins of an anthill immediately\nafter its destruction? At first it appears entirely deserted of its former\ninhabitants; in a little time you see an ant struggling through the\nupturned mould; they reappear by twos and threes, running hither and\nthither in search of their lost companions. Such were we upon earth,\nwondering aghast at the effects of pestilence. Our empty habitations\nremained, but the dwellers were gathered to the shades of the tomb.\n\nAs the rules of order and pressure of laws were lost, some began with\nhesitation and wonder to transgress the accustomed uses of society. Palaces\nwere deserted, and the poor man dared at length, unreproved, intrude into\nthe splendid apartments, whose very furniture and decorations were an\nunknown world to him. It was found, that, though at first the stop put\nto all circulation of property, had reduced those before supported by the\nfactitious wants of society to sudden and hideous poverty, yet when the\nboundaries of private possession were thrown down, the products of human\nlabour at present existing were more, far more, than the thinned generation\ncould possibly consume. To some among the poor this was matter of\nexultation. We were all equal now; magnificent dwellings, luxurious\ncarpets, and beds of down, were afforded to all. Carriages and horses,\ngardens, pictures, statues, and princely libraries, there were enough of\nthese even to superfluity; and there was nothing to prevent each from\nassuming possession of his share. We were all equal now; but near at hand\nwas an equality still more levelling, a state where beauty and strength,\nand wisdom, would be as vain as riches and birth. The grave yawned beneath\nus all, and its prospect prevented any of us from enjoying the ease and\nplenty which in so awful a manner was presented to us.\n\nStill the bloom did not fade on the cheeks of my babes; and Clara sprung up\nin years and growth, unsullied by disease. We had no reason to think the\nsite of Windsor Castle peculiarly healthy, for many other families had\nexpired beneath its roof; we lived therefore without any particular\nprecaution; but we lived, it seemed, in safety. If Idris became thin and\npale, it was anxiety that occasioned the change; an anxiety I could in no\nway alleviate. She never complained, but sleep and appetite fled from her,\na slow fever preyed on her veins, her colour was hectic, and she often wept\nin secret; gloomy prognostications, care, and agonizing dread, ate up the\nprinciple of life within her. I could not fail to perceive this change. I\noften wished that I had permitted her to take her own course, and engage\nherself in such labours for the welfare of others as might have distracted\nher thoughts. But it was too late now. Besides that, with the nearly\nextinct race of man, all our toils grew near a conclusion, she was too\nweak; consumption, if so it might be called, or rather the over active life\nwithin her, which, as with Adrian, spent the vital oil in the early morning\nhours, deprived her limbs of strength. At night, when she could leave me\nunperceived, she wandered through the house, or hung over the couches of\nher children; and in the day time would sink into a perturbed sleep, while\nher murmurs and starts betrayed the unquiet dreams that vexed her. As this\nstate of wretchedness became more confirmed, and, in spite of her\nendeavours at concealment more apparent, I strove, though vainly, to awaken\nin her courage and hope. I could not wonder at the vehemence of her care;\nher very soul was tenderness; she trusted indeed that she should not\noutlive me if I became the prey of the vast calamity, and this thought\nsometimes relieved her. We had for many years trod the highway of life hand\nin hand, and still thus linked, we might step within the shades of death;\nbut her children, her lovely, playful, animated children--beings sprung\nfrom her own dear side--portions of her own being--depositories of our\nloves--even if we died, it would be comfort to know that they ran man's\naccustomed course. But it would not be so; young and blooming as they were,\nthey would die, and from the hopes of maturity, from the proud name of\nattained manhood, they were cut off for ever. Often with maternal affection\nshe had figured their merits and talents exerted on life's wide stage. Alas\nfor these latter days! The world had grown old, and all its inmates partook\nof the decrepitude. Why talk of infancy, manhood, and old age? We all stood\nequal sharers of the last throes of time-worn nature. Arrived at the same\npoint of the world's age--there was no difference in us; the name of\nparent and child had lost their meaning; young boys and girls were level\nnow with men. This was all true; but it was not less agonizing to take the\nadmonition home.\n\nWhere could we turn, and not find a desolation pregnant with the dire\nlesson of example? The fields had been left uncultivated, weeds and gaudy\nflowers sprung up,--or where a few wheat-fields shewed signs of the\nliving hopes of the husbandman, the work had been left halfway, the\nploughman had died beside the plough; the horses had deserted the furrow,\nand no seedsman had approached the dead; the cattle unattended wandered\nover the fields and through the lanes; the tame inhabitants of the poultry\nyard, baulked of their daily food, had become wild--young lambs were\ndropt in flower-gardens, and the cow stalled in the hall of pleasure.\nSickly and few, the country people neither went out to sow nor reap; but\nsauntered about the meadows, or lay under the hedges, when the inclement\nsky did not drive them to take shelter under the nearest roof. Many of\nthose who remained, secluded themselves; some had laid up stores which\nshould prevent the necessity of leaving their homes;--some deserted wife\nand child, and imagined that they secured their safety in utter solitude.\nSuch had been Ryland's plan, and he was discovered dead and half-devoured\nby insects, in a house many miles from any other, with piles of food laid\nup in useless superfluity. Others made long journies to unite themselves to\nthose they loved, and arrived to find them dead.\n\nLondon did not contain above a thousand inhabitants; and this number was\ncontinually diminishing. Most of them were country people, come up for the\nsake of change; the Londoners had sought the country. The busy eastern part\nof the town was silent, or at most you saw only where, half from cupidity,\nhalf from curiosity, the warehouses had been more ransacked than pillaged:\nbales of rich India goods, shawls of price, jewels, and spices, unpacked,\nstrewed the floors. In some places the possessor had to the last kept watch\non his store, and died before the barred gates. The massy portals of the\nchurches swung creaking on their hinges; and some few lay dead on the\npavement. The wretched female, loveless victim of vulgar brutality, had\nwandered to the toilet of high-born beauty, and, arraying herself in the\ngarb of splendour, had died before the mirror which reflected to herself\nalone her altered appearance. Women whose delicate feet had seldom touched\nthe earth in their luxury, had fled in fright and horror from their homes,\ntill, losing themselves in the squalid streets of the metropolis, they had\ndied on the threshold of poverty. The heart sickened at the variety of\nmisery presented; and, when I saw a specimen of this gloomy change, my soul\nached with the fear of what might befall my beloved Idris and my babes.\nWere they, surviving Adrian and myself, to find themselves protectorless in\nthe world? As yet the mind alone had suffered--could I for ever put off\nthe time, when the delicate frame and shrinking nerves of my child of\nprosperity, the nursling of rank and wealth, who was my companion, should\nbe invaded by famine, hardship, and disease? Better die at once--better\nplunge a poinard in her bosom, still untouched by drear adversity, and then\nagain sheathe it in my own! But, no; in times of misery we must fight\nagainst our destinies, and strive not to be overcome by them. I would not\nyield, but to the last gasp resolutely defended my dear ones against sorrow\nand pain; and if I were vanquished at last, it should not be ingloriously.\nI stood in the gap, resisting the enemy--the impalpable, invisible foe,\nwho had so long besieged us--as yet he had made no breach: it must be my\ncare that he should not, secretly undermining, burst up within the very\nthreshold of the temple of love, at whose altar I daily sacrificed. The\nhunger of Death was now stung more sharply by the diminution of his food:\nor was it that before, the survivors being many, the dead were less eagerly\ncounted? Now each life was a gem, each human breathing form of far, O! far\nmore worth than subtlest imagery of sculptured stone; and the daily, nay,\nhourly decrease visible in our numbers, visited the heart with sickening\nmisery. This summer extinguished our hopes, the vessel of society was\nwrecked, and the shattered raft, which carried the few survivors over the\nsea of misery, was riven and tempest tost. Man existed by twos and threes;\nman, the individual who might sleep, and wake, and perform the animal\nfunctions; but man, in himself weak, yet more powerful in congregated\nnumbers than wind or ocean; man, the queller of the elements, the lord of\ncreated nature, the peer of demi-gods, existed no longer.\n\nFarewell to the patriotic scene, to the love of liberty and well earned\nmeed of virtuous aspiration!--farewell to crowded senate, vocal with the\ncouncils of the wise, whose laws were keener than the sword blade tempered\nat Damascus!--farewell to kingly pomp and warlike pageantry; the crowns\nare in the dust, and the wearers are in their graves!--farewell to the\ndesire of rule, and the hope of victory; to high vaulting ambition, to the\nappetite for praise, and the craving for the suffrage of their fellows! The\nnations are no longer! No senate sits in council for the dead; no scion of\na time honoured dynasty pants to rule over the inhabitants of a charnel\nhouse; the general's hand is cold, and the soldier has his untimely grave\ndug in his native fields, unhonoured, though in youth. The market-place is\nempty, the candidate for popular favour finds none whom he can represent.\nTo chambers of painted state farewell!--To midnight revelry, and the\npanting emulation of beauty, to costly dress and birth-day shew, to title\nand the gilded coronet, farewell!\n\nFarewell to the giant powers of man,--to knowledge that could pilot the\ndeep-drawing bark through the opposing waters of shoreless ocean,--to\nscience that directed the silken balloon through the pathless air,--to\nthe power that could put a barrier to mighty waters, and set in motion\nwheels, and beams, and vast machinery, that could divide rocks of granite\nor marble, and make the mountains plain!\n\nFarewell to the arts,--to eloquence, which is to the human mind as the\nwinds to the sea, stirring, and then allaying it;--farewell to poetry and\ndeep philosophy, for man's imagination is cold, and his enquiring mind can\nno longer expatiate on the wonders of life, for \"there is no work, nor\ndevice, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest!\"--to\nthe graceful building, which in its perfect proportion transcended the rude\nforms of nature, the fretted gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the\nstupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted column with its capital,\nCorinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and fair entablature, whose\nharmony of form is to the eye as musical concord to the ear!--farewell to\nsculpture, where the pure marble mocks human flesh, and in the plastic\nexpression of the culled excellencies of the human shape, shines forth the\ngod!--farewell to painting, the high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge\nof the artists's mind in pictured canvas--to paradisaical scenes, where\ntrees are ever vernal, and the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:--to\nthe stamped form of tempest, and wildest uproar of universal nature encaged\nin the narrow frame, O farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song;\nto the marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft and harsh unites\nin sweet harmony, and gives wings to the panting listeners, whereby to\nclimb heaven, and learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!--Farewell\nto the well-trod stage; a truer tragedy is enacted on the world's ample\nscene, that puts to shame mimic grief: to high-bred comedy, and the low\nbuffoon, farewell!--Man may laugh no more. Alas! to enumerate the\nadornments of humanity, shews, by what we have lost, how supremely great\nman was. It is all over now. He is solitary; like our first parents\nexpelled from Paradise, he looks back towards the scene he has quitted. The\nhigh walls of the tomb, and the flaming sword of plague, lie between it and\nhim. Like to our first parents, the whole earth is before him, a wide\ndesart. Unsupported and weak, let him wander through fields where the\nunreaped corn stands in barren plenty, through copses planted by his\nfathers, through towns built for his use. Posterity is no more; fame, and\nambition, and love, are words void of meaning; even as the cattle that\ngrazes in the field, do thou, O deserted one, lie down at evening-tide,\nunknowing of the past, careless of the future, for from such fond ignorance\nalone canst thou hope for ease!\n\nJoy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not\nfeel poverty--for delight is as a gold-tissued robe, and crowns them with\npriceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and mingles\nintoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch with roses,\nand makes labour ease.\n\nSorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down back; plants thorns in the\nunyielding pillow; mingles gall with water; adds saltness to their bitter\nbread; cloathing them in rags, and strewing ashes on their bare heads. To\nour irremediable distress every small and pelting inconvenience came with\nadded force; we had strung our frames to endure the Atlean weight thrown on\nus; we sank beneath the added feather chance threw on us, \"the grasshopper\nwas a burthen.\" Many of the survivors had been bred in luxury--their\nservants were gone, their powers of command vanished like unreal shadows:\nthe poor even suffered various privations; and the idea of another winter\nlike the last, brought affright to our minds. Was it not enough that we\nmust die, but toil must be added?--must we prepare our funeral repast\nwith labour, and with unseemly drudgery heap fuel on our deserted hearths\n--must we with servile hands fabricate the garments, soon to be our\nshroud?\n\nNot so! We are presently to die, let us then enjoy to its full relish the\nremnant of our lives. Sordid care, avaunt! menial labours, and pains,\nslight in themselves, but too gigantic for our exhausted strength, shall\nmake no part of our ephemeral existences. In the beginning of time, when,\nas now, man lived by families, and not by tribes or nations, they were\nplaced in a genial clime, where earth fed them untilled, and the balmy air\nenwrapt their reposing limbs with warmth more pleasant than beds of down.\nThe south is the native place of the human race; the land of fruits, more\ngrateful to man than the hard-earned Ceres of the north,--of trees, whose\nboughs are as a palace-roof, of couches of roses, and of the\nthirst-appeasing grape. We need not there fear cold and hunger.\n\nLook at England! the grass shoots up high in the meadows; but they are dank\nand cold, unfit bed for us. Corn we have none, and the crude fruits cannot\nsupport us. We must seek firing in the bowels of the earth, or the unkind\natmosphere will fill us with rheums and aches. The labour of hundreds of\nthousands alone could make this inclement nook fit habitation for one man.\nTo the south then, to the sun!--where nature is kind, where Jove has\nshowered forth the contents of Amalthea's horn, and earth is garden.\n\nEngland, late birth-place of excellence and school of the wise, thy\nchildren are gone, thy glory faded! Thou, England, wert the triumph of man!\nSmall favour was shewn thee by thy Creator, thou Isle of the North; a\nragged canvas naturally, painted by man with alien colours; but the hues he\ngave are faded, never more to be renewed. So we must leave thee, thou\nmarvel of the world; we must bid farewell to thy clouds, and cold, and\nscarcity for ever! Thy manly hearts are still; thy tale of power and\nliberty at its close! Bereft of man, O little isle! the ocean waves will\nbuffet thee, and the raven flap his wings over thee; thy soil will be\nbirth-place of weeds, thy sky will canopy barrenness. It was not for the\nrose of Persia thou wert famous, nor the banana of the east; not for the\nspicy gales of India, nor the sugar groves of America; not for thy vines\nnor thy double harvests, nor for thy vernal airs, nor solstitial sun--but\nfor thy children, their unwearied industry and lofty aspiration. They are\ngone, and thou goest with them the oft trodden path that leads to oblivion,\n--\n\n  Farewell, sad Isle, farewell, thy fatal glory\n  Is summed, cast up, and cancelled in this story.[2]\n\n[1] Elton's translation of Hesiod.\n[2] Cleveland's Poems.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nIN the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of emigration crept in among\nthe few survivors, who, congregating from various parts of England, met in\nLondon. This spirit existed as a breath, a wish, a far off thought, until\ncommunicated to Adrian, who imbibed it with ardour, and instantly engaged\nhimself in plans for its execution. The fear of immediate death vanished\nwith the heats of September. Another winter was before us, and we might\nelect our mode of passing it to the best advantage. Perhaps in rational\nphilosophy none could be better chosen than this scheme of migration, which\nwould draw us from the immediate scene of our woe, and, leading us through\npleasant and picturesque countries, amuse for a time our despair. The idea\nonce broached, all were impatient to put it in execution.\n\nWe were still at Windsor; our renewed hopes medicined the anguish we had\nsuffered from the late tragedies. The death of many of our inmates had\nweaned us from the fond idea, that Windsor Castle was a spot sacred from\nthe plague; but our lease of life was renewed for some months, and even\nIdris lifted her head, as a lily after a storm, when a last sunbeam tinges\nits silver cup. Just at this time Adrian came down to us; his eager looks\nshewed us that he was full of some scheme. He hastened to take me aside,\nand disclosed to me with rapidity his plan of emigration from England.\n\nTo leave England for ever! to turn from its polluted fields and groves,\nand, placing the sea between us, to quit it, as a sailor quits the rock on\nwhich he has been wrecked, when the saving ship rides by. Such was his\nplan.\n\nTo leave the country of our fathers, made holy by their graves!--We could\nnot feel even as a voluntary exile of old, who might for pleasure or\nconvenience forsake his native soil; though thousands of miles might divide\nhim, England was still a part of him, as he of her. He heard of the passing\nevents of the day; he knew that, if he returned, and resumed his place in\nsociety, the entrance was still open, and it required but the will, to\nsurround himself at once with the associations and habits of boyhood. Not\nso with us, the remnant. We left none to represent us, none to repeople the\ndesart land, and the name of England died, when we left her,\n\n  In vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety.\n\nYet let us go! England is in her shroud,--we may not enchain ourselves to\na corpse. Let us go--the world is our country now, and we will choose for\nour residence its most fertile spot. Shall we, in these desart halls, under\nthis wintry sky, sit with closed eyes and folded hands, expecting death?\nLet us rather go out to meet it gallantly: or perhaps--for all this\npendulous orb, this fair gem in the sky's diadem, is not surely\nplague-striken--perhaps, in some secluded nook, amidst eternal spring,\nand waving trees, and purling streams, we may find Life. The world is vast,\nand England, though her many fields and wide spread woods seem\ninterminable, is but a small part of her. At the close of a day's march\nover high mountains and through snowy vallies, we may come upon health, and\ncommitting our loved ones to its charge, replant the uprooted tree of\nhumanity, and send to late posterity the tale of the ante-pestilential\nrace, the heroes and sages of the lost state of things.\n\nHope beckons and sorrow urges us, the heart beats high with expectation,\nand this eager desire of change must be an omen of success. O come!\nFarewell to the dead! farewell to the tombs of those we loved!--farewell\nto giant London and the placid Thames, to river and mountain or fair\ndistrict, birth-place of the wise and good, to Windsor Forest and its\nantique castle, farewell! themes for story alone are they,--we must live\nelsewhere.\n\nSuch were in part the arguments of Adrian, uttered with enthusiasm and\nunanswerable rapidity. Something more was in his heart, to which he dared\nnot give words. He felt that the end of time was come; he knew that one by\none we should dwindle into nothingness. It was not adviseable to wait this\nsad consummation in our native country; but travelling would give us our\nobject for each day, that would distract our thoughts from the\nswift-approaching end of things. If we went to Italy, to sacred and eternal\nRome, we might with greater patience submit to the decree, which had laid\nher mighty towers low. We might lose our selfish grief in the sublime\naspect of its desolation. All this was in the mind of Adrian; but he\nthought of my children, and, instead of communicating to me these resources\nof despair, he called up the image of health and life to be found, where we\nknew not--when we knew not; but if never to be found, for ever and for\never to be sought. He won me over to his party, heart and soul.\n\nIt devolved on me to disclose our plan to Idris. The images of health and\nhope which I presented to her, made her with a smile consent. With a smile\nshe agreed to leave her country, from which she had never before been\nabsent, and the spot she had inhabited from infancy; the forest and its\nmighty trees, the woodland paths and green recesses, where she had played\nin childhood, and had lived so happily through youth; she would leave them\nwithout regret, for she hoped to purchase thus the lives of her children.\nThey were her life; dearer than a spot consecrated to love, dearer than all\nelse the earth contained. The boys heard with childish glee of our removal:\nClara asked if we were to go to Athens. \"It is possible,\" I replied; and\nher countenance became radiant with pleasure. There she would behold the\ntomb of her parents, and the territory filled with recollections of her\nfather's glory. In silence, but without respite, she had brooded over these\nscenes. It was the recollection of them that had turned her infant gaiety\nto seriousness, and had impressed her with high and restless thoughts.\n\nThere were many dear friends whom we must not leave behind, humble though\nthey were. There was the spirited and obedient steed which Lord Raymond had\ngiven his daughter; there was Alfred's dog and a pet eagle, whose sight was\ndimmed through age. But this catalogue of favourites to be taken with us,\ncould not be made without grief to think of our heavy losses, and a deep\nsigh for the many things we must leave behind. The tears rushed into the\neyes of Idris, while Alfred and Evelyn brought now a favourite rose tree,\nnow a marble vase beautifully carved, insisting that these must go, and\nexclaiming on the pity that we could not take the castle and the forest,\nthe deer and the birds, and all accustomed and cherished objects along with\nus. \"Fond and foolish ones,\" I said, \"we have lost for ever treasures far\nmore precious than these; and we desert them, to preserve treasures to\nwhich in comparison they are nothing. Let us not for a moment forget our\nobject and our hope; and they will form a resistless mound to stop the\noverflowing of our regret for trifles.\"\n\nThe children were easily distracted, and again returned to their prospect\nof future amusement. Idris had disappeared. She had gone to hide her\nweakness; escaping from the castle, she had descended to the little park,\nand sought solitude, that she might there indulge her tears; I found her\nclinging round an old oak, pressing its rough trunk with her roseate lips,\nas her tears fell plenteously, and her sobs and broken exclamations could\nnot be suppressed; with surpassing grief I beheld this loved one of my\nheart thus lost in sorrow! I drew her towards me; and, as she felt my\nkisses on her eyelids, as she felt my arms press her, she revived to the\nknowledge of what remained to her. \"You are very kind not to reproach me,\"\nshe said: \"I weep, and a bitter pang of intolerable sorrow tears my heart.\nAnd yet I am happy; mothers lament their children, wives lose their\nhusbands, while you and my children are left to me. Yes, I am happy, most\nhappy, that I can weep thus for imaginary sorrows, and that the slight loss\nof my adored country is not dwindled and annihilated in mightier misery.\nTake me where you will; where you and my children are, there shall be\nWindsor, and every country will be England to me. Let these tears flow not\nfor myself, happy and ungrateful as I am, but for the dead world--for our\nlost country--for all of love, and life, and joy, now choked in the dusty\nchambers of death.\"\n\nShe spoke quickly, as if to convince herself; she turned her eyes from the\ntrees and forest-paths she loved; she hid her face in my bosom, and we--\nyes, my masculine firmness dissolved--we wept together consolatory tears,\nand then calm--nay, almost cheerful, we returned to the castle.\n\nThe first cold weather of an English October, made us hasten our\npreparations. I persuaded Idris to go up to London, where she might better\nattend to necessary arrangements. I did not tell her, that to spare her the\npang of parting from inanimate objects, now the only things left, I had\nresolved that we should none of us return to Windsor. For the last time we\nlooked on the wide extent of country visible from the terrace, and saw the\nlast rays of the sun tinge the dark masses of wood variegated by autumnal\ntints; the uncultivated fields and smokeless cottages lay in shadow below;\nthe Thames wound through the wide plain, and the venerable pile of Eton\ncollege, stood in dark relief, a prominent object; the cawing of the myriad\nrooks which inhabited the trees of the little park, as in column or thick\nwedge they speeded to their nests, disturbed the silence of evening. Nature\nwas the same, as when she was the kind mother of the human race; now,\nchildless and forlorn, her fertility was a mockery; her loveliness a mask\nfor deformity. Why should the breeze gently stir the trees, man felt not\nits refreshment? Why did dark night adorn herself with stars--man saw\nthem not? Why are there fruits, or flowers, or streams, man is not here to\nenjoy them?\n\nIdris stood beside me, her dear hand locked in mine. Her face was radiant\nwith a smile.--\"The sun is alone,\" she said, \"but we are not. A strange\nstar, my Lionel, ruled our birth; sadly and with dismay we may look upon\nthe annihilation of man; but we remain for each other. Did I ever in the\nwide world seek other than thee? And since in the wide world thou\nremainest, why should I complain? Thou and nature are still true to me.\nBeneath the shades of night, and through the day, whose garish light\ndisplays our solitude, thou wilt still be at my side, and even Windsor will\nnot be regretted.\"\n\nI had chosen night time for our journey to London, that the change and\ndesolation of the country might be the less observable. Our only surviving\nservant drove us. We past down the steep hill, and entered the dusky avenue\nof the Long Walk. At times like these, minute circumstances assume giant\nand majestic proportions; the very swinging open of the white gate that\nadmitted us into the forest, arrested my thoughts as matter of interest; it\nwas an every day act, never to occur again! The setting crescent of the\nmoon glittered through the massy trees to our right, and when we entered\nthe park, we scared a troop of deer, that fled bounding away in the forest\nshades. Our two boys quietly slept; once, before our road turned from the\nview, I looked back on the castle. Its windows glistened in the moonshine,\nand its heavy outline lay in a dark mass against the sky--the trees near\nus waved a solemn dirge to the midnight breeze. Idris leaned back in the\ncarriage; her two hands pressed mine, her countenance was placid, she\nseemed to lose the sense of what she now left, in the memory of what she\nstill possessed.\n\nMy thoughts were sad and solemn, yet not of unmingled pain. The very excess\nof our misery carried a relief with it, giving sublimity and elevation to\nsorrow. I felt that I carried with me those I best loved; I was pleased,\nafter a long separation to rejoin Adrian; never again to part. I felt that\nI quitted what I loved, not what loved me. The castle walls, and long\nfamiliar trees, did not hear the parting sound of our carriage-wheels with\nregret. And, while I felt Idris to be near, and heard the regular breathing\nof my children, I could not be unhappy. Clara was greatly moved; with\nstreaming eyes, suppressing her sobs, she leaned from the window, watching\nthe last glimpse of her native Windsor.\n\nAdrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was all animation; you could no\nlonger trace in his look of health, the suffering valetudinarian; from his\nsmile and sprightly tones you could not guess that he was about to lead\nforth from their native country, the numbered remnant of the English\nnation, into the tenantless realms of the south, there to die, one by one,\ntill the LAST MAN should remain in a voiceless, empty world.\n\nAdrian was impatient for our departure, and had advanced far in his\npreparations. His wisdom guided all. His care was the soul, to move the\nluckless crowd, who relied wholly on him. It was useless to provide many\nthings, for we should find abundant provision in every town. It was\nAdrian's wish to prevent all labour; to bestow a festive appearance on this\nfuneral train. Our numbers amounted to not quite two thousand persons.\nThese were not all assembled in London, but each day witnessed the arrival\nof fresh numbers, and those who resided in the neighbouring towns, had\nreceived orders to assemble at one place, on the twentieth of November.\nCarriages and horses were provided for all; captains and under officers\nchosen, and the whole assemblage wisely organized. All obeyed the Lord\nProtector of dying England; all looked up to him. His council was chosen,\nit consisted of about fifty persons. Distinction and station were not the\nqualifications of their election. We had no station among us, but that\nwhich benevolence and prudence gave; no distinction save between the living\nand the dead. Although we were anxious to leave England before the depth of\nwinter, yet we were detained. Small parties had been dispatched to various\nparts of England, in search of stragglers; we would not go, until we had\nassured ourselves that in all human probability we did not leave behind a\nsingle human being.\n\nOn our arrival in London, we found that the aged Countess of Windsor was\nresiding with her son in the palace of the Protectorate; we repaired to our\naccustomed abode near Hyde Park. Idris now for the first time for many\nyears saw her mother, anxious to assure herself that the childishness of\nold age did not mingle with unforgotten pride, to make this high-born dame\nstill so inveterate against me. Age and care had furrowed her cheeks, and\nbent her form; but her eye was still bright, her manners authoritative and\nunchanged; she received her daughter coldly, but displayed more feeling as\nshe folded her grand-children in her arms. It is our nature to wish to\ncontinue our systems and thoughts to posterity through our own offspring.\nThe Countess had failed in this design with regard to her children; perhaps\nshe hoped to find the next remove in birth more tractable. Once Idris named\nme casually--a frown, a convulsive gesture of anger, shook her mother,\nand, with voice trembling with hate, she said--\"I am of little worth in\nthis world; the young are impatient to push the old off the scene; but,\nIdris, if you do not wish to see your mother expire at your feet, never\nagain name that person to me; all else I can bear; and now I am resigned to\nthe destruction of my cherished hopes: but it is too much to require that I\nshould love the instrument that providence gifted with murderous properties\nfor my destruction.\"\n\nThis was a strange speech, now that, on the empty stage, each might play\nhis part without impediment from the other. But the haughty Ex-Queen\nthought as Octavius Caesar and Mark Antony,\n\n  We could not stall together\n  In the whole world.\n\nThe period of our departure was fixed for the twenty-fifth of November. The\nweather was temperate; soft rains fell at night, and by day the wintry sun\nshone out. Our numbers were to move forward in separate parties, and to go\nby different routes, all to unite at last at Paris. Adrian and his\ndivision, consisting in all of five hundred persons, were to take the\ndirection of Dover and Calais. On the twentieth of November, Adrian and I\nrode for the last time through the streets of London. They were grass-grown\nand desert. The open doors of the empty mansions creaked upon their hinges;\nrank herbage, and deforming dirt, had swiftly accumulated on the steps of\nthe houses; the voiceless steeples of the churches pierced the smokeless\nair; the churches were open, but no prayer was offered at the altars;\nmildew and damp had already defaced their ornaments; birds, and tame\nanimals, now homeless, had built nests, and made their lairs in consecrated\nspots. We passed St. Paul's. London, which had extended so far in suburbs\nin all direction, had been somewhat deserted in the midst, and much of what\nhad in former days obscured this vast building was removed. Its ponderous\nmass, blackened stone, and high dome, made it look, not like a temple, but\na tomb. Methought above the portico was engraved the Hic jacet of England.\nWe passed on eastwards, engaged in such solemn talk as the times inspired.\nNo human step was heard, nor human form discerned. Troops of dogs, deserted\nof their masters, passed us; and now and then a horse, unbridled and\nunsaddled, trotted towards us, and tried to attract the attention of those\nwhich we rode, as if to allure them to seek like liberty. An unwieldy ox,\nwho had fed in an abandoned granary, suddenly lowed, and shewed his\nshapeless form in a narrow door-way; every thing was desert; but nothing\nwas in ruin. And this medley of undamaged buildings, and luxurious\naccommodation, in trim and fresh youth, was contrasted with the lonely\nsilence of the unpeopled streets.\n\nNight closed in, and it began to rain. We were about to return homewards,\nwhen a voice, a human voice, strange now to hear, attracted our attention.\nIt was a child singing a merry, lightsome air; there was no other sound. We\nhad traversed London from Hyde Park even to where we now were in the\nMinories, and had met no person, heard no voice nor footstep. The singing\nwas interrupted by laughing and talking; never was merry ditty so sadly\ntimed, never laughter more akin to tears. The door of the house from which\nthese sounds proceeded was open, the upper rooms were illuminated as for a\nfeast. It was a large magnificent house, in which doubtless some rich\nmerchant had lived. The singing again commenced, and rang through the\nhigh-roofed rooms, while we silently ascended the stair-case. Lights now\nappeared to guide us; and a long suite of splendid rooms illuminated, made\nus still more wonder. Their only inhabitant, a little girl, was dancing,\nwaltzing, and singing about them, followed by a large Newfoundland dog, who\nboisterously jumping on her, and interrupting her, made her now scold, now\nlaugh, now throw herself on the carpet to play with him. She was dressed\ngrotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit for a woman; she appeared\nabout ten years of age. We stood at the door looking on this strange scene,\ntill the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child turned and saw us: her\nface, losing its gaiety, assumed a sullen expression: she slunk back,\napparently meditating an escape. I came up to her, and held her hand; she\ndid not resist, but with a stern brow, so strange in childhood, so\ndifferent from her former hilarity, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the\nground. \"What do you do here?\" I said gently; \"Who are you?\"--she was\nsilent, but trembled violently.--\"My poor child,\" asked Adrian, \"are you\nalone?\" There was a winning softness in his voice, that went to the heart\nof the little girl; she looked at him, then snatching her hand from me,\nthrew herself into his arms, clinging round his neck, ejaculating--\"Save\nme! save me!\" while her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.\n\n\"I will save you,\" he replied, \"of what are you afraid? you need not fear\nmy friend, he will do you no harm. Are you alone?\"\n\n\"No, Lion is with me.\"\n\n\"And your father and mother?--\"\n\n\"I never had any; I am a charity girl. Every body is gone, gone for a\ngreat, great many days; but if they come back and find me out, they will\nbeat me so!\"\n\nHer unhappy story was told in these few words: an orphan, taken on\npretended charity, ill-treated and reviled, her oppressors had died:\nunknowing of what had passed around her, she found herself alone; she had\nnot dared venture out, but by the continuance of her solitude her courage\nrevived, her childish vivacity caused her to play a thousand freaks, and\nwith her brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing nothing but the\nreturn of the harsh voices and cruel usage of her protectors. She readily\nconsented to go with Adrian.\n\nIn the mean time, while we descanted on alien sorrows, and on a solitude\nwhich struck our eyes and not our hearts, while we imagined all of change\nand suffering that had intervened in these once thronged streets, before,\ntenantless and abandoned, they became mere kennels for dogs, and stables\nfor cattle:--while we read the death of the world upon the dark fane, and\nhugged ourselves in the remembrance that we possessed that which was all\nthe world to us--in the meanwhile---\n\nWe had arrived from Windsor early in October, and had now been in London\nabout six weeks. Day by day, during that time, the health of my Idris\ndeclined: her heart was broken; neither sleep nor appetite, the chosen\nservants of health, waited on her wasted form. To watch her children hour\nby hour, to sit by me, drinking deep the dear persuasion that I remained to\nher, was all her pastime. Her vivacity, so long assumed, her affectionate\ndisplay of cheerfulness, her light-hearted tone and springy gait were gone.\nI could not disguise to myself, nor could she conceal, her life-consuming\nsorrow. Still change of scene, and reviving hopes might restore her; I\nfeared the plague only, and she was untouched by that.\n\nI had left her this evening, reposing after the fatigues of her\npreparations. Clara sat beside her, relating a story to the two boys. The\neyes of Idris were closed: but Clara perceived a sudden change in the\nappearance of our eldest darling; his heavy lids veiled his eyes, an\nunnatural colour burnt in his cheeks, his breath became short. Clara looked\nat the mother; she slept, yet started at the pause the narrator made--\nFear of awakening and alarming her, caused Clara to go on at the eager call\nof Evelyn, who was unaware of what was passing. Her eyes turned alternately\nfrom Alfred to Idris; with trembling accents she continued her tale, till\nshe saw the child about to fall: starting forward she caught him, and her\ncry roused Idris. She looked on her son. She saw death stealing across his\nfeatures; she laid him on a bed, she held drink to his parched lips.\n\nYet he might be saved. If I were there, he might be saved; perhaps it was\nnot the plague. Without a counsellor, what could she do? stay and behold\nhim die! Why at that moment was I away? \"Look to him, Clara,\" she\nexclaimed, \"I will return immediately.\"\n\nShe inquired among those who, selected as the companions of our journey,\nhad taken up their residence in our house; she heard from them merely that\nI had gone out with Adrian. She entreated them to seek me: she returned to\nher child, he was plunged in a frightful state of torpor; again she rushed\ndown stairs; all was dark, desert, and silent; she lost all\nself-possession; she ran into the street; she called on my name. The\npattering rain and howling wind alone replied to her. Wild fear gave wings\nto her feet; she darted forward to seek me, she knew not where; but,\nputting all her thoughts, all her energy, all her being in speed only, most\nmisdirected speed, she neither felt, nor feared, nor paused, but ran right\non, till her strength suddenly deserted her so suddenly, that she had not\nthought to save herself. Her knees failed her, and she fell heavily on the\npavement. She was stunned for a time; but at length rose, and though sorely\nhurt, still walked on, shedding a fountain of tears, stumbling at times,\ngoing she knew not whither, only now and then with feeble voice she called\nmy name, adding with heart-piercing exclamations, that I was cruel and\nunkind. Human being there was none to reply; and the inclemency of the\nnight had driven the wandering animals to the habitations they had usurped.\nHer thin dress was drenched with rain; her wet hair clung round her neck;\nshe tottered through the dark streets; till, striking her foot against an\nunseen impediment, she again fell; she could not rise; she hardly strove;\nbut, gathering up her limbs, she resigned herself to the fury of the\nelements, and the bitter grief of her own heart. She breathed an earnest\nprayer to die speedily, for there was no relief but death. While hopeless\nof safety for herself, she ceased to lament for her dying child, but shed\nkindly, bitter tears for the grief I should experience in losing her. While\nshe lay, life almost suspended, she felt a warm, soft hand on her brow, and\na gentle female voice asked her, with expressions of tender compassion, if\nshe could not rise? That another human being, sympathetic and kind, should\nexist near, roused her; half rising, with clasped hands, and fresh\nspringing tears, she entreated her companion to seek for me, to bid me\nhasten to my dying child, to save him, for the love of heaven, to save\nhim!\n\nThe woman raised her; she led her under shelter, she entreated her to\nreturn to her home, whither perhaps I had already returned. Idris easily\nyielded to her persuasions, she leaned on the arm of her friend, she\nendeavoured to walk on, but irresistible faintness made her pause again and\nagain.\n\nQuickened by the encreasing storm, we had hastened our return, our little\ncharge was placed before Adrian on his horse. There was an assemblage of\npersons under the portico of our house, in whose gestures I instinctively\nread some heavy change, some new misfortune. With swift alarm, afraid to\nask a single question, I leapt from my horse; the spectators saw me, knew\nme, and in awful silence divided to make way for me. I snatched a light,\nand rushing up stairs, and hearing a groan, without reflection I threw open\nthe door of the first room that presented itself. It was quite dark; but,\nas I stept within, a pernicious scent assailed my senses, producing\nsickening qualms, which made their way to my very heart, while I felt my\nleg clasped, and a groan repeated by the person that held me. I lowered my\nlamp, and saw a negro half clad, writhing under the agony of disease, while\nhe held me with a convulsive grasp. With mixed horror and impatience I\nstrove to disengage myself, and fell on the sufferer; he wound his naked\nfestering arms round me, his face was close to mine, and his breath,\ndeath-laden, entered my vitals. For a moment I was overcome, my head was\nbowed by aching nausea; till, reflection returning, I sprung up, threw the\nwretch from me, and darting up the staircase, entered the chamber usually\ninhabited by my family. A dim light shewed me Alfred on a couch; Clara\ntrembling, and paler than whitest snow, had raised him on her arm, holding\na cup of water to his lips. I saw full well that no spark of life existed\nin that ruined form, his features were rigid, his eyes glazed, his head had\nfallen back. I took him from her, I laid him softly down, kissed his cold\nlittle mouth, and turned to speak in a vain whisper, when loudest sound of\nthunderlike cannon could not have reached him in his immaterial abode.\n\nAnd where was Idris? That she had gone out to seek me, and had not\nreturned, were fearful tidings, while the rain and driving wind clattered\nagainst the window, and roared round the house. Added to this, the\nsickening sensation of disease gained upon me; no time was to be lost, if\never I would see her again. I mounted my horse and rode out to seek her,\nfancying that I heard her voice in every gust, oppressed by fever and\naching pain.\n\nI rode in the dark and rain through the labyrinthine streets of unpeopled\nLondon. My child lay dead at home; the seeds of mortal disease had taken\nroot in my bosom; I went to seek Idris, my adored, now wandering alone,\nwhile the waters were rushing from heaven like a cataract to bathe her dear\nhead in chill damp, her fair limbs in numbing cold. A female stood on the\nstep of a door, and called to me as I gallopped past. It was not Idris; so\nI rode swiftly on, until a kind of second sight, a reflection back again on\nmy senses of what I had seen but not marked, made me feel sure that another\nfigure, thin, graceful and tall, stood clinging to the foremost person who\nsupported her. In a minute I was beside the suppliant, in a minute I\nreceived the sinking Idris in my arms. Lifting her up, I placed her on the\nhorse; she had not strength to support herself; so I mounted\nbehind her, and held her close to my bosom, wrapping my riding-cloak round\nher, while her companion, whose well known, but changed countenance, (it\nwas Juliet, daughter of the Duke of L---) could at this moment of horror\nobtain from me no more than a passing glance of compassion. She took the\nabandoned rein, and conducted our obedient steed homewards. Dare I avouch\nit? That was the last moment of my happiness; but I was happy. Idris must\ndie, for her heart was broken: I must die, for I had caught the plague;\nearth was a scene of desolation; hope was madness; life had married death;\nthey were one; but, thus supporting my fainting love, thus feeling that I\nmust soon die, I revelled in the delight of possessing her once more; again\nand again I kissed her, and pressed her to my heart.\n\nWe arrived at our home. I assisted her to dismount, I carried her up\nstairs, and gave her into Clara's care, that her wet garments might be\nchanged. Briefly I assured Adrian of her safety, and requested that we\nmight be left to repose. As the miser, who with trembling caution visits\nhis treasure to count it again and again, so I numbered each moment, and\ngrudged every one that was not spent with Idris. I returned swiftly to the\nchamber where the life of my life reposed; before I entered the room I\npaused for a few seconds; for a few seconds I tried to examine my state;\nsickness and shuddering ever and anon came over me; my head was heavy, my\nchest oppressed, my legs bent under me; but I threw off resolutely the\nswift growing symptoms of my disorder, and met Idris with placid and even\njoyous looks. She was lying on a couch; carefully fastening the door to\nprevent all intrusion; I sat by her, we embraced, and our lips met in a\nkiss long drawn and breathless--would that moment had been my last!\n\nMaternal feeling now awoke in my poor girl's bosom, and she asked: \"And\nAlfred?\"\n\n\"Idris,\" I replied, \"we are spared to each other, we are together;\ndo not let any other idea intrude. I am happy; even on this fatal night, I\ndeclare myself happy, beyond all name, all thought--what would you more,\nsweet one?\"\n\nIdris understood me: she bowed her head on my shoulder and wept. \"Why,\" she\nagain asked, \"do you tremble, Lionel, what shakes you thus?\"\n\n\"Well may I be shaken,\" I replied, \"happy as I am. Our child is dead, and\nthe present hour is dark and ominous. Well may I tremble! but, I am happy,\nmine own Idris, most happy.\"\n\n\"I understand thee, my kind love,\" said Idris, \"thus--pale as thou art\nwith sorrow at our loss; trembling and aghast, though wouldest assuage my\ngrief by thy dear assurances. I am not happy,\" (and the tears flashed and\nfell from under her down-cast lids), \"for we are inmates of a miserable\nprison, and there is no joy for us; but the true love I bear you will\nrender this and every other loss endurable.\"\n\n\"We have been happy together, at least,\" I said; \"no future misery can\ndeprive us of the past. We have been true to each other for years, ever\nsince my sweet princess-love came through the snow to the lowly cottage\nof the poverty-striken heir of the ruined Verney. Even now, that eternity\nis before us, we take hope only from the presence of each other. Idris,\ndo you think, that when we die, we shall be divided?\"\n\n\"Die! when we die! what mean you? What secret lies hid from me in those\ndreadful words?\"\n\n\"Must we not all die, dearest?\" I asked with a sad smile.\n\n\"Gracious God! are you ill, Lionel, that you speak of death? My only\nfriend, heart of my heart, speak!\"\n\n\"I do not think,\" replied I, \"that we have any of us long to live; and when\nthe curtain drops on this mortal scene, where, think you, we shall find\nourselves?\" Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone and look; she\nanswered:--\"You may easily believe that during this long progress of the\nplague, I have thought much on death, and asked myself, now that all\nmankind is dead to this life, to what other life they may have been borne.\nHour after hour, I have dwelt on these thoughts, and strove to form a\nrational conclusion concerning the mystery of a future state. What a\nscare-crow, indeed, would death be, if we were merely to cast aside the\nshadow in which we now walk, and, stepping forth into the unclouded\nsunshine of knowledge and love, revived with the same companions, the same\naffections, and reached the fulfilment of our hopes, leaving our fears with\nour earthly vesture in the grave. Alas! the same strong feeling which makes\nme sure that I shall not wholly die, makes me refuse to believe that I\nshall live wholly as I do now. Yet, Lionel, never, never, can I love any\nbut you; through eternity I must desire your society; and, as I am innocent\nof harm to others, and as relying and confident as my mortal nature\npermits, I trust that the Ruler of the world will never tear us asunder.\"\n\n\"Your remarks are like yourself, dear love,\" replied I, \"gentle and good;\nlet us cherish such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our minds. But,\nsweet, we are so formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our nature, to\nyield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we must love life, and\ncling to it; we must love the living smile, the sympathetic touch, and\nthrilling voice, peculiar to our mortal mechanism. Let us not, through\nsecurity in hereafter, neglect the present. This present moment, short as\nit is, is a part of eternity, and the dearest part, since it is our own\nunalienably. Thou, the hope of my futurity, art my present joy. Let me then\nlook on thy dear eyes, and, reading love in them, drink intoxicating\npleasure.\"\n\nTimidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris looked on me. My\neyes were bloodshot, starting from my head; every artery beat, methought,\naudibly, every muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt. Her look of wild\naffright told me, that I could no longer keep my secret:--\"So it is, mine\nown beloved,\" I said, \"the last hour of many happy ones is arrived, nor can\nwe shun any longer the inevitable destiny. I cannot live long--but, again\nand again, I say, this moment is ours!\"\n\nPaler than marble, with white lips and convulsed features, Idris became\naware of my situation. My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist. She felt the\npalm burn with fever, even on the heart it pressed:--\"One moment,\" she\nmurmured, scarce audibly, \"only one moment.\"--\n\nShe kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered a brief, but earnest\nprayer, that she might fulfil her duty, and watch over me to the last.\nWhile there was hope, the agony had been unendurable;--all was now\nconcluded; her feelings became solemn and calm. Even as Epicharis,\nunperturbed and firm, submitted to the instruments of torture, did Idris,\nsuppressing every sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the endurance of\ntorments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint and metaphysical\nsymbols.\n\nI was changed; the tight-drawn cord that sounded so harshly was loosened,\nthe moment that Idris participated in my knowledge of our real situation.\nThe perturbed and passion-tossed waves of thought subsided, leaving only\nthe heavy swell that kept right on without any outward manifestation of its\ndisturbance, till it should break on the remote shore towards which I\nrapidly advanced:--\"It is true that I am sick,\" I said, \"and your\nsociety, my Idris is my only medicine; come, and sit beside me.\"\n\nShe made me lie down on the couch, and, drawing a low ottoman near, sat\nclose to my pillow, pressing my burning hands in her cold palms. She\nyielded to my feverish restlessness, and let me talk, and talked to me, on\nsubjects strange indeed to beings, who thus looked the last, and heard the\nlast, of what they loved alone in the world. We talked of times gone by; of\nthe happy period of our early love; of Raymond, Perdita, and Evadne. We\ntalked of what might arise on this desert earth, if, two or three being\nsaved, it were slowly re-peopled.--We talked of what was beyond the tomb;\nand, man in his human shape being nearly extinct, we felt with certainty of\nfaith, that other spirits, other minds, other perceptive beings, sightless\nto us, must people with thought and love this beauteous and imperishable\nuniverse.\n\nWe talked--I know not how long--but, in the morning I awoke from a\npainful heavy slumber; the pale cheek of Idris rested on my pillow; the\nlarge orbs of her eyes half raised the lids, and shewed the deep blue\nlights beneath; her lips were unclosed, and the slight murmurs they formed\ntold that, even while asleep, she suffered. \"If she were dead,\" I thought,\n\"what difference? now that form is the temple of a residing deity; those\neyes are the windows of her soul; all grace, love, and intelligence are\nthroned on that lovely bosom--were she dead, where would this mind, the\ndearer half of mine, be? For quickly the fair proportion of this edifice\nwould be more defaced, than are the sand-choked ruins of the desert temples\nof Palmyra.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nIDRIS stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery. She saw the signs of\ndisease on my countenance, and wondered how she could permit the long night\nto pass without her having sought, not cure, that was impossible, but\nalleviation to my sufferings. She called Adrian; my couch was quickly\nsurrounded by friends and assistants, and such medicines as were judged\nfitting were administered. It was the peculiar and dreadful distinction of\nour visitation, that none who had been attacked by the pestilence had\nrecovered. The first symptom of the disease was the death-warrant, which in\nno single instance had been followed by pardon or reprieve. No gleam of\nhope therefore cheered my friends.\n\nWhile fever producing torpor, heavy pains, sitting like lead on my limbs,\nand making my breast heave, were upon me; I continued insensible to every\nthing but pain, and at last even to that. I awoke on the fourth morning as\nfrom a dreamless sleep. An irritating sense of thirst, and, when I strove\nto speak or move, an entire dereliction of power, was all I felt.\n\nFor three days and nights Idris had not moved from my side. She\nadministered to all my wants, and never slept nor rested. She did not hope;\nand therefore she neither endeavoured to read the physician's countenance,\nnor to watch for symptoms of recovery. All her thought was to attend on me\nto the last, and then to lie down and die beside me. On the third night\nanimation was suspended; to the eye and touch of all I was dead. With\nearnest prayer, almost with force, Adrian tried to draw Idris from me. He\nexhausted every adjuration, her child's welfare and his own. She shook her\nhead, and wiped a stealing tear from her sunk cheek, but would not yield;\nshe entreated to be allowed to watch me that one night only, with such\naffliction and meek earnestness, that she gained her point, and sat silent\nand motionless, except when, stung by intolerable remembrance, she kissed\nmy closed eyes and pallid lips, and pressed my stiffening hands to her\nbeating heart.\n\nAt dead of night, when, though it was mid winter, the cock crowed at three\no'clock, as herald of the morning change, while hanging over me, and\nmourning in silent, bitter thought for the loss of all of love towards her\nthat had been enshrined in my heart; her dishevelled hair hung over her\nface, and the long tresses fell on the bed; she saw one ringlet in motion,\nand the scattered hair slightly stirred, as by a breath. It is not so, she\nthought, for he will never breathe more. Several times the same thing\noccurred, and she only marked it by the same reflection; till the whole\nringlet waved back, and she thought she saw my breast heave. Her first\nemotion was deadly fear, cold dew stood on her brow; my eyes half opened;\nand, re-assured, she would have exclaimed, \"He lives!\" but the words were\nchoked by a spasm, and she fell with a groan on the floor.\n\nAdrian was in the chamber. After long watching, he had unwillingly fallen\ninto a sleep. He started up, and beheld his sister senseless on the earth,\nweltering in a stream of blood that gushed from her mouth. Encreasing signs\nof life in me in some degree explained her state; the surprise, the burst\nof joy, the revulsion of every sentiment, had been too much for her frame,\nworn by long months of care, late shattered by every species of woe and\ntoil. She was now in far greater danger than I, the wheels and springs of\nmy life, once again set in motion, acquired elasticity from their short\nsuspension. For a long time, no one believed that I should indeed continue\nto live; during the reign of the plague upon earth, not one person,\nattacked by the grim disease, had recovered. My restoration was looked on\nas a deception; every moment it was expected that the evil symptoms would\nrecur with redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence, absence of\nall fever or pain, and encreasing strength, brought slow conviction that I\nhad recovered from the plague.\n\nThe restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I had been attacked\nby illness, her cheeks were sunk, her form emaciated; but now, the vessel,\nwhich had broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did not entirely\nheal, but was as a channel that drop by drop drew from her the ruddy stream\nthat vivified her heart. Her hollow eyes and worn countenance had a ghastly\nappearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair brow, the projection of the\nmouth, stood fearfully prominent; you might tell each bone in the thin\nanatomy of her frame. Her hand hung powerless; each joint lay bare, so that\nthe light penetrated through and through. It was strange that life could\nexist in what was wasted and worn into a very type of death.\n\nTo take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead her to forget the\nworld's desolation in the variety of objects presented by travelling, and\nto nurse her failing strength in the mild climate towards which we had\nresolved to journey, was my last hope for her preservation. The\npreparations for our departure, which had been suspended during my illness,\nwere renewed. I did not revive to doubtful convalescence; health spent her\ntreasures upon me; as the tree in spring may feel from its wrinkled limbs\nthe fresh green break forth, and the living sap rise and circulate, so did\nthe renewed vigour of my frame, the cheerful current of my blood, the\nnew-born elasticity of my limbs, influence my mind to cheerful endurance\nand pleasurable thoughts. My body, late the heavy weight that bound me to\nthe tomb, was exuberant with health; mere common exercises were\ninsufficient for my reviving strength; methought I could emulate the speed\nof the race-horse, discern through the air objects at a blinding distance,\nhear the operations of nature in her mute abodes; my senses had become so\nrefined and susceptible after my recovery from mortal disease.\n\nHope, among my other blessings, was not denied to me; and I did fondly\ntrust that my unwearied attentions would restore my adored girl. I was\ntherefore eager to forward our preparations. According to the plan first\nlaid down, we were to have quitted London on the twenty-fifth of November;\nand, in pursuance of this scheme, two-thirds of our people--thepeople--\nall that remained of England, had gone forward, and had already been some\nweeks in Paris. First my illness, and subsequently that of Idris, had\ndetained Adrian with his division, which consisted of three hundred\npersons, so that we now departed on the first of January, 2098. It was my\nwish to keep Idris as distant as possible from the hurry and clamour of the\ncrowd, and to hide from her those appearances that would remind her most\nforcibly of our real situation. We separated ourselves to a great degree\nfrom Adrian, who was obliged to give his whole time to public business. The\nCountess of Windsor travelled with her son. Clara, Evelyn, and a female who\nacted as our attendant, were the only persons with whom we had contact. We\noccupied a commodious carriage, our servant officiated as coachman. A party\nof about twenty persons preceded us at a small distance. They had it in\ncharge to prepare our halting places and our nightly abode. They had been\nselected for this service out of a great number that offered, on account of\nthe superior sagacity of the man who had been appointed their leader.\n\nImmediately on our departure, I was delighted to find a change in Idris,\nwhich I fondly hoped prognosticated the happiest results. All the\ncheerfulness and gentle gaiety natural to her revived. She was weak, and\nthis alteration was rather displayed in looks and voice than in acts; but\nit was permanent and real. My recovery from the plague and confirmed health\ninstilled into her a firm belief that I was now secure from this dread\nenemy. She told me that she was sure she should recover. That she had a\npresentiment, that the tide of calamity which deluged our unhappy race had\nnow turned. That the remnant would be preserved, and among them the dear\nobjects of her tender affection; and that in some selected spot we should\nwear out our lives together in pleasant society. \"Do not let my state of\nfeebleness deceive you,\" she said; \"I feel that I am better; there is a\nquick life within me, and a spirit of anticipation that assures me, that I\nshall continue long to make a part of this world. I shall throw off this\ndegrading weakness of body, which infects even my mind with debility, and I\nshall enter again on the performance of my duties. I was sorry to leave\nWindsor: but now I am weaned from this local attachment; I am content to\nremove to a mild climate, which will complete my recovery. Trust me,\ndearest, I shall neither leave you, nor my brother, nor these dear\nchildren; my firm determination to remain with you to the last, and to\ncontinue to contribute to your happiness and welfare, would keep me alive,\neven if grim death were nearer at hand than he really is.\"\n\nI was only half re-assured by these expressions; I could not believe that\nthe over-quick flow of her blood was a sign of health, or that her burning\ncheeks denoted convalescence. But I had no fears of an immediate\ncatastrophe; nay, I persuaded myself that she would ultimately recover. And\nthus cheerfulness reigned in our little society. Idris conversed with\nanimation on a thousand topics. Her chief desire was to lead our thoughts\nfrom melancholy reflections; so she drew charming pictures of a tranquil\nsolitude, of a beauteous retreat, of the simple manners of our little\ntribe, and of the patriarchal brotherhood of love, which would survive the\nruins of the populous nations which had lately existed. We shut out from\nour thoughts the present, and withdrew our eyes from the dreary landscape\nwe traversed. Winter reigned in all its gloom. The leafless trees lay\nwithout motion against the dun sky; the forms of frost, mimicking the\nfoliage of summer, strewed the ground; the paths were overgrown; the\nunploughed cornfields were patched with grass and weeds; the sheep\ncongregated at the threshold of the cottage, the horned ox thrust his head\nfrom the window. The wind was bleak, and frequent sleet or snow-storms,\nadded to the melancholy appearance wintry nature assumed.\n\nWe arrived at Rochester, and an accident caused us to be detained there a\nday. During that time, a circumstance occurred that changed our plans, and\nwhich, alas! in its result changed the eternal course of events, turning me\nfrom the pleasant new sprung hope I enjoyed, to an obscure and gloomy\ndesert. But I must give some little explanation before I proceed with the\nfinal cause of our temporary alteration of plan, and refer again to those\ntimes when man walked the earth fearless, before Plague had become Queen of\nthe World.\n\nThere resided a family in the neighbourhood of Windsor, of very humble\npretensions, but which had been an object of interest to us on account of\none of the persons of whom it was composed. The family of the Claytons had\nknown better days; but, after a series of reverses, the father died a\nbankrupt, and the mother heartbroken, and a confirmed invalid, retired with\nher five children to a little cottage between Eton and Salt Hill. The\neldest of these children, who was thirteen years old, seemed at once from\nthe influence of adversity, to acquire the sagacity and principle belonging\nto a more mature age. Her mother grew worse and worse in health, but Lucy\nattended on her, and was as a tender parent to her younger brothers and\nsisters, and in the meantime shewed herself so good-humoured, social, and\nbenevolent, that she was beloved as well as honoured, in her little\nneighbourhood.\n\nLucy was besides extremely pretty; so when she grew to be sixteen, it was\nto be supposed, notwithstanding her poverty, that she should have admirers.\nOne of these was the son of a country-curate; he was a generous,\nfrank-hearted youth, with an ardent love of knowledge, and no mean\nacquirements. Though Lucy was untaught, her mother's conversation and\nmanners gave her a taste for refinements superior to her present situation.\nShe loved the youth even without knowing it, except that in any difficulty\nshe naturally turned to him for aid, and awoke with a lighter heart every\nSunday, because she knew that she would be met and accompanied by him in\nher evening walk with her sisters. She had another admirer, one of the\nhead-waiters at the inn at Salt Hill. He also was not without pretensions\nto urbane superiority, such as he learnt from gentlemen's servants and\nwaiting-maids, who initiating him in all the slang of high life below\nstairs, rendered his arrogant temper ten times more intrusive. Lucy did not\ndisclaim him--she was incapable of that feeling; but she was sorry when\nshe saw him approach, and quietly resisted all his endeavours to establish\nan intimacy. The fellow soon discovered that his rival was preferred to\nhim; and this changed what was at first a chance admiration into a passion,\nwhose main springs were envy, and a base desire to deprive his competitor\nof the advantage he enjoyed over himself.\n\nPoor Lucy's sad story was but a common one. Her lover's father died; and he\nwas left destitute. He accepted the offer of a gentleman to go to India\nwith him, feeling secure that he should soon acquire an independence, and\nreturn to claim the hand of his beloved. He became involved in the war\ncarried on there, was taken prisoner, and years elapsed before tidings of\nhis existence were received in his native land. In the meantime disastrous\npoverty came on Lucy. Her little cottage, which stood looking from its\ntrellice, covered with woodbine and jessamine, was burnt down; and the\nwhole of their little property was included in the destruction. Whither\nbetake them? By what exertion of industry could Lucy procure them another\nabode? Her mother nearly bed-rid, could not survive any extreme of\nfamine-struck poverty. At this time her other admirer stept forward, and\nrenewed his offer of marriage. He had saved money, and was going to set up\na little inn at Datchet. There was nothing alluring to Lucy in this offer,\nexcept the home it secured to her mother; and she felt more sure of this,\nsince she was struck by the apparent generosity which occasioned the\npresent offer. She accepted it; thus sacrificing herself for the comfort\nand welfare of her parent.\n\nIt was some years after her marriage that we became acquainted with her.\nThe accident of a storm caused us to take refuge in the inn, where we\nwitnessed the brutal and quarrelsome behaviour of her husband, and her\npatient endurance. Her lot was not a fortunate one. Her first lover had\nreturned with the hope of making her his own, and met her by accident, for\nthe first time, as the mistress of his country inn, and the wife of\nanother. He withdrew despairingly to foreign parts; nothing went well with\nhim; at last he enlisted, and came back again wounded and sick, and yet\nLucy was debarred from nursing him. Her husband's brutal disposition was\naggravated by his yielding to the many temptations held out by his\nsituation, and the consequent disarrangement of his affairs. Fortunately\nshe had no children; but her heart was bound up in her brothers and\nsisters, and these his avarice and ill temper soon drove from the house;\nthey were dispersed about the country, earning their livelihood with toil\nand care. He even shewed an inclination to get rid of her mother--but\nLucy was firm here--she had sacrificed herself for her; she lived for her\n--she would not part with her--if the mother went, she would also go beg\nbread for her, die with her, but never desert her. The presence of Lucy was\ntoo necessary in keeping up the order of the house, and in preventing the\nwhole establishment from going to wreck, for him to permit her to leave\nhim. He yielded the point; but in all accesses of anger, or in his drunken\nfits, he recurred to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy's heart by\nopprobrious epithets bestowed on her parent.\n\nA passion however, if it be wholly pure, entire, and reciprocal, brings\nwith it its own solace. Lucy was truly, and from the depth of heart,\ndevoted to her mother; the sole end she proposed to herself in life, was\nthe comfort and preservation of this parent. Though she grieved for the\nresult, yet she did not repent of her marriage, even when her lover\nreturned to bestow competence on her. Three years had intervened, and how,\nin their pennyless state, could her mother have existed during this time?\nThis excellent woman was worthy of her child's devotion. A perfect\nconfidence and friendship existed between them; besides, she was by no\nmeans illiterate; and Lucy, whose mind had been in some degree cultivated\nby her former lover, now found in her the only person who could understand\nand appreciate her. Thus, though suffering, she was by no means desolate,\nand when, during fine summer days, she led her mother into the flowery and\nshady lanes near their abode, a gleam of unmixed joy enlightened her\ncountenance; she saw that her parent was happy, and she knew that this\nhappiness was of her sole creating.\n\nMeanwhile her husband's affairs grew more and more involved; ruin was near\nat hand, and she was about to lose the fruit of all her labours, when\npestilence came to change the aspect of the world. Her husband reaped\nbenefit from the universal misery; but, as the disaster encreased, the\nspirit of lawlessness seized him; he deserted his home to revel in the\nluxuries promised him in London, and found there a grave. Her former lover\nhad been one of the first victims of the disease. But Lucy continued to\nlive for and in her mother. Her courage only failed when she dreaded peril\nfor her parent, or feared that death might prevent her from performing\nthose duties to which she was unalterably devoted.\n\nWhen we had quitted Windsor for London, as the previous step to our final\nemigration, we visited Lucy, and arranged with her the plan of her own and\nher mother's removal. Lucy was sorry at the necessity which forced her to\nquit her native lanes and village, and to drag an infirm parent from her\ncomforts at home, to the homeless waste of depopulate earth; but she was\ntoo well disciplined by adversity, and of too sweet a temper, to indulge in\nrepinings at what was inevitable.\n\nSubsequent circumstances, my illness and that of Idris, drove her from our\nremembrance; and we called her to mind at last, only to conclude that she\nmade one of the few who came from Windsor to join the emigrants, and that\nshe was already in Paris. When we arrived at Rochester therefore, we were\nsurprised to receive, by a man just come from Slough, a letter from this\nexemplary sufferer. His account was, that, journeying from his home, and\npassing through Datchet, he was surprised to see smoke issue from the\nchimney of the inn, and supposing that he should find comrades for his\njourney assembled there, he knocked and was admitted. There was no one in\nthe house but Lucy, and her mother; the latter had been deprived of the use\nof her limbs by an attack of rheumatism, and so, one by one, all the\nremaining inhabitants of the country set forward, leaving them alone. Lucy\nintreated the man to stay with her; in a week or two her mother would be\nbetter, and they would then set out; but they must perish, if they were\nleft thus helpless and forlorn. The man said, that his wife and children\nwere already among the emigrants, and it was therefore, according to his\nnotion, impossible for him to remain. Lucy, as a last resource, gave him a\nletter for Idris, to be delivered to her wherever he should meet us. This\ncommission at least he fulfilled, and Idris received with emotion the\nfollowing letter:--\n\n\"HONOURED LADY,\n\n\"I am sure that you will remember and pity me, and I dare hope that you\nwill assist me; what other hope have I? Pardon my manner of writing, I am\nso bewildered. A month ago my dear mother was deprived of the use of her\nlimbs. She is already better, and in another month would I am sure be able\nto travel, in the way you were so kind as to say you would arrange for us.\nBut now everybody is gone--everybody--as they went away, each said,\nthat perhaps my mother would be better, before we were quite deserted. But\nthree days ago I went to Samuel Woods, who, on account of his new-born\nchild, remained to the last; and there being a large family of them, I\nthought I could persuade them to wait a little longer for us; but I found\nthe house deserted. I have not seen a soul since, till this good man came.\n--What will become of us? My mother does not know our state; she is so\nill, that I have hidden it from her.\n\n\"Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must perish miserably as we\nare. If I were to try to move my mother now, she would die on the road; and\nif, when she gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to find out the\nroads, and get on so many many miles to the sea, you would all be in\nFrance, and the great ocean would be between us, which is so terrible even\nto sailors. What would it be to me, a woman, who never saw it? We should be\nimprisoned by it in this country, all, all alone, with no help; better die\nwhere we are. I can hardly write--I cannot stop my tears--it is not for\nmyself; I could put my trust in God; and let the worst come, I think I\ncould bear it, if I were alone. But my mother, my sick, my dear, dear\nmother, who never, since I was born, spoke a harsh word to me,\nwho has been patient in many sufferings; pity her, dear Lady,\nshe must die a miserable death if you do not pity her. People speak\ncarelessly of her, because she is old and infirm, as if we must not all, if\nwe are spared, become so; and then, when the young are old themselves, they\nwill think that they ought to be taken care of. It is very silly of me to\nwrite in this way to you; but, when I hear her trying not to groan, and see\nher look smiling on me to comfort me, when I know she is in pain; and when\nI think that she does not know the worst, but she soon must; and then she\nwill not complain; but I shall sit guessing at all that she is dwelling\nupon, of famine and misery--I feel as if my heart must break, and I do\nnot know what I say or do; my mother--mother for whom I have borne much,\nGod preserve you from this fate! Preserve her, Lady, and He will bless you;\nand I, poor miserable creature as I am, will thank you and pray for you\nwhile I live.\n\n\"Your unhappy and dutiful servant,\n\n\"Dec. 30th, 2097. LUCY MARTIN.\"\n\nThis letter deeply affected Idris, and she instantly proposed, that we\nshould return to Datchet, to assist Lucy and her mother. I said that I\nwould without delay set out for that place, but entreated her to join her\nbrother, and there await my return with the children. But Idris was in high\nspirits, and full of hope. She declared that she could not consent even to\na temporary separation from me, but that there was no need of this, the\nmotion of the carriage did her good, and the distance was too trifling to\nbe considered. We could dispatch messengers to Adrian, to inform him of our\ndeviation from the original plan. She spoke with vivacity, and drew a\npicture after her own dear heart, of the pleasure we should bestow upon\nLucy, and declared, if I went, she must accompany me, and that she should\nvery much dislike to entrust the charge of rescuing them to others, who\nmight fulfil it with coldness or inhumanity. Lucy's life had been one act\nof devotion and virtue; let her now reap the small reward of finding her\nexcellence appreciated, and her necessity assisted, by those whom she\nrespected and honoured.\n\nThese, and many other arguments, were urged with gentle pertinacity, and\nthe ardour of a wish to do all the good in her power, by her whose simple\nexpression of a desire and slightest request had ever been a law with me.\nI, of course, consented, the moment that I saw that she had set her heart\nupon this step. We sent half our attendant troop on to Adrian; and with the\nother half our carriage took a retrograde course back to Windsor.\n\nI wonder now how I could be so blind and senseless, as thus to risk the\nsafety of Idris; for, if I had eyes, surely I could see the sure, though\ndeceitful, advance of death in her burning cheek and encreasing weakness.\nBut she said she was better; and I believed her. Extinction could not be\nnear a being, whose vivacity and intelligence hourly encreased, and whose\nframe was endowed with an intense, and I fondly thought, a strong and\npermanent spirit of life. Who, after a great disaster, has not looked back\nwith wonder at his inconceivable obtuseness of understanding, that could\nnot perceive the many minute threads with which fate weaves the\ninextricable net of our destinies, until he is inmeshed completely in it?\n\nThe cross roads which we now entered upon, were even in a worse state than\nthe long neglected high-ways; and the inconvenience seemed to menace the\nperishing frame of Idris with destruction. Passing through Dartford, we\narrived at Hampton on the second day. Even in this short interval my\nbeloved companion grew sensibly worse in health, though her spirits were\nstill light, and she cheered my growing anxiety with gay sallies; sometimes\nthe thought pierced my brain--Is she dying?--as I saw her fair\nfleshless hand rest on mine, or observed the feebleness with which she\nperformed the accustomed acts of life. I drove away the idea, as if it had\nbeen suggested by insanity; but it occurred again and again, only to be\ndispelled by the continued liveliness of her manner.\n\nAbout mid-day, after quitting Hampton, our carriage broke down: the shock\ncaused Idris to faint, but on her reviving no other ill consequence ensued;\nour party of attendants had as usual gone on before us, and our coachman\nwent in search of another vehicle, our former one being rendered by this\naccident unfit for service. The only place near us was a poor village, in\nwhich he found a kind of caravan, able to hold four people, but it was\nclumsy and ill hung; besides this he found a very excellent cabriolet: our\nplan was soon arranged; I would drive Idris in the latter; while the\nchildren were conveyed by the servant in the former. But these arrangements\ncost time; we had agreed to proceed that night to Windsor, and thither our\npurveyors had gone: we should find considerable difficulty in getting\naccommodation, before we reached this place; after all, the distance was\nonly ten miles; my horse was a good one; I would go forward at a good pace\nwith Idris, leaving the children to follow at a rate more consonant to the\nuses of their cumberous machine.\n\nEvening closed in quickly, far more quickly than I was prepared to expect.\nAt the going down of the sun it began to snow heavily. I attempted in vain\nto defend my beloved companion from the storm; the wind drove the snow in\nour faces; and it lay so high on the ground, that we made but small way;\nwhile the night was so dark, that but for the white covering on the ground\nwe should not have been able to see a yard before us. We had left our\naccompanying caravan far behind us; and now I perceived that the storm had\nmade me unconsciously deviate from my intended route. I had gone some miles\nout of my way. My knowledge of the country enabled me to regain the right\nroad; but, instead of going, as at first agreed upon, by a cross road\nthrough Stanwell to Datchet, I was obliged to take the way of Egham and\nBishopgate. It was certain therefore that I should not be rejoined by the\nother vehicle, that I should not meet a single fellow-creature till we\narrived at Windsor.\n\nThe back of our carriage was drawn up, and I hung a pelisse before it, thus\nto curtain the beloved sufferer from the pelting sleet. She leaned on my\nshoulder, growing every moment more languid and feeble; at first she\nreplied to my words of cheer with affectionate thanks; but by degrees she\nsunk into silence; her head lay heavily upon me; I only knew that she lived\nby her irregular breathing and frequent sighs. For a moment I resolved to\nstop, and, opposing the back of the cabriolet to the force of the tempest,\nto expect morning as well as I might. But the wind was bleak and piercing,\nwhile the occasional shudderings of my poor Idris, and the intense cold I\nfelt myself, demonstrated that this would be a dangerous experiment. At\nlength methought she slept--fatal sleep, induced by frost: at this moment\nI saw the heavy outline of a cottage traced on the dark horizon close to\nus: \"Dearest love,\" I said, \"support yourself but one moment, and we shall\nhave shelter; let us stop here, that I may open the door of this blessed\ndwelling.\"\n\nAs I spoke, my heart was transported, and my senses swam with excessive\ndelight and thankfulness; I placed the head of Idris against the carriage,\nand, leaping out, scrambled through the snow to the cottage, whose door was\nopen. I had apparatus about me for procuring light, and that shewed me a\ncomfortable room, with a pile of wood in one corner, and no appearance of\ndisorder, except that, the door having been left partly open, the snow,\ndrifting in, had blocked up the threshold. I returned to the carriage, and\nthe sudden change from light to darkness at first blinded me. When I\nrecovered my sight--eternal God of this lawless world! O supreme Death! I\nwill not disturb thy silent reign, or mar my tale with fruitless\nexclamations of horror--I saw Idris, who had fallen from the seat to the\nbottom of the carriage; her head, its long hair pendent, with one arm, hung\nover the side.--Struck by a spasm of horror, I lifted her up; her heart\nwas pulseless, her faded lips unfanned by the slightest breath.\n\nI carried her into the cottage; I placed her on the bed. Lighting a fire, I\nchafed her stiffening limbs; for two long hours I sought to restore\ndeparted life; and, when hope was as dead as my beloved, I closed with\ntrembling hands her glazed eyes. I did not doubt what I should now do. In\nthe confusion attendant on my illness, the task of interring our darling\nAlfred had devolved on his grandmother, the Ex-Queen, and she, true to her\nruling passion, had caused him to be carried to Windsor, and buried in the\nfamily vault, in St. George's Chapel. I must proceed to Windsor, to calm\nthe anxiety of Clara, who would wait anxiously for us--yet I would fain\nspare her the heart-breaking spectacle of Idris, brought in by me lifeless\nfrom the journey. So first I would place my beloved beside her child in the\nvault, and then seek the poor children who would be expecting me.\n\nI lighted the lamps of my carriage; I wrapt her in furs, and placed her\nalong the seat; then taking the reins, made the horses go forward. We\nproceeded through the snow, which lay in masses impeding the way, while the\ndescending flakes, driving against me with redoubled fury, blinded me. The\npain occasioned by the angry elements, and the cold iron of the shafts of\nfrost which buffetted me, and entered my aching flesh, were a relief to me;\nblunting my mental suffering. The horses staggered on, and the reins hung\nloosely in my hands. I often thought I would lay my head close to the\nsweet, cold face of my lost angel, and thus resign myself to conquering\ntorpor. Yet I must not leave her a prey to the fowls of the air; but, in\npursuance of my determination place her in the tomb of her forefathers,\nwhere a merciful God might permit me to rest also.\n\nThe road we passed through Egham was familiar to me; but the wind and snow\ncaused the horses to drag their load slowly and heavily. Suddenly the wind\nveered from south-west to west, and then again to north-west. As Sampson\nwith tug and strain stirred from their bases the columns that supported the\nPhilistine temple, so did the gale shake the dense vapours propped on the\nhorizon, while the massy dome of clouds fell to the south, disclosing\nthrough the scattered web the clear empyrean, and the little stars, which\nwere set at an immeasurable distance in the crystalline fields, showered\ntheir small rays on the glittering snow. Even the horses were cheered, and\nmoved on with renovated strength. We entered the forest at Bishopgate, and\nat the end of the Long Walk I saw the Castle, \"the proud Keep of Windsor,\nrising in the majesty of proportion, girt with the double belt of its\nkindred and coeval towers.\" I looked with reverence on a structure, ancient\nalmost as the rock on which it stood, abode of kings, theme of admiration\nfor the wise. With greater reverence and, tearful affection I beheld it as\nthe asylum of the long lease of love I had enjoyed there with the\nperishable, unmatchable treasure of dust, which now lay cold beside me. Now\nindeed, I could have yielded to all the softness of my nature, and wept;\nand, womanlike, have uttered bitter plaints; while the familiar trees, the\nherds of living deer, the sward oft prest by her fairy-feet, one by one\nwith sad association presented themselves. The white gate at the end of the\nLong Walk was wide open, and I rode up the empty town through the first\ngate of the feudal tower; and now St. George's Chapel, with its blackened\nfretted sides, was right before me. I halted at its door, which was open; I\nentered, and placed my lighted lamp on the altar; then I returned, and with\ntender caution I bore Idris up the aisle into the chancel, and laid her\nsoftly down on the carpet which covered the step leading to the communion\ntable. The banners of the knights of the garter, and their half drawn\nswords, were hung in vain emblazonry above the stalls. The banner of her\nfamily hung there, still surmounted by its regal crown. Farewell to the\nglory and heraldry of England!--I turned from such vanity with a slight\nfeeling of wonder, at how mankind could have ever been interested in such\nthings. I bent over the lifeless corpse of my beloved; and, while looking\non her uncovered face, the features already contracted by the rigidity of\ndeath, I felt as if all the visible universe had grown as soulless, inane,\nand comfortless as the clay-cold image beneath me. I felt for a moment the\nintolerable sense of struggle with, and detestation for, the laws which\ngovern the world; till the calm still visible on the face of my dead love\nrecalled me to a more soothing tone of mind, and I proceeded to fulfil the\nlast office that could now be paid her. For her I could not lament, so much\nI envied her enjoyment of \"the sad immunities of the grave.\"\n\nThe vault had been lately opened to place our Alfred therein. The ceremony\ncustomary in these latter days had been cursorily performed, and the\npavement of the chapel, which was its entrance, having been removed, had\nnot been replaced. I descended the steps, and walked through the long\npassage to the large vault which contained the kindred dust of my Idris. I\ndistinguished the small coffin of my babe. With hasty, trembling hands I\nconstructed a bier beside it, spreading it with the furs and Indian shawls,\nwhich had wrapt Idris in her journey thither. I lighted the glimmering\nlamp, which flickered in this damp abode of the dead; then I bore my lost\none to her last bed, decently composing her limbs, and covering them with a\nmantle, veiling all except her face, which remained lovely and placid. She\nappeared to rest like one over-wearied, her beauteous eyes steeped in sweet\nslumber. Yet, so it was not--she was dead! How intensely I then longed to\nlie down beside her, to gaze till death should gather me to the same\nrepose.\n\nBut death does not come at the bidding of the miserable. I had lately\nrecovered from mortal illness, and my blood had never flowed with such an\neven current, nor had my limbs ever been so instinct with quick life, as\nnow. I felt that my death must be voluntary. Yet what more natural than\nfamine, as I watched in this chamber of mortality, placed in a world of the\ndead, beside the lost hope of my life? Meanwhile as I looked on her, the\nfeatures, which bore a sisterly resemblance to Adrian, brought my thoughts\nback again to the living, to this dear friend, to Clara, and to Evelyn, who\nwere probably now in Windsor, waiting anxiously for our arrival.\n\nMethought I heard a noise, a step in the far chapel, which was re-echoed by\nits vaulted roof, and borne to me through the hollow passages. Had Clara\nseen my carriage pass up the town, and did she seek me here? I must save\nher at least from the horrible scene the vault presented. I sprung up the\nsteps, and then saw a female figure, bent with age, and clad in long\nmourning robes, advance through the dusky chapel, supported by a slender\ncane, yet tottering even with this support. She heard me, and looked up;\nthe lamp I held illuminated my figure, and the moon-beams, struggling\nthrough the painted glass, fell upon her face, wrinkled and gaunt, yet with\na piercing eye and commanding brow--I recognized the Countess of Windsor.\nWith a hollow voice she asked, \"Where is the princess?\"\n\nI pointed to the torn up pavement: she walked to the spot, and looked down\ninto the palpable darkness; for the vault was too distant for the rays of\nthe small lamp I had left there to be discernible.\n\n\"Your light,\" she said. I gave it her; and she regarded the now visible,\nbut precipitous steps, as if calculating her capacity to descend.\nInstinctively I made a silent offer of my assistance. She motioned me away\nwith a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as she pointed downwards,\n\"There at least I may have her undisturbed.\"\n\nShe walked deliberately down, while I, overcome, miserable beyond words, or\ntears, or groans, threw myself on the pavement near--the stiffening form\nof Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance hushed in eternal\nrepose beneath. That was to me the end of all! The day before, I had\nfigured to my self various adventures, and communion with my friends in\nafter time--now I had leapt the interval, and reached the utmost edge and\nbourne of life. Thus wrapt in gloom, enclosed, walled up, vaulted over by\nthe omnipotent present, I was startled by the sound of feet on the steps of\nthe tomb, and I remembered her whom I had utterly forgotten, my angry\nvisitant; her tall form slowly rose upwards from the vault, a living\nstatue, instinct with hate, and human, passionate strife: she seemed to me\nas having reached the pavement of the aisle; she stood motionless, seeking\nwith her eyes alone, some desired object--till, perceiving me close to\nher, she placed her wrinkled hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous\naccents, \"Lionel Verney, my son!\" This name, applied at such a moment by my\nangel's mother, instilled into me more respect than I had ever before felt\nfor this disdainful lady. I bowed my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand,\nand, remarking that she trembled violently, supported her to the end of the\nchancel, where she sat on the steps that led to the regal stall. She\nsuffered herself to be led, and still holding my hand, she leaned her head\nback against the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with various colours\nby the painted glass, fell on her glistening eyes; aware of her weakness,\nagain calling to mind her long cherished dignity, she dashed the tears\naway; yet they fell fast, as she said, for excuse, \"She is so beautiful and\nplacid, even in death. No harsh feeling ever clouded her serene brow; how\ndid I treat her? wounding her gentle heart with savage coldness; I had no\ncompassion on her in past years, does she forgive me now? Little, little\ndoes it boot to talk of repentance and forgiveness to the dead, had I\nduring her life once consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged\nnature to do her pleasure, I should not feel thus.\"\n\nIdris and her mother were unlike in person. The dark hair, deep-set black\neyes, and prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in entire contrast to the\ngolden tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines and contour of her\ndaughter's countenance. Yet, in latter days, illness had taken from my poor\ngirl the full outline of her face, and reduced it to the inflexible shape\nof the bone beneath. In the form of her brow, in her oval chin, there was\nto be found a resemblance to her mother; nay in some moods, their gestures\nwere not unlike; nor, having lived so long together, was this wonderful.\n\nThere is a magic power in resemblance. When one we love dies, we hope to\nsee them in another state, and half expect that the agency of mind will\ninform its new garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture. But these\nare ideas of the mind only. We know that the instrument is shivered, the\nsensible image lies in miserable fragments, dissolved to dusty nothingness;\na look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs similar to the dead in a\nliving person, touches a thrilling chord, whose sacred harmony is felt in\nthe heart's dearest recess. Strangely moved, prostrate before this spectral\nimage, and enslaved by the force of blood manifested in likeness of look\nand movement, I remained trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and\ntill now unloved mother of Idris.\n\nPoor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she had cherished the\nidea, that a word, a look of reconciliation from her, would be received\nwith joy, and repay long years of severity. Now that the time was gone for\nthe exercise of such power, she fell at once upon the thorny truth of\nthings, and felt that neither smile nor caress could penetrate to the\nunconscious state, or influence the happiness of her who lay in the vault\nbeneath. This conviction, together with the remembrance of soft replies to\nbitter speeches, of gentle looks repaying angry glances; the perception of\nthe falsehood, paltryness and futility of her cherished dreams of birth and\npower; the overpowering knowledge, that love and life were the true\nemperors of our mortal state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul\nwith stormy and bewildering confusion. It fell to my lot, to come as the\ninfluential power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I\nspoke to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how\nher virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in her\npast career. I praised her, the idol of my heart's dear worship, the\nadmired type of feminine perfection. With ardent and overflowing eloquence,\nI relieved my heart from its burthen, and awoke to the sense of a new\npleasure in life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy. Then I referred to\nAdrian, her loved brother, and to her surviving child. I declared, which I\nhad before almost forgotten, what my duties were with regard to these\nvalued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy repentant mother\nreflect, how she could best expiate unkindness towards the dead, by\nredoubled love of the survivors. Consoling her, my own sorrows were\nassuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction.\n\nShe turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with a\nmild expression of face, and said, \"If our beloved angel sees us now, it\nwill delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were worthy\nof her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from me. Pardon,\nmy son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter words and unkind\ntreatment--take me, and govern me as you will.\"\n\nI seized this docile moment to propose our departure from the church.\n\"First,\" she said, \"let us replace the pavement above the vault.\"\n\nWe drew near to it; \"Shall we look on her again?\" I asked.\n\n\"I cannot,\" she replied, \"and, I pray you, neither do you. We need not\ntorture ourselves by gazing on the soulless body, while her living spirit\nis buried quick in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is so deeply\ncarved there, that sleeping or waking she must ever be present to us.\"\n\nFor a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the open vault. I\nconsecrated my future life, to the embalming of her dear memory; I vowed to\nserve her brother and her child till death. The convulsive sob of my\ncompanion made me break off my internal orisons. I next dragged the stones\nover the entrance of the tomb, and closed the gulph that contained the life\nof my life. Then, supporting my decrepid fellow-mourner, we slowly left the\nchapel. I felt, as I stepped into the open air, as if I had quitted an\nhappy nest of repose, for a dreary wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter,\njoyless, hopeless pilgrimage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nOUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night at the inn,\nopposite the ascent to the Castle. We could not again visit the halls and\nfamiliar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had already left for\never the glades of Windsor, and all of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and\nmurmuring stream, which gave shape and intensity to the love of our\ncountry, and the almost superstitious attachment with which we regarded\nnative England. It had been our intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling\nin Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises of aid and protection\nbefore we repaired to our quarters for the night. Now, as the Countess of\nWindsor and I turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we saw\nthe children, who had just stopped in their caravan, at the inn-door. They\nhad passed through Datchet without halting. I dreaded to meet them, and to\nbe the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were still occupied in the\nhurry of arrival, I suddenly left them, and through the snow and clear\nmoon-light air, hastened along the well known road to Datchet.\n\nWell known indeed it was. Each cottage stood on its accustomed site, each\ntree wore its familiar appearance. Habit had graven uneraseably on my\nmemory, every turn and change of object on the road. At a short distance\nbeyond the Little Park, was an elm half blown down by a storm, some ten\nyears ago; and still, with leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched\nacross the pathway, which wound through a meadow, beside a shallow brook,\nwhose brawling was silenced by frost--that stile, that white gate, that\nhollow oak tree, which doubtless once belonged to the forest, and which now\nshewed in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose fanciful appearance,\ntricked out by the dusk into a resemblance of the human form, the children\nhad given the name of Falstaff;--all these objects were as well known to\nme as the cold hearth of my deserted home, and every moss-grown wall and\nplot of orchard ground, alike as twin lambs are to each other in a\nstranger's eye, yet to my accustomed gaze bore differences, distinction,\nand a name. England remained, though England was dead--it was the ghost\nof merry England that I beheld, under those greenwood shade passing\ngenerations had sported in security and ease. To this painful recognition\nof familiar places, was added a feeling experienced by all, understood by\nnone--a feeling as if in some state, less visionary than a dream, in some\npast real existence, I had seen all I saw, with precisely the same feelings\nas I now beheld them--as if all my sensations were a duplex mirror of a\nformer revelation. To get rid of this oppressive sense I strove to imagine\nchange in this tranquil spot--this augmented my mood, by causing me to\nbestow more attention on the objects which occasioned me pain.\n\nI reached Datchet and Lucy's humble abode--once noisy with Saturday night\nrevellers, or trim and neat on Sunday morning it had borne testimony to the\nlabours and orderly habits of the housewife. The snow lay high about the\ndoor, as if it had remained unclosed for many days.\n\n\"What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?\" I muttered to myself as\nI looked at the dark casements. At first I thought I saw a light in one of\nthem, but it proved to be merely the refraction of the moon-beams, while\nthe only sound was the crackling branches as the breeze whirred the snow\nflakes from them--the moon sailed high and unclouded in the interminable\nether, while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the garden behind. I\nentered this by the open wicket, and anxiously examined each window. At\nlength I detected a ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one\nof the upper rooms--it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at any house\nand say there dwells its usual inmate--the door of the house was merely\non the latch: so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The door of\nthe inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw Lucy sitting as at work at\nthe table on which the light stood; the implements of needlework were about\nher, but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed on the ground,\nshewed by their vacancy that her thoughts wandered. Traces of care and\nwatching had diminished her former attractions--but her simple dress and\ncap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle that cast its light\nupon her, gave for a moment a picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful\nreality recalled me from the thought--a figure lay stretched on the bed\ncovered by a sheet--her mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all the\nworld, deserted and alone, watched beside the corpse during the weary\nnight. I entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first drew a\nscream from the lone survivor of a dead nation; but she recognised me, and\nrecovered herself, with the quick exercise of self-control habitual to her.\n\"Did you not expect me?\" I asked, in that low voice which the presence of\nthe dead makes us as it were instinctively assume.\n\n\"You are very good,\" replied she, \"to have come yourself; I can never thank\nyou sufficiently; but it is too late.\"\n\n\"Too late,\" cried I, \"what do you mean? It is not too late to take you from\nthis deserted place, and conduct you to---\"\n\nMy own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made me turn away, while\nchoking grief impeded my speech. I threw open the window, and looked on the\ncold, waning, ghastly, misshaped circle on high, and the chill white earth\nbeneath--did the spirit of sweet Idris sail along the moon-frozen crystal\nair?--No, no, a more genial atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely\nhers!\n\nI indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then again addressed the\nmourner, who stood leaning against the bed with that expression of resigned\ndespair, of complete misery, and a patient sufferance of it, which is far\nmore touching than any of the insane ravings or wild gesticulation of\nuntamed sorrow. I desired to draw her from this spot; but she opposed my\nwish. That class of persons whose imagination and sensibility have never\nbeen taken out of the narrow circle immediately in view, if they possess\nthese qualities to any extent, are apt to pour their influence into the\nvery realities which appear to destroy them, and to cling to these with\ndouble tenacity from not being able to comprehend any thing beyond. Thus\nLucy, in desert England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the usual\nceremonies of the dead, such as were customary to the English country\npeople, when death was a rare visitant, and gave us time to receive his\ndreaded usurpation with pomp and circumstance--going forth in procession\nto deliver the keys of the tomb into his conquering hand. She had already,\nalone as she was, accomplished some of these, and the work on which I found\nher employed, was her mother's shroud. My heart sickened at such detail of\nwoe, which a female can endure, but which is more painful to the masculine\nspirit than deadliest struggle, or throes of unutterable but transient\nagony.\n\nThis must not be, I told her; and then, as further inducement, I\ncommunicated to her my recent loss, and gave her the idea that she must\ncome with me to take charge of the orphan children, whom the death of Idris\nhad deprived of a mother's care. Lucy never resisted the call of a duty, so\nshe yielded, and closing the casements and doors with care, she accompanied\nme back to Windsor. As we went she communicated to me the occasion of her\nmother's death. Either by some mischance she had got sight of Lucy's letter\nto Idris, or she had overheard her conversation with the countryman who\nbore it; however it might be, she obtained a knowledge of the appalling\nsituation of herself and her daughter, her aged frame could not sustain the\nanxiety and horror this discovery instilled--she concealed her knowledge\nfrom Lucy, but brooded over it through sleepless nights, till fever and\ndelirium, swift forerunners of death, disclosed the secret. Her life, which\nhad long been hovering on its extinction, now yielded at once to the united\neffects of misery and sickness, and that same morning she had died.\n\nAfter the tumultuous emotions of the day, I was glad to find on my arrival\nat the inn that my companions had retired to rest. I gave Lucy in charge to\nthe Countess's attendant, and then sought repose from my various struggles\nand impatient regrets. For a few moments the events of the day floated in\ndisastrous pageant through my brain, till sleep bathed it in forgetfulness;\nwhen morning dawned and I awoke, it seemed as if my slumber had endured for\nyears.\n\nMy companions had not shared my oblivion. Clara's swollen eyes shewed that\nshe has passed the night in weeping. The Countess looked haggard and wan.\nHer firm spirit had not found relief in tears, and she suffered the more\nfrom all the painful retrospect and agonizing regret that now occupied her.\nWe departed from Windsor, as soon as the burial rites had been performed\nfor Lucy's mother, and, urged on by an impatient desire to change the\nscene, went forward towards Dover with speed, our escort having gone before\nto provide horses; finding them either in the warm stables they\ninstinctively sought during the cold weather, or standing shivering in the\nbleak fields ready to surrender their liberty in exchange for offered\ncorn.\n\nDuring our ride the Countess recounted to me the extraordinary\ncircumstances which had brought her so strangely to my side in the chancel\nof St. George's chapel. When last she had taken leave of Idris, as she\nlooked anxiously on her faded person and pallid countenance, she had\nsuddenly been visited by a conviction that she saw her for the last time.\nIt was hard to part with her while under the dominion of this sentiment,\nand for the last time she endeavoured to persuade her daughter to commit\nherself to her nursing, permitting me to join Adrian. Idris mildly refused,\nand thus they separated. The idea that they should never again meet grew on\nthe Countess's mind, and haunted her perpetually; a thousand times she had\nresolved to turn back and join us, and was again and again restrained by\nthe pride and anger of which she was the slave. Proud of heart as she was,\nshe bathed her pillow with nightly tears, and through the day was subdued\nby nervous agitation and expectation of the dreaded event, which she was\nwholly incapable of curbing. She confessed that at this period her hatred\nof me knew no bounds, since she considered me as the sole obstacle to the\nfulfilment of her dearest wish, that of attending upon her daughter in her\nlast moments. She desired to express her fears to her son, and to seek\nconsolation from his sympathy with, or courage from his rejection of, her\nauguries.\n\nOn the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked with him on the sea\nbeach, and with the timidity characteristic of passionate and exaggerated\nfeeling was by degrees bringing the conversation to the desired point, when\nshe could communicate her fears to him, when the messenger who bore my\nletter announcing our temporary return to Windsor, came riding down to\nthem. He gave some oral account of how he had left us, and added, that\nnotwithstanding the cheerfulness and good courage of Lady Idris, he was\nafraid that she would hardly reach Windsor alive. \"True,\" said the Countess,\n\"your fears are just, she is about to expire!\"\n\nAs she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow of the cliff, and\nshe saw, she averred the same to me with solemnity, Idris pacing slowly\ntowards this cave. She was turned from her, her head was bent down, her\nwhite dress was such as she was accustomed to wear, except that a thin\ncrape-like veil covered her golden tresses, and concealed her as a dim\ntransparent mist. She looked dejected, as docilely yielding to a commanding\npower; she submissively entered, and was lost in the dark recess.\n\n\"Were I subject to visionary moods,\" said the venerable lady, as she\ncontinued her narrative, \"I might doubt my eyes, and condemn my credulity;\nbut reality is the world I live in, and what I saw I doubt not had\nexistence beyond myself. From that moment I could not rest; it was worth my\nexistence to see her once again before she died; I knew that I should not\naccomplish this, yet I must endeavour. I immediately departed for Windsor;\nand, though I was assured that we travelled speedily, it seemed to me that\nour progress was snail-like, and that delays were created solely for my\nannoyance. Still I accused you, and heaped on your head the fiery ashes of\nmy burning impatience. It was no disappointment, though an agonizing pang,\nwhen you pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express the\nabhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the triumphant impediment to my\ndearest wishes. I saw her, and anger, and hate, and injustice died at her\nbier, giving place at their departure to a remorse (Great God, that I\nshould feel it!) which must last while memory and feeling endure.\"\n\nTo medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and new-born mildness\nfrom producing the same bitter fruit that hate and harshness had done, I\ndevoted all my endeavours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our party was a\nmelancholy one; each was possessed by regret for what was remediless; for\nthe absence of his mother shadowed even the infant gaiety of Evelyn. Added\nto this was the prospect of the uncertain future. Before the final\naccomplishment of any great voluntary change the mind vacillates, now\nsoothing itself by fervent expectation, now recoiling from obstacles which\nseem never to have presented themselves before with so frightful an aspect.\nAn involuntary tremor ran through me when I thought that in another day we\nmight have crossed the watery barrier, and have set forward on that\nhopeless, interminable, sad wandering, which but a short time before I\nregarded as the only relief to sorrow that our situation afforded.\n\nOur approach to Dover was announced by the loud roarings of the wintry sea.\nThey were borne miles inland by the sound-laden blast, and by their\nunaccustomed uproar, imparted a feeling of insecurity and peril to our\nstable abode. At first we hardly permitted ourselves to think that any\nunusual eruption of nature caused this tremendous war of air and water, but\nrather fancied that we merely listened to what we had heard a thousand\ntimes before, when we had watched the flocks of fleece-crowned waves,\ndriven by the winds, come to lament and die on the barren sands and pointed\nrocks. But we found upon advancing farther, that Dover was overflowed--\nmany of the houses were overthrown by the surges which filled the streets,\nand with hideous brawlings sometimes retreated leaving the pavement of the\ntown bare, till again hurried forward by the influx of ocean, they returned\nwith thunder-sound to their usurped station.\n\nHardly less disturbed than the tempestuous world of waters was the assembly\nof human beings, that from the cliff fearfully watched its ravings. On the\nmorning of the arrival of the emigrants under the conduct of Adrian, the\nsea had been serene and glassy, the slight ripples refracted the sunbeams,\nwhich shed their radiance through the clear blue frosty air. This placid\nappearance of nature was hailed as a good augury for the voyage, and the\nchief immediately repaired to the harbour to examine two steamboats which\nwere moored there. On the following midnight, when all were at rest, a\nfrightful storm of wind and clattering rain and hail first disturbed them,\nand the voice of one shrieking in the streets, that the sleepers must awake\nor they would be drowned; and when they rushed out, half clothed, to\ndiscover the meaning of this alarm, they found that the tide, rising above\nevery mark, was rushing into the town. They ascended the cliff, but the\ndarkness permitted only the white crest of waves to be seen, while the\nroaring wind mingled its howlings in dire accord with the wild surges. The\nawful hour of night, the utter inexperience of many who had never seen the\nsea before, the wailing of women and cries of children added to the horror\nof the tumult. All the following day the same scene continued. When the tide\nebbed, the town was left dry; but on its flow, it rose even higher than on\nthe preceding night. The vast ships that lay rotting in the roads were\nwhirled from their anchorage, and driven and jammed against the cliff, the\nvessels in the harbour were flung on land like sea-weed, and there battered\nto pieces by the breakers. The waves dashed against the cliff, which if in\nany place it had been before loosened, now gave way, and the affrighted\ncrowd saw vast fragments of the near earth fall with crash and roar into\nthe deep. This sight operated differently on different persons. The greater\npart thought it a judgment of God, to prevent or punish our emigration from\nour native land. Many were doubly eager to quit a nook of ground now become\ntheir prison, which appeared unable to resist the inroads of ocean's giant\nwaves.\n\nWhen we arrived at Dover, after a fatiguing day's journey, we all required\nrest and sleep; but the scene acting around us soon drove away such ideas.\nWe were drawn, along with the greater part of our companions, to the edge\nof the cliff, there to listen to and make a thousand conjectures. A fog\nnarrowed our horizon to about a quarter of a mile, and the misty veil, cold\nand dense, enveloped sky and sea in equal obscurity. What added to our\ninquietude was the circumstance that two-thirds of our original number were\nnow waiting for us in Paris, and clinging, as we now did most painfully, to\nany addition to our melancholy remnant, this division, with the tameless\nimpassable ocean between, struck us with affright. At length, after\nloitering for several hours on the cliff, we retired to Dover Castle, whose\nroof sheltered all who breathed the English air, and sought the sleep\nnecessary to restore strength and courage to our worn frames and languid\nspirits.\n\nEarly in the morning Adrian brought me the welcome intelligence that the\nwind had changed: it had been south-west; it was now north-east. The sky\nwas stripped bare of clouds by the increasing gale, while the tide at its\nebb seceded entirely from the town. The change of wind rather increased the\nfury of the sea, but it altered its late dusky hue to a bright green; and\nin spite of its unmitigated clamour, its more cheerful appearance instilled\nhope and pleasure. All day we watched the ranging of the mountainous waves,\nand towards sunset a desire to decypher the promise for the morrow at its\nsetting, made us all gather with one accord on the edge of the cliff. When\nthe mighty luminary approached within a few degrees of the tempest-tossed\nhorizon, suddenly, a wonder! three other suns, alike burning and brilliant,\nrushed from various quarters of the heavens towards the great orb; they\nwhirled round it. The glare of light was intense to our dazzled eyes; the\nsun itself seemed to join in the dance, while the sea burned like a\nfurnace, like all Vesuvius a-light, with flowing lava beneath. The horses\nbroke loose from their stalls in terror--a herd of cattle, panic struck,\nraced down to the brink of the cliff, and blinded by light, plunged down\nwith frightful yells in the waves below. The time occupied by the\napparition of these meteors was comparatively short; suddenly the three\nmock suns united in one, and plunged into the sea. A few seconds\nafterwards, a deafening watery sound came up with awful peal from the spot\nwhere they had disappeared.\n\nMeanwhile the sun, disencumbered from his strange satellites, paced with\nits accustomed majesty towards its western home. When--we dared not trust\nour eyes late dazzled, but it seemed that--the sea rose to meet it--it\nmounted higher and higher, till the fiery globe was obscured, and the wall\nof water still ascended the horizon; it appeared as if suddenly the motion\nof earth was revealed to us--as if no longer we were ruled by ancient\nlaws, but were turned adrift in an unknown region of space. Many cried\naloud, that these were no meteors, but globes of burning matter, which had\nset fire to the earth, and caused the vast cauldron at our feet to bubble\nup with its measureless waves; the day of judgment was come they averred,\nand a few moments would transport us before the awful countenance of the\nomnipotent judge; while those less given to visionary terrors, declared\nthat two conflicting gales had occasioned the last phaenomenon. In support\nof this opinion they pointed out the fact that the east wind died away,\nwhile the rushing of the coming west mingled its wild howl with the roar of\nthe advancing waters. Would the cliff resist this new battery? Was not the\ngiant wave far higher than the precipice? Would not our little island be\ndeluged by its approach? The crowd of spectators fled. They were dispersed\nover the fields, stopping now and then, and looking back in terror. A\nsublime sense of awe calmed the swift pulsations of my heart--I awaited\nthe approach of the destruction menaced, with that solemn resignation which\nan unavoidable necessity instils. The ocean every moment assumed a more\nterrific aspect, while the twilight was dimmed by the rack which the west\nwind spread over the sky. By slow degrees however, as the wave advanced, it\ntook a more mild appearance; some under current of air, or obstruction in\nthe bed of the waters, checked its progress, and it sank gradually; while\nthe surface of the sea became uniformly higher as it dissolved into it.\nThis change took from us the fear of an immediate catastrophe, although we\nwere still anxious as to the final result. We continued during the whole\nnight to watch the fury of the sea and the pace of the driving clouds,\nthrough whose openings the rare stars rushed impetuously; the thunder of\nconflicting elements deprived us of all power to sleep.\n\nThis endured ceaselessly for three days and nights. The stoutest hearts\nquailed before the savage enmity of nature; provisions began to fail us,\nthough every day foraging parties were dispersed to the nearer towns. In\nvain we schooled ourselves into the belief, that there was nothing out of\nthe common order of nature in the strife we witnessed; our disasterous and\noverwhelming destiny turned the best of us to cowards. Death had hunted us\nthrough the course of many months, even to the narrow strip of time on\nwhich we now stood; narrow indeed, and buffeted by storms, was our footway\noverhanging the great sea of calamity--\n\n  As an unsheltered northern shore\n  Is shaken by the wintry wave--\n  And frequent storms for evermore,\n  (While from the west the loud winds rave,\n  Or from the east, or mountains hoar)\n  The struck and tott'ring sand-bank lave.[1]\n\nIt required more than human energy to bear up against the menaces of\ndestruction that every where surrounded us.\n\nAfter the lapse of three days, the gale died away, the sea-gull sailed upon\nthe calm bosom of the windless atmosphere, and the last yellow leaf on the\ntopmost branch of the oak hung without motion. The sea no longer broke with\nfury; but a swell setting in steadily for shore, with long sweep and sullen\nburst replaced the roar of the breakers. Yet we derived hope from the\nchange, and we did not doubt that after the interval of a few days the sea\nwould resume its tranquillity. The sunset of the fourth day favoured this\nidea; it was clear and golden. As we gazed on the purple sea, radiant\nbeneath, we were attracted by a novel spectacle; a dark speck--as it\nneared, visibly a boat--rode on the top of the waves, every now and then\nlost in the steep vallies between. We marked its course with eager\nquestionings; and, when we saw that it evidently made for shore, we\ndescended to the only practicable landing place, and hoisted a signal to\ndirect them. By the help of glasses we distinguished her crew; it consisted\nof nine men, Englishmen, belonging in truth to the two divisions of our\npeople, who had preceded us, and had been for several weeks at Paris. As\ncountryman was wont to meet countryman in distant lands, did we greet our\nvisitors on their landing, with outstretched hands and gladsome welcome.\nThey were slow to reciprocate our gratulations. They looked angry and\nresentful; not less than the chafed sea which they had traversed with\nimminent peril, though apparently more displeased with each other than with\nus. It was strange to see these human beings, who appeared to be given\nforth by the earth like rare and inestimable plants, full of towering\npassion, and the spirit of angry contest. Their first demand was to be\nconducted to the Lord Protector of England, so they called Adrian, though\nhe had long discarded the empty title, as a bitter mockery of the shadow to\nwhich the Protectorship was now reduced. They were speedily led to Dover\nCastle, from whose keep Adrian had watched the movements of the boat. He\nreceived them with the interest and wonder so strange a visitation created.\nIn the confusion occasioned by their angry demands for precedence, it was\nlong before we could discover the secret meaning of this strange scene. By\ndegrees, from the furious declamations of one, the fierce interruptions of\nanother, and the bitter scoffs of a third, we found that they were deputies\nfrom our colony at Paris, from three parties there formed, who, each with\nangry rivalry, tried to attain a superiority over the other two. These\ndeputies had been dispatched by them to Adrian, who had been selected\narbiter; and they had journied from Paris to Calais, through the vacant\ntowns and desolate country, indulging the while violent hatred against each\nother; and now they pleaded their several causes with unmitigated\nparty-spirit.\n\nBy examining the deputies apart, and after much investigation, we learnt\nthe true state of things at Paris. Since parliament had elected him\nRyland's deputy, all the surviving English had submitted to Adrian. He was\nour captain to lead us from our native soil to unknown lands, our lawgiver\nand our preserver. On the first arrangement of our scheme of emigration, no\ncontinued separation of our members was contemplated, and the command of\nthe whole body in gradual ascent of power had its apex in the Earl of\nWindsor. But unforeseen circumstances changed our plans for us, and\noccasioned the greater part of our numbers to be divided for the space of\nnearly two months, from the supreme chief. They had gone over in two\ndistinct bodies; and on their arrival at Paris dissension arose between\nthem.\n\nThey had found Paris a desert. When first the plague had appeared, the\nreturn of travellers and merchants, and communications by letter, informed\nus regularly of the ravages made by disease on the continent. But with the\nencreased mortality this intercourse declined and ceased. Even in England\nitself communication from one part of the island to the other became slow\nand rare. No vessel stemmed the flood that divided Calais from Dover; or if\nsome melancholy voyager, wishing to assure himself of the life or death of\nhis relatives, put from the French shore to return among us, often the\ngreedy ocean swallowed his little craft, or after a day or two he was\ninfected by the disorder, and died before he could tell the tale of the\ndesolation of France. We were therefore to a great degree ignorant of the\nstate of things on the continent, and were not without some vague hope of\nfinding numerous companions in its wide track. But the same causes that had\nso fearfully diminished the English nation had had even greater scope for\nmischief in the sister land. France was a blank; during the long line of\nroad from Calais to Paris not one human being was found. In Paris there\nwere a few, perhaps a hundred, who, resigned to their coming fate, flitted\nabout the streets of the capital and assembled to converse of past times,\nwith that vivacity and even gaiety that seldom deserts the individuals of\nthis nation.\n\nThe English took uncontested possession of Paris. Its high houses and\nnarrow streets were lifeless. A few pale figures were to be distinguished\nat the accustomed resort at the Tuileries; they wondered wherefore the\nislanders should approach their ill-fated city--for in the excess of\nwretchedness, the sufferers always imagine, that their part of the calamity\nis the bitterest, as, when enduring intense pain, we would exchange the\nparticular torture we writhe under, for any other which should visit a\ndifferent part of the frame. They listened to the account the emigrants\ngave of their motives for leaving their native land, with a shrug almost of\ndisdain--\"Return,\" they said, \"return to your island, whose sea breezes,\nand division from the continent gives some promise of health; if Pestilence\namong you has slain its hundreds, with us it has slain its thousands. Are\nyou not even now more numerous than we are?--A year ago you would have\nfound only the sick burying the dead; now we are happier; for the pang of\nstruggle has passed away, and the few you find here are patiently waiting\nthe final blow. But you, who are not content to die, breathe no longer the\nair of France, or soon you will only be a part of her soil.\"\n\nThus, by menaces of the sword, they would have driven back those who had\nescaped from fire. But the peril left behind was deemed imminent by my\ncountrymen; that before them doubtful and distant; and soon other feelings\narose to obliterate fear, or to replace it by passions, that ought to have\nhad no place among a brotherhood of unhappy survivors of the expiring\nworld.\n\nThe more numerous division of emigrants, which arrived first at Paris,\nassumed a superiority of rank and power; the second party asserted their\nindependence. A third was formed by a sectarian, a self-erected prophet,\nwho, while he attributed all power and rule to God, strove to get the real\ncommand of his comrades into his own hands. This third division consisted\nof fewest individuals, but their purpose was more one, their obedience to\ntheir leader more entire, their fortitude and courage more unyielding and\nactive.\n\nDuring the whole progress of the plague, the teachers of religion were in\npossession of great power; a power of good, if rightly directed, or of\nincalculable mischief, if fanaticism or intolerance guided their efforts.\nIn the present instance, a worse feeling than either of these actuated the\nleader. He was an impostor in the most determined sense of the term. A man\nwho had in early life lost, through the indulgence of vicious propensities,\nall sense of rectitude or self-esteem; and who, when ambition was awakened\nin him, gave himself up to its influence unbridled by any scruple. His\nfather had been a methodist preacher, an enthusiastic man with simple\nintentions; but whose pernicious doctrines of election and special grace\nhad contributed to destroy all conscientious feeling in his son. During the\nprogress of the pestilence he had entered upon various schemes, by which to\nacquire adherents and power. Adrian had discovered and defeated these\nattempts; but Adrian was absent; the wolf assumed the shepherd's garb, and\nthe flock admitted the deception: he had formed a party during the few\nweeks he had been in Paris, who zealously propagated the creed of his\ndivine mission, and believed that safety and salvation were to be afforded\nonly to those who put their trust in him.\n\nWhen once the spirit of dissension had arisen, the most frivolous causes\ngave it activity. The first party, on arriving at Paris, had taken\npossession of the Tuileries; chance and friendly feeling had induced the\nsecond to lodge near to them. A contest arose concerning the distribution\nof the pillage; the chiefs of the first division demanded that the whole\nshould be placed at their disposal; with this assumption the opposite party\nrefused to comply. When next the latter went to forage, the gates of Paris\nwere shut on them. After overcoming this difficulty, they marched in a body\nto the Tuileries. They found that their enemies had been already expelled\nthence by the Elect, as the fanatical party designated themselves, who\nrefused to admit any into the palace who did not first abjure obedience to\nall except God, and his delegate on earth, their chief. Such was the\nbeginning of the strife, which at length proceeded so far, that the three\ndivisions, armed, met in the Place Vendome, each resolved to subdue by\nforce the resistance of its adversaries. They assembled, their muskets were\nloaded, and even pointed at the breasts of their so called enemies. One\nword had been sufficient; and there the last of mankind would have\nburthened their souls with the crime of murder, and dipt their hands in\neach other's blood. A sense of shame, a recollection that not only their\ncause, but the existence of the whole human race was at stake, entered the\nbreast of the leader of the more numerous party. He was aware, that if the\nranks were thinned, no other recruits could fill them up; that each man was\nas a priceless gem in a kingly crown, which if destroyed, the earth's deep\nentrails could yield no paragon. He was a young man, and had been hurried\non by presumption, and the notion of his high rank and superiority to all\nother pretenders; now he repented his work, he felt that all the blood\nabout to be shed would be on his head; with sudden impulse therefore he\nspurred his horse between the bands, and, having fixed a white handkerchief\non the point of his uplifted sword, thus demanded parley; the opposite\nleaders obeyed the signal. He spoke with warmth; he reminded them of the\noath all the chiefs had taken to submit to the Lord Protector; he declared\ntheir present meeting to be an act of treason and mutiny; he allowed that\nhe had been hurried away by passion, but that a cooler moment had arrived;\nand he proposed that each party should send deputies to the Earl of\nWindsor, inviting his interference and offering submission to his decision.\nHis offer was accepted so far, that each leader consented to command a\nretreat, and moreover agreed, that after the approbation of their several\nparties had been consulted, they should meet that night on some neutral\nspot to ratify the truce. At the meeting of the chiefs, this plan was\nfinally concluded upon. The leader of the fanatics indeed refused to admit\nthe arbitration of Adrian; he sent ambassadors, rather than deputies, to\nassert his claim, not plead his cause.\n\nThe truce was to continue until the first of February, when the bands were\nagain to assemble on the Place Vendome; it was of the utmost consequence\ntherefore that Adrian should arrive in Paris by that day, since an hair\nmight turn the scale, and peace, scared away by intestine broils, might\nonly return to watch by the silent dead. It was now the twenty-eighth of\nJanuary; every vessel stationed near Dover had been beaten to pieces and\ndestroyed by the furious storms I have commemorated. Our journey however\nwould admit of no delay. That very night, Adrian, and I, and twelve others,\neither friends or attendants, put off from the English shore, in the boat\nthat had brought over the deputies. We all took our turn at the oar; and\nthe immediate occasion of our departure affording us abundant matter for\nconjecture and discourse, prevented the feeling that we left our native\ncountry, depopulate England, for the last time, to enter deeply into the\nminds of the greater part of our number. It was a serene starlight night,\nand the dark line of the English coast continued for some time visible at\nintervals, as we rose on the broad back of the waves. I exerted myself with\nmy long oar to give swift impulse to our skiff; and, while the waters\nsplashed with melancholy sound against its sides, I looked with sad\naffection on this last glimpse of sea-girt England, and strained my eyes\nnot too soon to lose sight of the castellated cliff, which rose to protect\nthe land of heroism and beauty from the inroads of ocean, that, turbulent\nas I had lately seen it, required such cyclopean walls for its repulsion. A\nsolitary sea-gull winged its flight over our heads, to seek its nest in a\ncleft of the precipice. Yes, thou shalt revisit the land of thy birth, I\nthought, as I looked invidiously on the airy voyager; but we shall, never\nmore! Tomb of Idris, farewell! Grave, in which my heart lies sepultured,\nfarewell for ever!\n\nWe were twelve hours at sea, and the heavy swell obliged us to exert all\nour strength. At length, by mere dint of rowing, we reached the French\ncoast. The stars faded, and the grey morning cast a dim veil over the\nsilver horns of the waning moon--the sun rose broad and red from the sea,\nas we walked over the sands to Calais. Our first care was to procure\nhorses, and although wearied by our night of watching and toil, some of our\nparty immediately went in quest of these in the wide fields of the\nunenclosed and now barren plain round Calais. We divided ourselves, like\nseamen, into watches, and some reposed, while others prepared the morning's\nrepast. Our foragers returned at noon with only six horses--on these,\nAdrian and I, and four others, proceeded on our journey towards the great\ncity, which its inhabitants had fondly named the capital of the civilized\nworld. Our horses had become, through their long holiday, almost wild, and\nwe crossed the plain round Calais with impetuous speed. From the height\nnear Boulogne, I turned again to look on England; nature had cast a misty\npall over her, her cliff was hidden--there was spread the watery barrier\nthat divided us, never again to be crossed; she lay on the ocean plain,\n\n  In the great pool a swan's nest.\n\nRuined the nest, alas! the swans of Albion had passed away for ever--an\nuninhabited rock in the wide Pacific, which had remained since the\ncreation uninhabited, unnamed, unmarked, would be of as much account in\nthe world's future history, as desert England.\n\nOur journey was impeded by a thousand obstacles. As our horses grew tired,\nwe had to seek for others; and hours were wasted, while we exhausted our\nartifices to allure some of these enfranchised slaves of man to resume the\nyoke; or as we went from stable to stable through the towns, hoping to find\nsome who had not forgotten the shelter of their native stalls. Our ill\nsuccess in procuring them, obliged us continually to leave some one of our\ncompanions behind; and on the first of February, Adrian and I entered\nParis, wholly unaccompanied. The serene morning had dawned when we arrived\nat Saint Denis, and the sun was high, when the clamour of voices, and the\nclash, as we feared, of weapons, guided us to where our countrymen had\nassembled on the Place Vendome. We passed a knot of Frenchmen, who were\ntalking earnestly of the madness of the insular invaders, and then coming\nby a sudden turn upon the Place, we saw the sun glitter on drawn swords and\nfixed bayonets, while yells and clamours rent the air. It was a scene of\nunaccustomed confusion in these days of depopulation. Roused by fancied\nwrongs, and insulting scoffs, the opposite parties had rushed to attack\neach other; while the elect, drawn up apart, seemed to wait an opportunity\nto fall with better advantage on their foes, when they should have mutually\nweakened each other. A merciful power interposed, and no blood was shed;\nfor, while the insane mob were in the very act of attack, the females,\nwives, mothers and daughters, rushed between; they seized the bridles; they\nembraced the knees of the horsemen, and hung on the necks, or enweaponed\narms of their enraged relatives; the shrill female scream was mingled with\nthe manly shout, and formed the wild clamour that welcomed us on our\narrival.\n\nOur voices could not be heard in the tumult; Adrian however was eminent for\nthe white charger he rode; spurring him, he dashed into the midst of the\nthrong: he was recognized, and a loud cry raised for England and the\nProtector. The late adversaries, warmed to affection at the sight of him,\njoined in heedless confusion, and surrounded him; the women kissed his\nhands, and the edges of his garments; nay, his horse received tribute of\ntheir embraces; some wept their welcome; he appeared an angel of peace\ndescended among them; and the only danger was, that his mortal nature would\nbe demonstrated, by his suffocation from the kindness of his friends. His\nvoice was at length heard, and obeyed; the crowd fell back; the chiefs\nalone rallied round him. I had seen Lord Raymond ride through his lines;\nhis look of victory, and majestic mien obtained the respect and obedience\nof all: such was not the appearance or influence of Adrian. His slight\nfigure, his fervent look, his gesture, more of deprecation than rule, were\nproofs that love, unmingled with fear, gave him dominion over the hearts of\na multitude, who knew that he never flinched from danger, nor was actuated\nby other motives than care for the general welfare. No distinction was now\nvisible between the two parties, late ready to shed each other's blood,\nfor, though neither would submit to the other, they both yielded ready\nobedience to the Earl of Windsor.\n\nOne party however remained, cut off from the rest, which did not sympathize\nin the joy exhibited on Adrian's arrival, or imbibe the spirit of peace,\nwhich fell like dew upon the softened hearts of their countrymen. At the\nhead of this assembly was a ponderous, dark-looking man, whose malign eye\nsurveyed with gloating delight the stern looks of his followers. They had\nhitherto been inactive, but now, perceiving themselves to be forgotten in\nthe universal jubilee, they advanced with threatening gestures: our friends\nhad, as it were in wanton contention, attacked each other; they wanted but\nto be told that their cause was one, for it to become so: their mutual\nanger had been a fire of straw, compared to the slow-burning hatred they\nboth entertained for these seceders, who seized a portion of the world to\ncome, there to entrench and incastellate themselves, and to issue with\nfearful sally, and appalling denunciations, on the mere common children of\nthe earth. The first advance of the little army of the elect reawakened\ntheir rage; they grasped their arms, and waited but their leader's signal\nto commence the attack, when the clear tones of Adrian's voice were heard,\ncommanding them to fall back; with confused murmur and hurried retreat, as\nthe wave ebbs clamorously from the sands it lately covered, our friends\nobeyed. Adrian rode singly into the space between the opposing bands; he\napproached the hostile leader, as requesting him to imitate his example,\nbut his look was not obeyed, and the chief advanced, followed by his whole\ntroop. There were many women among them, who seemed more eager and resolute\nthan their male companions. They pressed round their leader, as if to\nshield him, while they loudly bestowed on him every sacred denomination and\nepithet of worship. Adrian met them half way; they halted: \"What,\" he said,\n\"do you seek? Do you require any thing of us that we refuse to give, and\nthat you are forced to acquire by arms and warfare?\"\n\nHis questions were answered by a general cry, in which the words election,\nsin, and red right arm of God, could alone be heard.\n\nAdrian looked expressly at their leader, saying, \"Can you not silence your\nfollowers? Mine, you perceive, obey me.\"\n\nThe fellow answered by a scowl; and then, perhaps fearful that his people\nshould become auditors of the debate he expected to ensue, he commanded\nthem to fall back, and advanced by himself. \"What, I again ask,\" said\nAdrian, \"do you require of us?\"\n\n\"Repentance,\" replied the man, whose sinister brow gathered clouds as he\nspoke. \"Obedience to the will of the Most High, made manifest to these his\nElected People. Do we not all die through your sins, O generation of\nunbelief, and have we not a right to demand of you repentance and\nobedience?\"\n\n\"And if we refuse them, what then?\" his opponent inquired mildly.\n\n\"Beware,\" cried the man, \"God hears you, and will smite your stony heart in\nhis wrath; his poisoned arrows fly, his dogs of death are unleashed! We\nwill not perish unrevenged--and mighty will our avenger be, when he\ndescends in visible majesty, and scatters destruction among you.\"\n\n\"My good fellow,\" said Adrian, with quiet scorn, \"I wish that you were\nignorant only, and I think it would be no difficult task to prove to you,\nthat you speak of what you do not understand. On the present occasion\nhowever, it is enough for me to know that you seek nothing of us; and,\nheaven is our witness, we seek nothing of you. I should be sorry to\nembitter by strife the few days that we any of us may have here to live;\nwhen there,\" he pointed downwards, \"we shall not be able to contend, while\nhere we need not. Go home, or stay; pray to your God in your own mode; your\nfriends may do the like. My orisons consist in peace and good will, in\nresignation and hope. Farewell!\"\n\nHe bowed slightly to the angry disputant who was about to reply; and,\nturning his horse down Rue Saint Honore, called on his friends to follow\nhim. He rode slowly, to give time to all to join him at the Barrier, and\nthen issued his orders that those who yielded obedience to him, should\nrendezvous at Versailles. In the meantime he remained within the walls of\nParis, until he had secured the safe retreat of all. In about a fortnight\nthe remainder of the emigrants arrived from England, and they all repaired\nto Versailles; apartments were prepared for the family of the Protector in\nthe Grand Trianon, and there, after the excitement of these events, we\nreposed amidst the luxuries of the departed Bourbons.\n\n[1] Chorus in Oedipus Coloneus.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nAFTER the repose of a few days, we held a council, to decide on our future\nmovements. Our first plan had been to quit our wintry native latitude, and\nseek for our diminished numbers the luxuries and delights of a southern\nclimate. We had not fixed on any precise spot as the termination of our\nwanderings; but a vague picture of perpetual spring, fragrant groves, and\nsparkling streams, floated in our imagination to entice us on. A variety of\ncauses had detained us in England, and we had now arrived at the middle of\nFebruary; if we pursued our original project, we should find ourselves in a\nworse situation than before, having exchanged our temperate climate for the\nintolerable heats of a summer in Egypt or Persia. We were therefore obliged\nto modify our plan, as the season continued to be inclement; and it was\ndetermined that we should await the arrival of spring in our present abode,\nand so order our future movements as to pass the hot months in the icy\nvallies of Switzerland, deferring our southern progress until the ensuing\nautumn, if such a season was ever again to be beheld by us.\n\nThe castle and town of Versailles afforded our numbers ample accommodation,\nand foraging parties took it by turns to supply our wants. There was a\nstrange and appalling motley in the situation of these the last of the\nrace. At first I likened it to a colony, which borne over the far seas,\nstruck root for the first time in a new country. But where was the bustle\nand industry characteristic of such an assemblage; the rudely constructed\ndwelling, which was to suffice till a more commodious mansion could be\nbuilt; the marking out of fields; the attempt at cultivation; the eager\ncuriosity to discover unknown animals and herbs; the excursions for the\nsake of exploring the country? Our habitations were palaces our food was\nready stored in granaries--there was no need of labour, no\ninquisitiveness, no restless desire to get on. If we had been assured that\nwe should secure the lives of our present numbers, there would have been\nmore vivacity and hope in our councils. We should have discussed as to the\nperiod when the existing produce for man's sustenance would no longer\nsuffice for us, and what mode of life we should then adopt. We should have\nconsidered more carefully our future plans, and debated concerning the spot\nwhere we should in future dwell. But summer and the plague were near, and\nwe dared not look forward. Every heart sickened at the thought of\namusement; if the younger part of our community were ever impelled, by\nyouthful and untamed hilarity, to enter on any dance or song, to cheer the\nmelancholy time, they would suddenly break off, checked by a mournful look\nor agonizing sigh from any one among them, who was prevented by sorrows and\nlosses from mingling in the festivity. If laughter echoed under our roof,\nyet the heart was vacant of joy; and, when ever it chanced that I witnessed\nsuch attempts at pastime, they encreased instead of diminishing my sense of\nwoe. In the midst of the pleasure-hunting throng, I would close my eyes,\nand see before me the obscure cavern, where was garnered the mortality of\nIdris, and the dead lay around, mouldering in hushed repose. When I again\nbecame aware of the present hour, softest melody of Lydian flute, or\nharmonious maze of graceful dance, was but as the demoniac chorus in the\nWolf's Glen, and the caperings of the reptiles that surrounded the magic\ncircle.\n\nMy dearest interval of peace occurred, when, released from the obligation\nof associating with the crowd, I could repose in the dear home where my\nchildren lived. Children I say, for the tenderest emotions of paternity\nbound me to Clara. She was now fourteen; sorrow, and deep insight into the\nscenes around her, calmed the restless spirit of girlhood; while the\nremembrance of her father whom she idolized, and respect for me and Adrian,\nimplanted an high sense of duty in her young heart. Though serious she was\nnot sad; the eager desire that makes us all, when young, plume our wings,\nand stretch our necks, that we may more swiftly alight tiptoe on the height\nof maturity, was subdued in her by early experience. All that she could\nspare of overflowing love from her parents' memory, and attention to her\nliving relatives, was spent upon religion. This was the hidden law of her\nheart, which she concealed with childish reserve, and cherished the more\nbecause it was secret. What faith so entire, what charity so pure, what\nhope so fervent, as that of early youth? and she, all love, all tenderness\nand trust, who from infancy had been tossed on the wide sea of passion and\nmisfortune, saw the finger of apparent divinity in all, and her best hope\nwas to make herself acceptable to the power she worshipped. Evelyn was only\nfive years old; his joyous heart was incapable of sorrow, and he enlivened\nour house with the innocent mirth incident to his years.\n\nThe aged Countess of Windsor had fallen from her dream of power, rank and\ngrandeur; she had been suddenly seized with the conviction, that love was\nthe only good of life, virtue the only ennobling distinction and enriching\nwealth. Such a lesson had been taught her by the dead lips of her neglected\ndaughter; and she devoted herself, with all the fiery violence of her\ncharacter, to the obtaining the affection of the remnants of her family. In\nearly years the heart of Adrian had been chilled towards her; and, though\nhe observed a due respect, her coldness, mixed with the recollection of\ndisappointment and madness, caused him to feel even pain in her society.\nShe saw this, and yet determined to win his love; the obstacle served the\nrather to excite her ambition. As Henry, Emperor of Germany, lay in the\nsnow before Pope Leo's gate for three winter days and nights, so did she in\nhumility wait before the icy barriers of his closed heart, till he, the\nservant of love, and prince of tender courtesy, opened it wide for her\nadmittance, bestowing, with fervency and gratitude, the tribute of filial\naffection she merited. Her understanding, courage, and presence of mind,\nbecame powerful auxiliaries to him in the difficult task of ruling the\ntumultuous crowd, which were subjected to his control, in truth by a single\nhair.\n\nThe principal circumstances that disturbed our tranquillity during this\ninterval, originated in the vicinity of the impostor-prophet and his\nfollowers. They continued to reside at Paris; but missionaries from among\nthem often visited Versailles--and such was the power of assertions,\nhowever false, yet vehemently iterated, over the ready credulity of the\nignorant and fearful, that they seldom failed in drawing over to their\nparty some from among our numbers. An instance of this nature coming\nimmediately under our notice, we were led to consider the miserable state\nin which we should leave our countrymen, when we should, at the approach of\nsummer, move on towards Switzerland, and leave a deluded crew behind us in\nthe hands of their miscreant leader. The sense of the smallness of our\nnumbers, and expectation of decrease, pressed upon us; and, while it would\nbe a subject of congratulation to ourselves to add one to our party, it\nwould be doubly gratifying to rescue from the pernicious influence of\nsuperstition and unrelenting tyranny, the victims that now, though\nvoluntarily enchained, groaned beneath it. If we had considered the\npreacher as sincere in a belief of his own denunciations, or only\nmoderately actuated by kind feeling in the exercise of his assumed powers,\nwe should have immediately addressed ourselves to him, and endeavoured with\nour best arguments to soften and humanize his views. But he was instigated\nby ambition, he desired to rule over these last stragglers from the fold of\ndeath; his projects went so far, as to cause him to calculate that, if,\nfrom these crushed remains, a few survived, so that a new race should\nspring up, he, by holding tight the reins of belief, might be remembered by\nthe post-pestilential race as a patriarch, a prophet, nay a deity; such as\nof old among the post-diluvians were Jupiter the conqueror, Serapis the\nlawgiver, and Vishnou the preserver. These ideas made him inflexible in his\nrule, and violent in his hate of any who presumed to share with him his\nusurped empire.\n\nIt is a strange fact, but incontestible, that the philanthropist, who\nardent in his desire to do good, who patient, reasonable and gentle, yet\ndisdains to use other argument than truth, has less influence over men's\nminds, than he who, grasping and selfish, refuses not to adopt any means,\nnor awaken any passion, nor diffuse any falsehood, for the advancement of\nhis cause. If this from time immemorial has been the case, the contrast was\ninfinitely greater, now that the one could bring harrowing fears and\ntranscendent hopes into play; while the other had few hopes to hold forth,\nnor could influence the imagination to diminish the fears which he himself\nwas the first to entertain. The preacher had persuaded his followers, that\ntheir escape from the plague, the salvation of their children, and the rise\nof a new race of men from their seed, depended on their faith in, and their\nsubmission to him. They greedily imbibed this belief; and their\nover-weening credulity even rendered them eager to make converts to the\nsame faith.\n\nHow to seduce any individuals from such an alliance of fraud, was a\nfrequent subject of Adrian's meditations and discourse. He formed many\nplans for the purpose; but his own troop kept him in full occupation to\nensure their fidelity and safety; beside which the preacher was as cautious\nand prudent, as he was cruel. His victims lived under the strictest rules\nand laws, which either entirely imprisoned them within the Tuileries, or\nlet them out in such numbers, and under such leaders, as precluded the\npossibility of controversy. There was one among them however whom I\nresolved to save; she had been known to us in happier days; Idris had loved\nher; and her excellent nature made it peculiarly lamentable that she should\nbe sacrificed by this merciless cannibal of souls.\n\nThis man had between two and three hundred persons enlisted under his\nbanners. More than half of them were women; there were about fifty children\nof all ages; and not more than eighty men. They were mostly drawn from that\nwhich, when such distinctions existed, was denominated the lower rank of\nsociety. The exceptions consisted of a few high-born females, who,\npanic-struck, and tamed by sorrow, had joined him. Among these was one,\nyoung, lovely, and enthusiastic, whose very goodness made her a more easy\nvictim. I have mentioned her before: Juliet, the youngest daughter, and now\nsole relic of the ducal house of L---. There are some beings, whom fate\nseems to select on whom to pour, in unmeasured portion, the vials of her\nwrath, and whom she bathes even to the lips in misery. Such a one was the\nill-starred Juliet. She had lost her indulgent parents, her brothers and\nsisters, companions of her youth; in one fell swoop they had been carried\noff from her. Yet she had again dared to call herself happy; united to her\nadmirer, to him who possessed and filled her whole heart, she yielded to\nthe lethean powers of love, and knew and felt only his life and presence.\nAt the very time when with keen delight she welcomed the tokens of\nmaternity, this sole prop of her life failed, her husband died of the\nplague. For a time she had been lulled in insanity; the birth of her child\nrestored her to the cruel reality of things, but gave her at the same time\nan object for whom to preserve at once life and reason. Every friend and\nrelative had died off, and she was reduced to solitude and penury; deep\nmelancholy and angry impatience distorted her judgment, so that she could\nnot persuade herself to disclose her distress to us. When she heard of the\nplan of universal emigration, she resolved to remain behind with her\nchild, and alone in wide England to live or die, as fate might decree,\nbeside the grave of her beloved. She had hidden herself in one of the many\nempty habitations of London; it was she who rescued my Idris on the fatal\ntwentieth of November, though my immediate danger, and the subsequent\nillness of Idris, caused us to forget our hapless friend. This circumstance\nhad however brought her again in contact with her fellow-creatures; a\nslight illness of her infant, proved to her that she was still bound to\nhumanity by an indestructible tie; to preserve this little creature's life\nbecame the object of her being, and she joined the first division of\nmigrants who went over to Paris.\n\nShe became an easy prey to the methodist; her sensibility and acute fears\nrendered her accessible to every impulse; her love for her child made her\neager to cling to the merest straw held out to save him. Her mind, once\nunstrung, and now tuned by roughest inharmonious hands, made her credulous:\nbeautiful as fabled goddess, with voice of unrivalled sweetness, burning\nwith new lighted enthusiasm, she became a stedfast proselyte, and powerful\nauxiliary to the leader of the elect. I had remarked her in the crowd, on\nthe day we met on the Place Vendome; and, recollecting suddenly her\nprovidential rescue of my lost one, on the night of the twentieth of\nNovember, I reproached myself for my neglect and ingratitude, and felt\nimpelled to leave no means that I could adopt untried, to recall her to her\nbetter self, and rescue her from the fangs of the hypocrite destroyer.\n\nI will not, at this period of my story, record the artifices I used to\npenetrate the asylum of the Tuileries, or give what would be a tedious\naccount of my stratagems, disappointments, and perseverance. I at last\nsucceeded in entering these walls, and roamed its halls and corridors in\neager hope to find my selected convert. In the evening I contrived to\nmingle unobserved with the congregation, which assembled in the chapel to\nlisten to the crafty and eloquent harangue of their prophet. I saw Juliet\nnear him. Her dark eyes, fearfully impressed with the restless glare of\nmadness, were fixed on him; she held her infant, not yet a year old, in her\narms; and care of it alone could distract her attention from the words to\nwhich she eagerly listened. After the sermon was over, the congregation\ndispersed; all quitted the chapel except she whom I sought; her babe had\nfallen asleep; so she placed it on a cushion, and sat on the floor beside,\nwatching its tranquil slumber.\n\nI presented myself to her; for a moment natural feeling produced a\nsentiment of gladness, which disappeared again, when with ardent and\naffectionate exhortation I besought her to accompany me in flight from this\nden of superstition and misery. In a moment she relapsed into the delirium\nof fanaticism, and, but that her gentle nature forbade, would have loaded\nme with execrations. She conjured me, she commanded me to leave her--\n\"Beware, O beware,\" she cried, \"fly while yet your escape is practicable.\nNow you are safe; but strange sounds and inspirations come on me at times,\nand if the Eternal should in awful whisper reveal to me his will, that to\nsave my child you must be sacrificed, I would call in the satellites of him\nyou call the tyrant; they would tear you limb from limb; nor would I hallow\nthe death of him whom Idris loved, by a single tear.\"\n\nShe spoke hurriedly, with tuneless voice, and wild look; her child awoke,\nand, frightened, began to cry; each sob went to the ill-fated mother's\nheart, and she mingled the epithets of endearment she addressed to her\ninfant, with angry commands that I should leave her. Had I had the means, I\nwould have risked all, have torn her by force from the murderer's den, and\ntrusted to the healing balm of reason and affection. But I had no choice,\nno power even of longer struggle; steps were heard along the gallery, and\nthe voice of the preacher drew near. Juliet, straining her child in a close\nembrace, fled by another passage. Even then I would have followed her; but\nmy foe and his satellites entered; I was surrounded, and taken prisoner.\n\nI remembered the menace of the unhappy Juliet, and expected the full\ntempest of the man's vengeance, and the awakened wrath of his followers, to\nfall instantly upon me. I was questioned. My answers were simple and\nsincere. \"His own mouth condemns him,\" exclaimed the impostor; \"he\nconfesses that his intention was to seduce from the way of salvation our\nwell-beloved sister in God; away with him to the dungeon; to-morrow he dies\nthe death; we are manifestly called upon to make an example, tremendous and\nappalling, to scare the children of sin from our asylum of the saved.\"\n\nMy heart revolted from his hypocritical jargon: but it was unworthy of me\nto combat in words with the ruffian; and my answer was cool; while, far\nfrom being possessed with fear, methought, even at the worst, a man true to\nhimself, courageous and determined, could fight his way, even from the\nboards of the scaffold, through the herd of these misguided maniacs.\n\"Remember,\" I said, \"who I am; and be well assured that I shall not die\nunavenged. Your legal magistrate, the Lord Protector, knew of my design,\nand is aware that I am here; the cry of blood will reach him, and you and\nyour miserable victims will long lament the tragedy you are about to act.\"\n\nMy antagonist did not deign to reply, even by a look;--\"You know your\nduty,\" he said to his comrades,--\"obey.\"\n\nIn a moment I was thrown on the earth, bound, blindfolded, and hurried away\n--liberty of limb and sight was only restored to me, when, surrounded by\ndungeon-walls, dark and impervious, I found myself a prisoner and alone.\n\nSuch was the result of my attempt to gain over the proselyte of this man of\ncrime; I could not conceive that he would dare put me to death.--Yet I\nwas in his hands; the path of his ambition had ever been dark and cruel;\nhis power was founded upon fear; the one word which might cause me to die,\nunheard, unseen, in the obscurity of my dungeon, might be easier to speak\nthan the deed of mercy to act. He would not risk probably a public\nexecution; but a private assassination would at once terrify any of my\ncompanions from attempting a like feat, at the same time that a cautious\nline of conduct might enable him to avoid the enquiries and the vengeance\nof Adrian.\n\nTwo months ago, in a vault more obscure than the one I now inhabited, I had\nrevolved the design of quietly laying me down to die; now I shuddered at\nthe approach of fate. My imagination was busied in shaping forth the kind\nof death he would inflict. Would he allow me to wear out life with famine;\nor was the food administered to me to be medicined with death? Would he\nsteal on me in my sleep; or should I contend to the last with my murderers,\nknowing, even while I struggled, that I must be overcome? I lived upon an\nearth whose diminished population a child's arithmetic might number; I had\nlived through long months with death stalking close at my side, while at\nintervals the shadow of his skeleton-shape darkened my path. I had believed\nthat I despised the grim phantom, and laughed his power to scorn.\n\nAny other fate I should have met with courage, nay, have gone out gallantly\nto encounter. But to be murdered thus at the midnight hour by cold-blooded\nassassins, no friendly hand to close my eyes, or receive my parting\nblessing--to die in combat, hate and execration--ah, why, my angel\nlove, didst thou restore me to life, when already I had stepped within the\nportals of the tomb, now that so soon again I was to be flung back a\nmangled corpse!\n\nHours passed--centuries. Could I give words to the many thoughts which\noccupied me in endless succession during this interval, I should fill\nvolumes. The air was dank, the dungeon-floor mildewed and icy cold; hunger\ncame upon me too, and no sound reached me from without. To-morrow the\nruffian had declared that I should die. When would to-morrow come? Was it\nnot already here?\n\nMy door was about to be opened. I heard the key turn, and the bars and\nbolts slowly removed. The opening of intervening passages permitted sounds\nfrom the interior of the palace to reach me; and I heard the clock strike\none. They come to murder me, I thought; this hour does not befit a public\nexecution. I drew myself up against the wall opposite the entrance; I\ncollected my forces, I rallied my courage, I would not fall a tame prey.\nSlowly the door receded on its hinges--I was ready to spring forward to\nseize and grapple with the intruder, till the sight of who it was changed\nat once the temper of my mind. It was Juliet herself; pale and trembling\nshe stood, a lamp in her hand, on the threshold of the dungeon, looking at\nme with wistful countenance. But in a moment she re-assumed her\nself-possession; and her languid eyes recovered their brilliancy. She said,\n\"I am come to save you, Verney.\"\n\n\"And yourself also,\" I cried: \"dearest friend, can we indeed be saved?\"\n\n\"Not a word,\" she replied, \"follow me!\"\n\nI obeyed instantly. We threaded with light steps many corridors, ascended\nseveral flights of stairs, and passed through long galleries; at the end of\none she unlocked a low portal; a rush of wind extinguished our lamp; but,\nin lieu of it, we had the blessed moon-beams and the open face of heaven.\nThen first Juliet spoke:--\"You are safe,\" she said, \"God bless you!--\nfarewell!\"\n\nI seized her reluctant hand--\"Dear friend,\" I cried, \"misguided victim,\ndo you not intend to escape with me? Have you not risked all in\nfacilitating my flight? and do you think, that I will permit you to return,\nand suffer alone the effects of that miscreant's rage? Never!\"\n\n\"Do not fear for me,\" replied the lovely girl mournfully, \"and do not\nimagine that without the consent of our chief you could be without these\nwalls. It is he that has saved you; he assigned to me the part of leading\nyou hither, because I am best acquainted with your motives for coming here,\nand can best appreciate his mercy in permitting you to depart.\"\n\n\"And are you,\" I cried, \"the dupe of this man? He dreads me alive as an\nenemy, and dead he fears my avengers. By favouring this clandestine escape\nhe preserves a shew of consistency to his followers; but mercy is far from\nhis heart. Do you forget his artifices, his cruelty, and fraud? As I am\nfree, so are you. Come, Juliet, the mother of our lost Idris will welcome\nyou, the noble Adrian will rejoice to receive you; you will find peace and\nlove, and better hopes than fanaticism can afford. Come, and fear not; long\nbefore day we shall be at Versailles; close the door on this abode of crime\n--come, sweet Juliet, from hypocrisy and guilt to the society of the\naffectionate and good.\"\n\nI spoke hurriedly, but with fervour: and while with gentle violence I drew\nher from the portal, some thought, some recollection of past scenes of\nyouth and happiness, made her listen and yield to me; suddenly she broke\naway with a piercing shriek:--\"My child, my child! he has my child; my\ndarling girl is my hostage.\"\n\nShe darted from me into the passage; the gate closed between us--she was\nleft in the fangs of this man of crime, a prisoner, still to inhale the\npestilential atmosphere which adhered to his demoniac nature; the unimpeded\nbreeze played on my cheek, the moon shone graciously upon me, my path was\nfree. Glad to have escaped, yet melancholy in my very joy, I retrod my\nsteps to Versailles.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nEVENTFUL winter passed; winter, the respite of our ills. By degrees the\nsun, which with slant beams had before yielded the more extended reign to\nnight, lengthened his diurnal journey, and mounted his highest throne, at\nonce the fosterer of earth's new beauty, and her lover. We who, like flies\nthat congregate upon a dry rock at the ebbing of the tide, had played\nwantonly with time, allowing our passions, our hopes, and our mad desires\nto rule us, now heard the approaching roar of the ocean of destruction, and\nwould have fled to some sheltered crevice, before the first wave broke over\nus. We resolved without delay, to commence our journey to Switzerland; we\nbecame eager to leave France. Under the icy vaults of the glaciers, beneath\nthe shadow of the pines, the swinging of whose mighty branches was arrested\nby a load of snow; beside the streams whose intense cold proclaimed their\norigin to be from the slow-melting piles of congelated waters, amidst\nfrequent storms which might purify the air, we should find health, if in\ntruth health were not herself diseased.\n\nWe began our preparations at first with alacrity. We did not now bid adieu\nto our native country, to the graves of those we loved, to the flowers, and\nstreams, and trees, which had lived beside us from infancy. Small sorrow\nwould be ours on leaving Paris. A scene of shame, when we remembered our\nlate contentions, and thought that we left behind a flock of miserable,\ndeluded victims, bending under the tyranny of a selfish impostor. Small\npangs should we feel in leaving the gardens, woods, and halls of the\npalaces of the Bourbons at Versailles, which we feared would soon be\ntainted by the dead, when we looked forward to vallies lovelier than any\ngarden, to mighty forests and halls, built not for mortal majesty, but\npalaces of nature's own, with the Alp of marmoreal whiteness for their\nwalls, the sky for their roof.\n\nYet our spirits flagged, as the day drew near which we had fixed for our\ndeparture. Dire visions and evil auguries, if such things were, thickened\naround us, so that in vain might men say--\n\n  These are their reasons, they are natural,[1]\n\nwe felt them to be ominous, and dreaded the future event enchained\nto them. That the night owl should screech before the noon-day\nsun, that the hard-winged bat should wheel around the bed of\nbeauty, that muttering thunder should in early spring startle\nthe cloudless air, that sudden and exterminating blight should fall\non the tree and shrub, were unaccustomed, but physical events, less\nhorrible than the mental creations of almighty fear. Some had sight of\nfuneral processions, and faces all begrimed with tears, which flitted\nthrough the long avenues of the gardens, and drew aside the curtains of the\nsleepers at dead of night. Some heard wailing and cries in the air; a\nmournful chaunt would stream through the dark atmosphere, as if spirits\nabove sang the requiem of the human race. What was there in all this, but\nthat fear created other senses within our frames, making us see, hear, and\nfeel what was not? What was this, but the action of diseased imaginations\nand childish credulity? So might it be; but what was most real, was the\nexistence of these very fears; the staring looks of horror, the faces pale\neven to ghastliness, the voices struck dumb with harrowing dread, of those\namong us who saw and heard these things. Of this number was Adrian, who\nknew the delusion, yet could not cast off the clinging terror. Even\nignorant infancy appeared with timorous shrieks and convulsions to\nacknowledge the presence of unseen powers. We must go: in change of scene,\nin occupation, and such security as we still hoped to find, we should\ndiscover a cure for these gathering horrors.\n\nOn mustering our company, we found them to consist of fourteen hundred\nsouls, men, women, and children. Until now therefore, we were undiminished\nin numbers, except by the desertion of those who had attached themselves to\nthe impostor-prophet, and remained behind in Paris. About fifty French\njoined us. Our order of march was easily arranged; the ill success which\nhad attended our division, determined Adrian to keep all in one body. I,\nwith an hundred men, went forward first as purveyor, taking the road of the\nCote d'Or, through Auxerre, Dijon, Dole, over the Jura to Geneva. I was to\nmake arrangements, at every ten miles, for the accommodation of such\nnumbers as I found the town or village would receive, leaving behind a\nmessenger with a written order, signifying how many were to be quartered\nthere. The remainder of our tribe was then divided into bands of fifty\neach, every division containing eighteen men, and the remainder, consisting\nof women and children. Each of these was headed by an officer, who carried\nthe roll of names, by which they were each day to be mustered. If the\nnumbers were divided at night, in the morning those in the van waited for\nthose in the rear. At each of the large towns before mentioned, we were all\nto assemble; and a conclave of the principal officers would hold council\nfor the general weal. I went first, as I said; Adrian last. His mother,\nwith Clara and Evelyn under her protection, remained also with him. Thus\nour order being determined, I departed. My plan was to go at first no\nfurther than Fontainebleau, where in a few days I should be joined by\nAdrian, before I took flight again further eastward.\n\nMy friend accompanied me a few miles from Versailles. He was sad; and, in a\ntone of unaccustomed despondency, uttered a prayer for our speedy arrival\namong the Alps, accompanied with an expression of vain regret that we were\nnot already there. \"In that case,\" I observed, \"we can quicken our march;\nwhy adhere to a plan whose dilatory proceeding you already disapprove?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied he, \"it is too late now. A month ago, and we were masters of\nourselves; now,--\" he turned his face from me; though gathering twilight\nhad already veiled its expression, he turned it yet more away, as he added\n--\"a man died of the plague last night!\"\n\nHe spoke in a smothered voice, then suddenly clasping his hands, he\nexclaimed, \"Swiftly, most swiftly advances the last hour for us all; as the\nstars vanish before the sun, so will his near approach destroy us. I have\ndone my best; with grasping hands and impotent strength, I have hung on the\nwheel of the chariot of plague; but she drags me along with it, while, like\nJuggernaut, she proceeds crushing out the being of all who strew the high\nroad of life. Would that it were over--would that her procession\nachieved, we had all entered the tomb together!\"\n\nTears streamed from his eyes. \"Again and again,\" he continued, \"will the\ntragedy be acted; again I must hear the groans of the dying, the wailing of\nthe survivors; again witness the pangs, which, consummating all, envelope\nan eternity in their evanescent existence. Why am I reserved for this? Why\nthe tainted wether of the flock, am I not struck to earth among the first?\nIt is hard, very hard, for one of woman born to endure all that I endure!\"\n\nHitherto, with an undaunted spirit, and an high feeling of duty and worth,\nAdrian had fulfilled his self-imposed task. I had contemplated him with\nreverence, and a fruitless desire of imitation. I now offered a few words\nof encouragement and sympathy. He hid his face in his hands, and while he\nstrove to calm himself, he ejaculated, \"For a few months, yet for a few\nmonths more, let not, O God, my heart fail, or my courage be bowed down;\nlet not sights of intolerable misery madden this half-crazed brain, or\ncause this frail heart to beat against its prison-bound, so that it burst.\nI have believed it to be my destiny to guide and rule the last of the race\nof man, till death extinguish my government; and to this destiny I submit.\n\n\"Pardon me, Verney, I pain you, but I will no longer complain. Now I am\nmyself again, or rather I am better than myself. You have known how from my\nchildhood aspiring thoughts and high desires have warred with inherent\ndisease and overstrained sensitiveness, till the latter became victors. You\nknow how I placed this wasted feeble hand on the abandoned helm of human\ngovernment. I have been visited at times by intervals of fluctuation; yet,\nuntil now, I have felt as if a superior and indefatigable spirit had taken\nup its abode within me or rather incorporated itself with my weaker being.\nThe holy visitant has for a time slept, perhaps to show me how powerless I\nam without its inspiration. Yet, stay for a while, O Power of goodness and\nstrength; disdain not yet this rent shrine of fleshly mortality, O immortal\nCapability! While one fellow creature remains to whom aid can be afforded,\nstay by and prop your shattered, falling engine!\"\n\nHis vehemence, and voice broken by irrepressible sighs, sunk to my heart;\nhis eyes gleamed in the gloom of night like two earthly stars; and, his\nform dilating, his countenance beaming, truly it almost seemed as if at his\neloquent appeal a more than mortal spirit entered his frame, exalting him\nabove humanity. He turned quickly towards me, and held out his hand.\n\"Farewell, Verney,\" he cried, \"brother of my love, farewell; no other weak\nexpression must cross these lips, I am alive again: to our tasks, to our\ncombats with our unvanquishable foe, for to the last I will struggle\nagainst her.\"\n\nHe grasped my hand, and bent a look on me, more fervent and animated than\nany smile; then turning his horse's head, he touched the animal with the\nspur, and was out of sight in a moment.\n\nA man last night had died of the plague. The quiver was not emptied, nor\nthe bow unstrung. We stood as marks, while Parthian Pestilence aimed and\nshot, insatiated by conquest, unobstructed by the heaps of slain. A\nsickness of the soul, contagious even to my physical mechanism, came over\nme. My knees knocked together, my teeth chattered, the current of my blood,\nclotted by sudden cold, painfully forced its way from my heavy heart. I did\nnot fear for myself, but it was misery to think that we could not even save\nthis remnant. That those I loved might in a few days be as clay-cold as\nIdris in her antique tomb; nor could strength of body or energy of mind\nward off the blow. A sense of degradation came over me. Did God create man,\nmerely in the end to become dead earth in the midst of healthful vegetating\nnature? Was he of no more account to his Maker, than a field of corn\nblighted in the ear? Were our proud dreams thus to fade? Our name was\nwritten \"a little lower than the angels;\" and, behold, we were no better\nthan ephemera. We had called ourselves the \"paragon of animals,\" and, lo!\nwe were a \"quint-essence of dust.\" We repined that the pyramids had\noutlasted the embalmed body of their builder. Alas! the mere shepherd's hut\nof straw we passed on the road, contained in its structure the principle of\ngreater longevity than the whole race of man. How reconcile this sad change\nto our past aspirations, to our apparent powers!\n\nSudden an internal voice, articulate and clear, seemed to say:--Thus from\neternity, it was decreed: the steeds that bear Time onwards had this hour\nand this fulfilment enchained to them, since the void brought forth its\nburthen. Would you read backwards the unchangeable laws of Necessity?\n\nMother of the world! Servant of the Omnipotent! eternal, changeless\nNecessity! who with busy fingers sittest ever weaving the indissoluble\nchain of events!--I will not murmur at thy acts. If my human mind cannot\nacknowledge that all that is, is right; yet since what is, must be, I will\nsit amidst the ruins and smile. Truly we were not born to enjoy, but to\nsubmit, and to hope.\n\nWill not the reader tire, if I should minutely describe our long-drawn\njourney from Paris to Geneva? If, day by day, I should record, in the form\nof a journal, the thronging miseries of our lot, could my hand write, or\nlanguage afford words to express, the variety of our woe; the hustling and\ncrowding of one deplorable event upon another? Patience, oh reader! whoever\nthou art, wherever thou dwellest, whether of race spiritual, or, sprung\nfrom some surviving pair, thy nature will be human, thy habitation the\nearth; thou wilt here read of the acts of the extinct race, and wilt ask\nwonderingly, if they, who suffered what thou findest recorded, were of\nfrail flesh and soft organization like thyself. Most true, they were--\nweep therefore; for surely, solitary being, thou wilt be of gentle\ndisposition; shed compassionate tears; but the while lend thy attention to\nthe tale, and learn the deeds and sufferings of thy predecessors.\n\nYet the last events that marked our progress through France were so full of\nstrange horror and gloomy misery, that I dare not pause too long in the\nnarration. If I were to dissect each incident, every small fragment of a\nsecond would contain an harrowing tale, whose minutest word would curdle\nthe blood in thy young veins. It is right that I should erect for thy\ninstruction this monument of the foregone race; but not that I should drag\nthee through the wards of an hospital, nor the secret chambers of the\ncharnel-house. This tale, therefore, shall be rapidly unfolded. Images of\ndestruction, pictures of despair, the procession of the last triumph of\ndeath, shall be drawn before thee, swift as the rack driven by the north\nwind along the blotted splendour of the sky.\n\nWeed-grown fields, desolate towns, the wild approach of riderless horses\nhad now become habitual to my eyes; nay, sights far worse, of the unburied\ndead, and human forms which were strewed on the road side, and on the steps\nof once frequented habitations, where,\n\n  Through the flesh that wastes away\n  Beneath the parching sun, the whitening bones\n  Start forth, and moulder in the sable dust.[2]\n\nSights like these had become--ah, woe the while! so familiar, that we had\nceased to shudder, or spur our stung horses to sudden speed, as we passed\nthem. France in its best days, at least that part of France through which\nwe travelled, had been a cultivated desert, and the absence of enclosures,\nof cottages, and even of peasantry, was saddening to a traveller from sunny\nItaly, or busy England. Yet the towns were frequent and lively, and the\ncordial politeness and ready smile of the wooden-shoed peasant restored\ngood humour to the splenetic. Now, the old woman sat no more at the door\nwith her distaff--the lank beggar no longer asked charity in\ncourtier-like phrase; nor on holidays did the peasantry thread with slow\ngrace the mazes of the dance. Silence, melancholy bride of death, went in\nprocession with him from town to town through the spacious region.\n\nWe arrived at Fontainebleau, and speedily prepared for the reception of our\nfriends. On mustering our numbers for the night, three were found missing.\nWhen I enquired for them, the man to whom I spoke, uttered the word\n\"plague,\" and fell at my feet in convulsions; he also was infected. There\nwere hard faces around me; for among my troop were sailors who had crossed\nthe line times unnumbered, soldiers who, in Russia and far America, had\nsuffered famine, cold and danger, and men still sterner-featured, once\nnightly depredators in our over-grown metropolis; men bred from their\ncradle to see the whole machine of society at work for their destruction. I\nlooked round, and saw upon the faces of all horror and despair written in\nglaring characters.\n\nWe passed four days at Fontainebleau. Several sickened and died, and in the\nmean time neither Adrian nor any of our friends appeared. My own troop was\nin commotion; to reach Switzerland, to plunge into rivers of snow, and to\ndwell in caves of ice, became the mad desire of all. Yet we had promised to\nwait for the Earl; and he came not. My people demanded to be led forward--\nrebellion, if so we might call what was the mere casting away of\nstraw-formed shackles, appeared manifestly among them. They would away on\nthe word without a leader. The only chance of safety, the only hope of\npreservation from every form of indescribable suffering, was our keeping\ntogether. I told them this; while the most determined among them answered\nwith sullenness, that they could take care of themselves, and replied to my\nentreaties with scoffs and menaces.\n\nAt length, on the fifth day, a messenger arrived from Adrian, bearing\nletters, which directed us to proceed to Auxerre, and there await his\narrival, which would only be deferred for a few days. Such was the tenor of\nhis public letters. Those privately delivered to me, detailed at length the\ndifficulties of his situation, and left the arrangement of my future plans\nto my own discretion. His account of the state of affairs at Versailles was\nbrief, but the oral communications of his messenger filled up his\nomissions, and shewed me that perils of the most frightful nature were\ngathering around him. At first the re-awakening of the plague had been\nconcealed; but the number of deaths encreasing, the secret was divulged,\nand the destruction already achieved, was exaggerated by the fears of the\nsurvivors. Some emissaries of the enemy of mankind, the accursed Impostors,\nwere among them instilling their doctrine that safety and life could only\nbe ensured by submission to their chief; and they succeeded so well, that\nsoon, instead of desiring to proceed to Switzerland, the major part of the\nmultitude, weak-minded women, and dastardly men, desired to return to\nParis, and, by ranging themselves under the banners of the so called\nprophet, and by a cowardly worship of the principle of evil, to purchase\nrespite, as they hoped, from impending death. The discord and tumult\ninduced by these conflicting fears and passions, detained Adrian. It\nrequired all his ardour in pursuit of an object, and his patience under\ndifficulties, to calm and animate such a number of his followers, as might\ncounterbalance the panic of the rest, and lead them back to the means from\nwhich alone safety could be derived. He had hoped immediately to follow me;\nbut, being defeated in this intention, he sent his messenger urging me to\nsecure my own troop at such a distance from Versailles, as to prevent the\ncontagion of rebellion from reaching them; promising, at the same time, to\njoin me the moment a favourable occasion should occur, by means of which he\ncould withdraw the main body of the emigrants from the evil influence at\npresent exercised over them.\n\nI was thrown into a most painful state of uncertainty by these\ncommunications. My first impulse was that we should all return to\nVersailles, there to assist in extricating our chief from his perils. I\naccordingly assembled my troop, and proposed to them this retrograde\nmovement, instead of the continuation of our journey to Auxerre. With one\nvoice they refused to comply. The notion circulated among them was, that\nthe ravages of the plague alone detained the Protector; they opposed his\norder to my request; they came to a resolve to proceed without me, should I\nrefuse to accompany them. Argument and adjuration were lost on these\ndastards. The continual diminution of their own numbers, effected by\npestilence, added a sting to their dislike of delay; and my opposition only\nserved to bring their resolution to a crisis. That same evening they\ndeparted towards Auxerre. Oaths, as from soldiers to their general, had\nbeen taken by them: these they broke. I also had engaged myself not to\ndesert them; it appeared to me inhuman to ground any infraction of my word\non theirs. The same spirit that caused them to rebel against me, would\nimpel them to desert each other; and the most dreadful sufferings would be\nthe consequence of their journey in their present unordered and chiefless\narray. These feelings for a time were paramount; and, in obedience to them,\nI accompanied the rest towards Auxerre. We arrived the same night at\nVilleneuve-la-Guiard, a town at the distance of four posts from\nFontainebleau. When my companions had retired to rest, and I was left alone\nto revolve and ruminate upon the intelligence I received of Adrian's\nsituation, another view of the subject presented itself to me. What was I\ndoing, and what was the object of my present movements? Apparently I was to\nlead this troop of selfish and lawless men towards Switzerland, leaving\nbehind my family and my selected friend, which, subject as they were hourly\nto the death that threatened to all, I might never see again. Was it not my\nfirst duty to assist the Protector, setting an example of attachment and\nduty? At a crisis, such as the one I had reached, it is very difficult to\nbalance nicely opposing interests, and that towards which our inclinations\nlead us, obstinately assumes the appearance of selfishness, even when we\nmeditate a sacrifice. We are easily led at such times to make a compromise\nof the question; and this was my present resource. I resolved that very\nnight to ride to Versailles; if I found affairs less desperate than I now\ndeemed them, I would return without delay to my troop; I had a vague idea\nthat my arrival at that town, would occasion some sensation more or less\nstrong, of which we might profit, for the purpose of leading forward the\nvacillating multitude--at least no time was to be lost--I visited the\nstables, I saddled my favourite horse, and vaulting on his back, without\ngiving myself time for further reflection or hesitation, quitted\nVilleneuve-la-Guiard on my return to Versailles.\n\nI was glad to escape from my rebellious troop, and to lose sight for a\ntime, of the strife of evil with good, where the former for ever remained\ntriumphant. I was stung almost to madness by my uncertainty concerning the\nfate of Adrian, and grew reckless of any event, except what might lose or\npreserve my unequalled friend. With an heavy heart, that sought relief in\nthe rapidity of my course, I rode through the night to Versailles. I\nspurred my horse, who addressed his free limbs to speed, and tossed his\ngallant head in pride. The constellations reeled swiftly by, swiftly each\ntree and stone and landmark fled past my onward career. I bared my head to\nthe rushing wind, which bathed my brow in delightful coolness. As I lost\nsight of Villeneuve-la-Guiard, I forgot the sad drama of human misery;\nmethought it was happiness enough to live, sensitive the while of the\nbeauty of the verdure-clad earth, the star-bespangled sky, and the tameless\nwind that lent animation to the whole. My horse grew tired--and I,\nforgetful of his fatigue, still as he lagged, cheered him with my voice,\nand urged him with the spur. He was a gallant animal, and I did not wish to\nexchange him for any chance beast I might light on, leaving him never to be\nrefound. All night we went forward; in the morning he became sensible that\nwe approached Versailles, to reach which as his home, he mustered his\nflagging strength. The distance we had come was not less than fifty miles,\nyet he shot down the long Boulevards swift as an arrow; poor fellow, as I\ndismounted at the gate of the castle, he sunk on his knees, his eyes were\ncovered with a film, he fell on his side, a few gasps inflated his noble\nchest, and he died. I saw him expire with an anguish, unaccountable even to\nmyself, the spasm was as the wrenching of some limb in agonizing torture,\nbut it was brief as it was intolerable. I forgot him, as I swiftly darted\nthrough the open portal, and up the majestic stairs of this castle of\nvictories--heard Adrian's voice--O fool! O woman nurtured, effeminate\nand contemptible being--I heard his voice, and answered it with\nconvulsive shrieks; I rushed into the Hall of Hercules, where he stood\nsurrounded by a crowd, whose eyes, turned in wonder on me, reminded me that\non the stage of the world, a man must repress such girlish extacies. I\nwould have given worlds to have embraced him; I dared not--Half in\nexhaustion, half voluntarily, I threw myself at my length on the ground--\ndare I disclose the truth to the gentle offspring of solitude? I did so,\nthat I might kiss the dear and sacred earth he trod.\n\nI found everything in a state of tumult. An emissary of the leader of the\nelect, had been so worked up by his chief, and by his own fanatical creed,\nas to make an attempt on the life of the Protector and preserver of lost\nmankind. His hand was arrested while in the act of poignarding the Earl;\nthis circumstance had caused the clamour I heard on my arrival at the\ncastle, and the confused assembly of persons that I found assembled in the\nSalle d'Hercule. Although superstition and demoniac fury had crept among\nthe emigrants, yet several adhered with fidelity to their noble chieftain;\nand many, whose faith and love had been unhinged by fear, felt all their\nlatent affection rekindled by this detestable attempt. A phalanx of\nfaithful breasts closed round him; the wretch, who, although a prisoner and\nin bonds, vaunted his design, and madly claimed the crown of martyrdom,\nwould have been torn to pieces, had not his intended victim interposed.\nAdrian, springing forward, shielded him with his own person, and commanded\nwith energy the submission of his infuriate friends--at this moment I had\nentered.\n\nDiscipline and peace were at length restored in the castle; and then Adrian\nwent from house to house, from troop to troop, to soothe the disturbed\nminds of his followers, and recall them to their ancient obedience. But the\nfear of immediate death was still rife amongst these survivors of a world's\ndestruction; the horror occasioned by the attempted assassination, past\naway; each eye turned towards Paris. Men love a prop so well, that they\nwill lean on a pointed poisoned spear; and such was he, the impostor, who,\nwith fear of hell for his scourge, most ravenous wolf, played the driver to\na credulous flock.\n\nIt was a moment of suspense, that shook even the resolution of the\nunyielding friend of man. Adrian for one moment was about to give in, to\ncease the struggle, and quit, with a few adherents, the deluded crowd,\nleaving them a miserable prey to their passions, and to the worse tyrant\nwho excited them. But again, after a brief fluctuation of purpose, he\nresumed his courage and resolves, sustained by the singleness of his\npurpose, and the untried spirit of benevolence which animated him. At this\nmoment, as an omen of excellent import, his wretched enemy pulled\ndestruction on his head, destroying with his own hands the dominion he had\nerected.\n\nHis grand hold upon the minds of men, took its rise from the doctrine\ninculcated by him, that those who believed in, and followed him, were the\nremnant to be saved, while all the rest of mankind were marked out for\ndeath. Now, at the time of the Flood, the omnipotent repented him that he\nhad created man, and as then with water, now with the arrows of pestilence,\nwas about to annihilate all, except those who obeyed his decrees,\npromulgated by the ipse dixit prophet. It is impossible to say on what\nfoundations this man built his hopes of being able to carry on such an\nimposture. It is likely that he was fully aware of the lie which murderous\nnature might give to his assertions, and believed it to be the cast of a\ndie, whether he should in future ages be reverenced as an inspired delegate\nfrom heaven, or be recognized as an impostor by the present dying\ngeneration. At any rate he resolved to keep up the drama to the last act.\nWhen, on the first approach of summer, the fatal disease again made its\nravages among the followers of Adrian, the impostor exultingly proclaimed\nthe exemption of his own congregation from the universal calamity. He was\nbelieved; his followers, hitherto shut up in Paris, now came to Versailles.\nMingling with the coward band there assembled, they reviled their admirable\nleader, and asserted their own superiority and exemption. At length the\nplague, slow-footed, but sure in her noiseless advance, destroyed the\nillusion, invading the congregation of the elect, and showering promiscuous\ndeath among them. Their leader endeavoured to conceal this event; he had a\nfew followers, who, admitted into the arcana of his wickedness, could help\nhim in the execution of his nefarious designs. Those who sickened were\nimmediately and quietly withdrawn, the cord and a midnight-grave disposed\nof them for ever; while some plausible excuse was given for their absence.\nAt last a female, whose maternal vigilance subdued even the effects of the\nnarcotics administered to her, became a witness of their murderous designs\non her only child. Mad with horror, she would have burst among her deluded\nfellow-victims, and, wildly shrieking, have awaked the dull ear of night\nwith the history of the fiend-like crime; when the Impostor, in his last\nact of rage and desperation, plunged a poignard in her bosom. Thus wounded\nto death, her garments dripping with her own life-blood, bearing her\nstrangled infant in her arms, beautiful and young as she was, Juliet, (for\nit was she) denounced to the host of deceived believers, the wickedness of\ntheir leader. He saw the aghast looks of her auditors, changing from horror\nto fury--the names of those already sacrificed were echoed by their\nrelatives, now assured of their loss. The wretch with that energy of\npurpose, which had borne him thus far in his guilty career, saw his danger,\nand resolved to evade the worst forms of it--he rushed on one of the\nforemost, seized a pistol from his girdle, and his loud laugh of derision\nmingled with the report of the weapon with which he destroyed himself.\n\nThey left his miserable remains even where they lay; they placed the corpse\nof poor Juliet and her babe upon a bier, and all, with hearts subdued to\nsaddest regret, in long procession walked towards Versailles. They met\ntroops of those who had quitted the kindly protection of Adrian, and were\njourneying to join the fanatics. The tale of horror was recounted--all\nturned back; and thus at last, accompanied by the undiminished numbers of\nsurviving humanity, and preceded by the mournful emblem of their recovered\nreason, they appeared before Adrian, and again and for ever vowed obedience\nto his commands, and fidelity to his cause.\n\n[1] Shakespeare--Julius Caesar.\n[2] Elton's Translation of Hesiod's \"Shield of Hercules.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nTHESE events occupied so much time, that June had numbered more than half\nits days, before we again commenced our long-protracted journey. The day\nafter my return to Versailles, six men, from among those I had left at\nVilleneuve-la-Guiard, arrived, with intelligence, that the rest of the\ntroop had already proceeded towards Switzerland. We went forward in the\nsame track.\n\nIt is strange, after an interval of time, to look back on a period, which,\nthough short in itself, appeared, when in actual progress, to be drawn out\ninterminably. By the end of July we entered Dijon; by the end of July those\nhours, days, and weeks had mingled with the ocean of forgotten time, which\nin their passage teemed with fatal events and agonizing sorrow. By the end\nof July, little more than a month had gone by, if man's life were measured\nby the rising and setting of the sun: but, alas! in that interval ardent\nyouth had become grey-haired; furrows deep and uneraseable were trenched in\nthe blooming cheek of the young mother; the elastic limbs of early manhood,\nparalyzed as by the burthen of years, assumed the decrepitude of age.\nNights passed, during whose fatal darkness the sun grew old before it rose;\nand burning days, to cool whose baleful heat the balmy eve, lingering far\nin eastern climes, came lagging and ineffectual; days, in which the dial,\nradiant in its noon-day station, moved not its shadow the space of a little\nhour, until a whole life of sorrow had brought the sufferer to an untimely\ngrave.\n\nWe departed from Versailles fifteen hundred souls. We set out on the\neighteenth of June. We made a long procession, in which was contained every\ndear relationship, or tie of love, that existed in human society. Fathers\nand husbands, with guardian care, gathered their dear relatives around\nthem; wives and mothers looked for support to the manly form beside them,\nand then with tender anxiety bent their eyes on the infant troop around.\nThey were sad, but not hopeless. Each thought that someone would be saved;\neach, with that pertinacious optimism, which to the last characterized our\nhuman nature, trusted that their beloved family would be the one\npreserved.\n\nWe passed through France, and found it empty of inhabitants. Some one or\ntwo natives survived in the larger towns, which they roamed through like\nghosts; we received therefore small encrease to our numbers, and such\ndecrease through death, that at last it became easier to count the scanty\nlist of survivors. As we never deserted any of the sick, until their death\npermitted us to commit their remains to the shelter of a grave, our journey\nwas long, while every day a frightful gap was made in our troop--they\ndied by tens, by fifties, by hundreds. No mercy was shewn by death; we\nceased to expect it, and every day welcomed the sun with the feeling that\nwe might never see it rise again.\n\nThe nervous terrors and fearful visions which had scared us during the\nspring, continued to visit our coward troop during this sad journey. Every\nevening brought its fresh creation of spectres; a ghost was depicted by\nevery blighted tree; and appalling shapes were manufactured from each\nshaggy bush. By degrees these common marvels palled on us, and then other\nwonders were called into being. Once it was confidently asserted, that the\nsun rose an hour later than its seasonable time; again it was discovered\nthat he grew paler and paler; that shadows took an uncommon appearance. It\nwas impossible to have imagined, during the usual calm routine of life men\nhad before experienced, the terrible effects produced by these extravagant\ndelusions: in truth, of such little worth are our senses, when unsupported\nby concurring testimony, that it was with the utmost difficulty I kept\nmyself free from the belief in supernatural events, to which the major part\nof our people readily gave credit. Being one sane amidst a crowd of the\nmad, I hardly dared assert to my own mind, that the vast luminary had\nundergone no change--that the shadows of night were unthickened by\ninnumerable shapes of awe and terror; or that the wind, as it sung in the\ntrees, or whistled round an empty building, was not pregnant with sounds of\nwailing and despair. Sometimes realities took ghostly shapes; and it was\nimpossible for one's blood not to curdle at the perception of an evident\nmixture of what we knew to be true, with the visionary semblance of all\nthat we feared.\n\nOnce, at the dusk of the evening, we saw a figure all in white, apparently\nof more than human stature, flourishing about the road, now throwing up its\narms, now leaping to an astonishing height in the air, then turning round\nseveral times successively, then raising itself to its full height and\ngesticulating violently. Our troop, on the alert to discover and believe in\nthe supernatural, made a halt at some distance from this shape; and, as it\nbecame darker, there was something appalling even to the incredulous, in\nthe lonely spectre, whose gambols, if they hardly accorded with spiritual\ndignity, were beyond human powers. Now it leapt right up in the air, now\nsheer over a high hedge, and was again the moment after in the road before\nus. By the time I came up, the fright experienced by the spectators of this\nghostly exhibition, began to manifest itself in the flight of some, and the\nclose huddling together of the rest. Our goblin now perceived us; he\napproached, and, as we drew reverentially back, made a low bow. The sight\nwas irresistibly ludicrous even to our hapless band, and his politeness was\nhailed by a shout of laughter;--then, again springing up, as a last\neffort, it sunk to the ground, and became almost invisible through the\ndusky night. This circumstance again spread silence and fear through the\ntroop; the more courageous at length advanced, and, raising the dying\nwretch, discovered the tragic explanation of this wild scene. It was an\nopera-dancer, and had been one of the troop which deserted from\nVilleneuve-la-Guiard: falling sick, he had been deserted by his companions;\nin an access of delirium he had fancied himself on the stage, and, poor\nfellow, his dying sense eagerly accepted the last human applause that could\never be bestowed on his grace and agility.\n\nAt another time we were haunted for several days by an apparition, to which\nour people gave the appellation of the Black Spectre. We never saw it\nexcept at evening, when his coal black steed, his mourning dress, and plume\nof black feathers, had a majestic and awe-striking appearance; his face,\none said, who had seen it for a moment, was ashy pale; he had lingered far\nbehind the rest of his troop, and suddenly at a turn in the road, saw the\nBlack Spectre coming towards him; he hid himself in fear, and the horse and\nhis rider slowly past, while the moonbeams fell on the face of the latter,\ndisplaying its unearthly hue. Sometimes at dead of night, as we watched the\nsick, we heard one galloping through the town; it was the Black Spectre\ncome in token of inevitable death. He grew giant tall to vulgar eyes; an\nicy atmosphere, they said, surrounded him; when he was heard, all animals\nshuddered, and the dying knew that their last hour was come. It was Death\nhimself, they declared, come visibly to seize on subject earth, and quell\nat once our decreasing numbers, sole rebels to his law. One day at noon, we\nsaw a dark mass on the road before us, and, coming up, beheld the Black\nSpectre fallen from his horse, lying in the agonies of disease upon the\nground. He did not survive many hours; and his last words disclosed the\nsecret of his mysterious conduct. He was a French noble of distinction,\nwho, from the effects of plague, had been left alone in his district;\nduring many months, he had wandered from town to town, from province to\nprovince, seeking some survivor for a companion, and abhorring the\nloneliness to which he was condemned. When he discovered our troop, fear of\ncontagion conquered his love of society. He dared not join us, yet he could\nnot resolve to lose sight of us, sole human beings who besides himself\nexisted in wide and fertile France; so he accompanied us in the spectral\nguise I have described, till pestilence gathered him to a larger\ncongregation, even that of Dead Mankind.\n\nIt had been well, if such vain terrors could have distracted our thoughts\nfrom more tangible evils. But these were too dreadful and too many not to\nforce themselves into every thought, every moment, of our lives. We were\nobliged to halt at different periods for days together, till another and\nyet another was consigned as a clod to the vast clod which had been once\nour living mother. Thus we continued travelling during the hottest season;\nand it was not till the first of August, that we, the emigrants,--reader,\nthere were just eighty of us in number,--entered the gates of Dijon.\n\nWe had expected this moment with eagerness, for now we had accomplished the\nworst part of our drear journey, and Switzerland was near at hand. Yet how\ncould we congratulate ourselves on any event thus imperfectly fulfilled?\nWere these miserable beings, who, worn and wretched, passed in sorrowful\nprocession, the sole remnants of the race of man, which, like a flood, had\nonce spread over and possessed the whole earth? It had come down clear and\nunimpeded from its primal mountain source in Ararat, and grew from a puny\nstreamlet to a vast perennial river, generation after generation flowing on\nceaselessly. The same, but diversified, it grew, and swept onwards towards\nthe absorbing ocean, whose dim shores we now reached. It had been the mere\nplaything of nature, when first it crept out of uncreative void into light;\nbut thought brought forth power and knowledge; and, clad with these, the\nrace of man assumed dignity and authority. It was then no longer the mere\ngardener of earth, or the shepherd of her flocks; \"it carried with it an\nimposing and majestic aspect; it had a pedigree and illustrious ancestors;\nit had its gallery of portraits, its monumental inscriptions, its records\nand titles.\"[1]\n\nThis was all over, now that the ocean of death had sucked in the slackening\ntide, and its source was dried up. We first had bidden adieu to the state\nof things which having existed many thousand years, seemed eternal; such a\nstate of government, obedience, traffic, and domestic intercourse, as had\nmoulded our hearts and capacities, as far back as memory could reach. Then\nto patriotic zeal, to the arts, to reputation, to enduring fame, to the\nname of country, we had bidden farewell. We saw depart all hope of\nretrieving our ancient state--all expectation, except the feeble one of\nsaving our individual lives from the wreck of the past. To preserve these\nwe had quitted England--England, no more; for without her children, what\nname could that barren island claim? With tenacious grasp we clung to such\nrule and order as could best save us; trusting that, if a little colony\ncould be preserved, that would suffice at some remoter period to restore\nthe lost community of mankind.\n\nBut the game is up! We must all die; nor leave survivor nor heir to the\nwide inheritance of earth. We must all die! The species of man must perish;\nhis frame of exquisite workmanship; the wondrous mechanism of his senses;\nthe noble proportion of his godlike limbs; his mind, the throned king of\nthese; must perish. Will the earth still keep her place among the planets;\nwill she still journey with unmarked regularity round the sun; will the\nseasons change, the trees adorn themselves with leaves, and flowers shed\ntheir fragrance, in solitude? Will the mountains remain unmoved, and\nstreams still keep a downward course towards the vast abyss; will the tides\nrise and fall, and the winds fan universal nature; will beasts pasture,\nbirds fly, and fishes swim, when man, the lord, possessor, perceiver, and\nrecorder of all these things, has passed away, as though he had never been?\nO, what mockery is this! Surely death is not death, and humanity is not\nextinct; but merely passed into other shapes, unsubjected to our\nperceptions. Death is a vast portal, an high road to life: let us hasten to\npass; let us exist no more in this living death, but die that we may live!\n\nWe had longed with inexpressible earnestness to reach Dijon, since we had\nfixed on it, as a kind of station in our progress. But now we entered it\nwith a torpor more painful than acute suffering. We had come slowly but\nirrevocably to the opinion, that our utmost efforts would not preserve one\nhuman being alive. We took our hands therefore away from the long grasped\nrudder; and the frail vessel on which we floated, seemed, the government\nover her suspended, to rush, prow foremost, into the dark abyss of the\nbillows. A gush of grief, a wanton profusion of tears, and vain laments,\nand overflowing tenderness, and passionate but fruitless clinging to the\npriceless few that remained, was followed by languor and recklessness.\n\nDuring this disastrous journey we lost all those, not of our own family, to\nwhom we had particularly attached ourselves among the survivors. It were\nnot well to fill these pages with a mere catalogue of losses; yet I cannot\nrefrain from this last mention of those principally dear to us. The little\ngirl whom Adrian had rescued from utter desertion, during our ride through\nLondon on the twentieth of November, died at Auxerre. The poor child had\nattached herself greatly to us; and the suddenness of her death added to\nour sorrow. In the morning we had seen her apparently in health--in the\nevening, Lucy, before we retired to rest, visited our quarters to say that\nshe was dead. Poor Lucy herself only survived, till we arrived at Dijon.\nShe had devoted herself throughout to the nursing the sick, and attending\nthe friendless. Her excessive exertions brought on a slow fever, which\nended in the dread disease whose approach soon released her from her\nsufferings. She had throughout been endeared to us by her good qualities,\nby her ready and cheerful execution of every duty, and mild acquiescence in\nevery turn of adversity. When we consigned her to the tomb, we seemed at\nthe same time to bid a final adieu to those peculiarly feminine virtues\nconspicuous in her; uneducated and unpretending as she was, she was\ndistinguished for patience, forbearance, and sweetness. These, with all\ntheir train of qualities peculiarly English, would never again be revived\nfor us. This type of all that was most worthy of admiration in her class\namong my countrywomen, was placed under the sod of desert France; and it\nwas as a second separation from our country to have lost sight of her for\never.\n\nThe Countess of Windsor died during our abode at Dijon. One morning I was\ninformed that she wished to see me. Her message made me remember, that\nseveral days had elapsed since I had last seen her. Such a circumstance had\noften occurred during our journey, when I remained behind to watch to their\nclose the last moments of some one of our hapless comrades, and the rest of\nthe troop past on before me. But there was something in the manner of her\nmessenger, that made me suspect that all was not right. A caprice of the\nimagination caused me to conjecture that some ill had occurred to Clara or\nEvelyn, rather than to this aged lady. Our fears, for ever on the stretch,\ndemanded a nourishment of horror; and it seemed too natural an occurrence,\ntoo like past times, for the old to die before the young. I found the\nvenerable mother of my Idris lying on a couch, her tall emaciated figure\nstretched out; her face fallen away, from which the nose stood out in sharp\nprofile, and her large dark eyes, hollow and deep, gleamed with such light\nas may edge a thunder cloud at sun-set. All was shrivelled and dried up,\nexcept these lights; her voice too was fearfully changed, as she spoke to\nme at intervals. \"I am afraid,\" said she, \"that it is selfish in me to have\nasked you to visit the old woman again, before she dies: yet perhaps it\nwould have been a greater shock to hear suddenly that I was dead, than to\nsee me first thus.\"\n\nI clasped her shrivelled hand: \"Are you indeed so ill?\" I asked.\n\n\"Do you not perceive death in my face,\" replied she, \"it is strange; I\nought to have expected this, and yet I confess it has taken me unaware. I\nnever clung to life, or enjoyed it, till these last months, while among\nthose I senselessly deserted: and it is hard to be snatched immediately\naway. I am glad, however, that I am not a victim of the plague; probably I\nshould have died at this hour, though the world had continued as it was in\nmy youth.\"\n\nShe spoke with difficulty, and I perceived that she regretted the necessity\nof death, even more than she cared to confess. Yet she had not to complain\nof an undue shortening of existence; her faded person shewed that life had\nnaturally spent itself. We had been alone at first; now Clara entered; the\nCountess turned to her with a smile, and took the hand of this lovely\nchild; her roseate palm and snowy fingers, contrasted with relaxed fibres\nand yellow hue of those of her aged friend; she bent to kiss her, touching\nher withered mouth with the warm, full lips of youth. \"Verney,\" said the\nCountess, \"I need not recommend this dear girl to you, for your own sake\nyou will preserve her. Were the world as it was, I should have a thousand\nsage precautions to impress, that one so sensitive, good, and beauteous,\nmight escape the dangers that used to lurk for the destruction of the fair\nand excellent. This is all nothing now.\n\n\"I commit you, my kind nurse, to your uncle's care; to yours I entrust the\ndearest relic of my better self. Be to Adrian, sweet one, what you have\nbeen to me--enliven his sadness with your sprightly sallies; sooth his\nanguish by your sober and inspired converse, when he is dying; nurse him as\nyou have done me.\"\n\nClara burst into tears; \"Kind girl,\" said the Countess, \"do not weep for\nme. Many dear friends are left to you.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" cried Clara, \"you talk of their dying also. This is indeed cruel\n--how could I live, if they were gone? If it were possible for my beloved\nprotector to die before me, I could not nurse him; I could only die too.\"\n\nThe venerable lady survived this scene only twenty-four hours. She was the\nlast tie binding us to the ancient state of things. It was impossible to\nlook on her, and not call to mind in their wonted guise, events and\npersons, as alien to our present situation as the disputes of Themistocles\nand Aristides, or the wars of the two roses in our native land. The crown\nof England had pressed her brow; the memory of my father and his\nmisfortunes, the vain struggles of the late king, the images of Raymond,\nEvadne, and Perdita, who had lived in the world's prime, were brought\nvividly before us. We consigned her to the oblivious tomb with reluctance;\nand when I turned from her grave, Janus veiled his retrospective face; that\nwhich gazed on future generations had long lost its faculty.\n\nAfter remaining a week at Dijon, until thirty of our number deserted the\nvacant ranks of life, we continued our way towards Geneva. At noon on the\nsecond day we arrived at the foot of Jura. We halted here during the heat\nof the day. Here fifty human beings--fifty, the only human beings that\nsurvived of the food-teeming earth, assembled to read in the looks of each\nother ghastly plague, or wasting sorrow, desperation, or worse,\ncarelessness of future or present evil. Here we assembled at the foot of\nthis mighty wall of mountain, under a spreading walnut tree; a brawling\nstream refreshed the green sward by its sprinkling; and the busy\ngrasshopper chirped among the thyme. We clustered together a group of\nwretched sufferers. A mother cradled in her enfeebled arms the child, last\nof many, whose glazed eye was about to close for ever. Here beauty, late\nglowing in youthful lustre and consciousness, now wan and neglected, knelt\nfanning with uncertain motion the beloved, who lay striving to paint his\nfeatures, distorted by illness, with a thankful smile. There an\nhard-featured, weather-worn veteran, having prepared his meal, sat, his\nhead dropped on his breast, the useless knife falling from his grasp, his\nlimbs utterly relaxed, as thought of wife and child, and dearest relative,\nall lost, passed across his recollection. There sat a man who for forty\nyears had basked in fortune's tranquil sunshine; he held the hand of his\nlast hope, his beloved daughter, who had just attained womanhood; and he\ngazed on her with anxious eyes, while she tried to rally her fainting\nspirit to comfort him. Here a servant, faithful to the last, though dying,\nwaited on one, who, though still erect with health, gazed with gasping fear\non the variety of woe around.\n\nAdrian stood leaning against a tree; he held a book in his hand, but his\neye wandered from the pages, and sought mine; they mingled a sympathetic\nglance; his looks confessed that his thoughts had quitted the inanimate\nprint, for pages more pregnant with meaning, more absorbing, spread out\nbefore him. By the margin of the stream, apart from all, in a tranquil\nnook, where the purling brook kissed the green sward gently, Clara and\nEvelyn were at play, sometimes beating the water with large boughs,\nsometimes watching the summer-flies that sported upon it. Evelyn now chased\na butterfly--now gathered a flower for his cousin; and his laughing\ncherub-face and clear brow told of the light heart that beat in his bosom.\nClara, though she endeavoured to give herself up to his amusement, often\nforgot him, as she turned to observe Adrian and me. She was now fourteen,\nand retained her childish appearance, though in height a woman; she acted\nthe part of the tenderest mother to my little orphan boy; to see her\nplaying with him, or attending silently and submissively on our wants, you\nthought only of her admirable docility and patience; but, in her soft eyes,\nand the veined curtains that veiled them, in the clearness of her marmoreal\nbrow, and the tender expression of her lips, there was an intelligence and\nbeauty that at once excited admiration and love.\n\nWhen the sun had sunk towards the precipitate west, and the evening shadows\ngrew long, we prepared to ascend the mountain. The attention that we were\nobliged to pay to the sick, made our progress slow. The winding road,\nthough steep, presented a confined view of rocky fields and hills, each\nhiding the other, till our farther ascent disclosed them in succession. We\nwere seldom shaded from the declining sun, whose slant beams were instinct\nwith exhausting heat. There are times when minor difficulties grow gigantic\n--times, when as the Hebrew poet expressively terms it, \"the grasshopper\nis a burthen;\" so was it with our ill fated party this evening. Adrian,\nusually the first to rally his spirits, and dash foremost into fatigue and\nhardship, with relaxed limbs and declined head, the reins hanging loosely\nin his grasp, left the choice of the path to the instinct of his horse, now\nand then painfully rousing himself, when the steepness of the ascent\nrequired that he should keep his seat with better care. Fear and horror\nencompassed me. Did his languid air attest that he also was struck with\ncontagion? How long, when I look on this matchless specimen of mortality,\nmay I perceive that his thought answers mine? how long will those limbs\nobey the kindly spirit within? how long will light and life dwell in the\neyes of this my sole remaining friend? Thus pacing slowly, each hill\nsurmounted, only presented another to be ascended; each jutting corner only\ndiscovered another, sister to the last, endlessly. Sometimes the pressure\nof sickness in one among us, caused the whole cavalcade to halt; the call\nfor water, the eagerly expressed wish to repose; the cry of pain, and\nsuppressed sob of the mourner--such were the sorrowful attendants of our\npassage of the Jura.\n\nAdrian had gone first. I saw him, while I was detained by the loosening of\na girth, struggling with the upward path, seemingly more difficult than any\nwe had yet passed. He reached the top, and the dark outline of his figure\nstood in relief against the sky. He seemed to behold something unexpected\nand wonderful; for, pausing, his head stretched out, his arms for a moment\nextended, he seemed to give an All Hail! to some new vision. Urged by\ncuriosity, I hurried to join him. After battling for many tedious minutes\nwith the precipice, the same scene presented itself to me, which had wrapt\nhim in extatic wonder.\n\nNature, or nature's favourite, this lovely earth, presented her most\nunrivalled beauties in resplendent and sudden exhibition. Below, far, far\nbelow, even as it were in the yawning abyss of the ponderous globe, lay the\nplacid and azure expanse of lake Leman; vine-covered hills hedged it in,\nand behind dark mountains in cone-like shape, or irregular cyclopean wall,\nserved for further defence. But beyond, and high above all, as if the\nspirits of the air had suddenly unveiled their bright abodes, placed in\nscaleless altitude in the stainless sky, heaven-kissing, companions of the\nunattainable ether, were the glorious Alps, clothed in dazzling robes of\nlight by the setting sun. And, as if the world's wonders were never to be\nexhausted, their vast immensities, their jagged crags, and roseate\npainting, appeared again in the lake below, dipping their proud heights\nbeneath the unruffled waves--palaces for the Naiads of the placid waters.\nTowns and villages lay scattered at the foot of Jura, which, with dark\nravine, and black promontories, stretched its roots into the watery expanse\nbeneath. Carried away by wonder, I forgot the death of man, and the living\nand beloved friend near me. When I turned, I saw tears streaming from his\neyes; his thin hands pressed one against the other, his animated\ncountenance beaming with admiration; \"Why,\" cried he, at last, \"Why, oh\nheart, whisperest thou of grief to me? Drink in the beauty of that scene,\nand possess delight beyond what a fabled paradise could afford.\"\n\nBy degrees, our whole party surmounting the steep, joined us, not one among\nthem, but gave visible tokens of admiration, surpassing any before\nexperienced. One cried, \"God reveals his heaven to us; we may die blessed.\"\nAnother and another, with broken exclamations, and extravagant phrases,\nendeavoured to express the intoxicating effect of this wonder of nature. So\nwe remained awhile, lightened of the pressing burthen of fate, forgetful of\ndeath, into whose night we were about to plunge; no longer reflecting that\nour eyes now and for ever were and would be the only ones which might\nperceive the divine magnificence of this terrestrial exhibition. An\nenthusiastic transport, akin to happiness, burst, like a sudden ray from\nthe sun, on our darkened life. Precious attribute of woe-worn humanity!\nthat can snatch extatic emotion, even from under the very share and harrow,\nthat ruthlessly ploughs up and lays waste every hope.\n\nThis evening was marked by another event. Passing through Ferney in our way\nto Geneva, unaccustomed sounds of music arose from the rural church which\nstood embosomed in trees, surrounded by smokeless, vacant cottages. The\npeal of an organ with rich swell awoke the mute air, lingering along, and\nmingling with the intense beauty that clothed the rocks and woods, and\nwaves around. Music--the language of the immortals, disclosed to us as\ntestimony of their existence--music, \"silver key of the fountain of\ntears,\" child of love, soother of grief, inspirer of heroism and radiant\nthoughts, O music, in this our desolation, we had forgotten thee! Nor pipe\nat eve cheered us, nor harmony of voice, nor linked thrill of string; thou\ncamest upon us now, like the revealing of other forms of being; and\ntransported as we had been by the loveliness of nature, fancying that we\nbeheld the abode of spirits, now we might well imagine that we heard their\nmelodious communings. We paused in such awe as would seize on a pale\nvotarist, visiting some holy shrine at midnight; if she beheld animated and\nsmiling, the image which she worshipped. We all stood mute; many knelt. In\na few minutes however, we were recalled to human wonder and sympathy by a\nfamiliar strain. The air was Haydn's \"New-Created World,\" and, old and\ndrooping as humanity had become, the world yet fresh as at creation's day,\nmight still be worthily celebrated by such an hymn of praise. Adrian and I\nentered the church; the nave was empty, though the smoke of incense rose\nfrom the altar, bringing with it the recollection of vast congregations, in\nonce thronged cathedrals; we went into the loft. A blind old man sat at the\nbellows; his whole soul was ear; and as he sat in the attitude of attentive\nlistening, a bright glow of pleasure was diffused over his countenance;\nfor, though his lack-lustre eye could not reflect the beam, yet his parted\nlips, and every line of his face and venerable brow spoke delight. A young\nwoman sat at the keys, perhaps twenty years of age. Her auburn hair hung on\nher neck, and her fair brow shone in its own beauty; but her drooping eyes\nlet fall fast-flowing tears, while the constraint she exercised to suppress\nher sobs, and still her trembling, flushed her else pale cheek; she was\nthin; languor, and alas! sickness, bent her form. We stood looking at the\npair, forgetting what we heard in the absorbing sight; till, the last chord\nstruck, the peal died away in lessening reverberations. The mighty voice,\ninorganic we might call it, for we could in no way associate it with\nmechanism of pipe or key, stilled its sonorous tone, and the girl, turning\nto lend her assistance to her aged companion, at length perceived us.\n\nIt was her father; and she, since childhood, had been the guide of his\ndarkened steps. They were Germans from Saxony, and, emigrating thither but\na few years before, had formed new ties with the surrounding villagers.\nAbout the time that the pestilence had broken out, a young German student\nhad joined them. Their simple history was easily divined. He, a noble,\nloved the fair daughter of the poor musician, and followed them in their\nflight from the persecutions of his friends; but soon the mighty leveller\ncame with unblunted scythe to mow, together with the grass, the tall\nflowers of the field. The youth was an early victim. She preserved herself\nfor her father's sake. His blindness permitted her to continue a delusion,\nat first the child of accident--and now solitary beings, sole survivors\nin the land, he remained unacquainted with the change, nor was aware that\nwhen he listened to his child's music, the mute mountains, senseless lake,\nand unconscious trees, were, himself excepted, her sole auditors.\n\nThe very day that we arrived she had been attacked by symptomatic illness.\nShe was paralyzed with horror at the idea of leaving her aged, sightless\nfather alone on the empty earth; but she had not courage to disclose the\ntruth, and the very excess of her desperation animated her to surpassing\nexertions. At the accustomed vesper hour, she led him to the chapel; and,\nthough trembling and weeping on his account, she played, without fault in\ntime, or error in note, the hymn written to celebrate the creation of the\nadorned earth, soon to be her tomb.\n\nWe came to her like visitors from heaven itself; her high-wrought courage;\nher hardly sustained firmness, fled with the appearance of relief. With a\nshriek she rushed towards us, embraced the knees of Adrian, and uttering\nbut the words, \"O save my father!\" with sobs and hysterical cries, opened\nthe long-shut floodgates of her woe.\n\nPoor girl!--she and her father now lie side by side, beneath the high\nwalnut-tree where her lover reposes, and which in her dying moments she had\npointed out to us. Her father, at length aware of his daughter's danger,\nunable to see the changes of her dear countenance, obstinately held her\nhand, till it was chilled and stiffened by death. Nor did he then move or\nspeak, till, twelve hours after, kindly death took him to his breakless\nrepose. They rest beneath the sod, the tree their monument;--the hallowed\nspot is distinct in my memory, paled in by craggy Jura, and the far,\nimmeasurable Alps; the spire of the church they frequented still points\nfrom out the embosoming trees; and though her hand be cold, still methinks\nthe sounds of divine music which they loved wander about, solacing their\ngentle ghosts.\n\n[1] Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nWE had now reached Switzerland, so long the final mark and aim of our\nexertions. We had looked, I know not wherefore, with hope and pleasing\nexpectation on her congregation of hills and snowy crags, and opened our\nbosoms with renewed spirits to the icy Biz, which even at Midsummer used to\ncome from the northern glacier laden with cold. Yet how could we nourish\nexpectation of relief? Like our native England, and the vast extent of\nfertile France, this mountain-embowered land was desolate of its\ninhabitants. Nor bleak mountain-top, nor snow-nourished rivulet; not the\nice-laden Biz, nor thunder, the tamer of contagion, had preserved them--\nwhy therefore should we claim exemption?\n\nWho was there indeed to save? What troop had we brought fit to stand at\nbay, and combat with the conqueror? We were a failing remnant, tamed to\nmere submission to the coming blow. A train half dead, through fear of\ndeath--a hopeless, unresisting, almost reckless crew, which, in the\ntossed bark of life, had given up all pilotage, and resigned themselves to\nthe destructive force of ungoverned winds. Like a few furrows of unreaped\ncorn, which, left standing on a wide field after the rest is gathered to\nthe garner, are swiftly borne down by the winter storm. Like a few\nstraggling swallows, which, remaining after their fellows had, on the first\nunkind breath of passing autumn, migrated to genial climes, were struck to\nearth by the first frost of November. Like a stray sheep that wanders over\nthe sleet-beaten hill-side, while the flock is in the pen, and dies before\nmorning-dawn. Like a cloud, like one of many that were spread in\nimpenetrable woof over the sky, which, when the shepherd north has driven\nits companions \"to drink Antipodean noon,\" fades and dissolves in the clear\nether--Such were we!\n\nWe left the fair margin of the beauteous lake of Geneva, and entered the\nAlpine ravines; tracing to its source the brawling Arve, through the\nrock-bound valley of Servox, beside the mighty waterfalls, and under the\nshadow of the inaccessible mountains, we travelled on; while the luxuriant\nwalnut-tree gave place to the dark pine, whose musical branches swung in\nthe wind, and whose upright forms had braved a thousand storms--till the\nverdant sod, the flowery dell, and shrubbery hill were exchanged for the\nsky-piercing, untrodden, seedless rock, \"the bones of the world, waiting to\nbe clothed with every thing necessary to give life and beauty.\"[1] Strange\nthat we should seek shelter here! Surely, if, in those countries where\nearth was wont, like a tender mother, to nourish her children, we had found\nher a destroyer, we need not seek it here, where stricken by keen penury\nshe seems to shudder through her stony veins. Nor were we mistaken in our\nconjecture. We vainly sought the vast and ever moving glaciers of\nChamounix, rifts of pendant ice, seas of congelated waters, the leafless\ngroves of tempest-battered pines, dells, mere paths for the loud avalanche,\nand hill-tops, the resort of thunder-storms. Pestilence reigned paramount\neven here. By the time that day and night, like twin sisters of equal\ngrowth, shared equally their dominion over the hours, one by one, beneath\nthe ice-caves, beside the waters springing from the thawed snows of a\nthousand winters, another and yet another of the remnant of the race of\nMan, closed their eyes for ever to the light.\n\nYet we were not quite wrong in seeking a scene like this, whereon to close\nthe drama. Nature, true to the last, consoled us in the very heart of\nmisery. Sublime grandeur of outward objects soothed our hapless hearts, and\nwere in harmony with our desolation. Many sorrows have befallen man during\nhis chequered course; and many a woe-stricken mourner has found himself\nsole survivor among many. Our misery took its majestic shape and colouring\nfrom the vast ruin, that accompanied and made one with it. Thus on lovely\nearth, many a dark ravine contains a brawling stream, shadowed by romantic\nrocks, threaded by mossy paths--but all, except this, wanted the mighty\nback-ground, the towering Alps, whose snowy capes, or bared ridges, lifted\nus from our dull mortal abode, to the palaces of Nature's own.\n\nThis solemn harmony of event and situation regulated our feelings, and gave\nas it were fitting costume to our last act. Majestic gloom and tragic pomp\nattended the decease of wretched humanity. The funeral procession of\nmonarchs of old, was transcended by our splendid shews. Near the sources of\nthe Arveiron we performed the rites for, four only excepted, the last of\nthe species. Adrian and I, leaving Clara and Evelyn wrapt in peaceful\nunobserving slumber, carried the body to this desolate spot, and placed it\nin those caves of ice beneath the glacier, which rive and split with the\nslightest sound, and bring destruction on those within the clefts--no\nbird or beast of prey could here profane the frozen form. So, with hushed\nsteps and in silence, we placed the dead on a bier of ice, and then,\ndeparting, stood on the rocky platform beside the river springs. All hushed\nas we had been, the very striking of the air with our persons had sufficed\nto disturb the repose of this thawless region; and we had hardly left the\ncavern, before vast blocks of ice, detaching themselves from the roof,\nfell, and covered the human image we had deposited within. We had chosen a\nfair moonlight night, but our journey thither had been long, and the\ncrescent sank behind the western heights by the time we had accomplished\nour purpose. The snowy mountains and blue glaciers shone in their own\nlight. The rugged and abrupt ravine, which formed one side of Mont Anvert,\nwas opposite to us, the glacier at our side; at our feet Arveiron, white\nand foaming, dashed over the pointed rocks that jutted into it, and, with\nwhirring spray and ceaseless roar, disturbed the stilly night. Yellow\nlightnings played around the vast dome of Mont Blanc, silent as the\nsnow-clad rock they illuminated; all was bare, wild, and sublime, while the\nsinging of the pines in melodious murmurings added a gentle interest to the\nrough magnificence. Now the riving and fall of icy rocks clave the air; now\nthe thunder of the avalanche burst on our ears. In countries whose features\nare of less magnitude, nature betrays her living powers in the foliage of\nthe trees, in the growth of herbage, in the soft purling of meandering\nstreams; here, endowed with giant attributes, the torrent, the\nthunder-storm, and the flow of massive waters, display her activity. Such\nthe church-yard, such the requiem, such the eternal congregation, that\nwaited on our companion's funeral!\n\nNor was it the human form alone which we had placed in this eternal\nsepulchre, whose obsequies we now celebrated. With this last victim Plague\nvanished from the earth. Death had never wanted weapons wherewith to\ndestroy life, and we, few and weak as we had become, were still exposed to\nevery other shaft with which his full quiver teemed. But pestilence was\nabsent from among them. For seven years it had had full sway upon earth;\nshe had trod every nook of our spacious globe; she had mingled with the\natmosphere, which as a cloak enwraps all our fellow-creatures--the\ninhabitants of native Europe--the luxurious Asiatic--the swarthy\nAfrican and free American had been vanquished and destroyed by her. Her\nbarbarous tyranny came to its close here in the rocky vale of Chamounix.\n\nStill recurring scenes of misery and pain, the fruits of this distemper,\nmade no more a part of our lives--the word plague no longer rung in our\nears--the aspect of plague incarnate in the human countenance no longer\nappeared before our eyes. From this moment I saw plague no more. She\nabdicated her throne, and despoiled herself of her imperial sceptre among\nthe ice rocks that surrounded us. She left solitude and silence co-heirs of\nher kingdom.\n\nMy present feelings are so mingled with the past, that I cannot say whether\nthe knowledge of this change visited us, as we stood on this sterile spot.\nIt seems to me that it did; that a cloud seemed to pass from over us, that\na weight was taken from the air; that henceforth we breathed more freely,\nand raised our heads with some portion of former liberty. Yet we did not\nhope. We were impressed by the sentiment, that our race was run, but that\nplague would not be our destroyer. The coming time was as a mighty river,\ndown which a charmed boat is driven, whose mortal steersman knows, that the\nobvious peril is not the one he needs fear, yet that danger is nigh; and\nwho floats awe-struck under beetling precipices, through the dark\nand turbid waters--seeing in the distance yet stranger and ruder\nshapes, towards which he is irresistibly impelled. What would\nbecome of us? O for some Delphic oracle, or Pythian maid, to utter\nthe secrets of futurity! O for some Oedipus to solve the riddle of\nthe cruel Sphynx! Such Oedipus was I to be--not divining a word's juggle,\nbut whose agonizing pangs, and sorrow-tainted life were to be the engines,\nwherewith to lay bare the secrets of destiny, and reveal the meaning of the\nenigma, whose explanation closed the history of the human race.\n\nDim fancies, akin to these, haunted our minds, and instilled feelings not\nunallied to pleasure, as we stood beside this silent tomb of nature, reared\nby these lifeless mountains, above her living veins, choking her vital\nprinciple. \"Thus are we left,\" said Adrian, \"two melancholy blasted trees,\nwhere once a forest waved. We are left to mourn, and pine, and die. Yet\neven now we have our duties, which we must string ourselves to fulfil: the\nduty of bestowing pleasure where we can, and by force of love, irradiating\nwith rainbow hues the tempest of grief. Nor will I repine if in this\nextremity we preserve what we now possess. Something tells me, Verney, that\nwe need no longer dread our cruel enemy, and I cling with delight to the\noracular voice. Though strange, it will be sweet to mark the growth of your\nlittle boy, and the development of Clara's young heart. In the midst of a\ndesert world, we are everything to them; and, if we live, it must be our\ntask to make this new mode of life happy to them. At present this is easy,\nfor their childish ideas do not wander into futurity, and the stinging\ncraving for sympathy, and all of love of which our nature is susceptible,\nis not yet awake within them: we cannot guess what will happen then, when\nnature asserts her indefeasible and sacred powers; but, long before that\ntime, we may all be cold, as he who lies in yonder tomb of ice. We need\nonly provide for the present, and endeavour to fill with pleasant images\nthe inexperienced fancy of your lovely niece. The scenes which now surround\nus, vast and sublime as they are, are not such as can best contribute to\nthis work. Nature is here like our fortunes, grand, but too destructive,\nbare, and rude, to be able to afford delight to her young imagination. Let\nus descend to the sunny plains of Italy. Winter will soon be here, to\nclothe this wilderness in double desolation; but we will cross the bleak\nhill-tops, and lead her to scenes of fertility and beauty, where her path\nwill be adorned with flowers, and the cheery atmosphere inspire pleasure\nand hope.\"\n\nIn pursuance of this plan we quitted Chamounix on the following day. We had\nno cause to hasten our steps; no event was transacted beyond our actual\nsphere to enchain our resolves, so we yielded to every idle whim, and\ndeemed our time well spent, when we could behold the passage of the hours\nwithout dismay. We loitered along the lovely Vale of Servox; passed long\nhours on the bridge, which, crossing the ravine of Arve, commands a\nprospect of its pine-clothed depths, and the snowy mountains that wall it\nin. We rambled through romantic Switzerland; till, fear of coming winter\nleading us forward, the first days of October found us in the valley of La\nMaurienne, which leads to Cenis. I cannot explain the reluctance we felt at\nleaving this land of mountains; perhaps it was, that we regarded the Alps\nas boundaries between our former and our future state of existence, and so\nclung fondly to what of old we had loved. Perhaps, because we had now so\nfew impulses urging to a choice between two modes of action, we were\npleased to preserve the existence of one, and preferred the prospect of\nwhat we were to do, to the recollection of what had been done. We felt that\nfor this year danger was past; and we believed that, for some months, we\nwere secured to each other. There was a thrilling, agonizing delight in the\nthought--it filled the eyes with misty tears, it tore the heart with\ntumultuous heavings; frailer than the \"snow fall in the river,\" were we\neach and all--but we strove to give life and individuality to the\nmeteoric course of our several existences, and to feel that no moment\nescaped us unenjoyed. Thus tottering on the dizzy brink, we were happy.\nYes! as we sat beneath the toppling rocks, beside the waterfalls, near\n\n --Forests, ancient as the hills,\n\nAnd folding sunny spots of greenery, where the chamois grazed, and the\ntimid squirrel laid up its hoard--descanting on the charms of nature,\ndrinking in the while her unalienable beauties--we were, in an empty\nworld, happy.\n\nYet, O days of joy--days, when eye spoke to eye, and voices, sweeter than\nthe music of the swinging branches of the pines, or rivulet's gentle\nmurmur, answered mine--yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved\nsociety--days unutterably dear to me forlorn--pass, O pass before me,\nmaking me in your memory forget what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes\nblot this senseless paper--behold, how my features are convulsed by\nagonizing throes, at your mere recollection, now that, alone, my tears\nflow, my lips quiver, my cries fill the air, unseen, unmarked, unheard!\nYet, O yet, days of delight! let me dwell on your long-drawn hours!\n\nAs the cold increased upon us, we passed the Alps, and descended into\nItaly. At the uprising of morn, we sat at our repast, and cheated our\nregrets by gay sallies or learned disquisitions. The live-long day we\nsauntered on, still keeping in view the end of our journey, but careless of\nthe hour of its completion. As the evening star shone out, and the orange\nsunset, far in the west, marked the position of the dear land we had for\never left, talk, thought enchaining, made the hours fly--O that we had\nlived thus for ever and for ever! Of what consequence was it to our four\nhearts, that they alone were the fountains of life in the wide world? As\nfar as mere individual sentiment was concerned, we had rather be left thus\nunited together, than if, each alone in a populous desert of unknown men,\nwe had wandered truly companionless till life's last term. In this manner,\nwe endeavoured to console each other; in this manner, true philosophy\ntaught us to reason.\n\nIt was the delight of Adrian and myself to wait on Clara, naming her the\nlittle queen of the world, ourselves her humblest servitors. When we\narrived at a town, our first care was to select for her its most choice\nabode; to make sure that no harrowing relic remained of its former\ninhabitants; to seek food for her, and minister to her wants with assiduous\ntenderness. Clara entered into our scheme with childish gaiety. Her chief\nbusiness was to attend on Evelyn; but it was her sport to array herself in\nsplendid robes, adorn herself with sunny gems, and ape a princely state.\nHer religion, deep and pure, did not teach her to refuse to blunt thus the\nkeen sting of regret; her youthful vivacity made her enter, heart and soul,\ninto these strange masquerades.\n\nWe had resolved to pass the ensuing winter at Milan, which, as being a\nlarge and luxurious city, would afford us choice of homes. We had descended\nthe Alps, and left far behind their vast forests and mighty crags. We\nentered smiling Italy. Mingled grass and corn grew in her plains, the\nunpruned vines threw their luxuriant branches around the elms. The grapes,\noverripe, had fallen on the ground, or hung purple, or burnished green,\namong the red and yellow leaves. The ears of standing corn winnowed to\nemptiness by the spendthrift winds; the fallen foliage of the trees, the\nweed-grown brooks, the dusky olive, now spotted with its blackened fruit;\nthe chestnuts, to which the squirrel only was harvest-man; all plenty, and\nyet, alas! all poverty, painted in wondrous hues and fantastic groupings\nthis land of beauty. In the towns, in the voiceless towns, we visited the\nchurches, adorned by pictures, master-pieces of art, or galleries of\nstatues--while in this genial clime the animals, in new found liberty,\nrambled through the gorgeous palaces, and hardly feared our forgotten\naspect. The dove-coloured oxen turned their full eyes on us, and paced\nslowly by; a startling throng of silly sheep, with pattering feet, would\nstart up in some chamber, formerly dedicated to the repose of beauty, and\nrush, huddling past us, down the marble staircase into the street, and\nagain in at the first open door, taking unrebuked possession of hallowed\nsanctuary, or kingly council-chamber. We no longer started at these\noccurrences, nor at worse exhibition of change--when the palace had\nbecome a mere tomb, pregnant with fetid stench, strewn with the dead; and\nwe could perceive how pestilence and fear had played strange antics,\nchasing the luxurious dame to the dank fields and bare cottage; gathering,\namong carpets of Indian woof, and beds of silk, the rough peasant, or the\ndeformed half-human shape of the wretched beggar.\n\nWe arrived at Milan, and stationed ourselves in the Vice-Roy's palace. Here\nwe made laws for ourselves, dividing our day, and fixing distinct\noccupations for each hour. In the morning we rode in the adjoining country,\nor wandered through the palaces, in search of pictures or antiquities. In\nthe evening we assembled to read or to converse. There were few books that\nwe dared read; few, that did not cruelly deface the painting we bestowed on\nour solitude, by recalling combinations and emotions never more to be\nexperienced by us. Metaphysical disquisition; fiction, which wandering from\nall reality, lost itself in self-created errors; poets of times so far gone\nby, that to read of them was as to read of Atlantis and Utopia; or such as\nreferred to nature only, and the workings of one particular mind; but most\nof all, talk, varied and ever new, beguiled our hours.\n\nWhile we paused thus in our onward career towards death, time held on its\naccustomed course. Still and for ever did the earth roll on, enthroned in\nher atmospheric car, speeded by the force of the invisible coursers of\nnever-erring necessity. And now, this dew-drop in the sky, this ball,\nponderous with mountains, lucent with waves, passing from the short tyranny\nof watery Pisces and the frigid Ram, entered the radiant demesne of Taurus\nand the Twins. There, fanned by vernal airs, the Spirit of Beauty sprung\nfrom her cold repose; and, with winnowing wings and soft pacing feet, set a\ngirdle of verdure around the earth, sporting among the violets, hiding\nwithin the springing foliage of the trees, tripping lightly down the\nradiant streams into the sunny deep. \"For lo! winter is past, the rain is\nover and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of\nbirds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig\ntree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the tender grape,\ngive a good smell.\"[2] Thus was it in the time of the ancient regal poet;\nthus was it now.\n\nYet how could we miserable hail the approach of this delightful season? We\nhoped indeed that death did not now as heretofore walk in its shadow; yet,\nleft as we were alone to each other, we looked in each other's faces with\nenquiring eyes, not daring altogether to trust to our presentiments, and\nendeavouring to divine which would be the hapless survivor to the other\nthree. We were to pass the summer at the lake of Como, and thither we\nremoved as soon as spring grew to her maturity, and the snow disappeared\nfrom the hill tops. Ten miles from Como, under the steep heights of the\neastern mountains, by the margin of the lake, was a villa called the\nPliniana, from its being built on the site of a fountain, whose periodical\nebb and flow is described by the younger Pliny in his letters. The house\nhad nearly fallen into ruin, till in the year 2090, an English nobleman had\nbought it, and fitted it up with every luxury. Two large halls, hung with\nsplendid tapestry, and paved with marble, opened on each side of a court,\nof whose two other sides one overlooked the deep dark lake, and the other\nwas bounded by a mountain, from whose stony side gushed, with roar and\nsplash, the celebrated fountain. Above, underwood of myrtle and tufts of\nodorous plants crowned the rock, while the star-pointing giant cypresses\nreared themselves in the blue air, and the recesses of the hills were\nadorned with the luxuriant growth of chestnut-trees. Here we fixed our\nsummer residence. We had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed, now stemming\nthe midmost waves, now coasting the over-hanging and craggy banks, thick\nsown with evergreens, which dipped their shining leaves in the waters, and\nwere mirrored in many a little bay and creek of waters of translucent\ndarkness. Here orange plants bloomed, here birds poured forth melodious\nhymns; and here, during spring, the cold snake emerged from the clefts, and\nbasked on the sunny terraces of rock.\n\nWere we not happy in this paradisiacal retreat? If some kind spirit had\nwhispered forgetfulness to us, methinks we should have been happy here,\nwhere the precipitous mountains, nearly pathless, shut from our view the\nfar fields of desolate earth, and with small exertion of the imagination,\nwe might fancy that the cities were still resonant with popular hum, and\nthe peasant still guided his plough through the furrow, and that we, the\nworld's free denizens, enjoyed a voluntary exile, and not a remediless\ncutting off from our extinct species.\n\nNot one among us enjoyed the beauty of this scenery so much as Clara.\nBefore we quitted Milan, a change had taken place in her habits and\nmanners. She lost her gaiety, she laid aside her sports, and assumed an\nalmost vestal plainness of attire. She shunned us, retiring with Evelyn to\nsome distant chamber or silent nook; nor did she enter into his pastimes\nwith the same zest as she was wont, but would sit and watch him with sadly\ntender smiles, and eyes bright with tears, yet without a word of complaint.\nShe approached us timidly, avoided our caresses, nor shook off her\nembarrassment till some serious discussion or lofty theme called her for\nawhile out of herself. Her beauty grew as a rose, which, opening to the\nsummer wind, discloses leaf after leaf till the sense aches with its excess\nof loveliness. A slight and variable colour tinged her cheeks, and her\nmotions seemed attuned by some hidden harmony of surpassing sweetness. We\nredoubled our tenderness and earnest attentions. She received them with\ngrateful smiles, that fled swift as sunny beam from a glittering wave on an\nApril day.\n\nOur only acknowledged point of sympathy with her, appeared to be Evelyn.\nThis dear little fellow was a comforter and delight to us beyond all words.\nHis buoyant spirit, and his innocent ignorance of our vast calamity, were\nbalm to us, whose thoughts and feelings were over-wrought and spun out in\nthe immensity of speculative sorrow. To cherish, to caress, to amuse him\nwas the common task of all. Clara, who felt towards him in some degree like\na young mother, gratefully acknowledged our kindness towards him. To me, O!\nto me, who saw the clear brows and soft eyes of the beloved of my heart, my\nlost and ever dear Idris, re-born in his gentle face, to me he was dear\neven to pain; if I pressed him to my heart, methought I clasped a real and\nliving part of her, who had lain there through long years of youthful\nhappiness.\n\nIt was the custom of Adrian and myself to go out each day in our skiff to\nforage in the adjacent country. In these expeditions we were seldom\naccompanied by Clara or her little charge, but our return was an hour of\nhilarity. Evelyn ransacked our stores with childish eagerness, and we\nalways brought some new found gift for our fair companion. Then too we made\ndiscoveries of lovely scenes or gay palaces, whither in the evening we all\nproceeded. Our sailing expeditions were most divine, and with a fair wind\nor transverse course we cut the liquid waves; and, if talk failed under the\npressure of thought, I had my clarionet with me, which awoke the echoes,\nand gave the change to our careful minds. Clara at such times often\nreturned to her former habits of free converse and gay sally; and though\nour four hearts alone beat in the world, those four hearts were happy.\n\nOne day, on our return from the town of Como, with a laden boat, we\nexpected as usual to be met at the port by Clara and Evelyn, and we were\nsomewhat surprised to see the beach vacant. I, as my nature prompted, would\nnot prognosticate evil, but explained it away as a mere casual incident.\nNot so Adrian. He was seized with sudden trembling and apprehension, and he\ncalled to me with vehemence to steer quickly for land, and, when near,\nleapt from the boat, half falling into the water; and, scrambling up the\nsteep bank, hastened along the narrow strip of garden, the only level space\nbetween the lake and the mountain. I followed without delay; the garden and\ninner court were empty, so was the house, whose every room we visited.\nAdrian called loudly upon Clara's name, and was about to rush up the near\nmountain-path, when the door of a summer-house at the end of the garden\nslowly opened, and Clara appeared, not advancing towards us, but leaning\nagainst a column of the building with blanched cheeks, in a posture of\nutter despondency. Adrian sprang towards her with a cry of joy, and folded\nher delightedly in his arms. She withdrew from his embrace, and, without a\nword, again entered the summer-house. Her quivering lips, her despairing\nheart refused to afford her voice to express our misfortune. Poor little\nEvelyn had, while playing with her, been seized with sudden fever, and now\nlay torpid and speechless on a little couch in the summer-house.\n\nFor a whole fortnight we unceasingly watched beside the poor child, as his\nlife declined under the ravages of a virulent typhus. His little form and\ntiny lineaments encaged the embryo of the world-spanning mind of man. Man's\nnature, brimful of passions and affections, would have had an home in that\nlittle heart, whose swift pulsations hurried towards their close. His small\nhand's fine mechanism, now flaccid and unbent, would in the growth of sinew\nand muscle, have achieved works of beauty or of strength. His tender rosy\nfeet would have trod in firm manhood the bowers and glades of earth--\nthese reflections were now of little use: he lay, thought and strength\nsuspended, waiting unresisting the final blow.\n\nWe watched at his bedside, and when the access of fever was on him, we\nneither spoke nor looked at each other, marking only his obstructed breath\nand the mortal glow that tinged his sunken cheek, the heavy death that\nweighed on his eyelids. It is a trite evasion to say, that words could not\nexpress our long drawn agony; yet how can words image sensations, whose\ntormenting keenness throw us back, as it were, on the deep roots and hidden\nfoundations of our nature, which shake our being with earth-quake-throe, so\nthat we leave to confide in accustomed feelings which like mother-earth\nsupport us, and cling to some vain imagination or deceitful hope, which\nwill soon be buried in the ruins occasioned by the final shock. I have\ncalled that period a fortnight, which we passed watching the changes of the\nsweet child's malady--and such it might have been--at night, we\nwondered to find another day gone, while each particular hour seemed\nendless. Day and night were exchanged for one another uncounted; we slept\nhardly at all, nor did we even quit his room, except when a pang of grief\nseized us, and we retired from each other for a short period to conceal our\nsobs and tears. We endeavoured in vain to abstract Clara from this\ndeplorable scene. She sat, hour after hour, looking at him, now softly\narranging his pillow, and, while he had power to swallow, administered his\ndrink. At length the moment of his death came: the blood paused in its flow\n--his eyes opened, and then closed again: without convulsion or sigh, the\nfrail tenement was left vacant of its spiritual inhabitant.\n\nI have heard that the sight of the dead has confirmed materialists in their\nbelief. I ever felt otherwise. Was that my child--that moveless decaying\ninanimation? My child was enraptured by my caresses; his dear voice\ncloathed with meaning articulations his thoughts, otherwise inaccessible;\nhis smile was a ray of the soul, and the same soul sat upon its throne in\nhis eyes. I turn from this mockery of what he was. Take, O earth, thy debt!\nfreely and for ever I consign to thee the garb thou didst afford. But thou,\nsweet child, amiable and beloved boy, either thy spirit has sought a fitter\ndwelling, or, shrined in my heart, thou livest while it lives.\n\nWe placed his remains under a cypress, the upright mountain being scooped\nout to receive them. And then Clara said, \"If you wish me to live, take me\nfrom hence. There is something in this scene of transcendent beauty, in\nthese trees, and hills and waves, that for ever whisper to me, leave thy\ncumbrous flesh, and make a part of us. I earnestly entreat you to take me\naway.\"\n\nSo on the fifteenth of August we bade adieu to our villa, and the\nembowering shades of this abode of beauty; to calm bay and noisy waterfall;\nto Evelyn's little grave we bade farewell! and then, with heavy hearts, we\ndeparted on our pilgrimage towards Rome.\n\n[1] Mary Wollstonecraft's Letters from Norway.\n[2] Solomon's Song.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nNOW--soft awhile--have I arrived so near the end? Yes! it is all over\nnow--a step or two over those new made graves, and the wearisome way is\ndone. Can I accomplish my task? Can I streak my paper with words capacious\nof the grand conclusion? Arise, black Melancholy! quit thy Cimmerian\nsolitude! Bring with thee murky fogs from hell, which may drink up the day;\nbring blight and pestiferous exhalations, which, entering the hollow\ncaverns and breathing places of earth, may fill her stony veins with\ncorruption, so that not only herbage may no longer flourish, the trees may\nrot, and the rivers run with gall--but the everlasting mountains be\ndecomposed, and the mighty deep putrify, and the genial atmosphere which\nclips the globe, lose all powers of generation and sustenance. Do this, sad\nvisaged power, while I write, while eyes read these pages.\n\nAnd who will read them? Beware, tender offspring of the re-born world--\nbeware, fair being, with human heart, yet untamed by care, and human brow,\nyet unploughed by time--beware, lest the cheerful current of thy blood be\nchecked, thy golden locks turn grey, thy sweet dimpling smiles be changed\nto fixed, harsh wrinkles! Let not day look on these lines, lest garish day\nwaste, turn pale, and die. Seek a cypress grove, whose moaning boughs will\nbe harmony befitting; seek some cave, deep embowered in earth's dark\nentrails, where no light will penetrate, save that which struggles, red and\nflickering, through a single fissure, staining thy page with grimmest\nlivery of death.\n\nThere is a painful confusion in my brain, which refuses to delineate\ndistinctly succeeding events. Sometimes the irradiation of my friend's\ngentle smile comes before me; and methinks its light spans and fills\neternity--then, again, I feel the gasping throes--\n\nWe quitted Como, and in compliance with Adrian's earnest desire, we took\nVenice in our way to Rome. There was something to the English peculiarly\nattractive in the idea of this wave-encircled, island-enthroned city.\nAdrian had never seen it. We went down the Po and the Brenta in a boat;\nand, the days proving intolerably hot, we rested in the bordering palaces\nduring the day, travelling through the night, when darkness made the\nbordering banks indistinct, and our solitude less remarkable; when the\nwandering moon lit the waves that divided before our prow, and the\nnight-wind filled our sails, and the murmuring stream, waving trees, and\nswelling canvass, accorded in harmonious strain. Clara, long overcome by\nexcessive grief, had to a great degree cast aside her timid, cold reserve,\nand received our attentions with grateful tenderness. While Adrian with\npoetic fervour discoursed of the glorious nations of the dead, of the\nbeauteous earth and the fate of man, she crept near him, drinking in his\nspeech with silent pleasure. We banished from our talk, and as much as\npossible from our thoughts, the knowledge of our desolation. And it would\nbe incredible to an inhabitant of cities, to one among a busy throng, to\nwhat extent we succeeded. It was as a man confined in a dungeon, whose\nsmall and grated rift at first renders the doubtful light more sensibly\nobscure, till, the visual orb having drunk in the beam, and adapted itself\nto its scantiness, he finds that clear noon inhabits his cell. So we, a\nsimple triad on empty earth, were multiplied to each other, till we became\nall in all. We stood like trees, whose roots are loosened by the wind,\nwhich support one another, leaning and clinging with encreased fervour\nwhile the wintry storms howl. Thus we floated down the widening stream of\nthe Po, sleeping when the cicale sang, awake with the stars. We entered the\nnarrower banks of the Brenta, and arrived at the shore of the Laguna at\nsunrise on the sixth of September. The bright orb slowly rose from behind\nits cupolas and towers, and shed its penetrating light upon the glassy\nwaters. Wrecks of gondolas, and some few uninjured ones, were strewed on\nthe beach at Fusina. We embarked in one of these for the widowed daughter\nof ocean, who, abandoned and fallen, sat forlorn on her propping isles,\nlooking towards the far mountains of Greece. We rowed lightly over the\nLaguna, and entered Canale Grande. The tide ebbed sullenly from out the\nbroken portals and violated halls of Venice: sea weed and sea monsters were\nleft on the blackened marble, while the salt ooze defaced the matchless\nworks of art that adorned their walls, and the sea gull flew out from the\nshattered window. In the midst of this appalling ruin of the monuments of\nman's power, nature asserted her ascendancy, and shone more beauteous from\nthe contrast. The radiant waters hardly trembled, while the rippling waves\nmade many sided mirrors to the sun; the blue immensity, seen beyond Lido,\nstretched far, unspecked by boat, so tranquil, so lovely, that it seemed to\ninvite us to quit the land strewn with ruins, and to seek refuge from\nsorrow and fear on its placid extent.\n\nWe saw the ruins of this hapless city from the height of the tower of San\nMarco, immediately under us, and turned with sickening hearts to the sea,\nwhich, though it be a grave, rears no monument, discloses no ruin. Evening\nhad come apace. The sun set in calm majesty behind the misty summits of the\nApennines, and its golden and roseate hues painted the mountains of the\nopposite shore. \"That land,\" said Adrian, \"tinged with the last glories of\nthe day, is Greece.\" Greece! The sound had a responsive chord in the bosom\nof Clara. She vehemently reminded us that we had promised to take her once\nagain to Greece, to the tomb of her parents. Why go to Rome? what should we\ndo at Rome? We might take one of the many vessels to be found here, embark\nin it, and steer right for Albania.\n\nI objected the dangers of ocean, and the distance of the mountains we saw,\nfrom Athens; a distance which, from the savage uncultivation of the\ncountry, was almost impassable. Adrian, who was delighted with Clara's\nproposal, obviated these objections. The season was favourable; the\nnorth-west that blew would take us transversely across the gulph; and then\nwe might find, in some abandoned port, a light Greek caique, adapted for\nsuch navigation, and run down the coast of the Morea, and, passing over the\nIsthmus of Corinth, without much land-travelling or fatigue, find ourselves\nat Athens. This appeared to me wild talk; but the sea, glowing with a\nthousand purple hues, looked so brilliant and safe; my beloved companions\nwere so earnest, so determined, that, when Adrian said, \"Well, though it is\nnot exactly what you wish, yet consent, to please me\"--I could no longer\nrefuse. That evening we selected a vessel, whose size just seemed fitted\nfor our enterprize; we bent the sails and put the rigging in order, and\nreposing that night in one of the city's thousand palaces, agreed to embark\nat sunrise the following morning.\n\n  When winds that move not its calm surface, sweep\n  The azure sea, I love the land no more;\n  The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep\n  Tempt my unquiet mind--\n\nThus said Adrian, quoting a translation of Moschus's poem, as in the clear\nmorning light, we rowed over the Laguna, past Lido, into the open sea--I\nwould have added in continuation,\n\n  But when the roar\n  Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam\n  Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst--\n\nBut my friends declared that such verses were evil augury;\nso in cheerful mood we left the shallow waters, and, when\nout at sea, unfurled our sails to catch the favourable breeze.\nThe laughing morning air filled them, while sun-light bathed earth, sky and\nocean--the placid waves divided to receive our keel, and playfully kissed\nthe dark sides of our little skiff, murmuring a welcome; as land receded,\nstill the blue expanse, most waveless, twin sister to the azure empyrean,\nafforded smooth conduct to our bark. As the air and waters were tranquil\nand balmy, so were our minds steeped in quiet. In comparison with the\nunstained deep, funereal earth appeared a grave, its high rocks and stately\nmountains were but monuments, its trees the plumes of a herse, the brooks\nand rivers brackish with tears for departed man. Farewell to desolate towns\n--to fields with their savage intermixture of corn and weeds--to ever\nmultiplying relics of our lost species. Ocean, we commit ourselves to thee\n--even as the patriarch of old floated above the drowned world, let us be\nsaved, as thus we betake ourselves to thy perennial flood.\n\nAdrian sat at the helm; I attended to the rigging, the breeze right aft\nfilled our swelling canvas, and we ran before it over the untroubled deep.\nThe wind died away at noon; its idle breath just permitted us to hold our\ncourse. As lazy, fair-weather sailors, careless of the coming hour, we\ntalked gaily of our coasting voyage, of our arrival at Athens. We would\nmake our home of one of the Cyclades, and there in myrtle-groves, amidst\nperpetual spring, fanned by the wholesome sea-breezes--we would live long\nyears in beatific union--Was there such a thing as death in the world?--\n\n\nThe sun passed its zenith, and lingered down the stainless floor of heaven.\nLying in the boat, my face turned up to the sky, I thought I saw on its\nblue white, marbled streaks, so slight, so immaterial, that now I said--\nThey are there--and now, It is a mere imagination. A sudden fear stung me\nwhile I gazed; and, starting up, and running to the prow,--as I stood, my\nhair was gently lifted on my brow--a dark line of ripples appeared to the\neast, gaining rapidly on us--my breathless remark to Adrian, was followed\nby the flapping of the canvas, as the adverse wind struck it, and our boat\nlurched--swift as speech, the web of the storm thickened over head, the\nsun went down red, the dark sea was strewed with foam, and our skiff rose\nand fell in its encreasing furrows.\n\nBehold us now in our frail tenement, hemmed in by hungry, roaring waves,\nbuffeted by winds. In the inky east two vast clouds, sailing contrary ways,\nmet; the lightning leapt forth, and the hoarse thunder muttered. Again in\nthe south, the clouds replied, and the forked stream of fire running along\nthe black sky, shewed us the appalling piles of clouds, now met and\nobliterated by the heaving waves. Great God! And we alone--we three--\nalone--alone--sole dwellers on the sea and on the earth, we three must\nperish! The vast universe, its myriad worlds, and the plains of boundless\nearth which we had left--the extent of shoreless sea around--contracted\nto my view--they and all that they contained, shrunk up to one point,\neven to our tossing bark, freighted with glorious humanity.\n\nA convulsion of despair crossed the love-beaming face of Adrian, while with\nset teeth he murmured, \"Yet they shall be saved!\" Clara, visited by an\nhuman pang, pale and trembling, crept near him--he looked on her with an\nencouraging smile--\"Do you fear, sweet girl? O, do not fear, we shall\nsoon be on shore!\"\n\nThe darkness prevented me from seeing the changes of her countenance; but\nher voice was clear and sweet, as she replied, \"Why should I fear? neither\nsea nor storm can harm us, if mighty destiny or the ruler of destiny does\nnot permit. And then the stinging fear of surviving either of you, is not\nhere--one death will clasp us undivided.\"\n\nMeanwhile we took in all our sails, save a gib; and, as soon as we might\nwithout danger, changed our course, running with the wind for the Italian\nshore. Dark night mixed everything; we hardly discerned the white crests of\nthe murderous surges, except when lightning made brief noon, and drank the\ndarkness, shewing us our danger, and restoring us to double night. We were\nall silent, except when Adrian, as steersman, made an encouraging\nobservation. Our little shell obeyed the rudder miraculously well, and ran\nalong on the top of the waves, as if she had been an offspring of the sea,\nand the angry mother sheltered her endangered child.\n\nI sat at the prow, watching our course; when suddenly I heard the waters\nbreak with redoubled fury. We were certainly near the shore--at the same\ntime I cried, \"About there!\" and a broad lightning filling the concave,\nshewed us for one moment the level beach a-head, disclosing even the sands,\nand stunted, ooze-sprinkled beds of reeds, that grew at high water mark.\nAgain it was dark, and we drew in our breath with such content as one may,\nwho, while fragments of volcano-hurled rock darken the air, sees a vast\nmass ploughing the ground immediately at his feet. What to do we knew not\n--the breakers here, there, everywhere, encompassed us--they roared, and\ndashed, and flung their hated spray in our faces. With considerable\ndifficulty and danger we succeeded at length in altering our course, and\nstretched out from shore. I urged my companions to prepare for the wreck of\nour little skiff, and to bind themselves to some oar or spar which might\nsuffice to float them. I was myself an excellent swimmer--the very sight\nof the sea was wont to raise in me such sensations, as a huntsman\nexperiences, when he hears a pack of hounds in full cry; I loved to feel\nthe waves wrap me and strive to overpower me; while I, lord of myself,\nmoved this way or that, in spite of their angry buffetings. Adrian also\ncould swim--but the weakness of his frame prevented him from feeling\npleasure in the exercise, or acquiring any great expertness. But what power\ncould the strongest swimmer oppose to the overpowering violence of ocean in\nits fury? My efforts to prepare my companions were rendered nearly futile\n--for the roaring breakers prevented our hearing one another speak, and\nthe waves, that broke continually over our boat, obliged me to exert all my\nstrength in lading the water out, as fast as it came in. The while\ndarkness, palpable and rayless, hemmed us round, dissipated only by the\nlightning; sometimes we beheld thunderbolts, fiery red, fall into the sea,\nand at intervals vast spouts stooped from the clouds, churning the wild\nocean, which rose to meet them; while the fierce gale bore the rack\nonwards, and they were lost in the chaotic mingling of sky and sea. Our\ngunwales had been torn away, our single sail had been rent to ribbands, and\nborne down the stream of the wind. We had cut away our mast, and lightened\nthe boat of all she contained--Clara attempted to assist me in heaving\nthe water from the hold, and, as she turned her eyes to look on the\nlightning, I could discern by that momentary gleam, that resignation had\nconquered every fear. We have a power given us in any worst extremity,\nwhich props the else feeble mind of man, and enables us to endure the most\nsavage tortures with a stillness of soul which in hours of happiness we\ncould not have imagined. A calm, more dreadful in truth than the tempest,\nallayed the wild beatings of my heart--a calm like that of the gamester,\nthe suicide, and the murderer, when the last die is on the point of being\ncast--while the poisoned cup is at the lips,--as the death-blow is\nabout to be given.\n\nHours passed thus--hours which might write old age on the face of\nbeardless youth, and grizzle the silky hair of infancy---hours, while the\nchaotic uproar continued, while each dread gust transcended in fury the one\nbefore, and our skiff hung on the breaking wave, and then rushed into the\nvalley below, and trembled and spun between the watery precipices that\nseemed most to meet above her. For a moment the gale paused, and ocean sank\nto comparative silence--it was a breathless interval; the wind which, as\na practised leaper, had gathered itself up before it sprung, now with\nterrific roar rushed over the sea, and the waves struck our stern. Adrian\nexclaimed that the rudder was gone;--\"We are lost,\" cried Clara, \"Save\nyourselves--O save yourselves!\" The lightning shewed me the poor girl\nhalf buried in the water at the bottom of the boat; as she was sinking in\nit Adrian caught her up, and sustained her in his arms. We were without a\nrudder--we rushed prow foremost into the vast billows piled up a-head--\nthey broke over and filled the tiny skiff; one scream I heard--one cry\nthat we were gone, I uttered; I found myself in the waters; darkness was\naround. When the light of the tempest flashed, I saw the keel of our upset\nboat close to me--I clung to this, grasping it with clenched hand and\nnails, while I endeavoured during each flash to discover any appearance of\nmy companions. I thought I saw Adrian at no great distance from me,\nclinging to an oar; I sprung from my hold, and with energy beyond my human\nstrength, I dashed aside the waters as I strove to lay hold of him. As that\nhope failed, instinctive love of life animated me, and feelings of\ncontention, as if a hostile will combated with mine. I breasted the surges,\nand flung them from me, as I would the opposing front and sharpened claws\nof a lion about to enfang my bosom. When I had been beaten down by one\nwave, I rose on another, while I felt bitter pride curl my lip.\n\nEver since the storm had carried us near the shore, we had never attained\nany great distance from it. With every flash I saw the bordering coast; yet\nthe progress I made was small, while each wave, as it receded, carried me\nback into ocean's far abysses. At one moment I felt my foot touch the sand,\nand then again I was in deep water; my arms began to lose their power of\nmotion; my breath failed me under the influence of the strangling waters--\na thousand wild and delirious thoughts crossed me: as well as I can now\nrecall them, my chief feeling was, how sweet it would be to lay my head on\nthe quiet earth, where the surges would no longer strike my weakened frame,\nnor the sound of waters ring in my ears--to attain this repose, not to\nsave my life, I made a last effort--the shelving shore suddenly presented\na footing for me. I rose, and was again thrown down by the breakers--a\npoint of rock to which I was enabled to cling, gave me a moment's respite;\nand then, taking advantage of the ebbing of the waves, I ran forwards--\ngained the dry sands, and fell senseless on the oozy reeds that sprinkled\nthem.\n\nI must have lain long deprived of life; for when first, with a sickening\nfeeling, I unclosed my eyes, the light of morning met them. Great change\nhad taken place meanwhile: grey dawn dappled the flying clouds, which sped\nonwards, leaving visible at intervals vast lakes of pure ether. A fountain\nof light arose in an encreasing stream from the east, behind the waves of\nthe Adriatic, changing the grey to a roseate hue, and then flooding sky and\nsea with aerial gold.\n\nA kind of stupor followed my fainting; my senses were alive, but memory was\nextinct. The blessed respite was short--a snake lurked near me to sting\nme into life--on the first retrospective emotion I would have started up,\nbut my limbs refused to obey me; my knees trembled, the muscles had lost\nall power. I still believed that I might find one of my beloved companions\ncast like me, half alive, on the beach; and I strove in every way to\nrestore my frame to the use of its animal functions. I wrung the brine from\nmy hair; and the rays of the risen sun soon visited me with genial warmth.\nWith the restoration of my bodily powers, my mind became in some degree\naware of the universe of misery, henceforth to be its dwelling. I ran to\nthe water's edge, calling on the beloved names. Ocean drank in, and\nabsorbed my feeble voice, replying with pitiless roar. I climbed a near\ntree: the level sands bounded by a pine forest, and the sea clipped round\nby the horizon, was all that I could discern. In vain I extended my\nresearches along the beach; the mast we had thrown overboard, with tangled\ncordage, and remnants of a sail, was the sole relic land received of our\nwreck. Sometimes I stood still, and wrung my hands. I accused earth and sky\n--the universal machine and the Almighty power that misdirected it. Again\nI threw myself on the sands, and then the sighing wind, mimicking a human\ncry, roused me to bitter, fallacious hope. Assuredly if any little bark or\nsmallest canoe had been near, I should have sought the savage plains of\nocean, found the dear remains of my lost ones, and clinging round them,\nhave shared their grave.\n\nThe day passed thus; each moment contained eternity; although when hour\nafter hour had gone by, I wondered at the quick flight of time. Yet even\nnow I had not drunk the bitter potion to the dregs; I was not yet persuaded\nof my loss; I did not yet feel in every pulsation, in every nerve, in every\nthought, that I remained alone of my race,--that I was the LAST MAN.\n\nThe day had clouded over, and a drizzling rain set in at sunset. Even the\neternal skies weep, I thought; is there any shame then, that mortal man\nshould spend himself in tears? I remembered the ancient fables, in which\nhuman beings are described as dissolving away through weeping into\never-gushing fountains. Ah! that so it were; and then my destiny would be\nin some sort akin to the watery death of Adrian and Clara. Oh! grief is\nfantastic; it weaves a web on which to trace the history of its woe from\nevery form and change around; it incorporates itself with all living\nnature; it finds sustenance in every object; as light, it fills all things,\nand, like light, it gives its own colours to all.\n\nI had wandered in my search to some distance from the spot on which I had\nbeen cast, and came to one of those watch-towers, which at stated distances\nline the Italian shore. I was glad of shelter, glad to find a work of human\nhands, after I had gazed so long on nature's drear barrenness; so I\nentered, and ascended the rough winding staircase into the guard-room. So\nfar was fate kind, that no harrowing vestige remained of its former\ninhabitants; a few planks laid across two iron tressels, and strewed with\nthe dried leaves of Indian corn, was the bed presented to me; and an open\nchest, containing some half mouldered biscuit, awakened an appetite, which\nperhaps existed before, but of which, until now, I was not aware. Thirst\nalso, violent and parching, the result of the sea-water I had drank, and of\nthe exhaustion of my frame, tormented me. Kind nature had gifted the supply\nof these wants with pleasurable sensations, so that I--even I!--was\nrefreshed and calmed, as I ate of this sorry fare, and drank a little of\nthe sour wine which half filled a flask left in this abandoned dwelling.\nThen I stretched myself on the bed, not to be disdained by the victim of\nshipwreck. The earthy smell of the dried leaves was balm to my sense after\nthe hateful odour of sea-weed. I forgot my state of loneliness. I neither\nlooked backward nor forward; my senses were hushed to repose; I fell asleep\nand dreamed of all dear inland scenes, of hay-makers, of the shepherd's\nwhistle to his dog, when he demanded his help to drive the flock to fold;\nof sights and sounds peculiar to my boyhood's mountain life, which I had\nlong forgotten.\n\nI awoke in a painful agony--for I fancied that ocean, breaking its\nbounds, carried away the fixed continent and deep rooted mountains,\ntogether with the streams I loved, the woods, and the flocks--it raged\naround, with that continued and dreadful roar which had accompanied the\nlast wreck of surviving humanity. As my waking sense returned, the bare\nwalls of the guard room closed round me, and the rain pattered against the\nsingle window. How dreadful it is, to emerge from the oblivion of slumber,\nand to receive as a good morrow the mute wailing of one's own hapless heart\n--to return from the land of deceptive dreams, to the heavy knowledge of\nunchanged disaster!--Thus was it with me, now, and for ever! The sting of\nother griefs might be blunted by time; and even mine yielded sometimes\nduring the day, to the pleasure inspired by the imagination or the senses;\nbut I never look first upon the morning-light but with my fingers pressed\ntight on my bursting heart, and my soul deluged with the interminable flood\nof hopeless misery. Now I awoke for the first time in the dead world--I\nawoke alone--and the dull dirge of the sea, heard even amidst the rain,\nrecalled me to the reflection of the wretch I had become. The sound came\nlike a reproach, a scoff--like the sting of remorse in the soul--I\ngasped--the veins and muscles of my throat swelled, suffocating me. I put\nmy fingers to my ears, I buried my head in the leaves of my couch, I would\nhave dived to the centre to lose hearing of that hideous moan.\n\nBut another task must be mine--again I visited the detested beach--\nagain I vainly looked far and wide--again I raised my unanswered cry,\nlifting up the only voice that could ever again force the mute air to\nsyllable the human thought.\n\nWhat a pitiable, forlorn, disconsolate being I was! My very aspect and garb\ntold the tale of my despair. My hair was matted and wild--my limbs soiled\nwith salt ooze; while at sea, I had thrown off those of my garments that\nencumbered me, and the rain drenched the thin summer-clothing I had\nretained--my feet were bare, and the stunted reeds and broken shells made\nthem bleed--the while, I hurried to and fro, now looking earnestly on\nsome distant rock which, islanded in the sands, bore for a moment a\ndeceptive appearance--now with flashing eyes reproaching the murderous\nocean for its unutterable cruelty.\n\nFor a moment I compared myself to that monarch of the waste--Robinson\nCrusoe. We had been both thrown companionless--he on the shore of a\ndesolate island: I on that of a desolate world. I was rich in the so called\ngoods of life. If I turned my steps from the near barren scene, and entered\nany of the earth's million cities, I should find their wealth stored up for\nmy accommodation--clothes, food, books, and a choice of dwelling beyond\nthe command of the princes of former times--every climate was subject to\nmy selection, while he was obliged to toil in the acquirement of every\nnecessary, and was the inhabitant of a tropical island, against whose heats\nand storms he could obtain small shelter.--Viewing the question thus, who\nwould not have preferred the Sybarite enjoyments I could command, the\nphilosophic leisure, and ample intellectual resources, to his life of\nlabour and peril? Yet he was far happier than I: for he could hope, nor\nhope in vain--the destined vessel at last arrived, to bear him to\ncountrymen and kindred, where the events of his solitude became a fire-side\ntale. To none could I ever relate the story of my adversity; no hope had I.\nHe knew that, beyond the ocean which begirt his lonely island, thousands\nlived whom the sun enlightened when it shone also on him: beneath the\nmeridian sun and visiting moon, I alone bore human features; I alone could\ngive articulation to thought; and, when I slept, both day and night were\nunbeheld of any. He had fled from his fellows, and was transported with\nterror at the print of a human foot. I would have knelt down and worshipped\nthe same. The wild and cruel Caribbee, the merciless Cannibal--or worse\nthan these, the uncouth, brute, and remorseless veteran in the vices of\ncivilization, would have been to me a beloved companion, a treasure dearly\nprized--his nature would be kin to mine; his form cast in the same mould;\nhuman blood would flow in his veins; a human sympathy must link us for\never. It cannot be that I shall never behold a fellow being more!--never!\n--never!--not in the course of years!--Shall I wake, and speak to\nnone, pass the interminable hours, my soul, islanded in the world, a\nsolitary point, surrounded by vacuum? Will day follow day endlessly thus?\n--No! no! a God rules the world--providence has not exchanged its golden\nsceptre for an aspic's sting. Away! let me fly from the ocean-grave, let me\ndepart from this barren nook, paled in, as it is, from access by its own\ndesolateness; let me tread once again the paved towns; step over the\nthreshold of man's dwellings, and most certainly I shall find this thought\na horrible vision--a maddening, but evanescent dream.\n\nI entered Ravenna, (the town nearest to the spot whereon I had been cast),\nbefore the second sun had set on the empty world; I saw many living\ncreatures; oxen, and horses, and dogs, but there was no man among them; I\nentered a cottage, it was vacant; I ascended the marble stairs of a palace,\nthe bats and the owls were nestled in the tapestry; I stepped softly, not\nto awaken the sleeping town: I rebuked a dog, that by yelping disturbed the\nsacred stillness; I would not believe that all was as it seemed--The\nworld was not dead, but I was mad; I was deprived of sight, hearing, and\nsense of touch; I was labouring under the force of a spell, which permitted\nme to behold all sights of earth, except its human inhabitants; they were\npursuing their ordinary labours. Every house had its inmate; but I could\nnot perceive them. If I could have deluded myself into a belief of this\nkind, I should have been far more satisfied. But my brain, tenacious of its\nreason, refused to lend itself to such imaginations--and though I\nendeavoured to play the antic to myself, I knew that I, the offspring of\nman, during long years one among many--now remained sole survivor of my\nspecies.\n\nThe sun sank behind the western hills; I had fasted since the preceding\nevening, but, though faint and weary, I loathed food, nor ceased, while yet\na ray of light remained, to pace the lonely streets. Night came on, and\nsent every living creature but me to the bosom of its mate. It was my\nsolace, to blunt my mental agony by personal hardship--of the thousand\nbeds around, I would not seek the luxury of one; I lay down on the\npavement,--a cold marble step served me for a pillow--midnight came;\nand then, though not before, did my wearied lids shut out the sight of the\ntwinkling stars, and their reflex on the pavement near. Thus I passed the\nsecond night of my desolation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nI AWOKE in the morning, just as the higher windows of the lofty houses\nreceived the first beams of the rising sun. The birds were chirping,\nperched on the windows sills and deserted thresholds of the doors. I awoke,\nand my first thought was, Adrian and Clara are dead. I no longer shall be\nhailed by their good-morrow--or pass the long day in their society. I\nshall never see them more. The ocean has robbed me of them--stolen their\nhearts of love from their breasts, and given over to corruption what was\ndearer to me than light, or life, or hope.\n\nI was an untaught shepherd-boy, when Adrian deigned to confer on me his\nfriendship. The best years of my life had been passed with him. All I had\npossessed of this world's goods, of happiness, knowledge, or virtue--I\nowed to him. He had, in his person, his intellect, and rare qualities,\ngiven a glory to my life, which without him it had never known. Beyond all\nother beings he had taught me, that goodness, pure and single, can be an\nattribute of man. It was a sight for angels to congregate to behold, to\nview him lead, govern, and solace, the last days of the human race.\n\nMy lovely Clara also was lost to me--she who last of the daughters of\nman, exhibited all those feminine and maiden virtues, which poets,\npainters, and sculptors, have in their various languages strove to express.\nYet, as far as she was concerned, could I lament that she was removed in\nearly youth from the certain advent of misery? Pure she was of soul, and\nall her intents were holy. But her heart was the throne of love, and the\nsensibility her lovely countenance expressed, was the prophet of many\nwoes, not the less deep and drear, because she would have for ever\nconcealed them.\n\nThese two wondrously endowed beings had been spared from the universal\nwreck, to be my companions during the last year of solitude. I had felt,\nwhile they were with me, all their worth. I was conscious that every other\nsentiment, regret, or passion had by degrees merged into a yearning,\nclinging affection for them. I had not forgotten the sweet partner of my\nyouth, mother of my children, my adored Idris; but I saw at least a part of\nher spirit alive again in her brother; and after, that by Evelyn's death I\nhad lost what most dearly recalled her to me; I enshrined her memory in\nAdrian's form, and endeavoured to confound the two dear ideas. I sound the\ndepths of my heart, and try in vain to draw thence the expressions that can\ntypify my love for these remnants of my race. If regret and sorrow came\nathwart me, as well it might in our solitary and uncertain state, the clear\ntones of Adrian's voice, and his fervent look, dissipated the gloom; or I\nwas cheered unaware by the mild content and sweet resignation Clara's\ncloudless brow and deep blue eyes expressed. They were all to me--the\nsuns of my benighted soul--repose in my weariness--slumber in my\nsleepless woe. Ill, most ill, with disjointed words, bare and weak, have I\nexpressed the feeling with which I clung to them. I would have wound myself\nlike ivy inextricably round them, so that the same blow might destroy us. I\nwould have entered and been a part of them--so that\n\n  If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,\n\neven now I had accompanied them to their new and incommunicable abode.\n\nNever shall I see them more. I am bereft of their dear converse--bereft\nof sight of them. I am a tree rent by lightning; never will the bark close\nover the bared fibres--never will their quivering life, torn by the\nwinds, receive the opiate of a moment's balm. I am alone in the world--\nbut that expression as yet was less pregnant with misery, than that Adrian\nand Clara are dead.\n\nThe tide of thought and feeling rolls on for ever the same, though the\nbanks and shapes around, which govern its course, and the reflection in the\nwave, vary. Thus the sentiment of immediate loss in some sort decayed,\nwhile that of utter, irremediable loneliness grew on me with time. Three\ndays I wandered through Ravenna--now thinking only of the beloved beings\nwho slept in the oozy caves of ocean--now looking forward on the dread\nblank before me; shuddering to make an onward step--writhing at each\nchange that marked the progress of the hours.\n\nFor three days I wandered to and fro in this melancholy town. I passed\nwhole hours in going from house to house, listening whether I could detect\nsome lurking sign of human existence. Sometimes I rang at a bell; it\ntinkled through the vaulted rooms, and silence succeeded to the sound. I\ncalled myself hopeless, yet still I hoped; and still disappointment ushered\nin the hours, intruding the cold, sharp steel which first pierced me, into\nthe aching festering wound. I fed like a wild beast, which seizes its food\nonly when stung by intolerable hunger. I did not change my garb, or seek\nthe shelter of a roof, during all those days. Burning heats, nervous\nirritation, a ceaseless, but confused flow of thought, sleepless nights,\nand days instinct with a frenzy of agitation, possessed me during that\ntime.\n\nAs the fever of my blood encreased, a desire of wandering came upon me. I\nremember, that the sun had set on the fifth day after my wreck, when,\nwithout purpose or aim, I quitted the town of Ravenna. I must have been\nvery ill. Had I been possessed by more or less of delirium, that night had\nsurely been my last; for, as I continued to walk on the banks of the\nMantone, whose upward course I followed, I looked wistfully on the stream,\nacknowledging to myself that its pellucid waves could medicine my woes\nfor ever, and was unable to account to myself for my tardiness in seeking\ntheir shelter from the poisoned arrows of thought, that were piercing me\nthrough and through. I walked a considerable part of the night, and\nexcessive weariness at length conquered my repugnance to the availing\nmyself of the deserted habitations of my species. The waning moon, which\nhad just risen, shewed me a cottage, whose neat entrance and trim garden\nreminded me of my own England. I lifted up the latch of the door and\nentered. A kitchen first presented itself, where, guided by the moon beams,\nI found materials for striking a light. Within this was a bed room; the\ncouch was furnished with sheets of snowy whiteness; the wood piled on the\nhearth, and an array as for a meal, might almost have deceived me into the\ndear belief that I had here found what I had so long sought--one\nsurvivor, a companion for my loneliness, a solace to my despair. I steeled\nmyself against the delusion; the room itself was vacant: it was only\nprudent, I repeated to myself, to examine the rest of the house. I fancied\nthat I was proof against the expectation; yet my heart beat audibly, as I\nlaid my hand on the lock of each door, and it sunk again, when I perceived\nin each the same vacancy. Dark and silent they were as vaults; so I\nreturned to the first chamber, wondering what sightless host had spread the\nmaterials for my repast, and my repose. I drew a chair to the table, and\nexamined what the viands were of which I was to partake. In truth it was a\ndeath feast! The bread was blue and mouldy; the cheese lay a heap of dust.\nI did not dare examine the other dishes; a troop of ants passed in a double\nline across the table cloth; every utensil was covered with dust, with\ncobwebs, and myriads of dead flies: these were objects each and all\nbetokening the fallaciousness of my expectations. Tears rushed into my\neyes; surely this was a wanton display of the power of the destroyer. What\nhad I done, that each sensitive nerve was thus to be anatomized? Yet why\ncomplain more now than ever? This vacant cottage revealed no new sorrow--\nthe world was empty; mankind was dead--I knew it well--why quarrel\ntherefore with an acknowledged and stale truth? Yet, as I said, I had hoped\nin the very heart of despair, so that every new impression of the hard-cut\nreality on my soul brought with it a fresh pang, telling me the yet\nunstudied lesson, that neither change of place nor time could bring\nalleviation to my misery, but that, as I now was, I must continue, day\nafter day, month after month, year after year, while I lived. I hardly\ndared conjecture what space of time that expression implied. It is true, I\nwas no longer in the first blush of manhood; neither had I declined far in\nthe vale of years--men have accounted mine the prime of life: I had just\nentered my thirty-seventh year; every limb was as well knit, every\narticulation as true, as when I had acted the shepherd on the hills of\nCumberland; and with these advantages I was to commence the train of\nsolitary life. Such were the reflections that ushered in my slumber on that\nnight.\n\nThe shelter, however, and less disturbed repose which I enjoyed, restored\nme the following morning to a greater portion of health and strength, than\nI had experienced since my fatal shipwreck. Among the stores I had\ndiscovered on searching the cottage the preceding night, was a quantity of\ndried grapes; these refreshed me in the morning, as I left my lodging and\nproceeded towards a town which I discerned at no great distance. As far as\nI could divine, it must have been Forli. I entered with pleasure its wide\nand grassy streets. All, it is true, pictured the excess of desolation; yet\nI loved to find myself in those spots which had been the abode of my fellow\ncreatures. I delighted to traverse street after street, to look up at the\ntall houses, and repeat to myself, once they contained beings similar to\nmyself--I was not always the wretch I am now. The wide square of Forli,\nthe arcade around it, its light and pleasant aspect cheered me. I was\npleased with the idea, that, if the earth should be again peopled, we, the\nlost race, would, in the relics left behind, present no contemptible\nexhibition of our powers to the new comers.\n\nI entered one of the palaces, and opened the door of a magnificent saloon.\nI started--I looked again with renewed wonder. What wild-looking,\nunkempt, half-naked savage was that before me? The surprise was momentary.\n\nI perceived that it was I myself whom I beheld in a large mirror at the end\nof the hall. No wonder that the lover of the princely Idris should fail to\nrecognize himself in the miserable object there pourtrayed. My tattered\ndress was that in which I had crawled half alive from the tempestuous sea.\nMy long and tangled hair hung in elf locks on my brow--my dark eyes, now\nhollow and wild, gleamed from under them--my cheeks were discoloured by\nthe jaundice, which (the effect of misery and neglect) suffused my skin,\nand were half hid by a beard of many days' growth.\n\nYet why should I not remain thus, I thought; the world is dead, and this\nsqualid attire is a fitter mourning garb than the foppery of a black suit.\nAnd thus, methinks, I should have remained, had not hope, without which I\ndo not believe man could exist, whispered to me, that, in such a plight, I\nshould be an object of fear and aversion to the being, preserved I knew not\nwhere, but I fondly trusted, at length, to be found by me. Will my readers\nscorn the vanity, that made me attire myself with some care, for the sake\nof this visionary being? Or will they forgive the freaks of a half crazed\nimagination? I can easily forgive myself--for hope, however vague, was so\ndear to me, and a sentiment of pleasure of so rare occurrence, that I\nyielded readily to any idea, that cherished the one, or promised any\nrecurrence of the former to my sorrowing heart. After such occupation, I\nvisited every street, alley, and nook of Forli. These Italian towns\npresented an appearance of still greater desolation, than those of England\nor France. Plague had appeared here earlier--it had finished its course,\nand achieved its work much sooner than with us. Probably the last summer\nhad found no human being alive, in all the track included between the\nshores of Calabria and the northern Alps. My search was utterly vain, yet I\ndid not despond. Reason methought was on my side; and the chances were by\nno means contemptible, that there should exist in some part of Italy a\nsurvivor like myself--of a wasted, depopulate land. As therefore I\nrambled through the empty town, I formed my plan for future operations. I\nwould continue to journey on towards Rome. After I should have satisfied\nmyself, by a narrow search, that I left behind no human being in the towns\nthrough which I passed, I would write up in a conspicuous part of each,\nwith white paint, in three languages, that \"Verney, the last of the race of\nEnglishmen, had taken up his abode in Rome.\"\n\nIn pursuance of this scheme, I entered a painter's shop, and procured\nmyself the paint. It is strange that so trivial an occupation should have\nconsoled, and even enlivened me. But grief renders one childish, despair\nfantastic. To this simple inscription, I merely added the adjuration,\n\"Friend, come! I wait for thee!--Deh, vieni! ti aspetto!\" On the\nfollowing morning, with something like hope for my companion, I quitted\nForli on my way to Rome. Until now, agonizing retrospect, and dreary\nprospects for the future, had stung me when awake, and cradled me to my\nrepose. Many times I had delivered myself up to the tyranny of anguish--\nmany times I resolved a speedy end to my woes; and death by my own hands\nwas a remedy, whose practicability was even cheering to me. What could I\nfear in the other world? If there were an hell, and I were doomed to it, I\nshould come an adept to the sufferance of its tortures--the act were\neasy, the speedy and certain end of my deplorable tragedy. But now these\nthoughts faded before the new born expectation. I went on my way, not as\nbefore, feeling each hour, each minute, to be an age instinct with\nincalculable pain.\n\nAs I wandered along the plain, at the foot of the Appennines--through\ntheir vallies, and over their bleak summits, my path led me through a\ncountry which had been trodden by heroes, visited and admired by thousands.\nThey had, as a tide, receded, leaving me blank and bare in the midst. But\nwhy complain? Did I not hope?--so I schooled myself, even after the\nenlivening spirit had really deserted me, and thus I was obliged to call up\nall the fortitude I could command, and that was not much, to prevent a\nrecurrence of that chaotic and intolerable despair, that had succeeded to\nthe miserable shipwreck, that had consummated every fear, and dashed to\nannihilation every joy.\n\nI rose each day with the morning sun, and left my desolate inn. As my feet\nstrayed through the unpeopled country, my thoughts rambled through the\nuniverse, and I was least miserable when I could, absorbed in reverie,\nforget the passage of the hours. Each evening, in spite of weariness, I\ndetested to enter any dwelling, there to take up my nightly abode--I have\nsat, hour after hour, at the door of the cottage I had selected, unable to\nlift the latch, and meet face to face blank desertion within. Many nights,\nthough autumnal mists were spread around, I passed under an ilex--many\ntimes I have supped on arbutus berries and chestnuts, making a fire,\ngypsy-like, on the ground--because wild natural scenery reminded me less\nacutely of my hopeless state of loneliness. I counted the days, and bore\nwith me a peeled willow-wand, on which, as well as I could remember, I had\nnotched the days that had elapsed since my wreck, and each night I added\nanother unit to the melancholy sum.\n\nI had toiled up a hill which led to Spoleto. Around was spread a plain,\nencircled by the chestnut-covered Appennines. A dark ravine was on one\nside, spanned by an aqueduct, whose tall arches were rooted in the dell\nbelow, and attested that man had once deigned to bestow labour and thought\nhere, to adorn and civilize nature. Savage, ungrateful nature, which in\nwild sport defaced his remains, protruding her easily renewed, and fragile\ngrowth of wild flowers and parasite plants around his eternal edifices. I\nsat on a fragment of rock, and looked round. The sun had bathed in gold the\nwestern atmosphere, and in the east the clouds caught the radiance, and\nbudded into transient loveliness. It set on a world that contained me alone\nfor its inhabitant. I took out my wand--I counted the marks. Twenty-five\nwere already traced--twenty-five days had already elapsed, since human\nvoice had gladdened my ears, or human countenance met my gaze. Twenty-five\nlong, weary days, succeeded by dark and lonesome nights, had mingled with\nforegone years, and had become a part of the past--the never to be\nrecalled--a real, undeniable portion of my life--twenty-five long, long\ndays.\n\nWhy this was not a month!--Why talk of days--or weeks--or months--I\nmust grasp years in my imagination, if I would truly picture the future to\nmyself--three, five, ten, twenty, fifty anniversaries of that fatal epoch\nmight elapse--every year containing twelve months, each of more numerous\ncalculation in a diary, than the twenty-five days gone by--Can it be?\nWill it be?--We had been used to look forward to death tremulously--\nwherefore, but because its place was obscure? But more terrible, and far\nmore obscure, was the unveiled course of my lone futurity. I broke my wand;\nI threw it from me. I needed no recorder of the inch and barley-corn growth\nof my life, while my unquiet thoughts created other divisions, than those\nruled over by the planets--and, in looking back on the age that had\nelapsed since I had been alone, I disdained to give the name of days and\nhours to the throes of agony which had in truth portioned it out.\n\nI hid my face in my hands. The twitter of the young birds going to rest,\nand their rustling among the trees, disturbed the still evening-air--the\ncrickets chirped--the aziolo cooed at intervals. My thoughts had been of\ndeath--these sounds spoke to me of life. I lifted up my eyes--a bat\nwheeled round--the sun had sunk behind the jagged line of mountains, and\nthe paly, crescent moon was visible, silver white, amidst the orange\nsunset, and accompanied by one bright star, prolonged thus the twilight. A\nherd of cattle passed along in the dell below, untended, towards their\nwatering place--the grass was rustled by a gentle breeze, and the\nolive-woods, mellowed into soft masses by the moonlight, contrasted their\nsea-green with the dark chestnut foliage. Yes, this is the earth; there is\nno change--no ruin--no rent made in her verdurous expanse; she\ncontinues to wheel round and round, with alternate night and day, through\nthe sky, though man is not her adorner or inhabitant. Why could I not\nforget myself like one of those animals, and no longer suffer the wild\ntumult of misery that I endure? Yet, ah! what a deadly breach yawns between\ntheir state and mine! Have not they companions? Have not they each their\nmate--their cherished young, their home, which, though unexpressed to us,\nis, I doubt not, endeared and enriched, even in their eyes, by the society\nwhich kind nature has created for them? It is I only that am alone--I, on\nthis little hill top, gazing on plain and mountain recess--on sky, and\nits starry population, listening to every sound of earth, and air, and\nmurmuring wave,--I only cannot express to any companion my many thoughts,\nnor lay my throbbing head on any loved bosom, nor drink from meeting eyes\nan intoxicating dew, that transcends the fabulous nectar of the gods. Shall\nI not then complain? Shall I not curse the murderous engine which has mowed\ndown the children of men, my brethren? Shall I not bestow a malediction on\nevery other of nature's offspring, which dares live and enjoy, while I live\nand suffer?\n\nAh, no! I will discipline my sorrowing heart to sympathy in your joys; I\nwill be happy, because ye are so. Live on, ye innocents, nature's selected\ndarlings; I am not much unlike to you. Nerves, pulse, brain, joint, and\nflesh, of such am I composed, and ye are organized by the same laws. I have\nsomething beyond this, but I will call it a defect, not an endowment, if it\nleads me to misery, while ye are happy. Just then, there emerged from a\nnear copse two goats and a little kid, by the mother's side; they began to\nbrowze the herbage of the hill. I approached near to them, without their\nperceiving me; I gathered a handful of fresh grass, and held it out; the\nlittle one nestled close to its mother, while she timidly withdrew. The\nmale stepped forward, fixing his eyes on me: I drew near, still holding out\nmy lure, while he, depressing his head, rushed at me with his horns. I was\na very fool; I knew it, yet I yielded to my rage. I snatched up a huge\nfragment of rock; it would have crushed my rash foe. I poized it--aimed\nit--then my heart failed me. I hurled it wide of the mark; it rolled\nclattering among the bushes into dell. My little visitants, all aghast,\ngalloped back into the covert of the wood; while I, my very heart bleeding\nand torn, rushed down the hill, and by the violence of bodily exertion,\nsought to escape from my miserable self.\n\nNo, no, I will not live among the wild scenes of nature, the enemy of all\nthat lives. I will seek the towns--Rome, the capital of the world, the\ncrown of man's achievements. Among its storied streets, hallowed ruins, and\nstupendous remains of human exertion, I shall not, as here, find every\nthing forgetful of man; trampling on his memory, defacing his works,\nproclaiming from hill to hill, and vale to vale,--by the torrents freed\nfrom the boundaries which he imposed--by the vegetation liberated from\nthe laws which he enforced--by his habitation abandoned to mildew and\nweeds, that his power is lost, his race annihilated for ever.\n\nI hailed the Tiber, for that was as it were an unalienable possession of\nhumanity. I hailed the wild Campagna, for every rood had been trod by man;\nand its savage uncultivation, of no recent date, only proclaimed more\ndistinctly his power, since he had given an honourable name and sacred\ntitle to what else would have been a worthless, barren track. I entered\nEternal Rome by the Porta del Popolo, and saluted with awe its\ntime-honoured space. The wide square, the churches near, the long extent of\nthe Corso, the near eminence of Trinita de' Monti appeared like fairy work,\nthey were so silent, so peaceful, and so very fair. It was evening; and the\npopulation of animals which still existed in this mighty city, had gone to\nrest; there was no sound, save the murmur of its many fountains, whose soft\nmonotony was harmony to my soul. The knowledge that I was in Rome, soothed\nme; that wondrous city, hardly more illustrious for its heroes and sages,\nthan for the power it exercised over the imaginations of men. I went to\nrest that night; the eternal burning of my heart quenched,--my senses\ntranquil.\n\nThe next morning I eagerly began my rambles in search of oblivion. I\nascended the many terraces of the garden of the Colonna Palace, under whose\nroof I had been sleeping; and passing out from it at its summit, I found\nmyself on Monte Cavallo. The fountain sparkled in the sun; the obelisk\nabove pierced the clear dark-blue air. The statues on each side, the works,\nas they are inscribed, of Phidias and Praxiteles, stood in undiminished\ngrandeur, representing Castor and Pollux, who with majestic power tamed the\nrearing animal at their side. If those illustrious artists had in truth\nchiselled these forms, how many passing generations had their giant\nproportions outlived! and now they were viewed by the last of the species\nthey were sculptured to represent and deify. I had shrunk into\ninsignificance in my own eyes, as I considered the multitudinous beings\nthese stone demigods had outlived, but this after-thought restored me to\ndignity in my own conception. The sight of the poetry eternized in these\nstatues, took the sting from the thought, arraying it only in poetic\nideality.\n\nI repeated to myself,--I am in Rome! I behold, and as it were, familiarly\nconverse with the wonder of the world, sovereign mistress of the\nimagination, majestic and eternal survivor of millions of generations of\nextinct men. I endeavoured to quiet the sorrows of my aching heart, by even\nnow taking an interest in what in my youth I had ardently longed to see.\nEvery part of Rome is replete with relics of ancient times. The meanest\nstreets are strewed with truncated columns, broken capitals--Corinthian\nand Ionic, and sparkling fragments of granite or porphyry. The walls of the\nmost penurious dwellings enclose a fluted pillar or ponderous stone, which\nonce made part of the palace of the Caesars; and the voice of dead time, in\nstill vibrations, is breathed from these dumb things, animated and\nglorified as they were by man.\n\nI embraced the vast columns of the temple of Jupiter Stator, which survives\nin the open space that was the Forum, and leaning my burning cheek against\nits cold durability, I tried to lose the sense of present misery and\npresent desertion, by recalling to the haunted cell of my brain vivid\nmemories of times gone by. I rejoiced at my success, as I figured Camillus,\nthe Gracchi, Cato, and last the heroes of Tacitus, which shine meteors of\nsurpassing brightness during the murky night of the empire;--as the\nverses of Horace and Virgil, or the glowing periods of Cicero thronged into\nthe opened gates of my mind, I felt myself exalted by long forgotten\nenthusiasm. I was delighted to know that I beheld the scene which they\nbeheld--the scene which their wives and mothers, and crowds of the\nunnamed witnessed, while at the same time they honoured, applauded, or wept\nfor these matchless specimens of humanity. At length, then, I had found a\nconsolation. I had not vainly sought the storied precincts of Rome--I had\ndiscovered a medicine for my many and vital wounds.\n\nI sat at the foot of these vast columns. The Coliseum, whose naked ruin is\nrobed by nature in a verdurous and glowing veil, lay in the sunlight on my\nright. Not far off, to the left, was the Tower of the Capitol. Triumphal\narches, the falling walls of many temples, strewed the ground at my feet. I\nstrove, I resolved, to force myself to see the Plebeian multitude and lofty\nPatrician forms congregated around; and, as the Diorama of ages passed\nacross my subdued fancy, they were replaced by the modern Roman; the Pope,\nin his white stole, distributing benedictions to the kneeling worshippers;\nthe friar in his cowl; the dark-eyed girl, veiled by her mezzera; the\nnoisy, sun-burnt rustic, leading his herd of buffaloes and oxen to the\nCampo Vaccino. The romance with which, dipping our pencils in the rainbow\nhues of sky and transcendent nature, we to a degree gratuitously endow the\nItalians, replaced the solemn grandeur of antiquity. I remembered the dark\nmonk, and floating figures of \"The Italian,\" and how my boyish blood had\nthrilled at the description. I called to mind Corinna ascending the Capitol\nto be crowned, and, passing from the heroine to the author, reflected how\nthe Enchantress Spirit of Rome held sovereign sway over the minds of the\nimaginative, until it rested on me--sole remaining spectator of its\nwonders.\n\nI was long wrapt by such ideas; but the soul wearies of a pauseless flight;\nand, stooping from its wheeling circuits round and round this spot,\nsuddenly it fell ten thousand fathom deep, into the abyss of the present--\ninto self-knowledge--into tenfold sadness. I roused myself--I cast off\nmy waking dreams; and I, who just now could almost hear the shouts of the\nRoman throng, and was hustled by countless multitudes, now beheld the\ndesart ruins of Rome sleeping under its own blue sky; the shadows lay\ntranquilly on the ground; sheep were grazing untended on the Palatine, and\na buffalo stalked down the Sacred Way that led to the Capitol. I was alone\nin the Forum; alone in Rome; alone in the world. Would not one living man\n--one companion in my weary solitude, be worth all the glory and\nremembered power of this time-honoured city? Double sorrow--sadness,\nbred in Cimmerian caves, robed my soul in a mourning garb. The generations\nI had conjured up to my fancy, contrasted more strongly with the end of all\n--the single point in which, as a pyramid, the mighty fabric of society\nhad ended, while I, on the giddy height, saw vacant space around me.\n\nFrom such vague laments I turned to the contemplation of the minutiae of my\nsituation. So far, I had not succeeded in the sole object of my desires,\nthe finding a companion for my desolation. Yet I did not despair. It is\ntrue that my inscriptions were set up for the most part, in insignificant\ntowns and villages; yet, even without these memorials, it was possible that\nthe person, who like me should find himself alone in a depopulate land,\nshould, like me, come to Rome. The more slender my expectation was, the\nmore I chose to build on it, and to accommodate my actions to this vague\npossibility.\n\nIt became necessary therefore, that for a time I should domesticate myself\nat Rome. It became necessary, that I should look my disaster in the face--\nnot playing the school-boy's part of obedience without submission; enduring\nlife, and yet rebelling against the laws by which I lived.\n\nYet how could I resign myself? Without love, without sympathy, without\ncommunion with any, how could I meet the morning sun, and with it trace its\noft repeated journey to the evening shades? Why did I continue to live--\nwhy not throw off the weary weight of time, and with my own hand, let out\nthe fluttering prisoner from my agonized breast?--It was not cowardice\nthat withheld me; for the true fortitude was to endure; and death had a\nsoothing sound accompanying it, that would easily entice me to enter its\ndemesne. But this I would not do. I had, from the moment I had reasoned on\nthe subject, instituted myself the subject to fate, and the servant of\nnecessity, the visible laws of the invisible God--I believed that my\nobedience was the result of sound reasoning, pure feeling, and an exalted\nsense of the true excellence and nobility of my nature. Could I have seen\nin this empty earth, in the seasons and their change, the hand of a blind\npower only, most willingly would I have placed my head on the sod, and\nclosed my eyes on its loveliness for ever. But fate had administered life\nto me, when the plague had already seized on its prey--she had dragged me\nby the hair from out the strangling waves--By such miracles she had\nbought me for her own; I admitted her authority, and bowed to her decrees.\nIf, after mature consideration, such was my resolve, it was doubly\nnecessary that I should not lose the end of life, the improvement of my\nfaculties, and poison its flow by repinings without end. Yet how cease to\nrepine, since there was no hand near to extract the barbed spear that had\nentered my heart of hearts? I stretched out my hand, and it touched none\nwhose sensations were responsive to mine. I was girded, walled in, vaulted\nover, by seven-fold barriers of loneliness. Occupation alone, if I could\ndeliver myself up to it, would be capable of affording an opiate to my\nsleepless sense of woe. Having determined to make Rome my abode, at least\nfor some months, I made arrangements for my accommodation--I selected my\nhome. The Colonna Palace was well adapted for my purpose. Its grandeur--\nits treasure of paintings, its magnificent halls were objects soothing and\neven exhilarating.\n\nI found the granaries of Rome well stored with grain, and particularly with\nIndian corn; this product requiring less art in its preparation for food, I\nselected as my principal support. I now found the hardships and lawlessness\nof my youth turn to account. A man cannot throw off the habits of sixteen\nyears. Since that age, it is true, I had lived luxuriously, or at least\nsurrounded by all the conveniences civilization afforded. But before that\ntime, I had been \"as uncouth a savage, as the wolf-bred founder of old\nRome\"--and now, in Rome itself, robber and shepherd propensities, similar\nto those of its founder, were of advantage to its sole inhabitant. I spent\nthe morning riding and shooting in the Campagna--I passed long hours in\nthe various galleries--I gazed at each statue, and lost myself in a\nreverie before many a fair Madonna or beauteous nymph. I haunted the\nVatican, and stood surrounded by marble forms of divine beauty. Each stone\ndeity was possessed by sacred gladness, and the eternal fruition of love.\nThey looked on me with unsympathizing complacency, and often in wild\naccents I reproached them for their supreme indifference--for they were\nhuman shapes, the human form divine was manifest in each fairest limb and\nlineament. The perfect moulding brought with it the idea of colour and\nmotion; often, half in bitter mockery, half in self-delusion, I clasped\ntheir icy proportions, and, coming between Cupid and his Psyche's lips,\npressed the unconceiving marble.\n\nI endeavoured to read. I visited the libraries of Rome. I selected a\nvolume, and, choosing some sequestered, shady nook, on the banks of the\nTiber, or opposite the fair temple in the Borghese Gardens, or under the\nold pyramid of Cestius, I endeavoured to conceal me from myself, and\nimmerse myself in the subject traced on the pages before me. As if in the\nsame soil you plant nightshade and a myrtle tree, they will each\nappropriate the mould, moisture, and air administered, for the fostering\ntheir several properties--so did my grief find sustenance, and power of\nexistence, and growth, in what else had been divine manna, to feed radiant\nmeditation. Ah! while I streak this paper with the tale of what my so named\noccupations were--while I shape the skeleton of my days--my hand\ntrembles--my heart pants, and my brain refuses to lend expression, or\nphrase, or idea, by which to image forth the veil of unutterable woe that\nclothed these bare realities. O, worn and beating heart, may I dissect thy\nfibres, and tell how in each unmitigable misery, sadness dire, repinings,\nand despair, existed? May I record my many ravings--the wild curses I\nhurled at torturing nature--and how I have passed days shut out from\nlight and food--from all except the burning hell alive in my own bosom?\n\nI was presented, meantime, with one other occupation, the one best fitted\nto discipline my melancholy thoughts, which strayed backwards, over many a\nruin, and through many a flowery glade, even to the mountain recess, from\nwhich in early youth I had first emerged.\n\nDuring one of my rambles through the habitations of Rome, I found writing\nmaterials on a table in an author's study. Parts of a manuscript lay\nscattered about. It contained a learned disquisition on the Italian\nlanguage; one page an unfinished dedication to posterity, for whose profit\nthe writer had sifted and selected the niceties of this harmonious language\n--to whose everlasting benefit he bequeathed his labours.\n\nI also will write a book, I cried--for whom to read?--to whom\ndedicated? And then with silly flourish (what so capricious and childish as\ndespair?) I wrote, DEDICATION TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD. SHADOWS, ARISE, AND\nREAD YOUR FALL! BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF THE LAST MAN.\n\nYet, will not this world be re-peopled, and the children of a saved pair of\nlovers, in some to me unknown and unattainable seclusion, wandering to\nthese prodigious relics of the ante-pestilential race, seek to learn how\nbeings so wondrous in their achievements, with imaginations infinite, and\npowers godlike, had departed from their home to an unknown country?\n\nI will write and leave in this most ancient city, this \"world's sole\nmonument,\" a record of these things. I will leave a monument of the\nexistence of Verney, the Last Man. At first I thought only to speak of\nplague, of death, and last, of desertion; but I lingered fondly on my early\nyears, and recorded with sacred zeal the virtues of my companions. They\nhave been with me during the fulfilment of my task. I have brought it to an\nend--I lift my eyes from my paper--again they are lost to me. Again I\nfeel that I am alone.\n\nA year has passed since I have been thus occupied. The seasons have made\ntheir wonted round, and decked this eternal city in a changeful robe of\nsurpassing beauty. A year has passed; and I no longer guess at my state or\nmy prospects--loneliness is my familiar, sorrow my inseparable companion.\nI have endeavoured to brave the storm--I have endeavoured to school\nmyself to fortitude--I have sought to imbue myself with the lessons of\nwisdom. It will not do. My hair has become nearly grey--my voice, unused\nnow to utter sound, comes strangely on my ears. My person, with its human\npowers and features, seem to me a monstrous excrescence of nature. How\nexpress in human language a woe human being until this hour never knew! How\ngive intelligible expression to a pang none but I could ever understand!--\nNo one has entered Rome. None will ever come. I smile bitterly at the\ndelusion I have so long nourished, and still more, when I reflect that I\nhave exchanged it for another as delusive, as false, but to which I now\ncling with the same fond trust.\n\nWinter has come again; and the gardens of Rome have lost their leaves--\nthe sharp air comes over the Campagna, and has driven its brute inhabitants\nto take up their abode in the many dwellings of the deserted city--frost\nhas suspended the gushing fountains--and Trevi has stilled her eternal\nmusic. I had made a rough calculation, aided by the stars, by which I\nendeavoured to ascertain the first day of the new year. In the old out-worn\nage, the Sovereign Pontiff was used to go in solemn pomp, and mark the\nrenewal of the year by driving a nail in the gate of the temple of Janus.\nOn that day I ascended St. Peter's, and carved on its topmost stone the\naera 2100, last year of the world!\n\nMy only companion was a dog, a shaggy fellow, half water and half\nshepherd's dog, whom I found tending sheep in the Campagna. His master was\ndead, but nevertheless he continued fulfilling his duties in expectation of\nhis return. If a sheep strayed from the rest, he forced it to return to the\nflock, and sedulously kept off every intruder. Riding in the Campagna I had\ncome upon his sheep-walk, and for some time observed his repetition of\nlessons learned from man, now useless, though unforgotten. His delight was\nexcessive when he saw me. He sprung up to my knees; he capered round and\nround, wagging his tail, with the short, quick bark of pleasure: he left\nhis fold to follow me, and from that day has never neglected to watch by\nand attend on me, shewing boisterous gratitude whenever I caressed or\ntalked to him. His pattering steps and mine alone were heard, when we\nentered the magnificent extent of nave and aisle of St. Peter's. We\nascended the myriad steps together, when on the summit I achieved my\ndesign, and in rough figures noted the date of the last year. I then turned\nto gaze on the country, and to take leave of Rome. I had long determined to\nquit it, and I now formed the plan I would adopt for my future career,\nafter I had left this magnificent abode.\n\nA solitary being is by instinct a wanderer, and that I would become. A hope\nof amelioration always attends on change of place, which would even lighten\nthe burthen of my life. I had been a fool to remain in Rome all this time:\nRome noted for Malaria, the famous caterer for death. But it was still\npossible, that, could I visit the whole extent of earth, I should find in\nsome part of the wide extent a survivor. Methought the sea-side was the\nmost probable retreat to be chosen by such a one. If left alone in an\ninland district, still they could not continue in the spot where their last\nhopes had been extinguished; they would journey on, like me, in search of a\npartner for their solitude, till the watery barrier stopped their further\nprogress.\n\nTo that water--cause of my woes, perhaps now to be their cure, I would\nbetake myself. Farewell, Italy!--farewell, thou ornament of the world,\nmatchless Rome, the retreat of the solitary one during long months!--to\ncivilized life--to the settled home and succession of monotonous days,\nfarewell! Peril will now be mine; and I hail her as a friend--death will\nperpetually cross my path, and I will meet him as a benefactor; hardship,\ninclement weather, and dangerous tempests will be my sworn mates. Ye\nspirits of storm, receive me! ye powers of destruction, open wide your\narms, and clasp me for ever! if a kinder power have not decreed another\nend, so that after long endurance I may reap my reward, and again feel my\nheart beat near the heart of another like to me.\n\nTiber, the road which is spread by nature's own hand, threading her\ncontinent, was at my feet, and many a boat was tethered to the banks. I\nwould with a few books, provisions, and my dog, embark in one of these and\nfloat down the current of the stream into the sea; and then, keeping near\nland, I would coast the beauteous shores and sunny promontories of the blue\nMediterranean, pass Naples, along Calabria, and would dare the twin perils\nof Scylla and Charybdis; then, with fearless aim, (for what had I to lose?)\nskim ocean's surface towards Malta and the further Cyclades. I would avoid\nConstantinople, the sight of whose well-known towers and inlets belonged to\nanother state of existence from my present one; I would coast Asia Minor,\nand Syria, and, passing the seven-mouthed Nile, steer northward again, till\nlosing sight of forgotten Carthage and deserted Lybia, I should reach the\npillars of Hercules. And then--no matter where--the oozy caves, and\nsoundless depths of ocean may be my dwelling, before I accomplish this\nlong-drawn voyage, or the arrow of disease find my heart as I float singly\non the weltering Mediterranean; or, in some place I touch at, I may find\nwhat I seek--a companion; or if this may not be--to endless time,\ndecrepid and grey headed--youth already in the grave with those I love--\nthe lone wanderer will still unfurl his sail, and clasp the tiller--and,\nstill obeying the breezes of heaven, for ever round another and another\npromontory, anchoring in another and another bay, still ploughing seedless\nocean, leaving behind the verdant land of native Europe, adown the tawny\nshore of Africa, having weathered the fierce seas of the Cape, I may moor\nmy worn skiff in a creek, shaded by spicy groves of the odorous islands of\nthe far Indian ocean.\n\nThese are wild dreams. Yet since, now a week ago, they came on me, as I\nstood on the height of St. Peter's, they have ruled my imagination. I have\nchosen my boat, and laid in my scant stores. I have selected a few books;\nthe principal are Homer and Shakespeare--But the libraries of the world\nare thrown open to me--and in any port I can renew my stock. I form no\nexpectation of alteration for the better; but the monotonous present is\nintolerable to me. Neither hope nor joy are my pilots--restless despair\nand fierce desire of change lead me on. I long to grapple with danger, to\nbe excited by fear, to have some task, however slight or voluntary, for\neach day's fulfilment. I shall witness all the variety of appearance, that\nthe elements can assume--I shall read fair augury in the rainbow--\nmenace in the cloud--some lesson or record dear to my heart in\neverything. Thus around the shores of deserted earth, while the sun is\nhigh, and the moon waxes or wanes, angels, the spirits of the dead, and the\never-open eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted with\nVerney--the LAST MAN.\n\nTHE END."