[VOLUME I]
THE LAST MAN
INTRODUCTION
I VISITED Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of
December of that year, my companion and I crossed the
Bay, to visit the antiquities which are scattered on
the shores of Baiae. The translucent and shining waters
of the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas,
which were interlaced by sea-weed, and received diamond
tints from the chequering of the sun-beams; the blue
and pellucid element was such as Galatea might have
skimmed in her car of mother of pearl; or Cleopatra,
more fitly than the Nile, have chosen as the path of
her magic ship. Though it was winter, the atmosphere
seemed more appropriate to early spring; and its genial
warmth contributed to inspire those sensations of
placid delight, which are the portion of every
traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil
bays and radiant promontories of Baiae.
We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus:
and wandered through various ruined temples, baths, and
classic spots; at length we entered the gloomy cavern
of the Cumaean Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore flaring
torches, which shone red, and almost dusky, in the
murky subterranean passages, whose darkness thirstily
surrounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and more
of the element of light. We passed by a natural
archway, leading to a second gallery, and enquired, if
we could not enter there also. The guides pointed to
the reflection of their torches on the water that
paved it, leaving us to form our own conclusion; but
adding it was a pity, for it led to the Sibyl's Cave.
Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this
circumstance, and we insisted upon attempting the
passage. As is usually the case in the prosecution of
such enterprizes, the difficulties decreased on
examination. We found, on each side of the humid
pathway, "dry land for the sole of the foot." At
length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern,
which the Lazzeroni assured us was the Sibyl's Cave.
We were sufficiently disappointed--Yet we examined it
with care, as if its blank, rocky walls could still
bear trace of celestial visitant. On one side was a
small opening. Whither does this lead? we asked: can
we enter here?--"Questo poi, no,"--said the wild
looking savage, who held the torch; "you can advance
but a short distance, and nobody visits it."
"Nevertheless, I will try it," said my companion; "it
may lead to the real cavern. Shall I go alone, or will
you accompany me?"
I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides
protested against such a measure. With great
volubility, in their native Neapolitan dialect, with
which we were not very familiar, they told us that
there were spectres, that the roof would fall in, that
it was too narrow to admit us, that there was a deep
hole within, filled with water, and we might be
drowned. My friend shortened the harangue, by taking
the man's torch from him; and we proceeded alone.
The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us,
quickly grew narrower and lower; we were almost bent
double; yet still we persisted in making our way
through it. At length we entered a wider space, and the
low roof heightened; but, as we congratulated ourselves
on this change, our torch was extinguished by a current
of air, and we were left in utter darkness. The guides
bring with them materials for renewing the light, but
we had none--our only resource was to return as we
came. We groped round the widened space to find the
entrance, and after a time fancied that we had
succeeded. This proved however to be a second passage,
which evidently ascended. It terminated like the
former; though something approaching to a ray, we could
not tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the
space. By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat accustomed to
this dimness, and we perceived that there was no direct
passage leading us further; but that it was possible to
climb one side of the cavern to a low arch at top,
which promised a more easy path, from whence we now
discovered that this light proceeded. With considerable
difficulty we scrambled up, and came to another passage
with still more of illumination, and this led to
another ascent like the former.
After a succession of these, which our resolution alone
permitted us to surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern
with an arched dome-like roof. An aperture in the midst
let in the light of heaven; but this was overgrown with
brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil,
obscuring the day, and giving a solemn religious hue to
the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly circular,
with a raised seat of stone, about the size of a
Grecian couch, at one end. The only sign that life had
been here, was the perfect snow-white skeleton of a
goat, which had probably not perceived the opening as
it grazed on the hill above, and had fallen headlong.
Ages perhaps had elapsed since this catastrophe; and
the ruin it had made above, had been repaired by the
growth of vegetation during many hundred summers.
The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of
piles of leaves, fragments of bark, and a white filmy
substance, resembling the inner part of the green hood
which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian corn. We
were fatigued by our struggles to attain this point,
and seated ourselves on the rocky couch, while the
sounds of tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of
shepherd-boy, reached us from above.
At length my friend, who had taken up some of the
leaves strewed about, exclaimed, "This is the
Sibyl's cave; these are Sibylline leaves." On
examination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and
other substances, were traced with written characters.
What appeared to us more astonishing, was that these
writings were expressed in various languages: some
unknown to my companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian
hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramids. Stranger still,
some were in modern dialects, English and Italian. We
could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed
to contain prophecies, detailed relations of events but
lately passed; names, now well known, but of modern
date; and often exclamations of exultation or woe, of
victory or defeat, were traced on their thin scant
pages. This was certainly the Sibyl's Cave; not indeed
exactly as Virgil describes it, but the whole of this
land had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano,
that the change was not wonderful, though the traces
of ruin were effaced by time; and we probably owed the
preservation of these leaves, to the accident which had
closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing
vegetation which had rendered its sole opening
impervious to the storm. We made a hasty selection of
such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of us
could understand; and then, laden with our treasure,
we bade adieu to the dim hypaethric cavern, and after
much difficulty succeeded in rejoining our guides.
During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this
cave, sometimes alone, skimming the sun-lit sea, and
each time added to our store. Since that period,
whenever the world's circumstance has not imperiously
called me away, or the temper of my mind impeded such
study, I have been employed in deciphering these
sacred remains. Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent,
has often repaid my toil, soothing me in sorrow, and
exciting my imagination to daring flights, through the
immensity of nature and the mind of man. For awhile my
labours were not solitary; but that time is gone; and,
with the selected and matchless companion of my toils,
their dearest reward is also lost to me--
Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro
Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta
Ne' nvidio insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?
I present the public with my latest discoveries in the
slight Sibylline pages. Scattered and unconnected as
they were, I have been obliged to add links, and model
the work into a consistent form. But the main
substance rests on the truths contained in these poetic
rhapsodies, and the divine intuition which the Cumaean
damsel obtained from heaven.
I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and
at the English dress of the Latin poet. Sometimes I
have thought, that, obscure and chaotic as they are,
they owe their present form to me, their decipherer.
As if we should give to another artist, the painted
fragments which form the mosaic copy of Raphael's
Transfiguration in St. Peter's; he would put them
together in a form, whose mode would be fashioned by
his own peculiar mind and talent. Doubtless the
leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl have suffered distortion
and diminution of interest and excellence in my hands.
My only excuse for thus transforming them, is that they
were unintelligible in their pristine condition.
My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and
taken me out of a world, which has averted its once
benignant face from me, to one glowing with imagination
and power. Will my readers ask how I could find solace
from the narration of misery and woeful change? This is
one of the mysteries of our nature, which holds full
sway over me, and from whose influence I cannot escape.
I confess, that I have not been unmoved by the
development of the tale; and that I have been
depressed, nay, agonized, at some parts of the recital,
which I have faithfully transcribed from my materials.
Yet such is human nature, that the excitement of mind
was dear to me, and that the imagination, painter of
tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the stormy and
ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my real sorrows
and endless regrets, by clothing these fictitious ones
in that ideality, which takes the mortal sting from
pain.
I hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For
the merits of my adaptation and translation must decide
how far I have well bestowed my time and imperfect
powers, in giving form and substance to the frail and
attenuated Leaves of the Sibyl.
[Vol. I]
CHAPTER I.
I AM the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a
cloud-enshadowed land, which, when the surface of the
globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless
continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as
an inconsiderable speck in the immense whole; and yet,
when balanced in the scale of mental power, far
outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous
population. So true it is, that man's mind alone was
the creator of all that was good or great to man, and
that Nature herself was only his first minister.
England, seated far north in the turbid sea, now visits
my dreams in the semblance of a vast and well-manned
ship, which mastered the winds and rode proudly over
the waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to
me. When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and
mountain stretch out to the utmost limits of my vision,
speckled by the dwellings of my countrymen, and subdued
to fertility by their labours, the earth's very centre
was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb
was as a fable, to have forgotten which would have
cost neither my imagination nor understanding an
effort.
My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an
exemplification of the power that mutability may
possess over the varied tenor of man's life. With
regard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My
father was one of those men on whom nature had bestowed
to prodigality the envied gifts of wit and imagination,
and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these
winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment
as the pilot for the voyage. His extraction was
obscure; but circumstances brought him early into
public notice, and his small paternal property was soon
dissipated in the splendid scene of fashion and luxury
in which he was an actor. During the short years of
thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred
triflers of the day, nor least by the youthful
sovereign, who escaped from the intrigues of party,
and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find
never-failing amusement and exhilaration of spirit in
his society. My father's impulses, never under his own
controul, perpetually led him into difficulties from
which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the
accumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade,
which would have bent to earth any other, was supported
by him with a light spirit and tameless hilarity; while
his company was so necessary at the tables and
assemblies of the rich, that his derelictions were
considered venial, and he himself received with
intoxicating flattery.
This kind of popularity, like every other, is
evanescent: and the difficulties of every kind with
which he had to contend,increased in a frightful ratio
compared with his small means of extricating himself.
At such times the king, in his enthusiasm for him,
would come to his relief, and then kindly take his
friend to task; my father gave the best promises for
amendment, but his social disposition, his craving for
the usual diet of admiration, and more than all, the
fiend of gambling, which fully possessed him, made his
good resolutions transient, his promises vain. With
the quick sensibility peculiar to his temperament, he
perceived his power in the brilliant circle to be on
the wane. The king married; and the haughty princess
of Austria, who became, as queen of England, the head
of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and
with contempt on the affection her royal husband
entertained for him. My father felt that his fall was
near; but so far from profiting by this last calm
before the storm to save himself, he sought to forget
anticipated evil by making still greater sacrifices to
the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of
his destiny.
The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but
easily led, had now become a willing disciple of his
imperious consort. He was induced to look with extreme
disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my
father's imprudence and follies. It is true that his
presence dissipated these clouds; his warm-hearted
frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding demeanour
were irresistible: it was only when at a distance,
while still renewed tales of his errors were poured
into his royal friend's ear, that he lost his
influence. The queen's dextrous management was
employed to prolong these absences, and gather together
accusations. At length the king was brought to see in
him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he
should pay for the short-lived pleasure of his society
by tedious homilies, and more painful narrations of
excesses, the truth of which he could not disprove. The
result was, that he would make one more attempt to
reclaim him, and in case of ill success, cast him off
for ever.
Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and
high-wrought passion. A powerful king, conspicuous for
a goodness which had heretofore made him meek, and now
lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty and
reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real
interests, resolutely to avoid those fascinations which
in fact were fast deserting him, and to spend his great
powers on a worthy field, in which he, his sovereign,
would be his prop, his stay, and his pioneer. My
father felt this kindness; for a moment ambitious
dreams floated before him; and he thought that it would
be well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler
duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the
required promise: as a pledge of continued favour, he
received from his royal master a sum of money to defray
pressing debts, and enable him to enter under good
auspices his new career. That very night, while yet
full of gratitude and good resolves, this whole sum,
and its amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table.
In his desire to repair his first losses, my father
risked double stakes, and thus incurred a debt of
honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed to apply
again to the king, he turned his back upon London, its
false delights and clinging miseries; and, with poverty
for his sole companion, buried himself in solitude
among the hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his
bon mots, the record of his personal attractions,
fascinating manners, and social talents, were long
remembered and repeated from mouth to mouth. Ask where
now was this favourite of fashion, this companion of
the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien
splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the
gay--you heard that he was under a cloud, a lost man;
not one thought it belonged to him to repay pleasure by
real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit
deserved a pension on retiring. The king lamented his
absence; he loved to repeat his sayings, relate the
adventures they had had together, and exalt his
talents--but here ended his reminiscence.
Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He
repined for the loss of what was more necessary to him
than air or food--the excitements of pleasure, the
admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished
living of the great. A nervous fever was the
consequence; during which he was nursed by the daughter
of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was
lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it
afford astonishment, that the late idol of high-bred
beauty should, even in a fallen state, appear a being
of an elevated and wondrous nature to the lowly
cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to the
ill-fated marriage, of which I was the offspring.
Notwithstanding the tenderness and sweetness of my
mother, her husband still deplored his degraded state.
Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way to
contribute to the support of his increasing family.
Sometimes he thought of applying to the king; pride and
shame for a while withheld him; and, before his
necessities became so imperious as to compel him to
some kind of exertion, he died. For one brief interval
before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the
future, and contemplated with anguish the desolate
situation in which his wife and children would be left.
His last effort was a letter to the king, full of
touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that
brilliant spirit which was an integral part of him. He
bequeathed his widow and orphans to the friendship of
his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by this
means, their prosperity was better assured in his death
than in his life. This letter was enclosed to the care
of a nobleman, who, he did not doubt, would perform the
last and inexpensive office of placing it in the king's
own hand.
He died in debt, and his little property was seized
immediately by his creditors. My mother, pennyless and
burthened with two children, waited week after week,
and month after month, in sickening expectation of a
reply, which never came. She had no experience beyond
her father's cottage; and the mansion of the lord of
the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur she could
conceive. During my father's life, she had been made
familiar with the name of royalty and the courtly
circle; but such things, ill according with her
personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him
who gave substance and reality to them, vague and
fantastical. If, under any circumstances, she could
have acquired sufficient courage to address the noble
persons mentioned by her husband, the ill success of
his own application caused her to banish the idea. She
saw therefore no escape from dire penury: perpetual
care, joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous
being, whom she continued to contemplate with ardent
admiration, hard labour, and naturally delicate health,
at length released her from the sad continuity of want
and misery.
The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly
desolate. Her own father had been an emigrant from
another part of the country, and had died long since:
they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they
were outcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the
most scanty pittance was a matter of favour, and who
were treated merely as children of peasants, yet
poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left them, a
thankless bequest, to the close-handed charity of the
land.
I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my
mother died. A remembrance of the discourses of my
parents, and the communications which my mother
endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father's
friends, in slight hope that I might one day derive
benefit from the knowledge, floated like an indistinct
dream through my brain. I conceived that I was
different and superior to my protectors and companions,
but I knew not how or wherefore. The sense of injury,
associated with the name of king and noble, clung to
me; but I could draw no conclusions from such feelings,
to serve as a guide to action. My first real knowledge
of myself was as an unprotected orphan among the
valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the service
of a farmer; and with crook in hand, my dog at my side,
I shepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I
cannot say much in praise of such a life; and its pains
far exceeded its pleasures. There was freedom in it, a
companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness;
but these, romantic as they were, did not accord with
the love of action and desire of human sympathy,
characteristic of youth. Neither the care of my flock,
nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my
eager spirit; my out-door life and unemployed time were
the temptations that led me early into lawless habits.
I associated with others friendless like myself; I
formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain.
All shepherd-boys alike, while our flocks were spread
over the pastures, we schemed and executed many a
mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and
revenge of the rustics. I was the leader and protector
of my comrades, and as I became distinguished among
them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon me. But
while I endured punishment and pain in their defence
with the spirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward
their praise and obedience.
In such a school my disposition became rugged, but
firm. The appetite for admiration and small capacity
for self-controul which I inherited from my father,
nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was
rough as the elements, and unlearned as the animals I
tended. I often compared myself to them, and finding
that my chief superiority consisted in power, I soon
persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was
inferior to the chiefest potentates of the earth. Thus
untaught in refined philosophy, and pursued by a
restless feeling of degradation from my true station in
society, I wandered among the hills of civilized
England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred founder of
old Rome. I owned but one law, it was that of the
strongest, and my greatest deed of virtue was never to
submit.
Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have
passed on myself. My mother, when dying, had, in
addition to her other half-forgotten and misapplied
lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other
child to my fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I
performed to the best of my ability, with all the zeal
and affection of which my nature was capable. My
sister was three years younger than myself; I had
nursed her as an infant, and when the difference of our
sexes, by giving us various occupations, in a great
measure divided us, yet she continued to be the object
of my careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of
the term, we were poorest among the poor, and despised
among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage
obtained for me a kind of respectful aversion, her
youth and sex, since they did not excite tenderness, by
proving her to be weak, were the causes of numberless
mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not
so constituted as to diminish the evil effects of her
lowly station.
She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much
of the peculiar disposition of our father. Her
countenance was all expression; her eyes were not dark,
but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space
after space in their intellectual glance, and to feel
that the soul which was their soul, comprehended an
universe of thought in its ken. She was pale and fair,
and her golden hair clustered on her temples,
contrasting its rich hue with the living marble
beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little consonant
apparently with the refinement of feeling which her
face expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with
it. She was like one of Guido's saints, with heaven in
her heart and in her look, so that when you saw her you
only thought of that within, and costume and even
feature were secondary to the mind that beamed in her
countenance.
Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor
Perdita (for this was the fanciful name my sister had
received from her dying parent), was not altogether
saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and
repulsive. If she had been nurtured by those who had
regarded her with affection, she might have been
different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want
of kindness with distrust and silence. She was
submissive to those who held authority over her, but a
perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as if
she expected enmity from every one who approached her,
and her actions were instigated by the same feeling.
All the time she could command she spent in solitude.
She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and
scale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots
she might wrap herself in loneliness. Often she passed
whole hours walking up and down the paths of the woods;
she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the
flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves;
sometimes she sat beside a stream, and as her thoughts
paused, threw flowers or pebbles into the waters,
watching how those swam and these sank; or she would
set afloat boats formed of bark of trees or leaves,
with a feather for a sail, and intensely watch the
navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows
of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a
thousand combinations; she dreamt "of moving accidents
by flood and field"--she lost herself delightedly in
these self-created wanderings, and returned with
unwilling spirit to the dull detail of common life.
Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excellencies, and
all that was good in her seemed about to perish from
want of the genial dew of affection. She had not even
the same advantage as I in the recollection of her
parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her only
friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste
that her protectors felt for her; and every error was
magnified by them into crimes. If she had been bred in
that sphere of life to which by inheritance the
delicate framework of her mind and person was adapted,
she would have been the object almost of adoration, for
her virtues were as eminent as her defects. All the
genius that ennobled the blood of her father
illustrated hers; a generous tide flowed in her veins;
artifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes of
her nature; her countenance, when enlightened by
amiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of
nations; her eyes were bright; her look fearless.
Although by our situation and dispositions we were
almost equally cut off from the usual forms of social
intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to each other.
I always required the stimulants of companionship and
applause. Perdita was all-sufficient to herself.
Notwithstanding my lawless habits, my disposition was
sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among
tangible realities, hers was a dream. I might be said
even to love my enemies, since by exciting me they in a
sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost
disliked her friends, for they interfered with her
visionary moods. All my feelings, even of exultation
and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if
unparticipated; Perdita, even in joy, fled to
loneliness, and could go on from day to day, neither
expressing her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling
in another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with
tenderness on the look and voice of her friend, while
her demeanour expressed the coldest reserve. A
sensation with her became a sentiment, and she never
spoke until she had mingled her perceptions of outward
objects with others which were the native growth of her
own mind. She was like a fruitful soil that imbibed
the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth again
to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but
then she was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked
up, and new sown with unseen seed.
She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped
down to the waters of the lake of Ulswater; a beech
wood stretched up the hill behind, and a purling brook
gently falling from the acclivity ran through
poplar-shaded banks into the lake. I lived with a
farmer whose house was built higher up among the hills:
a dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the north,
the snow lay in its crevices the summer through. Before
dawn I led my flock to the sheep-walks, and guarded
them through the day. It was a life of toil; for rain
and cold were more frequent than sunshine; but it was
my pride to contemn the elements. My trusty dog
watched the sheep as I slipped away to the rendezvous
of my comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our
schemes. At noon we met again, and we threw away in
contempt our peasant fare, as we built our fire-place
and kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the
game stolen from the neighbouring preserves. Then came
the tale of hair-breadth escapes, combats with dogs,
ambush and flight, as gipsey-like we encompassed our
pot. The search after a stray lamb, or the devices by
which we elude or endeavoured to elude punishment,
filled up the hours of afternoon; in the evening my
flock went to its fold, and I to my sister.
It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an
old-fashioned phrase, scot free. Our dainty fare was
often exchanged for blows and imprisonment. Once, when
thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month to the
county jail. I came out, my morals unimproved, my
hatred to my oppressors encreased tenfold. Bread and
water did not tame my blood, nor solitary confinement
inspire me with gentle thoughts. I was angry,
impatient, miserable; my only happy hours were those
during which I devised schemes of revenge; these were
perfected in my forced solitude, so that during the
whole of the following season, and I was freed early in
September, I never failed to provide excellent and
plenteous fare for myself and my comrades. This was a
glorious winter. The sharp frost and heavy snows tamed
the animals, and kept the country gentlemen by their
firesides; we got more game than we could eat, and my
faithful dog grew sleek upon our refuse.
Thus years passed on; and years only added fresh love
of freedom, and contempt for all that was not as wild
and rude as myself. At the age of sixteen I had shot up
in appearance to man's estate; I was tall and athletic;
I was practised to feats of strength, and inured to the
inclemency of the elements. My skin was embrowned by
the sun; my step was firm with conscious power. I
feared no man, and loved none. In after life I looked
back with wonder to what I then was; how utterly
worthless I should have become if I had pursued my
lawless career. My life was like that of an animal,
and my mind was in danger of degenerating into that
which informs brute nature. Until now, my savage
habits had done me no radical mischief; my physical
powers had grown up and flourished under their
influence, and my mind, undergoing the same
discipline, was imbued with all the hardy virtues. But
now my boasted independence was daily instigating me to
acts of tyranny, and freedom was becoming
licentiousness. I stood on the brink of manhood;
passions, strong as the trees of a forest, had already
taken root within me, and were about to shadow with
their noxious overgrowth, my path of life.
I panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits,
and formed distempered dreams of future action. I
avoided my ancient comrades, and I soon lost them. They
arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil their
destined situations in life; while I, an outcast, with
none to lead or drive me forward, paused. The old began
to point at me as an example, the young to wonder at me
as a being distinct from themselves; I hated them, and
began, last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I
clung to my ferocious habits, yet half despised them; I
continued my war against civilization, and yet
entertained a wish to belong to it.
I revolved again and again all that I remembered my
mother to have told me of my father's former life; I
contemplated the few relics I possessed belonging to
him, which spoke of greater refinement than could be
found among the mountain cottages; but nothing in all
this served as a guide to lead me to another and
pleasanter way of life. My father had been connected
with nobles, but all I knew of such connection was
subsequent neglect. The name of the king,--he to whom
my dying father had addressed his latest prayers, and
who had barbarously slighted them, was associated only
with the ideas of unkindness, injustice, and consequent
resentment. I was born for something greater than I
was--and greater I would become; but greatness, at
least to my distorted perceptions, was no necessary
associate of goodness, and my wild thoughts were
unchecked by moral considerations when they rioted in
dreams of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a
sea of evil rolled at my feet; I was about to
precipitate myself into it, and rush like a torrent
over all obstructions to the object of my wishes--when
a stranger influence came over the current of my
fortunes, and changed their boisterous course to what
was in comparison like the gentle meanderings of a
meadow-encircling streamlet.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER II.
I LIVED far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour
of wars or political changes came worn to a mere sound,
to our mountain abodes. England had been the scene of
momentous struggles, during my early boyhood. In the
year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient friend of
my father, had abdicated in compliance with the gentle
force of the remonstrances of his subjects, and a
republic was instituted. Large estates were secured to
the dethroned monarch and his family; he received the
title of Earl of Windsor, and Windsor Castle, an
ancient royalty, with its wide demesnes were a part of
his allotted wealth. He died soon after, leaving two
children, a son and a daughter.
The ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had
long impelled her husband to withstand the necessity of
the times. She was haughty and fearless; she cherished
a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him who had
despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her children's sake
alone she consented to remain, shorn of regality, a
member of the English republic. When she became a
widow, she turned all her thoughts to the educating her
son Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accomplish
her ambitious ends; and with his mother's milk he
imbibed, and was intended to grow up in the steady
purpose of re-acquiring his lost crown. Adrian was now
fifteen years of age. He was addicted to study, and
imbued beyond his years with learning and talent:
report said that he had already begun to thwart his
mother's views, and to entertain republican principles.
However this might be, the haughty Countess entrusted
none with the secrets of her family-tuition. Adrian
was bred up in solitude, and kept apart from the
natural companions of his age and rank. Some unknown
circumstance now induced his mother to send him from
under her immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was
about to visit Cumberland. A thousand tales were rife,
explanatory of the Countess of Windsor's conduct; none
true probably; but each day it became more certain that
we should have the noble scion of the late regal house
of England among us.
There was a large estate with a mansion attached to it,
belonging to this family, at Ulswater. A large park was
one of its appendages, laid out with great taste, and
plentifully stocked with game. I had often made
depredations on these preserves; and the neglected
state of the property facilitated my incursions. When
it was decided that the young Earl of Windsor should
visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the house and
grounds in order for his reception. The apartments were
restored to their pristine splendour, and the park, all
disrepairs restored, was guarded with unusual care.
I was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It
roused all my dormant recollections, my suspended
sentiments of injury, and gave rise to the new one of
revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations;
all my plans and devices were forgotten; I seemed about
to begin life anew, and that under no good auspices.
The tug of war, I thought, was now to begin. He would
come triumphantly to the district to which my parent
had fled broken-hearted; he would find the ill-fated
offspring, bequeathed with such vain confidence to his
royal father, miserable paupers. That he should know of
our existence, and treat us, near at hand, with the
same contumely which his father had practised in
distance and absence, appeared to me the certain
consequence of all that had gone before. Thus then I
should meet this titled stripling--the son of my
father's friend. He would be hedged in by servants;
nobles, and the sons of nobles, were his companions;
all England rang with his name; and his coming, like a
thunderstorm, was heard from far: while I, unlettered
and unfashioned, should, if I came in contact with him,
in the judgment of his courtly followers, bear evidence
in my very person to the propriety of that ingratitude
which had made me the degraded being I appeared.
With my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be
said as if fascinated, to haunt the destined abode of
the young Earl. I watched the progress of the
improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as
various articles of luxury, brought from London, were
taken forth and conveyed into the mansion. It was part
of the Ex-Queen's plan, to surround her son with
princely magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and silken
hangings, ornaments of gold, richly embossed metals,
emblazoned furniture, and all the appendages of high
rank arranged, so that nothing but what was regal in
splendour should reach the eye of one of royal descent.
I looked on these; I turned my gaze to my own mean
dress.--Whence sprung this difference? Whence but from
ingratitude, from falsehood, from a dereliction on the
part of the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and
generous feeling. Doubtless, he also, whose blood
received a mingling tide from his proud mother--he, the
acknowledged focus of the kingdom's wealth and
nobility, had been taught to repeat my father's name
with disdain, and to scoff at my just claims to
protection. I strove to think that all this grandeur
was but more glaring infamy, and that, by planting his
gold-enwoven flag beside my tarnished and tattered
banner, he proclaimed not his superiority, but his
debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud of beautiful
horses, his arms of costly workmanship, the praise that
attended him, the adoration, ready servitor, high place
and high esteem,--I considered them as forcibly
wrenched from me, and envied them all with novel and
tormenting bitterness.
To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary
Perdita, seemed to awake to real life with transport,
when she told me that the Earl of Windsor was about to
arrive.
"And this pleases you?" I observed, moodily.
"Indeed it does, Lionel," she replied; "I quite long to
see him; he is the descendant of our kings, the first
noble of the land: every one admires and loves him, and
they say that his rank is his least merit; he is
generous, brave, and affable."
"You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita," said I,
"and repeat it so literally, that you forget the while
the proofs we have of the Earl's virtues; his
generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his bravery
in the protection he affords us, his affability in the
notice he takes of us. His rank his least merit, do you
say? Why, all his virtues are derived from his station
only; because he is rich, he is called generous;
because he is powerful, brave; because he is well
served, he is affable. Let them call him so, let all
England believe him to be thus--we know him--he is our
enemy--our penurious, dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he
were gifted with one particle of the virtues you call
his, he would do justly by us, if it were only to shew,
that if he must strike, it should not be a fallen foe.
His father injured my father--his father, unassailable
on his throne, dared despise him who only stooped
beneath himself, when he deigned to associate with the
royal ingrate. We, descendants from the one and the
other, must be enemies also. He shall find that I can
feel my injuries; he shall learn to dread my revenge!"
A few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the
most miserable cottage, went to swell the stream of
population that poured forth to meet him: even Perdita,
in spite of my late philippic, crept near the highway,
to behold this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad,
as I met party after party of the country people, in
their holiday best, descending the hills, escaped to
their cloud-veiled summits, and looking on the sterile
rocks about me, exclaimed--" They do not cry,
long live the Earl!" Nor, when night came, accompanied
by drizzling rain and cold, would I return home; for I
knew that each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian;
as I felt my limbs grow numb and chill, my pain served
as food for my insane aversion; nay, I almost triumphed
in it, since it seemed to afford me reason and excuse
for my hatred of my unheeding adversary. All was
attributed to him, for I confounded so entirely the
idea of father and son, that I forgot that the latter
might be wholly unconscious of his parent's neglect of
us; and as I struck my aching head with my hand, I
cried: "He shall hear of this! I will be revenged! I
will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know, beggar
and friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit
to injury!"
Each day, each hour added to these exaggerated wrongs.
His praises were so many adder's stings infixed in my
vulnerable breast. If I saw him at a distance, riding a
beautiful horse, my blood boiled with rage; the air
seemed poisoned by his presence, and my very native
English was changed to a vile jargon, since every
phrase I heard was coupled with his name and honour. I
panted to relieve this painful heart-burning by some
misdeed that should rouse him to a sense of my
antipathy. It was the height of his offending, that he
should occasion in me such intolerable sensations, and
not deign himself to afford any demonstration that he
was aware that I even lived to feel them.
It soon became known that Adrian took great delight in
his park and preserves. He never sported, but spent
hours in watching the tribes of lovely and almost tame
animals with which it was stocked, and ordered that
greater care should be taken of them than ever. Here
was an opening for my plans of offence, and I made use
of it with all the brute impetuosity I derived from my
active mode of life. I proposed the enterprize of
poaching on his demesne to my few remaining comrades,
who were the most determined and lawless of the crew;
but they all shrunk from the peril; so I was left to
achieve my revenge myself. At first my exploits were
unperceived; I increased in daring; footsteps on the
dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of slaughter, at
length betrayed me to the game-keepers. They kept
better watch; I was taken, and sent to prison. I
entered its gloomy walls in a fit of triumphant extasy:
"He feels me now," I cried, "and shall, again and
again!"--I passed but one day in confinement; in the
evening I was liberated, as I was told, by the order of
the Earl himself. This news precipitated me from my
self-raised pinnacle of honour. He despises me, I
thought; but he shall learn that I despise him, and
hold in equal contempt his punishments and his
clemency. On the second night after my release, I was
again taken by the gamekeepers--again imprisoned, and
again released; and again, such was my pertinacity, did
the fourth night find me in the forbidden park. The
gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my
obstinacy. They had received orders that if I were
again taken, I should be brought to the Earl; and his
lenity made them expect a conclusion which they
considered ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had
been from the first the leader among those who had
seized me, resolved to satisfy his own resentment,
before he made me over to the higher powers.
The late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I
was obliged to use in this my third expedition,
consumed so much time, that something like a qualm of
fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to
twilight. I crept along by the fern, on my hands and
knees, seeking the shadowy coverts of the underwood,
while the birds awoke with unwelcome song above, and
the fresh morning wind, playing among the boughs, made
me suspect a footfall at each turn. My heart beat quick
as I approached the palings; my hand was on one of
them, a leap would take me to the other side, when two
keepers sprang from an ambush upon me: one knocked me
down, and proceeded to inflict a severe
horse-whipping. I started up--a knife was in my grasp;
I made a plunge at his raised right arm, and inflicted
a deep, wide wound in his hand. The rage and yells of
the wounded man, the howling execrations of his
comrade, which I answered with equal bitterness and
fury, echoed through the dell; morning broke more and
more, ill accordant in its celestial beauty with our
brute and noisy contest. I and my enemy were still
struggling, when the wounded man exclaimed, "The Earl!"
I sprang out of the herculean hold of the keeper,
panting from my exertions; I cast furious glances on my
persecutors, and placing myself with my back to a tree,
resolved to defend myself to the last. My garments were
torn, and they, as well as my hands, were stained with
the blood of the man I had wounded; one hand grasped
the dead birds--my hard-earned prey, the other held the
knife; my hair was matted; my face besmeared with the
same guilty signs that bore witness against me on the
dripping instrument I clenched; my whole appearance was
haggard and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in
form, I must have looked like, what indeed I was, the
merest ruffian that ever trod the earth.
The name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the
indignant blood that warmed my heart to rush into my
cheeks; I had never seen him before; I figured to
myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take me to
task, if he deigned to speak to me, with all the
arrogance of superiority. My reply was ready; a
reproach I deemed calculated to sting his very heart.
He came up the while; and his appearance blew aside,
with gentle western breath, my cloudy wrath: a tall,
slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the
excess of sensibility and refinement stood before me;
the morning sunbeams tinged with gold his silken hair,
and spread light and glory over his beaming
countenance. "How is this?" he cried. The men eagerly
began their defence; he put them aside, saying, "Two of
you at once on a mere lad--for shame!" He came up to
me: "Verney," he cried, "Lionel Verney, do we meet thus
for the first time? We were born to be friends to each
other; and though ill fortune has divided us, will you
not acknowledge the hereditary bond of friendship which
I trust will hereafter unite us?"
As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to
read my very soul: my heart, my savage revengeful
heart, felt the influence of sweet benignity sink upon
it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest melody,
awoke a mute echo within me, stirring to its depths the
life-blood in my frame. I desired to reply, to
acknowledge his goodness, accept his proffered
friendship; but words, fitting words, were not afforded
to the rough mountaineer; I would have held out my
hand, but its guilty stain restrained me. Adrian took
pity on my faltering mien: "Come with me," he said, "I
have much to say to you; come home with me--you know
who I am?"
"Yes," I exclaimed, "I do believe that I now know you,
and that you will pardon my mistakes--my crime."
Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to
the gamekeepers, he came up to me; putting his arm in
mine, we walked together to the mansion.
It was not his rank--after all that I have said, surely
it will not be suspected that it was Adrian's rank,
that, from the first, subdued my heart of hearts, and
laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor was it
I alone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His
sensibility and courtesy fascinated every one. His
vivacity, intelligence, and active spirit of
benevolence, completed the conquest. Even at this early
age, he was deep read and imbued with the spirit of
high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of
irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with others,
so that he seemed like an inspired musician, who
struck, with unerring skill, the "lyre of mind," and
produced thence divine harmony. In person, he hardly
appeared of this world; his slight frame was
overinformed by the soul that dwelt within; he was all
mind; "Man but a rush against" his breast, and it would
have conquered his strength; but the might of his smile
would have tamed an hungry lion, or caused a legion of
armed men to lay their weapons at his feet.
I spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to
the past, or indeed to any personal occurrences. He
wished probably to inspire me with confidence, and give
me time to gather together my scattered thoughts. He
talked of general subjects, and gave me ideas I had
never before conceived. We sat in his library, and he
spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the power which
they had acquired over the minds of men, through the
force of love and wisdom only. The room was decorated
with the busts of many of them, and he described their
characters to me. As he spoke, I felt subject to him;
and all my boasted pride and strength were subdued by
the honeyed accents of this blue-eyed boy. The trim and
paled demesne of civilization, which I had before
regarded from my wild jungle as inaccessible, had its
wicket opened by him; I stepped within, and felt, as I
entered, that I trod my native soil.
As evening came on, he reverted to the past. "I have a
tale to relate," he said, "and much explanation to give
concerning the past; perhaps you can assist me to
curtail it. Do you remember your father? I had never
the happiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my
earliest recollections: he stands written in my mind's
tablets as the type of all that was gallant, amiable,
and fascinating in man. His wit was not more
conspicuous than the overflowing goodness of his heart,
which he poured in such full measure on his friends, as
to leave, alas! small remnant for himself."
Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to
his inquiries, to relate what I remembered of my
parent; and he gave an account of those circumstances
which had brought about a neglect of my father's
testamentary letter. When, in after times, Adrian's
father, then king of England, felt his situation become
more perilous, his line of conduct more embarrassed,
again and again he wished for his early friend, who
might stand a mound against the impetuous anger of his
queen, a mediator between him and the parliament. From
the time that he had quitted London, on the fatal night
of his defeat at the gaming-table, the king had
received no tidings concerning him; and when, after the
lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover him,
every trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever, he
clung to his memory; and gave it in charge to his son,
if ever he should meet this valued friend, in his name
to bestow every succour, and to assure him that, to the
last, his attachment survived separation and silence.
A short time before Adrian's visit to Cumberland, the
heir of the nobleman to whom my father had confided his
last appeal to his royal master, put this letter, its
seal unbroken, into the young Earl's hands. It had been
found cast aside with a mass of papers of old date, and
accident alone brought it to light. Adrian read it with
deep interest; and found there that living spirit of
genius and wit he had so often heard commemorated. He
discovered the name of the spot whither my father had
retreated, and where he died; he learnt the existence
of his orphan children; and during the short interval
between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting in the
park, he had been occupied in making inquiries
concerning us, and arranging a variety of plans for our
benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to our
notice.
The mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying
to my vanity; the veil which he delicately cast over
his benevolence, in alledging a duteous fulfilment of
the king's latest will, was soothing to my pride. Other
feelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his
conciliating manner and the generous warmth of his
expressions, respect rarely before experienced,
admiration, and love--he had touched my rocky heart
with his magic power, and the stream of affection
gushed forth, imperishable and pure. In the evening we
parted; he pressed my hand: "We shall meet again; come
to me to-morrow." I clasped that kind hand; I tried to
answer; a fervent "God bless you!" was all my ignorance
could frame of speech, and I darted away, oppressed by
my new emotions.
I could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept
them, and the stars glittered above. I ran on, careless
of outward objects, but trying to master the struggling
spirit within me by means of bodily fatigue. "This," I
thought, "is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard of
heart, ferocious, and daring; but kind, compassionate
and soft."--Stopping short, I clasped my hands, and
with the fervour of a new proselyte, cried, "Doubt me
not, Adrian, I also will become wise and good!" and
then quite overcome, I wept aloud.
As this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more
composed. I lay on the ground, and giving the reins to
my thoughts, repassed in my mind my former life; and
began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my
heart, and to discover how brutish, savage, and
worthless I had hitherto been. I could not however at
that time feel remorse, for methought I was born anew;
my soul threw off the burthen of past sin, to commence
a new career in innocence and love. Nothing harsh or
rough remained to jar with the soft feelings which the
transactions of the day had inspired; I was as a child
lisping its devotions after its mother, and my plastic
soul was remoulded by a master hand, which I neither
desired nor was able to resist.
This was the first commencement of my friendship with
Adrian, and I must commemorate this day as the most
fortunate of my life. I now began to be human. I was
admitted within that sacred boundary which divides the
intellectual and moral nature of man from that which
characterizes animals. My best feelings were called
into play to give fitting responses to the generosity,
wisdom, and amenity of my new friend. He, with a noble
goodness all his own, took infinite delight in
bestowing to prodigality the treasures of his mind and
fortune on the long-neglected son of his father's
friend, the offspring of that gifted being whose
excellencies and talents he had heard commemorated from
infancy.
After his abdication the late king had retreated from
the sphere of politics, yet his domestic circle
afforded him small content. The ex-queen had none of
the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage and
daring which she possessed were rendered null by the
secession of her husband: she despised him, and did not
care to conceal her sentiments. The king had, in
compliance with her exactions, cast off his old
friends, but he had acquired no new ones under her
guidance. In this dearth of sympathy, he had recourse
to his almost infant son; and the early development of
talent and sensibility rendered Adrian no unfitting
depository of his father's confidence. He was never
weary of listening to the latter's often repeated
accounts of old times, in which my father had played a
distinguished part; his keen remarks were repeated to
the boy, and remembered by him; his wit, his
fascinations, his very faults were hallowed by the
regret of affection; his loss was sincerely deplored.
Even the queen's dislike of the favourite was
ineffectual to deprive him of his son's admiration: it
was bitter, sarcastic, contemptuous--but as she
bestowed her heavy censure alike on his virtues as his
errors, on his devoted friendship and his ill-bestowed
loves, on his disinterestedness and his prodigality, on
his pre-possessing grace of manner, and the facility
with which he yielded to temptation, her double shot
proved too heavy, and fell short of the mark. Nor did
her angry dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my
father, as he had said, the type of all that was
gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It was not
strange therefore, that when he heard of the existence
of the offspring of this celebrated person, he should
have formed the plan of bestowing on them all the
advantages his rank made him rich to afford. When he
found me a vagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher,
an unlettered savage, still his kindness did not fail.
In addition to the opinion he entertained that his
father was to a degree culpable of neglect towards us,
and that he was bound to every possible reparation, he
was pleased to say that under all my ruggedness there
glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be
distinguished from mere animal courage, and that I
inherited a similarity of countenance to my father,
which gave proof that all his virtues and talents had
not died with him. Whatever those might be which
descended to me, my noble young friend resolved should
not be lost for want of culture.
Acting upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he
led me to wish to participate in that cultivation which
graced his own intellect. My active mind, when once it
seized upon this new idea, fastened on it with extreme
avidity. At first it was the great object of my
ambition to rival the merits of my father, and render
myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian. But
curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love of knowledge,
which caused me to pass days and nights in reading and
study. I was already well acquainted with what I may
term the panorama of nature, the change of seasons, and
the various appearances of heaven and earth. But I was
at once startled and enchanted by my sudden extension
of vision, when the curtain, which had been drawn
before the intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw
the universe, not only as it presented itself to my
outward senses, but as it had appeared to the wisest
among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy and its
researches and classifications, alike awoke the
sleeping ideas in my mind, and gave me new ones.
I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first
discovered the shore of America; and like him I
hastened to tell my companions of my discoveries in
unknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any
breast the same craving appetite for knowledge that
existed in mine. Even Perdita was unable to understand
me. I had lived in what is generally called the world
of reality, and it was awakening to a new country to
find that there was a deeper meaning in all I saw,
besides that which my eyes conveyed to me. The
visionary Perdita beheld in all this only a new gloss
upon an old reading, and her own was sufficiently
inexhaustible to content her. She listened to me as she
had done to the narration of my adventures, and
sometimes took an interest in this species of
information; but she did not, as I did, look on it as
an integral part of her being, which having obtained, I
could no more put off than the universal sense of
touch.
We both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not
having yet escaped from childhood could not appreciate
as I did the extent of his merits, or feel the same
sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever
with him. There was a sensibility and sweetness in his
disposition, that gave a tender and unearthly tone to
our converse. Then he was gay as a lark carolling from
its skiey tower, soaring in thought as an eagle,
innocent as the mild-eyed dove. He could dispel the
seriousness of Perdita, and take the sting from the
torturing activity of my nature. I looked back to my
restless desires and painful struggles with my fellow
beings as to a troubled dream, and felt myself as much
changed as if I had transmigrated into another form,
whose fresh sensorium and mechanism of nerves had
altered the reflection of the apparent universe in the
mirror of mind. But it was not so; I was the same in
strength, in earnest craving for sympathy, in my
yearning for active exertion. My manly virtues did not
desert me, for the witch Urania spared the locks of
Sampson, while he reposed at her feet; but all was
softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian instruct me only
in the cold truths of history and philosophy. At the
same time that he taught me by their means to subdue my
own reckless and uncultured spirit, he opened to my
view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to
feel and understand its wondrous character.
The ex-queen of England had, even during infancy,
endeavoured to implant daring and ambitious designs in
the mind of her son. She saw that he was endowed with
genius and surpassing talent; these she cultivated for
the sake of afterwards using them for the furtherance
of her own views. She encouraged his craving for
knowledge and his impetuous courage; she even tolerated
his tameless love of freedom, under the hope that this
would, as is too often the case, lead to a passion for
command. She endeavoured to bring him up in a sense of
resentment towards, and a desire to revenge himself
upon, those who had been instrumental in bringing about
his father's abdication. In this she did not succeed.
The accounts furnished him, however distorted, of a
great and wise nation asserting its right to govern
itself, excited his admiration: in early days he became
a republican from principle. Still his mother did not
despair. To the love of rule and haughty pride of birth
she added determined ambition,patience, and
self-control. She devoted herself to the study of her
son's disposition. By the application of praise,
censure, and exhortation, she tried to seek and strike
the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed
her touch seemed discord to her, she built her hopes on
his talents, and felt sure that she would at last win
him. The kind of banishment he now experienced arose
from other causes.
The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of
age; his fairy sister, Adrian was wont to call her; a
lovely, animated, little thing, all sensibility and
truth. With these, her children, the noble widow
constantly resided at Windsor; and admitted no
visitors, except her own partizans, travellers from her
native Germany, and a few of the foreign ministers.
Among these, and highly distinguished by her, was
Prince Zaimi, ambassador to England from the free
States of Greece; and his daughter, the young Princess
Evadne, passed much of her time at Windsor Castle. In
company with this sprightly and clever Greek girl, the
Countess would relax from her usual state. Her views
with regard to her own children, placed all her words
and actions relative to them under restraint:
but Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear;
nor were her talents and vivacity slight alleviations
to the monotony of the Countess's life.
Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent
much time together at Windsor, the extreme youth of
Adrian prevented any suspicion as to the nature of
their intercourse. But he was ardent and tender of
heart beyond the common nature of man, and had already
learnt to love, while the beauteous Greek smiled
benignantly on the boy. It was strange to me, who,
though older than Adrian, had never loved, to witness
the whole heart's sacrifice of my friend. There was
neither jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust in his
sentiment; it was devotion and faith. His life was
swallowed up in the existence of his beloved; and his
heart beat only in unison with the pulsations that
vivified hers. This was the secret law of his life--he
loved and was beloved. The universe was to him a
dwelling, to inhabit with his chosen one; and not
either a scheme of society or an enchainment of events,
that could impart to him either happiness or misery.
What, though life and the system of social intercourse
were a wilderness, a tiger-haunted jungle! Through the
midst of its errors, in the depths of its savage
recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery pathway,
through which they might journey in safety and delight.
Their track would be like the passage of the Red Sea,
which they might traverse with unwet feet, though a
wall of destruction were impending on either side.
Alas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this
matchless specimen of humanity? What is there in our
nature that is for ever urging us on towards pain and
misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however
we may be attuned to the reception of pleasureable
emotion, disappointment is the never-failing pilot of
our life's bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the
shoals. Who was better framed than this highly-gifted
youth to love and be beloved, and to reap unalienable
joy from an unblamed passion? If his heart had slept
but a few years longer, he might have been saved; but
it awoke in its infancy; it had power, but no
knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a too
early-blowing bud is nipt by the killing frost.
I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to
deceive her lover; but the first letter that I saw of
hers convinced me that she did not love him; it was
written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with
great command of language. The hand-writing itself was
exquisitely beautiful; there was something in her very
paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love,
and was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern
as being tasteful. There was much kindness, gratitude,
and sweetness in her expression, but no love. Evadne
was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen,
ever loved one so much their junior? I compared her
placid epistles with the burning ones of Adrian. His
soul seemed to distil itself into the words he wrote;
and they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a
portion of the life of love, which was his life. The
very writing used to exhaust him; and he would weep
over them, merely from the excess of emotion they
awakened in his heart.
Adrian's soul was painted in his countenance, and
concealment or deceit were at the antipodes to the
dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made it her
earnest request that the tale of their loves should not
be revealed to his mother; and after for a while
contesting the point, he yielded it to her. A vain
concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret
to the quick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary
prudence that characterized her whole conduct, she
concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her son
from the sphere of the attractive Greek. He was sent to
Cumberland; but the plan of correspondence between the
lovers, arranged by Evadne, was effectually hidden from
her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the
purpose of separating, united them in firmer bonds than
ever. To me he discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved
Ionian. Her country, its ancient annals, its late
memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her
glory and excellence. He submitted to be away from her,
because she commanded this submission; but for her
influence, he would have declared his attachment before
all England, and resisted, with unshaken constancy, his
mother's opposition. Evadne's feminine prudence
perceived how useless any assertion of his resolves
would be, till added years gave weight to his power.
Perhaps there was besides a lurking dislike to bind
herself in the face of the world to one whom she did
not love--not love, at least, with that passionate
enthusiasm which her heart told her she might one day
feel towards another. He obeyed her injunctions, and
passed a year in exile in Cumberland.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER III.
HAPPY, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and
hours of that year. Friendship, hand in hand with
admiration, tenderness and respect, built a bower of
delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in
America, as the homeless wind or herbless sea.
Insatiate thirst for knowledge, and boundless affection
for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart and
understanding occupied, and I was consequently happy.
What happiness is so true and unclouded, as the
overflowing and talkative delight of young people. In
our boat, upon my native lake, beside the streams and
the pale bordering poplars--in valley and over hill, my
crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to tend than silly
sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I read or
listened to Adrian; and his discourse, whether it
concerned his love or his theories for the improvement
of man, alike entranced me. Sometimes my lawless mood
would return, my love of peril, my resistance to
authority; but this was in his absence; under the mild
sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and good as a boy
of five years old, who does his mother's bidding.
After a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian
visited London, and came back full of plans for our
benefit. You must begin life, he said: you are
seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary
apprenticeship more and more irksome. He foresaw that
his own life would be one of struggle, and I must
partake his labours with him. The better to fit me for
this task, we must now separate. He found my name a
good passport to preferment, and he had procured for me
the situation of private secretary to the Ambassador at
Vienna, where I should enter on my career under the
best auspices. In two years, I should return to my
country, with a name well known and a reputation
already founded.
And Perdita?--Perdita was to become the pupil, friend
and younger sister of Evadne. With his usual
thoughtfulness, he had provided for her independence in
this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous
friend?--I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart
of hearts, I made a vow to devote life, knowledge, and
power, all of which, in as much as they were of any
value, he had bestowed on me--all, all my capacities
and hopes, to him alone I would devote.
Thus I promised myself, as I journied towards my
destination with roused and ardent expectation:
expectation of the fulfilment of all that in boyhood we
promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in maturity.
Methought the time was now arrived, when, childish
occupations laid aside, I should enter into life. Even
in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes the souls of
the happy as eager to drink of the wave which was to
restore them to this mortal coil. The young are seldom
in Elysium, for their desires, outstripping
possibility, leave them as poor as a moneyless debtor.
We are told by the wisest philosophers of the dangers
of the world, the deceits of men, and the treason of
our own hearts: but not the less fearlessly does each
put off his frail bark from the port, spread the sail,
and strain his oar, to attain the multitudinous streams
of the sea of life. How few in youth's prime, moor
their vessels on the "golden sands," and collect the
painted shells that strew them. But all at close of
day, with riven planks and rent canvas make for shore,
and are either wrecked ere they reach it, or find some
wave-beaten haven, some desart strand, whereon to cast
themselves and die unmourned.
A truce to philosophy!--Life is before me, and I rush
into possession. Hope, glory, love, and blameless
ambition are my guides, and my soul knows no dread.
What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is
good only because it is about to change, and the to
come is all my own. Do I fear, that my heart
palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of my
blood; my eyes seem to penetrate the cloudy midnight of
time, and to discern within the depths of its darkness,
the fruition of all my soul desires.
Now pause!--During my journey I might dream, and with
buoyant wings reach the summit of life's high edifice.
Now that I am arrived at its base, my pinions are
furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step by
step I must ascend the wondrous fane--
Speak!--What door is opened?
Behold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among
the pleasure-seeking society of a gay city; a youth of
promise; favourite of the Ambassador. All was strange
and admirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With
breathless amaze I entered on the gay scene, whose
actors were
--the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin.
Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting
my studious hours, and the companionship of Adrian.
Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent pursuit for a
wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of
beauty entranced me, and attractive manners in man or
woman won my entire confidence. I called it rapture,
when a smile made my heart beat; and I felt the life's
blood tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol
which for awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of animal
spirits was Paradise, and at night's close I only
desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The
dazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely forms
arrayed in splendid dresses; the motions of a dance,
the voluptuous tones of exquisite music, cradled my
senses in one delightful dream.
And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to
moralists and sages. I ask if in the calm of their
measured reveries, if in the deep meditations which
fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful
tyro in the school of pleasure? Can the calm beams of
their heaven-seeking eyes equal the flashes of mingling
passion which blind his, or does the influence of cold
philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal to his,
engaged
In this dear work of youthful revelry.
But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the
hermit, nor the tumultuous raptures of the reveller,
are capable of satisfying man's heart. From the one we
gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The
mind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in
the heartless intercourse of those whose sole aim is
amusement. There is no fruition in their vacant
kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling
ripples of these shallow waters.
Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and
solitude drove me back upon my heart, to gather thence
the joy of which it had become barren. My flagging
spirits asked for something to speak to the affections;
and not finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding
the thoughtless delight that waited on its
commencement, the impression I have of my life at
Vienna is melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth
we cannot be happy unless we love. I did not love; but
I was devoured by a restless wish to be something to
others. I became the victim of ingratitude and cold
coquetry--then I desponded, and imagined that my
discontent gave me a right to hate the world. I receded
to solitude; I had recourse to my books, and my desire
again to enjoy the society of Adrian became a burning
thirst.
Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the
venomous properties of envy, gave a sting to these
feelings. At this period the name and exploits of one
of my countrymen filled the world with admiration.
Relations of what he had done, conjectures concerning
his future actions, were the never-failing topics of
the hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I
felt as if the praises which this idol received were
leaves torn from laurels destined for Adrian. But I
must enter into some account of this darling of
fame--this favourite of the wonder-loving world.
Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but
impoverished family. From early youth he had considered
his pedigree with complacency, and bitterly lamented
his want of wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement;
and the means that led towards this end were secondary
considerations. Haughty, yet trembling to every
demonstration of respect; ambitious, but too proud to
shew his ambition; willing to achieve honour, yet a
votary of pleasure,--he entered upon life. He was met
on the threshold by some insult, real or imaginary;
some repulse, where he least expected it; some
disappointment, hard for his pride to bear. He writhed
beneath an injury he was unable to revenge; and he
quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good
time should arrive, when she might feel the power of
him she now despised.
He became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless
courage and comprehensive genius brought him into
notice. He became the darling hero of this rising
people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw off
his allegiance to his native country, alone prevented
him from filling the first offices in the state. But,
though others might rank higher in title and ceremony,
Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond all this.
He led the Greek armies to victory; their triumphs were
all his own. When he appeared, whole towns poured forth
their population to meet him; new songs were adapted to
their national airs, whose themes were his glory,
valour, and munificence.
A truce was concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At
the same time, Lord Raymond, by some unlooked-for
chance, became the possessor of an immense fortune in
England, whither he returned, crowned with glory, to
receive the meed of honour and distinction before
denied to his pretensions. His proud heart rebelled
against this change. In what was the despised Raymond
not the same? If the acquisition of power in the shape
of wealth caused this alteration, that power should
they feel as an iron yoke. Power therefore was the aim
of all his endeavours; aggrandizement the mark at which
he for ever shot. In open ambition or close intrigue,
his end was the same--to attain the first station in
his own country.
This account filled me with curiosity. The events that
in succession followed his return to England, gave me
keener feelings. Among his other advantages, Lord
Raymond was supremely handsome; every one admired him;
of women he was the idol. He was courteous,
honey-tongued--an adept in fascinating arts. What could
not this man achieve in the busy English world? Change
succeeded to change; the entire history did not reach
me; for Adrian had ceased to write, and Perdita was a
laconic correspondent. The rumour went that Adrian had
become--how write the fatal word--mad: that Lord
Raymond was the favourite of the ex-queen, her
daughter's destined husband. Nay, more, that this
aspiring noble revived the claim of the house of
Windsor to the crown, and that, on the event of
Adrian's incurable disorder and his marriage with the
sister, the brow of the ambitious Raymond might be
encircled with the magic ring of regality.
Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame;
such a tale rendered my longer stay at Vienna, away
from the friend of my youth, intolerable. Now I must
fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side, and be his
ally and support till death. Farewell to courtly
pleasure; to politic intrigue; to the maze of passion
and folly! All hail, England! Native England, receive
thy child! thou art the scene of all my hopes, the
mighty theatre on which is acted the only drama that
can, heart and soul, bear me along with it in its
development. A voice most irresistible, a power
omnipotent, drew me thither. After an absence of two
years I landed on its shores, not daring to make any
inquiries, fearful of every remark. My first visit
would be to my sister, who inhabited a little cottage,
a part of Adrian's gift, on the borders of Windsor
Forest. From her I should learn the truth concerning
our protector; I should hear why she had withdrawn from
the protection of the Princess Evadne, and be
instructed as to the influence which this overtopping
and towering Raymond exercised over the fortunes of my
friend.
I had never before been in the neighbourhood of
Windsor; the fertility and beauty of the country around
now struck me with admiration, which encreased as I
approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks
which had grown, flourished, and decayed during the
progress of centuries, marked where the limits of the
forest once reached, while the shattered palings and
neglected underwood shewed that this part was deserted
for the younger plantations, which owed their birth to
the beginning of the nineteenth century, and now stood
in the pride of maturity. Perdita's humble dwelling was
situated on the skirts of the most ancient portion;
before it was stretched Bishopgate Heath, which towards
the east appeared interminable, and was bounded to the
west by Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water.
Behind, the cottage was shadowed by the venerable
fathers of the forest, under which the deer came to
graze, and which for the most part hollow and decayed,
formed fantastic groups that contrasted with the
regular beauty of the younger trees. These, the
offspring of a later period, stood erect and seemed
ready to advance fearlessly into coming time; while
those out worn stragglers, blasted and broke, clung to
each other, their weak boughs sighing as the wind
buffetted them--a weather-beaten crew.
A light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage,
which, low-roofed, seemed to submit to the majesty of
nature, and cower amidst the venerable remains of
forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the spring,
adorned her garden and casements; in the midst of
lowliness there was an air of elegance which spoke the
graceful taste of the inmate. With a beating heart I
entered the enclosure; as I stood at the entrance, I
heard her voice,melodious as it had ever been, which
before I saw her assured me of her welfare.
A moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me
in the fresh bloom of youthful womanhood, different
from and yet the same as the mountain girl I had left.
Her eyes could not be deeper than they were in
childhood, nor her countenance more expressive; but the
expression was changed and improved; intelligence sat
on her brow; when she smiled her face was embellished
by the softest sensibility, and her low, modulated
voice seemed tuned by love. Her person was formed in
the most feminine proportions; she was not tall, but
her mountain life had given freedom to her motions, so
that her light step scarce made her foot-fall heard as
she tript across the hall to meet me. When we had
parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with unrestrained
warmth; we met again, and new feelings were awakened;
when each beheld the other, childhood passed, as full
grown actors on this changeful scene. The pause was but
for a moment; the flood of association and natural
feeling which had been checked, again rushed in full
tide upon our hearts, and with tenderest emotion we
were swiftly locked in each other's embrace.
This burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed
thoughts we sat together, talking of the past and
present. I alluded to the coldness of her letters; but
the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently
explained the origin of this. New feelings had arisen
within her, which she was unable to express in writing
to one whom she had only known in childhood; but we saw
each other again, and our intimacy was renewed as if
nothing had intervened to check it. I detailed the
incidents of my sojourn abroad, and then questioned her
as to the changes that had taken place at home, the
causes of Adrian's absence, and her secluded life.
The tears that suffused my sister's eyes when I
mentioned our friend, and her heightened colour seemed
to vouch for the truth of the reports that had reached
me. But their import was too terrible for me to give
instant credit to my suspicion. Was there indeed
anarchy in the sublime universe of Adrian's thoughts,
did madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and was
he no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend,
this ill world was no clime for your gentle spirit; you
delivered up its governance to false humanity, which
stript it of its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare
its quivering life to the evil ministration of
roughest winds. Have those gentle eyes, those "channels
of the soul" lost their meaning, or do they only in
their glare disclose the horrible tale of its
aberrations? Does that voice no longer "discourse
excellent music?" Horrible, most horrible! I veil my
eyes in terror of the change, and gushing tears bear
witness to my sympathy for this unimaginable ruin.
In obedience to my request Perdita detailed the
melancholy circumstances that led to this event.
The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it
was by every natural grace, endowed with transcendant
powers of intellect, unblemished by the shadow of
defect (unless his dreadless independence of thought
was to be construed into one), was devoted, even as a
victim to sacrifice, to his love for Evadne. He
entrusted to her keeping the treasures of his soul, his
aspirations after excellence, and his plans for the
improvement of mankind. As manhood dawned upon him, his
schemes and theories, far from being changed by
personal and prudential motives, acquired new strength
from the powers he felt arise within him; and his love
for Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day became
more certain that the path he pursued was full of
difficulty, and that he must seek his reward, not in
the applause or gratitude of his fellow creatures,
hardly in the success of his plans, but in the
approbation of his own heart, and in her love and
sympathy, which was to lighten every toil and
recompence every sacrifice.
In solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the
haunts of men, he matured his views for the reform of
the English government, and the improvement of the
people. It would have been well if he had concealed his
sentiments, until he had come into possession of the
power which would secure their practical development.
But he was impatient of the years that must
intervene, he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave
not only a brief denial to his mother's schemes, but
published his intention of using his influence to
diminish the power of the aristocracy, to effect a
greater equalization of wealth and privilege, and to
introduce a perfect system of republican government
into England. At first his mother treated his theories
as the wild ravings of inexperience. But they were so
systematically arranged, and his arguments so well
supported, that though still in appearance incredulous,
she began to fear him. She tried to reason with him,
and finding him inflexible, learned to hate him.
Strange to say, this feeling was infectious. His
enthusiasm for good which did not exist; his contempt
for the sacredness of authority; his ardour and
imprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual
routine of life; the worldly feared him; the young and
inexperienced did not understand the lofty severity of
his moral views, and disliked him as a being different
from themselves. Evadne entered but coldly into his
systems. She thought he did well to assert his own
will, but she wished that will to have been more
intelligible to the multitude. She had none of the
spirit of a martyr, and did not incline to share the
shame and defeat of a fallen patriot. She was aware of
the purity of his motives, the generosity of his
disposition, his true and ardent attachment to her; and
she entertained a great affection for him. He repaid
this spirit of kindness with the fondest gratitude, and
made her the treasure-house of all his hopes.
At this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two
persons could be more opposite than Adrian and he. With
all the incongruities of his character, Raymond was
emphatically a man of the world. His passions were
violent; as these often obtained the mastery over him,
he could not always square his conduct to the obvious
line of self-interest, but self-gratification at least
was the paramount object with him. He looked on the
structure of society as but a part of the machinery
which supported the web on which his life was traced.
The earth was spread out as an highway for him; the
heavens built up as a canopy for him.
Adrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He
owned affinity not only with mankind, but all nature
was akin to him; the mountains and sky were his
friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth
his playmates; while he the focus only of this mighty
mirror, felt his life mingle with the universe of
existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedicated to the
worship of beauty and excellence. Adrian and Raymond
now came into contact, and a spirit of aversion rose
between them. Adrian despised the narrow views of the
politician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt the
benevolent visions of the philanthropist.
With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that
laid waste at one fell blow the gardens of delight and
sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that he had
secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and
contumely. Raymond, the deliverer of Greece, the
graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge of all
that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as
most dear--Raymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered by
her new sensations, she did not pause to examine them,
or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except the
tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her
heart. She yielded to its influence, and the too
natural consequence in a mind unattuned to soft
emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became
distasteful to her. She grew capricious; her gentle
conduct towards him was exchanged for asperity and
repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild or
pathetic appeal of his expressive countenance, she
would relent, and for a while resume her ancient
kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its depths
the soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed
the world subject to him, because he possessed Evadne's
love; he felt in every nerve that the dire storms of
the mental universe were about to attack his fragile
being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent.
Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture
that Adrian endured. She loved him as a kind elder
brother; a relation to guide, protect, and instruct
her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental
authority. She adored his virtues, and with mixed
contempt and indignation she saw Evadne pile drear
sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly
marked her. In his solitary despair Adrian would often
seek my sister, and in covered terms express his
misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of
his mind. Soon, alas! was one to conquer. Anger made no
part of his emotion. With whom should he be angry? Not
with Raymond, who was unconscious of the misery he
occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul wept
tears of blood--poor, mistaken girl, slave not tyrant
was she, and amidst his own anguish he grieved for her
future destiny. Once a writing of his fell into
Perdita's hands; it was blotted with tears--well might
any blot it with the like--
"Life"--it began thus--"is not the thing romance
writers describe it; going through the measures of a
dance, and after various evolutions arriving at a
conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose.
While there is life there is action and change. We go
on, each thought linked to the one which was its
parent, each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow
dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and
generating, weaves the chain that make our life:
Un dia llama a otro dia
y ass i llama, y encadena
llanto a llanto, y pena a pena.
Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human
life; she sits at the threshold of unborn time, and
marshals the events as they come forth. Once my heart
sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the world
was doubly beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed
from my own soul. O wherefore are love and ruin for
ever joined in this our mortal dream? So that when we
make our hearts a lair for that gently seeming beast,
its companion enters with it, and pitilessly lays waste
what might have been an home and a shelter."
By degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and
then his intellect yielded to the same tyranny. His
manners grew wild; he was sometimes ferocious,
sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly
Evadne quitted London for Paris; he followed, and
overtook her when the vessel was about to sail; none
knew what passed between them, but Perdita had never
seen him since; he lived in seclusion, no one knew
where, attended by such persons as his mother selected
for that purpose.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV.
THE next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita's cottage,
on his way to Windsor Castle. My sister's heightened
colour and sparkling eyes half revealed her secret to
me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted us
both with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into
our feelings, and to make one with us. I scanned his
physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet was
beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his
eyes was soft, though at times he could make them even
glare with ferocity; his complexion was colourless; and
every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was
pleasing, though disdain too often curled his
lips--lips which to female eyes were the very throne of
beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, often
startled you by a sharp discordant note, which shewed
that his usual low tone was rather the work of study
than nature. Thus full of contradictions, unbending yet
haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again
neglectful, he by some strange art found easy entrance
to the admiration and affection of women; now caressing
and now tyrannizing over them according to his mood,
but in every change a despot.
At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear
amiable. Wit, hilarity, and deep observation were
mingled in his talk, rendering every sentence that he
uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered my
latent distaste; I endeavoured to watch him and
Perdita, and to keep in mind every thing I had heard to
his disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous, and
all was so fascinating, that I forgot everything except
the pleasure his society afforded me. Under the idea of
initiating me in the scene of English politics and
society, of which I was soon to become a part, he
narrated a number of anecdotes, and sketched many
characters; his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on,
pervading all my senses with pleasure. But for one
thing he would have been completely triumphant. He
alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with that
disparagement that the worldly wise always attach to
enthusiasm. He perceived the cloud gathering, and tried
to dissipate it; but the strength of my feelings would
not permit me to pass thus lightly over this sacred
subject; so I said emphatically, "Permit me to remark,
that I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor; he
is my best friend and benefactor. I reverence his
goodness, I accord with his opinions, and bitterly
lament his present, and I trust temporary, illness.
That illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to
me beyond words to hear him mentioned, unless in terms
of respect and affection."
Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in
his reply. I saw that in his heart he despised those
dedicated to any but worldly idols. "Every man," he
said, "dreams about something, love, honour, and
pleasure; you dream of friendship, and devote yourself
to a maniac; well, if that be your vocation, doubtless
you are in the right to follow it."--
Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of
pain that for a moment convulsed his countenance,
checked my indignation. "Happy are dreamers," he
continued, "so that they be not awakened! Would I could
dream! but 'broad and garish day' is the element in
which I live; the dazzling glare of reality inverts the
scene for me. Even the ghost of friendship has
departed, and love"---- He broke off; nor could I guess
whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed
against the passion, or against himself for being its
slave.
This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse
with Lord Raymond. I became intimate with him, and each
day afforded me occasion to admire more and more his
powerful and versatile talents, that together with his
eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his wealth
now immense, caused him to be feared, loved, and hated
beyond any other man in England.
My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my
former connection with Adrian, the favour of the
ambassador, whose secretary I had been, and now my
intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to the
fashionable and political circles of England. To my
inexperience we at first appeared on the eve of a civil
war; each party was violent, acrimonious, and
unyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions,
aristocrats, democrats, and royalists. After Adrian's
declared predeliction to the republican form of
government, the latter party had nearly died away,
chiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came
forward as its leader, it revived with redoubled force.
Some were royalists from prejudice and ancient
affection, and there were many moderately inclined who
feared alike the capricious tyranny of the popular
party, and the unbending despotism of the
aristocrats. More than a third of the members ranged
themselves under Raymond, and their number was
perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built their
hopes on their preponderant wealth and influence; the
reformers on the force of the nation itself; the
debates were violent, more violent the discourses held
by each knot of politicians as they assembled to
arrange their measures. Opprobrious epithets were
bandied about, resistance even to the death threatened;
meetings of the populace disturbed the quiet order of
the country; except in war, how could all this end?
Even as the destructive flames were ready to break
forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed by the absence
of the military, by the aversion entertained by every
one to any violence, save that of speech, and by the
cordial politeness and even friendship of the hostile
leaders when they met in private society. I was from a
thousand motives induced to attend minutely to the
course of events, and watch each turn with intense
anxiety.
I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond;
methought also that he regarded the fair daughter of
Verney with admiration and tenderness. Yet I knew that
he was urging forward his marriage with the presumptive
heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen
expectation of the advantages that would thence accrue
to him. All the ex-queen's friends were his friends; no
week passed that he did not hold consultations with her
at Windsor.
I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that
she was lovely, amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore
should I see her? There are times when we have an
indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or
for worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for
better or for worse, we fear the change, and shun the
event. For this reason I avoided this high-born damsel.
To me she was everything and nothing; her very name
mentioned by another made me start and tremble; the
endless discussion concerning her union with Lord
Raymond was real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian
withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a
victim probably to her mother's ambitious schemes, I
ought to come forward to protect her from undue
influence, guard her from unhappiness, and secure to
her freedom of choice, the right of every human being.
Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my
interference. Since then I must be an object of
indifference or contempt to her, better, far better
avoid her, nor expose myself before her and the
scornful world to the chance of playing the mad game of
a fond, foolish Icarus.
One day, several months after my return to England, I
quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my
chief solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at
the expectation of seeing her. Her conversation was
full of pointed remark and discernment; in her pleasant
alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by
magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the
finest pictures of Raphael, Correggio, and Claude,
painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy retreat
untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions
of politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor could I
fail to recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till
now unseen object of my mad idolatry.
In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what
choice expression and soft flow of language, can I
usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in poor
assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that
surrounded her, the thousand graces that waited
unwearied on her. The first thing that struck you on
beholding that charming countenance was its perfect
goodness and frankness; candour sat upon her brow,
simplicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her
smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar
to the breezy west, and her gait,goddess-like, was as
that of a winged angel new alit from heaven's high
floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion was
stained by a pure suffusion; her voice resembled the
low, subdued tenor of a flute. It is easiest perhaps to
describe by contrast. I have detailed the perfections
of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.
Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid;
Idris was frank and confiding. The one recoiled to
solitude, that she might there entrench herself from
disappointment and injury; the other walked forth in
open day, believing that none would harm her.
Wordsworth has compared a beloved female to two fair
objects in nature; but his lines always appeared to me
rather a contrast than a similitude:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust
herself to the very air, cowering from observation, yet
betrayed by her excellences; and repaying with a
thousand graces the labour of those who sought her in
her lonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in
single splendour in the dim anadem of balmy evening;
ready to enlighten and delight the subject world,
shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined
distance from all that was not like herself akin to
heaven.
I found this vision of beauty in Perdita's alcove, in
earnest conversation with its inmate. When my sister
saw me, she rose, and taking my hand, said, "He is
here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my brother."
Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial
blue, and with grace peculiar said--"You hardly need an
introduction; we have a picture, highly valued by my
father, which declares at once your name. Verney, you
will acknowledge this tie, and as my brother's friend,
I feel that I may trust you."
Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice,
she continued--"Dear friends, do not think it strange
that now, visiting you for the first time, I ask your
assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to you. To
you alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended
by impartial spectators; you are my brother's friends,
therefore you must be mine. What can I say? if you
refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!" She cast up her
eyes, while wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if
carried away by her feelings, she cried--"My brother!
beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your
misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard the current
tale; perhaps believe the slander; but he is not mad!
Were an angel from the foot of God's throne to assert
it, never, never would I believe it. He is wronged,
betrayed, imprisoned--save him! Verney, you must do
this; seek him out in whatever part of the island he is
immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors,
restore him to himself, to me--on the wide earth I have
none to love but only him!"
Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately
expressed, filled me with wonder and sympathy; and,
when she added, with thrilling voice and look, "Do you
consent to undertake this enterprize?" I vowed, with
energy and truth, to devote myself in life and death to
the restoration and welfare of Adrian. We then
conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed
the probable means of discovering his residence. While
we were in earnest discourse, Lord Raymond entered
unannounced: I saw Perdita tremble and grow deadly
pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes.
He must have been astonished at our conclave, disturbed
by it I should have thought; but nothing of this
appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me
with a cordial greeting. Idris appeared suspended for a
moment, and then with extreme sweetness, she said,
"Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and honour."
Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with
emphasis, "Do you indeed confide, Lady Idris?"
She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered
with dignity, "As you please. It is certainly best not
to compromise oneself by any concealment."
"Pardon me," he replied, "if I have offended. Whether
you trust me or not, rely on my doing my utmost to
further your wishes, whatever they may be."
Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord
Raymond requested permission to accompany her to
Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and they
quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were
left--truly like two fools, who fancied that they had
obtained a golden treasure, till daylight shewed it to
be lead--two silly, luckless flies, who had played in
sunbeams and were caught in a spider's web. I leaned
against the casement, and watched those two glorious
creatures, till they disappeared in the forest-glades;
and then I turned. Perdita had not moved; her eyes
fixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips
white, motionless and rigid, every feature stamped by
woe, she sat. Half frightened, I would have taken her
hand; but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to
collect herself. I entreated her to speak to me: "Not
now," she replied, "nor do you speak to me, my dear
Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know
nothing. I will see you to-morrow; in the meantime,
adieu!" She rose, and walked from the room; but pausing
at the door, and leaning against it, as if her
over-busy thoughts had taken from her the power of
supporting herself, she said, "Lord Raymond will
probably return. Will you tell him that he must excuse
me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow
if he wishes it, and you also. You had better return to
London with him; you can there make the enquiries
agreed upon, concerning the Earl of Windsor and visit
me again to-morrow, before you proceed on your
journey--till then, farewell!"
She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh.
I gave my assent to her request; and she left me. I
felt as if, from the order of the systematic world, I
had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary,
unintelligible. That Raymond should marry Idris was
more than ever intolerable; yet my passion, though a
giant from its birth, was too strange, wild, and
impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery I
perceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not
confided in me; I could not demand an explanation from
Raymond without the hazard of betraying what was
perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain the
truth from her the following day--in the mean
time--But, while I was occupied by multiplying
reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked for my
sister; and I delivered her message. After musing on it
for a moment, he asked me if I were about to return to
London, and if I would accompany him: I consented. He
was full of thought, and remained silent during a
considerable part of our ride; at length he said, "I
must apologize to you for my abstraction; the truth is,
Ryland's motion comes on to-night, and I am considering
my reply."
Ryland was the leader of the popular party, a
hard-headed man, and in his way eloquent; he had
obtained leave to bring in a bill making it treason to
endeavour to change the present state of the English
government and the standing laws of the republic. This
attack was directed against Raymond and his
machinations for the restoration of the monarchy.
Raymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House
that evening. I remembered my pursuit for intelligence
concerning Adrian; and, knowing that my time would be
fully occupied, I excused myself. "Nay," said my
companion, "I can free you from your present
impediment. You are going to make enquiries
concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at
once, he is at the Duke of Athol's seat at Dunkeld. On
the first approach of his disorder, he travelled about
from one place to another; until, arriving at that
romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and we made
arrangements with the Duke for his continuing there."
I was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed
this information, and replied coldly: "I am obliged to
you for your intelligence, and will avail myself of
it."
"You shall, Verney," said he, "and if you continue of
the same mind, I will facilitate your views. But first
witness, I beseech you, the result of this night's
contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if I
may so call it, while I fear that victory is to me
defeat. What can I do? My dearest hopes appear to be
near their fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris;
Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom,
and that earldom in my hands becomes a kingdom. By the
reigning God it is true; the paltry earldom of Windsor
shall no longer content him, who will inherit the
rights which must for ever appertain to the person who
possesses it. The Countess can never forget that she
has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a
diminished inheritance to her children; her power and
my wit will rebuild the throne, and this brow will be
clasped by a kingly diadem.--I can do this--I can marry
Idris."---
He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its
expression changed again and again under the influence
of internal passion. I asked, "Does Lady Idris love
you?"
"What a question," replied he laughing. "She will of
course, as I shall her, when we are married."
"You begin late," said I, ironically, "marriage is
usually considered the grave, and not the cradle of
love. So you are about to love her, but do not
already?"
"Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her,
be assured. Love! I must steel my heart against
that; expel it from its tower of strength,
barricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to
play, its waters be dried up, and all passionate
thoughts attendant on it die--that is to say, the love
which would rule me, not that which I rule. Idris is a
gentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible not
to have an affection for her, and I have a very sincere
one; only do not speak of love--love, the tyrant and
the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror, now
my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable beast, the
fanged snake---no--no--I will have nothing to do with
that love. Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I
should marry this young lady?"
He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable
heart swelled in my bosom. I replied in a calm
voice--but how far from calm was the thought imaged by
my still words--"Never! I can never consent that Lady
Idris should be united to one who does not love her."
"Because you love her yourself."
"Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not,
dare not love her. "
"At least," he continued haughtily, "she does not love
you. I would not marry a reigning sovereign, were I not
sure that her heart was free. But, O, Lionel! a kingdom
is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms
that compose the style of royalty. Were not the
mightiest men of the olden times kings? Alexander was a
king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king; Napoleon
was a king; Caesar died in his attempt to become one,
and Cromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to
regality. The father of Adrian yielded up the already
broken sceptre of England; but I will rear the fallen
plant, join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above
all the flowers of the field.
"You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian's
abode. Do not suppose that I am wicked or foolish
enough to found my purposed sovereignty on a fraud, and
one so easily discovered as the truth or falsehood of
the Earl's insanity. I am just come from him. Before I
decided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to see
him myself again, and to judge of the probability of
his recovery.--He is irrecoverably mad."
I gasped for breath--
"I will not detail to you," continued Raymond, "the
melancholy particulars. You shall see him, and judge
for yourself; although I fear this visit, useless to
him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has
weighed on my spirits ever since. Excellent and gentle
as he is even in the downfall of his reason, I do not
worship him as you do, but I would give all my hopes of
a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him restored
to himself."
His voice expressed the deepest compassion: "Thou most
unaccountable being," I cried, "whither will thy
actions tend, in all this maze of purpose in which thou
seemest lost?"
"Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown,
I hope; and yet I dare not trust and though I dream of
a crown and wake for one, ever and anon a busy devil
whispers to me, that it is but a fool's cap that I
seek, and that were I wise, I should trample on it, and
take in its stead, that which is worth all the crowns
of the east and presidentships of the west."
"And what is that?"
"If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at
present I dare not speak, even think of it."
Again he was silent, and after a pause turned to me
laughingly. When scorn did not inspire his mirth, when
it was genuine gaiety that painted his features with a
joyous expression, his beauty became super-eminent,
divine. "Verney," said he, "my first act when I become
King of England, will be to unite with the Greeks, take
Constantinople, and subdue all Asia. I intend to be a
warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon's name shall vail to
mine; and enthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky
grave, and exalting the merits of the fallen, shall
adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious
achievements."
I listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be
other than all ear, to one who seemed to govern the
whole earth in his grasping imagination, and who only
quailed when he attempted to rule himself. Then on his
word and will depended my own happiness--the fate of
all dear to me. I endeavoured to divine the concealed
meaning of his words. Perdita's name was not mentioned;
yet I could not doubt that love for her caused the
vacillation of purpose that he exhibited. And who was
so worthy of love as my noble-minded sister? Who
deserved the hand of this self-exalted king more than
she whose glance belonged to a queen of nations? who
loved him, as he did her; notwithstanding that
disappointment quelled her passion, and ambition held
strong combat with his.
We went together to the House in the evening. Raymond,
while he knew that his plans and prospects were to be
discussed and decided during the expected debate, was
gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten thousand
hives of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the
coffee-room. Knots of politicians were assembled with
anxious brows and loud or deep voices. The
aristocratical party, the richest and most influential
men in England, appeared less agitated than the others,
for the question was to be discussed without their
interference. Near the fire was Ryland and his
supporters. Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of
immense wealth, inherited from his father, who had been
a manufacturer. He had witnessed, when a young man, the
abdication of the king, and the amalgamation of the two
houses of Lords and Commons; he had sympathized with
these popular encroachments, and it had been the
business of his life to consolidate and encrease them.
Since then, the influence of the landed proprietors had
augmented; and at first Ryland was not sorry to observe
the machinations of Lord Raymond, which drew off many
of his opponent's partizans. But the thing was now
going too far. The poorer nobility hailed the return of
sovereignty, as an event which would restore them to
their power and rights, now lost. The half extinct
spirit of royalty roused itself in the minds of men;
and they, willing slaves, self-constituted
subjects, were ready to bend their necks to the yoke.
Some erect and manly spirits still remained, pillars of
state; but the word republic had grown stale to the
vulgar ear; and many--the event would prove whether it
was a majority--pined for the tinsel and show of
royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance; he asserted
that his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of
this party; but the time for indulgence was passed, and
with one motion of his arm he would sweep away the
cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.
When Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was
hailed by his friends almost with a shout. They
gathered round him, counted their numbers, and detailed
the reasons why they were now to receive an addition of
such and such members, who had not yet declared
themselves. Some trifling business of the House having
been gone through, the leaders took their seats in the
chamber; the clamour of voices continued, till Ryland
arose to speak, and then the slightest whispered
observation was audible. All eyes were fixed upon him
as he stood--ponderous of frame, sonorous of voice, and
with a manner which, though not graceful, was
impressive. I turned from his marked, iron countenance
to Raymond, whose face, veiled by a smile, would not
betray his care; yet his lips quivered somewhat, and
his hand clasped the bench on which he sat, with a
convulsive strength that made the muscles start again.
Ryland began by praising the present state of the
British empire. He recalled past years to their memory;
the miserable contentions which in the time of our
fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of
the late king, and the foundation of the republic. He
described this republic; shewed how it gave privilege
to each individual in the state, to rise to
consequence, and even to temporary sovereignty. He
compared the royal and republican spirit; shewed how
the one tended to enslave the minds of men; while all
the institutions of the other served to raise even the
meanest among us to something great and good. He shewed
how England had become powerful, and its inhabitants
valiant and wise, by means of the freedom they enjoyed.
As he spoke, every heart swelled with pride, and every
cheek glowed with delight to remember, that each one
there was English, and that each supported and
contributed to the happy state of things now
commemorated. Ryland's fervour increased--his eyes
lighted up--his voice assumed the tone of passion.
There was one man, he continued, who wished to alter
all this, and bring us back to our days of impotence
and contention: --one man, who would dare arrogate the
honour which was due to all who claimed England as
their birthplace, and set his name and style above the
name and style of his country. I saw at this juncture
that Raymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn
from the orator, and cast on the ground; the listeners
turned from one to the other; but in the meantime the
speaker's voice filled their ears--the thunder of his
denunciations influenced their senses. The very
boldness of his language gave him weight; each knew
that he spoke truth--a truth known, but not
acknowledged. He tore from reality the mask with which
she had been clothed; and the purposes of Raymond,
which before had crept around, ensnaring by stealth,
now stood a hunted stag--even at bay--as all perceived
who watched the irrepressible changes of his
countenance. Ryland ended by moving, that any attempt
to re-erect the kingly power should be declared
treason, and he a traitor who should endeavour to
change the present form of government. Cheers and loud
acclamations followed the close of his speech.
After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond
rose,--his countenance bland, his voice softly
melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and sweetness
came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the
loud, organ-like voice of his adversary. He rose, he
said, to speak in favour of the honourable member's
motion, with one slight amendment subjoined. He was
ready to go back to old times, and commemorate the
contests of our fathers, and the monarch's abdication.
Nobly and greatly, he said, had the illustrious and
last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the
apparent good of his country, and divested himself of a
power which could only be maintained by the blood of
his subjects--these subjects named so no more, these,
his friends and equals, had in gratitude conferred
certain favours and distinctions on him and his family
for ever. An ample estate was allotted to them, and
they took the first rank among the peers of Great
Britain. Yet it might be conjectured that they had not
forgotten their ancient heritage; and it was hard that
his heir should suffer alike with any other pretender,
if he attempted to regain what by ancient right and
inheritance belonged to him. He did not say that he
should favour such an attempt; but he did say that such
an attempt would be venial; and, if the aspirant did
not go so far as to declare war, and erect a standard
in the kingdom, his fault ought to be regarded with an
indulgent eye. In his amendment he proposed, that an
exception should be made in the bill in favour of any
person who claimed the sovereign power in right of the
earls of Windsor.
Nor did Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid
and glowing colours, the splendour of a kingdom, in
opposition to the commercial spirit of republicanism.
He asserted, that each individual under the English
monarchy, was then as now, capable of attaining high
rank and power--with one only exception, that of the
function of chief magistrate; higher and nobler rank,
than a bartering, timorous commonwealth could afford.
And for this one exception, to what did it amount? The
nature of riches and influence forcibly confined the
list of candidates to a few of the wealthiest; and it
was much to be feared, that the ill-humour and
contention generated by this triennial struggle, would
counterbalance its advantages in impartial eyes. I can
ill record the flow of language and graceful turns of
expression, the wit and easy raillery that gave vigour
and influence to his speech. His manner, timid at
first, became firm--his changeful face was lit up to
superhuman brilliancy; his voice, various as music, was
like that enchanting.
It were useless to record the debate that followed this
harangue. Party speeches were delivered, which clothed
the question in cant, and veiled its simple meaning in
a woven wind of words. The motion was lost; Ryland
withdrew in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and
exulting, retired to dream of his future kingdom.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IV[a].
IS there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if
there be, in what does its nature differ from love
founded in long observation and slow growth? Perhaps
its effects are not so permanent; but they are, while
they last, as violent and intense. We walk the pathless
mazes of society, vacant of joy, till we hold this
clue, leading us through that labyrinth to paradise.
Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch, sleeps in
formless blank till the fire attain it; this life of
life, this light to moon, and glory to the sun. What
does it matter, whether the fire be struck from flint
and steel, nourished with care into a flame, slowly
communicated to the dark wick, or whether swiftly the
radiant power of light and warmth passes from a kindred
power, and shines at once the beacon and the hope. In
the deepest fountain of my heart the pulses were
stirred; around, above, beneath, the clinging Memory as
a cloak enwrapt me. In no one moment of coming time did
I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit of
Idris hovered in the air I breathed; her eyes were ever
and for ever bent on mine; her remembered smile blinded
my faint gaze, and caused me to walk as one, not in
eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy--but in a new and
brilliant light, too novel, too dazzling for my human
senses. On every leaf, on every small division of the
universe, (as on the hyacinth ai is engraved)
was imprinted the talisman of my existence--SHE LIVES!
SHE IS!--I had not time yet to analyze my feeling, to
take myself to task, and leash in the tameless passion;
all was one idea, one feeling, one knowledge--it was my
life!
But the die was cast--Raymond would marry Idris. The
merry marriage bells rung in my ears; I heard the
nation's gratulation which followed the union; the
ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from
the lowly ground to regal supremacy--and to the love of
Idris. Yet, not so! She did not love him; she had
called me her friend; she had smiled on me; to me she
had entrusted her heart's dearest hope, the welfare of
Adrian. This reflection thawed my congealing blood, and
again the tide of life and love flowed impetuously
onward, again to ebb as my busy thoughts changed.
The debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul
was in tumults; I traversed the streets with eager
rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night--love--which I
have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with
despair! My heart, the field of combat, was wounded by
the iron heel of the one, watered by the gushing tears
of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned; I retreated
to my lodgings--I threw myself on a couch--I slept--was
it sleep?--for thought was still alive--love and
despair struggled still, and I writhed with unendurable
pain.
I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on
me, but knew not wherefore; I entered, as it were, the
council-chamber of my brain, and questioned the various
ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon I
remembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the
tormenting power; soon, too soon, I knew myself a
slave!
Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my
apartment. He came in gaily, singing the Tyrolese song
of liberty; noticed me with a gracious nod, and threw
himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the
Apollo Belvidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to
which I sullenly replied, he suddenly cried, looking at
the bust, "I am called like that victor! Not a bad
idea; the head will serve for my new coinage, and be an
omen to all dutiful subjects of my future success."
He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner,
and smiled, not disdainfully, but in playful mockery of
himself. Then his countenance suddenly darkened, and in
that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he cried, "I
fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the
plains of Greece never saw me achieve. Now I am the
first man in the state, burthen of every ballad, and
object of old women's mumbled devotions. What are your
meditations? You, who fancy that you can read the human
soul, as your native lake reads each crevice and
folding of its surrounding hills--say what you think of
me; king-expectant, angel or devil, which?"
This ironical tone was discord to my bursting,
over-boiling-heart; I was nettled by his insolence, and
replied with bitterness; "There is a spirit, neither
angel or devil, damned to limbo merely." I saw his
cheeks become pale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his
anger served but to enkindle mine, and I answered with
a determined look his eyes which glared on me; suddenly
they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I thought,
wetted the dark lashes; I was softened, and with
involuntary emotion added, "Not that you are such, my
dear lord."
I paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; "Yes,"
he said at length, rising and biting his lip, as he
strove to curb his passion; "Such am I! You do not know
me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience of last
night, nor does universal England know aught of me. I
stand here, it would seem, an elected king; this hand
is about to grasp a sceptre; these brows feel in each
nerve the coming diadem. I appear to have strength,
power, victory; standing as a dome-supporting column
stands; and I am--a reed! I have ambition, and that
attains its aim; my nightly dreams are realized, my
waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my
acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But here," and
he struck his heart with violence, "here is the rebel,
here the stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which
I may drain of its living blood; but, while one
fluttering pulsation remains, I am its slave."
He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and,
hiding his face in his hands, wept. I was still
smarting from my own disappointment; yet this scene
oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his
access of passion. It subsided at length; and, throwing
himself on the couch, he remained silent and
motionless, except that his changeful features shewed a
strong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said in
his usual tone of voice, "The time grows on us, Verney,
I must away. Let me not forget my chiefest errand here.
Will you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow? You will
not be dishonoured by my society, and as this is
probably the last service, or disservice you can do me,
will you grant my request?"
He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly
I thought--Yes, I will witness the last scene of the
drama. Beside which, his mien conquered me, and an
affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled my
heart--I bade him command me. "Aye, that I will," said
he gaily, "that's my cue now; be with me to-morrow
morning by seven; be secret and faithful; and you shall
be groom of the stole ere long."
So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and
with a gesture as if he gave me his hand to kiss, bade
me another laughing adieu. Left to myself, I strove
with painful intensity to divine the motive of his
request and foresee the events of the coming day. The
hours passed on unperceived; my head ached with
thought, the nerves seemed teeming with the over full
fraught--I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered
hand could medicine its pain.
I was punctual to the appointed hour on the following
day, and found Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into
his carriage, and proceeded towards Windsor. I had
tutored myself, and was resolved by no outward sign to
disclose my internal agitation.
"What a mistake Ryland made," said Raymond, "when he
thought to overpower me the other night. He spoke well,
very well; such an harangue would have succeeded better
addressed to me singly, than to the fools and knaves
assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have
listened to him with a wish to hear reason, but when he
endeavoured to vanquish me in my own territory, with my
own weapons, he put me on my mettle, and the event was
such as all might have expected."
I smiled incredulously, and replied: "I am of Ryland's
way of thinking, and will, if you please, repeat all
his arguments; we shall see how far you will be induced
by them, to change the royal for the patriotic style."
"The repetition would be useless," said Raymond, "since
I well remember them, and have many others,
self-suggested, which speak with unanswerable
persuasion."
He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark
on his reply. Our silence endured for some miles, till
the country with open fields, or shady woods and parks,
presented pleasant objects to our view. After some
observations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said:
"Philosophers have called man a microcosm of nature,
and find a reflection in the internal mind for all this
machinery visibly at work around us. This theory has
often been a source of amusement to me; and many an
idle hour have I spent, exercising my ingenuity in
finding resemblances. Does not Lord Bacon say that,
'the falling from a discord to a concord, which maketh
great sweetness in music, hath an agreement with the
affections, which are re-integrated to the better after
some dislikes?' What a sea is the tide of passion,
whose fountains are in our own nature! Our virtues are
the quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm and low
water; but let the waves arise and the winds buffet
them, and the poor devil whose hope was in their
durability, finds them sink from under him. The
fashions of the world, its exigencies, educations and
pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like clouds all
one way; but let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of
love, hate, or ambition, and the rack goes backward,
stemming the opposing air in triumph."
"Yet," replied I, "nature always presents to our eyes
the appearance of a patient: while there is an active
principle in man which is capable of ruling fortune,
and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in
some mode conquers it."
"There is more of what is specious than true in your
distinction," said my companion. "Did we form
ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and our powers? I
find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with
chords and stops--but I have no power to turn the pegs,
or pitch my thoughts to a higher or lower key."
"Other men," I observed, "may be better musicians."
"I talk not of others, but myself," replied Raymond,
"and I am as fair an example to go by as another. I
cannot set my heart to a particular tune, or run
voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose
neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated
by others, or by the world's circumstance, and this
cultivation, mingling with our innate disposition, is
the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives
grow."
"There is much truth in what you say," said I, "and yet
no man ever acts upon this theory. Who, when he makes a
choice, says, Thus I choose, because I am necessitated?
Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will
within him, which, though you may call it fallacious,
still actuates him as he decides?"
"Exactly so," replied Raymond, "another link of the
breakless chain. Were I now to commit an act which
would annihilate my hopes, and pluck the regal garment
from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary weeds,
would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my
part?"
As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going
the ordinary road to Windsor, but through Englefield
Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I began to divine that
Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was
brought to witness the scene that was to decide the
fate of Raymond--and of Perdita. Raymond had evidently
vacillated during his journey, and irresolution was
marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita's
cottage. I watched him curiously, determined that, if
this hesitation should continue, I would assist Perdita
to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the
wavering love of him, who balanced between the
possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence and
affection transcended the worth of a kingdom.
We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was
reading the newspaper report of the debate in
parliament, that apparently doomed her to hopelessness.
That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes
and spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and
frequent sighs were tokens of her distress. This sight
had an instantaneous effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed
with tenderness, and remorse clothed his manners with
earnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking
the paper from her hand, said, "Not a word more shall
my sweet Perdita read of this contention of madmen and
fools. I must not permit you to be acquainted with the
extent of my delusion, lest you despise me; although,
believe me, a wish to appear before you, not
vanquished, but as a conqueror, inspired me during my
wordy war."
Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive
countenance shone for a moment with tenderness; to see
him only was happiness. But a bitter thought swiftly
shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground,
endeavouring to master the passion of tears that
threatened to overwhelm her. Raymond continued, "I will
not act a part with you, dear girl, or appear other
than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite
your disdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel
and know that you do, and thence I draw my most
cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even reason,
you might well reject me. Do so; if your high heart,
incapable of my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend
to the lowness of mine. Turn from me, if you will,--if
you can. If your whole soul does not urge you to
forgive me--if your entire heart does not open wide its
door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me, never
speak to me again. I, though sinning against you almost
beyond remission, I also am proud; there must be no
reserve in your pardon--no drawback to the gift of your
affection."
Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence
embarrassed her; so that she dared not turn to meet her
lover's eye, or trust her voice to assure him of her
affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her
disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of
deep-felt joy. Raymond encircled her waist with his
arm, and continued, "I do not deny that I have balanced
between you and the highest hope that mortal men can
entertain; but I do so no longer. Take me--mould me to
your will, possess my heart and soul to all eternity.
If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I quit
England to-night, and will never set foot in it again.
"Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister
to forgive the injury I have done her; persuade her to
be mine."
"There needs no persuasion," said the blushing Perdita,
"except your own dear promises, and my ready heart,
which whispers to me that they are true."
That same evening we all three walked together in the
forest, and, with the garrulity which happiness
inspires, they detailed to me the history of their
loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and
reserved Perdita changed through happy love into
prattling, playful children, both losing their
characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual
contentment. A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a
brow of care, and a heart oppressed with thought, bent
all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators
of England that a sceptre was not too weighty for his
hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph
floated before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy
sporting under his mother's approving eye, the hopes of
his ambition were complete, when he pressed the small
fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant
with delight, looked on the still pool, not truly
admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the
reflection there made of the form of herself and her
lover, shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.
I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured
sympathy was theirs, I enjoyed that of restored hope. I
looked on the regal towers of Windsor. High is the wall
and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of
Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few
more years dwell in thy native garden, sweet flower,
till I by toil and time acquire a right to gather thee.
Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now?
First I must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.
Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall
recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is
mad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be
unjustly imprisoned.
After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in
the alcove. Truly it was a fairy's supper; for though
the air was perfumed by the scent of fruits and wine,
we none of us either ate or drank--even the beauty of
the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be
increased by outward objects, and I was wrapt in
reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took leave of
my sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps
of songs fell from his lips; every thought of his
mind--every object about us, gleamed under the sunshine
of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of
ill-humour and envy.
"Not so," said I, "though I confess that my thoughts
are not occupied as pleasantly as yours are. You
promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I conjure
you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I
long to soothe--perhaps to cure the malady of my first
and best friend. I shall immediately depart for
Dunkeld."
"Thou bird of night," replied Raymond, "what an eclipse
do you throw across my bright thoughts, forcing me to
call to mind that melancholy ruin, which stands in
mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of
a carved column in a weed-grown field. You dream that
you can restore him? Daedalus never wound so
inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has
woven about his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any
other Theseus, can thread the labyrinth, to which
perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue."
"You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in
England."
"And were she," said Raymond, "I would not advise her
seeing him. Better to decay in absolute delirium, than
to be the victim of the methodical unreason of
ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his malady has
probably erased from his mind all vestige of her; and
it were well that it should never again be imprinted.
You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and tractable he
wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits
listening beside the waterfall. You may see him--his
hair stuck with wild flowers--his eyes full of
untraceable meaning--his voice broken--his person
wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and
weaves chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and
bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their safety,
or weeping at their wreck. The very memory half unmans
me. By Heaven! the first tears I have shed since
boyhood rushed scalding into my eyes when I saw him."
It needed not this last account to spur me on to visit
him. I only doubted whether or not I should endeavour
to see Idris again, before I departed. This doubt was
decided on the following day. Early in the morning
Raymond came to me; intelligence had arrived that
Adrian was dangerously ill, and it appeared
impossible that his failing strength should surmount
the disorder. "To-morrow," said Raymond, "his mother
and sister set out for Scotland to see him once again."
"And I go to-day," I cried; "this very hour I will
engage a sailing balloon; I shall be there in
forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in less, if the
wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having
chosen the better part in life. This turn of fortune
revives me. I feared madness, not sickness--I have a
presentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps this
illness is a crisis, and he may recover."
Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about
half a mile from the earth, and with a favourable wind
it hurried through the air, its feathered vans cleaving
the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the
melancholy object of my journey, my spirits were
exhilarated by reviving hope, by the swift motion of
the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny
air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and
the slender mechanism of the wings, wide unfurled, gave
forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the sense. Plain
and hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible
below, while we unimpeded sped on swift and secure, as
a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The machine
obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind
blowing steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our
course. Such was the power of man over the elements; a
power long sought, and lately won; yet foretold in
by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I
quoted much to the astonishment of my pilot, when I
told him how many hundred years ago they had been
written:--
Oh! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill,
Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,
An heavy man like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty heavens find a way?
I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a
constant exposure to the air for many hours, I would
not rest, but merely altering my mode of conveyance, I
went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was
rising as I entered the opening of the hills. After the
revolution of ages Birnam hill was again covered with a
young forest, while more aged pines, planted at the
very commencement of the nineteenth century by the then
Duke of Athol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene.
The rising sun first tinged the pine tops; and my mind,
rendered through my mountain education deeply
susceptible of the graces of nature, and now on the eve
of again beholding my beloved and perhaps dying friend,
was strangely influenced by the sight of those distant
beams: surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded
them, good omens for Adrian, on whose life my happiness
depended.
Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his
cheeks glowing with the hues of fever, his eyes half
closed, his breath irregular and difficult. Yet it was
less painful to see him thus, than to find him
fulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his
mind sick the while. I established myself at his
bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter task
was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and
life: to see his warm cheek, and know that the very
fire which burned too fiercely there, was consuming the
vital fuel; to hear his moaning voice, which might
never again articulate words of love and wisdom; to
witness the ineffectual motions of his limbs, soon to
be wrapt in their mortal shroud. Such for three days
and nights appeared the consummation which fate had
decreed for my labours, and I became haggard and
spectre-like, through anxiety and watching. At length
his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a look of returning
life; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his
features was softened by approaching convalescence. He
knew me. What a brimful cup of joyful agony it was,
when his face first gleamed with the glance of
recognition--when he pressed my hand, now more fevered
than his own, and when he pronounced my name! No trace
of his past insanity remained, to dash my joy with
sorrow.
This same evening his mother and sister arrived. The
Countess of Windsor was by nature full of energetic
feeling; but she had very seldom in her life permitted
the concentrated emotions of her heart to shew
themselves on her features. The studied
immovability of her countenance; her slow, equable
manner, and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask,
hiding her fiery passions, and the impatience of her
disposition. She did not in the least resemble either
of her children; her black and sparkling eye, lit up by
pride, was totally unlike the blue lustre, and frank,
benignant expression of either Adrian or Idris. There
was something grand and majestic in her motions, but
nothing persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall, thin, and
strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair hardly
tinged with grey, her forehead arched and beautiful,
had not the eye-brows been somewhat scattered--it was
impossible not to be struck by her, almost to fear her.
Idris appeared to be the only being who could resist
her mother, notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her
character. But there was a fearlessness and frankness
about her, which said that she would not encroach on
another's liberty, but held her own sacred and
unassailable.
The Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out
frame, though afterwards she thanked me coldly for my
attentions. Not so Idris; her first glance was for her
brother; she took his hand, she kissed his eye-lids,
and hung over him with looks of compassion and love.
Her eyes glistened with tears when she thanked me, and
the grace of her expressions was enhanced, not
diminished, by the fervour, which caused her almost to
falter as she spoke. Her mother, all eyes and ears,
soon interrupted us; and I saw, that she wished to
dismiss me quietly, as one whose services, now that his
relatives had arrived, were of no use to her son. I was
harassed and ill, resolved not to give up my post, yet
doubting in what way I should assert it; when Adrian
called me, and clasping my hand, bade me not leave him.
His mother, apparently inattentive, at once understood
what was meant, and seeing the hold we had upon her,
yielded the point to us.
The days that followed were full of pain to me; so that
I sometimes regretted that I had not yielded at once to
the haughty lady, who watched all my motions, and
turned my beloved task of nursing my friend to a work
of pain and irritation. Never did any woman appear so
entirely made of mind, as the Countess of
Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appetites, even
her natural wants; she slept little, and hardly ate at
all; her body was evidently considered by her as a mere
machine, whose health was necessary for the
accomplishment of her schemes, but whose senses formed
no part of her enjoyment. There is something fearful in
one who can thus conquer the animal part of our nature,
if the victory be not the effect of consummate virtue;
nor was it without a mixture of this feeling, that I
beheld the figure of the Countess awake when others
slept, fasting when I, abstemious naturally, and
rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was forced
to recruit myself with food. She resolved to prevent or
diminish my opportunities of acquiring influence over
her children, and circumvented my plans by a hard,
quiet, stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong
to flesh and blood. War was at last tacitly
acknowledged between us. We had many pitched battles,
during which no word was spoken, hardly a look was
interchanged, but in which each resolved not to submit
to the other. The Countess had the advantage of
position; so I was vanquished, though I would not
yield.
I became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with
the hues of ill health and vexation. Adrian and Idris
saw this; they attributed it to my long watching and
anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of
myself, while I most truly assured them, that my best
medicine was their good wishes; those, and the assured
convalescence of my friend, now daily more apparent.
The faint rose again blushed on his cheek; his brow and
lips lost the ashy paleness of threatened dissolution;
such was the dear reward of my unremitting
attention--and bounteous heaven added
overflowing recompence, when it gave me also the thanks
and smiles of Idris.
After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris
and her mother returned immediately to Windsor, while
Adrian and I followed by slow journies and frequent
stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness. As we
traversed the various counties of fertile England, all
wore an exhilarating appearance to my companion, who
had been so long secluded by disease from the
enjoyments of weather and scenery. We passed through
busy towns and cultivated plains. The husbandmen were
getting in their plenteous harvests, and the women and
children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed
groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very sight of
whom carried cheerfulness to the heart. One
evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down a shady
lane, then up a grassy slope, till we came to an
eminence, that commanded an extensive view of hill and
dale, meandering rivers, dark woods, and shining
villages. The sun was setting; and the clouds,
straying, like new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields
of sky, received the golden colour of his parting
beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy hum
of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear.
Adrian, who felt all the fresh spirit infused by
returning health, clasped his hands in delight, and
exclaimed with transport:
"O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A
stately palace has God built for you, O man! and worthy
are you of your dwelling! Behold the verdant carpet
spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the
fields of earth which generate and nurture all things,
and the track of heaven, which contains and clasps all
things. Now, at this evening hour, at the period of
repose and refection, methinks all hearts breathe one
hymn of love and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of
old on the mountain-tops, give a voice to their
sentiment.
"Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic
fabric we inhabit, and framed the laws by which it
endures. If mere existence, and not happiness, had been
the final end of our being, what need of the profuse
luxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place
be so lovely, and why should the instincts of nature
minister pleasurable sensations? The very sustaining of
our animal machine is made delightful; and our
sustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted with
transcendant hues, endued with grateful odours, and
palatable to our taste. Why should this be, if HE were
not good? We need houses to protect us from the
seasons, and behold the materials with which we are
provided; the growth of trees with their adornment of
leaves; while rocks of stone piled above the plains
variegate the prospect with their pleasant
irregularity.
"Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the
Spirit of Good. Look into the mind of man, where wisdom
reigns enthroned; where imagination, the painter, sits,
with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of
sunset, adorning familiar life with glowing tints. What
a noble boon, worthy the giver, is the imagination ! it
takes from reality its leaden hue: it envelopes all
thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an
hand of beauty beckons us from the sterile seas of
life, to her gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss.
And is not love a gift of the divinity? Love, and her
child, Hope, which can bestow wealth on poverty,
strength on the weak, and happiness on the sorrowing.
"My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long
with grief, entered the gloomy labyrinth of madness,
and emerged, but half alive. Yet I thank God that I
have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his throne,
the heavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad that I
have seen the changes of his day; to behold the sun,
fountain of light, and the gentle pilgrim moon; to have
seen the fire bearing flowers of the sky, and the
flowery stars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing
and the harvest. I am glad that I have loved, and have
experienced sympathetic joy and sorrow with my
fellow-creatures. I am glad now to feel the current of
thought flow through my mind, as the blood through the
articulations of my frame; mere existence is pleasure;
and I thank God that I live!
"And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not
echo my words? Ye who are linked by the affectionate
ties of nature, companions, friends, lovers! fathers,
who toil with joy for their offspring; women, who while
gazing on the living forms of their children, forget
the pains of maternity; children, who neither toil nor
spin, but love and are loved!
"Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our
earthly home! that hatred, tyranny, and fear could no
longer make their lair in the human heart! that each
man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of
repose amid the wide plains of his
inheritance! that the source of tears were dry, and
that lips might no longer form expressions of sorrow.
Sleeping thus under the beneficent eye of heaven, can
evil visit thee, O Earth, or grief cradle to their
graves thy luckless children? Whisper it not, let the
demons hear and rejoice! The choice is with us; let us
will it, and our habitation becomes a paradise. For the
will of man is omnipotent, blunting the arrows of
death, soothing the bed of disease, and wiping away the
tears of agony. And what is each human being worth, if
he do not put forth his strength to aid his
fellow-creatures? My soul is a fading spark, my nature
frail as a spent wave; but I dedicate all of intellect
and strength that remains to me, to that one work, and
take upon me the task, as far as I am able, of
bestowing blessings on my fellow-men!"
His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands
clasped, and his fragile person was bent, as it were,
with excess of emotion. The spirit of life seemed to
linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar
flickers on the embers of an accepted sacrifice.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER V.
WHEN we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and
Perdita had departed for the continent. I took
possession of my sister's cottage, and blessed myself
that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a
curious fact, that at this period, when by the marriage
of Perdita I was allied to one of the richest
individuals in England, and was bound by the most
intimate friendship to its chiefest noble, I
experienced the greatest excess of poverty that I had
ever known. My knowledge of the worldly principles of
Lord Raymond, would have ever prevented me from
applying to him, however deep my distress might have
been. It was in vain that I repeated to myself with
regard to Adrian, that his purse was open to me; that
one in soul, as we were, our fortunes ought also to be
common. I could never, while with him, think of his
bounty as a remedy to my poverty; and I even put aside
hastily his offers of supplies, assuring him of a
falsehood, that I needed them not. How could I say to
this generous being, "Maintain me in idleness. You who
have dedicated your powers of mind and fortune to the
benefit of your species, shall you so misdirect your
exertions, as to support in uselessness the strong,
healthy, and capable?"
And yet I dared not request him to use his influence
that I might obtain an honourable provision for
myself--for then I should have been obliged to leave
Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its
Castle, beneath its enshadowing thickets; my sole
companions were my books and my loving thoughts. I
studied the wisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the
happy walls that sheltered the beloved of my soul. My
mind was nevertheless idle. I pored over the poetry of
old times; I studied the metaphysics of Plato and
Berkeley. I read the histories of Greece and Rome, and
of England's former periods, and I watched the
movements of the lady of my heart. At night I could see
her shadow on the walls of her apartment; by day I
viewed her in her flower-garden, or riding in the park
with her usual companions. Methought the charm would be
broken if I were seen, but I heard the music of her
voice and was happy. I gave to each heroine of whom I
read, her beauty and matchless excellences--such was
Antigone, when she guided the blind Oedipus to the
grove of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral
rites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the unvisited
cave of Prospero; such Haidee, on the sands of the
Ionian island. I was mad with excess of passionate
devotion; but pride, tameless as fire, invested my
nature, and prevented me from betraying myself by word
or look.
In the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with
rich mental repasts, a peasant would have disdained my
scanty fare, which I sometimes robbed from the
squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often tempted to
recur to the lawless feats of my boy-hood, and knock
down the almost tame pheasants that perched upon the
trees, and bent their bright eyes on me. But they were
the property of Adrian, the nurslings of Idris; and so,
although my imagination rendered sensual by privation,
made me think that they would better become the spit in
my kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest,
Nathelesse,
I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;
but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of "such
morsels sweet," as I might not waking attain.
But, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence
was about to change. The orphan and neglected son of
Verney, was on the eve of being linked to the mechanism
of society by a golden chain, and to enter into all the
duties and affections of life. Miracles were to be
wrought in my favour, the machine of social life pushed
with vast effort backward. Attend, O reader! while I
narrate this tale of wonders!
One day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the
forest, with their mother and accustomed companions,
Idris, drawing her brother aside from the rest of the
cavalcade, suddenly asked him, "What had become of his
friend, Lionel Verney?"
"Even from this spot," replied Adrian, pointing to my
sister's cottage, "you can see his dwelling."
"Indeed!" said Idris, "and why, if he be so near, does
he not come to see us, and make one of our society?"
"I often visit him," replied Adrian; "but you may
easily guess the motives, which prevent him from coming
where his presence may annoy any one among us."
"I do guess them," said Idris, "and such as they are, I
would not venture to combat them. Tell me, however, in
what way he passes his time; what he is doing and
thinking in his cottage retreat?"
"Nay, my sweet sister," replied Adrian, "you ask me
more than I can well answer; but if you feel interest
in him, why not visit him? He will feel highly
honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the
obligation I owe him, and compensate for the injuries
fortune has done him."
"I will most readily accompany you to his abode," said
the lady, "not that I wish that either of us should
unburthen ourselves of our debt, which, being no less
than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But let us
go; to-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and
proceeding towards that part of the forest, call upon
him."
The next evening therefore, though the autumnal change
had brought on cold and rain, Adrian and Idris entered
my cottage. They found me Curius-like, feasting on
sorry fruits for supper; but they brought gifts richer
than the golden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I
refuse the invaluable store of friendship and delight
which they bestowed. Surely the glorious twins of
Latona were not more welcome, when, in the infancy of
the world, they were brought forth to beautify and
enlighten this "sterile promontory," than were this
angelic pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart.
We sat like one family round my hearth. Our talk was on
subjects, unconnected with the emotions that evidently
occupied each; but we each divined the other's thought,
and as our voices spoke of indifferent matters, our
eyes, in mute language, told a thousand things no
tongue could have uttered.
They left me in an hour's time. They left me happy--how
unspeakably happy. It did not require the measured
sounds of human language to syllable the story of my
extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should again and
again see--my imagination did not wander beyond the
completeness of this knowledge. I trod air; no doubt,
no fear, no hope even, disturbed me; I clasped with my
soul the fulness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring,
beatified.
For many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me
thus. In this dear intercourse, love, in the guise of
enthusiastic friendship, infused more and more of his
omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of the
world, I read your characters in her looks and gesture;
I heard your melodious voice echoed by her--you
prepared for us a soft and flowery path, all gentle
thoughts adorned it--your name, O Love, was not spoken,
but you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time,
but no mortal hand, might raise the curtain. Organs of
articulate sound did not proclaim the union of our
hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed no
opportunity for the expression that hovered on our
lips.
Oh my pen! haste thou to write what was, before the
thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee.
If I lift up my eyes and see the desart earth, and feel
that those dear eyes have spent their mortal lustre,
and that those beauteous lips are silent, their
"crimson leaves" faded, for ever I am mute!
But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me!
There was a glade, O reader! a grassy opening in the
wood; the retiring trees left its velvet expanse as a
temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one
side, and a willow bending down dipt in the water its
Naiad hair, dishevelled by the wind's viewless hand.
The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear
prime, is by my side--remember, I am just twenty-two,
and seventeen summers have scarcely passed over the
beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal
rains, deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his
favourite boat is employed in the dangerous pastime of
plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are
you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with
danger?--
He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat
through the flood; our eyes were fixed on him
fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us; he
was forced to land far lower down, and to make a
considerable circuit before he could join us. "He is
safe!" said Idris, as he leapt on shore, and waved the
bough over his head in token of success; "we will wait
for him here."
We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of
the nightingales began; the evening star shone distinct
in the flood of light, which was yet unfaded in the
west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on
this sweet emblem of herself: "How the light
palpitates," she said, "which is that star's life. Its
vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state,
even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant;
it fears, methinks, and it loves."
"Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend," I cried,
"read not love in its trembling rays; look not
upon distant worlds; speak not of the mere imagination
of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to
sickness have I desired to speak to you, and submit my
soul, my life, my entire being to you. Look not on the
star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal spark
plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate,
silent as it shines--love is to me as light to the
star; even so long as that is uneclipsed by
annihilation, so long shall I love you."
Veiled for ever to the world's callous eye must be the
transport of that moment. Still do I feel her graceful
form press against my full-fraught heart--still does
sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and fail, at the
remembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we
went to meet Adrian, whom we heard approaching.
I entreated Adrian to return to me after he had
conducted his sister home. And that same evening,
walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I poured forth
my whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my
friend. For a moment he looked disturbed--"I might have
foreseen this," he said, "what strife will now ensue!
Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expectation of
contest with my mother should jar me, when else I
should delightedly confess that my best hopes are
fulfilled, in confiding my sister to your protection.
If you do not already know it, you will soon learn the
deep hate my mother bears to the name Verney. I will
converse with Idris; then all that a friend can do, I
will do; to her it must belong to play the lover's
part, if she be capable of it."
While the brother and sister were still hesitating in
what manner they could best attempt to bring their
mother over to their party, she, suspecting our
meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair
daughter with deceit, and an unbecoming attachment for
one whose only merit was being the son of the
profligate favourite of her imprudent father; and who
was doubtless as worthless as he from whom he boasted
his descent. The eyes of Idris flashed at this
accusation; she replied, "I do not deny that I love
Verney; prove to me that he is worthless; and I will
never see him more."
"Dear Madam," said Adrian, "let me entreat you to see
him, to cultivate his friendship. You will wonder then,
as I do, at the extent of his accomplishments, and the
brilliancy of his talents." (Pardon me, gentle reader,
this is not futile vanity;--not futile, since to know
that Adrian felt thus, brings joy even now to my lone
heart).
"Mad and foolish boy!" exclaimed the angry lady, "you
have chosen with dreams and theories to overthrow my
schemes for your own aggrandizement; but you shall not
do the same by those I have formed for your sister. I
but too well understand the fascination you both labour
under; since I had the same struggle with your father,
to make him cast off the parent of this youth, who hid
his evil propensities with the smoothness and subtlety
of a viper. In those days how often did I hear of his
attractions, his wide spread conquests, his wit, his
refined manners. It is well when flies only are caught
by such spiders' webs; but is it for the high-born and
powerful to bow their necks to the flimsy yoke of these
unmeaning pretensions? Were your sister indeed the
insignificant person she deserves to be, I would
willingly leave her to the fate, the wretched fate, of
the wife of a man, whose very person, resembling as it
does his wretched father, ought to remind you of the
folly and vice it typifies--but remember, Lady Idris,
it is not alone the once royal blood of England that
colours your veins, you are a Princess of Austria, and
every life-drop is akin to emperors and kings. Are you
then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-boy, whose
only inheritance is his father's tarnished name?"
"I can make but one defence," replied Idris, "the same
offered by my brother; see Lionel, converse with my
shepherd-boy"---
The Countess interrupted her indignantly--"Yours!"--she
cried: and then, smoothing her impassioned features to
a disdainful smile, she continued--"We will talk of
this another time. All I now ask, all your mother,
Idris, requests is, that you will not see this upstart
during the interval of one month."
"I dare not comply," said Idris, "it would pain him too
much. I have no right to play with his feelings, to
accept his proffered love, and then sting him with
neglect."
"This is going too far," her mother answered, with
quivering lips, and eyes again instinct by anger.
"Nay, Madam," said Adrian, "unless my sister consent
never to see him again, it is surely an useless torment
to separate them for a month."
"Certainly," replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn,
"his love, and her love, and both their childish
flutterings, are to be put in fit comparison with my
years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the
offspring of kings, with the high and dignified conduct
which one of her descent ought to pursue. But it is
unworthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to promise me not to marry during
that interval?"
This was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered
why her mother should extort from her a solemn vow not
to do, what she had never dreamed of doing--but the
promise was required and given.
All went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked
without dread of our future plans. The Countess was so
gentle, and even beyond her wont, amiable with her
children, that they began to entertain hopes of her
ultimate consent. She was too unlike them, too utterly
alien to their tastes, for them to find delight in her
society, or in the prospect of its continuance, but it
gave them pleasure to see her conciliating and kind.
Once even, Adrian ventured to propose her receiving me.
She refused with a smile, reminding him that for the
present his sister had promised to be patient.
One day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian
received a letter from a friend in London, requesting
his immediate presence for the furtherance of some
important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared no
deceit. I rode with him as far as Staines: he was in
high spirits; and, since I could not see Idris during
his absence, he promised a speedy return. His gaiety,
which was extreme, had the strange effect of awakening
in me contrary feelings; a presentiment of evil hung
over me; I loitered on my return; I counted the hours
that must elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore
should this be? What evil might not happen in the mean
time? Might not her mother take advantage of Adrian's
absence to urge her beyond her sufferance, perhaps to
entrap her? I resolved, let what would befall, to see
and converse with her the following day. This
determination soothed me. To-morrow, loveliest and
best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will see
thee--Fool, to dream of a moment's delay!
I went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a
violent knocking. It was now deep winter; it had
snowed, and was still snowing; the wind whistled in the
leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as
they fell; its drear moaning, and the continued
knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams--at length I
was wide awake; hastily dressing myself, I hurried to
discover the cause of this disturbance, and to open my
door to the unexpected visitor. Pale as the snow that
showered about her, with clasped hands, Idris stood
before me. "Save me!" she exclaimed, and would have
sunk to the ground had I not supported her. In a moment
however she revived, and, with energy, almost with
violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her
away, away to London--to her brother--at least to save
her. I had no horses--she wrung her hands. "What can I
do?" she cried, "I am lost--we are both for ever lost!
But come--come with me, Lionel; here I must not
stay,--we can get a chaise at the nearest
post-house; yet perhaps we have time! come, O come with
me to save and protect me!"
When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered
dress, dishevelled hair, and aghast looks, she wrung
her hands--the idea shot across me is she also
mad?--"Sweet one," and I folded her to my heart,
"better repose than wander further;--rest--my beloved,
I will make a fire--you are chill."
"Rest!" she cried, "repose! you rave, Lionel! If you
delay we are lost; come, I pray you, unless you would
cast me off for ever."
That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and
luxury, should have come through the tempestuous
winter-night from her regal abode, and standing at my
lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness
and storm--was surely a dream--again her plaintive
tones, the sight of her loveliness assured me that it
was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if she feared
to be overheard, she whispered: "I have
discovered--to-morrow-- that is, to-day--already the
to-morrow is come--before dawn, foreigners, Austrians,
my mother's hirelings, are to carry me off to Germany,
to prison, to marriage--to anything, except you and my
brother--take me away, or soon they will be here!"
I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some
mistake in her incoherent tale; but I no longer
hesitated to obey her. She had come by herself from the
Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the
heavy snow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and
a half further, before we could obtain a chaise. She
told me, that she had kept up her strength and courage
till her arrival at my cottage, and then both failed.
Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as I did,
still she lagged: and at the distance of half a mile,
after many stoppages, shivering fits, and half
faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm on the
snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must
be taken, for that she could not proceed. I lifted her
up in my arms; her light form rested on my breast.--I
felt no burthen, except the internal one of contrary
and contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested
me. Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and
I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright. Her
head lay on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her
heart beat near mine, transport made me tremble,
blinded me, annihilated me--till a suppressed groan,
bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth,
which she strove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of
suffering she evinced, recalled me to the necessity of
speed and succour. At last I said to her, "There is
Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen
thus strangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your
enemies may learn your flight too soon: were it not
better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put you in
safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately."
She answered that I was right, and might do with her as
I pleased. I observed the door of a small out-house
a-jar. I pushed it open; and, with some hay strewed
about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted
frame on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared
to leave her, she looked so wan and faint--but in a
moment she re-acquired animation, and, with that, fear;
and again she implored me not to delay. To call up the
people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and horses,
even though I harnessed them myself, was the work of
many minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight
of ages. I caused the chaise to advance a little,
waited till the people of the inn had retired, and then
made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot
where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat recovered,
stood waiting for me. I lifted her into the chaise; I
assured her that with our four horses we should arrive
in London before five o'clock, the hour when she would
be sought and missed. I besought her to calm herself; a
kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she
related her tale of fear and peril.
That same night after Adrian's departure, her mother
had warmly expostulated with her on the subject of her
attachment to me. Every motive, every threat, every
angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed to consider
that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil
influence of her life; I was even accused of
encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy of
Adrian from all views of advancement and grandeur; and
now this miserable mountaineer was to steal her
daughter. Never, Idris related, did the angry lady
deign to recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she
had, the task of resistance would have been exquisitely
painful. As it was, the sweet girl's generous nature
was roused to defend, and ally herself with, my
despised cause. Her mother ended with a look of
contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment
awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they parted for
the night, the Countess said, "To-morrow I trust your
tone will be changed: be composed; I have agitated you;
go to rest; and I will send you a medicine I always
take when unduly restless--it will give you a quiet
night."
By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her
fair cheek upon her pillow, her mother's servant
brought a draught; a suspicion again crossed her at
this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to
determine her not to take the potion; but dislike of
contention, and a wish to discover whether there was
any just foundation for her conjectures, made her, she
said, almost instinctively, and in contradiction to her
usual frankness, pretend to swallow the medicine. Then,
agitated as she had been by her mother's violence, and
now by unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep,
starting at every sound. Soon her door opened softly,
and on her springing up, she heard a whisper, "Not
asleep yet," and the door again closed. With a beating
heart she expected another visit, and when after an
interval her chamber was again invaded, having first
assured herself that the
intruders were her mother and an attendant, she
composed herself to feigned sleep. A step approached
her bed, she dared not move, she strove to calm her
palpitations, which became more violent, when she heard
her mother say mutteringly, "Pretty simpleton, little
do you think that your game is already at an end for
ever."
For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother
believed that she had drank poison: she was on the
point of springing up; when the Countess, already at a
distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to her
companion, and again Idris listened: "Hasten," said
she, "there is no time to lose--it is long past eleven;
they will be here at five; take merely the clothes
necessary for her journey, and her jewel-casket." The
servant obeyed; few words were spoken on either side;
but those were caught at with avidity by the intended
victim. She heard the name of her own maid
mentioned;--"No, no," replied her mother, "she does not
go with us; Lady Idris must forget England, and all
belonging to it." And again she heard, "She will not
wake till late to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea."
---- "All is ready," at length the woman announced. The
Countess again came to her daughter's bedside: "In
Austria at least," she said, "you will obey. In
Austria, where obedience can be enforced, and no choice
left but between an honourable prison and a fitting
marriage."
Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess
said, "Softly; all sleep; though all have not been
prepared for sleep, like her. I would not have any one
suspect, or she might be roused to resistance, and
perhaps escape. Come with me to my room; we will remain
there till the hour agreed upon." They went. Idris,
panic-struck, but animated and strengthened even by her
excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and going
down a flight of back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of
her mother's apartment, she contrived to escape from
the castle by a low window, and came through snow,
wind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor lost her
courage, until she arrived, and, depositing her fate in
my hands, gave herself up to the desperation and
weariness that overwhelmed her.
I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation,
were mine, to possess, and to save her. Yet not to
excite fresh agitation in her, "per non turbar quel
bel viso sereno," I curbed my delight. I strove to
quiet the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her
my eyes, beaming with too much tenderness, and proudly,
to dark night, and the inclement atmosphere, murmured
the expressions of my transport. We reached London,
methought, all too soon; and yet I could not regret our
speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with which
my beloved girl found herself in her brother's arms,
safe from every evil, under his unblamed protection.
Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her
that Idris was under his care and guardianship. Several
days elapsed, and at last an answer came, dated from
Cologne. "It was useless," the haughty and disappointed
lady wrote, "for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to
address again the injured parent, whose only
expectation of tranquillity must be derived from
oblivion of their existence. Her desires had been
blasted, her schemes overthrown. She did not complain;
in her brother's court she would find, not compensation
for their disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of
none), but such a state of things and mode of life, as
might best reconcile her to her fate. Under such
circumstances, she positively declined any
communication with them."
Such were the strange and incredible events, that
finally brought about my union with the sister of my
best friend, with my adored Idris. With simplicity and
courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition
which were obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to
give her hand, where she had given her heart. To be
worthy of her, to raise myself to her height through
the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her love
with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were the only
thanks I could offer for the matchless gift.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VI.
AND now let the reader, passing over some short period
of time, be introduced to our happy circle. Adrian,
Idris and I, were established in Windsor Castle; Lord
Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which the
former had built on the borders of the Great Park, near
Perdita's cottage, as was still named the low-roofed
abode, where we two, poor even in hope, had each
received the assurance of our felicity. We had our
separate occupations and our common amusements.
Sometimes we passed whole days under the leafy covert
of the forest with our books and music. This occurred
during those rare days in this country, when the sun
mounts his etherial throne in unclouded majesty, and
the windless atmosphere is as a bath of pellucid and
grateful water, wrapping the senses in tranquillity.
When the clouds veiled the sky, and the wind scattered
them there and here, rending their woof, and strewing
its fragments through the aerial plains--then we rode
out, and sought new spots of beauty and repose. When
the frequent rains shut us within doors, evening
recreation followed morning study, ushered in by music
and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her
voice, which had been carefully cultivated, was full
and sweet. Raymond and I made a part of the concert,
and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners. Then we
were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we
ever met one another with smiles, and read content and
joy in each other's countenances. Our prime festivals
were held in Perdita's cottage; nor were we ever weary
of talking of the past or dreaming of the future.
Jealousy and disquiet were unknown among us; nor did a
fear or hope of change ever disturb our tranquillity.
Others said, We might be happy--we said--We are.
When any separation took place between us, it generally
so happened, that Idris and Perdita would ramble away
together, and we remained to discuss the affairs of
nations, and the philosophy of life. The very
difference of our dispositions gave zest to these
conversations. Adrian had the superiority in learning
and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a quick
penetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which
usually displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and
thus kept up the ball of discussion. At other times we
made excursions of many days' duration, and crossed the
country to visit any spot noted for beauty or
historical association. Sometimes we went up to London,
and entered into the amusements of the busy throng;
sometimes our retreat was invaded by visitors from
among them. This change made us only the more sensible
to the delights of the intimate intercourse of our own
circle, the tranquillity of our divine forest, and our
happy evenings in the halls of our beloved Castle.
The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft,
and affectionate. Her temper was unalterably sweet; and
although firm and resolute on any point that touched
her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The
nature of Perdita was less perfect; but tenderness and
happiness improved her temper, and softened her natural
reserve. Her understanding was clear and comprehensive,
her imagination vivid; she was sincere, generous, and
reasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of my soul,
the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all, and
beloved by all, yet seemed destined not to find the
half of himself, which was to complete his happiness.
He often left us, and wandered by himself in the woods,
or sailed in his little skiff, his books his only
companions. He was often the gayest of our party, at
the same time that he was the only one visited by fits
of despondency; his slender frame seemed overcharged
with the weight of life, and his soul appeared rather
to inhabit his body than unite with it. I was hardly
more devoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she
loved him as her teacher, her friend, the benefactor
who had secured to her the fulfilment of her dearest
wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless Raymond,
reposed midway on the great high-road of life, and was
content to give up all his schemes of sovereignty and
fame, to make one of us, the flowers of the field. His
kingdom was the heart of Perdita, his subjects her
thoughts; by her he was loved, respected as a superior
being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no devotion, no
watching was irksome to her, as it regarded him. She
would sit apart from us and watch him; she would weep
for joy to think that he was hers. She erected a temple
for him in the depth of her being, and each faculty was
a priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might
be wayward and capricious; but her repentance was
bitter, her return entire, and even this inequality of
temper suited him who was not formed by nature to float
idly down the stream of life.
During the first year of their marriage, Perdita
presented Raymond with a lovely girl. It was curious to
trace in this miniature model the very traits of its
father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of
triumph, the same intelligent eyes, the same brow and
chestnut hair; her very hands and taper fingers
resembled his. How very dear she was to Perdita! In
progress of time, I also became a father, and our
little darlings, our playthings and delights, called
forth a thousand new and delicious feelings.
Years passed thus,--even years. Each month brought
forth its successor, each year one like to that gone
by; truly, our lives were a living comment on that
beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that "our souls have a
natural inclination to love, being born as much to
love, as to feel, to reason, to understand and
remember." We talked of change and active pursuits, but
still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the
charm that attached us to our secluded life.
Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto
Che fra mortali in piu parte si rimembra.
Now also that our children gave us occupation, we found
excuses for our idleness, in the idea of bringing them
up to a more splendid career. At length our
tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events,
which for five years had flowed on in hushing
tranquillity, was broken by breakers and obstacles,
that woke us from our pleasant dream.
A new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and,
at Raymond's request, we removed to London, to witness,
and even take a part in the election. If Raymond had
been united to Idris, this post had been his
stepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for
power and fame had been crowned with fullest measure.
He had exchanged a sceptre for a lute, a kingdom for
Perdita.
Did he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I
watched him, but could make but little of him. He was
particularly gay, playing with his child, and turning
to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did
this because he saw a cloud upon Perdita's brow. She
tried to rouse herself, but her eyes every now and then
filled with tears, and she looked wistfully on Raymond
and her girl, as if fearful that some evil would betide
them. And so she felt. A presentiment of ill hung over
her. She leaned from the window looking on the forest,
and the turrets of the Castle, and as these became hid
by intervening objects, she passionately
exclaimed--"Scenes of happiness! scenes sacred to
devoted love, when shall I see you again! and when I
see ye, shall I be still the beloved and joyous
Perdita, or shall I, heart-broken and lost, wander
among your groves, the ghost of what I am!"
"Why, silly one," cried Raymond, "what is your little
head pondering upon, that of a sudden you have become
so sublimely dismal? Cheer up, or I shall make you over
to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I see
by his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits."
Adrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage,
and his gaiety, in addition to that of Raymond,
dispelled my sister's melancholy. We entered London in
the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde
Park.
The following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. "I
come to you," he said, "only half assured that you will
assist me in my project, but resolved to go through
with it, whether you concur with me or not. Promise me
secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my
success, at least you must not baffle me."
"Well, I promise. And now---"
"And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to
London? To be present at the election of a Protector,
and to give our yea or nay for his shuffling Grace
of ----? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe,
Verney, that I brought you to town for that? No, we
will have a Protector of our own. We will set up a
candidate, and ensure his success. We will nominate
Adrian, and do our best to bestow on him the power to
which he is entitled by his birth, and which he merits
through his virtues.
"Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will
reply to them in order. First, Whether he will or will
not consent to become a great man? Leave the task of
persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you to
assist me there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange
his employment of plucking blackberries, and nursing
wounded partridges in the forest, for the command of a
nation? My dear Lionel, we are married men, and
find employment sufficient in amusing our wives, and
dancing our children. But Adrian is alone, wifeless,
childless, unoccupied. I have long observed him. He
pines for want of some interest in life. His heart,
exhausted by his early sufferings, reposes like a
new-healed limb, and shrinks from all excitement. But
his understanding, his charity, his virtues, want a
field for exercise and display; and we will procure it
for him. Besides, is it not a shame, that the genius of
Adrian should fade from the earth like a flower in an
untrod mountain-path, fruitless? Do you think Nature
composed his surpassing machine for no purpose? Believe
me, he was destined to be the author of infinite good
to his native England. Has she not bestowed on him
every gift in prodigality?--birth, wealth, talent,
goodness? Does not every one love and admire him? and
does he not delight singly in such efforts as manifest
his love to all? Come, I see that you are already
persuaded, and will second me when I propose him
to-night in parliament."
"You have got up all your arguments in excellent
order," I replied; "and, if Adrian consent, they are
unanswerable. One only condition I would make,--that
you do nothing without his
concurrence."
"I believe you are in the right," said Raymond;
"although I had thought at first to arrange the affair
differently. Be it so. I will go instantly to Adrian;
and, if he inclines to consent, you will not destroy my
labour by persuading him to return, and turn squirrel
again in Windsor Forest. Idris, you will not act the
traitor towards me?"
"Trust me," replied she, "I will preserve a strict
neutrality."
"For my part," said I, "I am too well convinced of the
worth of our friend, and the rich harvest of benefits
that all England would reap from his Protectorship, to
deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if he consent
to bestow it on them."
In the evening Adrian visited us.--"Do you cabal also
against me," said he, laughing; "and will you make
common cause with Raymond, in dragging a poor visionary
from the clouds to surround him with the fire-works and
blasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays
and airs? I thought you knew me better."
"I do know you better," I replied "than to think that
you would be happy in such a situation; but the good
you would do to others may be an inducement, since the
time is probably arrived when you can put your theories
into practice, and you may bring about such reformation
and change, as will conduce to that perfect system of
government which you delight to portray."
"You speak of an almost-forgotten dream," said Adrian,
his countenance slightly clouding as he spoke; "the
visions of my boyhood have long since faded in the
light of reality; I know now that I am not a man fitted
to govern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in
wholesome rule the little kingdom of my own
mortality.
"But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble
friend; a drift, perhaps, unknown to himself, but
apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never born to be a
drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral
life. He thinks, that he ought to be satisfied; he
imagines, that his present situation precludes the
possibility of aggrandisement; he does not therefore,
even in his own heart, plan change for himself. But do
you not see, that, under the idea of exalting me, he is
chalking out a new path for himself; a path of action
from which he has long wandered?
"Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the
great in every quality that can adorn the mind and
person of man; he is fitted to be the Protector of
England. If I--that is, if we propose
him, he will assuredly be elected, and will find, in
the functions of that high office, scope for the
towering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will rejoice.
Perdita, in whom ambition was a covered fire until she
married Raymond, which event was for a time the
fulfilment of her hopes; Perdita will rejoice in the
glory and advancement of her lord--and, coyly and
prettily, not be discontented with her share. In the
mean time, we, the wise of the land, will return to our
Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual
labours, until our friend shall require our presence
and assistance here."
The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more
feasible it appeared. His own determination never to
enter into public life was insurmountable, and the
delicacy of his health was a sufficient argument
against it. The next step was to induce Raymond to
confess his secret wishes for dignity and fame. He
entered while we were speaking. The way in which Adrian
had received his project for setting him up as a
candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies, had
already awakened in his mind, the view of the subject
which we were now discussing. His countenance and
manner betrayed irresolution and anxiety; but the
anxiety arose from a fear that we should not prosecute,
or not succeed in our idea; and his irresolution, from
a doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A few words
from us decided him, and hope and joy sparkled in his
eyes; the idea of embarking in a career, so congenial
to his early habits and cherished wishes, made him as
before energetic and bold. We discussed his chances,
the merits of the other candidates, and the
dispositions of the voters.
After all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of
his popularity, and was deserted by his peculiar
partizans. Absence from the busy stage had caused him
to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary
supporters were principally composed of royalists, who
had been willing to make an idol of him when he
appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Windsor; but who
were indifferent to him, when he came forward with no
other attributes and distinctions than they conceived
to be common to many among themselves. Still he had
many friends, admirers of his transcendent talents; his
presence in the house, his eloquence, address and
imposing beauty, were calculated to produce an electric
effect. Adrian also, notwithstanding his recluse habits
and theories, so adverse to the spirit of party, had
many friends, and they were easily induced to vote for
a candidate of his selection.
The Duke of ----, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond's old
antagonist, were the other candidates. The Duke was
supported by all the aristocrats of the republic, who
considered him their proper representative. Ryland was
the popular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first
added to the list, his chance of success appeared
small. We retired from the debate which had followed on
his nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he
dispirited to excess. Perdita reproached us bitterly.
Her expectations had been strongly excited; she had
urged nothing against our project, on the contrary, she
was evidently pleased by it; but its evident ill
success changed the current of her ideas. She felt,
that, once awakened, Raymond would never return
unrepining to Windsor. His habits were unhinged; his
restless mind roused from its sleep, ambition must now
be his companion through life; and if he did not
succeed in his present attempt, she foresaw that
unhappiness and cureless discontent would follow.
Perhaps her own disappointment added a sting to her
thoughts and words; she did not spare us, and our own
reflections added to our disquietude.
It was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to
persuade Raymond to present himself to the electors on
the following evening. For a long time he was
obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail
for a distant quarter of the world, where his name and
humiliation were unknown. But this was useless; his
attempt was registered; his purpose published to the
world; his shame could never be erased from the
memories of men. It was as well to fail at last after a
struggle, as to fly now at the beginning of his
enterprise.
From the moment that he adopted this idea, he was
changed. His depression and anxiety fled; he became all
life and activity. The smile of triumph shone on his
countenance; determined to pursue his object to the
uttermost, his manner and expression seem ominous of
the accomplishment of his wishes. Not so Perdita. She
was frightened by his gaiety, for she dreaded a greater
revulsion at the end. If his appearance even inspired
us with hope, it only rendered the state of her mind
more painful. She feared to lose sight of him; yet she
dreaded to remark any change in the temper of his mind.
She listened eagerly to him, yet tantalized herself by
giving to his words a meaning foreign to their true
interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She dared not
be present at the contest; yet she remained at home a
prey to double solicitude. She wept over her little
girl; she looked, she spoke, as if she dreaded the
occurrence of some frightful calamity. She was half mad
from the effects of uncontrollable agitation.
Lord Raymond presented himself to the house with
fearless confidence and insinuating address. After the
Duke of ---- and Mr. Ryland had finished their
speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his
lesson; and at first he hesitated, pausing in his
ideas, and in the choice of his expressions. By degrees
he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his language was
full of vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He
reverted to his past life, his successes in Greece, his
favour at home. Why should he lose this, now that added
years, prudence, and the pledge which his marriage gave
to his country, ought to encrease, rather than diminish
his claims to confidence? He spoke of the state of
England; the necessary measures to be taken to ensure
its security, and confirm its prosperity. He drew a
glowing picture of its present situation. As he spoke,
every sound was hushed, every thought suspended by
intense attention. His graceful elocution enchained the
senses of his hearers. In some degree also he was
fitted to reconcile all parties. His birth pleased the
aristocracy; his being the candidate recommended by
Adrian, a man intimately allied to the popular party,
caused a number, who had no great reliance either on
the Duke or Mr. Ryland, to range on his side.
The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor
myself would have been so anxious, if our own success
had depended on our exertions; but we had egged our
friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to ensure
his triumph. Idris, who entertained the highest opinion
of his abilities, was warmly interested in the event:
and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and to whom
fear was misery, was plunged into a fever of
disquietude.
Day after day passed while we discussed our projects
for the evening, and each night was occupied by debates
which offered no conclusion. At last the crisis came:
the night when parliament, which had so long delayed
its choice, must decide: as the hour of twelve passed,
and the new day began, it was by virtue of the
constitution dissolved, its power extinct.
We assembled at Raymond's house, we and our partizans.
At half past five o'clock we proceeded to the House.
Idris endeavoured to calm Perdita; but the poor girl's
agitation deprived her of all power of self-command.
She walked up and down the room,--gazed wildly when any
one entered, fancying that they might be the announcers
of her doom. I must do justice to my sweet sister: it
was not for herself that she was thus agonized. She
alone knew the weight which Raymond attached to his
success. Even to us he assumed gaiety and hope, and
assumed them so well, that we did not divine the secret
workings of his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling, a
sharp dissonance of voice, and momentary fits of
absence revealed to Perdita the violence he did
himself; but we, intent on our plans, observed only his
ready laugh, his joke intruded on all occasions, the
flow of his spirits which seemed incapable of ebb.
Besides, Perdita was with him in his
retirement; she saw the moodiness that succeeded to
this forced hilarity; she marked his disturbed sleep,
his painful irritability--once she had seen his tears--
hers had scarce ceased to flow, since she had beheld
the big drops which disappointed pride had caused to
gather in his eye, but which pride was unable to
dispel. What wonder then, that her feelings were
wrought to this pitch! I thus accounted to myself for
her agitation; but this was not all, and the sequel
revealed another excuse.
One moment we seized before our departure, to take
leave of our beloved girls. I had small hope of
success, and entreated Idris to watch over my sister.
As I approached the latter, she seized my hand, and
drew me into another apartment; she threw herself into
my arms, and wept and sobbed bitterly and long. I tried
to soothe her; I bade her hope; I asked what tremendous
consequences would ensue even on our failure. "My
brother," she cried, "protector of my childhood, dear,
most dear Lionel, my fate hangs by a thread. I have you
all about me now--you, the companion of my infancy;
Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of blood;
Idris, the sister of my heart, and her lovely
offspring. This, O this may be the last time that you
will surround me thus!"
Abruptly she stopped, and then cried: "What have I
said?--foolish false girl that I am!" She looked wildly
on me, and then suddenly calming herself, apologized
for what she called her unmeaning words, saying that
she must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived,
she must be happy; and then, though she still wept, she
suffered me tranquilly to depart. Raymond only took her
hand when he went, and looked on her expressively; she
answered by a look of intelligence and assent.
Poor girl! what she then suffered! I could never
entirely forgive Raymond for the trials he imposed on
her, occasioned as they were by a selfish feeling on
his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his present
attempt, without taking leave of any of us, to embark
for Greece, and never again to revisit England. Perdita
acceded to his wishes; for his contentment was the
chief object of her life, the crown of her enjoyment;
but to leave us all, her companions, the beloved
partners of her happiest years, and in the interim to
conceal this frightful determination, was a task that
almost conquered her strength of mind. She had been
employed in arranging for their departure; she had
promised Raymond during this decisive evening, to take
advantage of our absence, to go one stage of the
journey, and he, after his defeat was
ascertained, would slip away from us, and join her.
Although, when I was informed of this scheme, I was
bitterly offended by the small attention which Raymond
paid to my sister's feelings, I was led by reflection
to consider, that he acted under the force of such
strong excitement, as to take from him the
consciousness, and, consequently, the guilt of a fault.
If he had permitted us to witness his agitation, he
would have been more under the guidance of reason; but
his struggles for the shew of composure, acted with
such violence on his nerves, as to destroy his power of
self-command. I am convinced that, at the worst, he
would have returned from the seashore to take leave of
us, and to make us the partners of his council. But the
task imposed on Perdita was not the less painful. He
had extorted from her a vow of secrecy; and her part of
the drama, since it was to be performed alone, was the
most agonizing that could be devised. But to return to
my narrative.
The debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had
often been protracted merely for the sake of delay. But
now each seemed fearful lest the fatal moment should
pass, while the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted
silence reigned in the house, the members spoke in
whispers, and the ordinary business was transacted with
celerity and quietness. During the first stage of the
election, the Duke of ---- had been thrown out; the
question therefore lay between Lord Raymond and Mr.
Ryland. The latter had felt secure of victory, until
the appearance of Raymond; and, since his name had been
inserted as a candidate, he had canvassed with
eagerness. He had appeared each evening, impatience and
anger marked in his looks, scowling on us from the
opposite side of St. Stephen's, as if his mere frown
would cast eclipse on our hopes.
Every thing in the English constitution had been
regulated for the better preservation of peace. On the
last day, two candidates only were allowed to remain;
and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle between
these, a bribe was offered to him who should
voluntarily resign his pretensions; a place of great
emolument and honour was given him, and his success
facilitated at a future election. Strange to say
however, no instance had yet occurred, where either
candidate had had recourse to this expedient; in
consequence the law had become obsolete, nor had been
referred to by any of us in our discussions. To our
extreme surprise, when it was moved that we should
resolve ourselves into a committee for the election of
the Lord Protector, the member who had nominated
Ryland, rose and informed us that this
candidate had resigned his pretensions. His information
was at first received with silence; a confused murmur
succeeded; and, when the chairman declared Lord Raymond
duly chosen, it amounted to a shout of applause and
victory. It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat
even if Mr. Ryland had not resigned, every voice would
have been united in favour of our candidate. In fact,
now that the idea of contest was dismissed, all hearts
returned to their former respect and admiration of our
accomplished friend. Each felt, that England had never
seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling the arduous
duties of that high office. One voice made of many
voices, resounded through the chamber; it syllabled the
name of Raymond.
He entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw
him walk up the passage to the table of the speaker.
The native modesty of his disposition conquered the joy
of his triumph. He looked round timidly; a mist seemed
before his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to
him, and jumping down the benches, was at his side in a
moment. His appearance re-animated our friend; and,
when he came to speak and act, his hesitation vanished,
and he shone out supreme in majesty and victory. The
former Protector tendered him the oaths, and presented
him with the insignia of office, performing the
ceremonies of installation. The house then dissolved.
The chief members of the state crowded round the new
magistrate, and conducted him to the palace of
government. Adrian suddenly vanished; and, by the time
that Raymond's supporters were reduced to our intimate
friends merely, returned leading Idris to congratulate
her friend on his success.
But where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an
unobserved retreat in case of failure, Raymond had
forgotten to arrange the mode by which she was to hear
of his success; and she had been too much agitated to
revert to this circumstance. When Idris entered, so far
had Raymond forgotten himself, that he asked for my
sister; one word, which told of her mysterious
disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true had
already gone to seek the fugitive, imagining that her
tameless anxiety had led her to the purlieus of the
House, and that some sinister event detained her. But
Raymond, without explaining himself, suddenly quitted
us, and in another moment we heard him gallop down the
street, in spite of the wind and rain that scattered
tempest over the earth. We did not know how far he had
to go, and soon separated, supposing that in a short
time he would return to the palace with Perdita, and
that they would not be sorry to find themselves alone.
Perdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping
and inconsolable. She directed everything to be
prepared for the continuance of their journey, and
placing her lovely sleeping charge on a bed, passed
several hours in acute suffering. Sometimes she
observed the war of elements, thinking that they also
declared against her, and listened to the pattering of
the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes she hung over her
child, tracing her resemblance to the father, and
fearful lest in after life she should display the same
passions and uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him
unhappy. Again, with a gush of pride and delight, she
marked in the features of her little girl, the same
smile of beauty that often irradiated Raymond's
countenance. The sight of it soothed her. She thought
of the treasure she possessed in the affections of her
lord; of his accomplishments, surpassing those of his
contemporaries, his genius, his devotion to her.--Soon
she thought, that all she possessed in the world,
except him, might well be spared, nay, given with
delight, a propitiatory offering, to secure the supreme
good she retained in him. Soon she imagined, that fate
demanded this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was
devoted to Raymond, and that it must be made with
cheerfulness. She figured to herself their life in the
Greek isle he had selected for their retreat; her task
of soothing him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her
rides in his company, her dedication of herself to his
consolation. The picture then presented itself to her
in such glowing colours, that she feared the reverse,
and a life of magnificence and power in London; where
Raymond would no longer be hers only, nor she the sole
source of happiness to him. So far as she merely was
concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it was
only on his account that her feelings vacillated, as
she heard him gallop into the court-yard of the inn.
That he should come to her alone, wetted by the storm,
careless of every thing except speed, what else could
it mean, than that, vanquished and solitary, they were
to take their way from native England, the scene of
shame, and hide themselves in the myrtle groves of the
Grecian isles?
In a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his
success had become so much a part of himself, that he
forgot that it was necessary to impart it to his
companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear
assurance that while he possessed her, he would not
despair. "This is kind," she cried; "this is noble, my
own beloved! O fear not disgrace or lowly fortune,
while you have your Perdita; fear not sorrow, while our
child lives and smiles. Let us go even where you will;
the love that accompanies us will prevent our regrets."
Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back
her head, seeking an assent to her words in his
eyes--they were sparkling with ineffable delight. "Why,
my little Lady Protectress," said he, playfully, "what
is this you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven
of exile and obscurity, while a brighter web, a
gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, you ought
to contemplate?"
He kissed her brow--but the wayward girl, half sorry at
his triumph, agitated by swift change of thought, hid
her face in his bosom and wept. He comforted her; he
instilled into her his own hopes and desires; and soon
her countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy
were they that night! How full even to bursting was
their sense of joy!
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VII.
HAVING seen our friend properly installed in his new
office, we turned our eyes towards Windsor. The
nearness of this place to London was such, as to take
away the idea of painful separation, when we quitted
Raymond and Perdita. We took leave of them in the
Protectoral Palace. It was pretty enough to see my
sister enter as it were into the spirit of the drama,
and endeavour to fill her station with becoming
dignity. Her internal pride and humility of manner were
now more than ever at war. Her timidity was not
artificial, but arose from that fear of not being
properly appreciated, that slight estimation of the
neglect of the world, which also characterized Raymond.
But then Perdita thought more constantly of others than
he; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish to
take from those around her a sense of inferiority; a
feeling which never crossed her mind. From the
circumstances of her birth and education, Idris would
have been better fitted for the formulae of ceremony;
but the very ease which accompanied such actions with
her, arising from habit, rendered them tedious; while,
with every drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her
situation. She was too full of new ideas to feel much
pain when we departed; she took an affectionate leave
of us, and promised to visit us soon; but she did not
regret the circumstances that caused our separation.
The spirits of Raymond were unbounded; he did not know
what to do with his new got power; his head was full of
plans; he had as yet decided on none--but he promised
himself, his friends, and the world, that the aera of
his Protectorship should be signalized by some act of
surpassing glory.
Thus, we talked of them, and moralized, as with
diminished numbers we returned to Windsor Castle. We
felt extreme delight at our escape from political
turmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled zest.
We did not want for occupation; but my eager
disposition was now turned to the field of intellectual
exertion only; and hard study I found to be an
excellent medicine to allay a fever of spirit with
which in indolence, I should doubtless have been
assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back
with us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants
were perpetual sources of interest and amusement.
The only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the
health of Adrian. It evidently declined, without any
symptom which could lead us to suspect his disease,
unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated look, and
flustering cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he
was without pain or fear. He betook himself to books
with ardour, and reposed from study in the society he
best loved, that of his sister and myself. Sometimes he
went up to London to visit Raymond, and watch the
progress of events. Clara often accompanied him in
these excursions; partly that she might see her
parents, partly because Adrian delighted in the
prattle, and intelligent looks of this lovely child.
Meanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections
were finished; parliament met, and Raymond was occupied
in a thousand beneficial schemes. Canals, aqueducts,
bridges, stately buildings, and various edifices for
public utility, were entered upon; he was continually
surrounded by projectors and projects, which were to
render England one scene of fertility and
magnificence; the state of poverty was to be abolished;
men were to be transported from place to place almost
with the same facility as the Princes Houssain, Ali,
and Ahmed, in the Arabian Nights. The physical state of
man would soon not yield to the beatitude of angels;
disease was to be banished; labour lightened of its
heaviest burden. Nor did this seem extravagant. The
arts of life, and the discoveries of science had
augmented in a ratio which left all calculation behind;
food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously--machines
existed to supply with facility every want of the
population. An evil direction still survived; and men
were not happy, not because they could not, but because
they would not rouse themselves to vanquish self-raised
obstacles. Raymond was to inspire them with his
beneficial will, and the mechanism of society, once
systematised according to faultless rules, would never
again swerve into disorder. For these hopes he
abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being
enregistered in the annals of nations as a successful
warrior; laying aside his sword, peace and its enduring
glories became his aim--the title he coveted was that
of the benefactor of his country.
Among other works of art in which he was engaged, he
had projected the erection of a national gallery for
statues and pictures. He possessed many himself, which
he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the
edifice was to be the great ornament of his
Protectorship, he was very fastidious in his choice of
the plan on which it would be built. Hundreds were
brought to him and rejected. He sent even to Italy and
Greece for drawings; but, as the design was to be
characterized by originality as well as by perfect
beauty, his endeavours were for a time without avail.
At length a drawing came, with an address where
communications might be sent, and no artist's name
affixed. The design was new and elegant, but faulty; so
faulty, that although drawn with the hand and eye of
taste, it was evidently the work of one who was not an
architect. Raymond contemplated it with delight; the
more he gazed, the more pleased he was; and yet the
errors multiplied under inspection. He wrote to the
address given, desiring to see the draughtsman, that
such alterations might be made, as should be suggested
in a consultation between him and the original
conceiver.
A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence
of manner, but with so common-place a physiognomy, that
Raymond could scarcely believe that he was the
designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect;
but the idea of the building had struck him, though he
had sent it without the smallest hope of its being
accepted. He was a man of few words. Raymond questioned
him; but his reserved answers soon made him turn from
the man to the drawing. He pointed out the errors, and
the alterations that he wished to be made; he offered
the Greek a pencil that he might correct the sketch on
the spot; this was refused by his visitor, who said
that he perfectly understood, and would work at it at
home. At length Raymond suffered him to depart.
The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn;
but many defects still remained, and several of the
instructions given had been misunderstood. "Come," said
Raymond, "I yielded to you yesterday, now comply with
my request--take the pencil."
The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like
way; at length he said: "I must confess to you, my
Lord, that I did not make this drawing. It is
impossible for you to see the real designer; your
instructions must pass through me. Condescend therefore
to have patience with my ignorance, and to explain your
wishes to me; in time I am certain that you will be
satisfied."
Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would
say no more. Would an architect be permitted to see the
artist? This also was refused. Raymond repeated his
instructions, and the visitor retired. Our friend
resolved however not to be foiled in his wish. He
suspected, that unaccustomed poverty was the cause of
the mystery, and that the artist was unwilling to be
seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond was only
the more excited by this consideration to discover him;
impelled by the interest he took in obscure talent, he
therefore ordered a person skilled in such matters, to
follow the Greek the next time he came, and observe the
house in which he should enter. His emissary obeyed,
and brought the desired intelligence. He had traced the
man to one of the most penurious streets in the
metropolis. Raymond did not wonder, that, thus
situated, the artist had shrunk from notice, but he did
not for this alter his resolve.
On the same evening, he went alone to the house named
to him. Poverty, dirt, and squalid misery characterized
its appearance. Alas! thought Raymond, I have much to
do before England becomes a Paradise. He knocked; the
door was opened by a string from above--the broken,
wretched staircase was immediately before him, but no
person appeared; he knocked again, vainly--and then,
impatient of further delay, he ascended the dark,
creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly now
that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the artist,
was to relieve one, possessed of talent, but depressed
by want. He pictured to himself a youth, whose eyes
sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated by
famine. He half feared to displease him; but he trusted
that his generous kindness would be administered so
delicately, as not to excite repulse. What human heart
is shut to kindness? and though poverty, in its excess,
might render the sufferer unapt to submit to the
supposed degradation of a benefit, the zeal of the
benefactor must at last relax him into thankfulness.
These thoughts encouraged Raymond, as he stood at the
door of the highest room of the house. After trying
vainly to enter the other apartments, he perceived just
within the threshold of this one, a pair of small
Turkish slippers; the door was ajar, but all was silent
within. It was probable that the inmate was absent, but
secure that he had found the right person, our
adventurous Protector was tempted to enter, to leave a
purse on the table, and silently depart. In pursuance
of this idea, he pushed open the door gently--but the
room was inhabited.
Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and
the scene that now presented itself struck him to the
heart. The floor was sunk in many places; the walls
ragged and bare--the ceiling weather-stained--a
tattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two
chairs in the room, and a rough broken table, on which
was a light in a tin candlestick;--yet in the midst of
such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was an
air of order and cleanliness that surprised him. The
thought was fleeting; for his attention was instantly
drawn towards the inhabitant of this wretched abode. It
was a female. She sat at the table; one small hand
shaded her eyes from the candle; the other held a
pencil; her looks were fixed on a drawing before her,
which Raymond recognized as the design presented to
him. Her whole appearance awakened his deepest
interest. Her dark hair was braided and twined in thick
knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue; her garb
was mean, but her attitude might have been selected as
a model of grace. Raymond had a confused remembrance
that he had seen such a form before; he walked across
the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely asking in
Romaic, who is there? "A friend," replied Raymond in
the same dialect. She looked up wondering, and he saw
that it was Evadne Zaimi. Evadne, once the idol of
Adrian's affections; and who, for the sake of her
present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and
then, neglected by him she loved, with crushed hopes
and a stinging sense of misery, had returned to her
native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have
brought her to England, and housed her thus?
Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from
polite beneficence to the warmest protestations of
kindness and sympathy. The sight of her, in her present
situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He sat
by her, he took her hand, and said a thousand things
which breathed the deepest spirit of compassion and
affection. Evadne did not answer; her large dark eyes
were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the
lashes. "Thus," she cried, "kindness can do, what no
want, no misery ever effected; I weep." She shed indeed
many tears; her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder
of Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed her sunken
tear-stained cheek. He told her, that her sufferings
were now over: no one possessed the art of consoling
like Raymond; he did not reason or declaim, but his
look shone with sympathy; he brought pleasant images
before the sufferer; his caresses excited no distrust,
for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a
mother to kiss her wounded child; a desire to
demonstrate in every possible way the truth of his
feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm
into the lacerated mind of the unfortunate.
As Evadne regained her composure, his manner became
even gay; he sported with the idea of her poverty.
Something told him that it was not its real evils that
lay heavily at her heart, but the debasement and
disgrace attendant on it; as he talked, he
divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her
fortitude with energetic praise; then, alluding to her
past state, he called her his Princess in disguise. He
made her warm offers of service; she was too much
occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept
or reject them; at length he left her, making a promise
to repeat his visit the next day. He returned home,
full of mingled feelings, of pain excited by Evadne's
wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of relieving
it. Some motive for which he did not account, even to
himself, prevented him from relating his
adventure to Perdita.
The next day he threw such disguise over his person as
a cloak afforded, and revisited Evadne. As he went, he
bought a basket of costly fruits, such as were natives
of her own country, and throwing over these various
beautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
garret of his friend. "Behold," cried he, as he
entered, "what bird's food I have brought for my
sparrow on the house-top."
Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her
father, though of high rank, had in the end dissipated
his fortune, and even destroyed his reputation and
influence through a course of dissolute indulgence. His
health was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became
his earnest wish, before he died, to preserve his
daughter from the poverty which would be the portion of
her orphan state. He therefore accepted for her, and
persuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage,
from a wealthy Greek merchant settled at
Constantinople. She quitted her native Greece; her
father died; by degrees she was cut off from all the
companions and ties of her youth.
The war, which about a year before the present time had
broken out between Greece and Turkey, brought about
many reverses of fortune. Her husband became bankrupt,
and then in a tumult and threatened massacre on the
part of the Turks, they were obliged to fly at
midnight, and reached in an open boat an English vessel
under sail, which brought them immediately to this
island. The few jewels they had saved, supported them
awhile. The whole strength of Evadne's mind was exerted
to support the failing spirits of her husband. Loss of
property, hopelessness as to his future prospects, the
inoccupation to which poverty condemned him, combined
to reduce him to a state bordering on insanity. Five
months after their arrival in England, he committed
suicide.
"You will ask me," continued Evadne, "what I have done
since; why I have not applied for succour to the rich
Greeks resident here; why I have not returned to my
native country? My answer to these questions must needs
appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to
lead me on, day after day, enduring every
wretchedness, rather than by such means to seek relief.
Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal Zaimi,
appear a beggar before her compeers or
inferiors--superiors she had none. Shall I bow my head
before them, and with servile gesture sell my
nobility for life? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me
to existence, I might descend to this--but, as it
is--the world has been to me a harsh step-mother; fain
would I leave the abode she seems to grudge, and in the
grave forget my pride, my struggles, my despair. The
time will soon come; grief and famine have already
sapped the foundations of my being; a very short time,
and I shall have passed away; unstained by the crime of
self-destruction, unstung by the memory of degradation,
my spirit will throw aside the miserable coil, and find
such recompense as fortitude and resignation may
deserve. This may seem madness to you, yet you also
have pride and resolution; do not then wonder that my
pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable."
Having thus finished her tale, and given such an
account as she deemed fit, of the motives of her
abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid from her
countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more
to say, to which she was unable to give words. In the
mean time Raymond was eloquent. His desire of restoring
his lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her
lost prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth with
energy, all his wishes and intentions on that subject.
But he was checked; Evadne exacted a promise, that he
should conceal from all her friends her existence in
England. "The relatives of the Earl of Windsor," said
she haughtily, "doubtless think that I injured him;
perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to acquit
me, but probably I do not deserve acquittal. I acted
then, as I ever must, from impulse. This abode of
penury may at least prove the disinterestedness of my
conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause
before any of them, not even before your Lordship, had
you not first discovered me. The tenor of my actions
will prove that I had rather die, than be a mark for
scorn--behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on
the beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the
thought--promise me that my secret shall not be
violated by you."
Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued.
Evadne required another engagement on his part, that he
would not without her concurrence enter into any
project for her benefit, nor himself offer relief. "Do
not degrade me in my own eyes," she said; "poverty has
long been my nurse; hard-visaged she is, but honest. If
dishonour, or what I conceive to be dishonour, come
near me, I am lost." Raymond adduced many arguments and
fervent persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she
remained unconvinced; and, agitated by the discussion,
she wildly and passionately made a solemn vow, to fly
and hide herself where he never could discover her,
where famine would soon bring death to conclude her
woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing offers.
She could support herself, she said. And then she
shewed him how, by executing various designs and
paintings, she earned a pittance for her support.
Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after
he had for awhile humoured her self-will, that in the
end friendship and reason would gain the day.
But the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in
the depths of her being, and were such in their growth
as he had no means of understanding. Evadne loved
Raymond. He was the hero of her imagination, the image
carved by love in the unchanged texture of her heart.
Seven years ago, in her youthful prime, she had become
attached to him; he had served her country against the
Turks; he had in her own land acquired that military
glory peculiarly dear to the Greeks, since they were
still obliged inch by inch to fight for their security.
Yet when he returned thence, and first appeared in
public life in England, her love did not purchase his,
which then vacillated between Perdita and a crown.
While he was yet undecided, she had quitted England;
the news of his marriage reached her, and her hopes,
poorly nurtured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory
of life was gone for her; the roseate halo of love,
which had imbued every object with its own colour,
faded;--she was content to take life as it was, and to
make the best of leaden-coloured reality. She married;
and, carrying her restless energy of character with her
into new scenes, she turned her thoughts to ambition,
and aimed at the title and power of Princess of
Wallachia; while her patriotic feelings were soothed by
the idea of the good she might do her country, when her
husband should be chief of this principality. She lived
to find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her
intrigues with Russia for the furtherance of her
object, excited the jealousy of the Porte, and the
animosity of the Greek government. She was considered a
traitor by both, the ruin of her husband followed; they
avoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the
height of her desires to penury in England. Much of
this tale she concealed from Raymond; nor did she
confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal
convicted of the worst of crimes, that of bringing the
scythe of foreign despotism to cut away the new
springing liberties of her country, would have followed
her application to any among the Greeks.
She knew that she was the cause of her husband's utter
ruin; and she strung herself to bear the consequences.
The reproaches which agony extorted; or worse,
cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind was
sunk in a torpor, not the less painful because it was
silent and moveless. She reproached herself with the
crime of his death; guilt and its punishments appeared
to surround her; in vain she endeavoured to allay
remorse by the memory of her real integrity; the rest
of the world, and she among them, judged of her
actions, by their consequences. She prayed for her
husband's soul; she conjured the Supreme to place on
her head the crime of his self-destruction--she vowed
to live to expiate his fault.
In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have
destroyed her, one thought only was matter of
consolation. She lived in the same country, breathed
the same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the
burthen of every tongue; his achievements, projects,
and magnificence, the argument of every story. Nothing
is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory and
excellence of him she loves; thus in every horror
Evadne revelled in his fame and prosperity. While her
husband lived, this feeling was
regarded by her as a crime, repressed, repented of.
When he died, the tide of love resumed its ancient
flow, it deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves,
and she gave herself up a prey to its uncontrollable
power.
But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded
state. Never should he behold her fallen, as she
deemed, from her pride of beauty, the poverty-stricken
inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a
reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though
impenetrably veiled from him, his public office
permitted her to become acquainted with all his
actions, his daily course of life, even his
conversation. She allowed herself one luxury, she saw
the newspapers every day, and feasted on the praise and
actions of the Protector. Not that this indulgence was
devoid of accompanying grief. Perdita's name was for
ever joined with his; their conjugal felicity was
celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts.
They were continually together, nor could the
unfortunate Evadne read the monosyllable that
designated his name, without, at the same time, being
presented with the image of her who was the faithful
companion of all his labours and pleasures. They,
their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line,
mingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood.
It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement
for the design for a national gallery. Combining with
taste her remembrance of the edifices which she had
seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing
them with unity of design, she executed the plan which
had been sent to the Protector. She triumphed in the
idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as she was, a
benefit upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride
looked forward to the accomplishment of a work of hers,
which, immortalized in stone, would go down to
posterity stamped with the name of Raymond. She awaited
with eagerness the return of her messenger from the
palace; she listened insatiate to his account of each
word, each look of the Protector; she felt bliss in
this communication with her beloved, although he knew
not to whom he addressed his instructions. The drawing
itself became ineffably dear to her. He had seen it,
and praised it; it was again retouched by her, each
stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music,
and bore to her the idea of a temple raised to
celebrate the deepest and most unutterable emotions of
her soul. These contemplations engaged her, when the
voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once
heard, never to be forgotten; she mastered her gush of
feelings, and welcomed him with quiet gentleness.
Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made
a compromise together. She would see Raymond, since
destiny had led him to her, and her constancy and
devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights with
regard to him, and her cherished independence, should
not be injured by the idea of interest, or the
intervention of the complicated feelings attendant on
pecuniary obligation, and the relative situations of
the benefactor, and benefited. Her mind was of uncommon
strength; she could subdue her sensible wants to her
mental wishes, and suffer cold, hunger and misery,
rather than concede to fortune a contested point. Alas!
that in human nature such a pitch of mental discipline,
and disdainful negligence of nature itself, should not
have been allied to the extreme of moral excellence!
But the resolution that permitted her to resist the
pains of privation, sprung from the too great energy of
her passions; and the concentrated self-will of which
this was a sign, was destined to destroy even the very
idol, to preserve whose respect she submitted to this
detail of wretchedness.
Their intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related
to her friend the whole of her story, the stain her
name had received in Greece, the weight of sin which
had accrued to her from the death of her husband. When
Raymond offered to clear her reputation, and
demonstrate to the world her real patriotism, she
declared that it was only through her present
sufferings that she hoped for any relief to the stings
of conscience; that, in her state of mind, diseased as
he might think it, the necessity of occupation was
salutary medicine; she ended by extorting a promise
that for the space of one month he would refrain from
the discussion of her interests, engaging after that
time to yield in part to his wishes. She could not
disguise to herself that any change would separate her
from him; now she saw him each day. His connection with
Adrian and Perdita was never mentioned; he was to her a
meteor, a companionless star, which at its appointed
hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought
felicity, and which, although it set, was never
eclipsed. He came each day to her abode of penury, and
his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with
sweets, radiant with heaven's own light; he partook of
her delirium. "They built a wall between them and the
world"--Without, a thousand harpies raved, remorse and
misery, expecting the destined moment for their
invasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence,
reckless blindless, deluding joy, hope, whose still
anchor rested on placid but unconstant water.
Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power
and fame, while he looked forward to entire dominion
over the elements and the mind of man, the territory of
his own heart escaped his notice; and from that
unthought of source arose the mighty torrent that
overwhelmed his will, and carried to the oblivious sea,
fame, hope, and happiness.
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER VIII.
IN the mean time what did Perdita?
During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond
and she had been inseparable; each project was
discussed with her, each plan approved by her. I never
beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister.
Her expressive eyes were two stars whose beams were
love; hope and light-heartedness sat on her cloudless
brow. She fed even to tears of joy on the praise and
glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one
sacrifice to him, and if in the humility of her heart
she felt self-complacency, it arose from the
reflection that she had won the distinguished hero of
the age, and had for years preserved him, even after
time had taken from love its usual nourishment. Her own
feeling was as entire as at its birth. Five years had
failed to destroy the dazzling unreality of passion.
Most men ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which
the female heart is wont to adorn the idol of its
affections. Not so Raymond; he was an enchanter, whose
reign was for ever undiminished; a king whose power
never was suspended: follow him through the details of
common life, still the same charm of grace and majesty
adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the innate
deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita
grew in beauty and excellence under his eye; I no
longer recognised my reserved abstracted sister in the
fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond. The
genius that enlightened her countenance, was now united
to an expression of benevolence, which gave divine
perfection to her beauty.
Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of
goodness. Suffering and amiability may exist together,
and writers have loved to depict their conjunction;
there is a human and touching harmony in the picture.
But perfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and
those who possess it, appear angelic. Fear has been
said to be the parent of religion: even of that
religion is it the generator, which leads its votaries
to sacrifice human victims at its altars; but the
religion which springs from happiness is a lovelier
growth; the religion which makes the heart breathe
forth fervent thanksgiving, and causes us to pour out
the overflowings of the soul before the author of our
being; that which is the parent of the imagination and
the nurse of poetry; that which bestows benevolent
intelligence on the visible mechanism of the world, and
makes earth a temple with heaven for its cope. Such
happiness, goodness, and religion inhabited the mind of
Perdita.
During the five years we had spent together, a knot of
happy human beings at Windsor Castle, her blissful lot
had been the frequent theme of my sister's
conversation. From early habit, and natural affection,
she selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be
the partner in her overflowings of delight; perhaps,
though apparently much unlike, some secret point of
resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, induced
this preference. Often at sunset, I have walked with
her, in the sober, enshadowed forest paths, and
listened with joyful sympathy. Security gave dignity to
her passion; the certainty of a full return, left her
with no wish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter,
embryo copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of
her content, and produced a sacred and indissoluble tie
between them. Sometimes she felt proud that he had
preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she
remembered that she had suffered keen anguish, when he
hesitated in his choice. But this memory of past
discontent only served to enhance her present joy. What
had been hardly won, was now, entirely possessed,
doubly dear. She would look at him at a distance with
the same rapture, (O, far more exuberant rapture!) that
one might feel, who after the perils of a tempest,
should find himself in the desired port; she would
hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his arms,
the reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection,
added to the depth of her understanding, and the
brilliancy of her imagination, made her beyond words
dear to Raymond.
If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it
arose from the idea that he was not perfectly happy.
Desire of renown, and presumptuous ambition, had
characterized his youth. The one he had acquired in
Greece; the other he had sacrificed to love. His
intellect found sufficient field for exercise in his
domestic circle, whose members, all adorned by
refinement and literature, were many of them, like
himself, distinguished by genius. Yet active life was
the genuine soil for his virtues; and he
sometimes suffered tedium from the monotonous
succession of events in our retirement. Pride made him
recoil from complaint; and gratitude and affection to
Perdita, generally acted as an opiate to all desire,
save that of meriting her love. We all observed the
visitation of these feelings, and none regretted them
so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a
slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that
sufficient--Did he need any gratification that she was
unable to bestow? This was the only cloud in the azure
of her happiness.
His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He
however attained his wish; he filled the situation for
which nature seemed to have moulded him. His activity
was fed in wholesome measure, without either exhaustion
or satiety; his taste and genius found worthy
expression in each of the modes human beings have
invented to encage and manifest the spirit of beauty;
the goodness of his heart made him never weary of
conducing to the well-being of his fellow-creatures;
his magnificent spirit, and aspirations for the respect
and love of mankind, now received fruition; true, his
exaltation was temporary; perhaps it were better that
it should be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and
defeat await the end of that which would expire at its
maturity. He determined to extract and condense all of
glory, power, and achievement, which might have
resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his
Protectorate.
Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed
would have been devoid of pleasure to him, had it been
unparticipated. But in Perdita he possessed all that
his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to
sympathy; her intelligence made her understand him at a
word; her powers of intellect enabled her to assist and
guide him. He felt her worth. During the early years of
their union, the inequality of her temper, and yet
unsubdued self-will which tarnished her character, had
been a slight drawback to the fulness of his sentiment.
Now that unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance were
added to her other qualifications, his respect equalled
his love. Years added to the strictness of their union.
They did not now guess at, and totter on the pathway,
divining the mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the
continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty
to their emotions, though it did not rob them of their
etherial nature. It had given them a child; but it had
not detracted from the personal attractions of my
sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to
awkwardness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of
manner; frankness, instead of reserve, characterized
her physiognomy; and her voice was attuned to thrilling
softness. She was now three and twenty, in the pride of
womanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and
mother, possessed of all her heart had ever coveted.
Raymond was ten years older; to his previous beauty,
noble mien, and commanding aspect, he now added
gentlest benevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and
unwearied attention to the wishes of another.
The first secret that had existed between them was the
visits of Raymond to Evadne. He had been struck by the
fortitude and beauty of the ill-fated Greek; and, when
her constant tenderness towards him unfolded itself, he
asked with astonishment, by what act of his he had
merited this passionate and unrequited love. She was
for a while the sole object of his reveries; and
Perdita became aware that his thoughts and time were
bestowed on a subject unparticipated by her. My sister
was by nature destitute of the common feelings of
anxious, petulant jealousy. The treasure which she
possessed in the affections of Raymond, was more
necessary to her being, than the life-blood that
animated her veins--more truly than Othello she might
say,
To be once in doubt,
Is--once to be resolved.
On the present occasion she did not suspect any
alienation of affection; but she conjectured that some
circumstance connected with his high place, had
occasioned this mystery. She was startled and pained.
She began to count the long days, and months, and years
which must elapse, before he would be restored to a
private station, and unreservedly to her. She was not
content that, even for a time, he should practice
concealment with her. She often repined; but her trust
in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed;
and, when they were together, unchecked by fear, she
opened her heart to the fullest delight.
Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild
career, paused suddenly to think of consequences. Two
results presented themselves in the view he took of the
future. That his intercourse with Evadne should
continue a secret to, or that finally it should be
discovered by Perdita. The destitute condition, and
highly wrought feelings of his friend prevented him
from adverting to the possibility of exiling himself
from her. In the first event he had bidden an eternal
farewell to open-hearted converse, and entire sympathy
with the companion of his life. The veil must be
thicker than that invented by Turkish jealousy; the
wall higher than the unscaleable tower of Vathek, which
should conceal from her the workings of his heart, and
hide from her view the secret of his actions. This idea
was intolerably painful to him. Frankness and social
feelings were the essence of Raymond's nature; without
them his qualities became common-place; without these
to spread glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his
vaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak
and empty as the rainbow hues which vanish when the sun
is down. But there was no remedy. Genius, devotion, and
courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies
of his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch,
could not roll back one hair's breadth the wheel of
time's chariot; that which had been was written with
the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting
volume of the past; nor could agony and tears suffice
to wash out one iota from the act fulfilled.
But this was the best side of the question. What, if
circumstance should lead Perdita to suspect, and
suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his frame
became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at
this idea. Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read
the future; and the peace of Perdita was too dear to
him, her speechless agony too certain, and too fearful,
not to unman him. His course was speedily decided upon.
If the worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would
neither stand her reproaches, or the anguish of her
altered looks. He would forsake her, England, his
friends, the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming
time, he would seek another country, and in other
scenes begin life again. Having resolved on this, he
became calmer. He endeavoured to guide with prudence
the steeds of destiny through the devious road which he
had chosen, and bent all his efforts the better to
conceal what he could not alter.
The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita
and him, rendered every communication common between
them. They opened each other's letters, even as, until
now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed
to the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it.
Had it contained confirmation, she must have been
annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold, and pale, she
sought Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions
lately presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa
opposite to him, and gazed on him with a look of such
despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans would have
been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to the living
incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her.
At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when
he raised them, he was struck by the wretchedness
manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment he forgot
his own acts and fears, and asked with
consternation--"Dearest girl, what is the matter; what
has happened?"
"Nothing," she replied at first; "and yet not so," she
continued, hurrying on in her speech; "you have
secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately, whom have
you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I
banished from your confidence? Yet this is not it--I do
not intend to entrap you with questions--one will
suffice--am I completely a wretch?"
With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat
white and motionless looking at him while he read it.
He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne, and the
colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he
conceived the contents of the letter; all was now cast
on one die; falsehood and artifice were trifles in
comparison with the impending ruin. He would either
entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or quit her for
ever. "My dear girl," he said, "I have been to blame;
but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong to commence
a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of
sparing you pain; and each day has rendered it more
difficult for me to alter my plan. Besides, I was
instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of
these few lines."
Perdita gasped: "Well," she cried, "well, go on!"
"That is all--this paper tells all. I am placed in the
most difficult circumstances. I have done my best,
though perhaps I have done wrong. My love for you is
inviolate."
Perdita shook her head doubtingly: "It cannot be," she
cried, "I know that it is not. You would deceive me,
but I will not be deceived. I have lost you, myself, my
life!"
"Do you not believe me?" said Raymond haughtily.
"To believe you," she exclaimed, "I would give up all,
and expire with joy, so that in death I could feel that
you were true--but that cannot be!"
"Perdita," continued Raymond, "you do not see the
precipice on which you stand. You may believe that I
did not enter on my present line of conduct without
reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that
your suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my
simple word would cause them to disappear. I built my
hope on your confidence. Do you think that I will be
questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do
you think that I will be suspected, perhaps watched,
cross-questioned, and disbelieved? I am not yet fallen
so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished. You have
loved me; I adored you. But all human
sentiments come to an end. Let our affection
expire--but let it not be exchanged for distrust and
recrimination. Heretofore we have been
friends--lovers--let us not become enemies, mutual
spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion--you
cannot believe me--let us part!"
"Exactly so," cried Perdita, "I knew that it would come
to this! Are we not already parted? Does not a stream,
boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn between us?"
Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features
convulsed, his manner calm as the earthquake-cradling
atmosphere, he replied: "I am rejoiced that you take my
decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play
the part of the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes
you may be stung with the feeling that you have wronged
me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of
the world, the complacency which the consciousness of
your own immaculate innocence will bestow, will be
excellent balm;--me you will never see more!"
Raymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each
word he spoke was false. He personated his assumption
of innocence even to self-deception. Have not actors
wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more
intense feeling of the reality of fiction
possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride; he felt
injured. Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance;
his hand was on the lock of the door. She started up,
she threw herself on his neck, she gasped and sobbed;
he took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down
near her. Her head fell on his shoulder, she trembled,
alternate changes of fire and ice ran through her
limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with softened
accents:
"The blow is given. I will not part from you in
anger;--I owe you too much. I owe you six years of
unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I will not
live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I
love you too well. In an eternal separation only can
either of us hope for dignity and propriety of action.
We shall not then be degraded from our true characters.
Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of
our intercourse;--these lost, let us not cling to the
seedless husk of life, the unkernelled shell. You have
your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian"---
"And you," cried Perdita, "the writer of that letter."
Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of
Raymond. He knew that this accusation at least was
false. "Entertain this belief," he cried, "hug it to
your heart--make it a pillow to your head, an opiate
for your eyes--I am content. But, by the God that made
me, hell is not more false than the word you have
spoken!"
Perdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of
his asseverations. She replied with earnestness, "I do
not refuse to believe you, Raymond; on the contrary I
promise to put implicit faith in your simple word. Only
assure me that your love and faith towards me have
never been violated; and suspicion, and doubt, and
jealousy will at once be dispersed. We shall continue
as we have ever done, one heart, one hope, one life."
"I have already assured you of my fidelity," said
Raymond with disdainful coldness, "triple assertions
will avail nothing where one is despised. I will say no
more; for I can add nothing to what I have already
said, to what you before contemptuously set aside. This
contention is unworthy of both of us; and I confess
that I am weary of replying to charges at once
unfounded and unkind."
Perdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily
averted. There was so much of truth and nature in his
resentment, that her doubts were dispelled. Her
countenance, which for years had not expressed a
feeling unallied to affection, became again radiant and
satisfied. She found it however no easy task to soften
and reconcile Raymond. At first he refused to stay to
hear her. But she would not be put off; secure of his
unaltered love, she was willing to undertake any
labour, use any entreaty, to dispel his anger. She
obtained an hearing, he sat in haughty silence, but he
listened. She first assured him of her boundless
confidence; of this he must be conscious, since but for
that she would not seek to detain him. She enumerated
their years of happiness; she brought before him past
scenes of intimacy and happiness; she pictured their
future life, she mentioned their child--tears unbidden
now filled her eyes. She tried to disperse them, but
they refused to be checked--her utterance was choaked.
She had not wept before. Raymond could not resist these
signs of distress: he felt perhaps somewhat ashamed of
the part he acted of the injured man, he who was in
truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita;
the bend of her head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of
her form were to him subjects of deep tenderness and
admiration; as she spoke, her melodious tones entered
his soul; he soon softened towards her, comforting and
caressing her, and endeavouring to cheat himself into
the belief that he had never wronged her.
Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might
do, who had been just put to the torture, and looked
forward to when it would be again inflicted. He had
sinned against his own honour, by affirming, swearing
to, a direct falsehood; true this he had palmed on a
woman, and it might therefore be deemed less base--by
others--not by him;--for whom had he deceived?--his own
trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita, whose generous
belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade
of innocence with which it had been exacted. The mind
of Raymond was not so rough cast, nor had been so
rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as to make
him proof to these considerations--on the contrary, he
was all nerve; his spirit was as a pure fire, which
fades and shrinks from every contagion of foul
atmosphere: but now the contagion had become
incorporated with its essence, and the change was the
more painful. Truth and falsehood, love and hate lost
their eternal boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle
with hell; while his sensitive mind, turned to a field
for such battle, was stung to madness. He heartily
despised himself, he was angry with Perdita, and the
idea of Evadne was attended by all that was hideous and
cruel. His passions, always his masters, acquired fresh
strength, from the long sleep in which love had cradled
them, the clinging weight of destiny bent him down; he
was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of that worst
of miseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state
yielded by degrees, to sullen animosity, and depression
of spirits. His dependants, even his equals, if in his
present post he had any, were startled to find anger,
derision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished
for suavity and benevolence of manner. He transacted
public business with distaste, and hastened from it to
the solitude which was at once his bane and relief. He
mounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him forward
to victory in Greece; he fatigued himself with
deadening exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled mind
in animal sensation.
He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might
from the effects of poison, he lifted his head from
above the vapours of fever and passion into the still
atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated on what was
best to be done. He was first struck by the space of
time that had elapsed, since madness, rather than any
reasonable impulse, had regulated his actions. A month
had gone by, and during that time he had not seen
Evadne. Her power, which was linked to few of the
enduring emotions of his heart, had greatly decayed. He
was no longer her slave--no longer her lover: he would
never see her more, and by the completeness of his
return, deserve the confidence of Perdita.
Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the
miserable abode of the Greek girl. An abode, which from
noble and lofty principle, she had refused to exchange
for one of greater luxury. He thought of the splendour
of her situation and appearance when he first knew her;
he thought of her life at Constantinople, attended by
every circumstance of oriental magnificence; of her
present penury, her daily task of industry, her lorn
state, her faded, famine-struck cheek. Compassion
swelled his breast; he would see her once again; he
would devise some plan for restoring her to society,
and the enjoyment of her rank; their separation would
then follow, as a matter of course.
Again he thought, how during this long month, he had
avoided Perdita, flying from her as from the stings of
his own conscience. But he was awake now; all this
should be remedied; and future devotion erase the
memory of this only blot on the serenity of their life.
He became cheerful, as he thought of this, and soberly
and resolutely marked out the line of conduct he would
adopt. He remembered that he had promised Perdita to be
present this very evening (the 19th of October,
anniversary of his election as Protector) at a festival
given in his honour. Good augury should this festival
be of the happiness of future years. First, he would
look in on Evadne; he would not stay; but he owed her
some account, some compensation for his long and
unannounced absence; and then to Perdita, to the
forgotten world, to the duties of society, the
splendour of rank, the enjoyment of power.
After the scene sketched in the preceding pages,
Perdita had contemplated an entire change in the
manners and conduct of Raymond. She expected freedom of
communication, and a return to those habits of
affectionate intercourse which had formed the delight
of her life. But Raymond did not join her in any of her
avocations. He transacted the business of the day apart
from her; he went out, she knew not whither. The pain
inflicted by this disappointment was tormenting and
keen. She looked on it as a deceitful dream, and tried
to throw off the consciousness of it; but like the
shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very flesh, and ate
with sharp agony into her vital principle. She
possessed that (though such an assertion may appear a
paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity of happiness.
Her delicate organization and creative imagination
rendered her peculiarly susceptible of pleasurable
emotion. The overflowing warmth of her heart, by making
love a plant of deep root and stately growth, had
attuned her whole soul to the reception of happiness,
when she found in Raymond all that could adorn love and
satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which
the fabric of her existence was founded, became common
place through participation, the endless succession of
attentions and graceful action snapt by transfer, his
universe of love wrested from her, happiness must
depart, and then be exchanged for its opposite. The
same peculiarities of character rendered her sorrows
agonies; her fancy magnified them, her sensibility made
her for ever open to their renewed impression; love
envenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was neither
submission, patience, nor self-abandonment in her
grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath it, and
rendered every pang more sharp by resistance. Again and
again the idea recurred, that he loved another. She did
him justice; she believed that he felt a tender
affection for her; but give a paltry prize to him who
in some life-pending lottery has calculated on the
possession of tens of thousands, and it will disappoint
him more than a blank. The affection and amity of a
Raymond might be inestimable; but, beyond that
affection, embosomed deeper than friendship, was the
indivisible treasure of love. Take the sum in its
completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its
price; take from it the smallest portion, give it but
the name of parts, separate it into degrees and
sections, and like the magician's coin, the valueless
gold of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There
is a meaning in the eye of love; a cadence in its
voice, an irradiation in its smile, the talisman of
whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit is
elemental, its essence single, its divinity an unit.
The very heart and soul of Raymond and Perdita had
mingled, even as two mountain brooks that join in their
descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over shining
pebbles, beside starry flowers; but let one desert its
primal course, or be dammed up by choaking obstruction,
and the other shrinks in its altered banks. Perdita was
sensible of the failing of the tide that fed her life.
Unable to support the slow withering of her hopes, she
suddenly formed a plan, resolving to terminate at once
the period of misery, and to bring to an happy
conclusion the late disastrous events.
The anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of
Raymond to the office of Protector; and it was
customary to celebrate this day by a splendid festival.
A variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double
magnificence over the scene; yet, as she arrayed
herself for the evening gala, she wondered herself at
the pains she took, to render sumptuous the celebration
of an event which appeared to her the beginning of her
sufferings. Woe befall the day, she thought, woe,
tears, and mourning betide the hour, that gave Raymond
another hope than love, another wish than my
devotion; and thrice joyful the moment when he shall be
restored to me! God knows, I put my trust in his vows,
and believe his asserted faith--but for that, I would
not seek what I am now resolved to attain. Shall two
years more be thus passed, each day adding to our
alienation, each act being another stone piled on the
barrier which separates us? No, my Raymond, my only
beloved, sole possession of Perdita! This night, this
splendid assembly, these sumptuous apartments, and this
adornment of your tearful girl, are all united to
celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you
relinquished the prospect of a crown. That was in days
of early love, when I could only hold out the hope, not
the assurance of happiness. Now you have the experience
of all that I can give, the heart's devotion, taintless
love, and unhesitating subjection to you. You must
choose between these and your protectorate. This, proud
noble, is your last night! Perdita has bestowed on it
all of magnificent and dazzling that your heart best
loves--but, from these gorgeous rooms, from this
princely attendance, from power and elevation, you must
return with to-morrow's sun to our rural abode; for I
would not buy an immortality of joy, by the endurance
of one more week sister to the last.
Brooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should
come, to propose, and insist upon its accomplishment,
secure of his consent, the heart of Perdita was
lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was flushed by
the expectation of struggle; her eyes sparkled with the
hope of triumph. Having cast her fate upon a die, and
feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have named as
bearing the stamp of queen of nations on her noble
brow, now rose superior to humanity, and seemed in calm
power, to arrest with her finger, the wheel of destiny.
She had never before looked so supremely lovely.
We, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to
be present at this festivity, but Perdita wrote to
entreat us not to come, or to absent ourselves from
Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her scheme
to us) resolved the next morning to return with Raymond
to our dear circle, there to renew a course of life in
which she had found entire felicity. Late in the
evening she entered the apartments appropriated to the
festival. Raymond had quitted the palace the night
before; he had promised to grace the assembly, but he
had not yet returned. Still she felt sure that he would
come at last; and the wider the breach might appear at
this crisis, the more secure she was of closing it for
ever.
It was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn
was far advanced and dreary. The wind howled; the half
bare trees were despoiled of the remainder of their
summer ornament; the state of the air which induced the
decay of vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or
hope. Raymond had been exalted by the determination he
had made; but with the declining day his spirits
declined. First he was to visit Evadne, and then to
hasten to the palace of the Protectorate. As he walked
through the wretched streets in the neighbourhood of
the luckless Greek's abode, his heart smote him for the
whole course of his conduct towards her. First, his
having entered into any engagement that should permit
her to remain in such a state of degradation; and then,
after a short wild dream, having left her to drear
solitude, anxious conjecture, and bitter,
still--disappointed expectation. What had she done the
while, how supported his absence and neglect? Light
grew dim in these close streets, and when the well
known door was opened, the staircase was shrouded in
perfect night. He groped his way up, he entered the
garret, he found Evadne stretched speechless, almost
lifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people
of the house, but could learn nothing from them, except
that they knew nothing. Her story was plain to him,
plain and distinct as the remorse and horror that
darted their fangs into him. When she found herself
forsaken by him, she lost the heart to pursue her usual
avocations; pride forbade every application to him;
famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of
death, within whose opening folds she should now,
without sin, quickly repose. No creature came near her,
as her strength failed.
If she died, where could there be found on record a
murderer, whose cruel act might compare with his? What
fiend more wanton in his mischief, what damned soul
more worthy of perdition! But he was not reserved for
this agony of self-reproach. He sent for medical
assistance; the hours passed, spun by suspense into
ages; the darkness of the long autumnal night yielded
to day, before her life was secure. He had her then
removed to a more commodious dwelling, and hovered
about her, again and again to assure himself that she
was safe.
In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to
the event, he remembered the festival given in his
honour, by Perdita; in his honour then, when misery and
death were affixing indelible disgrace to his name,
honour to him whose crimes deserved a scaffold; this
was the worst mockery. Still Perdita would expect him;
he wrote a few incoherent words on a scrap of paper,
testifying that he was well, and bade the woman of the
house take it to the palace, and deliver it into the
hands of the wife of the Lord Protector. The woman, who
did not know him, contemptuously asked, how he thought
she should gain admittance, particularly on a festal
night, to that lady's presence? Raymond gave her his
ring to ensure the respect of the menials. Thus, while
Perdita was entertaining her guests, and anxiously
awaiting the arrival of her lord, his ring was brought
her; and she was told that a poor woman had a note to
deliver to her from its wearer.
The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her
commission, which, after all, she did not understand,
since she had no suspicion, even now that Evadne's
visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from
his horse, or some similar accident--till the woman's
answers woke other fears. From a feeling of cunning
blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant
messenger, did not speak of Evadne's illness; but she
garrulously gave an account of Raymond's frequent
visits, adding to her narration such circumstances, as,
while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated
the unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all,
his absence now from the festival, his message wholly
unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints of the
woman, appeared the deadliest insult. Again she looked
at the ring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped,
which she had herself given him. She looked at the
hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and repeated
to herself the words--"Do not, I charge you, I entreat
you, permit your guests to wonder at my absence :" the
while the old crone going on with her talk, filled her
ear with a strange medley of truth and falsehood. At
length Perdita dismissed her.
The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her
presence had not been missed. She glided into a recess
somewhat obscured, and leaning against an ornamental
column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her
faculties were palsied. She gazed on some flowers that
stood near in a carved vase: that morning she had
arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even
now all aghast as she was, she observed their brilliant
colours and starry shapes.--"Divine infoliations of the
spirit of beauty," she exclaimed, "Ye droop not,
neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart,
has not spread contagion over you!--Why am I not a
partner of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm!"
She paused. "To my task," she continued mentally, "my
guests must not perceive the reality, either as it
regards him or me. I obey; they shall not, though I die
the moment they are gone. They shall behold the
antipodes of what is real--for I will appear to
live--while I am--dead." It required all her
self-command, to suppress the gush of tears self-pity
caused at this idea. After many struggles, she
succeeded, and turned to join the company.
All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling
her internal conflict. She had to play the part of a
courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine the focus
of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this, while in
deep woe she sighed for loneliness, and would gladly
have exchanged her crowded rooms for dark forest
depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath. But she
became gay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be,
as was usual with her, placidly content. Every one
remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions
appear graceful in the eye of rank, her guests
surrounded her applaudingly, although there was a
sharpness in her laugh, and an abruptness in her
sallies, which might have betrayed her secret to an
attentive observer. She went on, feeling that, if she
had paused for a moment, the checked waters of misery
would have deluged her soul, that her wrecked hopes
would raise their wailing voices, and that those who
now echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would
have shrunk in fear from her convulsive despair. Her
only consolation during the violence which she did
herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated
clock, and internally count the moments which must
elapse before she could be alone.
At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own
desires, she rallied her guests on their early
departure. One by one they left her--at length she
pressed the hand of her last visitor. "How cold and
damp your hand is," said her friend; "you are over
fatigued, pray hasten to rest." Perdita smiled
faintly--her guest left her; the carriage rolling down
the street assured the final departure. Then, as if
pursued by an enemy, as if wings had been at her feet,
she flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her
attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself
wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even to blood to
suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey to the
vulture of despair, striving not to think, while
multitudinous ideas made a home of her heart; and
ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and poured in
with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle
and wound each other, while they worked her up to
madness.
At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable.
She stood before a large mirror--she gazed on her
reflected image; her light and graceful dress, the
jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her
beauteous arms and neck, her small feet shod in satin,
her profuse and glossy tresses, all were to her clouded
brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame
to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. "Vase am I," she
thought, "vase brimful of despair's direst essence.
Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor girl! never again
will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no
longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may
envy the homeless beggar; most truly am I without a
home! I live on a barren desart, which, wide and
interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in
the midst is a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita,
art chained, and thou seest the dreary level stretch
far away."
She threw open her window, which looked on the
palace-garden. Light and darkness were struggling
together, and the orient was streaked by roseate and
golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the
kindling atmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly
over the dewy plants, rushed into the heated room. "All
things go on," thought Perdita, "all things proceed,
decay, and perish! When noontide has passed, and the
weary day has driven her team to their western stalls,
the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their
accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey
hill. When their course is fulfilled, the dial begins
to cast westward an uncertain shadow; the eye-lids of
day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length
appears, and in majestic procession climbs the capitol
of heaven. All proceeds, changes and dies, except the
sense of misery in my bursting heart.
"Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that
love has journied on to its setting, and that the lord
of my life has changed? We call the supernal lights
fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I
look again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the
eternal heavens is altered. The silly moon and
inconstant planets vary nightly their erratic dance;
the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon
deserts his throne, and leaves his dominion to night
and winter. Nature grows old, and shakes in her
decaying limbs,--creation has become bankrupt! What
wonder then, that eclipse and death have led to
destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!"
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER IX.
THUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor
sister, when she became assured of the infidelity of
Raymond. All her virtues and all her defects tended to
make the blow incurable. Her affection for me, her
brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were
to the reigning passion of her heart; even her maternal
tenderness borrowed half its force from the delight she
had in tracing Raymond's features and expression in the
infant's countenance. She had been reserved and even
stern in childhood; but love had softened the
asperities of her character, and her union with Raymond
had caused her talents and affections to unfold
themselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost, she
in some degree returned to her ancient disposition. The
concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her
blissful dream, awoke, and with its adder's sting
pierced her heart; her humility of spirit augmented the
power of the venom; she had been exalted in her own
estimation, while distinguished by his love: of what
worth was she, now that he thrust her from this
preferment? She had been proud of having won and
preserved him--but another had won him from her, and
her exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember.
We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of
her misfortune. Soon after the festival she had sent
for her child, and then she seemed to have forgotten
us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he
afterward paid them; but he could not tell its extent,
or divine the cause. They still appeared in public
together, and lived under the same roof. Raymond was as
usual courteous, though there was, on occasions, an
unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his
manners, which startled his gentle friend; his brow was
not clouded but disdain sat on his lips, and his voice
was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention to
her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She
had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with
tears. Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to
say--That it should be so! At others her countenance
expressed--I will still do all I can to make you happy.
But Adrian read with uncertain aim the charactery of
her face, and might mistake.--Clara was always with
her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure
corner, she could sit holding her child's hand, silent
and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the truth;
he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they
promised to come during the following month.
It was May before they arrived: the season had decked
the forest trees with leaves, and its paths with a
thousand flowers. We had notice of their intention the
day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived
with her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said;
he had been detained by business. According to Adrian's
account, I had expected to find her sad; but, on the
contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true,
she had grown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and
her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright glow. She
was delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised
their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to
meet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of
childish games were entered into, in which Perdita
joined. She communicated her gaiety to us, and as we
amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared
that a happier, less care-worn party could not have
been assembled. "This is better, Mamma," said Clara,
"than being in that dismal London, where you often cry,
and never laugh as you do now."--"Silence, little
foolish thing," replied her mother, "and remember any
one that mentions London is sent to Coventry for an
hour."
Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual
in the playful spirit of the rest; but, entering into
conversation with Adrian and myself, by degrees we
seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only
remained with the children. Raymond talked of his new
buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the
better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he
entered into argument, and the time slipped away
unperceived.
We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita
insisted on our having recourse to music. She wanted,
she said, to give us a specimen of her new
accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she
had applied herself to music, and sang, without much
power, but with a great deal of sweetness. We were not
permitted by her to select any but light-hearted
melodies; and all the Operas of Mozart were called into
service, that we might choose the most exhilarating of
his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of
Mozart's music, it possesses more than any other that
of appearing to come from the heart; you enter into the
passions expressed by him, and are transported with
grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul's
master, chooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit
of hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita
receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the
trio of" Taci ingiusto core," in Don Giovanni,
whose arch entreaty was softened by him into
tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of the
changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the
self-same sounds and words, which often before she had
received, as the homage of love to her--no longer was
it that; and this concord of sound with its dissonance
of expression penetrated her with regret and despair.
Soon after Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that
passionate and sorrowful air in Figaro, "Porgi,
amor, qualche risforo," in which the deserted
Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva.
The soul of tender sorrow is breathed forth in this
strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by the
mournful chords of her instrument, added to the
expression of the words. During the pathetic appeal
with which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our
attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music
recalled her to herself, she hastened out of the
hall--I followed her. At first, she seemed to wish to
shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning,
she threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:--"Once
more," she cried, "once more on your friendly breast,
my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her
sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and
for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now,
and greater wrong in giving words to my grief. I will
not speak! Be it enough for you to know that I am
miserable--be it enough for you to know, that the
painted veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever
shrouded in darkness and gloom, that grief is my
sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!"
I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her!
but I caressed her, assured her of my deepest affection
and my intense interest in the changes of her
fortune:--"Dear words," she cried, "expressions of love
come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of
forgotten music, that had been dear to me. They are
vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe
or comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I
have suffered during these long months. I have read of
mourners in ancient days, who clothed themselves in
sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their
bread mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on
the bleak mountain tops, reproaching heaven and earth
aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the very
luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day
contriving new extravagances, revelling in the
paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appurtenances
of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the
wretchedness that consumes me. I must weave a veil of
dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes,
smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful
smiles--even in solitude I dare not think how lost I
am, lest I become insane and rave."
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered
her unfit to return to the circle we had left--so I
persuaded her to let me drive her through the park;
and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale
of her unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it
would lighten the burthen, and certain that, if there
were a remedy, it should be found and secured to her.
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the
anniversary, and she had been unable to calm her mind,
or to subdue her thoughts to any regular train.
Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too
bitterly to heart, that which many would esteem an
imaginary evil; but this was no subject for reason;
and, ignorant as she was of the motives and true
conduct of Raymond, things assumed for her even a worse
appearance, than the reality warranted. He was seldom
at the palace; never, but when he was assured that his
public duties would prevent his remaining alone with
Perdita. They seldom addressed each other, shunning
explanation, each fearing any communication the other
might make. Suddenly, however, the manners of Raymond
changed; he appeared to desire to find opportunities of
bringing about a return to kindness and intimacy with
my sister. The tide of love towards her appeared to
flow again; he could never forget, how once he had been
devoted to her, making her the shrine and storehouse
wherein to place every thought and every sentiment.
Shame seemed to hold him back; yet he evidently wished
to establish a renewal of confidence and affection.
From the moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered
herself to form any plan of action, she had laid one
down, which now she prepared to follow. She received
these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did
not shun his company; but she endeavoured to place a
barrier in the way of familiar intercourse or painful
discussion, which mingled pride and shame prevented
Raymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew
signs of angry impatience, and Perdita became aware
that the system she had adopted could not continue; she
must explain herself to him; she could not summon
courage to speak--she wrote thus:--
"Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will
contain no reproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word:
for what should I reproach you?
"Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without
that, we shall both grope in the dark, mistaking one
another; erring from the path which may conduct, one of
us at least, to a more eligible mode of life than that
led by either during the last few weeks.
"I loved you--I love you--neither anger nor pride
dictates these lines; but a feeling beyond, deeper, and
more unalterable than either. My affections are
wounded; it is impossible to heal them:--cease then the
vain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours
tend. Forgiveness! Return! Idle words are these! I
forgive the pain I endure; but the trodden path cannot
be retraced.
"Common affection might have been satisfied with common
usages. I believed that you read my heart, and knew its
devotion, its unalienable fidelity towards you. I never
loved any but you. You came the embodied image of my
fondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high
aspirations attended your career. Love for you invested
the world for me in enchanted light; it was no longer
the earth I trod--the earth, common mother, yielding
only trite and stale repetition of objects and
circumstances old and worn out. I lived in a temple
glorified by intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I
walked, a consecrated being, contemplating only your
power, your excellence;
For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Cloathing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
'The bloom has vanished from my life'--there is no
morning to this all investing night; no rising to the
set-sun of love. In those days the rest of the world
was nothing to me: all other men--I never considered
nor felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one
of them. Separated from them; exalted in my heart; sole
possessor of my affections; single object of my hopes,
the best half of myself.
"Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on
any, who could enjoy its light with purer and more
intense bliss? It was not--it is not a common
infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an
whole which may not have parts; it is the carelessness
with which you have shaken off the mantle of election
with which to me you were invested, and have become one
among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not love a
divinity, because it is immortal? Did not I appear
sanctified, even to myself, because this love had for
its temple my heart? I have gazed on you as you slept,
melted even to tears, as the idea filled my mind, that
all I possessed lay cradled in those idolized, but
mortal lineaments before me. Yet, even then, I have
checked thick-coming fears with one thought; I would
not fear death, for the emotions that linked us must be
immortal.
"And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased
to close my eyes, never more to open them again. And
yet I fear it; even as I fear all things; for in any
state of being linked by the chain of memory with this,
happiness would not return--even in Paradise, I must
feel that your love was less enduring than the mortal
beatings of my fragile heart, every pulse of which
knells audibly,
The funeral note
Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.
No--no--me miserable; for love extinct there is no
resurrection!
"Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute
all I possess to your welfare. On account of a tattling
world; for the sake of my--of our child, I would remain
by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake your
counsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor
can I call myself a friend to any; since, lost as I am,
I have no thought to spare from my own wretched,
engrossing self. But it will please me to see you each
day! to listen to the public voice praising you; to
keep up your paternal love for our girl; to hear your
voice; to know that I am near you, though you are no
longer mine.
"If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the
word, and it shall be done--I will take all the blame
on myself, of harshness or unkindness, in the world's
eye.
"Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at
least for the present, to live under the same roof with
you. When the fever of my young life is spent; when
placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me,
friendship may come, love and hope being dead. May this
be true? Can my soul, inextricably linked to this
perishable frame, become lethargic and cold, even as
this sensitive mechanism shall lose its youthful
elasticity? Then, with lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs,
and wrinkled brow, though now the words sound hollow
and meaningless, then, tottering on the grave's extreme
edge, I may be--your affectionate and true friend,
"PERDITA."
Raymond's answer was brief. What indeed could he reply
to her complaints, to her griefs which she jealously
paled round, keeping out all thought of remedy.
"Notwithstanding your bitter letter," he wrote, "for
bitter I must call it, you are the chief person in my
estimation, and it is your happiness that I would
principally consult. Do that which seems best to you:
and if you can receive gratification from one mode of
life in preference to another, do not let me be any
obstacle. I foresee that the plan which you mark out in
your letter will not endure long; but you are mistress
of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to contribute as
far as you will permit me to your happiness."
"Raymond has prophesied well," said Perdita, "alas,
that it should be so! our present mode of life cannot
continue long, yet I will not be the first to propose
alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has injured
even unto death; and I derive no hope from his
kindness; no change can possibly be brought about even
by his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra have
worn as an ornament the vinegar which contained her
dissolved pearl, as I be content with the love that
Raymond can now offer me."
I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same
eyes as Perdita. At all events methought that the wound
could be healed; and, if they remained together, it
would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and
soften her mind; and it was not until after many
endeavours that I gave up the task as impracticable.
Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with
some asperity:--"Do you think that any of your
arguments are new to me? or that my own burning wishes
and intense anguish have not suggested them all a
thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety
than you can put into them? Lionel, you cannot
understand what woman's love is. In days of happiness I
have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart
and exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for
me. I was a poor, uneducated, unbefriended, mountain
girl, raised from nothingness by him. All that I
possessed of the luxuries of life came from him. He
gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the
world's respect reflected from his own glory: all this
joined to his own undying love, inspired me with
sensations towards him, akin to those with which we
regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I
devoted myself to him: imperfect creature that I was, I
took myself to task, that I might become worthy of him.
I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my burning
impatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing
thoughts, educating myself to the best perfection I
might attain, that the fruit of my exertions might be
his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He
deserved it all--all labour, all devotion, all
sacrifice; I would have toiled up a scaleless Alp, to
pluck a flower that would please him. I was ready to
quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to
live only with him, for him. I could not do otherwise,
even if I had wished; for if we are said to have two
souls, he was my better soul, to which the other was a
perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even
fidelity. I earned that; I deserved it. Because I was
mountain bred, unallied to the noble and wealthy, shall
he think to repay me by an empty name and station? Let
him take them back; without his love they are nothing
to me. Their only merit in my eyes was that they were
his."
Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to
the question of their entire separation, she replied:
"Be it so! One day the period will arrive; I know it,
and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect
companionship, and our masquerade of union, are
strangely dear to me. It is painful, I allow,
destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual
fever in my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is
instinct with poison. Yet I must cling to it; perhaps
it will kill me soon, and thus perform a thankful
office."
In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and
Idris. He was naturally frank; the continued absence of
Perdita and myself became remarkable; and Raymond soon
found relief from the constraint of months, by an
unreserved confidence with his two friends. He related
to them the situation in which he had found Evadne. At
first, from delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name;
but it was divulged in the course of his narrative, and
her former lover heard with the most acute agitation
the history of her sufferings. Idris had shared
Perdita's ill opinion of the Greek; but Raymond's
account softened and interested her. Evadne's
constancy, fortitude, even her ill-fated and
ill-regulated love, were matter of admiration and pity;
especially when, from the detail of the events of the
nineteenth of October, it was apparent that she
preferred suffering and death to any in her eyes
degrading application for the pity and assistance of
her lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish this
interest. At first, relieved from famine and the grave,
watched over by Raymond with the tenderest assiduity,
with that feeling of repose peculiar to convalescence,
Evadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love.
But reflection returned with health. She questioned him
with regard to the motives which had occasioned his
critical absence. She framed her enquiries with Greek
subtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision
and firmness peculiar to her disposition. She could not
divine, that the breach which she had occasioned
between Raymond and Perdita was already irreparable:
but she knew, that under the present system it would be
widened each day, and that its result must be to
destroy her lover's happiness, and to implant the fangs
of remorse in his heart. From the moment that she
perceived the right line of conduct, she resolved to
adopt it, and to part from Raymond for ever.
Conflicting passions, long-cherished love, and
self-inflicted disappointment, made her regard death
alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. But the same
feelings and opinions which had before restrained her,
acted with redoubled force; for she knew that the
reflection that he had occasioned her death, would
pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every enjoyment,
clouding every prospect. Besides, though the violence
of her anguish made life hateful, it had not yet
produced that monotonous, lethargic sense of changeless
misery which for the most part produces suicide. Her
energy of character induced her still to combat with
the ills of life; even those attendant on hopeless love
presented themselves, rather in the shape of an
adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she
must submit. Besides, she had memories of past
tenderness to cherish, smiles, words, and even tears,
to con over, which, though remembered in desertion and
sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of
the grave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of
her plan. Her letter to Raymond gave no clue for
discovery; it assured him, that she was in no danger of
wanting the means of life; she promised in it to
preserve herself, and some future day perhaps to
present herself to him in a station not unworthy of
her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of despair
and of unalterable love, a last farewell.
All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and
Idris. Raymond then lamented the cureless evil of his
situation with Perdita. He declared, notwithstanding
her harshness, he even called it coldness, that he
loved her. He had been ready once with the humility of
a penitent, and the duty of a vassal, to surrender
himself to her; giving up his very soul to her
tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her bondsman.
She had rejected these advances; and the time for such
exuberant submission, which must be founded on love and
nourished by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes
and endeavours were directed towards her peace, and his
chief discomfort arose from the perception that he
exerted himself in vain. If she were to continue
inflexible in the line of conduct she now pursued, they
must part. The combinations and occurrences of this
senseless mode of intercourse were maddening to him.
Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted
by the fear of causing the death of one or other of the
beings implicated in these events; and he could not
persuade himself to undertake to direct the course of
events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he
should lead those attached to the car into irremediable
ruin.
After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for
several hours, he took leave of his friends, and
returned to town, unwilling to meet Perdita before us,
conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts uppermost
in the minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him
with her child. Idris endeavoured to persuade her to
remain. My poor sister looked at the counsellor with
affright. She knew that Raymond had conversed with her;
had he instigated this request?--was this to be the
prelude to their eternal separation?--I have said, that
the defects of her character awoke and acquired vigour
from her unnatural position. She regarded with
suspicion the invitation of Idris; she embraced me, as
if she were about to be deprived of my affection also:
calling me her more than brother, her only friend, her
last hope, she pathetically conjured me not to cease to
love her; and with encreased anxiety she departed for
London, the scene and cause of all her misery.
The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had
not yet fathomed the obscure gulph into which she had
plunged. Her unhappiness assumed every day a new shape;
every day some unexpected event seemed to close, while
in fact it led onward, the train of calamities which
now befell her.
The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was
ambition. Readiness of talent, a capacity of entering
into, and leading the dispositions of men; earnest
desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of
his ambition. But other ingredients mingled with these,
and prevented him from becoming the calculating,
determined character, which alone forms a successful
hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his
first movements; harsh and reckless when provoked.
Above all, he was remorseless and unyielding in the
pursuit of any object of desire, however lawless. Love
of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
nature, made a prominent part of his character,
conquering the conqueror; holding him in at the moment
of acquisition; sweeping away ambition's web; making
him forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of one
moment's indulgence of the new and actual object of his
wishes. Obeying these impulses, he had become the
husband of Perdita: egged on by them, he found himself
the lover of Evadne. He had now lost both. He had
neither the ennobling self-gratulation, which constancy
inspires, to console him, nor the voluptuous sense of
abandonment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion.
His heart was exhausted by the recent events; his
enjoyment of life was destroyed by the resentment of
Perdita, and the flight of Evadne; and the
inflexibility of the former, set the last seal upon the
annihilation of his hopes. As long as their disunion
remained a secret, he cherished an expectation of
re-awakening past tenderness in her bosom; now that we
were all made acquainted with these occurrences, and
that Perdita, by declaring her resolves to others, in a
manner pledged herself to their accomplishment, he gave
up the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only,
since he was unable to influence her to change, to
reconcile himself to the present state of things. He
made a vow against love and its train of struggles,
disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual
enjoyment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of
passion.
Debasement of character is the certain follower of such
pursuits. Yet this consequence would not have been
immediately remarkable, if Raymond had continued to
apply himself to the execution of his plans for the
public benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as
Protector. But, extreme in all things, given up to
immediate impressions, he entered with ardour into this
new pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the
incongruous intimacies occasioned by it without
reflection or foresight. The council-chamber was
deserted; the crowds which attended on him as agents to
his various projects were neglected. Festivity, and
even libertinism, became the order of the day.
Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder.
For a moment she thought that she could stem the
torrent, and that Raymond could be induced to hear
reason from her.--Vain hope! The moment of her
influence was passed. He listened with haughtiness,
replied disdainfully; and, if in truth, she succeeded
in awakening his conscience, the sole effect was that
he sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot.
With the energy natural to her, Perdita then
endeavoured to supply his place. Their still apparent
union permitted her to do much; but no woman could, in
the end, present a remedy to the encreasing negligence
of the Protector; who, as if seized with a paroxysm of
insanity, trampled on all ceremony, all order, all
duty, and gave himself up to license.
Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we
were undecided what method to adopt to restore our
friend to himself and his country, when Perdita
suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress
of the mournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself
to go up to London, and endeavour to remedy the
encreasing evil:--"Tell him," she cried, "tell Lord
Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him.
That he need not plunge into this destructive
dissipation for the sake of disgusting me, and causing
me to fly. This purpose is now accomplished; he will
never see me more. But let me, it is my last entreaty,
let me in the praises of his countrymen and the
prosperity of England, find the choice of my youth
justified."
During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and
argued upon Raymond's conduct, and his falling off from
the hopes of permanent excellence on his part, which he
had before given us cause to entertain. My friend and I
had both been educated in one school, or rather I was
his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
principle was the only road to honour; a ceaseless
observance of the laws of general utility, the only
conscientious aim of human ambition. But though we both
entertained these ideas, we differed in their
application. Resentment added also a sting to my
censure; and I reprobated Raymond's conduct in severe
terms. Adrian was more benign, more considerate. He
admitted that the principles that I laid down were the
best; but he denied that they were the only ones.
Quoting the text, there are many mansions in my
father's house, he insisted that the modes of
becoming good or great, varied as much as the
dispositions of men, of whom it might be said, as of
the leaves of the forest, there were no two alike.
We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We
conjectured, notwithstanding what we had heard, that we
should find Raymond in St. Stephen's: thither we sped.
The chamber was full--but there was no Protector; and
there was an austere discontent manifest on the
countenances of the leaders, and a whispering and busy
tattle among the underlings, not less ominous. We
hastened to the palace of the Protectorate. We found
Raymond in his dining room with six others: the bottle
was being pushed about merrily, and had made
considerable inroads on the understanding of one or
two. He who sat near Raymond was telling a story, which
convulsed the rest with laughter.
Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into
the spirit of the hour, his natural dignity never
forsook him. He was gay, playful, fascinating--but
never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the
respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I
own, that considering the task which Raymond had taken
on himself as Protector of England, and the cares to
which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly
provoked to observe the worthless fellows on whom his
time was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken spirit
which seemed on the point of robbing him of his better
self. I stood watching the scene, while Adrian flitted
like a shadow in among them, and, by a word and look of
sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly.
Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him,
declaring that he should make one in the festivity of
the night.
This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that
he should sit at the same table with the companions of
Raymond--men of abandoned characters, or rather without
any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the disgrace of
their country. "Let me entreat Adrian," I cried, "not
to comply: rather join with me in endeavouring to
withdraw Lord Raymond from this scene, and restore him
to other society."
"My good fellow," said Raymond, "this is neither the
time nor place for the delivery of a moral lecture:
take my word for it that my amusements and society are
not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or
fools--for the rest, 'Dost thou think because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?'"
I turned angrily away: "Verney," said Adrian, "you are
very cynical: sit down; or if you will not, perhaps, as
you are not a frequent visitor, Lord Raymond will
humour you, and accompany us, as we had previously
agreed upon, to parliament."
Raymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity
only in his gentle lineaments; he turned to me,
observing with scorn my moody and stern demeanour.
"Come," said Adrian, "I have promised for you, enable
me to keep my engagement. Come with us."-- Raymond made
an uneasy movement, and laconically replied--"I won't!"
The party in the mean time had broken up. They looked
at the pictures, strolled into the other apartments,
talked of billiards, and one by one vanished. Raymond
strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to
receive and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned
against the wall. "This is infinitely ridiculous," he
cried, "if you were school-boys, you could not conduct
yourselves more unreasonably."
"You do not understand," said Raymond. "This is only
part of a system:--a scheme of tyranny to which I will
never submit. Because I am Protector of England, am I
to be the only slave in its empire? My privacy invaded,
my actions censured, my friends insulted? But I will
get rid of the whole together.--Be you witnesses," and
he took the star, insignia of office, from his
breast, and threw it on the table. "I renounce my
office, I abdicate my power--assume it who will!"---
"Let him assume it," exclaimed Adrian, "who can
pronounce himself, or whom the world will pronounce to
be your superior. There does not exist the man in
England with adequate presumption. Know yourself,
Raymond, and your indignation will cease; your
complacency return. A few months ago, whenever we
prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own,
we at the same time prayed for the life and welfare of
the Protector, as indissolubly linked to it. Your hours
were devoted to our benefit, your ambition was to
obtain our commendation. You decorated our towns with
edifices, you bestowed on us useful establishments, you
gifted the soil with abundant fertility. The powerful
and unjust cowered at the steps of your judgment-seat,
and the poor and oppressed arose like morn-awakened
flowers under the sunshine of your protection.
"Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when
this appears changed? But, come, this splenetic fit is
already passed; resume your functions; your partizans
will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our love,
honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you.
Master yourself, Raymond, and the world is subject to
you."
"All this would be very good sense, if addressed to
another," replied Raymond, moodily, "con the lesson
yourself, and you, the first peer of the land, may
become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just,
may rule all hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my
own happiness, too late for England's good, that I
undertook a task to which I am unequal. I cannot rule
myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse
my tyrant. Do you think that I renounced the
Protectorate (and I have renounced it) in a fit of
spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never to take up
that bauble again; never again to burthen myself with
the weight of care and misery, of which that is the
visible sign.
"Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of
youth, in the pride of boyish folly. I knew myself when
I renounced it. I renounced it to gain--no matter
what--for that also I have lost. For many months I have
submitted to this mock majesty--this solemn jest. I am
its dupe no longer. I will be free.
"I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life;
that which linked me to other men. Again I am a
solitary man; and I will become again, as in my early
years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My friends,
for Verney, I feel that you are my friend, do not
endeavour to shake my resolve. Perdita, wedded to an
imagination, careless of what is behind the veil, whose
charactery is in truth faulty and vile, Perdita has
renounced me. With her it was pretty enough to play a
sovereign's part; and, as in the recesses of your
beloved forest we acted masques, and imagined ourselves
Arcadian shepherds, to please the fancy of the
moment--so was I content, more for Perdita's sake than
my own, to take on me the character of one of the great
ones of the earth; to lead her behind the scenes of
grandeur, to vary her life with a short act of
magnificence and power. This was to be the colour; love
and confidence the substance of our existence. But we
must live, and not act our lives; pursuing the shadow,
I lost the reality--now I renounce both.
"Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become
again a soldier, perhaps a conqueror. Will you
accompany me? You will behold new scenes; see a new
people; witness the mighty struggle there going forward
between civilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps
direct the efforts of a young and vigorous population,
for liberty and order. Come with me. I have expected
you. I waited for this moment; all is prepared;--will
you accompany me?"
"I will," replied Adrian.
"Immediately?"
"To-morrow if you will."
"Reflect!" I cried.
"Wherefore?" asked Raymond--"My dear fellow, I have
done nothing else than reflect on this step the
live-long summer; and be assured that Adrian has
condensed an age of reflection into this little moment.
Do not talk of reflection; from this moment I abjure
it; this is my only happy moment during a long interval
of time. I must go, Lionel--the Gods will it; and I
must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion,
the out-cast's friend.
"One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a
time, I thought that, by watching a complying moment,
fostering the still warm ashes, I might relume in her
the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than a
fire left by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers
crowned by a pyramid of snow. Then, in endeavouring to
do violence to my own disposition, I made all worse
than before. Still I think, that time, and even
absence, may restore her to me. Remember, that I love
her still, that my dearest hope is that she will again
be mine. I know, though she does not, how false the
veil is which she has spread over the reality--do not
endeavour to rend this deceptive covering, but by
degrees withdraw it. Present her with a mirror, in
which she may know herself; and, when she is an adept
in that necessary but difficult science, she will
wonder at her present mistake, and hasten to restore to
me, what is by right mine, her forgiveness, her kind
thoughts, her love."
[Vol. I]
THE LAST MAN
CHAPTER X.
AFTER these events, it was long before we were able to
attain any degree of composure. A moral tempest had
wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we, remnants
of the diminished crew, were aghast at the losses and
changes which we had undergone. Idris passionately
loved her brother, and could ill brook an absence
whose duration was uncertain; his society was dear and
necessary to me--I had followed up my chosen literary
occupations with delight under his tutorship and
assistance; his mild philosophy, unerring reason, and
enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the
exalted spirit of our circle; even the children
bitterly regretted the loss of their kind playfellow.
Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment,
by day and night she figured to herself the toils and
dangers of the wanderers. Raymond absent, struggling
with difficulties, lost to the power and rank of the
Protectorate, exposed to the perils of war, became an
object of anxious interest; not that she felt any
inclination to recall him, if recall must imply a
return to their former union. Such return she felt to
be impossible; and while she believed it to be thus,
and with anguish regretted that so it should be, she
continued angry and impatient with him, who occasioned
her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused her
to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce
her in person and in mind to the shadow of what she had
been. She sought solitude, and avoided us when in
gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a family
circle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and
solemn music were her only pastimes. She neglected even
her child; shutting her heart against all tenderness,
she grew reserved towards me, her first and fast
friend.
I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself
to remedy the evil--remediless I knew, if I could not
in the end bring her to reconcile herself to Raymond.
Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion
to induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one
with a gush of tears--telling me that to be
persuaded--life and the goods of life were a cheap
exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the
capacity; again and again she declared, it were as easy
to enchain the sea, to put reins on the wind's viewless
courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit
for honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding
love. She answered my reasonings more briefly,
declaring with disdain, that the reason was hers; and,
until I could persuade her that the past could be
unacted, that maturity could go back to the cradle, and
that all that was could become as though it had never
been, it was useless to assure her that no real change
had taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride
she suffered him to go, though her very heart-strings
cracked at the fulfilling of the act, which rent from
her all that made life valuable.
To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves,
all unhinged by the cloud that had come over us, I
persuaded my two remaining companions that it were
better that we should absent ourselves for a time from
Windsor. We visited the north of England, my native
Ulswater, and lingered in scenes dear from a thousand
associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland,
that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence
we crossed to Ireland, and passed several weeks in the
neighbourhood of Killarney. The change of scene
operated to a great degree as I expected; after a
year's absence, Perdita returned in gentler and more
docile mood to Windsor. The first sight of this place
for a time unhinged her. Here every spot was distinct
with associations now grown bitter. The forest glades,
the ferny dells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated and
cheerful country spread around the silver pathway of
ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one
choral voice, inspired by memory, instinct with
plaintive regret.
But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of
her own situation, did not end here. Perdita was still
to a great degree uneducated. When first she left her
peasant life, and resided with the elegant and
cultivated Evadne, the only accomplishment she brought
to any perfection was that of painting, for which she
had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had
occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted
her Greek friend's protection. Her pallet and easel
were now thrown aside; did she try to paint, thronging
recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with
tears. With this occupation she gave up almost every
other; and her mind preyed upon itself almost to
madness.
For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me
from my selvatic wilderness to his own paradise of
order and beauty, I had been wedded to literature. I
felt convinced that however it might have been in
former times, in the present stage of the world, no
man's faculties could be developed, no man's moral
principle be enlarged and liberal, without an extensive
acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place
of an active career, of ambition, and those palpable
excitements necessary to the multitude. The collation
of philosophical opinions, the study of historical
facts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my
recreation, and the serious aim of my life. I turned
author myself. My productions however were sufficiently
unpretending; they were confined to the biography of
favourite historical characters, especially those whom
I believed to have been traduced, or about whom clung
obscurity and doubt.
As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies
and pleasures. I found another and a valuable link to
enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my point of sight
was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of
all human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings
have been called the fathers of their people. Suddenly
I became as it were the father of all mankind.
Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to
enrich the treasure house of man's intellectual
possessions; each sentiment was a precious gift I
bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be
attributed to vanity. They were not expressed in words,
nor even reduced to form in my own mind; but they
filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of
enthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which
I before walked, into the bright noon-enlightened
highway of mankind, making me, citizen of the world, a
candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the
praise and sympathy of my fellow men.
No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of
composition more intensely than I. If I left the woods,
the solemn music of the waving branches, and the
majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of
the Castle, and looked over wide, fertile England,
spread beneath our regal mount, and listened the while
to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn
harmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my
lagging thoughts, permitting them, methought, to
penetrate the last veil of nature and her God, and to
display the highest beauty in visible expression to the
understandings of men. As the music went on, my ideas
seemed to quit their mortal dwelling house; they shook
their pinions and began a flight, sailing on the placid
current of thought, filling the creation with new
glory, and rousing sublime imagery that else had slept
voiceless. Then I would hasten to my desk, weave the
new-found web of mind in firm texture and brilliant
colours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a
calmer moment.
But this account, which might as properly belong to a
former period of my life as to the present moment,
leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I took in
literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from
it, that made me eager to lead Perdita to the same
pursuits. I began with light hand and gentle
allurement; first exciting her curiosity, and then
satisfying it in such a way as might occasion her, at
the same time that she half forgot her sorrows in
occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a
reaction of benevolence and toleration.
Intellectual activity, though not directed towards
books, had always been my sister's characteristic. It
had been displayed early in life, leading her out to
solitary musing among her native mountains, causing her
to form innumerous combinations from common objects,
giving strength to her perceptions, and swiftness to
their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod of the
master-prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity.
Love had doubled all her excellencies, and placed a
diadem on her genius. Was she to cease to love? Take
the colours and odour from the rose, change the sweet
nutriment of mother's milk to gall and poison; as
easily might you wean Perdita from love. She grieved
for the loss of Raymond with an anguish, that exiled
all smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her
brow of beauty. But each day seemed to change the
nature of her suffering, and every succeeding hour
forced her to alter (if so I may style it) the fashion
of her soul's mourning garb. For a time music was able
to satisfy the cravings of her mental hunger, and her
melancholy thoughts renewed themselves in each change
of key, and varied with every alteration in the strain.
My schooling first impelled her towards books; and, if
music had been the food of sorrow, the productions of
the wise became its medicine.
The acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an
occupation, for one who referred every expression to
the universe within, and read not, as many do, for the
mere sake of filling up time; but who was still
questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea
in a thousand ways, ardently desirous for the discovery
of truth in every sentence. She sought to improve her
understanding; mechanically her heart and dispositions
became soft and gentle under this benign discipline.
After awhile she discovered, that amidst all her newly
acquired knowledge, her own character, which formerly
she fancied that she thoroughly understood, became the
first in rank among the terrae incognitae, the pathless
wilds of a country that had no chart. Erringly and
strangely she began the task of self-examination with
self-condemnation. And then again she became aware of
her own excellencies, and began to balance with juster
scales the shades of good and evil. I, who longed
beyond words, to restore her to the happiness it was
still in her power to enjoy, watched with anxiety the
result of these internal proceedings.
But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his
forces like that of an engine; and, though an impulse
draw with a forty-horse power at what appears willing
to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the
movement is not effected. Neither grief, philosophy,
nor love could make Perdita think with mildness of the
dereliction of Raymond. She now took pleasure in my
society; towards Idris she felt and displayed a full
and affectionate sense of her worth--she restored to
her child in abundant measure her tenderness and care.
But I could discover, amidst all her repinings, deep
resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense of
injury, that plucked from me my hope, when I appeared
nearest to its fulfilment. Among other painful
restrictions, she has occasioned it to become a law
among us, never to mention Raymond's name before her.
She refused to read any communications from Greece,
desiring me only to mention when any arrived, and
whether the wanderers were well. It was curious that
even little Clara observed this law towards her mother.
This lovely child was nearly eight years of age.
Formerly she had been a light-hearted infant, fanciful,
but gay and childish. After the departure of her
father, thought became impressed on her young brow.
Children, unadepts in language, seldom find words to
express their thoughts, nor could we tell in what
manner the late events had impressed themselves on her
mind. But certainly she had made deep observations
while she noted in silence the changes that passed
around her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita,
she appeared half afraid when she spoke of him to me,
and though I tried to draw her out on the subject, and
to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas
concerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign
post-day she watched for the arrival of letters-- knew
the post mark, and watched me as I read. I found her
often poring over the article of Greek intelligence in
the newspaper.
There is no more painful sight than that of untimely
care in children, and it was particularly observable in
one whose disposition had heretofore been mirthful. Yet
there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara,
that your admiration was excited; and if the moods of
mind are calculated to paint the cheek with beauty, and
endow motions with grace, surely her contemplations
must have been celestial; since every lineament was
moulded into loveliness, and her motions were more
harmonious than the elegant boundings of the fawns of
her native forest. I sometimes expostulated with
Perdita on the subject of her reserve; but she rejected
my counsels, while her daughter's sensibility excited
in her a tenderness still more passionate.
After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned
from Greece.
When our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in
existence between the Turks and Greeks; a truce that
was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal of renewed
activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia,
with all of warlike stores, ships, and military
engines, that wealth and power could command, the Turks
at once resolved to crush an enemy, which creeping on
by degrees, had from their stronghold in the Morea,
acquired Thrace and Macedonia, and had led their armies
even to the gates of Constantinople, while their
extensive commercial relations gave every European
nation an interest in their success. Greece prepared
for a vigorous resistance; it rose to a man; and the
women, sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred
their sons for the war, and bade them conquer or die
with the spirit of the Spartan mother. The talents and
courage of Raymond were highly esteemed among the
Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her
own, and by giving him the command of her peculiar
division in the army, the commander-in-chief only
possessed superior power. He was numbered among her
citizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian
heroes. His judgment, activity, and consummate bravery,
justified their choice. The Earl of Windsor became a
volunteer under his friend.
"It is well," said Adrian, "to prate of war in these
pleasant shades, and with much ill-spent oil make a
show of joy, because many thousand of our
fellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and
natal earth. I shall not be suspected of being averse
to the Greek cause; I know and feel its necessity; it
is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it
with my sword, and was willing that my spirit should be
breathed out in its defence; freedom is of more worth
than life, and the Greeks do well to defend their
privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves.
The Turks are men; each fibre, each limb is as feeling
as our own, and every spasm, be it mental or bodily, is
as truly felt in a Turk's heart or brain, as in a
Greek's. The last action at which I was present was the
taking of ---- . The Turks resisted to the last, the
garrison perished on the ramparts, and we entered by
assault. Every breathing creature within the walls was
massacred. Think you, amidst the shrieks of violated
innocence and helpless infancy, I did not feel in every
nerve the cry of a fellow being? They were men and
women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans, and
when they rise turbanless from the grave, in what
except their good or evil actions will they be the
better or worse than we? Two soldiers contended for a
girl, whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the
brutal appetites of these wretches, who, perhaps good
men among their families, were changed by the fury of
the moment into incarnated evils. An old man, with a
silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be her
grandfather, interposed to save her; the battle axe of
one of them clove his skull. I rushed to her defence,
but rage made them blind and deaf; they did not
distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words--words
were blunt weapons then, for while war cried "havoc,"
and murder gave fit echo, how could I--
Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong
With mild accost of soothing eloquence?
One of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck
me with his bayonet in the side, and I fell senseless.
"This wound will probably shorten my life, having
shattered a frame, weak of itself. But I am content to
die. I have learnt in Greece that one man, more or
less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to
fill up the thinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the
identity of an individual may be overlooked, so that
the muster roll contain its full numbers. All this has
a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to
contemplate the ideal of war, while I am sensible only
to its realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can
influence the blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist
their propensities vainly. The cause is simple. Burke
has said that, 'in all bodies those who would lead,
must also, in a considerable degree, follow.'--I cannot
follow; for I do not sympathize in their dreams of
massacre and glory--to follow and to lead in such a
career, is the natural bent of Raymond's mind. He is
always successful, and bids fair, at the same time that
he acquires high name and station for himself, to
secure liberty, probably extended empire, to the
Greeks."
Perdita's mind was not softened by this account. He,
she thought, can be great and happy without me. Would
that I also had a career! Would that I could freight
some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and
desires, and launch it forth into the ocean of
life--bound for some attainable point, with ambition or
pleasure at the helm! But adverse winds detain me on
shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water's edge and
weep. But my nerveless hands can neither fell the
trees, nor smooth the planks. Under the influence of
these melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in
love with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presence did some good;
he at once broke through the law of silence observed
concerning Raymond. At first she started from the
unaccustomed sound; soon she got used to it and to love
it, and she listened with avidity to the account of his
achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint;
Adrian and she had been old playfellows; and now, as
they walked or rode together, he yielded to her earnest
entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time, some
tale of her father's bravery, munificence, or justice.
Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating
tidings from Greece. The presence of a friend in its
armies and councils made us enter into the details with
enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from
Raymond told us how he was engrossed by the interests
of his adopted country. The Greeks were strongly
attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have
been satisfied with their present acquisitions, had not
the Turks roused them by invasion. The patriots were
victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; and
already they looked on Constantinople as their own.
Raymond rose perpetually in their estimation; but one
man held a superior command to him in their armies. He
was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position
in a battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the
banks of the Hebrus, which was to decide the fate of
Islam. The Mahometans were defeated, and driven
entirely from the country west of this river. The
battle was sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently
irreparable; the Greeks, in losing one man, forgot the
nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody field, and they
ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them--Raymond.
At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of
cavalry, and pursued the fugitives even to the banks of
the Hebrus. His favourite horse was found grazing by
the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question
whether he had fallen among the unrecognized; but no
broken ornament or stained trapping betrayed his fate.
It was suspected that the Turks, finding themselves
possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to
satisfy their cruelty rather than their avarice, and
fearful of the interference of England, had come to the
determination of concealing for ever the cold-blooded
murder of the soldier they most hated and feared in the
squadrons of their enemy.
Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of
the Protectorate had caused an unexampled sensation;
and, when his magnificent and manly system was
contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding
politicians, the period of his elevation was referred
to with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name,
joined to most honourable testimonials, in the Greek
gazettes, kept up the interest he had excited. He
seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his untimely
loss eclipsed the world, and shewed forth the remnant
of mankind with diminished lustre. They clung with
eagerness to the hope held out that he might yet be
alive. Their minister at Constantinople was urged to
make the necessary perquisitions, and should his
existence be ascertained, to demand his release. It was
to be hoped that their efforts would succeed, and that
though now a prisoner, the sport of cruelty and the
mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and
restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he
deserved.
The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was
striking. She never for a moment credited the story of
his death; she resolved instantly to go to Greece.
Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she
would endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced
for a truth, that, if argument or entreaty can turn any
one from a desperate purpose, whose motive and end
depends on the strength of the affections only, then it
is right so to turn them, since their docility shews,
that neither the motive nor the end were of sufficient
force to bear them through the obstacles attendant on
their undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof
against expostulation, this very steadiness is an omen
of success; and it becomes the duty of those who love
them, to assist in smoothing the obstructions in their
path. Such sentiments actuated our little circle.
Finding Perdita immoveable, we consulted as to the best
means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone
to a country where she had no friends, where she might
arrive only to hear the dreadful news, which must
overwhelm her with grief and remorse. Adrian, whose
health had always been weak, now suffered considerable
aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound.
Idris could not endure to leave him in this state; nor
was it right either to quit or take with us a young
family for a journey of this description. I resolved at
length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my
Idris was painful--but necessity reconciled us to it in
some degree: necessity and the hope of saving Raymond,
and restoring him again to happiness and Perdita. No
delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our
determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked.
The season was May, the weather stormless; we were
promised a prosperous voyage. Cherishing the most
fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw with
delight the receding shore of Britain, and on the wings
of desire outspeeded our well filled sails towards the
South. The light curling waves bore us onward, and old
ocean smiled at the freight of love and hope committed
to his charge; it stroked gently its tempestuous
plains, and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night
the wind right aft, gave steady impulse to our
keel--nor did rough gale, or treacherous sand, or
destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my
sister and the land which was to restore her to her
first beloved,
Her dear heart's confessor--a heart within that heart.
END OF VOL. I.