[Volume II]

THE LAST MAN

CHAPTER I.

DURING this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed
on deck, watching the glancing of the waves and the
changeful appearances of the sky, I discovered the
total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had
wrought in the mind of my sister. Were they the same
waters of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice,
repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen
chains, flowed through the regions of her soul in
gushing and grateful exuberance? She did not believe
that he was dead, but she knew that he was in danger,
and the hope of assisting in his liberation, and the
idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that he might
have undergone, elevated and harmonized the late
jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as
she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
sanguine, but secure; and the expectation of seeing the
lover she had banished, the husband, friend, heart's
companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt
her senses in delight, her mind in placidity. It was
beginning life again; it was leaving barren sands for
an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour after a
tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy
waking from a terrible dream.  

Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not
well understand what was going forward. She heard that
we were bound for Greece, that she would see her
father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of
him to her mother.
 
On landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease
upon us: nor could the storied earth or balmy
atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure,
while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had
ever excited so strong an interest in the public mind;
this was apparent even among the phlegmatic English,
from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had
expected their hero to return in triumph; the women had
taught their children to lisp his name joined to
thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage, his
devotion to their cause, made him appear in their eyes
almost as one of the ancient deities of the soil
descended from their native Olympus to defend them.
When they spoke of his probable death and certain
captivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even as the
women of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and
mothers of Greece lament our English Raymond--Athens
was a city of mourning.  
     
All these shews of despair struck Perdita with
affright. With that sanguine but confused expectation,
which desire engendered while she was at a distance
from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of
instantaneous change, when she should set her foot on
Grecian shores. She fancied that Raymond would already
be free, and that her tender attentions would come to
entirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance.
But his fate was still uncertain; she began to fear the
worst, and to feel that her soul's hope was cast on a
chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely
child of Lord Raymond became objects of intense
interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were
besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his
restoration; all these circumstances added to the
dismay and fears of Perdita.
 
My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left
Athens, and joined the army stationed at Kishan in
Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon discovered
the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner,
suffering the most rigorous confinement and wanton
cruelties. We put in movement every impulse of policy
and money to redeem him from their hands.        

The impatience of my sister's disposition now returned
on her, awakened by repentance, sharpened by remorse.
The very beauty of the Grecian climate, during the
season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The
unexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth--the
genial sunshine and grateful shade--the melody of the
birds--the majesty of the woods--the splendour of the
marble ruins--the clear effulgence of the stars by
night--the combination of all that was exciting and
voluptuous in this transcending land, by inspiring a
quicker spirit of life and an added sensitiveness to
every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and
"<i>He suffers<i/>" was the burthen of all her
thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay on the bare
earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments,
endeavoured to hold communion with his distant pain. I
remembered in one of her harshest moments a quotation
of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. "Perdita,"
I had said, "some day you will discover that you have
done wrong in again casting Raymond on the thorns of
life. When disappointment has sullied his beauty, when
a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and
loneliness made even triumph bitter to him, then you
will repent; and regret for the irreparable change
      
                                   "will move
   In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."* 
          

The stinging "remorse of love" now pierced her heart.
She accused herself of his journey to Greece--his
dangers--his imprisonment. She pictured to herself the
anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager
delight he had in former days made her the partner of
his joyful hopes--with what grateful affection he
received her sympathy in his cares. She called to mind
how often he had declared that solitude was to him the
greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him
more full of fear and pain when he pictured to himself
a lonely grave. "My best girl," he had said, "relieves
me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in
her dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of
finding myself alone. Even if I die before you, my
Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle
with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not
a materialist, yet, methinks, even in that dark cell, I
may feel that my inanimate dust mingles with yours, and
thus have a companion in decay." In her resentful mood,
these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and
disdain; they visited her in her softened hour, taking
sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest from her uneasy
mind.
 
[*Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.]

Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a
promise of Raymond's release. Confinement and hardship
had undermined his health; the Turks feared an
accomplishment of the threats of the English
government, if he died under their hands; they looked
upon his recovery as impossible; they delivered him up
as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites
of burial.       

He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind,
favourable to him, blew so strongly in shore, that we
were unable, as we had at first intended, to meet him
on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was
besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out
for; till on the first of May the gallant frigate bore
in sight, freighted with treasure more invaluable than
the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed
Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At early
dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore; it was
conjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles
from land. The news spread through Athens, and the
whole city poured out at the gate of the Piraeus, down
the roads, through the vineyards, the olive woods and
plantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The
noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of their
dress, the tumult of carriages and horses, the march of
soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of
martial music added to the high excitement of the
scene; while round us reposed in solemn majesty the
relics of antient time. To our right the Acropolis rose
high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient
glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of
dear-bought liberty; tombs and cenotaphs were strewed
thick around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation; the
mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in
our enthusiasm and congregated numbers a renewal of the
scenes in which they had been the actors. Perdita and
Clara rode in a close carriage; I attended them on
horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was
agitated by the outward swell of the sea; the beach, as
far could be discerned, was covered by a moving
multitude, which, urged by those behind toward the sea,
again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar
burst close to them. I applied my glass, and could
discern that the frigate had already cast anchor,
fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee
shore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I saw that
Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's side; he was
let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the
bottom of the boat.  
    
I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were
rowing about the harbour to pull up, and take me into
their skiff; Perdita at the same moment alighted from
her carriage--she seized my arm--"Take me with you,"
she cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to
her--"You must not," I said, "the sea is rough--he will
soon be here--do you not see his boat?" The little bark
to which I had beckoned had now pulled up; before I
could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in
it--Clara followed her mother--a loud shout echoed from
the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour; while
my sister at the prow, had caught hold of one of the
men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions,
careless of the spray that broke over her, deaf,
sightless to all, except the little speck that, just
visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We
approached with all the speed six rowers could give;
the orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on
the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the stirring
breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of
the eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were
purely eastern; the sight of temple-crowned rock, the
white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun,
and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of
lofty mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the
splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my soul
in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course
of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to
look through the glass with which I had watched the
motion of the crew, when the frigate's boat had first
been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at length
the number and forms of those within could be
discerned; its dark sides grew big, and the splash of
its oars became audible: I could distinguish the
languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at
our approach.       

Perdita's questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm,
panting with emotions too acute for tears--our men
pulled alongside the other boat. As a last effort, my
sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped
from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she
sprang towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing
her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by
her long hair, gave herself up to tears.
 
Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach,
but it was with difficulty that he exerted himself even
thus much. With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale and
gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita? I
continued awe-struck and mute--he looked smilingly on
the poor girl; the smile was his. A day of sunshine
falling on a dark valley, displays its before hidden
characteristics; and now this smile, the same with
which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had
welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered
countenance, made me in my heart's core feel that this
was Raymond.
 
He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the
trace of manacles on his bared wrist. I heard my
sister's sobs, and thought, happy are women who can
weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the
oppression of their feelings; shame and habitual
restraint hold back a man. I would have given worlds to
have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to
my breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over
him; my swelling heart choked me; the natural current
would not be checked; the big rebellious tears gathered
in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the
sea--they came fast and faster;--yet I could hardly be
ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors were not
unmoved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from among
our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which
convalescence always induces, enjoying in secure
tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he
adored. Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion,
and rose,--she looked round for Clara; the child
frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected
by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she came
at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to Raymond;
her first words were: "Beloved, embrace our child:"
"Come hither, sweet one," said her father, "do you not
know me?" she knew his voice, and cast herself in his
arms with half bashful but uncontrollable emotion.  

Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill
consequences from the pressure of the crowd on his
landing. But they were awed as I had been, at the
change of his appearance. The music died away, the
shouts abruptly ended; the soldiers had cleared a space
in which a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it;
Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort
closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring
of the near waves, went through the multitude; they
fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of
injuring him they had come to welcome, by loud
testimonies of joy, they satisfied themselves with
bending in a low salaam as the carriage passed; it went
slowly along the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique
temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the
citadel. The sound of the waves was left behind; that
of the multitude continued at intervals, supressed and
hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches,
and public buildings were decorated with tapestry and
banners--though the soldiery lined the streets, and the
inhabitants in thousands were assembled to give him
hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery
presented arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand
waved a streamer, and vainly sought to discern the hero
in the vehicle, which, closed and encompassed by the
city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his
abode.  
    
Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he
perceived to be excited on his account, filled him with
proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with kindness. It
is true, the populace retained themselves; but there
arose a perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round
the palace, which added to the noise of fireworks, the
frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of
horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was
the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired awhile
to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care added each
day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous
attention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the
causes which induced his rapid recovery; but the second
was surely the delight he felt in the affection and
good will of the Greeks. We are said to love much those
whom we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and
conquered for the Athenians; he had suffered, on their
account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their
gratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to
unite his fate for ever to that of a people so
enthusiastically devoted to him.  

Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked
feature in my disposition. In early youth, the living
drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul into its
vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I
hoped, I enjoyed; but there was something besides this.
I was inquisitive as to the internal principles of
action of those around me: anxious to read their
thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining
their inmost mind. All events, at the same time that
they deeply interested me, arranged themselves in
pictures before me. I gave the right place to every
personage in the groupe, the just balance to every
sentiment. This undercurrent of thought, often soothed
me amidst distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to
that, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul would
have revolted: it bestowed pictorial colours on misery
and disease, and not unfrequently relieved me from
despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or
instinct, was now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened
devotion of my sister; Clara's timid, but concentrated
admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite for
renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of
affection of the Athenians. Attentively perusing this
animated volume, I was the less surprised at the tale I
read on the new-turned page.
 
The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto;
and the Greeks, hastening their preparations, and
sending each day reinforcements, were on the eve of
forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the
coming struggle as that which would be to a great
degree decisive; as, in case of victory, the next step
would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks.
Raymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to
re-assume his command in the army.       

Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination.
She only stipulated to be permitted to accompany him.
She had set down no rule of conduct for herself; but
for her life she could not have opposed his slightest
wish, or do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his
projects. One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than
battles or sieges, during which she trusted Raymond's
high command would exempt him from danger. That word,
as yet it was not more to her, was PLAGUE. This enemy
to the human race had begun early in June to raise its
serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of Asia,
not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was
in Constantinople; but as each year that city
experienced a like visitation, small attention was paid
to those accounts which declared more people to have
died there already, than usually made up the accustomed
prey of the whole of the hotter months. However it
might be, neither plague nor war could prevent Perdita
from following her lord, or induce her to utter one
objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near
him, to be loved by him, to feel him again her own, was
the limit of her desires. The object of her life was to
do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a
difference. In past times, without thought or foresight
she had made him happy, being so herself, and in any
question of choice, consulted her own wishes, as being
one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the
question, sacrificing even her anxiety for his health
and welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his
desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory,
and hatred of the barbarian government under which he
had suffered even to the approach of death, stimulated
him. He wished to repay the kindness of the Athenians,
to keep alive the splendid associations connected with
his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power which,
while every other nation advanced in civilization,
stood still, a monument of antique barbarism. Having
effected the reunion of Raymond and Perdita, I was
eager to return to England; but his earnest request,
added to awakening curiosity, and an indefinable
anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now apparently at
hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish
warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the
autumn, the period of my residence in Greece.       

As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently
re-established, he prepared to join the Grecian camp,
hear Kishan, a town of some importance, situated to the
east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to
remain until the event of the expected battle. We
quitted Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had
recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If
I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured
countenance, if care had besieged his brow,      

   "And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field,"*

if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look,
considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs of added
years and past sufferings, yet there was something
irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately
snatched from the grave, renewing his career, untamed
by sickness or disaster. The Athenians saw in him, not
as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man, who was
ready to die for them; but the prudent commander, who
for their sakes was careful of his life, and could make
his own warrior-propensities second to the scheme of
conduct policy might point out.       

[*Shakspeare's Sonnets.]

All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he
had landed a month ago, the noisy populace had been
hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a festival day
to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their
picturesque costume, and the gay colours of which it
was composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild
appearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the
hope of each wife, mother or betrothed bride, whose
husband, child, or lover, making a part of the Greek
army, were to be conducted to victory by him.   

Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it
was full of romantic interest, as we passed through the
vallies, and over the hills, of this divine country.
Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of
recovered health; he felt that in being general of the
Athenians, he filled a post worthy of his ambition;
and, in his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he
counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the
waste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals of
man; when a city of grand historic association, the
beauty of whose site was the wonder of the world, which
for many hundred years had been the strong hold of the
Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism,
and restored to a people illustrious for genius,
civilization, and a spirit of liberty. Perdita rested
on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and
fame, even as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every
thought was transport, each emotion bathed as it were
in a congenial and balmy element.  
    
We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather
during our journey had been serene. Each day, before
dawn, we left our night's encampment, and watched the
shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the
golden splendour of the sun's approach. The
accompanying soldiers received, with national vivacity,
enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful
nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by
triumphant strains, while the birds, heard by snatches,
filled up the intervals of the music. At noon, we
pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering
wood among the mountains, while a stream prattling over
pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening march, more
calm, was yet more delightful than the morning
restlessness of spirit. If the band played,
involuntarily they chose airs of moderated passion; the
farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed
and closed by some solemn hymn, which harmonized with
the tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the
soul to grand and religious thought. Often all sounds
were suspended, that we might listen to the
nightingale, while the fire-flies danced in bright
measure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of
fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a valley?
Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with
beauteous hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a
living map, was spread beneath, her renowned pinnacles
cleaving the ether; her rivers threading in silver line
the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English
travellers surveyed with extasy this splendid
landscape, so different from the sober hues and
melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we
quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace
afforded fewer beauties; yet our journey continued to
be interesting. An advanced guard gave information of
our approach, and the country people were quickly in
motion to do honour to Lord Raymond. The villages were
decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by day, and
lamps by night; tapestry waved from the windows, the
ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of
Raymond, joined to that of Greece, was echoed in the
<i>Evive</i> of the peasant crowd.         

When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing
of the advance of Lord Raymond and his detachment, the
Turkish army had retreated from Rodosto; but meeting
with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In
the meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief,
had advanced, so as to be between the Turks and
Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable. Perdita
and her child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked
me, if I would not continue with them. "Now by the
fells of Cumberland," I cried, "by all of the vagabond
and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at your
side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed
as a victor along with you!"  

All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of
sixteen leagues, was alive with troops, or with the
camp-followers, all in motion at the approach of a
battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various
towns and fortresses, and went to swell the main army.
We met baggage waggons, and many females of high and
low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to wait
the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at
Rodosto, we found that the field had been taken, and
the scheme of the battle arranged. The sound of firing,
early on the following morning, informed us that
advanced posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment
after regiment advanced, their colours flying and bands
playing. They planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole
elevations in this level country, and formed themselves
into column and hollow square; while the pioneers threw
up small mounds for their protection.
 
These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the
battle itself; far different from any thing the
imagination had pictured. We read of centre and wing in
Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a
table, and soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth,
so that the most ignorant of the game can discover
science and order in the disposition of the forces.
When I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off
to the left far out of sight, fields intervening
between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently
near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of
understanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching
myself to Raymond attended with intense interest to his
actions. He shewed himself collected, gallant and
imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of
the events of the day to me miraculous. In the mean
time the cannon roared; the music lifted up its
enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of
the mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the
fallen sheaves which death gathered into his
storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in smoke,
now banners and staves peering above the cloud, while
shout and clamour drowned every sound.  

Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously,
and Raymond assumed the command of the whole army. He
made few remarks, till, on observing through his glass
the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded
for awhile with doubt, became radiant. "The day is
ours," he cried, "the Turks fly from the bayonet. And
then swiftly he dispatched his aides-de-camp to command
the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat
became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry
rallied, and horse pursued the flying Turks along the
dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was dispersed in
various directions, to make observations, and bear
commands. Even I was dispatched to a distant part of
the field.  

The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level
plain--so level, that from the tumuli you saw the
waving line of mountains on the wide-stretched horizon;
yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least
irregularity, save such undulations as resembled the
waves of the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had
been so long a scene of contest, that it had remained
uncultivated, and presented a dreary, barren
appearance. The order I had received, was to make an
observation of the direction which a detachment of the
enemy might have taken, from a northern tumulus; the
whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had poured
eastward; none but the dead remained in the direction
of my side. From the top of the mound, I looked far
round--all was silent and deserted.  

The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from
behind the far summit of Mount Athos; the sea of
Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while the
Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low
cloud. Many a casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen
from unnerved arms, reflected the departing ray; they
lay scattered far and near. From the east, a band of
ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came
sailing along towards their harvest; the sun
disappeared.  This hour, melancholy yet sweet, has
always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally
led to commune with higher powers; our mortal sternness
departs, and gentle complacency invests the soul. But
now, in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could
a thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity
possess one of the murderers? During the busy day, my
mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the state of
things presented to it by its fellow-beings; historical
association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm
had held dominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening
star, as softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the
orange hues of sunset. I turned to the corse-strewn
earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were
the placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in
mist, and in this change assisted the swift
disappearance of twilight usual in the south; heavy
masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red
and turbid lightning shot from their dark edges; the
rushing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and
was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness
gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct,
I descended from my station, and with difficulty guided
my horse, so as to avoid the slain.   

Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to
rise from the earth; it flew swiftly towards me,
sinking to the ground again as it drew near. All this
passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my
horse, so that it should not trample on the prostrate
being. The dress of this person was that of a soldier,
but the bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks
discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her
aid, while she, with heavy groans, and her hand placed
on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the
hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and
in my native accents endeavoured to soothe the
sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations did the
lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) recognize the
language of her lover; pain and fever from her wound
had deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries
and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me with
compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the name
of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from
her, while the Turks with fearful instruments of
torture were about to take his life. Then again she
sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a
woman's heart and sensibility, should be driven by
hopeless love and vacant hopes to take up the trade of
arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man privation,
labour, and pain--the while her dry, hot hand pressed
mine, and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire. 

As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the
ground; her emaciated form hung over my arm, her sunken
cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral voice she
murmured:--"This is the end of love!--Yet not the
end!"--and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm
up to heaven: "there is the end! there we meet again.
Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O Raymond,
and now I expire, thy victim!--By my death I purchase
thee--lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are
my servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now!
I have sold myself to death, with the sole condition
that thou shouldst follow me--Fire, and war, and
plague, unite for thy destruction--O my Raymond, there
is no safety for thee!"  

With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her
delirium; I made her a bed of cloaks; her violence
decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as the
paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I
placed her on the cloaks. She continued to rave of her
speedy meeting with her beloved in the grave, of his
death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared
that he was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard
destiny. Her voice grew feebler, her speech
interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her
muscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more to be
sustained, one deep sigh, and life was gone.
 
I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead;
wrapt in cloaks, I placed her beneath a tree. Once more
I looked on her altered face; the last time I saw her
she was eighteen; beautiful as poet's vision, splendid
as a Sultana of the East--Twelve years had past; twelve
years of change, sorrow and hardship; her brilliant
complexion had become worn and dark, her limbs had lost
the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk
deep,
       
           Crushed and o'erworn,                        
   The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow 
   With lines and wrinkles.
        

With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human
passion and human misery; I heaped over her all of
flags and heavy accoutrements I could find, to guard
her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow
on her a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my
course from among the heaps of slain, and, guided by
the twinkling lights of the town, at length reached
Rodosto.


[Vol. II]

THE LAST MAN

CHAPTER II.

ON my arrival, I found that an order had already gone
forth for the army to proceed immediately towards
Constantinople; and the troops which had suffered least
in the battle were already on their way. The town was
full of tumult. The wound, and consequent inability of
Argyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in command.
He rode through the town, visiting the wounded, and
giving such orders as were necessary for the siege he
meditated. Early in the morning the whole army was in
motion. In the hurry I could hardly find an opportunity
to bestow the last offices on Evadne. Attended only by
my servant, I dug a deep grave for her at the foot of
the tree, and without disturbing her warrior shroud, I
placed her in it, heaping stones upon the grave. The
dazzling sun and glare of daylight, deprived the scene
of solemnity; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Raymond
and his staff, now on their way to the Golden City.     
             
Constantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances
made. The whole Greek fleet blockaded it by sea; on
land from the river Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet Waters,
to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the
Propontis, along the whole line of the ancient walls,
the trenches of the siege were drawn. We already
possessed Pera; the Golden Horn itself, the city,
bastioned by the sea, and the ivy-mantled walls of the
Greek emperors was all of Europe that the Mahometans
could call theirs. Our army looked on her as certain
prey. They counted the garrison; it was impossible that
it should be relieved; each sally was a victory; for,
even when the Turks were triumphant, the loss of men
they sustained was an irreparable injury.  

I rode one morning with Raymond to the lofty mound, not
far from the Top Kapou, (Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud
planted his standard, and first saw the city. Still the
same lofty domes and minarets towered above the
verdurous walls, where Constantine had died, and the
Turk had entered the city. The plain around was
interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and
Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees; and other
woods of more cheerful aspect, diversified the scene.
Among them the Greek army was encamped, and their
squadrons moved to and fro--now in regular march, now
in swift career.
 
Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. "I have counted
the hours of her life," said he; "one month, and she
falls. Remain with me till then; wait till you see the
cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your peaceful
glades."  

"You then," I asked, "still remain in Greece?"
         
"Assuredly," replied Raymond. "Yet Lionel, when I say
this, believe me I look back with regret to our
tranquil life at Windsor. I am but half a soldier; I
love the renown, but not the trade of war. Before the
battle of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to
conquer there, and afterwards to take Constantinople,
was the hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my
ambition. This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not why;
I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulph; the
ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture
of triumph null."
 
He paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien
recalled, by some association, the half-forgotten
Evadne to my mind, and I seized this opportunity to
make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I
asked him, if he had ever seen among the troops any one
resembling her; if since he had returned to Greece he
had heard of her?        

He started at her name,--he looked uneasily on me.
"Even so," he cried, "I knew you would speak of her.
Long, long I had forgotten her. Since our encampment
here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am
addressed, her name is the sound I expect: in every
communication, I imagine that she will form a part. At
length you have broken the spell; tell me what you know
of her."      

I related my meeting with her; the story of her death
was told and re-told. With painful earnestness he
questioned me concerning her prophecies with regard to
him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. "No,
no," he said, "do not deceive yourself,--me you cannot.
She has said nothing but what I knew before--though
this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and plague! They
may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may
they fall!"        

From this day Raymond's melancholy increased. He
secluded himself as much as the duties of his station
permitted. When in company, sadness would in spite of
every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent
and mute among the busy crowd that thronged about him.
Perdita rejoined him, and before her he forced himself
to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror, changed
as he changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she
solicitously inquired concerning, and endeavoured to
remove the cause of his seriousness. She resided at the
palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the
Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding scenery,
undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made
this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief,
received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth.
He often left Perdita, to wander in the grounds alone;
or in a light shallop he floated idly on the pure
waters, musing deeply. Sometimes I joined him; at such
times his countenance was invariably solemn, his air
dejected. He seemed relieved on seeing me, and would
talk with some degree of interest on the affairs of the
day. There was evidently something behind all this;
yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was
nearest his heart, he would abruptly turn away, and
with a sigh endeavour to deliver the painful idea to
the winds.        

It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond
quitted Perdita's drawing-room, Clara came up to me,
and gently drawing me aside, said, "Papa is gone; shall
we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see you."
And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused
her request. One evening a numerous assembly of Greek
chieftains were gathered together in the palace. The
intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike
Ypsilanti, were among the principal. They talked of the
events of the day; the skirmish at noon; the diminished
numbers of the Infidels; their defeat and flight: they
contemplated, after a short interval of time, the
capture of the Golden City. They endeavoured to picture
forth what would then happen, and spoke in lofty terms
of the prosperity of Greece, when Constantinople should
become its capital. The conversation then reverted to
Asiatic intelligence, and the ravages the plague made
in its chief cities; conjectures were hazarded as to
the progress that disease might have made in the
besieged city.   

Raymond had joined in the former part of the
discussion. In lively terms he demonstrated the
extremities to which Constantinople was reduced; the
wasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the
troops; famine and pestilence was at work for them, he
observed, and the infidels would soon be obliged to
take refuge in their only hope--submission. Suddenly in
the midst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung by
some painful thought; he rose uneasily, and I perceived
him at length quit the hall, and through the long
corridor seek the open air. He did not return; and soon
Clara crept round to me, making the accustomed
invitation. I consented to her request, and taking her
little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about
to embark in his boat, and he readily agreed to receive
us as companions. After the heats of the day, the
cooling land-breeze ruffled the river, and filled our
little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while
numerous lights along the near shores, and the
beautiful aspect of the banks reposing in placid night,
the waters keenly reflecting the heavenly lights, gave
to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that
might have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our
single boatman attended to the sail; Raymond steered;
Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her
arms, and laying her head on them. Raymond began the
conversation somewhat abruptly.        

"This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall
have an opportunity of conversing freely; my plans are
now in full operation, and my time will become more and
more occupied. Besides, I wish at once to tell you my
wishes and expectations, and then never again to revert
to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you,
Lionel, for having remained here at my request. Vanity
first prompted me to ask you: vanity, I call it; yet
even in this I see the hand of fate--your presence will
soon be necessary; you will become the last resource of
Perdita, her protector and consoler. You will take her
back to Windsor."--
 
"Not without you," I said. "You do not mean to separate
again?"         

"Do not deceive yourself," replied Raymond, "the
separation at hand is one over which I have no control;
most near at hand is it; the days are already counted.
May I trust you? For many days I have longed to
disclose the mysterious presentiments that weigh on me,
although I fear that you will ridicule them. Yet do
not, my gentle friend; for, all childish and unwise as
they are, they have become a part of me, and I dare not
expect to shake them off.         

"Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You
are of this world; I am not. You hold forth your hand;
it is even as a part of yourself; and you do not yet
divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form
that shapes forth Lionel. How then can you understand
me? Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a vault,
shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have
stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I
meet appears a corse, which will soon be deserted of
its animating spark, on the eve of decay and
corruption.

         Cada piedra un piramide levanta,
         y cada flor costruye un monumento,
         cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
         cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."*
        
His accent was mournful,--he sighed deeply. "A few
months ago," he continued, "I was thought to be dying;
but life was strong within me. My affections were
human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life.
Now--they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the
infidel faith are about to be encircled by triumphant
laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of title,
power, and wealth--all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let
them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may
stand even when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.
 
[*Calderon de la Barca.]

"Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of
hope; but when first I saw Constantinople, that
feeling, with every other joyful one, departed. The
last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of
my death. Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood
by any particular event. All I can say is, that it is
so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps
I have imbibed its effluvia--perhaps disease is the
real cause of my prognostications. It matters little
why or wherefore I am affected, no power can avert the
stroke, and the shadow of Fate's uplifted hand already
darkens me.
 
"To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child.
Never mention to her the fatal name of Evadne. She
would doubly sorrow over the strange link that enchains
me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice,
following her, as it is about to do, to the unknown
country."        

I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad
demeanour and solemn utterance assured me of the truth
and intensity of his feelings, I should with light
derision have attempted to dissipate his fears.
Whatever I was about to reply, was interrupted by the
powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond had spoken,
thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard
with terror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her
father was moved by her violent grief; he took her in
his arms and soothed her, but his very soothings were
solemn and fearful. "Weep not, sweet child," said he,
"the coming death of one you have hardly known. I may
die, but in death I can never forget or desert my own
Clara. In after sorrow or joy, believe that you
father's spirit is near, to save or sympathize with
you. Be proud of me, and cherish your infant
remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear
to die. One thing you must promise,--not to speak to
any one but your uncle, of the conversation you have
just overheard. When I am gone, you will console your
mother, and tell her that death was only bitter because
it divided me from her; that my last thoughts will be
spent on her. But while I live, promise not to betray
me; promise, my child."  
     
With faltering accents Clara promised, while she still
clung to her father in a transport of sorrow. Soon we
returned to shore, and I endeavoured to obviate the
impression made on the child's mind, by treating
Raymond's fears lightly. We heard no more of them; for,
as he had said, the siege, now drawing to a conclusion,
became paramount in interest, engaging all his time and
attention.  

The empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its
close. The Greek fleet blockading every port of
Stamboul, prevented the arrival of succour from Asia;
all egress on the side towards land had become
impracticable, except to such desperate sallies, as
reduced the numbers of the enemy without making any
impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much
diminished, that it was evident that the city could
easily have been carried by storm; but both humanity
and policy dictated a slower mode of proceeding. We
could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the utmost, its
palaces, its temples and store of wealth would be
destroyed in the fury of contending triumph and defeat.
Already the defenceless citizens had suffered through
the barbarity of the Janisaries; and, in time of storm,
tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decrepitude,
would have alike been sacrificed to the brutal ferocity
of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were certain means
of conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of
victory.
 
Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our
advanced posts, and impeded the accomplishment of our
works. Fire-boats were launched from the various ports,
while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted
courage of men who did not seek to live, but to sell
their lives dearly. These contests were aggravated by
the season: they took place during summer, when the
southern Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat,
when the streams were dried up in their shallow beds,
and the vast basin of the sea appeared to glow under
the unmitigated rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did
night refresh the earth. Dew was denied; herbage and
flowers there were none; the very trees drooped; and
summer assumed the blighted appearance of winter, as it
went forth in silence and flame to abridge the means of
sustenance to man. In vain did the eye strive to find
the wreck of some northern cloud in the stainless
empyrean, which might bring hope of change and moisture
to the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was
serene, burning, annihilating. We the besiegers were in
the comparison little affected by these evils. The
woods around afforded us shade,--the river secured to
us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were
employed in furnishing the army with ice, which had
been laid up on Haemus, and Athos, and the mountains of
Macedonia, while cooling fruits and wholesome food
renovated the strength of the labourers, and made us
bear with less impatience the weight of the
unrefreshing air. But in the city things wore a
different face. The sun's rays were refracted from the
pavement and buildings--the stoppage of the public
fountains--the bad quality of the food, and scarcity
even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was
aggravated by the scourge of disease; while the
garrison arrogated every superfluity to themselves,
adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils of the
time. Still they would not capitulate.   

Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. We
experienced no more assaults; and by night and day we
continued our labours unimpeded. Stranger still, when
the troops advanced near the city, the walls were
vacant, and no cannon was pointed against the
intruders. When these circumstances were reported to
Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to
what was doing within the walls, and when his scouts
returned, reporting only the continued silence and
desolation of the city, he commanded the army to be
drawn out before the gates. No one appeared on the
walls; the very portals, though locked and barred,
seemed unguarded; above, the many domes and glittering
crescents pierced heaven; while the old walls,
survivors of ages, with ivy-crowned tower and
weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in an uninhabited
waste. From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor
aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke the
noon-day stillness. Even our soldiers were awed to
silence; the music paused; the clang of arms was
hushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers, the
meaning of this sudden peace; while Raymond from an
height endeavoured, by means of glasses, to discover
and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form could
be discerned on the terraces of the houses; in the
higher parts of the town no moving shadow bespoke the
presence of any living being: the very trees waved not,
and mocked the stability of architecture with like
immovability.   

The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence,
was at length discerned. It was a troop sent by
Karazza, the Admiral; they bore dispatches to the Lord
General. The contents of these papers were important.
The night before, the watch, on board one of the
smaller vessels anchored near the seraglio wall, was
roused by a slight splashing as of muffled oars; the
alarm was given: twelve small boats, each containing
three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to make
their way through the fleet to the opposite shore of
Scutari. When they found themselves discovered they
discharged their muskets, and some came to the front to
cover the others, whose crews, exerting all their
strength, endeavoured to escape with their light barks
from among the dark hulls that environed them. They
were in the end all sunk, and, with the exception of
two or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could
be got from the survivors; but their cautious answers
caused it to be surmised that several expeditions had
preceded this last, and that several Turks of rank and
importance had been conveyed to Asia. The men
disdainfully repelled the idea of having deserted the
defence of their city; and one, the youngest among
them, in answer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed,
"Take it, Christian dogs! take the palaces, the
gardens, the mosques, the abode of our fathers--take
plague with them; pestilence is the enemy we fly; if
she be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The curse
of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate."  
     
Such was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond: but a
tale full of monstrous exaggerations, though founded on
this, was spread by the accompanying troop among our
soldiers. A murmur arose, the city was the prey of
pestilence; already had a mighty power subjugated the
inhabitants; Death had become lord of Constantinople.
 
I have heard a picture described, wherein all the
inhabitants of earth were drawn out in fear to stand
the encounter of Death. The feeble and decrepid fled;
the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in
flight. Wolves and lions, and various monsters of the
desert roared against him; while the grim Unreality
hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but
invincible assailant. Even so was it with the army of
Greece. I am convinced, that had the myriad troops of
Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders
of the Golden City, each and every Greek would have
marched against the overwhelming numbers, and have
devoted himself with patriotic fury for his country.
But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no
death-dealing artillery, no formidable array of brave
soldiers--the unguarded walls afforded easy
entrance--the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but
above the dome of St. Sophia the superstitious Greek
saw Pestilence, and shrunk in trepidation from her
influence.
 
Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. He
descended the hill with a face beaming with triumph,
and pointing with his sword to the gates, commanded his
troops to--down with those barricades--the only
obstacles now to completest victory. The soldiers
answered his cheerful words with aghast and awe-struck
looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode
in the front of the lines:--"By my sword I swear," he
cried, "that no ambush or stratagem endangers you. The
enemy is already vanquished; the pleasant places, the
noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already
yours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats of
your ancestors, your own inheritance! "  

An universal shudder and fearful whispering passed
through the lines; not a soldier moved. "Cowards!"
exclaimed their general, exasperated, "give me an
hatchet! I alone will enter! I will plant your
standard; and when you see it wave from yon highest
minaret, you may gain courage, and rally round it!"
 
One of the officers now came forward: "General," he
said, "we neither fear the courage, nor arms, the open
attack, nor secret ambush of the Moslems. We are ready
to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times
before, to the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and
to fall gloriously for Greece. But we will not die in
heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the
pestilential air of that city--we dare not go against
the Plague!"  

A multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a
voice, a leader; give them that, and they regain the
strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts from a
thousand voices now rent the air--the cry of applause
became universal. Raymond saw the danger; he was
willing to save his troops from the crime of
disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun
between the commander and his army, each act and word
added to the weakness of the former, and bestowed power
on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to be
sounded, and the regiments repaired in good order to
the camp.  

I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange
proceedings to Perdita; and we were soon joined by
Raymond. He looked gloomy and perturbed. My sister was
struck by my narrative: "How beyond the imagination of
man," she exclaimed, "are the decrees of heaven,
wondrous and inexplicable!"   

"Foolish girl," cried Raymond angrily, "are you like my
valiant soldiers, panic-struck? What is there
inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so very natural an
occurrence? Does not the plague rage each year in
Stamboul? What wonder, that this year, when as we are
told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it
should have occasioned double havoc in that city? What
wonder then, in time of siege, want, extreme heat, and
drought, that it should make unaccustomed ravages? Less
wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing of
being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of
the negligence of our fleet to escape at once from
siege and capture. It is not pestilence--by the God
that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger
that makes us, like birds in harvest-time, terrified by
a scarecrow, abstain from the ready prey--it is base
superstition--And thus the aim of the valiant is made
the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the
high-souled, the plaything of these tamed hares ! But
yet Stamboul shall be ours! By my past labours, by
torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by my
victories, by my sword, I swear--by my hopes of fame,
by my former deserts now awaiting their reward, I
deeply vow, with these hands to plant the cross on
yonder mosque!"  

"Dearest Raymond!" interrupted Perdita, in a
supplicating accent.          

He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of
the seraglio; his very lips were pale with rage, while,
quivering, they shaped his angry words--his eyes shot
fire--his gestures seemed restrained by their very
vehemence. "Perdita," he continued, impatiently, "I
know what you would say; I know that you love me, that
you are good and gentle; but this is no woman's
work--nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane
which tears me!"  

He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly
quitted the hall: a look from Perdita shewed me her
distress, and I followed him. He was pacing the garden:
his passions were in a state of inconceivable
turbulence. "Am I for ever," he cried, "to be the sport
of fortune! Must man, the heaven-climber, be for ever
the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species!
Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of
life, to a succession of love-enlightened days, to
refined enjoyments and fresh-springing hopes, I might
yield, and breaking my General's staff, seek repose in
the glades of Windsor. But I am about to die!--nay,
interrupt me not--soon I shall die. From the
many-peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from
the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my
friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita,
I am about to be removed. Such is the will of fate!
Such the decree of the High Ruler from whom there is no
appeal: to whom I submit. But to lose all--to lose with
life and love, glory also! It shall not be!        

"I, and in a few brief years, all you,--this
panic-struck army, and all the population of fair
Greece, will no longer be. But other generations will
arise, and ever and for ever will continue, to be made
happier by our present acts, to be glorified by our
valour. The prayer of my youth was to be one among
those who render the pages of earth's history splendid;
who exalt the race of man, and make this little globe a
dwelling of the mighty. Alas, for Raymond! the prayer
of his youth is wasted--the hopes of his manhood are
null!
 
"From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, soon I will be
thy lord! When Evadne pronounced my death, I thought
that the title of Victor of Constantinople would be
written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I
stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call
myself a conqueror.  So shall it not be! Did not
Alexander leap from the walls of the city of the
Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the way to
victory, encountering alone the swords of its
defenders? Even so will I brave the plague--and though
no man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard on the
height of St. Sophia."
 
Reason came unavailing to such high-wrought feelings.
In vain I shewed him, that when winter came, the cold
would dissipate the pestilential air, and restore
courage to the Greeks. "Talk not of other season than
this!" he cried. "I have lived my last winter, and the
date of this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb.
Already do I see," he continued, looking up mournfully,
"the bourne and precipitate edge of my existence, over
which I plunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to
come. I am prepared, so that I leave behind a trail of
light so radiant, that my worst enemies cannot cloud
it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving
Perdita, and to myself, the victim of ambition."  

We were interrupted by an attendant, who announced,
that the staff of Raymond was assembled in the
council-chamber. He requested me in the meantime to
ride through the camp, and to observe and report to him
the dispositions of the soldiers; he then left me. I
had been excited to the utmost by the proceedings of
the day, and now more than ever by the passionate
language of Raymond. Alas! for human reason! He accused
the Greeks of superstition: what name did he give to
the faith he lent to the predictions of Evadne? I
passed from the palace of Sweet Waters to the plain on
which the encampment lay, and found its inhabitants in
commotion. The arrival of several with fresh stories of
marvels, from the fleet; the exaggerations bestowed on
what was already known; tales of old prophecies, of
fearful histories of whole regions which had been laid
waste during the present year by pestilence, alarmed
and occupied the troops. Discipline was lost; the army
disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part of a
great whole moving only in unison with others, now
became resolved into the unit nature had made him, and
thought of himself only. They stole off at first by
ones and twos, then in larger companies, until,
unimpeded by the officers, whole battalions sought the
road that led to Macedonia.  

About midnight I returned to the palace and sought
Raymond; he was alone, and apparently composed; such
composure, at least, was his as is inspired by a
resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He
heard my account of the self-dissolution of the army
with calmness, and then said, "You know, Verney, my
fixed determination not to quit this place, until in
the light of day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If the
men I have about me shrink from following me, others,
more courageous, are to be found. Go you before break
of day, bear these dispatches to Karazza, add to them
your own entreaties that he send me his marines and
naval force; if I can get but one regiment to second
me, the rest would follow of course. Let him send me
this regiment. I shall expect your return by to-morrow
noon."  

Methought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured
him of my obedience and zeal. I quitted him to take a
few hours rest. With the breaking of morning I was
accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of
taking leave of Perdita, and from my window observed
the approach of the sun. The golden splendour arose,
and weary nature awoke to suffer yet another day of
heat and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up their
dew-laden cups to meet the dawn; the dry grass had
withered on the plains; the burning fields of air were
vacant of birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun,
began their shrill and deafening song among the
cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond's coal-black
charger brought to the palace gate; a small company of
officers arrived soon after; care and fear was painted
on each cheek, and in each eye, unrefreshed by sleep. I
found Raymond and Perdita together. He was watching the
rising sun, while with one arm he encircled his
beloved's waist; she looked on him, the sun of her
life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety and
tenderness. Raymond started angrily when he saw me.
"Here still?" he cried. "Is this your promised zeal?"   
  
"Pardon me," I said, "but even as you speak, I am
gone."
 
"Nay, pardon me," he replied; "I have no right to
command or reproach; but my life hangs on your
departure and speedy return. Farewell!"  

His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark
cloud still hung on his features. I would have delayed;
I wished to recommend watchfulness to Perdita, but his
presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my
hesitation; and on his repeating his farewell, I
clasped his outstretched hand; it was cold and clammy.
"Take care of yourself, my dear Lord," I said.        

"Nay," said Perdita, "that task shall be mine. Return
speedily, Lionel."        

With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn
locks, while she leaned on him; twice I turned back,
only to look again on this matchless pair. At last,
with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the hall,
and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew
towards me; clasping my knee she cried, "Make haste
back, uncle! Dear uncle, I have such fearful dreams; I
dare not tell my mother. Do not be long away!" I
assured her of my impatience to return, and then, with
a small escort rode along the plain towards the tower
of Marmora.       

I fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was
somewhat surprised; he would see, he said, what could
be done; but it required time; and Raymond had ordered
me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect any
thing in so short a time. I must stay till the next
day; or come back, after having reported the present
state of things to the general. My choice was easily
made. A restlessness, a fear of what was about to
betide, a doubt as to Raymond's purposes, urged me to
return without delay to his quarters. Quitting the
Seven Towers, I rode eastward towards the Sweet Waters.
I took a circuitous path, principally for the sake of
going to the top of the mount before mentioned, which
commanded a view of the city. I had my glass with me.
The city basked under the noon-day sun, and the
venerable walls formed its picturesque boundary.
Immediately before me was the Top Kapou, the gate near
which Mahomet had made the breach by which he entered
the city. Trees gigantic and aged grew near; before the
gate I discerned a crowd of moving human figures--with
intense curiosity I lifted my glass to my eye. I saw
Lord Raymond on his charger; a small company of
officers had gathered about him; and behind was a
promiscuous concourse of soldiers and subalterns, their
discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no music
sounded, no banners streamed. The only flag among them
was one which Raymond carried; he pointed with it to
the gate of the city. The circle round him fell back.
With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and
seizing a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went
with the apparent intention of battering down the
opposing gate. A few men came to aid him; their numbers
increased; under their united blows the obstacle was
vanquished, gate, portcullis, and fence were
demolished; and the wide sun-lit way, leading to the
heart of the city, now lay open before them. The men
shrank back; they seemed afraid of what they had
already done, and stood as if they expected some Mighty
Phantom to stalk in offended majesty from the opening.
Raymond sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the
standard, and with words which I could not hear (but
his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were
marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to adjure their
assistance and companionship; even as he spoke, the
crowd receded from him. Indignation now transported
him; his words I guessed were fraught with
disdain--then turning from his coward followers, he
addressed himself to enter the city alone. His very
horse seemed to back from the fatal entrance; his dog,
his faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in his
path--in a moment more, he had plunged the rowels into
the sides of the stung animal, who bounded forward, and
he, the gateway passed, was galloping up the broad and
desart street.  
    
Until this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I
had gazed with wonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm.
The latter feeling now predominated. I forgot the
distance between us: "I will go with thee, Raymond!" I
cried; but, my eye removed from the glass, I could
scarce discern the pigmy forms of the crowd, which
about a mile from me surrounded the gate; the form of
Raymond was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my
horse with force of spur and loosened reins down the
acclivity, that, before danger could arrive, I might be
at the side of my noble, godlike friend. A number of
buildings and trees intervened, when I had reached the
plain, hiding the city from my view. But at that moment
a crash was heard.  Thunderlike it reverberated through
the sky, while the air was darkened. A moment more and
the old walls again met my sight, while over them
hovered a murky cloud; fragments of buildings whirled
above, half seen in smoke, while flames burst out
beneath, and continued explosions filled the air with
terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin
which leapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy
towers, a crowd of soldiers made for the road by which
I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable to
get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I
stretched out my hands to the men; I conjured them to
turn back and save their General, the conqueror of
Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye tears, in
warm flow gushed from my eyes--I would not believe in
his destruction; yet every mass that darkened the air
seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred
Raymond. Horrible sights were shaped to me in the
turbid cloud that hovered over the city; and my only
relief was derived from the struggles I made to
approach the gate. Yet when I effected my purpose, all
I could discern within the precincts of the massive
walls was a city of fire: the open way through which
Raymond had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame.
After an interval the explosions ceased, but the flames
still shot up from various quarters; the dome of St.
Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the result
perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the
blowing up of the city) huge, white thunder clouds
lifted themselves up from the southern horizon, and
gathered over-head; they were the first blots on the
blue expanse that I had seen for months, and amidst
this havoc and despair they inspired pleasure. The
vault above became obscured, lightning flashed from the
heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing
thunder; then the big rain fell. The flames of the city
bent beneath it; and the smoke and dust arising from
the ruins was dissipated.    
     
I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than,
hurried on by an irresistible impulse, I endeavoured to
penetrate the town. I could only do this on foot, as
the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had
never entered the city before, and its ways were
unknown to me. The streets were blocked up, the ruins
smoking; I climbed up one heap, only to view others in
succession; and nothing told me where the centre of the
town might be, or towards what point Raymond might have
directed his course. The rain ceased; the clouds sunk
behind the horizon; it was now evening, and the sun
descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled on,
until I came to a street, whose wooden houses,
half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, and were
fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up this I
hurried--until now I had not seen a vestige of man. Yet
none of the defaced human forms which I distinguished,
could be Raymond; so I turned my eyes away, while my
heart sickened within me. I came to an open space--a
mountain of ruin in the midst, announced that some
large mosque had occupied the space--and here,
scattered about, I saw various articles of luxury and
wealth, singed, destroyed--but shewing what they had
been in their ruin--jewels, strings of pearls,
embroidered robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries,
and oriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected
here in a pile destined for destruction; but the rain
had stopped the havoc midway.    

Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for
Raymond. Insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed
themselves; the still burning fires scorched me. The
sun set; the atmosphere grew dim--and the evening star
no longer shone companionless. The glare of flames
attested the progress of destruction, while, during
mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me took
gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I
could yield to the creative power of the imagination,
and for a moment was soothed by the sublime fictions it
presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me
back to blank reality. Where, in this wilderness of
death, art thou, O Raymond--ornament of England,
deliverer of Greece, "hero of unwritten story," where
in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I
called aloud for him--through the darkness of night,
over the scorching ruins of fallen Constantinople, his
name was heard; no voice replied--echo even was mute.   

I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my
spirits. The sultry air impregnated with dust, the heat
and smoke of burning palaces, palsied my limbs. Hunger
suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had
hitherto sustained me was lost; as a building, whose
props are loosened, and whose foundations rock, totters
and falls, so when enthusiasm and hope deserted me, did
my strength fail. I sat on the sole remaining step of
an edifice, which even in its downfall, was huge and
magnificent; a few broken walls, not dislodged by
gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame
glimmered at intervals on the summit of the pile. For a
time hunger and sleep contended, till the
constellations reeled before my eyes and then were
lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids closed, my
limbs over-wearied, claimed repose--I rested my head on
the stone, I yielded to the grateful sensation of utter
forgetfulness; and in that scene of desolation, on that
night of despair--I slept.


[Vol. II]

THE LAST MAN

CHAPTER III.

THE stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus
high in the southern heaven shewed that it was
midnight. I awoke from disturbed dreams. Methought I
had been invited to Timon's last feast; I came with
keen appetite, the covers were removed, the hot water
sent up its unsatisfying steams, while I fled before
the anger of the host, who assumed the form of Raymond;
while to my diseased fancy, the vessels hurled by him
after me, were surcharged with fetid vapour, and my
friend's shape, altered by a thousand distortions,
expanded into a gigantic phantom, bearing on its brow
the sign of pestilence. The growing shadow rose and
rose, filling, and then seeming to endeavour to burst
beyond, the adamantine vault that bent over, sustaining
and enclosing the world. The night-mare became torture;
with a strong effort I threw off sleep, and recalled
reason to her wonted functions. My first thought was
Perdita; to her I must return; her I must support,
drawing such food from despair as might best sustain
her wounded heart; recalling her from the wild excesses
of grief, by the austere laws of duty, and the soft
tenderness of regret.   
    
The position of the stars was my only guide. I turned
from the awful ruin of the Golden City, and, after
great exertion, succeeded in extricating myself from
its enclosure. I met a company of soldiers outside the
walls; I borrowed a horse from one of them, and
hastened to my sister. The appearance of the plain was
changed during this short interval; the encampment was
broken up; the relics of the disbanded army met in
small companies here and there; each face was clouded;
every gesture spoke astonishment and dismay.
 
With an heavy heart I entered the palace, and stood
fearful to advance, to speak, to look. In the midst of
the hall was Perdita; she sat on the marble pavement,
her head fallen on her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her
fingers twined busily one within the other; she was
pale as marble, and every feature was contracted by
agony. She perceived me, and looked up enquiringly; her
half glance of hope was misery; the words died before I
could articulate them; I felt a ghastly smile wrinkle
my lips. She understood my gesture; again her head
fell; again her fingers worked restlessly. At last I
recovered speech, but my voice terrified her; the
hapless girl had understood my look, and for worlds she
would not that the tale of her heavy misery should have
been shaped out and confirmed by hard, irrevocable
words. Nay, she seemed to wish to distract my thoughts
from the subject: she rose from the floor: "Hush!" she
said, whisperingly; "after much weeping, Clara sleeps;
we must not disturb her." She seated herself then on
the same ottoman where I had left her in the morning
resting on the beating heart of her Raymond; I dared
not approach her, but sat at a distant corner, watching
her starting and nervous gestures. At length, in an
abrupt manner she asked, "Where is he?"
 
"O, fear not," she continued, "fear not that I should
entertain hope! Yet tell me, have you found him? To
have him once more in my arms, to see him, however
changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be
heaped above him as a tomb, yet I must find him--then
cover us with the city's weight, with a mountain piled
above--I care not, so that one grave hold Raymond and
his Perdita." Then weeping, she clung to me: "Take me
to him," she cried, "unkind Lionel, why do you keep me
here? Of myself I cannot find him--but you know where
he lies--lead me thither."  

At first these agonizing plaints filled me with
intolerable compassion. But soon I endeavoured to
extract patience for her from the ideas she suggested.
I related my adventures of the night, my endeavours to
find our lost one, and my disappointment. Turning her
thoughts this way, I gave them an object which rescued
them from insanity. With apparent calmness she
discussed with me the probable spot where he might be
found, and planned the means we should use for that
purpose. Then hearing of my fatigue and abstinence, she
herself brought me food. I seized the favourable
moment, and endeavoured to awaken in her something
beyond the killing torpor of grief. As I spoke, my
subject carried me away; deep admiration; grief, the
offspring of truest affection, the overflowing of a
heart bursting with sympathy for all that had been
great and sublime in the career of my friend, inspired
me as I poured forth the praises of Raymond.        

"Alas, for us," I cried, "who have lost this latest
honour of the world! Beloved Raymond! He is gone to the
nations of the dead; he has become one of those, who
render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious
by dwelling there. He has journied on the road that
leads to it, and joined the mighty of soul who went
before him. When the world was in its infancy death
must have been terrible, and man left his friends and
kindred to dwell, a solitary stranger, in an unknown
country. But now, he who dies finds many companions
gone before to prepare for his reception. The great of
past ages people it, the exalted hero of our own days
is counted among its inhabitants, while life becomes
doubly 'the desart and the solitude.'        

"What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the
men of our time. By the grandeur of his conceptions,
the graceful daring of his actions, by his wit and
beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only
fault he might have been accused; but his death has
cancelled that. I have heard him called inconstant of
purpose--when he deserted, for the sake of love, the
hope of sovereignty, and when he abdicated the
protectorship of England, men blamed his infirmity of
purpose. Now his death has crowned his life, and to the
end of time it will be remembered, that he devoted
himself, a willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such
was his choice: he expected to die. He foresaw that he
should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome sky,
and thy love, Perdita; yet he neither hesitated or
turned back, going right onward to his mark of fame.
While the earth lasts, his actions will be recorded
with praise. Grecian maidens will in devotion strew
flowers on his tomb, and make the air around it
resonant with patriotic hymns, in which his name will
find high record."
 
I saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of
grief yielded to tenderness--I continued:--"Thus to
honour him, is the sacred duty of his survivors. To
make his name even as an holy spot of ground, enclosing
it from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on
it the blossoms of love and regret, guarding it from
decay, and bequeathing it untainted to posterity. Such
is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs to
you, Perdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in
her infancy, with what transport you beheld Clara,
recognizing in her the united being of yourself and
Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a
manifestation of your eternal loves. Even such is she
still. You say that you have lost Raymond. O, no!--yet
he lives with you and in you there. From him she
sprung, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone--and not,
as heretofore, are you content to trace in her downy
cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to Raymond, but
in her enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities
of her mind, you may still find him living, the good,
the great, the beloved. Be it your care to foster this
similarity--be it your care to render her worthy of
him, so that, when she glory in her origin, she take
not shame for what she is."  

I could perceive that, when I recalled my sister's
thoughts to her duties in life, she did not listen with
the same patience as before. She appeared to suspect a
plan of consolation on my part, from which she,
cherishing her new-born grief, revolted. "You talk of
the future," she said, "while the present is all to me.
Let me find the earthly dwelling of my beloved; let us
rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come
men may point to the sacred tomb, and name it his--then
to other thoughts, and a new course of life, or what
else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked out
for me."
 
After a short repose I prepared to leave her, that I
might endeavour to accomplish her wish. In the mean
time we were joined by Clara, whose pallid cheek and
scared look shewed the deep impression grief had made
on her young mind. She seemed to be full of something
to which she could not give words; but, seizing an
opportunity afforded by Perdita's absence, she
preferred to me an earnest prayer, that I would take
her within view of the gate at which her father had
entered Constantinople. She promised to commit no
extravagance, to be docile, and immediately to return.
I could not refuse; for Clara was not an ordinary
child; her sensibility and intelligence seemed already
to have endowed her with the rights of womanhood. With
her therefore, before me on my horse, attended only by
the servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode to the
Top Kapou. We found a party of soldiers gathered round
it. They were listening. "They are human cries," said
one: "More like the howling of a dog," replied another;
and again they bent to catch the sound of regular
distant moans, which issued from the precincts of the
ruined city. "That, Clara," I said, "is the gate, that
the street which yestermorn your father rode up."
Whatever Clara's intention had been in asking to be
brought hither, it was balked by the presence of the
soldiers. With earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth
of smoking piles which had been a city, and then
expressed her readiness to return home. At this moment
a melancholy howl struck on our ears; it was repeated;
"Hark!" cried Clara, "he is there; that is Florio, my
father's dog." It seemed to me impossible that she
could recognise the sound, but she persisted in her
assertion till she gained credit with the crowd about.
At least it would be a benevolent action to rescue the
sufferer, whether human or brute, from the desolation
of the town; so, sending Clara back to her home, I
again entered Constantinople. Encouraged by the
impunity attendant on my former visit, several soldiers
who had made a part of Raymond's body guard, who had
loved him, and sincerely mourned his loss, accompanied
me.
 
It is impossible to conjecture the strange enchainment
of events which restored the lifeless form of my friend
to our hands. In that part of the town where the fire
had most raged the night before, and which now lay
quenched, black and cold, the dying dog of Raymond
crouched beside the mutilated form of its lord. At such
a time sorrow has no voice; affliction, tamed by it is
very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal recognised me,
licked my hand, crept close to its lord, and died. He
had been evidently thrown from his horse by some
falling ruin, which had crushed his head, and defaced
his whole person. I bent over the body, and took in my
hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in appearance
than the human frame it clothed. I pressed it to my
lips, while the rough soldiers gathered around,
mourning over this worthiest prey of death, as if
regret and endless lamentation could re-illumine the
extinguished spark, or call to its shattered
prison-house of flesh the liberated spirit. Yesterday
those limbs were worth an universe; they then enshrined
a transcendant power, whose intents, words, and actions
were worthy to be recorded in letters of gold; now the
superstition of affection alone could give value to the
shattered mechanism, which, incapable and clod-like, no
more resembled Raymond, than the fallen rain is like
the former mansion of cloud in which it climbed the
highest skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all
eyes, and satiated the sense by its excess of beauty.
 
Such as he had now become, such as was his terrene
vesture, defaced and spoiled, we wrapt it in our
cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our arms, bore it
from this city of the dead. The question arose as to
where we should deposit him. In our road to the palace,
we passed through the Greek cemetery; here on a tablet
of black marble I caused him to be laid; the cypresses
waved high above, their death-like gloom accorded with
his state of nothingness. We cut branches of the
funereal trees and placed them over him, and on these
again his sword. I left a guard to protect this
treasure of dust; and ordered perpetual torches to be
burned around.        

When I returned to Perdita, I found that she had
already been informed of the success of my undertaking.
He, her beloved, the sole and eternal object of her
passionate tenderness, was restored her. Such was the
maniac language of her enthusiasm. What though those
limbs moved not, and those lips could no more frame
modulated accents of wisdom and love! What though like
a weed flung from the fruitless sea, he lay the prey of
corruption--still that was the form she had caressed,
those the lips that meeting hers, had drank the spirit
of love from the commingling breath; that was the
earthly mechanism of dissoluble clay she had called her
own. True, she looked forward to another life; true,
the burning spirit of love seemed to her
unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet at this time,
with human fondness, she clung to all that her human
senses permitted her to see and feel to be a part of
Raymond.
 
Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that, she heard my
tale, and enquired concerning the spot where he had
been deposited. Her features had lost the distortion of
grief; her eyes were brightened, her very person seemed
dilated; while the excessive whiteness and even
transparency of her skin, and something hollow in her
voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but excess
of excitement, occasioned the treacherous calm that
settled on her countenance. I asked her where he should
be buried. She replied, "At Athens; even at the Athens
which he loved. Without the town, on the acclivity of
Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he pointed out
to me as the spot where he would wish to repose."
 
My own desire certainly was that he should not be
removed from the spot where he now lay. But her wish
was of course to be complied with; and I entreated her
to prepare without delay for our departure.
 
Behold now the melancholy train cross the flats of
Thrace, and wind through the defiles, and over the
mountains of Macedonia, coast the clear waves of the
Peneus, cross the Larissean plain, pass the straits of
Thermopylae, and ascending in succession Oeta and
Parnassus, descend to the fertile plain of Athens.
Women bear with resignation these long drawn ills, but
to a man's impatient spirit, the slow motion of our
cavalcade, the melancholy repose we took at noon, the
perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous though it was,
that wrapt the rifled casket which had contained
Raymond, the monotonous recurrence of day and night,
unvaried by hope or change, all the circumstances of
our march were intolerable. Perdita, shut up in
herself, spoke little. Her carriage was closed; and,
when we rested, she sat leaning her pale cheek on her
white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground,
indulging thoughts which refused communication or
sympathy.  

We descended from Parnassus, emerging from its many
folds, and passed through Livadia on our road to
Attica. Perdita would not enter Athens; but reposing at
Marathon on the night of our arrival, conducted me on
the following day, to the spot selected by her as the
treasure house of Raymond's dear remains. It was in a
recess near the head of the ravine to the south of
Hymettus. The chasm, deep, black, and hoary, swept from
the summit to the base; in the fissures of the rock
myrtle underwood grew and wild thyme, the food of many
nations of bees; enormous crags protruded into the
cleft, some beetling over, others rising
perpendicularly from it. At the foot of this sublime
chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached from sea to
sea, and beyond was spread the blue Aegean, sprinkled
with islands, the light waves glancing beneath the sun.
Close to the spot on which we stood, was a solitary
rock, high and conical, which, divided on every side
from the mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid; with
little labour this block was reduced to a perfect
shape; the narrow cell was scooped out beneath in which
Raymond was placed, and a short inscription, carved in
the living stone, recorded the name of its tenant, the
cause and aera of his death.  

Every thing was accomplished with speed under my
directions. I agreed to leave the finishing and
guardianship of the tomb to the head of the religious
establishment at Athens, and by the end of October
prepared for my return to England. I mentioned this to
Perdita. It was painful to appear to drag her from the
last scene that spoke of her lost one; but to linger
here was vain, and my very soul was sick with its
yearning to rejoin my Idris and her babes. In reply, my
sister requested me to accompany her the following
evening to the tomb of Raymond. Some days had passed
since I had visited the spot. The path to it had been
enlarged, and steps hewn in the rock led us less
circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the
platform on which the pyramid stood was enlarged, and
looking towards the south, in a recess overshadowed by
the straggling branches of a wild fig-tree, I saw
foundations dug, and props and rafters fixed, evidently
the commencement of a cottage; standing on its
unfinished threshold, the tomb was at our right-hand,
the whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea immediately
before us; the dark rocks received a glow from the
descending sun, which glanced along the cultivated
valley, and dyed in purple and orange the placid waves;
we sat on a rocky elevation, and I gazed with rapture
on the beauteous panorama of living and changeful
colours, which varied and enhanced the graces of earth
and ocean.
 
"Did I not do right," said Perdita, "in having my loved
one conveyed hither? Hereafter this will be the
cynosure of Greece. In such a spot death loses half its
terrors, and even the inanimate dust appears to partake
of the spirit of beauty which hallows this region.
Lionel, he sleeps there; that is the grave of Raymond,
he whom in my youth I first loved; whom my heart
accompanied in days of separation and anger; to whom I
am now joined for ever. Never--mark me--never will I
leave this spot. Methinks his spirit remains here as
well as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it be,
is more precious in its nothingness than aught else
widowed earth clasps to her sorrowing bosom. The myrtle
bushes, the thyme, the little cyclamen, which peep from
the fissures of the rock, all the produce of the place,
bear affinity to him; the light that invests the hills
participates in his essence, and sky and mountains, sea
and valley, are imbued by the presence of his spirit. I
will live and die here!
 
"Go you to England, Lionel; return to sweet Idris and
dearest Adrian; return, and let my orphan girl be as a
child of your own in your house. Look on me as dead;
and truly if death be a mere change of state, I am
dead. This is another world, from that which late I
inhabited, from that which is now your home. Here I
hold communion only with the has been, and to come. Go
you to England, and leave me where alone I can consent
to drag out the miserable days which I must still
live."
 
A shower of tears terminated her sad harangue. I had
expected some extravagant proposition, and remained
silent awhile, collecting my thoughts that I might the
better combat her fanciful scheme. "You cherish dreary
thoughts, my dear Perdita," I said, "nor do I wonder
that for a time your better reason should be influenced
by passionate grief and a disturbed imagination. Even I
am in love with this last home of Raymond's;
nevertheless we must quit it."  

"I expected this," cried Perdita; "I supposed that you
would treat me as a mad, foolish girl. But do not
deceive yourself; this cottage is built by my order;
and here I shall remain, until the hour arrives when I
may share his happier dwelling."

"My dearest girl!"
 
"And what is there so strange in my design? I might
have deceived you; I might have talked of remaining
here only a few months; in your anxiety to reach
Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or
contention, I might have pursued my plan. But I
disdained the artifice; or rather in my wretchedness it
was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my
brother, my only friend. You will not dispute with me?
You know how wilful your poor, misery-stricken sister
is. Take my girl with you; wean her from sights and
thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her
heart, and animate her eyes; so could it never be, were
she near me; it is far better for all of you that you
should never see me again. For myself, I will not
voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while I
can command myself; and I can here. But drag me from
this country; and my power of self control vanishes,
nor can I answer for the violence my agony of grief may
lead me to commit."
 
"You clothe your meaning, Perdita," I replied, "in
powerful words, yet that meaning is selfish and
unworthy of you. You have often agreed with me that
there is but one solution to the intricate riddle of
life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the
happiness of others: and now, in the very prime of
life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up
in useless solitude. Will you think of Raymond less at
Windsor, the scene of your early happiness? Will you
commune less with his departed spirit, while you watch
over and cultivate the rare excellence of his child?
You have been sadly visited; nor do I wonder that a
feeling akin to insanity should drive you to bitter and
unreasonable imaginings. But a home of love awaits you
in your native England. My tenderness and affection
must soothe you; the society of Raymond's friends will
be of more solace than these dreary speculations. We
will all make it our first care, our dearest task, to
contribute to your happiness."
 
Perdita shook her head; "If it could be so," she
replied, "I were much in the wrong to disdain your
offers. But it is not a matter of choice; I can live
here only. I am a part of this scene; each and all its
properties are a part of me. This is no sudden fancy; I
live by it. The knowledge that I am here, rises with me
in the morning, and enables me to endure the light; it
is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it
walks, it sleeps with me, for ever it accompanies me.
Here I may even cease to repine, and may add my tardy
consent to the decree which has taken him from me. He
would rather have died such a death, which will be
recorded in history to endless time, than have lived to
old age unknown, unhonoured. Nor can I desire better,
than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart,
here, in youth's prime, before added years can tarnish
the best feelings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and
speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.        

"So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, wishing to
persuade you that I do right. If you are unconvinced, I
can add nothing further by way of argument, and I can
only declare my fixed resolve. I stay here; force only
can remove me. Be it so; drag me away--I return;
confine me, imprison me, still I escape, and come here.
Or would my brother rather devote the heart-broken
Perdita to the straw and chains of a maniac, than
suffer her to rest in peace beneath the shadow of His
society, in this my own selected and beloved recess?"-- 

All this appeared to me, I own, methodized madness. I
imagined, that it was my imperative duty to take her
from scenes that thus forcibly reminded her of her
loss. Nor did I doubt, that in the tranquillity of our
family circle at Windsor, she would recover some degree
of composure, and in the end, of happiness. My
affection for Clara also led me to oppose these fond
dreams of cherished grief; her sensibility had already
been too much excited; her infant heedlessness too soon
exchanged for deep and anxious thought. The strange and
romantic scheme of her mother, might confirm and
perpetuate the painful view of life, which had intruded
itself thus early on her contemplation.
 
On returning home, the captain of the steam packet with
whom I had agreed to sail, came to tell me, that
accidental circumstances hastened his departure, and
that, if I went with him, I must come on board at five
on the following morning. I hastily gave my consent to
this arrangement, and as hastily formed a plan through
which Perdita should be forced to become my companion.
I believe that most people in my situation would have
acted in the same manner. Yet this consideration does
not, or rather did not in after time, diminish the
reproaches of my conscience. At the moment, I felt
convinced that I was acting for the best, and that all
I did was right and even necessary.
 
I sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my seeming
assent to her wild scheme. She received my concurrence
with pleasure, and a thousand times over thanked her
deceiving, deceitful brother. As night came on, her
spirits, enlivened by my unexpected concession,
regained an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to
be alarmed by the feverish glow in her cheek; I
entreated her to take a composing draught; I poured out
the medicine, which she took docilely from me. I
watched her as she drank it. Falsehood and artifice are
in themselves so hateful, that, though I still thought
I did right, a feeling of shame and guilt came
painfully upon me. I left her, and soon heard that she
slept soundly under the influence of the opiate I had
administered. She was carried thus unconscious on
board; the anchor weighed, and the wind being
favourable, we stood far out to sea; with all the
canvas spread, and the power of the engine to assist,
we scudded swiftly and steadily through the chafed
element.
 
It was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a
longer time elapsed before recovering from the torpor
occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived her change of
situation. She started wildly from her couch, and flew
to the cabin window. The blue and troubled sea sped
past the vessel, and was spread shoreless around: the
sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift motion
shewed how speedily she was borne away. The creaking of
the masts, the clang of the wheels, the tramp above,
all persuaded her that she was already far from the
shores of Greece.--"Where are we?" she cried, "where
are we going?"--
 
The attendant whom I had stationed to watch her,
replied, "to England."--        

"And my brother?"--
 
"Is on deck, Madam."
 
"Unkind! unkind!" exclaimed the poor victim, as with a
deep sigh she looked on the waste of waters. Then
without further remark, she threw herself on her couch,
and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but
for the deep sighs that burst from her, it would have
seemed that she slept.  

As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to
her, that the sight of the lovely innocent might
inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts. But neither
the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from
me, could rouse my sister. She looked on Clara with a
countenance of woful meaning, but she did not speak.
When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my
enquiries, only said, "You know not what you have
done!"--I trusted that this sullenness betokened merely
the struggle between disappointment and natural
affection, and that in a few days she would be
reconciled to her fate.
 
When night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep
in a separate cabin. Her servant, however, remained
with her. About midnight she spoke to the latter,
saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to
her daughter, and bring word whether she rested
quietly. The woman obeyed.  

The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose
again. I was on deck, enjoying our swift progress. The
quiet was disturbed only by the rush of waters as they
divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the
moveless and full sails, the wind whistling in the
shrouds, and the regular motion of the engine. The sea
was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and now
resuming an uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared;
and dark ether clipt the broad ocean, in which the
constellations vainly sought their accustomed mirror.
Our rate could not have been less than eight knots.  

Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The sailors on
watch rushed to the side of the vessel, with the
cry--some one gone overboard. "It is not from deck,"
said the man at the helm, "something has been thrown
from the aft cabin." A call for the boat to be lowered
was echoed from the deck. I rushed into my sister's
cabin; it was empty.
         
With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel remained
unwillingly stationary, until, after an hour's search,
my poor Perdita was brought on board. But no care could
re-animate her, no medicine cause her dear eyes to
open, and the blood to flow again from her pulseless
heart. One clenched hand contained a slip of paper, on
which was written, "To Athens." To ensure her removal
thither, and prevent the irrecoverable loss of her body
in the wide sea, she had had the precaution to fasten a
long shawl round her waist, and again to the
staunchions of the cabin window. She had drifted
somewhat under the keel of the vessel, and her being
out of sight occasioned the delay in finding her. And
thus the ill-starred girl died a victim to my senseless
rashness. Thus, in early day, she left us for the
company of the dead, and preferred to share the rocky
grave of Raymond, before the animated scene this
cheerful earth afforded, and the society of loving
friends. Thus in her twenty-ninth year she died; having
enjoyed some few years of the happiness of paradise,
and sustaining a reverse to which her impatient spirit
and affectionate disposition were unable to submit. As
I marked the placid expression that had settled on her
countenance in death, I felt, in spite of the pangs of
remorse, in spite of heart-rending regret, that it was
better to die so, than to drag on long, miserable years
of repining and inconsolable grief.  
     
Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic Gulph; and,
our vessel being hardly fitted to weather a storm, we
took refuge in the port of Ancona. Here I met Georgio
Palli, the vice-admiral of the Greek fleet, a former
friend and warm partizan of Raymond. I committed the
remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the purpose
of having them transported to Hymettus, and placed in
the cell her Raymond already occupied beneath the
pyramid. This was all accomplished even as I wished.
She reposed beside her beloved, and the tomb above was
inscribed with the united names of Raymond and Perdita.
 
I then came to a resolution of pursuing our journey to
England overland. My own heart was racked by regrets
and remorse. The apprehension, that Raymond had
departed for ever, that his name, blended eternally
with the past, must be erased from every anticipation
of the future, had come slowly upon me. I had always
admired his talents; his noble aspirations; his grand
conceptions of the glory and majesty of his ambition:
his utter want of mean passions; his fortitude and
daring. In Greece I had learnt to love him; his very
waywardness, and self-abandonment to the impulses of
superstition, attached me to him doubly; it might be
weakness, but it was the antipodes of all that was
grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were added the
loss of Perdita, lost through my own accursed self-will
and conceit. This dear one, my sole relation; whose
progress I had marked from tender childhood through the
varied path of life, and seen her throughout
conspicuous for integrity, devotion, and true
affection; for all that constitutes the peculiar graces
of the female character, and beheld her at last the
victim of too much loving, too constant an attachment
to the perishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty
and life, had thrown aside the pleasant perception of
the apparent world for the unreality of the grave, and
had left poor Clara quite an orphan. I concealed from
this beloved child that her mother's death was
voluntary, and tried every means to awaken cheerfulness
in her sorrow-stricken spirit.
 
One of my first acts for the recovery even of my own
composure, was to bid farewell to the sea. Its hateful
splash renewed again and again to my sense the death of
my sister; its roar was a dirge; in every dark hull
that was tossed on its inconstant bosom, I imaged a
bier, that would convey to death all who trusted to its
treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea! Come, my
Clara, sit beside me in this aerial bark; quickly and
gently it cleaves the azure serene, and with soft
undulation glides upon the current of the air; or, if
storm shake its fragile mechanism, the green earth is
below; we can descend, and take shelter on the stable
continent. Here aloft, the companions of the
swift-winged birds, we skim through the unresisting
element, fleetly and fearlessly. The light boat heaves
not, nor is opposed by death-bearing waves; the ether
opens before the prow, and the shadow of the globe that
upholds it, shelters us from the noon-day sun. Beneath
are the plains of Italy, or the vast undulations of the
wave-like Apennines: fertility reposes in their many
folds, and woods crown the summits. The free and happy
peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, bears the double
harvest to the garner; and the refined citizens rear
without dread the long blighted tree of knowledge in
this garden of the world. We were lifted above the
Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines
entered the plain of fair France, and after an airy
journey of six days, we landed at Dieppe, furled the
feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our
little pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of
travelling now incommodious; so we embarked in a
steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at
Portsmouth.
 
A strange story was rife here. A few days before, a
tempest-struck vessel had appeared off the town: the
hull was parched-looking and cracked, the sails rent,
and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the
shrouds tangled and broken. She drifted towards the
harbour, and was stranded on the sands at the entrance.
In the morning the custom-house officers, together with
a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only of the crew
appeared to have arrived with her. He had got to shore,
and had walked a few paces towards the town, and then,
vanquished by malady and approaching death, had fallen
on the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his
hands clenched, and pressed against his breast. His
skin, nearly black, his matted hair and bristly beard,
were signs of a long protracted misery. It was
whispered that he had died of the plague. No one
ventured on board the vessel, and strange sights were
averred to be seen at night, walking the deck, and
hanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to
pieces; I was shewn where she had been, and saw her
disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The body of the
man who had landed, had been buried deep in the sands;
and none could tell more, than that the vessel was
American built, and that several months before the
Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no
tidings were afterwards received.


[Vol. II]

THE LAST MAN

CHAPTER IV.

I RETURNED to my family estate in the autumn of the
year 2092. My heart had long been with them; and I felt
sick with the hope and delight of seeing them again.
The district which contained them appeared the abode of
every kindly spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked
the forest paths, and tempered the atmosphere. After
all the agitation and sorrow I had endured in Greece, I
sought Windsor, as the storm-driven bird does the nest
in which it may fold its wings in tranquillity.
 
How unwise had the wanderers been, who had deserted its
shelter, entangled themselves in the web of society,
and entered on what men of the world call "life,"--that
labyrinth of evil, that scheme of mutual torture. To
live, according to this sense of the word, we must not
only observe and learn, we must also feel; we must not
be mere spectators of action, we must act; we must not
describe, but be subjects of description. Deep sorrow
must have been the inmate of our bosoms; fraud must
have lain in wait for us; the artful must have deceived
us; sickening doubt and false hope must have chequered
our days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in
ecstasy, must at times have possessed us. Who that
knows what "life" is, would pine for this feverish
species of existence? I have lived. I have spent days
and nights of festivity; I have joined in ambitious
hopes, and exulted in victory: now,--shut the door on
the world, and build high the wall that is to separate
me from the troubled scene enacted within its
precincts. Let us live for each other and for
happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home, near the
inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of
trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sublime
pageantry of the skies. Let us leave "life," that we
may live.
 
Idris was well content with this resolve of mine. Her
native sprightliness needed no undue excitement, and
her placid heart reposed contented on my love, the
well-being of her children, and the beauty of
surrounding nature. Her pride and blameless ambition
was to create smiles in all around her, and to shed
repose on the fragile existence of her brother. In
spite of her tender nursing, the health of Adrian
perceptibly declined. Walking, riding, the common
occupations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain, but
seemed to tremble for ever on the verge of
annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months nearly
in the same state, he did not inspire us with any
immediate fear; and, though he talked of death as an
event most familiar to his thoughts, he did not cease
to exert himself to render others happy, or to
cultivate his own astonishing powers of mind. 
     
Winter passed away; and spring, led by the months,
awakened life in all nature. The forest was dressed in
green; the young calves frisked on the new-sprung
grass; the wind-winged shadows of light clouds sped
over the green cornfields; the hermit cuckoo repeated
his monotonous all-hail to the season; the nightingale,
bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled the
woods with song; while Venus lingered in the warm
sunset, and the young green of the trees lay in gentle
relief along the clear horizon.  

Delight awoke in every heart, delight and exultation;
for there was peace through all the world; the temple
of Universal Janus was shut, and man died not that year
by the hand of man.  
     
"Let this last but twelve months," said Adrian; "and
earth will become a Paradise. The energies of man were
before directed to the destruction of his species: they
now aim at its liberation and preservation. Man cannot
repose, and his restless aspirations will now bring
forth good instead of evil. The favoured countries of
the south will throw off the iron yoke of servitude;
poverty will quit us, and with that, sickness. What may
not the forces, never before united, of liberty and
peace achieve in this dwelling of man?"
 
"Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor!" said Ryland,
the old adversary of Raymond, and candidate for the
Protectorate at the ensuing election. "Be assured that
earth is not, nor ever can be heaven, while the seeds
of hell are natives of her soil. When the seasons have
become equal, when the air breeds no disorders, when
its surface is no longer liable to blights and
droughts, then sickness will cease; when men's passions
are dead, poverty will depart. When love is no longer
akin to hate, then brotherhood will exist: we are very
far from that state at present."  
     
"Not so far as you may suppose," observed a little old
astronomer, by name Merrival, "the poles precede
slowly, but securely; in an hundred thousand years--"  
     
"We shall all be underground," said Ryland.
 
"The pole of the earth will coincide with the pole of
the ecliptic," continued the astronomer, "an universal
spring will be produced, and earth become a paradise."  
     
"And we shall of course enjoy the benefit of the
change," said Ryland, contemptuously.  
     
"We have strange news here," I observed. I had the
newspaper in my hand, and, as usual, had turned to the
intelligence from Greece. "It seems that the total
destruction of Constantinople, and the supposition that
winter had purified the air of the fallen city, gave
the Greeks courage to visit its site, and begin to
rebuild it. But they tell us that the curse of God is
on the place, for every one who has ventured within the
walls has been tainted by the plague; that this disease
has spread in Thrace and Macedonia; and now, fearing
the virulence of infection during the coming heats, a
cordon has been drawn on the frontiers of Thessaly, and
a strict quarantine exacted."        

This intelligence brought us back from the prospect of
paradise, held out after the lapse of an hundred
thousand years, to the pain and misery at present
existent upon earth. We talked of the ravages made last
year by pestilence in every quarter of the world; and
of the dreadful consequences of a second visitation. We
discussed the best means of preventing infection, and
of preserving health and activity in a large city thus
afflicted--London, for instance. Merrival did not join
in this conversation; drawing near Idris, he proceeded
to assure her that the joyful prospect of an earthly
paradise after an hundred thousand years, was clouded
to him by the knowledge that in a certain period of
time after, an earthly hell or purgatory, would occur,
when the ecliptic and equator would be at right
angles.* Our party at length broke up; "We are all
dreaming this morning," said Ryland, "it is as wise to
discuss the probability of a visitation of the plague
in our well-governed metropolis, as to calculate the
centuries which must escape before we can grow
pine-apples here in the open air."

[* See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The Mythological
Astronomy of the Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a
shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822]
 
But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon the
arrival of the plague in London, I could not reflect
without extreme pain on the desolation this evil would
cause in Greece. The English for the most part talked
of Thrace and Macedonia, as they would of a lunar
territory, which, unknown to them, presented no
distinct idea or interest to the minds. I had trod the
soil. The faces of many of the inhabitants were
familiar to me; in the towns, plains, hills, and
defiles of these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable
delight, as I journied through them the year before.
Some romantic village, some cottage, or elegant abode
there situated, inhabited by the lovely and the good,
rose before my mental sight, and the question haunted
me, is the plague there also?--That same invincible
monster, which hovered over and devoured
Constantinople--that fiend more cruel than tempest,
less tame than fire, is, alas, unchained in that
beautiful country--these reflections would not allow me
to rest.
 
The political state of England became agitated as the
time drew near when the new Protector was to be
elected. This event excited the more interest, since it
was the current report, that if the popular candidate
(Ryland) should be chosen, the question of the
abolition of hereditary rank, and other feudal relics,
would come under the consideration of parliament. Not a
word had been spoken during the present session on any
of these topics. Every thing would depend upon the
choice of a Protector, and the elections of the ensuing
year. Yet this very silence was awful, shewing the deep
weight attributed to the question; the fear of either
party to hazard an ill-timed attack, and the
expectation of a furious contention when it should
begin.  
     
But although St. Stephen's did not echo with the voice
which filled each heart, the newspapers teemed with
nothing else; and in private companies the conversation
however remotely begun, soon verged towards this
central point, while voices were lowered and chairs
drawn closer. The nobles did not hesitate to express
their fear; the other party endeavoured to treat the
matter lightly. "Shame on the country," said Ryland,
"to lay so much stress upon words and frippery; it is a
question of nothing; of the new painting of
carriage-pannels and the embroidery of footmen's
coats."  

Yet could England indeed doff her lordly trappings, and
be content with the democratic style of America? Were
the pride of ancestry, the patrician spirit, the gentle
courtesies and refined pursuits, splendid attributes of
rank, to be erased among us? We were told that this
would not be the case; that we were by nature a
poetical people, a nation easily duped by words, ready
to array clouds in splendour, and bestow honour on the
dust. This spirit we could never lose; and it was to
diffuse this concentrated spirit of birth, that the new
law was to be brought forward. We were assured that,
when the name and title of Englishman was the sole
patent of nobility, we should all be noble; that when
no man born under English sway, felt another his
superior in rank, courtesy and refinement would become
the birth-right of all our countrymen. Let not England
be so far disgraced, as to have it imagined that it can
be without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear
their patent in their mien, who are from their cradle
elevated above the rest of their species, because they
are better than the rest. Among a race of independent,
and generous, and well educated men, in a country where
the imagination is empress of men's minds, there needs
be no fear that we should want a perpetual succession
of the high-born and lordly. That party, however, could
hardly yet be considered a minority in the kingdom, who
extolled the ornament of the column, "the Corinthian
capital of polished society;" they appealed to
prejudices without number, to old attachments and young
hopes; to the expectation of thousands who might one
day become peers; they set up as a scarecrow, the
spectre of all that was sordid, mechanic and base in
the commercial republics.
 
The plague had come to Athens. Hundreds of English
residents returned to their own country. Raymond's
beloved Athenians, the free, the noble people of the
divinest town in Greece, fell like ripe corn before the
merciless sickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places
were deserted; its temples and palaces were converted
into tombs; its energies, bent before towards the
highest objects of human ambition, were now forced to
converge to one point, the guarding against the
innumerous arrows of the plague.
 
At any other time this disaster would have excited
extreme compassion among us; but it was now passed
over, while each mind was engaged by the coming
controversy. It was not so with me; and the question of
rank and right dwindled to insignificance in my eyes,
when I pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I heard
of the death of only sons; of wives and husbands most
devoted; of the rending of ties twisted with the
heart's fibres, of friend losing friend, and young
mothers mourning for their first born; and these moving
incidents were grouped and painted in my mind by the
knowledge of the persons, by my esteem and affection
for the sufferers. It was the admirers, friends, fellow
soldiers of Raymond, families that had welcomed Perdita
to Greece, and lamented with her the loss of her lord,
that were swept away, and went to dwell with them in
the undistinguishing tomb.
 
The plague at Athens had been preceded and caused by
the contagion from the East; and the scene of havoc and
death continued to be acted there, on a scale of
fearful magnitude. A hope that the visitation of the
present year would prove the last, kept up the spirits
of the merchants connected with these countries; but
the inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a
resignation which, arising from fanaticism, assumed the
same dark hue. America had also received the taint;
and, were it yellow fever or plague, the epidemic was
gifted with a virulence before unfelt. The devastation
was not confined to the towns, but spread throughout
the country; the hunter died in the woods, the peasant
in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his native
waters.  
     
A strange story was brought to us from the East, to
which little credit would have been given, had not the
fact been attested by a multitude of witnesses, in
various parts of the world. On the twenty-first of
June, it was said that an hour before noon, a black sun
arose: an orb, the size of that luminary, but dark,
defined, whose beams were shadows, ascended from the
west; in about an hour it had reached the meridian, and
eclipsed the bright parent of day. Night fell upon
every country, night, sudden, rayless, entire. The
stars came out, shedding their ineffectual glimmerings
on the light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb passed
from over the sun, and lingered down the eastern
heaven. As it descended, its dusky rays crossed the
brilliant ones of the sun, and deadened or distorted
them. The shadows of things assumed strange and ghastly
shapes. The wild animals in the woods took fright at
the unknown shapes figured on the ground. They fled
they knew not whither; and the citizens were filled
with greater dread, at the convulsion which "shook
lions into civil streets;"--birds, strong-winged
eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in the market-places,
while owls and bats shewed themselves welcoming the
early night. Gradually the object of fear sank beneath
the horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy beams into
the otherwise radiant air. Such was the tale sent us
from Asia, from the eastern extremity of Europe, and
from Africa as far west as the Golden Coast.  

Whether this story were true or not, the effects were
certain. Through Asia, from the banks of the Nile to
the shores of the Caspian, from the Hellespont even to
the sea of Oman, a sudden panic was driven. The men
filled the mosques; the women, veiled, hastened to the
tombs, and carried offerings to the dead, thus to
preserve the living. The plague was forgotten, in this
new fear which the black sun had spread; and, though
the dead multiplied, and the streets of Ispahan, of
Pekin, and of Delhi were strewed with pestilence-struck
corpses, men passed on, gazing on the ominous sky,
regardless of the death beneath their feet. The
christians sought their churches,--christian maidens,
even at the feast of roses, clad in white, with shining
veils, sought, in long procession, the places
consecrated to their religion, filling the air with
their hymns; while, ever and anon, from the lips of
some poor mourner in the crowd, a voice of wailing
burst, and the rest looked up, fancying they could
discern the sweeping wings of angels, who passed over
the earth, lamenting the disasters about to fall on
man.   

In the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded cities of
China, amidst the aromatic groves of Cashmere, and
along the southern shores of the Mediterranean, such
scenes had place. Even in Greece the tale of the sun of
darkness encreased the fears and despair of the dying
multitude. We, in our cloudy isle, were far removed
from danger, and the only circumstance that brought
these disasters at all home to us, was the daily
arrival of vessels from the east, crowded with
emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems, though the
fear of death was spread keenly among them, still clung
together; that, if they were to die (and if they were,
death would as readily meet them on the homeless sea,
or in far England, as in Persia,)--if they were to die,
their bones might rest in earth made sacred by the
relics of true believers. Mecca had never before been
so crowded with pilgrims; yet the Arabs neglected to
pillage the caravans, but, humble and weaponless, they
joined the procession, praying Mahomet to avert plague
from their tents and deserts.   
     
I cannot describe the rapturous delight with which I
turned from political brawls at home, and the physical
evils of distant countries, to my own dear home, to the
selected abode of goodness and love; to peace, and the
interchange of every sacred sympathy. Had I never
quitted Windsor, these emotions would not have been so
intense; but I had in Greece been the prey of fear and
deplorable change; in Greece, after a period of anxiety
and sorrow, I had seen depart two, whose very names
were the symbol of greatness and virtue. But such
miseries could never intrude upon the domestic circle
left to me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we
passed our lives in tranquillity.  Some small change
indeed the progress of years brought here; and time, as
it is wont, stamped the traces of mortality on our
pleasures and expectations.   
     
Idri